HOMAGE
While shooting a samurai epic in honor of her ailing father, an ambitious young director begins to realize that finishing the film could mean never seeing him again.
Drawn from my experience of losing my father to cancer, the short film “Homage” explores the difficult grieving process that precedes a loss, and the balance between striving to make our fathers proud and being present with the ones we love.
MOTIVATION
The film is inspired by the emotions that arose while shooting my previous short, “Agurk,” in Japan. While I was there, my father’s cancer spread to his liver, and although my parents tried to soften the truth, I understood what was happening. The time we had left suddenly became a matter of months instead of years. Living in the conflict between pursuing my own ambitions and carrying the guilt of being far from home became the emotional core of what would become “Homage.”
When my father first received his diagnosis a few years earlier, I developed something close to an obsession with finishing my first feature before he passed. I wanted to show that I could become a director—that he didn’t need to worry about me. Instead of being present, I escaped into work. But when the treatments failed and years became months, I realized what I was about to lose. I chose to be present—with a father who was already proud of me—and that choice has become the film’s moral and emotional compass.
But what if I had chosen differently? What if I had been in the middle of a production when the news arrived? When my father died in July 2023, I began to write.
For over two years, I have poured everything into making this film. I moved to Tokyo for a year with no guarantee of funding, gambling my life on a story I believe is worth telling. I trained to understand sword fighting, learned the language, traveled from temple to temple in search of the right locations, researched the culture, built a network, and slowly but surely assembled a film, a plan, and a team I believe is world-class. But after two rejections, I’ve now spent a full year in Tokyo ready to make the film—and that has been heavy.
The film is my way of processing the loss of my father, Dag Furuholmen, who was a pillar in my life—a man who, even in the face of death, radiated the strength of a warrior.
My father introduced me to Japan when I was little—through karate, the films of Hayao Miyazaki, and later Kurosawa and Kobayashi: Seven Samurai, Harakiri, Ran. When it was just the two of us, we would eat burgers and watch movies. That shaped me—and my taste. This interest grew into a deeper exploration of Japanese culture and film tradition, and into the production of my previous short, “Agurk,” the last film I was able to show my father. “Homage” is an amalgamation of my grief, the strength my father showed, our shared love of samurai cinema, and the feelings I carried in Japan. “Homage” is a film about these emotions—about grief, ambition, and how difficult it is to truly grasp that a father is going to die.
VISION
Anxiety attack
Ronja has an anxiety attack. Even though she doesn’t cognitively take in the severity, her body reacts unconsciously. She’s in a car with a crew driver, trying to control her emotions, and fails. We want Ronja to feel watched and confined here. We hold a static shot and let Eili Harboe play the scene, cutting to Ronja’s POV of the driver until we cut away. It’s important to keep this scene grounded so it doesn’t become more dramatic than the panic attack at the film’s midpoint. Ronja doesn’t understand what this reaction is.
As she gets out of the car, we switch to handheld on a long lens. The camera stays tight on her as she tries to get away, increasing the pressure. The build follows a wave: from the image of the coffee spreading, through the anxiety in the car, into pacing, rhythm, and music swelling toward rapid handheld cutting up to the hotel room. There we smash cut to the silence after the attack; she sits, trying to catch her breath.
This is Ronja’s first attempt to face the truth: that her father is ill. We return to static camerawork. Subtext is carried by the timing and the performances from Kristofer Hivju and Eili Harboe. It must be clear they both know what this is about. We let the silence hang as she begins to open up, before he interrupts and steers the conversation toward the film—“Will there be action?”, “You doing okay?”—and away from the subject. The point is a quiet “agreement” to pretend everything is fine. We’ll also shoot takes at varying intensities here to secure the edit.
When they’re interrupted for lunch, she goes back to work. We fade into the sounds of the samurai fight, hearing the battle taking place inside her in this moment.
Fight scene
We cut straight into the end of the samurai fight, shot on 35mm: Ronja’s samurai version of the film’s opening image. Then we cut back to Ronja. When we move to Kawamura, we see she’s handling the grief worse; emotions are starting to slip. We can clearly see Kawamura registering the shift in her. Both he and Reiner know her father is ill, but not that it has gotten worse—something they understand through the film.
Back on 35mm. The choreography is developed with Tetsuro Shimaguchi, who choreographed the final duel in Kill Bill between Lucy Liu and Uma Thurman—the main inspiration for this fight. We open with about a minute of tight, precisely choreographed combat. I train weekly with Shimaguchi to understand sword work “from the inside.” The ambition is high precision in a short, fully realized sequence that gives the “film within the film” a clear high-budget aesthetic and creates a memorable fight.
