Julien Cadieux is an Acadian director, screenwriter, and editor from New Brunswick. For more than fifteen years, he has developed a documentary body of work deeply rooted in the realities of contemporary Acadie, where questions of identity, memory, rural life, and social inclusion intersect. His cinema, both humanistic and poetic, weaves connections between local stories and the broader human experience.

A graduate in Film Production from Concordia University and in Television Production from La Cité collégiale, he has created over twenty films and series broadcast on Radio-Canada, TV5, UNIS, and AMI-TV. Among his notable works are Guilda: elle est bien dans ma peau (2014), a vibrant portrait of a queer icon; Une rivière métissée (2020), exploring reconciliation and the intertwined Indigenous, Afro-descendant, and Acadian histories; Daniel le Tisserand (2023), which delves into the memory of AIDS and Acadian craftsmanship; and Y’a une étoile (2023), a celebration of Acadian queer identity that earned several awards, including the Prix Éloizes for Media Arts Artist of the Year.

Julien has also directed numerous documentary series, including Les îles de l’Atlantique, Bientôt dans nos hôpitaux, Imaginons une école pour tous, and Cousu – a global exploration of the ties between fashion, ecology, and humanity.

His most recent feature film, Amir, mon petit prince (2025), follows a mother and her son who has multiple disabilities across several continents, in search of inclusion and beauty in difference. Presented as the opening film at FICFA, it embodies his ongoing commitment to highlighting stories of resilience and solidarity that transform how we see the world.

Through his sensitive approach, Julien Cadieux connects the margins to the centre, affirming that every documentary film can be an act of love, memory, and collective transformation.

What first sparked your interest in filmmaking?

I have an aunt, Marie Cadieux, who is a documentary filmmaker, so I was already somewhat familiar with the field. After my studies – where I focused mostly on fiction – it was through her, during an internship and while working as an editor on one of her documentaries, that I truly discovered this craft.

At first, I saw documentary as a kind of observational cinema, something very close to the real and the everyday. But through her, I realized that documentary could also lead us into imagination and poetry.

She showed me that telling the real world is also a way of creating meaning and weaving connections between people. It’s a profession of listening and curiosity – and that’s probably what drew me in from the start.

I also realized that this language brought together several things I already loved: dance, theatre, and visual arts. I felt I could find my own place there, in my own way.

What inspires or excites you most as a filmmaker?

I love every stage of the process, but for me, it unfolds in three moments.

First, the development of an idea – that’s where it all begins. A seed is planted, curiosity opens, and encounters happen. For example, for Les mains du monde, I spent a lot of time in the village near my home, meeting new immigrant families. Those moments led to real friendships with people who are still part of my life today.

Then comes filming. In documentary work, we’re usually a small crew – two or three people – and that creates wonderful camaraderie. It’s a human adventure where every day is different. There’s also the relationship with the people being filmed: entering their daily lives is a privilege, a responsibility, and a huge source of inspiration. You discover worlds you never would have otherwise – whether right in your backyard or on the other side of the world.

And finally, post-production. That’s where the film comes alive. What I love about documentary filmmaking is its ability to make someone’s voice travel – to resonate elsewhere. When someone writes to tell me that a film touched or inspired them, I know it was all worth it.

Can you describe your creative process – from idea to finished film?

A film is written three times: during development, during shooting, and in the edit suite. 

It often starts with a meeting or a theme that moves me. You follow an intuition, you listen, you let yourself be carried by it. On set, life takes over – you have to adapt, welcome the unexpected, and provoke encounters.

I’m always fascinated by the way reality encapsulates itself in front of the camera – it’s a strange feeling, halfway between living the moment and already watching it become an image.

Then comes editing – my favourite part. That’s where meaning emerges, where voices, images, sounds, and music are woven together. It’s also where the magic happens – when a piece of music meets an image for the first time and everything aligns.

Unlike fiction, there’s no rigid script to follow. In a documentary, everything is possible – ellipses, detours, fragments. And that freedom is what I love most.

How do you handle challenges or unexpected events during the creative process?

At first, not very well. In this field, you often work with funders and broadcasters who have a say in your projects. It’s not a process of total creative freedom, and it took me a while to accept that.

I used to define myself too much through my projects. A funding rejection or a negative comment would completely paralyze me. Over time, I learned to step back, to breathe, and to stop taking everything personally.

Creation is a marathon, not a sprint. These days, I try to protect my mental health and maintain balance. There are other things in life that bring me joy. You do your best – and then you have to let go of what you can’t control.

What kinds of stories or themes particularly interest you?

I often return to themes of identity, memory, family, and difference.

I’m especially interested in people whose journeys make us see the world differently.

