Sylwia Szkiłądź’s imaginative and evocative Bus is one of the 15 projects shortlisted for the Best Animated Short Academy Awards this year. Set in the 1990s, the short follows a young girl who leaves her Polish homeland behind to take to bus to Belgium by herself. Worried about her solo trip, she writes a letter to her father who has stayed behind in Poland. Bus has won numerous international awards, including the Gold Hugo at the Chicago Intl. Film Festival, the Special Prize of the Intl. Jury at the Berlin Film Festival and the International Jury Prize at the BIAF in S. Korea. Szkiłądź was kind enough to answer a few of our questions about her acclaimed short via email this week:
Animag: Congratulation on all the accolades for your short. It’s somewhat autobiographical, right? Can you tell us a bit about how the idea for the short come about?
Sylwia Szkiłądź: The idea of distancing myself from this very personal story by fictionalizing it felt liberating. The emotions I experienced during the many journeys I made from the age of eight, between Poland and Belgium in the 1990s, were always intense, complex, and somewhat blurry. I felt the need to dive back into them in order to reclaim them as an adult, to make that departure to Belgium my own, one that had been imposed on me as a child.
During the writing process, I spoke with other people who, like me, left Poland in the 1990s. Their stories enriched my perspective and allowed me to identify with their experiences. Most of us have known each other since arriving in Belgium, yet we had never really talked about that “crossing,” as if it were something normal, self‑evident, not worth mentioning. I wanted to write to give voice to the stories of those children who left in the 1990s, to convey what it felt like from the inside, and to allow for some distance.
I hesitated for a long time about which slice of life to portray: Poland just before leaving? Belgium upon arrival? In the end, I chose to anchor the story somewhere between the two countries, in a kind of moving no man’s land. In the confined space of the bus, I saw a simple narrative line that would allow me to play with staging and emotional intensity. Moreover, I had never seen a story about economic migration within Europe brought to the screen in animation. I felt that I could tell it from the inside, with emotions I had never fully understood before.
“What moves me the most, I think, is seeing how this story creates connections between people
from completely different parts of the world. There’s something incredibly beautiful about that, especially since Agata herself is trying to stay connected through her pencil.”
— Sylwia Szkiłądź
Can you talk about the use of magical realism in the telling of this short?
I knew from the very beginning that I wanted to anchor the film in a strong sense of realism, so that you could feel its roots in real life. But I also wanted to reach something more unconscious, to tell the story like a fantastical tale, and to rediscover that childlike pleasure of entering a story. Because the subject was very personal to me, I needed to introduce a magical dimension in order to gain some distance. I didn’t want to tell it in a too direct or literal way. Realism mattered a lot, especially in the depiction of the locations, almost documentary-like, such as the two train stations. The magical aspect, meanwhile, comes from the child’s perspective. In the film, Agata needs to invent stories to navigate the blurry, uncertain space of migration. She feels everything intensely, with the kind of honesty only children have, and that sensitivity naturally opens the door to the fantastical.
How did you select the animals that portrayed your characters?
The idea of using anthropomorphic characters came to me quite naturally. I find that animating realistic human figures can sometimes slip into stereotypes or even caricature, which I absolutely wanted to avoid. By giving the characters animal traits, I found a freer, more sensitive, and more expressive way to portray them. At first, I drew these half‑human, half‑animal figures very instinctively, without trying to understand what they symbolized. It was only once the drawings existed that I began to notice echoes of people I had actually met throughout my many journeys. So the first step was really to immerse myself again in the atmosphere and memories of that time, letting sensations, faces, andfragments of stories resurface. Each character is therefore a blend of several people Iencountered along the way: the goal was not to reproduce anyone faithfully, but to capture an impression, an energy, a mix of places, voices, and stories heard.
Within the context of Agata’s journey, seen through her child’s perspective, this approach also opened up many narrative possibilities. Anthropomorphism offered a poetic distance, a way to express her perceptions, fears, and projections while maintaining strong emotional expressiveness. As I moved through the scriptwriting, the storyboard, the animatic, the dialogue recordings, and the layouts, these characters grew richer and more defined. The choices became more precise over time, and I feel their personalities gradually sharpened, leaning more toward archetypes while still retaining a sense of complexity.
What was the toughest part of the job?
I think the hardest part was writing the story. I had to find enough distance to tell what was real while also building a fiction. That distance was the most demanding aspect, but also the most exciting and the most essential, it was really the reason I wanted to make this film in the first place. It forced me to be honest, to confront my memories, and to do a lot of research to find the right tone in every shot, every character, every detail.
How long did it take to make and how many people worked on it with you?
Pre‑production lasted two and a half years, production took two years, and post‑production about six months. In total, the film unfolded over four and a half to five years. Many people took part in the project, as it was a co‑production between four studios: two in Belgium (Ozù and Vivifilm) and two in France (Novanima and Amopix).