From the real-time portion (35mm, American and shot–reverse–shot), we glide into more detailed passages of choreography. Instead of a reverse on the dark samurai/Kawamura, we cut to a reverse on Kristofer Hivju’s character/the dark Viking in the same framing. We then move into slow motion to highlight the similarities in movement between Viking and samurai, and we also shift into digital to underline that we are in Ronja’s POV now.
The fight choreography has a three-part structure:
Pure samurai fight in real time;
Short, slow-motion details with reverses cross-cutting between the Viking and samurai worlds;
The same movement that opens the film—the Viking knocking the sword away—which also ends the samurai fight.
Out of the cross-cutting and back to Ronja, we snap to real time as “Geir” hits the ground. We go tight on Ronja as her breath fogs. The soundscape ramps up to a loud reality: the music drops out, and the looks around her build the panic to a peak. Again the camera is locked off as reactions across the crew, with Kawamura or Reiner in the foreground (a device Kurosawa often used), drive the build. Close on Ronja, wide for the rest of the set.
After the panic attack
The camera sits higher over Ronja. She has lost control—emotionally and on set—but still can’t let the reality in. She says everything is fine, and we let the lie sit in the image of blood-stained snow. Reiner sharing her cigarette marks their relationship. When he says “it’s not family stuff,” the recognition is in the delivery: he senses it may be about her father, but isn’t close enough to ask directly or push further. The scene is shot static to give space to blocking and to let the actors play the subtext.
In the next scene she sits working, ignoring her mother’s calls. She can’t face the situation; if something is wrong, she doesn’t want to open to it, and otherwise she doesn’t want to be met with guilt-tripping. She’s still trying to convince herself the film is more important. When she stands, we see that escaping into work no longer works.
Even though the project is motivated by making the film for her father, a cognitive dissonance emerges—that’s the core of her conflict. To make her father proud, to show she can keep the promise she made him. That’s what drives her away from the truth and away from accepting her own feelings. The fact that Ronja’s inner conflict is chaotic is part of the point. By making space for the viewer to interpret, we make space for them to project their own experiences and feelings—and come out the other side closer to the film.
When Ronja steps out for a cigarette, she would prefer to be alone, but she knows etiquette well enough to bow and greet when Kawamura has seen her—a small politeness misstep that still opens room for contact. He puts a hand to his chest (she struggled to breathe) and asks if she’s okay—a gesture that can also read as a hand over the heart. Japanese communication is subtle; things are rarely said directly, especially within a work relationship. At the same time, Kawamura understands what’s happening and tries to extend a small helping hand in this scene.
To relieve the pressure, he makes a light joke about death. When her smile fades, the tone quickly turns more serious. The hesitant “Also for you difficult” is—by Japanese standards—unusually direct; in practice: “Are you okay?” Ronja considers opening up for a moment but still can’t speak about it. She stubs out the cigarette, bows, and leaves. We stay with Kawamura a moment; we now see that he understands. The camera remains calm, mostly over the shoulder/neck for the conversation, moving in and out of their shared proximity.
Death scene
She tries to make the death scene play, but she has now fled the feeling so completely that nothing moves her. We start on tripod with the head “unlocked” and gradually transition into handheld. At the same time, we step the focal lengths longer to tighten the gaze and mirror the inner chaos. Over the course of the scene we quickly slip out of the 35mm/genre aesthetic as we watch Kawamura’s death—she can no longer remain “in the film.”
We swing between her gaze, the onlookers watching her, and Kawamura. The rhythm increases steadily between each “Cut / Action.” The music fades in—melancholic, tense, pulsing—and builds together with the cutting rhythm (inspired by “Unraveling” from the Shame soundtrack). The goal is for the music to express the underlying feeling driving Ronja. Here the audience feels the pain she can’t handle, leading into the emotional outburst.
It cuts abruptly to a wide when the outburst hits (“the acting is shit”), and we settle into silence. The structure (rising curve and key lines) is set, but we cover the scene largely handheld to allow for spontaneous micro-moments between “Cut / Action.” That preserves the precision of the build while letting us capture on-set sparks.
The memory
Alone with a cigarette, she calls Geir. We let the phone ring for a while before it reaches voicemail. We’re back on a dolly, slowly moving in on Ronja. Her eyes fall to the coffee stain from the inciting moment. The absence of an answer and her fixed gaze on the stain motivate a precise match cut back to the cause. We zoom in again. Same shot type. This is why the coffee stain matters in the film’s language.
