Fostering homegrown fandom isn't just about cultural pride — it’s an economic strategy to keep Canadian screen talent from heading south.

Tonya Williams spent two decades playing Dr. Olivia Barber Winters on the long-running soap opera The Young and the Restless, from the 1990s to the 2010s. But few knew she was Canadian at the time despite the fact she started her acting career as the host of the well-loved Canadian children’s show Polka Dot Door.

“The times that I would be in Canada and people would go, ‘Oh, why are you here?’ like they had no idea I was Canadian,” Williams recalls. “Even though I started my career in Canada, people were completely oblivious that I was Canadian.”

Williams has since founded the Reelworld Screen Institute to advance opportunities for underrepresented communities in screen industries. More recently, Williams has been advocating for the establishment of a star system in Canada — the marketing and promotion of homegrown talent to elevate them to celebrity status, encouraging a sense of fandom and establishing household names who are known and loved in Canada.

The Canada Media Fund (CMF) has also recognized the need for a star system here, which is what prompted the CMF’s Diego Briceño, senior manager of data equity, to include a section about our star system in a report released this month titled Shifting the Lens: A Survey for Canadian Screen Performers. “We want to understand how performers can help make Canadian content more exciting and reach a broader audience, with greater impact and longevity,” Briceño explains.

Report shows stark difference between Quebec and rest of Canada

Interestingly, according to the report, there is a stark difference between French- and English-speaking Canada when it comes to the existence of a star system. While 21 percent of Quebec performers feel there is a strong and consistent star system that benefits performers and productions, only three percent of performers in Ontario and two percent of performers in British Columbia feel the same.

“Quebec has this longstanding star system that is fed by magazines, by talk shows, by different things that keep it alive,” Briceño explains. “There is a clear sense that there is a star system that has been useful, but outside Quebec most people say there is no star system and that was a limitation for their careers.”

Briceño says a more distinct cultural identity in French Canada has also contributed to its successful star system and the ability of Quebecois performers to achieve celebrity status in the region. “I think in Quebec there's pride to see yourself and people who sound like you, with the same accent and using the French from Quebec in a particular way,” he explains.

Talent heads south in absence of a star system

ACTRA National President Eleanor Noble says the lack of a star system in English Canada has pushed talented actors to head stateside to further their careers. “We have never created that same opportunity here in Canada,” she explains. “We’ve had success in Canadian film and TV productions, but unless performers leave Canada it is incredibly challenging to carve out a ‘celebrity’ persona for ourselves.”

There’s no doubt that the talent is here. Noble points to wildly successful productions that have seen international success like Heated Rivalry, North of North, Schitt’s Creek and Kim’s Convenience. “Yet many of the stars on those shows aren’t celebrated until they have had the popularity stamp of approval from the U.S.,” she says.

The solution, according to the experts, is a targeted approach that starts with government recognition and funding to support Canadian productions and performers. “The federal government must look at our multibillion-dollar industry as more than just a ‘nice-to-have’ frill,” Noble explains. “Instead, it must be treated with the same robust policies and funding given to traditional manufacturing and industrial sectors. We would contribute far more to the nation’s GDP if we created demand by supporting a star system that fed on our own national pride.”

Williams says the infrastructure around supporting individual performers also needs to change. Interestingly, most Canadian actors have only agents, not managers. “The reason athletes and singers have that fandom is because they are represented by not just agents but managers,” she says. “A manager is not someone who just looks for your next gig. A manager is strategizing and shaping the next 50 years of your career.”

More investment in marketing Canadian production and its stars is also needed, according to Williams. She points to the success of Heated Rivalry, whose leads were previously unknown, as an example of pre-release marketing done right. “They started the promotion of their actors well before the first episode dropped,” says Williams. “By the first episode dropping, there was a frenzy of fans because they had been building up who these actors were, what they did in the makeup, hair, wardrobe, how they exercised. They built this momentum.”

Looking to Korea for inspiration

Research and data can also be used to make strategic decisions about what movies and shows to create. “Understand our audience, what they want and who they want, so that decisions are based on evidence and not instinct,” Williams explains. “In L.A. and Korea, there are huge departments where their only jobs are: ‘What is the audience watching? Why are they watching? How do we create content that is what they want?’”

The extremely successful fan culture in Korea, evidenced by K-pop’s huge following, is a great example of a star system done right, according to Williams. “I have been so impressed with what Korea has done in the last 20 years with their star system, and it didn't just happen haphazardly,” she says. “Massive management companies find talent when they're young and groom them in music and dance. They help build private financing for projects because that’s also what managers do in Hollywood.”

If a star system isn’t built in Canada, Noble says Canadian talent will become even more reliant on the U.S. to have successful careers. “But it’s time to move on from that mentality,” she says. “We must be the ones to elevate Canadian performers to stardom and stop waiting for the U.S. to decide for us who is ‘worthy’ of such status.”

Williams has a more dire outlook if a star system isn’t built in Canada. “We'll just be wiped off the map,” she says.

But she prefers to focus on the positive and what the industry in Canada could look like in five, 10 or 20 years if a proper star system is built and supported. “What it would look like is buyers from around the world in a bidding war for the content we make in Canada,” she says. “They clamour for Canadian stars. Wouldn't that be lovely? We will end up needing to make more movies and series because the demand is there. That will bring national pride.”

The post Why Canada needs a star system appeared first on Canada Media Fund.

