Writing Through the Noise: Steven Martini on Finding Heart, Humor, and Healing in BitterSweet
With his deeply personal new film BitterSweet, the award-winning storyteller Steven Martini (Smiling Fish and Goat on Fire, Lymelife) returns to the screen in his most vulnerable role yet—playing a fictionalized version of himself in a story inspired by his real-life experiences. Written, directed by, and starring Martini alongside his wife and producing partner Gabriela Kulaif, BitterSweet is a romantic dramedy that navigates new parenthood, identity, and undiagnosed neurodivergence with raw honesty and unexpected humor. As the film prepares for its theatrical release, Martini opens up about the emotional journey behind the project, the creative challenges of reliving your own story, and the responsibility of telling it with truth.
Q&A with Steven Martini | BitterSweet
BitterSweet is your most personal film yet—written, directed, and performed by you, and based on your real life. What was the emotional toll and reward of revisiting such a raw chapter of your story on screen?
I’ve written many screenplays—some alone, some with co-writers, and some in TV writers’ rooms. Writing is always a challenge. Making a film is an even bigger one. Whether the story is personal or fictional, the creative hurdles are similar. That said, when it’s your own story, it cuts deeper. Having “skin in the game” can fuel you through the finish line, but it can also cloud your judgment. Real life unfolds slower than movies, and our experience with the system—though painful—was resolved more quickly than many others I’ve encountered. Some of those cases drag on for years and involve dangerous or tragic circumstances. My voice naturally leans into absurdity, so I tried to find humor and heart in the chaos. I felt this was a unique perspective on a cathartic rite of passage that many people are living right now, but one that hasn’t really been depicted on screen.
You co-star in the film with your wife, Gabriela Kulaif, who also produced. How did your real-life relationship inform your on-screen chemistry—and where did art and life blur the most?
Plenty of people warned me not to work with my wife—especially those in the industry. They said the pressures of filmmaking could strain even the strongest relationships. But I decided to lean in, because it felt like the most honest way to tell this story, which is inspired by our real experiences. I was worried at first that personal dynamics might interfere, but once we committed, it became clear we made the right choice. We both love acting, and when we were in front of the camera, it really felt like play. Directing Gabi came naturally—our shorthand and mutual trust made it effortless.
Your earlier films, Smiling Fish and Goat on Fire and Lymelife, were also rooted in your life. What part of yourself were you trying to explore through BitterSweet that you hadn’t confronted before?
Those earlier films captured different stages of my younger self. BitterSweet explores a more adult chapter—becoming a parent, navigating domestic life, and coming to terms with my late-in-life diagnosis on the spectrum. The script was originally titled Undomesticated, because I’ve always been fascinated by the idea of being tamed by life and responsibility. I didn’t want to make a film about discovering some kind of “autistic superpower”—that’s been done. I was more interested in portraying a character for whom neurodivergence is a kind of low, persistent background noise, made worse by a system that doesn’t cut him any slack and sees him as the problem.
There’s a unique tonal blend in BitterSweet—it’s funny, chaotic, painful, and tender. How did you approach directing a film that lives in emotional contradiction?
That’s just how I see life—beautifully messy and contradictory. As a director, your job is to manage tone, and since I also wrote the script, I had a strong feel for the rhythm and emotional cadence of each scene. The challenge was how to explore something serious with both humor and heart. That’s often hard to explain in words, which is why I make films. I love working with actors to find those tonal beats together. That collaborative process is one of the most exciting parts of storytelling for me.
The film blends comedy with deep emotional and social themes. How do you strike that balance as a writer and director?
I wrote the first draft in the middle of the chaos of 2016. It was a heavy time, and the story demanded that I think beyond the present moment and trust in my voice. I shared the script with people across the political spectrum, and to my surprise, the response was universal—they laughed, and no one was offended. There was no agenda to trigger anyone. At its core, the story is primal: a man wants to return home to his family, but the system is standing in the way.
When did you first start to suspect you might be on the spectrum—and once you recognized those patterns in yourself, did it reshape how you saw your past, your identity, or the way you move through the world?
