[Interview] Alex Noyer on ‘Love Is The Monster’

Blending psychological horror with Finnish folklore, Love Is the Monster explores the fragile nature of love, trust, and the darkness that can emerge when emotional wounds are left unresolved. We recently spoke with writer and director Alex Noyer about the inspiration behind Love Is the Monster, adapting Finnish folklore for the screen, filming in his native Finland, and balancing emotional drama with supernatural horror. Check out our interview below.

Interview with Writer, Director, and Producer – Alex Noyer

iHorror: Love Is the Monster is your first feature film produced in your native Finland and draws from Finnish mythology. What inspired you to build the story around the ancient goddess Lempo and set the film in Finland?

Alex Noyer: It’s been a long time coming for me to tell a story set in Finland. Back in 2017, I was developing a different project called Sielu that almost went into production and then fell apart at the last minute, which was heartbreaking. That experience stayed with me, and after Sound of Violence I knew I wanted to revisit the idea of a Finnish-inspired film and do it properly this time.

Nordic horror still feels strangely untapped as a subgenre, and as a Finn I’m proud to bring Finland and its lore into my work and put that “little weird country” in front of a global audience. We ended up shooting Love Is the Monster in Canada for very practical reasons, largely thanks to my producing partner Laurence Gendron, who convinced me that relocating the production there would actually help us get the film greenlit. Visually, though, it still very much looks like Finland. My friends were messaging me, confused why I hadn’t called them when my Instagram made it appear I was back home shooting in the Finnish countryside.

Even though I grew up in France, Finland is a major part of who I am, and I’m always looking for ways to integrate that identity into my work. Finnish mythology itself is surprisingly unknown, even to many Finns. We have the Kalevala, this foundational book of poetry that collects characters and a handful of stories, but it doesn’t function like a neatly codified mythological universe. That lack of strict definition gave me a great deal of freedom to shape the mythology to my own hopes and anxieties in this film.

After Sound of Violence, some people told me they saw it as a love story, which perhaps explains why I was interested in exploring love as a central theme within a Finnish myth. That naturally led me to Lempo, an ancient goddess of love with a much more ambivalent edge than the usual romantic archetypes. Building Love Is the Monster around Lempo let me channel that tension: love as devotion, obsession, and potential destruction – all rooted in a landscape and mythology that feel deeply personal, and still a little mysterious even to those of us who come from it.

iH: The film follows Ana and Justin as they attend a couples retreat after their marriage is rocked by infidelity. What drew you to exploring a relationship at that particular crossroads as the starting point for the story?

AN: I know it might seem ironic, given that I’ve been happily married for eighteen years, but what really drew me to this topic is the peculiar way Finnish stories and mythology define love. In those traditions, love isn’t just an emotion; it’s an energy, a force that fuels our decisions and shapes our behaviour. If you look at a troubled relationship through that lens, you’re not just dealing with hurt feelings or broken trust, you’re dealing with an imbalance in that energy. That idea became very compelling to me as a starting point.

I also live in Los Angeles, where people are constantly going to retreats, trying out alternative therapies, and seeking “new” ways to heal or reconnect. The framework of a couples retreat felt very relevant to the world around me. During my research, I watched things like Gwyneth Paltrow’s Goop Lab on Netflix and explored how retreats talk about energy, silence, relationships, health, and spiritual alignment. Mixing this odd, almost elemental concept of love from Finnish mythology with the very modern, new-age, bohemian retreat culture was exciting. It allowed me to question who would actually show up to a place like this and why.

I was very deliberate in choosing characters in their 30s, 40s, 50s, and 60s. These are people with enough life experience to understand that love can mature into something complicated, and that sometimes you need help, whether spiritual, therapeutic, or slightly dubious, to navigate that complexity. I don’t necessarily see people in their 20s as having the foresight, or maybe the desperation, to commit to that kind of retreat. So curiosity about this strange, energetic definition of love was the seed, and the contemporary obsession with retreats and alternative treatments became the vehicle for exploring what happens when that energy is profoundly out of balance.

iH: The retreat is led by Tiina, a shaman and healer whose teachings are inspired by Lempo. How did the concept of the retreat develop during the writing process?

AH: Developing the retreat really came from three different directions for me. First, as I mentioned earlier, I immersed myself in the commercial language around retreats and alternative treatments, all the glossy pitches that promise transformation through energy work, silence, wellness, or spirituality. That helped me shape the basic structure of what the retreat should feel like, and how Tiina would present it to people who are already vulnerable and looking for answers.

