Interview: Ciaran Lyons on Vape Clouds, Paranoia, and the Thrills of Tummy Monster

In ‘Tummy Monster,’ a heady mix of dark humor, mind-bending paranoia, and clouds of vape smoke fuel a psychological game between two strangers that keeps us gripping our seats. Set in a confined tattoo studio adorned with ravishing, demonic illustrations, the film plays with rhythm and tension, building an eerie atmosphere that escalates with each critical moment. While it can be enjoyed as a darkly humorous game between two, the film also offers plenty of material for cultural commentary—touching on themes of aging, fatherhood, and the social intricacies of obsession. With every ring of the phone, a new layer unravels, and just when you think you’ve seen all the cards, the film tightens its grip and veers in unexpected directions. It’s a playful dance of suspense, where each puff of vapor signals the next daring move in this thrilling chess match of wits.

Beyond its subtle social insinuations, ‘Tummy Monster’ stands as a purely genre film. Its tightly composed visuals and atmospheric tension make it a thrilling watch, best enjoyed in a darkened theater where the vape clouds almost seem to drift into the audience. I was fortunate enough to catch this gem at the Leiden International Film Festival, where I also had the chance to sit down with director Ciaran Lyons and leading actor Lorn Macdonald to discuss this gripping, darkly humorous tale.

The film’s preface indicates that it explores how far someone will go for a selfie with a famous person. Set in the protagonist’s tattoo studio, it feels more like a character exploration than a singular social experiment. Did you intend to spark any cultural conversations? What is your primary interpretation of the film?

C. L.: I think it’s in there—the idea of the story’s relation to certain aspects of how we view celebrities, I suppose. But I wasn’t really thinking about making wider commentaries on society. It was more about how certain societal conditions might lead to a particular psychological condition in an individual. He’s a product of being immersed in this world. Maybe he gives too much importance to pop culture or to people thinking he’s cool. As a result, his personal understanding of what it’s like to be a celebrity isn’t based on any human empathy—it’s very superficial. He likely thinks about life in general in quite a superficial way.

The film feels modern, like it’s set in the present day. He seems like someone who would have an opinion on everything. He thinks he’s always right and could tell you exactly what he thinks about different pop stars without even knowing them—like, ‘that guy’s an asshole,’ and so on.

That’s not very concise, but I think there’s something there. One film I found interesting in this regard was Under the Silver Lake. There’s a character in that who’s been broken by his obsession with pop culture, and I think that’s a big part of what’s happening in Tummy Monster. The protagonist is realizing that youth and pop culture are starting to become hostile to him—it’s not for him anymore.

L. M.: When he was younger, maybe 10 or 15 years ago, he was in his element. He was cool and owned his look. When you commit to something like that so strongly—your music, your opinions, your style—people, especially younger people, think it’s cool. But as you get older, if you don’t open yourself up to new experiences, new people, and new perspectives, it stops being cool.

He’s not allowing himself to experience all parts of life; he’s stuck, desperately wanting to stay young and relevant.

C. L.: That’s the underlying idea in the film. I find it fascinating when someone’s been really successful with an identity they created when they were young but then struggles to change. His tattoos represent that commitment to his identity. He’s saying, ‘I’m not going to change; I’m great how I am.’ He’s totally committing to staying the same.

You see this with people who stick to their looks as they age, like goths who don’t want to change their identity. I’m not sure if this is the same across Europe, but in the UK, you see people who decided on their look when they were 15, and they stay loyal to it, refusing to change. I think that’s a big part of what’s behind the film.

You’ve created what we might call a chamber film, set in a single room, with the Scottish backdrop as a notable influence. A significant part of the setting involves the constant and atmospheric smoke from vaping, which sets the tone for the psychological delirium that unfolds. I was surprised to see that the introduction of drug use comes later in the film, especially when the inner paranoia had already taken hold without the influence of drugs. What can you share about this aspect of setting—specifically regarding Scotland, obsessive vaping, and drug use?

