Your film is set entirely in Bouba’s beauty salon, where she’s talking to clients about a potential war while injecting fillers and Botox, joking around, sharing gossip. How was this experience for you?

The salon took center stage. Bouba is a strong character, both nurturing and direct. She told me business actually booms when the political or military situation worsens. That observation tied directly to my ideas. I had wanted to explore Botox (and fillers) as a "postwar aesthetic"—something shaped by trauma, a mask against violence. I began filming in September 2023. Then, on October 7, war broke out. Everything changed. The fear that violence in Gaza would spill over into Beirut became palpable. That shaped the film’s emotional landscape in real time. Throughout the film, there’s a recurring uncertainty: “Is there going to be war? What are you hearing?” There’s anxiety, but also denial—people reassuring each other: “Dahiyeh is safe, it’s going to be fine.” Later, we see a phoenix WhatsApp story that follows an explosion. Timelines get blurred—was it 2020? Was it the South? Dahiyeh? Such ambiguity belongs to the experience of living in constant, overlapping crises.

What led you to this particular film? 

This idea had been with me for some time. I got the chance to develop it throughout a 2022-2024 fellowship at the Vera List Center for Art and Politics, under the theme of "correction." I was interested in how that relates to the body. A foundational text was Susan Buck-Morss’s essay Aesthetics and Anaesthetics, where she re-reads Walter Benjamin. She traces “aesthetics” back to its Greek root aisthitikos, meaning perception through the senses, before it became tied to representation and beauty. She also talks about 19th-century substances—from coffee, tobacco, and tea to opium, cocaine, and spirits—used to manipulate the body’s sensory system. I see Botox as part of that same lineage: a modern narcotic that doesn’t just alter the body but also how emotions are processed. Botox paralyzes facial muscles, which don’t just express emotions but also create them. That’s part of what’s known as the facial feedback loop: if I’m angry but can’t frown, I might not feel that anger as intensely. 

Was there a particular moment that crystallized the idea for you?

Yes—2020, right after the Beirut port explosion. I noticed a new billboard near my home advertising Botox injections. It had a typical before-and-after photo and a phone number. At first, I thought, "How outrageous—this city just experienced mass death and destruction, and this is what’s being advertised?" But I tried to move past the shock. I became fascinated by its untimeliness—that strange juxtaposition between cosmetic correction and actual disaster. That led me to explore Botox and beauty culture as both a symptom of and a shield against trauma and violence.

You have a background in graphic design and visual art. What made you go into film directing?

I did my undergraduate studies in graphic design, worked for a few years in Beirut, and then moved to the U.S., where I completed two master’s degrees—one in fine arts and another in visual and critical studies. Around that time, I became a conceptual artist. For me, the idea drives the project, and the medium emerges depending on what feels most relevant. I had worked with film before—mainly videos and installations. When I started this project, I didn’t think of it as a feature. It evolved during the editing process and kept getting longer. It started making sense as a feature. It reached a length and form that made it eligible to circulate as one. But I also still see it as an artwork that you might encounter in a museum or a gallery.

Was it ever physically difficult to film—being so close to pain and blood?

Yes, it’s an intense setup: a tiny room, Bouba working, a client lying down, and me there with a tripod that sometimes gets kicked. I didn’t feel discomfort to the point of leaving. The camera acted as a filter—I was working, and so was Bouba. We were both in our zones. My biggest challenge was trying not to be intrusive. I’m tall, the space is tight. I tried to disappear into the room as best as I could.

The salon also seems to function as a safe space for queer people. Did that stand out to you?

Absolutely. Bouba calls some male clients "sister," uses feminine language, jokes affectionately. This is touching to witness in a country where homosexuality is still criminalized. Of course, this inclusion also exists within a business framework. Treating clients poorly would be bad for business. But even so, it creates a space where people of different class and gender identities feel welcomed. 

The film includes WhatsApp stories. Can you talk about their role?

Most of the WhatsApp stories are Bouba’s—it’s how she advertises offers to clients. I wanted to work within that language but insert other voices—poetic, emotional fragments. Some mimic posts one encounters while scrolling online. They can be cringey or deeply relatable. I wanted that emotional ambiguity. Two orange stories are more structured. They begin with rage and move toward the inability to express it because of Botox—individually (one’s mirror reflection) or socially (in other people’s faces). This ties back to the facial feedback loop: if you can’t frown, if others don’t mirror your emotion, the emotion itself changes.

That ties beautifully to the title: A Frown Gone Mad.

And the two marionette sequences mimic real ads—Hide the marionette lines, girl go back in time” or “Brotox for men.” I use that language to lead into the film’s final voiceover. That section turns earlier silent texts into spoken words. The marionette metaphor becomes one about control: if you fill the chin rods, no one can move your mouth, but then you also can’t speak. That silence might be the beginning of reclaiming speech. Like a frown finding its way back, without the muscles that used to form it.

Did your perspective on Botox or fillers change during this project?

From the start, I didn’t want to position the film as for or against cosmetic procedures. That binary didn’t interest me. I wanted to explore these treatments as part of an aesthetic of disaster—related to pain, numbness, survival. Spending time in the salon only reinforced how limited binary thinking is. This isn’t just about vanity. For some people, it’s ritual, comfort, community. Yes, you might see someone getting a fourth injection and think, “Enough!” But it’s not just about looking good. It’s about managing pain, reclaiming control, maybe even feeling safe.