Continuing the ongoing series of interviews with creative artists working on various aspects of movie and episodic productions, it is my pleasure to welcome Kathrin Eder. In this interview, she talks about collaboration and fostering creativity, the importance of tactile work, challenging the viewers through her stories, the impact of Covid on the industry, and her thoughts on generative AI. Between all these and more, Kathrin dives deep into her work on the just-released “The Man in My Basement”.

Kirill: Please tell us about yourself and the path that took you to where you are today.

Kathrin: My name is Kathrin Eder, and I am a production designer. I’m originally from Austria, where I grew up in the time before cell phones and the Internet. My village didn’t have a permanent movie theater; instead, the convention center would occasionally be converted into one. That was where I first discovered Disney films, with their brutal storylines of loss and their magical approach to visual storytelling.

Later in my teen years, I felt a calling toward the visual arts. With my limited access to the university system in Austria, I applied to the Academy of Fine Arts in Vienna but was turned down. Looking back, it was the best thing that could have happened to me. It led me to study social and cultural anthropology, which allowed me to explore philosophy, sociology, ecology, and the grand sciences that make up the human experience.

I always had a need to travel, and on one of my trips I met someone who invited me to Los Angeles. When I arrived, I realized I could pursue my curiosity for art in a different way than in Austria. I didn’t need pre-given talents – I could be curious and naive, and that freedom spoke to me. I originally wanted to become a screenwriter, without really knowing what that meant. But through a fine arts internship with local artists, I discovered production design and soon became an intern to a production designer on a music video.

The first time I stepped on set, I felt like production design had chosen me. It was one of those rare moments when everything made sense. From then on, with the support of friends who believed in my growth, I took filmmaking seriously. I wanted to understand storytelling, mythology, and world-building. That curiosity led me to teach myself design – by working on short films, collaborating with students, and starting out in the indie world. It’s been a journey now for about sixteen years.

Kirill: Is there anything that you’ve seen on your projects that was particularly surprising?

Kathrin: There’s a surprise in every story. I believe that as much as we choose projects, projects also choose us. Every story that enters your life is, in some way, connected to your own experience. Each project becomes a vessel – a moment in time where, through collaboration, you can reflect on your emotions, your pain, and sometimes your most personal experiences. I’m always struck by the unexpected moments when something – or someone – truly resonates. The first surprise is always the emotional connection you make.

As to execution, I believe creativity is malleable – there’s never just one right idea. Communication fuels creativity, and the most beautiful surprises for me always come when communication flows easily with collaborators. You enter a mental space that feels familiar from childhood. When you’re fully immersed in the creative process, there’s no fear and no boundaries. You’re in that place where judgment disappears, and reaching that point with colleagues is always a truly beautiful surprise.

Another surprise is that no matter how much you plan, there will always be coincidence. Coincidence can be a beautiful addition to what to what your plans are. Coincidentally, a color doesn’t turn out the way it should be. Coincidentally, a wallpaper that was shipped to you has water stains on one side and creates a new pattern. It’s tiny instances like that.

When you collaborate with others, you can never assume they’re seeing things the same way you do. You can’t assume they share your perspective or your assumptions. What comes out of that collaboration can be surprising – and often, endearing.

Lookbook development for “The Man in My Basement”, courtesy of Kathrin Eder.

Kirill: Do you feel that anybody can be an artist?

Kathrin: Yes, I think so. I don’t consider myself an artist. I consider myself a craftsperson – someone with many passions.

The reason I left Austria was because the image of “the artist” there felt so tied to old aristocratic principles, rooted in our history. It created something elitist, something I felt ordinary people couldn’t access – and I never liked that. To me, art prospers in conflict. Art prospers where there is struggle. It is a form of expression, a form of storytelling, and it runs in our DNA to be storytellers.

To become someone whose creations are appreciated by others, you need dedication and curiosity. You need to reflect on your own growth, to train your skills, to consistently be in dialogue with yourself. At its core, art is an expression of the human soul – and everybody carries it within them.

Kirill: Is there such a thing as objectively good and bad art? I have my own reactions to different stories, and so does everybody else, and different people like different things. But there are also some artists and works of art that are universally considered to be masterpieces. How do you see it?

Kathrin: I’ve thought about this so many times. Recently I was in Venice at a Da Vinci exhibit. You look at his work and you can’t help but bow your head – you’re humbled by the idea that some human minds simply think differently, with a clarity of vision that feels beyond reach.