Among the key roles in pre‑production were: the original music, composed and performed on prepared piano by Barbara Drazkov; the editing of the sound animatic and the film by Jérôme Erhart; the storyboard created by Augusto Zanovello; and the casting of the nine actors and actresses by Ewa Borysewicz, who also helped me supervise the dialogues and served as a script consultant. The voice recordings were done at Noiseroom Studio in Warsaw. During production, the layouts were created by Éveline Deroeck and Gaspard Chabaud; animation was carried out by seven people; the backgrounds were made by Noémie Marsily and myself; and color work was done by Sarah Robbes.
In post‑production, compositing was handled by Mathieu Perrier; sound design, editing, and mixing were done at Studio Corto in Angoulême; and color grading took place at Studio Charbon in Brussels. Many interns also supported us wonderfully at various stages of the process. I would say that around 35 people truly “got their hands dirty,” not counting the interns, producers, and studio teams. In the end, we were like one big family.
Who are your biggest animation influences/heroes?
As for my inspirations and references, there are many illustrators I deeply admire. Tomi
Ungerer for his bold line, Kitty Crowther for her use of fluorescent pink and empty space in
Little night stories, Maurice Sendak for his embodied characters, Béatrice
Alemagna for her textures, neon colors, and the attitudes of her child characters. The
illustrated tales of my childhood, such as those by Jan Marcin Szancer and Marian Čapka,
had a great influence on my imagination.
Shaun Tan’s graphic novel The Arrival also left a deep mark on me, with its blend of realism and magic. In animation, Koji Yamamura for his settings and distortions in A Country Doctor; Anita Killi’s Angry Man for its exaggerations of size in relation to the child’s complex emotions and his letter to his father; Regina Pessoa and her wonderful film Uncle Thomasin black and white with a flash of color that stands out and conveys such palpable emotion; Yuri Norstein’s Tale of Tales and his use of light. The Moomins series by Tove Jansson, which I watched as a child, also inspired me. Each character is so particular, strange, endearing, embodied, and contrasted, it made me want to draw from reality to create fantastic characters. Finally, Noémie Marsilywho worked with me on the sets, put a lot of herself into the visuals. Sheis an illustrator and director of fantastic animated films, and her contribution was crucial to the visual outcome of the film.
What is your take on the wild and ever-changing world of animation in 2025?
I feel that today, audiences are looking for more “truth,” for stories rooted in real
experience. At festivals, I see more and more films told from the inside, drawn from lived
experiences. I think it’s a broader trend in cinema. Personally, I’m especially drawn to films
made by someone who knows the world they’re depicting from the inside, it brings an
added sense of accuracy and depth.
Best advice you can offer newbie animation filmmakers?
Believe in your dreams. And if your dream is to make animated films, if it truly means
something to you, then give yourself the means to pursue it, without ever letting youself
be discouraged by those who don’t believe in it. There are countless ways to get there.
Personally, I worked all sorts of small jobs that had nothing to do with animation while I
was studying. And later on, I led many animation workshops in very different places:
cultural centers, schools, after‑school programs, festivals… I think those workshops are
where I learned the most. The children taught me not to be afraid of making things, to jump in, to dare and to enjoy it. It wasn’t filmmaking in the strict sense, but it’s what helped me build confidence in myself.
Were you surprised or moved by any of the responses to your short at screenings?
Yes, I was deeply moved. After one screening, for instance, a little girl came up to me and
asked whether the blue pencil with the snail‑shaped eraser really existed. In that moment,
I felt something click, as if the film had reached exactly where I hoped it would. Another
moment that stayed with me was when a childhood friend, after watching the film at the
Zubroffka Festival in Białystok, Poland, told me that the owl‑lady reminded her of her
mother. I laughed and said, “That’s funny, because I actually had your mother in mind
when I drew her.” Many Polish viewers have told me that the border‑crossing scene gives
them chills, that it brings back memories and makes them realize how present that reality
still feels.
Non‑Polish viewers, on the other hand, often ask about the historical context, about Poland in the 1990s. In Berlin, a woman and her daughter who had experienced displacement themselves, though from another continent to Europe, told me the film resonated deeply with them. They said it helped them feel closer to those emotions, and even brought them closer to the Polish experience. And then in Japan, during the Japan Awards Prize, I received an outpouring of positive reactions. Many Japanese viewers told me the film reminded them of their own childhood.
What moves me the most, I think, is seeing how this story creates connections between people from completely different parts of the world. There’s something incredibly beautiful about that, especially since Agata herself is trying to stay connected through her pencil.
You can watch the trailer below:
For more info, visit www.vivifilm.be/autokar.
You can watch the full short at animationshowcase.com
