There is a profound, almost primal artistry in taking the messy, overwhelming trauma of the global stage and distilling it into the intimate, resonant tension of a single human relationship. That is precisely the feat achieved by actor-writer-filmmaker Jess Jacobs in the new independent film, If You See Something.
Executive produced by the master storyteller Doug Liman, this film is in select theatres across the U.S., ready to challenge perceptions. It is a moving portrait of immigrant families forging a new life in New York, a story captured with an unflinching authenticity.
The narrative centers on Ali, an immigrant doctor seeking asylum, whose relationship with gallerist Katie (Jacobs) is brutally tested when the shadow of his life in Baghdad returns to haunt his present.
Jess Jacobs, an artist clearly drawn to projects that demand a cultural reckoning, having also recently executive-produced the Sundance documentary, Plan C, is a further testament to her belief that policy must follow culture and that the act of storytelling is, in itself, an act of activism.
We sat down with Jess Jacobs to dive into the vulnerable practice of writing a character she would later inhabit, the challenge of centering the universally human questions of home and safety, and the unique collaborative process that resulted in this essential new independent feature.
What first drew you to the story of If You See Something, and how did it evolve as you began co-writing and later performing?
I joined the film as an actress first, because that was the work I was doing first and foremost in 2016 when the project first came across my desk. I felt deeply connected to the narrative, to Katie’s many layers, and to the creative team: Oday’s previous films and his commitment to filmmaking in the face of unfathomable conditions, and Avram’s unique blend of playfulness and no-bullshit sensibility.
I onboarded as a writer in the wake of Av’s untimely passing (f**k cancer), after Oday and I decided that we would continue to make this film in the face of that immense loss. Having lived with the characters and the story for three years of development at that point, I felt enmeshed in the world of the film and therefore well-positioned to work alongside Oday to find its fullest expression. We pivoted from what was originally a very genre-forward piece to what it is now, which has elements of a thriller but which really shines in its intimate, naturalistic moments. This is my first feature as a screenwriter, and that process only deepened my connection to Katie as a character and to the project of telling this story completely.
The film explores themes of asylum, displacement, and rebuilding. A charged subject in today’s society. How did the challenge of approaching this feel?
I really appreciate you framing the question in terms of themes, rather than “social issues,” because it really was a thematic consideration, not an issue-oriented one, to explore these themes in the film. The biggest challenge for me was pushing past the political inundation and really centering the universally human questions at the film’s core. From my artistic point of view, asylum, displacement, and rebuilding are all fundamentally questions about home: what makes a place home, and what allows us to feel safe? Those questions were my north star throughout, rather than trying to make a persuasive political point about urgent issues of migration, which is a highly important conversation but one that leans more into PSA territory, whereas we intended artfully to explore the human experience, though I do hope we succeeded in illuminating how dehumanizing partisan rhetoric can be.
As both co-writer and actor, how did you balance the creative control of writing with the vulnerability of performing? Were you ever anxious that the story was going too far or not far enough in some places?
I find writing to be an incredibly vulnerable practice—maybe because I approach it quite like an actor, in which I excavate the psyches and inner worlds of all the characters as if I were myself preparing for the role—and those investigations are always fundamentally exposing for me. But certainly as a writer, I have much more control over the arc and the narrative. Building the stakes here meant putting my characters in deeply challenging situations, and there was a part of me, of course, who knew that at the end of it all, I would have to inhabit those situations myself. As for the balancing act, I was aware, I suppose, that we were walking a few fine lines, but it was a gift to have Oday as a collaborator because we could bounce ideas or concepts off each other and check each other to ensure we weren’t bringing a personal agenda to the film and remained faithful to the story. Oday is a very restrained filmmaker, so sometimes I wanted to push things further, and I’m very emotional and sensitive, so he would often pull me back; we made a good team, I think. There were a few places we disagreed about whether something was going too far—two I can think of in particular. One he won, and one I won, so… we take turns.
What was it like collaborating with Oday Rasheed to tell a story that’s so personal?
The personal nature of this story was one of the most inspiring parts of the project. Oday taught me that the fears of my life make excellent fodder for art. I took his lead in terms of how much he wanted to expose his own story, but he’s incredibly grounded, so there wasn’t much that was off-limits. It is very brave what he did and is doing. We did pull from the stories of many other people whom Oday knew, or whom I knew, or whom various consultants knew, to construct a story that was specific, and thereby universal, to honor what was personal as well as creative.