I was born premature—seven months—blue and with underdeveloped lungs. Doctors told my parents I might have disabilities, but they didn’t know what. Growing up, people often said I marched to my own beat. I could hyper-focus on specific tasks, but my executive functioning was off. Even though I was straight-edge and health-conscious, people thought I was on drugs. Later, we discovered autism ran in my family, so we began to explore it more seriously with a therapist. At first, I resisted the label, but the diagnosis made a lot of my past make sense. It allowed me to be kinder to myself. I’d been scolded my whole life for my quirks, but now I didn’t have to feel so ashamed. In many ways, I’ve learned not to take things so personally.
Your career started as an actor, evolved into screenwriting and filmmaking, and now includes music. How do these disciplines inform each other in your creative process?
I see the world through all these lenses. Acting was my first love—it taps into pure imagination and childhood play. But acting alone left me feeling powerless, waiting for someone else to give me a shot. That’s why I started writing. When I write, I act out all the roles in my head—or while pacing around the house. But turning a script into a film adds another layer of complexity and collaboration. That’s where music became my refuge. I can write a song, play it, sing it, and get instant feedback. You can tell a similar story in a three-minute song as in a 90-minute film—the structure is surprisingly alike. I’m also an editor, which is a form of rewriting. When I edited Lymelife, watching scenes of my childhood portrayed by Kieran and Rory Culkin, with Alec Baldwin as our dad, it was surreal and deeply personal. I even scored the film with my band. Music, film, and editing all feel like essential parts of one creative system for me.
You scored BitterSweet with your band, The Spaceship Martini. What role does music play in your storytelling, and how did you approach the emotional tone of this film—especially in deciding when to lean into sound versus silence?
With Lymelife, I wanted the score to express the emotions of childhood, building to the closing song, “Running Out of Empty.” For BitterSweet, I wrote the end credits song, “Fight,” as Sam’s masculine theme—reflecting everything I was feeling as an adult. To balance it, we brought in Brazilian artist Tita Lima, who composed our title track “BitterSweet” and contributed to the film’s score. Her music became Gigi’s feminine voice in the story, full of Brazilian rhythm and warmth—perfect for Gabriela’s character. As I get older, I find silence more powerful. Knowing when to hold a quiet moment is essential—especially in today’s world of constant distractions. At our first screening, I was thrilled to see nobody looked at their phones during the quiet scenes. That felt like a win.
As someone whose work is grounded in personal experience, how do you think storytelling can shift the way we understand neurodivergence—and what responsibility, if any, do you feel as a filmmaker to use your platform to amplify those perspectives?
I feel a deep responsibility to honor my creative voice, which—knowingly or not—has always been filtered through a neurodivergent lens. While I believe I can tell any kind of story, the ones that truly take hold and carry me through the entire creative gauntlet usually reflect my own condition in some way.
You’ve described your life as “out there” in the best way. What advice would you give to storytellers who feel like outsiders or who haven’t found their voice yet?
Your gut biome has more cells than your brain—but your brain is louder because it’s between your ears. You have to learn to quiet the voices in your head so you can hear what your gut is telling you. That takes patience and focus. Sometimes it helps to name those inner voices and figure out what each one wants. But underneath all of them is a quiet awareness—your true voice. If you stay still long enough, it starts to form something real. Help guide it gently. And most importantly, be kind to yourself. Love has to move through you before it can reach anyone else. Don’t block it by withholding love from yourself.
Looking ahead, what kinds of stories do you hope to tell next—and what do you hope audiences take away from BitterSweet?
I have a few scripts ready. One is a fun story called The Night Guard about a vampire going through a midlife crisis. His fangs don’t work, his sleep cycle’s off, and he’s sunburned from waking up too early—so he turns to a mysterious hygienist to help him reclaim the night. I’ve also written a sequel to BitterSweet that picks up a few years later—but first we need to make sure audiences find the original. I’ve met so many families who’ve gone through what we did, and there are countless stories still to tell. Honestly, I think social workers showing up for home checks could make for a gripping TV series.
I hope audiences feel seen and entertained by BitterSweet. I hope they connect with Sam and Gigi’s journey and walk away with a more compassionate view of neurodivergence. So far, people have told me they want to bring their dads or partners to see it—and that means a lot.