The motif comes from when I learned my own father might not live more than a year. It carries the scene’s emotional weight when the timing and music lock in. We use the zoom here (and earlier on the coffee stain)—a close-up, slowly out from the liquid to land in Ronja’s dissociation. She sees, but isn’t present. Just before the scene begins, Geir has told her there may be only a couple of years left, and we enter the charged silence.
Ronja’s final line in the memory marks the start of the journey: the promise to make the film for her father. It’s also why it’s so hard to give up, go home, or stop production—the film is how to make him proud, how to show love. That love should live in the looks she and Geir give each other, especially Geir’s closing look, which reflects his concern for how she’s handling this—and that he knows he won’t live to see her finish.
When Geir answers the phone, we use his “hello” as a transition out of the memory and back into the conversation where she’s standing outside, smoking. He tries to play it normally; a slight catch in his voice hints he’s not as healthy as in the first call, but we keep it moderate. If he’s too weak here, the dramatic weight of the realization is lost—her going home would become a reaction to this one moment rather than the culmination of the entire journey. She also plays normal—just as they have all along. The “alternate ending” talk mirrors her opening line (“he was going to die anyway”). When she says “that would be nice,” it truly begins to dawn on her that he is going to die. We move in close on Ronja for the last line: “It’s only a film.” This is where Ronja recognizes what she’s doing—an image we hold as long as needed, until it lands. Here music and performance have room to shine.
Realization
Ronja returns to Kawamura more in touch with her feelings. We’re close on her and Kawamura as she says, “This is the last moment you have with your son.” The subtext is that this is the moment she herself will miss if she doesn’t go home. Because Kawamura has followed her the whole way, he catches it immediately in the close-up. There’s a quiet communication between them in which we understand they both understand what this means. He forgives her, and Ronja rises. Reiner stands a little off, but senses something has changed.
Of the scene playing out in front of Ronja we show only the beginning, while a slow, continuous dolly-in on her face lets the full recognition land (a bit like in Interstellar or Portrait of a Lady on Fire).
But it shouldn’t be a “tasteful” single tear. Even as she tries to hold back, the feelings won’t be contained, and she finally gives herself over to grief. Only once the outpouring subsides do we release the dolly move—she’s crystal clear: this is as far as she can take the film now.
Reiner doesn’t understand immediately, but her look makes it clear. Both he and Kawamura know what’s happening. We don’t need many words to convey this subtext.
When Ronja leaves the set, we return to the language of the travel montage, but with a slower cutting rhythm. As she walks, “Aldri i livet” (Finn Kalvik) plays. Like “Tenke sjæl,” this is a new recording—but in Norwegian—so we get the contrast between a Japanese version of a Norwegian childhood song at the start and the actual Norwegian version at the end.
The montage is calmer. In the final images we stay solely with Ronja: she is in her feelings, present in the movement home. We see telephone lines rushing past, crossing. At the house we hold a single, continuous shot: Ronja sees her father in the garden and smiles, tenderly (as in the reference frame from The Worst Person in the World)—he doesn’t see her before she steps forward and leaves the frame. We remain in the empty frame with falling snow, holding until the credits are finished.
“Homage” is a story that can only be told through cinema. The feeling I’m trying to capture resists language and has to be expressed audiovisually. I draw inspiration from contemplative films like “Aftersun” and “Lost in Translation,” but that tasteful quiet is set against a storytelling mode that at times is more explosive. A restrained drama about grief could have been made in an apartment in Grünerløkka, but that doesn’t speak to me or my experience. I want to make something as grand and bold as it is honest and tender—something that both moves and entertains.
The film is told through Ronja’s reality and the “film within the film.” The Viking and samurai narratives are deliberately simple in plot, but they share the motif of “the loss of a father figure,” giving Ronja’s personal dilemma a mythic frame that both amplifies the feeling and drives the visuals. Production design anchors the emotion: snow forms a visual bridge between the worlds and underscores the distance she is trying to live with—and the film/memories she is trying to pay homage to.
In the pages that follow, I’ll walk you carefully through how “Homage” will be shot and executed. To get an accurate picture of the film: read the script slowly—every word is placed to carry subtext and meaning, and it’s easy to rush. I’m doing this so thoroughly because I’ve received feedback that some things are unclear, and also that some things are too explicit. So I’m honestly anxious the film will be misunderstood—and terrified it won’t receive funding (heh).