The second layer was the specifically Finnish side of things. I wanted this retreat to feel stripped back rather than luxurious, in a way that might surprise some of the international guests who arrive expecting a high-end, curated experience. Instead, they find something more rural and grounded: everything is natural, accessible, human, and slightly unpolished. That “delightful rural” aspect of Finnish summer life was very important to me; things work, they’re good, but they’re not over the top. It’s a place where you feel close to nature and to other people, and that intimacy becomes both comforting and destabilizing.

The third element was the ominous layer, which meant crafting Lempo’s lore directly into the retreat’s design. I wanted the energy of love to move through the place, in the water, in the forest, in the rituals, and to feel like something that can be summoned, heightened, and ultimately weaponized. You see it in moments like the group swimming sequence or the mirror ritual, where the retreat’s exercises become increasingly disquieting. We took deliberate liberties to push the atmosphere into discomfort, because a retreat that truly challenges people should unsettle them as much as it soothes them.
In fact, in 2022 we shot an infomercial for the retreat, as a sort of pitch video or proof of concept for the film, with Milla already playing Tiina It ended on a very playful horror twist involving a bleeding heart. That experiment helped crystallize how far the retreat could lean into the uncanny while still feeling seductively inviting.

And then there’s the nudity, which is both cultural and thematic. Finnish summer culture is very tied to the sauna, for example. International guests arrive, walk into a room full of naked people, sit in brutal heat and steam, gently whip each other with young birch branches, the “vihta”, and then plunge into cold water (lake or sea). It’s shocking and intensely immersive, but afterwards you feel strangely renewed. That sequence in the film, along with the swimming one, aren’t there for provocation, they set the tone for the retreat. Once Tiina asks everyone to let go of everything including their clothes and their inhibitions to head into the lake, they become simultaneously ripe to “learn” and profoundly vulnerable. That intersection of openness and vulnerability is where horror can really take hold, and it fits perfectly with both Lempo’s mythology and the darker side of “transformational” treatments.

iH: Much of the film takes place under Finland’s summer midnight sun. How did that unique setting influence the look and atmosphere of the film?

AN: Similarly to that 2017 project, I was very keen to make a film that exists in constant daylight, under the midnight sun. Losing the comfort of darkness means you also lose the ability to fully hide or escape by simply stepping out of the light. It felt like a perfect visual extension of the film’s core idea: if love is an energy running through the retreat, then the daylight supports it. The characters don’t get the mercy of shadows or night; their issues are always on display.

This isn’t a slasher with chases in the dark, it’s a story that builds tension by exposing toxic dynamics out in the open and then slowly turning that exposure up to eleven. The daylight becomes a kind of emotional interrogation lamp, and the relationships themselves become the arena for the characters’ demise. There’s also something fundamentally disorienting about that environment. You don’t really get “night,” and no one quite knows what time it is or how sleep‑deprived they are, because their usual sense of day versus night breaks down. It’s always light, and that wears on you.

Visually, we played with different hues and tones in the daylight to mirror how it actually evolves in Finland as the sun moves. That allowed us to keep the audience aware that time is passing, even though it never really gets dark. Shooting a film almost entirely in daylight is both an exciting challenge and a very interesting storytelling vehicle; it forces you to unfold the horror differently, without relying on darkness as the default source of fear.

iH: According to the synopsis, the retreat’s rituals and the influence of Lempo become increasingly dangerous for the participants. How did you approach incorporating Finnish mythology into the story’s horror elements?

AN: That is a great question, because just like with my research into both the mythology and the retreat culture, I had to craft something very specific for this story and its horror paradigm. Finnish mythology is not formally codified in the way, for example, Greek or Norse myths are. You find many elements and characters, but they are quite disjointed, and there is no single unified opinion about most of the figures in the Kalevala. That gave me a lot of freedom to invent, reinterpret, and shape the lore to fit the emotional and thematic needs of the film.

Lempo already carries a darker reputation in the mythology. In some versions of the stories, Lempo is responsible for the downfall, even the death, of the central hero, and is tied to birds and the idea of a feathered, almost monument‑like creature. Between that existing villainous edge and my decision to treat love as an energy that can be intensified until it pushes people into extreme behaviour, I had a very fertile playground. I could take the couples’ problems and exaggerate them into truly devastating situations, where love, devotion, jealousy, and need all become dangerous forces rather than just emotions.