In our world today, I feel that same sense when I look at certain directors and screenwriters – how they interpret the world and present it back to us. Their work moves us, teaches us, and immerses us in experiences we’ve never known before. One of my favorite authors is Ken Liu. When I read his short stories, I feel deeply connected to what it means to be human. No other writer has ever triggered that kind of emotional response in me. So yes, I do believe there are people of extraordinary talent.

But then there’s another conversation – about good and bad. As humans, our rationale is built on opposites and polarities. We like to categorize things, to orient ourselves. If there’s “good” art, then by judgment there must also be “bad” art – because we’re naturally biased. I do it myself. I don’t like certain pieces. That’s only human. I don’t have a clear answer. Sometimes you just ponder it, drift in it, and see where your thoughts take you. What I know is that I love appreciating the work of others when it truly touches me. That emotional connection – it makes me feel alive.

Lookbook development for “The Man in My Basement”, courtesy of Kathrin Eder.

Kirill: Do you find that some people inside and outside of the industry have certain misconceptions of what your job is and what production design is?

Kathrin: I always see it with my family and friends in Austria. It goes back to when we were kids going to the movies, and the way Hollywood portrayed itself as a world of stardom and starlets. People imagine we live these glamorous lives. Rarely do they consider the long hours we work, or the intensity of leaving your family behind when you go on the road. To me, it feels more like a circus life – we’re vagabonds traveling from place to place.

On the inside, the experience shifts depending on how curated the project is. With a more experienced crew, everyone has a clear understanding of what production design is. I’ve worked on independent films with first-time directors, and while those experiences can be beautiful, they often carry a certain ambiguity about the art department and production design. We don’t just choose colors or create spaces. As a production designer, the dialogue I engage in runs much deeper. People are sometimes surprised by the questions I ask or the processes I propose, all of which are part of shaping a contribution that truly serves the story.

Unlike a lighting or camera package, you can’t plan the art department in a fixed way. Do we have access to a location? Can we build the set on a stage? What is the availability of actors? What does the shooting schedule allow? What is the budget? These factors make it difficult to predict what the art department will look like. We adapt to each project individually, pulling in a specific set of tools and approaches that fit the moment.

Construction drawings for “The Man in My Basement”, courtesy of Kathrin Eder.

Kirill: Looking at this period of 18-20 years that you’ve been working in this industry, what are the big changes in how and where these stories are told?

Kathrin: I had the pleasure and the honor to come up under art department leaders who grew up in the old system. They grew up doing big movies, with the process of presenting ideas in a physical manner. When I was a production assistant, I watched and I learned, and I planned to repeat what they were doing when I’d get my chance to design.

I started out right at the cusp of moving to digital. When I started doing production design on indie films, it was already predominantly digital. When you’re under time pressure, anything that can expedite communication is a benefit. You can plan things differently.

The shift to virtual video meetings in the last few years isolated us in a certain way. I’m always happy when I can go back to tactile communication and a tactile planning experience. I always print things out. I enjoy to pass things along to my collaborators by having a meeting in person.

In general, I feel like I’m still working pretty old school and can’t speak much to the extreme technological advances or the uncharted territory. There is a group of designers who consistently push the boundaries forward, and they would have way more to say about it than I do.

Construction drawings for “The Man in My Basement”, courtesy of Kathrin Eder.

Kirill: Getting closer to “The Man in My Basement”, how did it start for you?

Kathrin: When I had a meeting with our director, Nadia Latif, I found her fascinating. But afterward, I wasn’t sure she would pick me. I was intimidated by the script – and by the fact that it was based on a book so heavy on dialogue.

The book deals with the race discussion in the United States, and it flips roles. With my background in social and cultural anthropology, the subject matter fascinated me. It also fascinated me that Nadia chose this particular story as her directorial feature debut. Being intimidated can sometimes be a great motivation for growth. You want to jump in and see how it goes.

I wanted to be careful in how I navigated the storytelling. I’m a white, Austrian, middle-class immigrant working with a subject matter that is woven into the fabric of American history and remains a source of ongoing struggle and dialogue. This is where filmmaking and storytelling become truly interesting. You have to become aware of your own assumptions. You have to recognize the biases held in society. And then, as a group of storytellers, you work toward building mutual trust and turning those biases into curiosity. Curiosity lets you put every question on the table and approach it from the angle of storytelling, not personal opinion. It was a complex process. And we put the utmost care into addressing all facets sensitively.