For example, Jack Murphy from Baie Sainte-Marie – an openly gay man who loved two husbands until their deaths. It’s rare to meet an older queer person, especially knowing how AIDS decimated an entire generation of men. His life is a lesson in freedom.

And in Amir, mon petit prince, I was deeply moved by Dounia, Amir’s mother. She travels with her son, who has multiple disabilities, around the world in a quest for inclusion and love. Her candid and luminous way of speaking about her different kind of motherhood moved me deeply. I think many people will see themselves in her courage and tenderness.
 

How have your personal experiences or education influenced your work?

I come from an Acadian family where language and culture have always held great importance. I grew up with the idea that we had to keep our collective voice alive and evolving. Whether it’s my sister, who works in education, or me in film, we’ve all inherited that sense of sharing.

As a child, I preferred sitting at the adults’ table, listening to my grandparents, aunts, and uncles discuss social, political, and cultural issues. I suppose, in a way, that’s still what I do as an adult – listening.

My queer identity and my intercultural relationship also shape how I see the world. In Les mains du monde, for example, I filmed several couples from diverse backgrounds and saw myself in their stories. In a context where fear and division often dominate public discourse, I wanted to create a luminous film – a film that celebrates difference. Because I believe that joy is also a form of resistance.

Can you describe a film you made or participated in that you’re particularly proud of, and why?

Y’a une étoile is a film that still lives in me. I think it allowed many people from the Acadian queer community – including myself – to see themselves, celebrate themselves, and recognize themselves on screen.

During the tour, we presented the film in cities hosting their first-ever Francophone Pride event. It was powerful. As I mentioned earlier, joy is central to my work – and witnessing that collective joy emerge was deeply moving.

I felt that the film no longer belonged to me – that it had become a collective project, something the audience had claimed as their own. And that, to me, is the greatest gift a film can offer its creators.

How have your education and experience helped you create and innovate in your artistic practice?

My studies at Concordia and La Cité collégiale gave me technical foundations, but it’s really the shoots, the mistakes, and the artistic encounters that sharpen instinct and expand our creative toolbox. Being in the field teaches humility, listening, and patience.

In New Brunswick, you quickly learn to be resourceful. We don’t always have big budgets, so we become creative out of necessity.

And because there isn’t a huge “film community” per se, but rather a diverse artistic ecosystem, paths naturally cross: musicians become sound recordists, theatre writers move into documentary, visual artists work as cinematographers.

That diversity is a gift. We learn from each other, step out of our comfort zones. Each film becomes a collective adventure filled with new collaborations and beautiful encounters. For me, that’s what makes this profession so alive.

How has living and working in New Brunswick shaped or inspired your journey?

Being in Acadie means living a little on the margins of major centres, but it also means developing a unique outlook on the world. We may not always have the same means or visibility, but we learn to create with heart and ingenuity – and that forges a different kind of freedom. This reality feeds my work and pushes me to tell local stories – deeply rooted, yet carrying universal resonance.

At the beginning of my career, I’ll be honest – festivals and awards were part of what motivated me, as they are for many filmmakers. I studied in Montreal for four years, so that world of recognition, critique, and peers was very present to me.

But when I came back to create here, where that “bubble” doesn’t really exist, I realized that the essence of this craft lies in proximity – making films that speak to the people around us, that have a tangible impact on their daily lives.

That’s when I understood that creation isn’t measured in awards, but in the connections we build.

How has your artistic journey evolved over time? Were there key moments or experiences that shaped the way you create today?

Several moments have marked my path. My first film, Guilda: elle est bien dans ma peau, helped me break the ice and gain confidence. Y’a une étoile reconnected me to joy and queer pride. And the series Cousu, filmed around the world with Karine Vanasse, confirmed that from right here at home, with a local team, we can dream big and explore the world.

Each project has helped me redefine myself – both as an artist and as a human being.

Over time, I’ve also learned (or at least, I try!) to make peace with my anxieties and insecurities. At first, I saw them as weaknesses, crutches. Today, I see them as creative engines. If I feel nervous, it often means I care deeply about what I’m doing – and that’s a good sign. 

Insecurity, when used well, keeps you alert. It makes you ask the right questions: Are my choices fair? Am I treating the subject with respect? Am I truly seeing everything there is to see?

Ultimately, it’s a reminder that we never create from a place of comfort – and maybe that’s where the most beautiful things are born.

What advice would you give to emerging artists or someone just starting in film?

Listen, be patient. Don’t try to prove – try to understand. In documentary filmmaking, humility is a strength: you have to know how to step aside in order to really hear.

And above all, have fun! Life’s too short not to do what you love.