From there, it became a lot of fun, in a very twisted way, to devise deaths and horror beats in contexts I never thought I would get to use. What happens in the sauna or out in the open countryside is pure joy for me as a genre filmmaker. In Sound of Violence, I was essentially freestyling with musical instruments as tools for horror, and here I got to freestyle with the Finnish summer landscape and cultural rituals as the playground for unsettling, myth‑infused death scenes. It felt like building a folk horror instrument set powered by Lempo’s energy, then seeing how far I could push each note.

iH: You co-wrote the screenplay with Hannu Aukia and Blair Bathory. What was the collaborative process like, and how did each of you contribute to shaping the story?

AN: When I set out to write this script back in 2020, I initially followed the same process I had used on Sound of Violence. It is a workflow I know well and feel comfortable with. But because Love Is the Monster deals with love, which is such a universal topic with countless perspectives, interpretations, and expectations, I quickly realised it was not something I should tackle entirely on my own.

That is why I first asked Blair to join me in the writing process, and later invited Hannu as well. I wanted additional points of view, and their sensibilities are present throughout the film. For example, the way birds exist in the story came out of a conversation between Blair and Hannu. They developed ideas they both connected with deeply, and they had no trouble convincing me to integrate them into the narrative.

Their perspectives on love were especially important in helping me balance the overall point of view of the movie and the range of people who attend the retreat. It brought an emotional nuance and a sharp understanding of how different people experience love and hurt. This was the initial thought that led me to pick up the phone and call Blair first. Hannu’s lived experience of Finland was essential, as it ensured we were not mischaracterizing the country. I grew up in France, and although I have spent a lot of time in Finland throughout my life, I did not grow up there, so his input kept the world authentic.

Collaboration is truly at the core of this script. What you see on screen is not just my vision, it is something that actively taps into the perspectives, experiences, and instincts of all three of us, which feels right for a story so rooted in the complexity of love.

iH: Madeline Zima and Leonardo Nam star as Ana and Justin. What made them the right choices for these roles, and what did they bring to the film during production?

AN: The casting process on this film was very interesting for me, because it is an ensemble movie, which always makes things a larger undertaking. A big shout‑out goes to my casting director, Amey Rene, who had already been the genius that suggested Jasmin Savoy Brown for Sound of Violence. I was very excited to work with her again. I knew I needed actors with a certain level of life and work experience to really relate to this story, and that was the first filter for every casting conversation.

Madeline connected with the script early on, and in our initial call it already felt very collaborative. She came in with strong questions about the story, the process, my directing style, and specifically how I planned to approach the intimacy of the role. I did not want this movie to ever feel vulgar. I wanted the intimacy to belong to a sense of freedom in the story, rather than to a voyeuristic side of the experience, and she responded to that. Madeline brought her own journey to Ana, and she mentioned several times that she connected with the character through her past experiences with toxic relationships. That felt essential to what the script was asking of her.

With Leo, we also had a great first conversation. We talked about the project, the story, and how different it was from anything he had done before. Then we started sharing more personal things, like our family lives. He talked about life with his husband, and I talked about life with Linda, and we bonded over being parents. What was supposed to be a twenty‑five‑minute introduction call turned into an hour and a half, which I think says a lot about how well we connected. That connection definitely helped the collaboration once we were on set.

For all the other roles, it was always about a combination of personal connection and how much they wanted to be on board with the story we were telling. I had specific expectations for several of the characters, and it was genuinely fun to search for the right people to embody them. I hope this ensemble feels authentic and charming to the audience, and that their shared energy makes the retreat feel like a real, messy, human gathering rather than just a construct for the horror.

iH: Love Is the Monster premiered at Screamfest Horror Film Festival before screening at Mórbido Fest and Night Visions. As the film makes its digital debut, what are you most excited for audiences to experience?

AN: It has been incredible to experience the film in actual rooms, with audiences reacting in real time. That gave me a lot of hope that people will project themselves into Finland for ninety minutes and really live inside this retreat with the characters. I am excited for viewers to either become very introspective about their own relationships, and how the ones on screen might feel uncomfortably relatable, or to use the film as a way to exorcise some of the fears we all carry about love and commitment. It can be quite cathartic to see those anxieties play out in front of you.

More than anything, I hope people buckle up for the trip and embrace both the weird and the scary sides of the film. Love Is the Monster is a journey, and it is deliberately strange and different. Like many indie horror films, it is not perfect, and we hold those imperfections proudly, whether they come from our limited budget or the risks we chose to take. Our goal was always to engage the audience with something original and fresh, rather than safe and familiar, and my hope is that viewers connect with that and enjoy being taken somewhere they have not quite been before.

Love Is The Monster is now available on VOD!