After completing her film studies in Paris, Renée Blanchar returned to Caraquet and set to work. In many ways, her career has been groundbreaking – both for Acadian cinema and for women’s place in television and film. She was the first Canadian admitted to La FÉMIS (École nationale supérieure des métiers de l’image et du son) through open competition.

In documentary filmmaking, Renée stands out for the strength of her subjects and a singular talent for revealing the humanity of the people who inhabit her stories. Among her dozen or so works, Le Silence (2020) – a landmark documentary – tackles the delicate issue of sexual abuse perpetrated by Catholic priests in Acadie. The film, both a critical and popular success, received numerous awards.

Drawn to the narrative potential of television series, Renée created Belle-Baie (2010–2015), the first original series entirely written, directed, and shot in a francophone minority setting in Canada. She made a remarkable return to television with Le monde de Gabrielle Roy (2020–2024), which she wrote and directed, inspired by the life of the author of Bonheur d’occasion (Femina Prize, 1945). The series earned several Gémeaux nominations, including one for Best Direction.

What led you to filmmaking and documentary work?

Film first attracted me because it allowed me to touch so many different artistic disciplines – it satisfied several of my interests at once. I’ve always felt that it remains the richest medium for sharing my vision of the world and, on a more personal level, for understanding myself better.

After my studies in communications at the University of Ottawa, I moved to France to study directing at the national film school. At La FÉMIS, I mostly trained in fiction. I liked documentary film, but at that time it wasn’t a passion. It was when I chose to come back and settle in Acadie, in New Brunswick, that my path became that of a documentarian. Why? Because at the time, there were very few opportunities to work in fiction here.

My documentary path is therefore deeply linked to my decision to live and work in my hometown of Caraquet. Looking back, I think that choice has made me – I hope – both a better filmmaker and a better citizen.

Documentary film confronts us with reality in a way that is both sensitive and raw. Nothing is more delicate or fragile than telling true stories with real people. The responsibility, integrity, and respect that each subject and participant demand naturally make us – as directors – more humble. I deeply believe that documentary work makes us more sensitive to the world around us.

Even though in recent years I’ve been directing more fiction projects – my latest being the three seasons of Le monde de Gabrielle Roy, which I both wrote and directed in Manitoba – I remain convinced that my documentary experience has had a positive influence on how I approach fiction.

In fact, I’d say that fiction and documentary are communicating vessels. When I start a documentary, I often think about the story and characters in terms of dramatic arcs, as we do in fiction – even if we don’t always know what we’ll discover while filming. Conversely, when I work on a fiction project and find myself in front of actors, I always pay close attention to them as human beings, reminding myself that even if they’re playing a role, they are, above all, real people – with their own challenges and life experiences.

How have your studies and experiences, both in Acadie and abroad, shaped your artistic perspective and creative approach?

For me, filmmaking is a great privilege – a kind of grand celebration of life, an attempt to capture it, even when the subjects are difficult. Returning here led me to explore themes that are uniquely ours, with the ambition of sharing our stories with as many people as possible, both in Acadie and beyond.

What I mean is this: I believe it’s vital, as a people, that we are able to tell our own stories and see ourselves on the big screen. At the same time, our stories need to travel. I didn’t return to Acadie to stay in a rut – I’ve always seen cinema as an extraordinary space for encounters: between people, worlds, and talents. For me, Acadie is a remarkable creative space where – whenever possible – I strive to invite the most inspiring talents, whether local or international, to the great celebration that is filmmaking.

What excites you most about your work as a filmmaker?

Encounters!

Encounters with subjects, with characters, with collaborators.

In fiction, what excites me most is translating a vision into images – knowing that we’re about to create this world from scratch, to invent it, to embody it, to give it rhythm, breath, and truth.

In documentary, encounters are fundamental and often transformative. What drives me most – when faced with a powerful subject and people who need to tell their story – is knowing that I’m responsible for both the topic and the individuals who entrust me with their experiences. I have to rise to the occasion. It’s my duty to tell their story with as much integrity as possible – and to elevate it, in a way – since we are making cinema.

What fuels your creativity?

Living!

How does your creative process unfold – from initial idea to final release?

The first sign that there may be a film to make is usually an emotional reaction – or even a feeling of not fully understanding something. I take very few notes, and when a subject captures me, I let it settle in me until I almost forget it. It has to resurface. There must come a moment when I think about it constantly and it becomes a sort of obsession – one that I can only calm by sitting down at my desk and putting the idea on paper. That’s how it happens for me. Once I’ve articulated the idea for the first time in writing, that’s when something begins.

I made a very difficult documentary on the sensitive issue of sexual abuse perpetrated by Catholic priests in Acadie between 1940 and 1980. That film, Le Silence, was one I fought not to make for a long time. But eventually, the weight and importance of the subject became such an obsession that, one Christmas season, I sat down and wrote the idea in a single sitting – with the title Le Silence, which stayed with us until the end.