The film’s length will be determined by the interplay of blocking, performance, camera, and music. The script has therefore been distilled to make room for moments, so the film can land somewhere between 15–20 minutes. Feel free to use the storyboard as a reference for the images as you read. We’ve included every shot in the film with references, even if not everything is fully perfected (a bit difficult without funding). Certain choices will be finalized in pre-production or discovered on set, but the baseline remains: a visual and musical language that lets performance, timing, and composition carry the emotion rather than the words.
Opening
The film opens on white with light strings (inspired by Arvo Pärt’s Fratres): a simple musical theme that runs through the entire film. From an extreme close-up of snow, we tilt up and slowly dolly in. The association is to Dune’s sand imagery, here with snowflakes in the morning light. The location is in the mountains near Filmcamp (Tromsø area), and we shoot at sunrise to get long shadows we can follow upward with the movement (as on the salt flats in The Tree of Life). The fight we see is the final phase of a long duel. The red-haired Viking (Kristofer Hivju) knocks the sword from his opponent’s hand and cuts him down as the final beat of the choreography. The choreography shouldn’t last long—just long enough to suggest an epic battle and give us time to approach with the dolly move.
The move toward the fight is slow and precise: a steady dolly/crane forward until we land in an American shot just as Hivju’s character dies—then we begin the pull-back. Throughout the scene we cross-cut to another push-in/pull-out: a little red-haired girl. We shoot both the push-in and the pull-out in the same setup so we can fine-tune the overall tempo of the scene in the edit if needed. Cinematographer Julian Schmitt always has detailed shot plans so we’re never stuck without coverage. As the sound slowly fades toward the next scene and we dolly out from the father, the film set “reveals” itself. We then understand we’ve been in the girl’s POV (Ronja) all along. The dolly stops as the blocking resolves into a two-shot of Ronja in the arms of her father, Geir.
The opening sequence establishes elements of the film’s pacing and audiovisual language: calm, precise camera moves; the main musical theme and instrumentation; Ronja’s childhood on film sets; the motivation for the project she’s making; and the theme—parental death and how we grapple with it through stories.
Ronja
The bright tones of the main theme fade into room tone. We cut to a locked, extreme close-up of eyes focusing (cf. Inglourious Basterds) before going wide: the room is messy and work-worn—papers on the walls, a suitcase on the floor—with Tokyo’s skyline outside (cf. Lost in Translation).
We continue without music as Ronja makes a call, to underscore the isolation. The camera either creeps in slowly on a dolly or stays mostly static (still undecided, location-dependent). In the short conversation with Geir, the information sits in the subtext: she goes straight to needs and work. The line “He was going to die anyway, wasn’t he?” mirrors the film’s core without over-explaining it, and it will be echoed in the final phone call near the end.
When Geir says he managed to get to the store “with three breaks, but Japan might be a bit far,” we are closer to both Ronja and Geir. We see his face on FaceTime; Ronja stands by the window, her reflection layered over the city. The moment reveals the vulnerability: she’s alone, far from him, yet convinced that making the film for him is the right choice. We give the silence afterward time; when the feeling grows too strong, she breaks it quickly—deflects, signs off, back to work. This is her coping mechanism: she can’t fully take in the weight and uses the film to handle the grief. Grief is complex; the gap between understanding and actually absorbing that someone is going to die is central. If the film becomes too direct and explanatory, it loses the essence that motivated the project.
Two precise images anchor the emotion: the father’s current condition on FaceTime contrasted with a still of him from the Viking film Jarl (on the laptop), and the storyboard beneath that creates a parallel between samurai and Vikings in the same framing—a direct link to the scene we saw in the opening.
Travel montage
The montage music begins as we dolly in toward the computer screen, driven by a newly recorded Japanese version of Trond-Viggo Torgersen’s “Tenke sjæl”—adding a meta layer (Ronja’s current culture/life) while preserving recognition for Norwegian viewers and avoiding master costs. I’ll record the track with producer Magnus Bechmann Hansen, as we did on my previous short Agurk. (I’ve also written an EP of Japanese ’80s-style pop—Paradise, under the artist name Harachan. Feel free to use it as proof that I can, in fact, make music.) The score will feature violin as the lead instrument, and I’m in talks with Ola Kvernberg over the next few weeks (one of Norway’s finest violinists and composers—he’s scored countless films, and Steamdome II is, in my view, the best Norwegian album ever).