"Filmmaking is my way of telling the world: 'I am.'" For director and screenwriter Maryse Legagneur, the camera became a way to exist again after years of struggling with anorexia. But the film world isn't perfect: she talks about the isolation and exhaustion many Black women experience in the industry, and about La maison d'Erzulie, the retreat she founded in Sutton to give these women a space to catch their breath.

The post [VIDEO] Mental Health in Focus: a conversation with Maryse Legagneur appeared first on Canada Media Fund.

A new role is emerging on film and TV sets. Psychologists and mental health professionals are joining forces with directors to handle their teams’ psychological health. The job, which can be complex, is just starting to find its place within the Canadian screen industry.

In a Montreal studio, a video crew is getting ready. Monitors are set up on a folding table and four cameras point toward the chair where a guest will soon sit. Content creator Xavier Watso enters, all smiles. “Big shoot!” he exclaims.

I explain to him why I’m here, on the set of Mental Health in Focus. While he takes part in the Canada Media Fund-produced documentary series on mental health, I’ll be observing Sophie Brive’s work. She’s a clinical psychologist who specializes in film shoots for both fiction and documentary projects.

“I don’t think I’m going to use her very much,” he says, with an apologetic smile.

He’s right. In the 15 minutes he spends sharing his experience as an Indigenous content creator, notably discussing hateful messages he’s received, he never once turns toward the psychologist. She remains in the background, concentrating, wearing a headset connected to the monitor.

Brive was hired to meet the participants in advance, and then advise the production team on how to word questions. “Instead of asking, ‘What was your most difficult moment,’ it’s ‘What were the obstacles you met along the way, related to your identity,’” she explains. “We prioritize choices, rather than demands.”

Although he didn’t consult Brive, Watso thinks having someone like her on set could be useful.

“You know, a lot of production teams don’t care about the other person at all,” he says. “They just want to get the clip, capture the emotion that’s going to sell, at the expense of the guest, while here it’s the opposite.”

Crucial work, but still not common

Few psychologists offer these services. Brive has participated in a dozen Quebec productions since 2021, including the series Les météorites, where she supported an actor playing a victim of domestic violence, which brought up the actor’s own experiences. “She needed a lot of emotional support between two scenes,” Brive remembers. “She cried, I comforted her, we breathed, we emptied everything out, and we reset. That allowed her to reshoot the scene without having to stop production.”

The goal of this work is never to hinder the project, she says. “I work with the director, and I want their film to be what they want it to be,” says Brive, who adds it’s important to create conditions where everyone can feel good.

Alice Ride, founder of Set Protect, a Canadian organization that offers support for psychological health and safety in the entertainment industry, says implementing mental health resources on film sets has been slow to gain traction.

Set Protect offers eight therapists and certified mental health counsellors, as well as 15 professionals who are on call for interventions, if necessary. But the demand could be greater. Ride points to the lack of information about available resources, and the constraints of tight budgets. She insists, however, that support can be tailored to different needs and financial situations.

Psychologists can also be called in to defuse tense situations or even resolve conflicts within production teams. A new role has emerged on set — the mental health coordinator, similar to an intimacy coordinator.

“So it could look like somebody’s on set and they’re available to talk to anyone at any time,” says Ride. “The main difference is that mental health coordinators become part of the crew, whereas a counsellor is brought in specifically for one pass, one event or one shoot day that’s traumatizing.”

Documentary and reality TV sets are better equipped

Ride says the Canadian documentary sector is more motivated to use psychological services than other parts of the industry because of the impacts its sensitive content can have on participants. She points to the Documentary Organization of Canada (DOC). After publishing the DocuMentality report in 2023, about issues affecting mental health in the sector, DOC started allocating a budget for mental health care.

The demand is also strong in reality TV. “They almost all have psychologists now,” says Dania Ramirez, a clinical psychologist who specializes in supporting contestants on reality TV productions.

She’s worked on several popular French-language reality TV shows, including Occupation Double, Star Académie and L’île de l’amour (a French version of Love Island). She’s also working on a reality TV show out this fall, Complètement dans le champ, where content creators work on a farm for two weeks.

When advising on cast selections, Ramirez doesn’t look for interesting personalities. Instead, in a meeting that lasts a little under an hour, she evaluates whether the person is prepared to have a seriously stressful experience. “We identify the person’s possible fragilities, how they function, and their capacity to adapt,” she says. “It’s already happened where I’ve said, ‘This person is really too fragile.’ The production always makes the final decision, but I’ve never raised red flags that weren’t taken into consideration.”

Ramirez remains available throughout the production for telehealth sessions. For example, she may be called in to de-escalate a group conflict, as happened in 2022 for Occupation Double Martinique. She was rushed to the set when a bullying scandal rocked the production to the extent that backers pulled out and several contestants were let go.

“Ideally, if we’re supporting the participants, we shouldn’t support the production team as well, to avoid conflicts of interest. These are different roles that should be held by different psychologists,” says Ramirez.

The return to real life can also be tough for reality TV contestants, so sessions are scheduled with the psychologist. They’re brief, but the goal isn’t to resolve everything; instead Ramirez explains they’re trying to “de-dramatize things, re-contextualize what it meant to participate in the show.” If the needs are larger, the person can be referred to other resources.

Best practices for set psychologists

Everyone interviewed agrees that set psychologists’ roles and boundaries need to be clearly defined from the beginning, to respect the profession’s ethical framework.