C. L.:I think there’s a really rich history of smoking on film, but there’s been a change, particularly in Scotland and the UK. Smoking’s making a comeback, but cigarettes were really on their way out for a while. Historically, smoking is cool, and if someone smokes in a film, it’s like shorthand to show, ‘Okay, this character’s cool.’ But vaping doesn’t have that same established meaning yet—I really don’t think it does.

L. M.: Vaping is a nod to UK culture, though, because it’s so in-your-face here. Especially with younger people, like 14-year-olds—vaping is everywhere.

C. L.:The way audiences feel about vaping varies, and it hasn’t fully taken on a solid meaning in film. Sometimes it can signify a character being a loser, or really stressed, or having addiction problems, like low-level nicotine addiction. In Tummy Monster, I think Tummy (The Artist) makes vaping look cool, while Tales doesn’t—and that’s interesting to play with because vaping could go either way in how it’s perceived. There’s not a clear way to express this, but because the meaning of vaping is still up for grabs in film, it’s intriguing to let the audience see that it can be cool with one person and not cool with another.

L. M.: There’s also a difference between a little disposable vape and something bigger, like what Tales uses. He’s got this bulky vape that he refills and orders online, and he treats it with a kind of intensity, like a respect for the machine. Whereas Tommy just throws his around and twirls it—it reflects their different relationships with not only vaping, but with material things in general.

When the drugs are introduced, I like that Tummy (The Artist) doesn’t take any. He doesn’t need to, because he’s young and full of life and hope. Tales, on the other hand, is chasing something—whether it’s keeping awake or staying in the game. He’s not using drugs for fun or recreation, but for function. That ties into addiction, which is present in the film metaphorically, even though it’s not a film about addiction per se.

C. L.: Some people have come up to me after watching and said it felt like a film about addiction, especially someone who’s had issues with cocaine—they read the film as being about a guy who’s been on his own all night, using cocaine, with the entire experience being a reflection of that addiction.

So yeah, there’s an intentionally reflective aspect, and I think it’s more universal than just a specific reference to Scotland, because it’s changing quickly. We shot the film in 2023, and the UK keeps changing its laws on vaping, like threatening to ban disposables or put new taxes on them. For a while, they were telling the public it was healthy to vape all you want, and now that’s shifting.

I like that this film will eventually feel like it’s from its time and place. In five years, Tummy’s look might feel dated—he won’t look cool anymore. Right now, he might still have a credible or cool look, but that’s already changing. The film is dealing with these incredibly transient, superficial things, and I think that’s what’s funny about it.

At times, the film resembles a theatrical play. However, it’s the editing and sound design that elevate the experience to a cinematic level. What influenced your decisions in these areas?

C. L.: Uh, yeah, I edited it myself. I work as an editor—that’s what I do. It’s not a super interesting fact, but it’s relevant here. I’ve shot loads of music videos, and a lot of them I did with the cinematographer who worked on this film, so we’ve developed a kind of shorthand when it comes to shooting certain things. We’ve got this confidence in knowing how to shoot with the edit in mind.

You know when you’ve got it—you know when you’re shooting efficiently. And we were very aware that we were making a single-location film, so when we storyboarded, we’d ask, ‘Okay, what’s the main shot we’re using in this scene?’ And it had to be different in some way. Whether we were using a different part of the shot, a different lens, a different height, or a different camera movement, we kept things varied.

That’s part of what hopefully makes it feel more energetic than just a stage play or a chamber piece. We worked hard to reflect the psychological state of the main character through the cinematography and how it evolved throughout the film.

That was a big challenge—how do we keep it visually dynamic and interesting? The cinematographer, David Liddell, who Lorn has also worked with before, was a huge part of that. He is incredibly talented and committed, and his creative contributions were essential to the whole process. The presence and interaction of the camera were massive; we didn’t just shoot wide shots like you’d see in a play. We really wanted to think about the visual and cinematic experience.

Sound also played a key role, almost pushing the film into a horror realm. That was important because this isn’t a flat cinematic experience—it’s very stylistically colored. The sound design does a lot to contribute to that.

Speaking of which, the aesthetics are quite prominent, featuring a grunge, neon, punk-inspired vibe. Are there specific references to the genre you are working with, interpretations of the story, or personal tastes that influenced this aesthetic?