And on top of all that, we took the project to Cardiff, Wales – far away from the United States. That meant questioning every assumption about the tactile, human details of daily life. You might assume certain things about American life in the ’90s – but then you start really looking at how it actually was

Building the main house for “The Man in My Basement”, courtesy of Kathrin Eder.

Kirill: The story is taking place in the ’90s, but this house has been in his family for generations. How do you envision the history of the house, how it looks like on the outside and on the inside with something like 200 years worth of people living in it?

Kathrin: That was something Nadia and I really enjoyed exploring. We had three months of soft prep, meeting every week to break the script by emotional beats. As we worked through each line, I could ask questions and suggest how the house might come about.

Nadia wanted it rooted in the Craftsman style, which isn’t as old as the house itself. So we took some liberties – blending elements more typical of the West Coast into Sag Harbor, shaping it to the community but also making it stand out as a jewel. We imagined his ancestors as part of the fabric of that place – leaders, speakers, hosts who opened their home and became its heart.

That gave us license to scale the house larger than the local norm, and to build stories into every object. We tied it to Moby-Dick mythology, and to Sag Harbor’s legacy as a community of free black families. In my research, I noticed how Victorian portraits of white families are everywhere in European museums, but similar images of black families are so hard to find. That absence raised powerful questions about how to present his family history – and it guided the background we built for them.

Kirill: Most of the story happens in his family house. Did you start looking at existing houses in Wales, or was it clear that you’d need to build it yourself?

Kathrin: The production wasn’t always meant to be in Wales. We first planned for Savannah, but it moved for budgetary reasons. Once that happened, it became clear we’d need to build the house. We still scouted locations and found a few that worked for our world building – Narciss’s shop, the bank, the little bar where he gets lost one night. The gas station was tricky, and hopefully we pulled that off, because gas stations look so different in Europe. We also scouted older houses, but the geography just didn’t work. It was a quick turnaround – we ended up with only seven or eight weeks of prep to build it all.

Building the main house for “The Man in My Basement”, courtesy of Kathrin Eder.

Kirill: How did you decide to build the house in the woods and its interior on stage?

Kathrin: We filmed in Wales in January and February, which is a rainy and cold season. We needed to tie the exterior of the house to the Sag Harbor community. Many of those houses sit in the forest – back then there were no real roads and very few streetlights. Nadia wanted the exterior shots of our house to match that atmosphere, so we found a private piece of land in a swamp. It was flooded most of the time, but it already had an existing structure from a previous film.

We staked it out, laid a road, and brought in street lanterns. But on the very day construction was supposed to start, it rained so much that the whole property was two feet underwater. We ended up pouring 30 tons of gravel over a membrane just to have a foundation to build on. We created this little neighborhood, but then the cold set in. It’s always better to be on stage – you have more control. You don’t need to film nights at night because you can just turn the lights down.

In the end, we realized it would be warmer and more manageable to build on stage. We could use cinematic backings around the house and complete the builds without being at the mercy of the weather.

The location of the main house build for “The Man in My Basement”, before and after the build completion, courtesy of Kathrin Eder.

Kirill: Were there any particular colors that you wanted to stay away from?

Kathrin: The Craftsman color palette is grounded in muted, nature-inspired tones – pastels and natural shades. We presented a lot of options, and Nadia became very involved in choosing the colors for the house. I think those pastels resonated with her because of her own interpretation of the story, but also her background in theater and her sensitivity to color. She didn’t want wallpapers or patterns that felt too forceful. The house was already filled with so many objects and so much history, so we kept the wall surfaces fairly simple.

Red doesn’t appear much in the palette. For example, in the Tiffany glass windows by the front door, we actually swapped out red for orange. I couldn’t even tell you it was a conscious decision – it just came from an understanding of what the house needed to be, and how we were grounding it in a Craftsman history with a deep connection to nature.

Kirill: Do you feel that this story might be taking place pretty much at any point in time after World War II? It didn’t feel particularly connected to the ’80s or the ’90s.

Kathrin: I agree with you. There’s no modern technology in the story, and the storytelling isn’t tied to communication through technology. That gives it a sense of timelessness, even a dreaminess. When I read the book and then the screenplay, I asked Nadia: did this actually happen? Is this happening, or is it an illusion? What is truly tactile in this story?

There’s a feeling that the dialogue and the events could take place at any point – across the last few decades, or even centuries.

Building the basement cage for “The Man in My Basement”, courtesy of Kathrin Eder.