It would be helpful to establish a specific framework for film sets within professional organizations; something Ramirez is trying to do with the Ordre des psychologues du Québec (Quebec Order of Psychologists).

Ride notes that WorkSafeBC, British Columbia’s provincial organization responsible for health and safety at work, has proposed a new rule to integrate the management of psychosocial risks for all employers in the province, including those in the film and television production sector. A public consultation is currently underway on this subject.

For the rest, Ride wants more research on the importance of psychological support in the workplace to be done in North America, to raise awareness of needs, and to then formulate policy, both in production environments and with governments.

The post Profession: set psychologist appeared first on Canada Media Fund.

“The biggest risk was ourselves, because we weren't delegating enough.” Executive producer Daniela Mujica founded Productions Ocho in June 2020, just as the industry was finally opening up to racialized voices, before that momentum faded. She opens up about the rarely discussed isolation of producers and how sharing that weight with a trusted partner made all the difference.

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Canadian children’s programs reach audiences across the globe, but as commissions shrink and viewing shifts to other platforms, producers are being forced to rework their strategies.

A recent report prepared by Ampere Analysis for Telefilm Canada shows that Canada is one of the world’s five leading producers of children’s programming, alongside the United States, France, the United Kingdom and Japan. (The study excluded China and Russia.)

According to the Telefilm Canada Kids’ Content Report, in 2025 there were 22 international markets with access to at least 1,000 hours of Canadian kids’ content. Some countries had a lot more. Between live-action and animated content, there were well over 5,000 hours of Canadian kids’ content available in the United States, more than 3,000 hours in Australia and nearly 2,500 hours in both the U.K. and Mexico.

Canada’s biggest success story in the field may be Spin Master’s PAW Patrol, available in more than 160 countries. The $15 billion (U.S.) mega-franchise includes 14 seasons of the original series, spinoff series Rubble & Crew, and numerous films, including this summer’s hit feature PAW Patrol: The Dino Movie, which earned more than $100 million (U.S.) worldwide in its first month.

But it’s not all good news, says the report.

Canadian children’s commissions (where broadcasters pay production companies to create shows) fell 33 percent in the 12 months leading up to the third quarter of 2025, marking the country’s sharpest annual decline since 2020. And, globally, investment in children’s and family content by major linear broadcasters (i.e., network television) has continued to decline, falling from approximately $5.4 billion (U.S.) in 2020 to $3.7 billion (U.S.) in 2025.

Maria Kennedy, co-founder and executive producer of Little Engine Moving Pictures, the company behind the animated series Tiny and Tall, says that drop in investment is forcing the industry to change.

“The future will require a fundamental shift from being a company that makes shows for broadcasters and streamers to a company that builds audiences, brands and intellectual property,” she says.

Designing content with the whole world in mind

“Our domestic market is small relative to the cost of a well-made animated series, so Canadian studios have long designed content with international co-production and multiple broadcaster relationships in mind,” says Shabnam Rezaei, co-founder and president of Big Bad Boo Studios, creators of the award-winning animated series The Bravest Night.

The company began nearly 20 years ago with a short film about Persian New Year and has since expanded to operate studios in Vancouver, New York and Vienna. Its programs have reached more than 100 countries and cover 40 languages. Its streaming platform, Oznoz, distributes children’s programming in several languages as well.

Rezaei founded the company partly to challenge representations of Iranian and Middle Eastern identity after 9/11. “While we used to get labelled ‘niche,’ the thinking now, and hopefully forever, is that specific is universal,” she says.

What began with culturally specific stories soon became the foundation for an international business.

“By the time a show is in financing or production, most of the decisions that determine whether it travels have already been locked in,” Rezaei says.

Her team tests whether the characters, humour and emotional beats will work in foreign territories and if a project should be structured as an official Canadian-content production or an international treaty co-production.

Animation travels well

The Ampere report found that while Canadian live-action programming travels most easily to English-speaking markets, particularly the United States, Australia and the United Kingdom, animation reaches more territories where neither English nor French is the dominant language.

That’s partly because characters can be dubbed without replacing the original performances, but Rezaei cautions that effective localization requires more than translating dialogue.

“Good localization is cultural adaptation,” she says. “Names, references and dialogue need sensitivity to the market. A good joke can work in one setting and not in another.”

French-language Canadian content remains concentrated primarily in France and Belgium, according to the study. There are exceptions, such as French-language animated titles available on Arabic streaming platforms, but the overall volume remains considerably smaller than English-language exports.

Steve Couture, CEO of Quebec City-based Epic Storyworlds, believes language should be treated as a jumping-off point rather than a limitation.

His company’s animated series Guiby the Super Baby is adapted from the graphic novels created by French-Canadian author/illustrator Samuel Parent. The stories follow a very young child as he confronts his fears and faces mythical monsters from an underground world.

“The original graphic novels resonated with kids who love spooky and exciting stories,” Couture says. “At the heart of the story, we see a very young child facing his fears. These stories are universal.”

The series premiered on Télé-Québec’s linear channel and streaming service before expanding to YouTube. Its first major global agreement, with TV5Monde+, provides access to viewers throughout the international Francophone market.

“There are many Francophone audiences around the world and, while this is a starting point, we are seeing great interest in other territories,” Couture says. “The great thing about animation is that it feels local to audiences around the world as we dub the series into local languages.”