There’s no recipe for making a film. Each documentary demands its own language, its own way of being told. Of course, there are the usual stages – research, writing, finding participants, partnering with a producer to secure financing, shooting, post-production, and hoping that the finished film reaches a wide audience. All of these are essential steps. But the real question you must ask yourself is: Do I truly want to make this film? Am I ready to do whatever it takes? And if I don’t have institutional support, how will I do it?

The best example in my own experience is Lettre d’amour à Léopold L. Foulem, a film I made about the queer ceramic artist Léopold L. Foulem. No institution wanted to fund it. It took me eight years to complete. I shot most of it on my own – and ironically, it’s one of my films that has travelled the most. We recently sold it to a national broadcaster in the Netherlands. The journey of that film reflects the inventiveness it took to bring it to life. It was a true lesson for me.

Why do you think it’s essential to make art – and especially socially engaged cinema – in today’s world?

That’s a big question!

Art can elevate the world – or help us see it differently, or soothe us, or shake us, or reveal new worlds, or turn us inward. Art can make us feel differently. It allows another kind of understanding – of others and of ourselves. For all these reasons, in today’s polarized world, where spaces for dialogue are shrinking, art is more essential than ever. Art builds bridges.

There’s what we call “art for entertainment,” and then there’s more committed art. I believe that when you’re part of a minority, even when you create art for entertainment, there’s always an element of engagement in what you do. Creating work from a small, peripheral community is an act of persistence in itself. So whatever path we take – whether making films, TV series, or feature projects – I think it’s important to remain aware of the political dimension of our choices.

Personally, I’ve made several socially engaged documentaries. Each subject came to me because I live in Acadie or because I’m a woman. At one time or another, I’ve been moved by an encounter, a pain, an injustice, or simply a question – often linked to this territory, or to Acadie in a broader sense.

As we navigate a world with countless streaming platforms, the irony is that more committed, niche films now struggle to find their audience. We’ve always faced distribution challenges here, but it’s become even more complex because of content overload. The danger is that our films become invisible. I think we collectively have real work to do on this – discoverability must be a priority if we want not only to keep creating but also to ensure that our works reach the people they’re meant for.

Through your work, what have you discovered about yourself, your Acadian identity, and the artistic community in New Brunswick?

I’d say that I discovered everything about Acadie by bringing my filmmaking practice back home to New Brunswick. When I was younger, my knowledge of Acadian history was quite superficial – I knew we’d been deported in 1755 and that it was part of our past, but it felt very distant.

When I became pregnant with my daughter, I began wondering whether I carried traces of that Deportation – something I might unconsciously pass on to her. That’s what led me to make the documentary Le Souvenir nécessaire, in which I appear on camera with poet Serge Patrice Thibodeau. Serge had written a poetry collection, Nous, l’étranger, which deeply moved me. It was the first time I encountered an Acadian of my generation drawing a link between the organized violence our ancestors experienced and the organized violence happening elsewhere in the world – in his book, he wrote about Lebanon.

Making that documentary was a revelation for me. I realized that I still carried the trauma of the Deportation, and for the first time in my life, I felt its pain. Suddenly, it became personal. From that moment on, the Great Upheaval became part of my life – it anchored me more deeply in this land and changed the way I see the world. On a more intimate level, I’ve made sure that my daughter knows where she comes from.

Of all your works, which one – or which moment in your career – makes you most proud?

Honestly, I don’t often stop to think about that.

But…

When Le Silence was released, I was proud to see how the public reacted. I feared the film would be met with controversy in Acadie – that people might question the truth of the survivors’ testimonies. That worried me deeply. But the reaction was exactly what we’d hoped for. Yes, there was controversy, but it came in the form of a denunciation of the Church’s actions and silence. I’m proud of the deep and lasting impact that film has had – in Acadian society and beyond.

On a more personal note, I take pride in simply lasting as an artist. I’m proud to be a woman succeeding in a profession still largely dominated by men.

What would your dream project look like?

The one I’m working on right now.

Every time you manage to bring a personal film to life, it’s a dream come true.

What advice would you give to emerging artists?

Never wait. Put a project out into the world – then another, then another. If you bet everything on a single project, not only is it risky, but it also traps your focus on one outcome. You never know which project will move forward, so it’s important to stay in motion – not to get “stuck” waiting for an answer.

Really work on your writing. It’s essential when pitching a project. If your project isn’t clearly articulated, your chances of finding funding are slim. Work on your mood boards – and especially your pitch.

Be clear about your intentions – and be dynamic and generous.

Don’t hesitate to have your texts reviewed and to keep developing your skills – there’s always something to learn.

In both documentary and fiction, choosing the right producer is crucial. A good producer is someone who will defend your project and do their best to give you the means to make it happen. There are always financial challenges in production – a good producer will make the necessary decisions (ideally with you) while protecting your vision. That’s rare!

Write, have your work read, and rewrite.
Listen to your heart.
Follow your instincts.
Take risks!