António Aleixo on The End Was Just The Beginning: Finding Hope at the Edge of Collapse

Few science-fiction films ask a question as intimate—and as unsettling—as The End Was Just The Beginning. While many dystopian stories focus on survival after catastrophe, Portuguese filmmaker António Aleixo turns his attention toward a more personal dilemma: what does it mean to bring a child into a world that feels increasingly uncertain?

The film follows Catarina, a woman who discovers she is pregnant and suddenly finds herself confronting not only the responsibilities of motherhood but also the broader anxieties of modern life. Set against the backdrop of an imagined future shaped by societal collapse and transformation, the film explores a provocative possibility: what if the end of the systems we depend on is not solely a tragedy, but also an opportunity to rediscover a different kind of happiness?

Aleixo, whose artistic path has taken him through writing, music, sound production, documentary filmmaking, and fiction, approaches science fiction less as spectacle than as a philosophical lens through which to examine contemporary life. The result is an intimate sci-fi drama that combines emotional immediacy with speculative ideas about society, responsibility, and hope.

The film has enjoyed remarkable success on the international festival circuit, earning dozens of awards and selections, including the Grand Prize and multiple craft awards at The Hollywood Storytellers in Los Angeles, Best Foreign Short and Best Original Screenplay at the CAL Film Festival, Best Science Fiction Short Film at Oxford Shorts, Best International Short Film at the Ciudad de Panama International Film Festival, and official selections at major genre festivals including FANTASPORTO.

For Final Cut Magazine, Aleixo reflects on the origins of the film, filmmaking without funding, the lessons of the pandemic, and why uncertainty may be the most honest place for a story to live.

António, your film begins with a pregnancy but quickly expands into a meditation on society itself. What first inspired The End Was Just The Beginning?

The End Was Just The Beginning is a short sci-fi drama that revolves around a very intimate but universal question: what does it mean to bring a child into the world today?

The film follows Catarina, a woman who discovers she’s pregnant and is suddenly confronted with the weight of that decision. Not just on a personal level, but in the context of a world that feels uncertain, fragile, and constantly on the edge of transformation.

For me, the inspiration came from a long-standing fascination with post-apocalyptic narratives, though not in the traditional sense. I’ve always been interested in the idea that the collapse of the systems we depend on might not necessarily be a tragedy.

During the pandemic, that feeling became very real. Everything slowed down, and for a moment the pressure to constantly produce and succeed disappeared. That paradox—between collapse and relief—became the emotional core of the film.

The film exists within that tension: between fear and hope, responsibility and freedom, ending and beginning.

The film feels deeply personal despite its speculative setting. Were you consciously using science fiction as a way to talk about the present?

Absolutely.

At its heart, it’s not really a film about the future. It’s a film about the present. About the pressure we feel to survive, to succeed, to build something meaningful—and the question of whether, if all of that disappeared, we might rediscover a different kind of happiness.

In terms of form, I approached it as a hybrid between intimate drama and speculative fiction. The story is very grounded. It’s about relationships, conversations, and inner conflict. But it exists within a wider imagined future.

Visually, we tried to create a cinematic language that reflects that duality: something emotionally close, but with a sense of scale and atmosphere that hints at a larger world beyond what we see.

You made a film about the collapse of systems without relying on large-scale spectacle. What were the biggest challenges in achieving that?

One of the main challenges was finding the right balance between scale and intimacy.

The film deals with big ideas—the end of systems, uncertainty about the future, and the weight of bringing a new life into the world. But at its core, it’s a very intimate story.

Keeping that emotional closeness while suggesting a much larger world beyond the frame was a constant challenge in both writing and directing.

We also had no funding whatsoever, so we had to be very precise about what we showed and, more importantly, what we chose not to show. Much of the world of the film is implied rather than explicitly depicted.

That required trust in the audience, trust in the actors, and trust in the cinematic language itself.

Another challenge was tone. The film exists somewhere between anxiety and hope. It could easily have become either too dystopian or overly optimistic. Finding that equilibrium—where the end of something can also feel like liberation—was probably the most subtle and demanding part of the process.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2XA_0cxfjPQ

Looking back, what aspect of the finished film are you most proud of?

I think what I’m most proud of is the film’s ability to hold a contradiction without resolving it.

It doesn’t try to provide answers. It allows two opposing feelings to coexist: fear of the future and a strange sense of relief in the idea of collapse.

That was always the intention, but it’s a very difficult balance to achieve without the film feeling confused or indecisive. The fact that it can sit in that tension and still feel emotionally coherent is something I’m proud of.

I’m also particularly proud of the performances. The film relies heavily on subtle emotional shifts—on what isn’t said as much as on what is spoken. The actors brought a level of honesty that grounds the film, regardless of how conceptual the surrounding ideas become.

And perhaps on a more personal level, I’m proud that the film reflects where I am in my life right now. It embodies questions I don’t have answers to yet.

Your path into filmmaking was anything but conventional. How did cinema ultimately become your artistic home?

I didn’t arrive at filmmaking through a straight line.