The lure of well-known IP

The proportion of children’s commissions based on books, franchises and other established intellectual property (IP) has risen substantially, according to the Ampere report. Among Canadian public-media commissioners, the share doubled between 2021 and 2025.

Read more: Why literary works are so popular on screen

Kennedy says the threshold for buyers has changed. “Buyers need confidence that the project is discoverable, brandable and capable of building a long-term relationship with audiences,” she says.

She now looks beyond broadcasters and streamers to partners that already have young audiences, including creators and sports organizations.

“Can kids in the U.S., U.K., France, Indonesia or Venezuela enjoy the IP in the same way as Canadian kids?” she asks. “Can I partner with trusted content creators who have already built audiences who are dedicated fans?”

Going platform agnostic

International success can no longer rely on a single worldwide sale.

The Ampere report found that major advertising-supported services such as Tubi and Roku carry significant volumes of Canadian children’s programming. Local broadcasters and streaming platforms remain important too. Negotiating territory-by-territory deals takes more work, but those agreements can add up and allow local companies to market programs in ways that suit their audiences.

The best strategy often layers broad, non-exclusive agreements with major streaming platforms and more targeted sales to national broadcasters and local services, according to the report.

“A signed broadcaster or streamer becomes proof of concept for the next conversation,” Rezaei says. “It is not automatic. Each territory has its own programming needs, scheduling gaps and cultural-fit questions.”

Markets such as MIPCOM and Cartoon Forum are useful for meeting potential buyers and co-production partners. But Rezaei believes producers must think of them as the start of relationships that can take years to produce a signed agreement.

For Kennedy, the question is, “How does a kids’ show break through the noise?”

“Canadian kids’ content still has strong global appeal, and opportunities to build global kids’ audiences are bigger than ever, but the business model has completely changed,” she says. “Audience attention has fragmented. Discoverability is now as important as production quality.”

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"I make my own place. I'll kick the door down and walk right in." A former teacher, Xavier Watso, an Abenaki from Odanak, is a content creator, host and commentator. He talks about having to carve out his own place in Quebec's traditional media, and how he protects his mental health online: he blocks racist commenters "faster than his shadow" and has found in Indigenous TikTok a space to reconnect.

The post [VIDEO] Mental Health in Focus: a conversation with Xavier Watso appeared first on Canada Media Fund.

Writer-director Justin Ducharme shines a spotlight on the friendships and love that bind queer, Indigenous sex workers in his debut feature.

Intimate. Eye-opening. Powerful.

Those are just a few words that describe writer/director Justin Ducharme’s debut feature, Seventeen.

The film, which premiered at this year’s Toronto International Film Festival, focuses on three young, queer, Indigenous sex workers during a 17-hour period in downtown Vancouver where they rely on one another while facing a series of challenges.

December (Aalayna) avoids dealing with a family issue back home on her reserve, while Tamara (Nizhonniya Austin) faces deportation unless she can obtain a passport. And then there’s Aiden (Taio Gélinas), who desperately needs cash to pay the deposit on an apartment.

“I had really wanted to tell a story about queer, urban, Indigenous people, and specifically sex work,” explains Ducharme on the line from his Vancouver home.

“That's been a focus in my writing and my film work based on my lived experience and the communities that I surround myself with. And I wanted to do something that had nothing to do with the job, more about friendship and chosen family and how important those relationships can be for those people. I think those relationships have enabled me to create and, quite frankly, stay alive.”

Watching movies with his mom

Ducharme was born and raised in the Métis community of St. Ambroise on Treaty 1 Territory along the shores of Lake Manitoba. A graduate of Vancouver Film School, Ducharme started his career by self-funding his own short films. In 2022, he attended both the Sundance Institute’s Native Film Lab and TIFF’s Filmmaker Lab. His web series KIN debuted in 2023.

Seventeen pays tribute to the community he cherishes and also the women who raised him and introduced him to cinema.

“So much of my early cinematic exposure came from watching movies with my mom,” he says.

“I think about movies like Fried Green Tomatoes or Anywhere But Here or Where the Heart Is. I looked to those because I’m telling a story about female friendship and specifically female friendship from an Indigenous lens. There's a sense of warmth that exists between the women in those films. I wanted to call back to those memories and what that meant to me growing up, primarily being raised by Indigenous women.”

However, there is also a grittiness to the movie.

“I mixed in this stark, almost documentary-like approach to making the film,” he says. “A lot of my points of visual inspiration came from documentaries that were filmed in Vancouver about, and with, the sex work community, like Hookers on Davie.

“And there's another, smaller, documentary called Inside Boystown, which was a pretty big focus as well. I was interested in how the city was shot and how the community was engaging with the city. I did try to meld the two. The jury's still out on how that works.”

Filming with community members in Vancouver

Vancouver itself plays an integral role in the film and Ducharme was careful not to make life difficult for those who lived where he filmed.

“Having lived in Vancouver and in the downtown east side for part of my time in Vancouver, I know how film sets come in and take over spaces. I really wanted to keep it contained and intimate. You're running through the streets with an entire film crew, so it’s important to be mindful of the neighbourhoods that you're taking up space in.”

Ducharme hosted a consultation process with a community of sex workers when he started writing the script.

“That really helped shape the finished product,” he says. “I tend to cast people from the community and real-life folks in my work. There's a lot of people in Seventeen that are sort of playing versions of themselves, who have been community members of mine for the last 12 years of me living in Vancouver.”

