“The sexiness of queerness is that there’s no fixed role”: Julia Jackman on 100 Nights of Hero

Adapted from Isabel Greenberg’s 2016 graphic novel, 100 Nights of Hero is a fresh and playful take on storybook fables, set in a fantastical world. Cherry (Maika Monroe) must produce an heir, or face execution. Her husband, Jerome, takes off after making a bet, leaving his cocksure friend Manfred (Nicholas Galitzine) to attempt to seduce her. Watching over Cherry as these events unfold is Hero (Emma Corrin), a mysterious storyteller whose intervention might just set her free.

I sat down with writer-director Julia Jackman in Venice before the film had its world premiere. In our spirited conversation, we discussed fluid filmmaking, making a varied cast cohesive, and what it means to launch a plea for acceptance into a world that’s pushing back against it. 

How did you first encounter Isabel’s graphic novel, and what sparked your interest in adapting it?

I read it shortly after it came out. I wouldn’t have called myself a filmmaker yet – I was working as a translator and a teacher. I liked that it sneaks up on you, this tone of hopeful anger – because it’s sort of a romp. Things that have a bit of humour allow you to explore things without people wanting to look away or numb themselves.

It marinated in my head for years. I met some incredible collaborators on my first feature, Bonus Track [2023]. When the question came up of what’s next, it was my dream to do this. I took out the draft again in early 2024. It was the first long-form thing I’d written, and I was delighted to see how relevant it still felt to me. We’d lived through a pandemic, through a bunch of strange things, and certain themes felt more resonant than ever.

It feels like a very 2025 story now.

It does, and it really changed – but the heart of it never did. Isabel’s graphic novel is so epic, but so intimate, and that’s what made me think that even on our small budget we might have a shot. I loved that it plays out in whispers in corners and from books hidden under floorboards. The course of history is so often changed by the grassroots efforts of people who are underestimated. The real heart of it for me is resilience.

We did a test send-out, and actors responded to it much more intently than we expected – which brought people who were willing to finance it. We shot it at the end of September 2024. It was suddenly this runaway train.

Which gives the project this duality of being very immediate and this long process.

Isabel has the philosophy that stories are living, breathing things, and so much changed between 2016 and 2025. Just as she drew on One Thousand and One Nights, this is drawing on her book and creating something new. It’s a completely different medium, a different time, a different place. And that freedom was very valuable.

Tell me about the film’s relationship to mythmaking. Whether in the stories that Hero tells, or the novelistic structure of the film, there’s a deep love of storytelling in its fabric.

That’s testament to Isabel. But making things becomes quite a meta experience, because it’s hard. You’re always going to have people telling you that people aren’t going to be interested in what you have to say, or people are going to like this bit but they’re not going to like that bit. The core of storytelling is you have to follow what feels right to you and hope that it resonates with someone. You can’t do that from the outside in – you don’t want to make something utterly self-indulgent, but you have to have enough of that that you want to make it. I can only hope that in not trying to appeal to everyone, we’ll speak to the people who it does appeal to.

What resonated with me is the queerness of the film – and that goes beyond its characters. There’s a generosity and sensitivity, an openness to identity that I found refreshing.

Another queer Canadian filmmaker said to me when I was making my first film “you have a very queer lens”. I’m a queer woman, but I’d never really thought of it that way. The scenes we were shooting weren’t particularly queer. I asked what they meant, and they said that there was a sort of fluidity or exploratory sense. I can’t help but be drawn to things that are kind of camp, that don’t take themselves too seriously – where you see the performances that people put on for others.

I love exploring queer intimacy and love. Everything has become about what genitals people have and what bathrooms they can use, who people want to have sex with and what they may look like. And for me, the sexiness of queerness and of a queer love story is that it’s all up for grabs – there’s no fixed role, nothing is taken for granted. Even straight people would benefit a lot from queering their relationships and looking less at fixed roles. I wanted to show it doesn’t benefit anyone – no one’s having a good time. These roles become prisons. It’s how you see Cherry’s face relax when she’s lying down next to Hero – someone that she can joke with in a world that doesn’t like women to have a sense of humour. With Manfred’s character, the idea that there was a vanity and prettiness to these men as well, and a softness that they would try and crush. These are things that we’ve all felt constrained by, so I hope that that fluidity of intimacy can speak to everyone.

You let your cast unlock themselves in a similar respect. It almost feels like they’re playing in different films, but the intentionality to their approaches and their desires means that they’re playing off each other, dialling it to 11 in different ways.

Definitely. I was drawn to Maika because of her horror background. In a way, queer first love or forbidden love is a thriller. You’re playing detective – are they just being friendly? Is this just friendship?

Nick by necessity had to be in a different room, because he’s not reading the room at all – the point is that he brings his energy and expects everyone else to get on board. It’s a tricky tone, but I didn’t need or want them to all be living in the same world – they’re living in a world that has done nothing to fit them together in any kind of harmony.

Could you tell me about casting in relation to identity? These choices feel very intentional.

The labels weren’t super important, but it felt that Hero was so naturally nonbinary. The soul of Hero is this ever-changing, beautiful, kind of timeless thing, and I felt Emma fit that incredibly well.

And Charli, of course. I was nervous about anything to do with stunt casting – but then so was she. She’s someone with integrity, who wants to do things that interest her. I’m sure she could have gone right for the mainstream. Instead, she’s been zagging when people were expecting her to zig. She’s a chameleon. I could see that she could bring a fierceness and unknowability to Rosa that I found really interesting – a look that contains multitudes.

I want to ask about the film’s climactic speech. It’s the kind of thing that runs the risk of being too didactic, but you sidestep that and deliver something sincere and heartfelt.

A lot of us in the queer community are upset and angry right now. A lot of my friends can’t travel to places that they want to travel to. People that I love very much don’t feel safe. So I think a loud and angry moment at the end for both of them feels cathartic. I love a story where everything works out okay. As far as I’m concerned, that ending is real and that magic is real.

100 Nights of Hero is the closing night gala of the 69th BFI London Film Festival.