I grew up loving stories and drawing. Later I became a musician, which eventually led me to explore sound production. Back in the early 2000s, there wasn’t really a dedicated sound production course available in Portugal. The closest thing was sound for cinema.

That’s how I found my way into film.

Interestingly, I eventually realized that cinema allowed me to reconnect with my inner child and with my instinct to tell stories. I started by experimenting and trying to understand how images and sound could carry emotion and meaning. Over time that evolved into a much more conscious artistic practice.

You continue to work extensively in documentary filmmaking. How does that influence your fiction work?

Documentary plays a huge role in what I do.

I usually make at least one documentary every year, sometimes two. Documentaries allow me to work without funding and without having to wait for approval. That freedom is incredibly important because it allows me to experiment with new approaches and new forms of storytelling.

At the same time, I continue developing fiction projects that explore questions similar to those in The End Was Just The Beginning—particularly our relationship with the future and the tension between collapse and renewal.

I’m very drawn to stories that exist in that uncertain space where things feel fragile but full of possibility.

The film has enjoyed an extraordinary festival run. What do festivals mean to you as a filmmaker?

Film festivals are incredibly important to me.

Not just as exhibition spaces, but as places where films continue to live and evolve. A film isn’t really complete when you finish editing it. It becomes itself when it encounters an audience.

Different audiences bring different interpretations, and suddenly the film is no longer just mine. It becomes part of a wider conversation.

I also see festivals as one of the few remaining spaces where cinema is still treated as an experience rather than content. There is something powerful about watching a film collectively, in a dark room, without distraction.

Practically speaking, festivals are also crucial for independent filmmakers. They create opportunities and connections that can lead to future collaborations and projects.

What advice would you give filmmakers beginning their own festival journey?

My main advice is to treat the festival circuit as part of the life of the film, not as a validation system.

It’s easy to fall into the trap of thinking that festivals determine whether a film works or not. In reality, programming decisions are influenced by many factors that have nothing to do with the intrinsic value of the work.

Once you understand that, the process becomes much healthier.

I also think it’s important to be strategic without becoming cynical. Understanding which festivals genuinely align with your film—in subject matter, tone, and sensibility—can make a huge difference.

Sometimes a smaller festival where your work resonates deeply can be far more meaningful than a larger one where it feels misplaced.

How do you see the future of cinema evolving?

I think the future of film will become more fragmented in form, but perhaps more intense in experience.

We’re clearly moving toward increasingly fast and fragmented ways of consuming images. Short formats, algorithm-driven content, and constant acceleration are reshaping our relationship with audiovisual language.

But I also think there will be a counter-movement: a growing desire for slowness, depth, and shared experiences.

Cinema already offers that.

I don’t believe technology will replace the core of cinema, which remains the relationship between image, sound, and human emotion.

For me, the most exciting future of film is not about spectacle. It’s about intimacy. About personal stories that can still cut through the noise and create collective emotional experiences.

I also think there is too much debate about where cinema should be watched. A theatre is simply one canvas among many. What matters is that people encounter films and are affected by them. As filmmakers, we need to meet audiences wherever they are.

Is there a filmmaker who continues to inspire you above all others?

If I had to choose one, it would be Steven Spielberg.

What I find extraordinary about Spielberg is his ability to combine emotional clarity with cinematic scale. His films are built on very simple human emotions—fear, wonder, loss, hope—but expressed through an incredibly precise cinematic language.

There’s also something very generous about his cinema. Even when dealing with dark themes, he invites audiences into the story rather than keeping them at a distance.

That balance between accessibility and depth is something I deeply admire.

Finally, is there a recent film that particularly impressed you?

A recent film I greatly admired was Project Hail Mary.

What struck me most was how effectively it balances scale with emotional accessibility. It’s an ambitious science-fiction story dealing with isolation, survival, and contact with the unknown, but it remains deeply human.

You feel the vastness of space, yet never lose sight of the emotional core of the character. Achieving that balance is incredibly difficult, and I think the film does it beautifully.

Final Cut: Why The End Was Just The Beginning Matters

Watching The End Was Just The Beginning, I was reminded that the most compelling science fiction is rarely about the future. It is about the anxieties, hopes, and contradictions of the present moment.

What António Aleixo has created is not a dystopian warning or a utopian fantasy. It is something far more interesting: a film willing to remain suspended between opposing truths. It acknowledges the genuine fear many people feel about the future while simultaneously questioning whether our current systems deserve the unquestioned loyalty we often give them.

That tension feels particularly relevant today. We live in an era defined by environmental anxiety, economic uncertainty, technological acceleration, and profound questions about what kind of world we are leaving for future generations. Yet the film refuses easy answers. Instead, it invites reflection.

Independent cinema has always been at its strongest when it creates space for difficult questions rather than comfortable conclusions. The End Was Just The Beginning embodies that spirit. Working without funding but rich in ambition, it demonstrates how speculative cinema can remain intimate, philosophical, and deeply human.

In a landscape increasingly dominated by certainty, outrage, and instant answers, Aleixo’s film dares to sit with uncertainty. And sometimes, that willingness to inhabit the unknown is precisely where meaningful cinema begins.