Kirill: Some storytelling is direct and presents an unambiguous sequence of events. And some storytelling is less conclusive, leaning on metaphors and asking the viewer to build their own interpretation of what is presented. Do you want your stories to be less straightforward? Do you want to ask the viewer to spend some time after it’s over to complete some of the gaps?

Kathrin: It’s a lovely question. I wonder if we’re being geared toward assuming everything will be fed to us. Our attention spans are getting shorter, and people are getting used to easily digestible bits of information. I have to make a conscious decision to read a complex book. Do I have the mental space and the time to immerse myself in an art-house film, rather than something mass-produced and formulaic?

As a production designer, I really enjoy working on stories that are not strictly linear. It lets me take what’s on the page and in the dialogue and add other layers through the spatial experience. We can create backstory that doesn’t have to be spoken, but still floats in the room. That backstory gives intention to everything and allows me to put myself in the character’s shoes with a certain logic.

As our world speeds up, we shouldn’t forget that storytelling is always about compassion and empathy. We’re literally putting ourselves in other people’s shoes. To do that, you have to pause and reflect. You have to allow yourself an emotional response. You have to be comfortable being uncomfortable – with not liking something, with having an unexpected reaction, with connecting to your own emotional life. That can be a challenge. More and more, we numb ourselves with things that don’t ask us to do that.

Main house renders for “The Man in My Basement”, courtesy of Kathrin Eder.

Kirill: What was the most challenging sequence or part of the house for you to work on?

Kathrin: The basement was difficult. We start with it stuffed full of family history, and then it becomes completely empty. Basements aren’t big spaces. They don’t have high ceilings. They’re not architecturally refined – you have stone walls, a bit of foundation, and some wood beams holding up the weight above. It’s a challenge to create a box, then spend three weeks of cinematography in that box, and still keep it visually interesting.

A lot of action takes place there, and we needed to make it bigger than I originally wanted, for the cinematic requirements of our director of photography, Ula Pontikos. She photographed it beautifully, and on screen, the size feels natural and doesn’t distract from the story.

Imitating nature is always the hardest thing. Painting stone is much harder than painting a surface created by humans. Down there, we had weathered old stone walls that demanded a lot of detail. It’s all texture, and within the short prep time it was a real challenge to get it right. But it was the kind of challenge that’s always good to have.

Main house renders for “The Man in My Basement”, courtesy of Kathrin Eder.

Kirill: Does it feel that the industry now is back to how it used to be in the pre-Covid days? There were some discussions on how the Covid protocols might lead to more manageable schedules on set, but it seems like that hasn’t quite materialized.

Kathrin: It comes with so much hope. We were all hoping for shorter workdays and more prep time. But I don’t think that’s changed. If anything, on many productions I’ve been part of – and from what I hear from colleagues – there’s less time, less planning, and less money. Things feel more rushed. Productions are moving to different countries – ours included. We planned to shoot in Savannah, and ended up in Wales.

I came up in the Los Angeles film industry, and back then there was a wonderful sense of community. Around the winter holidays you’d go from prop house to prop house – you could pick up your Christmas tree at Green Set, or stop by Omega and they’d hand you a bottle of wine. There was a real spirit of belonging. Fast forward to 2025, and that’s fractured. Prop houses that had been open for 80 years have declared bankruptcy in just the last few years. There are all these small deaths in the industry, many accelerated by the pandemic and the shutdown.

Right now there’s a lot of pain, sadness, and mourning in the U.S. film industry. A lot of people are out of work. We’re watching major productions move overseas, and it’s affecting all of us. The pandemic hit right in the middle of that shift, and things haven’t gotten friendlier since. There hasn’t been much positive change, nor much progress in how environmentally conscious we are as an industry. I haven’t worked in L.A. since 2017, and I’d love to feel again that sense of community – that this industry still has a home there for so many people.

The interior build of the main house for “The Man in My Basement”, courtesy of Kathrin Eder.

Kirill: Speaking about changes, generative AI is another big change that is happening across so many industries. Do you see it as a threat, or another tool at your disposal, or something else?

Kathrin: I find it fascinating, because back in the ’80s and ’90s we talked about this as some distant idea that would happen in the future. My feeling was that when it arrived, it would be this awe-inspiring, amazing thing. And yet here we are – it came so silently, seemingly overnight.