C. L.: It’s kind of personal taste, but it’s also part of the fabric of the film. You know, it’s like, we have this tattoo artist, and we had to decide: what’s his specialty? He could have been a tattoo artist who works predominantly with imagery of the natural world. But he’s not—it’s monsters and hell. This means the experience for the viewer feels like being in this claustrophobic hellscape, which reflects his mind. What does he think about when he wants to create artwork? It’s monstrous, it’s demonic. And I guess what’s kind of funny is that he’s then forced to live in this environment. We thought about what would be the worst place to live if you got kicked out of your house. A tattoo parlor, with buzzing lights and horrible pictures of monsters on the walls, seemed like the worst place.

L. M.: But he’s also surrounded by his own work, which is so narcissistic. He doesn’t have posters of someone like Goya as cool inspiration—it’s all his own stuff. That plays into the mindset of the character.

C. L.:It’s your own darkness, your own creativity, which at times feels cool and impressive, but then comes back to haunt you when you’re emotionally vulnerable.

In debut feature films, directors often explore very personal realities. However, you entered the scene with a more intense and potentially widely resonant subject within the psychological thriller genre, which has a passionate audience. In the context of contemporary cinema, where do you see Tummy Monster fitting in? What scene are you following up on, what gaps are you aiming to fill, and what tendencies are you looking to push back against? Or, perhaps, do you approach your work in a way that feels more disconnected from the industry?

C. L.: A lot of the time, if you’re trying to get a film off the ground as a first-time feature filmmaker, commissioners expect you to tell your own story. If you write a story that isn’t your own, they’ll ask, ‘Where are you in this? How do you connect to it?’ So, whether it’s intentional or not, first-time filmmakers are often pushed to make something directly autobiographical.

I think, a lot of the time, once filmmakers become established, they’ll move on to something else, but initially, the expectation is to tell your own story. And I think part of that is because it’s easier to publicize. It makes it simple for people writing profiles about the film to say, ‘Here’s the debut director telling their own story,’ which makes it easier to describe the project.

But if you look at any director you love, once they’ve made multiple films, they can’t just keep telling their own story. At some point, you have to look beyond yourself, engage with other perspectives, and try to tell stories from different viewpoints. That’s what’s exciting about filmmaking—stepping into other people’s shoes and imagining different characters beyond yourself.

As for ‘Tummy Monster’, I guess the new ground is trying to cover is the experience of doing something so performance-led, so focused on characters. When you’re working in a genre-blurring film, the toolbox you have is much wider. You can be really playful. If you want to show someone having a dark night, the cinematic tools you have to show their emotional state are just more fun. Part of filmmaking is crafting this magical, make-believe world. You can tell a realistic story, but it’s never going to be real anyway, so it’s great to leave the door open to a range of interesting stylistic tools.

That’s what I love about horror films—not necessarily the blood and guts. It sits on this line where things that are horrific can also be very funny. That’s what I love about directors like Ari Aster, his work is funny and scary at the same time. Those are the kind of films that particularly excite me, the ones that have creativity and playfulness, which is very exciting.

You mentioned in the Q&A that the shooting schedule was tight, lasting just five days, which required absolute synchronization among the team. Everything seemed well-composed. What preparations did you undertake to achieve that level of coordination?

C. L.: A huge part of what made it possible was having access to the location before the shoot. We did some rehearsals there with the actors, and the director of photography came in. Rather than just storyboarding in the abstract, we were physically in the space, deciding where the lights would go and identifying key moments of drama. For example, we’d decide, ‘Okay, he’s going to burst out of the bathroom and land under this light.’ Being in the actual location allowed us to work out all that stuff in real-time and pre-rig the lighting beforehand, so most of it was already set up.

Having the tattoo studio as the main setting was really useful because it motivated having interesting lighting. It became a major part of the film’s experience. The audience understands and feels the space because it’s real. If we’d shot it on a built set, it might not have had that same lived-in feel.Being able to move around the space freely was a huge part of what allowed us to prepare efficiently and shoot so fast.