It’s hard not to be struck by Ducharme’s reverence for making films. He has spoken in the past about the shame he felt coming out as a sex worker, but how writing and creating art about his experiences helped lessen the stigma and humanize the way in which those working in the industry are portrayed in the media.

“Sex workers are always being creative and telling stories,” he says. “One of the biggest things that came out of the community consultations that I did was that there was a desire to see aspects of a ‘day in the life’ of Indigenous sex workers that leaned into the tender and leaned into the hopefulness. That was something I felt the story deserved.”

Another challenge for Ducharme was transitioning from making short films and a web series to directing a full-length feature film.

“The sheer scale of this was truly unlike anything I had ever done before,” he says. “I'm incredibly grateful to my team, specifically my production manager, my first assistant director and my producers. They were so instrumental in mentoring me through that jump. I sometimes reflect on how I used to make work compared to the scale of this feature, and there are times where I worried that I was getting swallowed whole by it all.

“But I think the type of story I'm telling, and where I come from as a person and my lived experience, to have an opportunity like this wasn't lost on me. I learned so much and I've said this to a couple people already, but I like to think that I didn't completely fumble it.”

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The mental health of producers, directors and other film industry professionals is about more than just their individual experiences. According to the Canada Media Fund's documentary series Mental Health in Focus, it’s also about workplace dynamics, organizational culture and ways of collaborating.

Taking care of one’s mental health is often thought of as an individual responsibility — learn to manage your stress, recognize signs of burnout, develop your resilience. Conversations around mental health are essential, and occupy a growing place in today’s culture, including in the film and TV industry.

In dedicating the fifth season of the Canada Media Fund-produced video series Lights, Camera, Inclusion to mental health, we interviewed nine people with various roles in the industry — production, direction, intimacy coordination, visual effects, camera operation, set design and content creation. Despite the range of roles, the same issues recurred — isolation, invisible responsibilities, work pace, balancing professional and personal lives, the weight of representing a community, and the need to create more accessible environments.

But beyond reporting observations, the conversations also suggested ways of doing things differently.

Watch the video series Mental Health in Focus

Overcoming isolation

“It’s an industry where producers are entrepreneurs as well as being the leaders of creative teams,” says Mylène Augustin, producer and co-founder of Inaru Films. “A producer has to project the image of someone who’s strong, who can take care of any situation. But there are moments when we’re at home and say, ‘I don’t know how we’re going to be able to do it.’ But that’s not something we can communicate to our teams.”

For Augustin, one strategy is to turn to other producers who face the same challenges and discuss difficult situations together, rather than managing them alone.

Daniela Mujica, a producer at Productions Ocho, chose to collaborate with producer Eric Idriss-Kanago’s production company, Yzanakio.

“I don’t think I would be where I am today if I had run my own company by myself in isolation,” says Mujica. “Our cooperation is so important and helps us break the isolation of a producer who has to make very important decisions. We often need a shoulder to lean on, too.”

Isolation is also an issue for intimacy coordinator Jen Viens. On set, Viens is often the sole person tasked with creating a safe space for actors and crew.

Viens suggests the role should be integrated into the project from the beginning, providing the time to build trust. “You’re a one-person department, and then you’re the only person on set who’s making space for everyone…. Everyone shows up with their own story and their own life, and you never know how things are going to affect people. It’s a lot to carry.”

Advocating for diverse perspectives

Philipp Wolf, a visual effects producer and advocate for including neurodivergent people in the industry, suggests work environments would benefit from including a larger diversity of perspectives.

“The difference of perspective is what makes us human. Whether you realize it or not, you’re already working with neurodivergent people. So, it’s about allowing people to do what they do best and creating an environment where everyone can participate by including a diversity of perspectives in the decision-making process.”

For Wolf, the priority is to create spaces where psychological security is guaranteed, and where workers can share their needs and express how they’re feeling without fear of reprisal.

First camera assistant Yasmine Amor, who has worked extensively with professionals of diverse abilities, agrees. “We have to think about our industry in a way that includes all these people, because they have things to contribute on creative and logistical levels…. This also offers an opportunity for us to review our ways of working, and question our work rhythms and operations, which don’t really align with a healthy work-life balance,” she says, adding such a review would be beneficial for everyone.

The weight of representing a community

For director and screenwriter Maryse Legagneur, the recent increase in opportunities for creators from historically underrepresented groups allows stories that have been missing from screens to be seen.

But this creative freedom can come with a tradeoff. “Personal stories are often going to retraumatize us, and depicting this traumatizing experience can cause suffering,” she says.

Conscious of the burnout that affects the film industry’s Afro-descendant women in particular, Legagneur wanted to contribute to their healing by creating La Maison d’Erzulie.

“I made the choice to go live out in the country, two hours from Montreal, and I created a welcoming studio there to offer a retreat. I like the word retreat. Withdrawing oneself, placing oneself in a benevolent space. And these aren’t performative retreats…. I’ve had the opportunity to host three women who have stayed here, which was very beneficial for them, and for me as well.”

According to Xavier Watso, an animator and social media content creator, the emotional toll is real. Even after telling the story of his grandmother, who survived the boarding schools, dozens of times, the emotion is still strong.

“I’ve given this speech more than 60 times,” he says. “And each time I tell her story, I cry. I can’t help myself.”

Despite the abundance of hateful comments on social media (that he’s decided to ignore), the platform has become a way for Watso to meet other Indigenous creators, share experiences, and build a large, supportive community that didn’t exist before.