As humans, we adapt to new technology as it enters our lives. Oh, now we have cell phones – I can call my mom in Austria without buying phone cards at the local liquor store. Oh, now we have electric cars – so I charge instead of filling up at the gas station. But with AI, I think I’m still in denial. I haven’t fully let myself participate in the discourse around how I think about it.

We have incredible illustrators, concept artists, and set designers. I’m waiting to see how AI will be implemented on our end. I know we’ll have to adjust and adapt; denying it won’t make it go away. But right now, I wouldn’t use AI to generate concepts for a project I’m working on. I’d much rather challenge my own creativity, collaborate with an illustrator or concept artist, and create something together. Of course, I’ve been curious. I’ve played around with it. Sometimes AI helps me edit a difficult email and takes the emotion out of it.

I’m curious about how it’s going to change the human experience. We’re at the very beginning of it. The stories we tell reflect our emotions, experiences, and thoughts. It’s good to have a human connection to that. If we give it all to a machine, then what do we have left? What I don’t want is for us to end up like the humans in Wall-E – chubby blobs floating on a spaceship.

Kirill: What productions would you consider to be the gold standard of production design?

Kathrin: There are so many brilliant designers out there. And my answer is likely just very spontaneous. Sarah Greenwood does amazing work. Anything that Baz Luhrmann and Catherine Martin do is extraordinary. There are also incredible younger female production designers, like Ruth De Jong and Florencia Martin – it’s inspiring to see how they apply themselves. Nathan Crowley invented this entire world for “Wicked”. It’s amazing to see production designers creating worlds not grounded in reality – reimagining fairy tales, pushing into the future, building these beautiful visions. “The Aviator” was another standout.

I also loved “The Cook, the Thief, His Wife & Her Lover” by Peter Greenaway. He was making experimental art house films in the ’90s and ’00s with such a vivid use of color. Or Alejandro Jodorowsky, with his wonderfully strange design language. There are so many, each with a different flavor. But it always comes back to the story – we cater everything to that. That’s what I love about production design: there are so many facets to it.

Kirill: If you had a time machine, and you could go back to when you were starting out to give your younger self a piece of advice, what would it be?

Kathrin: I would probably compliment myself for my naïveté, but at the same time I’d say: don’t get blinded by the fantasy of working in the industry. You learned analytical thinking at university – use it. You moved halfway around the world to L.A.; you’re in dreamland. Your naïveté is charming, but balance it with a bit more structure in your approach.

My twenties were all about full-on living, making spontaneous decisions. So I’d tell myself: keep that spirit, but be a little more structured along the way.

Kirill: You mentioned the long stretches of time that you spend away from your family and friends, and the long hours on set. What keeps you going? Why do you choose to stay in this particular field?

Kathrin: In the last six or seven years, I’ve had a partner by my side who’s also my art director. We work together, and that’s become a crucial part of my work–life balance. I can only be a successful designer if I’m also living a life I enjoy. I don’t work from a place of isolation or loneliness. Some people thrive like that – but I can’t. What’s beautiful is that we’re creating together. It’s immersive, it’s shared, and we’re going on these adventures side by side. That’s probably why I stay in this industry.

I get the opportunity to live in Vancouver for six months, to bond with people, to experience nature, to try new flavors. It’s long enough to build a real body of experiences. And then I might go to Serbia, or to Buffalo, New York, where I am right now. The chance to live in different places around the world keeps feeding my curiosity. If I could visit every country, and every place within every country, I would. That’s how much I love to travel. I love meeting new people, animals, and environments. I’m endlessly curious.

I pair that curiosity with a commitment to integrity. I remind myself that if I act from a place of integrity, I’ll go far in life. That’s what keeps me moving forward. And I really value being appreciated on a production, when people enjoy my contribution. That means a lot. It’s not about how successful or prestigious the project is – it’s about the bonding, the human connection. That’s what matters most to me.

Kirill: Out of all the travels that you’ve done so far, what was your absolute favorite dish to eat?

Kathrin: I love food. One of my favorite meals was at a restaurant called Josephine’s in Belgrade. I had ricotta gnocchi with wild mushrooms, and to this day it might be one of the best dishes I’ve ever had in my life.

And here I want to thank Kathrin Eder for taking the time to talk with me about the art and craft of production design, and for sharing the supporting materials. I also want to thank Jordan von Netzer for making this interview happen. “The Man in My Basement” is streaming on Hulu starting today. Finally, if you want to know more about how films and TV shows are made, click here for additional in-depth interviews in this series.