Filmmaker Sylvie Weber’s short Window Cleaners places viewers high above the city, where an uncle and nephew balance on the literal and moral edge. Inspired by the quiet resilience of labor often overlooked, the film examines survival, generational tension, and the cost of remaining unseen. Created through Indeed’s Rising Voices initiative with support from Hillman Grad and 271 Films, Window Cleaners continues Weber’s exploration of characters navigating identity, labor, and belonging. We spoke with her about the story’s origins, her visual approach, and the ethical questions at its core. 

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Window Cleaners drops us into a moment between an uncle and nephew on the edge—physically and morally. What inspired this story? 

I’ve always been an observer. I’m drawn to quiet details and the stories we often overlook. Part of my family immigrated from the Dominican Republic to the U.S., and growing up between cultures made me really aware of the emotional and physical labor it takes to survive—especially in service jobs. My aunt runs a cleaning business, and through her, I began to understand the resilience, exhaustion, and dignity in work that’s essential but rarely acknowledged. 

The idea for Window Cleaners came while visiting a friend in a high-rise. Two workers suddenly appeared outside the glass, and we had a brief but funny interaction. It struck me immediately—this act of giving others a clearer view, while their work remains almost invisible—yet it takes courage to do this job that most people never think about. It felt like a strong metaphor: hanging by a thread, on the edge of both space and society. 

After that, I couldn’t stop noticing window cleaners. The higher up they were, the more fragile they seemed. I feel that in our world shaped by capitalism and pace, certain individuals are often rendered invisible. This film is my attempt to explore the tension between labor and moral choice. I wanted to ask whether doing the right thing is even possible when your survival depends on blending in and staying silent. 

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You often work within a surrealist framework to explore real-life issues. How did you approach that balance in this film? 

For me, surrealism has always been about amplifying and understanding reality rather than escaping it. In Window Cleaners, I leaned more into metaphor than surrealism, partly due to the tight shooting time—we only had two days—so I tried to keep the story to its essence. The high-rise becomes both a literal and symbolic boundary. 

These men are suspended above the city, caught between survival and invisibility, they are literally and visually hanging by a thread. That image alone carries a kind of surreal weight without needing much embellishment. 

The generational tension between Miguel and Juan adds another layer. One has learned to endure and provide quietly; the other wants to act on principle, even if it costs him and his uncle. That push and pull grounds the story. The one surreal moment, when Alejandro Patiño’s character looks at himself from inside, marks the shift. That’s when reality bends just enough to let something deeper surface: a moral reckoning. 

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The tension in the film is so contained, almost claustrophobic, despite the open sky and glass. How did you think about space and perspective while directing? 

I wanted to build a voyeuristic tension—where we’re constantly aware of who’s looking, and who’s being looked at. The system keeps people like Miguel and Juan on the outside, both literally and metaphorically. So, at first, the camera stays outside with them. We’re in their perspective, watching people live comfortably behind glass, unaware of who’s holding up their view.

As the story unfolds and the conflict between the uncle and nephew deepens, the camera begins to be caught between them, suspended like they are. The space starts to feel tighter, even in the open air, because the threat—both physical and moral—keeps closing in. 

It’s only once they make themselves seen, when they disrupt the invisibility forced on them, that we shift perspective. We start looking from the inside out. My approach was to let perspective follow the emotional and ethical arc of the characters. 

From a production standpoint, we shot the entire film on a volumetric stage. That meant we were in a controlled studio environment, projecting the city skyline onto a limited screen. The illusion of vastness—of being high above the city—had to be built carefully through framing, lighting, and choreography. The constraints actually pushed us to be more intentional about space and point of view. 

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As someone of German-Dominican descent, how do your own experiences of identity and place influence the way you tell stories about belonging? 

Growing up between two very different cultures, Germany and the Dominican Republic, taught me early on that belonging is something you navigate, negotiate, and sometimes even invent. That in-between space, where you’re not fully one thing or the other, has shaped how I see people and tell stories. 

I’m drawn to characters who exist on the margins, who are not always seen—whether it’s through the lens of history, migration, labor, or generational conflict. For me, storytelling is a way to make sense of that constant negotiation. It’s less about finding fixed answers and more about honoring the complexity of it. 

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Window Cleaners is deeply moral without being didactic. How do you approach crafting stories with ethical weight without pushing an answer? 

From the start, I knew I was more interested in posing a simple, human question: are moral choices always possible, or are they conditional, shaped by circumstance, class, and immigration status? 

I think storytelling becomes more powerful when it leaves space for ambiguity, for discomfort, for the viewer to wrestle with the choices the characters face. It’s about inviting reflection. I’d rather leave the audience carrying the question with them than handing them a conclusion that I also don’t have.

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What was your experience like working with Rising Voices? How did the support of Hillman Grad, 271 Films, and Indeed shape the process? 

Working with Rising Voices was intense, inspiring, and grounding. Hillman Grad really helped shape the core of the story, especially during script development and later in the edit. Their feedback pushed me to clarify what I was really trying to say without getting lost in the fluff. 

271 Films had a great influence on story development as well and pushed us through production within a very short timeframe. They produced ten films and coordinated our crews at high speed. I still don’t know how they pulled it off. 

Indeed, beyond funding the program, championed everyone’s vision. They supported us not only with resources and a wonderful Tribeca experience, but also through promotion and distribution, which is often a very time-consuming part for independent filmmakers. I’m deeply grateful to all of them. 

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You're developing your first feature, Rio Masacre. How has your work on shorts, and particularly Window Cleaners, prepared you for this next chapter? 

Honestly, just getting to make work today feels like a privilege. Each short I’ve been fortunate enough to create has been a space to practice my craft, to grow, and to fail forward. I see my mistakes not as setbacks, but as opportunities to learn. 

Shorts teach you to be economical with time, space, and dialogue, which sharpens your storytelling instincts and forces you to add meaning to every frame. 

With each short, especially Window Cleaners, I’ve learned to listen to my intuition more closely and to trust my gut. It’s also essential to build your team around creative trust and emotional safety. All of these are guiding principles I’m carrying into my feature, which explores themes of generational trauma and survival. There’s no room for ego or misalignment when working on a delicate, personal subject under a tight schedule.

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For emerging filmmakers navigating identity, ethics, and aesthetics—what’s the piece of advice you wish someone had told you early on? 

I would say: trust and protect your story’s soul, but also stay open. Invite people into your process who challenge you in ways that ultimately make the work stronger. That balance between conviction and openness is so important.

Coming into the industry as a self-taught filmmaker, I sometimes subconsciously felt the pressure to prove I deserved to be in the room, not because I lacked belief in the work, but because the environment didn’t always feel safe enough to show uncertainty. There’s so much value in lived experience and intuition. I wish I had trusted that earlier, instead of measuring myself against expectations that didn’t reflect my path. 

Filmmaking is personal and emotional; it requires a kind of honesty that doesn’t always come with confidence. Give yourself the grace to grow without performing certainty, the right collaborators will see the strength in that. It’s okay not to have all the answers, and it’s more than okay to be vulnerable on set. That vulnerability is often where the truth of the work lives. 

Photo Credits: MVA Films