L. M.: From a character perspective, it was valuable. When the whole space is designed as a reflection of your character, it’s inspiring. You walk into a space that feels like the mind of your character, and that informs how the character talks and moves. The harsh lighting, the things on the walls, the fish tank, all these small details help you feel like a real person in that world. I’m not sure my performance would have been the same, if we had shot it over a month and done just two or three scenes a day, like on a regular shoot. In a longer schedule, I’d have more time to be myself between takes. But doing it all in five days, with long takes and quick transitions between scenes, kept me inside the character. We weren’t sitting down between takes. We’d cut and move straight into the next one, and that manic pace helped me stay in the character’s headspace. It was an experience like no other. I wouldn’t have wanted to shoot it any other way, because I’m not sure we would’ve gotten the same results.

Sometimes, a low-budget can push you to be more creative. A lot of directors do their best work when they have to be imaginative with limited resources. Ciaran said from the start, ‘It doesn’t have to be perfect; it just has to be alive.’ And I think, regardless of whether people like the film or not, it feels lived-in. These characters feel real. By the end, they felt real to me, and that doesn’t always happen with characters you play. You don’t always feel like you’re saying goodbye to a real person. But with Tales, I was happy to shed his skin because he’s a miserable bastard—but he still felt like a living person.

The face of Orlando Norman (Tummy) is absolutely magnetic, and Lorn Macdonald’s acting is rock-solid. How did you meet them?

C. L.: I wrote the first draft of the script without any particular performer in mind, but I originally imagined the character of Tales being a bit older. I looked at a few actors, and I quickly realized that this film will be so much harder if the character is around 40. The humor would have been different. Even though Tales is a bit of an arsehole, Lorn has so much energy and charm that the audience can laugh at him without fully hating him. He feels like someone we all know, a friend we might have. If I’d cast someone ten years older, still not having learned their life lessons, I don’t think the audience would have extended much sympathy. So, when we sent Lorn the first draft, we worked together to develop the character, tailoring it to his portrayal.

As for the role of Tummy, we looked at thousands of faces, going through all the talent agencies. We were close to choosing someone else entirely, but when we found Orlando, the film gained a new level of meaning and possibility. What I love about Orlando is that he brings this whole world of experience and charisma that’s so different from me or anything I could imagine while writing. Seeing the film take on that new energy was really exciting.

L. M.: At this moment, Orlando is still an unrecognizable face, but as soon as you meet him, you have to believe he’s this superstar. And that’s hard to pull off, but five minutes in, you believe it—you believe that this guy jets around the world. Michael’s performance as the bodyguard-manager also helps create that sense of importance around these characters. It’s two actors walking into a dingy tattoo parlor, but their performances make you instantly believe in the weight of their presence, which is crucial for the film to work.

You’re participating in the screenings at LIFF. What reactions did you hope to receive, and what have you been experiencing?

C. L.: I’m there to experience how the audience reacts and engages with the film. It’s interesting; audience reactions have been different at every screening, and it’s actually fascinating.

The nature of the film makes it hard for some people, and today, someone walked out. That’s part of what the film is, and I kind of love it. As we think about future projects and how we manage the audience’s journey through the story, it’s really useful to see this. You can feel when the audience is with you and when they want to get out. The film should make the audience feel that way at some point.

It’s also interesting to see when people feel comfortable enough to laugh, and when they realize that this is a film they can laugh at. But I’m totally fine with the fact that not everyone loves it.

L. M.: If you stick with it, though, the payoff at the end is worth it. When people walk out, part of me thinks it’s not that they didn’t like it; they just couldn’t handle it. They failed the test. I find that quite amusing. They are weaker than Tales!C. L.: It’s funny, but it’s also part of the magic of the film. Even though it’s a low-budget project, it puts the audience through a unique experience. In most films, you’re never in the same room as the monster, but here, you are. You get a taste of what Tales is enduring, though he’s going through it for 16 hours while the audience gets just over an hour of it. You get a sense of how difficult it is, and we’ve had to manage that balance so the film doesn’t overwhelm. It does give you breaks, and it keeps evolving. But still, about 20 minutes in, some people think, ‘I don’t know if I can handle this,’ and for some, that’s true.