Julie O’Bomsawin, a producer and founder of Kassiwi Média, is working to ensure that Indigenous stories get told. Her mission is to create an Indigenous talent pool, which requires — apart from technical skills — time, mentorship and a respectful environment.

“We have to find a way to create flexibility within projects so people are well-treated when they’re learning,” she says.

How to make workplaces healthier

The solutions proposed by the nine professionals interviewed require collaboration between producers, better planning, integrating certain support roles from a project’s start, more flexible norms, better-supported training experiences, and environments designed to welcome a broader diversity of realities.

“The hours are long. And at the same time, that’s what pays,” says Paul-François Sampson, a set technician. “So, that’s always the compromise we have to make. Do we want to make money or have a life?”

He believes other approaches are possible — better planning, increasing teams when necessary, and shortening workdays.

“I know we’re in an industry that needs to make money,” says Amor. “But is money the only way to measure return? Or is it also measured by the pool of talent we create, the social cohesion, the strength of the culture we develop, the feeling of belonging, and the ways in which young people are going to advance towards their futures? I think that’s an important form of wealth as well.”

The post How’s mental health in the film and TV industry? Professionals weigh in appeared first on Canada Media Fund.

After working as an actor, director and producer, Jen Viens is now a certified intimacy coordinator. In this interview, they discuss how this relatively new role has evolved on set, the emotional weight of the work, and why safe sets matter for the entire industry.

The post [VIDEO] Mental Health in Focus: a conversation with Jen Viens appeared first on Canada Media Fund.

Veteran writer/director Mina Shum returns to the big screen with Whatcha Want, her love letter to female empowerment, community and the joy of dance.

Spend any time with Mina Shum, and you can’t help but be carried away by her enthusiasm.

Enthusiasm for making films, her hometown of Vancouver, and life itself.

The veteran writer/director burst onto the Canadian film scene in 1994 with her debut feature Double Happiness, which starred a young Sandra Oh as a woman trying to keep her traditional Chinese father happy while she pursued an acting career.

It was an exuberant and personal film that announced Shum’s arrival alongside a host of filmmakers, including Atom Egoyan, Patricia Rozema, Jean-Claude Lauzon, Deepa Mehta, Bruce McDonald and Robert Lepage, who transformed the 1990s into a golden age of Canadian filmmaking.

It’s been almost a decade since Shum’s last feature film, 2017’s Meditation Park, although she has been working non-stop in TV.

She returns to the big screen with Whatcha Want, which debuted at the Toronto International Film Festival earlier this month and stars Isabella Wei as a young wife who moves from Hong Kong to Vancouver. Her rich husband (Hugh Tran) remains in Hong Kong, and when she realizes he is being unfaithful she joins a local dance studio and begins a journey of empowerment.

Shum was in her Vancouver office when we chatted by phone.

Your team has said the elevator pitch for Whatcha Want is Crazy Rich Asians meets Flashdance. Is that accurate?

Yes. And one of my mixers, a man, said it's a dance movie that’s a scathing indictment of the patriarchy. The only thing is the elevator pitch doesn't tell you that the story is kind of deep.

Can you give us a brief synopsis of the film?

A young newlywed, played by Isabella Wei, is transplanted to Vancouver from Hong Kong by her billionaire husband. All her dreams come true; she was a middle-class girl raised by a single mom. But when she gets here, she realizes that she's living under his rules, which includes this age-old tradition of mistresses. She finds out that he's just going to do this, and at the same time she sees a dance studio across the street and goes in.

You know, it's not like she's not oppressed, but she breaks free through dance and through what opening your spirit can ignite. So, it's this very joyful empowerment movie inside something that's dark. I could have made a broccoli version [i.e., good for you] of this movie where it's just like, ‘Oh, it's so hard for her being so oppressed by her husband,’ but instead I’ve made this because I want people to feel empowered. That's the big thing. I need that. We need that.

It also deals with the immigration experience.

Right. It’s about coming here and finding people, finding community through dance, which led me to be able to cast a wonderfully diverse cast because in Vancouver any time you go to a dance studio it's a lot of BIPOC, a lot of mix. It’s me looking at immigration, looking at different characters and where they're at. They're not all at the same level of immigration and being here so that was really fun.

Have you been living with this story for a while, or did it just pop into your head?

I've been dancing for a long time and during the pandemic we couldn't dance together. I wrote this during the pandemic and something about not being able to do that sparked that initial, “Wow, I feel really deeply about this.” What does that mean, and what’s that like? I'm always thinking story. I'm always thinking about characters. Who are you? What are you doing? Why are you standing there? [Laughs.]

So, that came to my head, and then with Me Too and Black Lives Matter, I saw how we're hurting. It felt really important to uplift with this story of oppression. We grow up with so many codes of behaviour, for women especially. I've seen it a million times, like how strong women will succumb to some code that was never theirs, they never decided.

Looking at the titles of many of your films I am struck by the positivity and peacefulness of them. Double Happiness, Long Life, Happiness & Prosperity, Meditation Park. I feel like you are chasing joy with your films.

I feel like that's one of the things the power of story has — this ability for us to be uplifted by someone else's journey. I also believe our triumph over pain is often through humour and love.

I might get away with a career where I don't have to murder anyone [laughs]. Where I don’t have to kill zombies or anything like that. It’s for my own heart because I can't watch that stuff. I believe it, and then I have nightmares and that's no fun.