The montage visualizes that Ronja is both making the film because of the grief and fleeing from it through work: parallel telephone lines that never cross symbolize her and her father (a motif that returns at the end). She’s completely absorbed—we build to the title card over Nisshinkan Temple, a samurai school in Aizu (access via Tetsuro Shimaguchi). The title lands; we punch the now-Japanese chorus line—“Du må teeenke sjææææl, bababam baba—” —and smash cut on the beat to swords clashing, just before the chorus’s final note.
The film set
We open on a close-up of swords striking, then cut straight to a classic wide two-shot in profile: snowfall, mountains in the background—classic samurai iconography (Kurosawa, Lone Wolf and Cub, Kill Bill). The “film within the film” is shot on 35mm anamorphic (2.39:1 aspect ratio instead of 16:9) to clearly separate it from Ronja’s reality. The rest follows a classic samurai/western build: close-ups, then American shots in profile as they lunge toward each other.
Hard cut back to Ronja. A 180-degree pan reveals the scope of the location and production—crew running, costume tweaks, props in motion—as we follow her over to Kawamura. Along the way, Reiner is introduced in a clean American shot. Their humor is “work-tight”: they can joke without losing precision. The subtext is that communication clicks; they’ve worked together for a long time, and Reiner knows her standards and tempo. Here we establish how well Ronja works—and the scale of her project. Not a Hollywood film, but still fairly large.
Kawamura speaks Japanese. Ronja’s Japanese isn’t fluent, but good enough for us to grasp the effort she’s put into communicating for the sake of the film. Kawamura functions partly as a proxy for the father, but primarily as a present observer who truly sees her—and registers the change that’s underway.
As she glances at her phone, the tone shifts—this contrasts with the earlier “Mom’s nagging” beat we planted in the travel montage.
The phone call
We leave Ronja alone in a wide outside the set. The camera slowly dollies closer as the truth unfolds. We don’t hear her mother’s voice, but Ronja’s responses establish that the topic at the start of the call is something her mother brings up a little too often.
When her mother tells her what’s actually happening to her father, Ronja moves into denial. Here we let the musical motif rise, just slightly: this is the film’s inciting incident. Narratively, we’re deliberately balancing between too little and too much information. If we state everything explicitly here, the rest of the film collapses into “waiting for her to realize she has to go home.” By letting the audience feel what Ronja feels—without explanation—we preserve the exploration of grief in the present, together with Ronja, who herself does not yet acknowledge the truth. We’ll capture several takes in moments like this at varying “intensities,” so that in the edit—guided by test audiences—we can find that fine balance.
The coffee spreading in the snow is a key image—a metaphor for the cancer spreading—rooted in the memory of when Ronja first learned her father was going to die (which returns at the end). We slowly zoom into an extreme close-up of the coffee; then a reverse zoom that lands on Ronja’s face.
RELEVANCE
“Homage” is rooted in my own life, but it speaks to themes that touch so many. Cancer, loss, and illness are experiences that eventually affect us all, yet few talk about losing a parent as a young adult. In a way, you’re too old for sympathy and too young to handle it as you’re “supposed to.” The film explores how we face life-altering situations when work becomes an escape from grief. What weighs more—career or closeness? Ambition or presence? Especially in a time when career pressure has never been greater.
The film also addresses mental health, depicting panic attacks and anxiety—challenges I’ve faced myself due to an earlier PTSD diagnosis. It matters to me to show people in positions of responsibility who, despite mental-health struggles, still manage life. Often, stigma around these issues can make you feel you can’t achieve anything. Around 14% of the population show symptoms of anxiety at any given time, and one in three will experience it over a lifetime. Ronja’s panic attack is a concrete manifestation of the collision between personal and professional pressure that many young adults feel. The film also underscores the loneliness of living and working abroad. After spending a year in Tokyo trying to make this film, that’s something I’ve personally struggled with.
By placing a female director at the center of a genre film like this, I create meaningful distance between myself and the material, while also foregrounding a woman filmmaker in a male-dominated genre—without unnecessary political grandstanding or contrived friction with her male colleagues. Making the protagonist a woman isn’t politically motivated; I simply believe it makes for a better, more original story—more universal and human—and it reflects the relationships I have with my female friends and colleagues.
The film’s key relevance lies in working outside the usual norms of Norwegian short films. We have a strong tradition of intimate dramas about identity and family, but we rarely draw on parallels to our Viking heritage, or set stories in other countries or cultures. I believe this film attempts something we haven’t done: building a bridge between two cultures, and between drama and the epic—a genre underrepresented in Norwegian shorts.