I think it’s something about my upbringing. My mom telling me English fairy tales in Cantonese. She'd act out the parts. We had nothing, we were living in a tenement house sharing a bathroom and she’s Cinderella and she's the voices of the stepsisters. I remember the smile on her face. There's something about story being salvation and I know that art can uplift because I've experienced it.

You’ve been a director for more than 30 years. What’s the one thing you’ve gotten better at?

What have I gotten better at? Everything! I will say shooting in multiple situations in different scenarios — documentaries, television, episodic, movies of the week — having that experience behind you can make you a savvier shooter. You just know how to do it faster and that's really what it’s about because there’s never enough time, so I feel that has benefited me. Strategically thinking about what kind of ship you're building, how it's going to get built and where you're putting the precious goods and all that stuff.

So, you second guess yourself less?

I don't tend to second guess myself because that's just suffering to me [laughs]. I lead from instinct. You can hand me two gloves that are blue, and I can tell you which one is better and why. Someone might have a suggestion that betters my idea, I am always open for that. I also give myself permission to turn around and go, “That's not working. Let's do this.”

Whatcha Want, like most of your films, celebrates your beloved hometown of Vancouver. What is it about Vancouver that inspires you?

Well, we shot a lot of the film in Victoria. Victoria as Vancouver just because we found some sets there that we fell in love with, like the dance studio. It's a way of making your dollar go longer, it’s getting expensive to shoot in Vancouver. But I brought my Vancouver-ness with me [laughs].

To answer your question, it’s the place where I belong. To me, Vancouver is this lovely sound when you're on the beach and the waves are just slightly lapping, and you hear seven different languages, three you can't even identify. We live in a city like that. To me, that is very cool.

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Abenaki producer Julie O’Bomsawin and her production studio Kassiwi Média deliver their very first Indigenous series for youth, Nish. O’Bomsawin tells us why she’s so proud of this ambitious project and explains the challenges of getting it made.

Upon graduating from L'Université du Québec à Montréal, better known as UQAM, in the early 2000s, Julie O’Bomsawin had a clear goal in mind. “I always say I do what I do out of respect for those who came before me, and to create a path for future generations,” shares the producer from the W8banaki of Odanak Nation. After graduation she kept thinking about her grandfather’s stories, which reminded her how laws and discrimination had smothered Indigenous identities and cultures for decades.

To give voice to those stories, she chose a path rarely travelled by people from her community: cinema and television.

After working as an assistant director and script supervisor on numerous projects, in 2015 O’Bomsawin started her own production company, Kassiwi Média. “The reason I became a producer wasn’t to produce, but because there were stories I wanted to see on screen that I didn’t see,” she says. “And so I thought, what could be better than producing them myself, allowing them to come to life?”

After producing a few documentaries and her first feature film, Captain, released earlier this year, O’Bomsawin is proud to release her most recent production, the youth series Nish. Financed with support from the Canada Media Fund, the series is available on September 22 on Tou.tv, with dates for Radio-Canada and the Aboriginal Peoples Television Network (APTN) to follow.

Focusing on Indigenous kids’ daily lives

Adapted from a series of novels by the Wendat author Isabelle Picard, Nish means “two” in the Innu language. The show recounts the lives of twins Éloïse and Léon, who live out in the middle of nature in Matimekosh, in Quebec’s Côte-Nord region. The title also refers to their two Indigenous identities, as their father is a local Innu man, while their mother comes from the Wendake community in Quebec City.

“We don’t see a lot of these young people in Indigenous series, at least not in Quebec,” says O’Bomsawin. “I think it’s important, because it’s an age where identity forms. I see this adolescence as being quite radiant. These are young people dreaming to the beat of the area’s rhythm, playing hockey, experiencing their first loves, friendships, school, like all young people today.”

The challenges of shooting in the Innu language and community

O’Bomsawin is particularly happy that, while the series was shot in French, 20 percent of its dialogue is in the Innu language, a first for Quebec television. (APTN will present a version entirely dubbed in Innu.)

For the production to come together, they had to overcome several obstacles, starting with casting. It was impossible to imagine non-Indigenous actors playing the roles, so the team had to do a lot of groundwork. After hosting general auditions over video, the team went to Côte-Nord in search of potential actors. They decided to cast young Jean-Luc Shapatu Vollant and Emma Rankin, both originally from the region, to play the two main characters.

“The real challenge for a series is to have all these wonderful people become a family,” explains O’Bomsawin. “And so, before shooting, we got them together not just for a general rehearsal, but to create an opportunity to meet each other. When people have less experience you need to be sure the chemistry works. Everyone has their strengths, and things they have to work on so the series is believable and touches people.”

Another challenge was the distance. As the majority of Indigenous communities are in distant areas, shooting on site quickly increases production costs. Since Nish was filmed in Matimekosh, Pessamit (near Baie-Comeau), and Wendake, the financing was complicated, even before you consider that part of the story takes place in snow. You have to be open to compromises, like operating with a smaller team.

The process was long, but O’Bomsawin kept the faith. “At the beginning of the project so many people said to me, ‘How are you going to do it?’ And I said, ‘Well, we’re going to do things one step at a time, and we’ll get there.’ It’s important this series exists, that it has an impact, and that young people can watch it and recognize themselves.”

Training the next Indigenous wave for the TV industry

While applauding recent advances in the quantity and quality of Indigenous content, O’Bomsawin is conscious that, more than ever, TV production requires unyielding passion. That’s why she committed herself to the industry, to facilitate financing for stories both fictional and documentary. She firmly believes in the strength of the collective, and the path she’s chosen.

“Television is powerful. It’s an exceptionally strong medium because you can stumble onto us without having planned to watch. When we enter into people’s living rooms, when they pause on a project we made and we move them with a story, I find something incredible in that, in our ability to understand each other.”

For her, production is a true calling. It allows her to reflect contemporary Indigenous realities, and also to amplify voices, allowing artists from the First Nations, Inuit and Métis people to gain experience.

“I’ve never counted my hours,” she says. “When I founded Kassiwi Média I was the only First Nations person on the team. I built from the ground up and the goal is for us to grow. Kassiwi means ‘together.’ So I try to train up the next wave to the best of my abilities so the pool of Indigenous professionals grows. My dream is for there to be a full Indigenous team one day. It’s not possible yet, unfortunately, but we’re working hard on it.”

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At 36 years old, comedian Arnaud Soly realizes he’s older than he feels. From the TV of his childhood to today’s streaming and online content, he’s watched the entertainment landscape transform. Now, as part of the Canada Media Fund/Telefilm campaign C’est à NOUS!, he’s inspiring young people to discover content, old and new, that was made right here.

Even though Arnaud Soly has “cut the cord” at home, screens still play an important role in his life. He's catching up on several Quebec TV series and discovering children's shows with his 4- and 6-year-old daughters. When his busy life as a father allows, he goes to the Beaubien Cinema, a few steps from his Montreal home.

“Even if technology has completely changed how we consume content, I still watch a lot of what’s made here,” he says. “I think it’s because I belong to a generation that grew up with [the now defunct] Canal Famille and VRAK.TV, and got the internet later.”

Viewing habits have changed since the demise of those TV channels, especially for young people. According to the report Québec Survey on Cultural Leisure and Entertainment, which was completed by the Institut de la statistique du Québec in 2024, 64 percent of Quebecers aged 15 to 29 primarily watch TV content that’s not from Quebec.

So it made sense for Soly, a comedian and content creator who’s popular with Quebec teens and millennials, to become the spokesperson for the online discovery campaign C’est à NOUS! (It’s OURS!), created by the Canada Media Fund in partnership with Telefilm Canada to help people find Canadian content.

“The mission of showcasing work from here is completely aligned with my values,” he says. “For me, it’s important to support our [film and TV] industry because it’s unique, and it really is a part of our culture.”

From newcomer to big brother

For the past few days, Soly has been posting short, funny videos to social media (both his own and the campaign’s) that riff off memorable scenes and characters from beloved Canadian films, series and video games. He’s putting the spotlight on older gems that made an impression on him, and new content that’s caught his eye.

He’s not the only one. Soly is joined by content creators Douaa Kachache, Emy Lalune, Pascale de Blois, Thomas Bédard, Tommy-Lee Salvas, Zoé Duval and Rosalie Vaillancourt (the spokesperson for the previous NOUS campaign), who are creating similar videos, sometimes solo, and sometimes as group sketches.

You can watch the first videos here, here and here.

“I’m happy to collaborate with this digital team, which I like, and I find funny and bright. I’ve been doing comedy for almost 10 years. I was always the kid, the internet guy. It wasn’t until recently that I realized I’ve acquired a certain notoriety, and I’m not really the newcomer anymore,” says the man who was named Discovery of the Year at the 2021 Olivier Awards Gala, which celebrates Quebec’s comedy industry.

Soly sees his fellow content creators as allies who can speak to young people and have a good grasp of online norms. With their help, he can reach audiences traditional publicity campaigns can’t.

“Young people don’t watch as much TV anymore, so they don’t necessarily see the ads for a series or film,” says Soly. “Today, a series often has to use the internet to reach us. And to create engagement there needs to be an online conversation about it, as was the case for Empathie and Vitrerie Joyal, among others.”

Humour as a way in

When he wants to get a reaction, Soly draws on his strengths — impersonations, dubbing, fake commercials and parodies. “Humour is a tone that works really well on social media; it can be short and catchy,” he says. “I think it’s a great way into our culture.”

Soly should know. He won Humorous Web Sketch of the Year for his parody Arnaud Jolicoeur, courtier hypothécaire (Arnaud Jolicoeur, mortgage broker) at the 2025 Olivier Gala. And his parody show, Club Soly, boosted his popularity on network TV and online.

“For the C’est à NOUS! campaign, though, I didn’t want to impose any judgements, or demonize American Netflix content, like Stranger Things. One doesn’t exclude the other,” he says. “Instead, I wanted young people to say, ‘Oh, I didn’t see this Canadian series,’ or ‘I don’t get the references from this Quebecois film, but it looks good and that makes me want to know more.’”

Changing cultural habits

Soly knows it’s difficult to change cultural habits overnight. He thinks part of the solution is to foster a love of local content from childhood, with help from parents. “The more kids learn about work from here at an early age, the more they’ll want to watch it growing up. These habits are going to stick with them for a long time,” he says.

He’s seen this phenomenon with his own kids, who are big Télé-Québec viewers, and even with his friend’s teenagers, who listen to albums by the 1970s French-Canadian rock band Harmonium, thanks to influence from friends and family.

“In Canada, and especially in Quebec, we really have our own culture, a culture that strikes a chord with us and allows us to recognize ourselves on screen,” he says. “It’s important to take care of it.”

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