“Strategies for reducing risk by relying on already familiar concepts can limit the room for original works and innovation.” (Diversity Report, Telemarksforskning, p. 74)
MY PATH AS DIRECTOR
“Homage” is the most important step so far in my development as a director. In parallel with this short, I’m developing the feature film “Dypet” with co-writer Espen Granseth, produced by Yngve Sæther at Motlys. “Dypet” is inspired by my own experience as a survivor of the Utøya terror attack, and explores trauma, identity, closeness between men, and friendship.
With “Homage,” I want to assert my voice as a director and explore many of the same emotional terrains. In the time ahead, it’s crucial that I make a film that shows what I can do so investors, sales agents, and talent take the feature seriously. Even with such a strong producer, without “Homage” it will be hard to convince others that I can handle a production of that size. That’s why “Homage” is exactly as large as I know I can master, while still signaling enough scale that moving to a feature won’t be too big a leap. The short is therefore both a personal artistic statement and a strategic, professional investment in my career.
I received a work grant to focus fully on these two projects, and I feel a strong responsibility to steward that trust carefully and purposefully. Without support this time, I would have to give up this project due to the feature’s pre-production and the need to shoot in the right season.
I’m ready to demonstrate my voice as a filmmaker and that I have something important to say—something tender and personal I want to convey.
Kristofer Hivju plays Geir, the father, and has been closely involved in developing the script from the outset. His artistic eye and long experience have strongly shaped the character and the film as a whole.
Eili Harboe (Thelma, The Ash Lad, Succession) plays the lead, Ronja. She has also helped develop the script and has been attached to the project since 2024. Her presence gives the film both weight and authenticity.
Producer Kristian Kvam Hansen runs the production company PUSH, with offices in Oslo, Tokyo, Shanghai, and Sydney. He has produced multi-million projects for global brands such as Nike, Adidas, Maserati, Vogue, and Gucci, and has collaborated with artists including Billie Eilish, Rosalía, and Megan Thee Stallion. His motivation to move into narrative filmmaking led him to Homage, which he has been involved with since early development.
Co-producer Mina Moteki has broad experience in Japanese film production, including as producer of the award-winning December and Tiger. She produced my previous short Agurk (English title: Cucumber), which is currently on the festival circuit, and she is releasing the feature Tiger (dir. Anshul Chauhan).
DOP Julian Jonas Schmitt, trained at DFFB in Berlin, shot my earlier short You’re My Bruise and has extensive professional experience across art film, commercials, shorts, and documentary. He is currently presenting the documentary project Grönland at the ALPS Museum in Switzerland.
Production designer Madeline Kinney won the craft award for Best Production Design at the Grimstad Short Film Festival in 2024 for her work on my film Cucumber. She also brings commercial experience with brands like Nike, Adidas, and Coca-Cola, contributing a strong visual precision to Homage.
Editor Jens Peder Hertzberg has been a steady collaborator since 2011. We started our careers together on Everywhen (2013), and he has since cut some of Norway’s largest productions, including Troll (2022) and Sulis 1907 (2023). His ability to combine big-budget experience with personal storytelling makes him ideal for Homage.
Choreographer Tetsuro Shimaguchi began his career as a sword instructor and as No. 1 of the Crazy 88 in Kill Bill. He choreographed the climactic snow fight between Lucy Liu and Uma Thurman. He will play the dark samurai, lead katana training, and choreograph the sword fights in close collaboration with the stunt team and cast in both Norway and Japan.
Stunt coordinator Kristoffer Jørgensen has a background in both Viking and samurai combat and is one of Norway’s most experienced stunt performers. His credits include Dead Snow, The 12th Man, Twin, and Beforeigners. He brings crucial expertise to the action sequences and to choreography created in collaboration with Shimaguchi.
The team behind Homage is ambitious and focused, aiming to create a unique film of exceptionally high artistic quality—one that can spur further growth for Northern Norwegian talent, foster international collaboration, strengthen diversity in the industry, and help export Norwegian culture.
THE TEAM
INTENTION
With “Homage,” I want to move the audience on a deep emotional level. My aim is to create an original, singular film that feels honest and familiar, one that lets viewers immerse themselves in mood and visual language rather than be bound by plot. “Homage” is an invitation to sit with feelings we often avoid: guilt, grief, and ambitions colliding with the need to be seen. I want the film to resonate in a way that feels both personal and universal—an experience that invites reflection and lingers long after.
Everything is in place to make this film. We hope you will support us in bringing it to the screen.