How did you and the team approach portraying immigrant and refugee experiences with honesty and care?
I have to start by saying that the key element of an authentic, honest, and caring portrayal of the film’s characters who immigrated or held refugee status relied on the fact that Oday lived through many of Ali’s challenges and crises and is in a deep relationship with many people who share stories with Omar, Raad, and Maya. I absolutely could not have crafted this screenplay without Oday, and I think Avram would have agreed. During development, we took a lot of care to ensure that all the characters were dimensional rather than representative. Ali is not representative of asylum seekers; he’s a beautiful and flawed individual whose arc allows the audience to consider his stakes and his circumstances. We also consulted with Make the Road NY, an amazing community organization, and with Campbell Dunsmore, an immigration and refugee advocate who was doing amazing, life-saving work at the State Department until recently, sadly. It was a confluence of efforts and commitments, based predominantly on the fact that film is incredibly powerful and all people deserve to be represented with care.
Doug Liman’s involvement adds an interesting layer. What kind of support or perspective did he bring to the project?
Doug was in early table reads we did of the script, when we were still working through kinks and needed to hear it out loud. He’s a master of his craft, so his notes on story and character were very supportive. In early 2024, we had a nearly finished version of the film and decided to screen it at Doug’s apartment with a group of friends and colleagues to honor the fifth anniversary of Avram’s passing. After the film, I was incredibly touched by Doug’s response – again, he’s a master, and he has such deep indie roots, so his interest in and curiosity about our intimate movie meant a lot. We stuck around talking about the film until the wee hours, and a few days later, we asked Doug if he would join as an EP. His name lends a spotlight, which means a lot in an era of content overload and attention deficit.
Were there moments during filming that felt especially raw or emotionally difficult to step into?
So many. More than I have time to get into. The dinner table scene at Katie’s family home was particularly demanding. We were lucky to have an incredible cast of actors and an immersive set, and the naturalistic approach has a blurring effect on the line between art and reality. It’s the kind of circumstance so many of us have found ourselves in during our lives because of racism or ability or religion or queerness, so it struck a nerve while shooting the scene, having to live in that tense, nauseating moment for hours while we got all the coverage. There were tears between takes, I’ll say that much, and that resonance is why I make movies, so I’m also incredibly proud of it.
New York feels like the ideal place to set this kind of story. Was it an intentional inclusion given the city’s multicultural and historical background, or did it just come about subconsciously?
It’s the city Oday moved to from Baghdad in 2011 and the one I moved to from Southern California when I was 17. “It feels like home for all of us,” as Ali says in the film. The decision was grounded in the fact that it was the place Oday and I both felt we belonged most in the world. It’s a city defined by its diversity, by its willingness to open its arms to people from all walks of life. It’s tough and gritty, and warm and welcoming. All of that texture became a character in the piece, a gallery of its own within which Katie’s literal gallery sits. The immigration-related themes of the film are embodied by this city because of, as you said, its historical and multicultural background. Zohran said it best: New York City is “a city built by immigrants, powered by immigrants”—so it is the natural backdrop for this story about the love between two people who have profoundly distinct pasts but a shared present: a man who arrived from Baghdad and felt immediately at home and a woman who has never lived anywhere else. That being said, I hope that the portrayal of New York City in the film can also be representative, in a way, of the many colorful and multicultural cities across this nation that thrive because of the many populations, all Americans, who call them home.
Ali and Katie’s relationship unfolds in the shadow of global trauma. How did you navigate that tension between intimacy and geopolitics?
I suppose in the same way that people navigate that tension in real life: by asking myself hard questions throughout the process, by not taking my assumptions for granted, and by privileging humanity and connection over headlines (at the risk of sounding naïve). Though it plays as evergreen, the film is technically set in 2019 because of the protests in Iraq that fall and the shadow of the first Trump administration, with his racist bans and name-calling “shithole countries” and general embarrassment for the nation. Obviously, things have gone dangerously downhill even from then, from ICE raids to genocide. With that acknowledged, I would actually say that when the geopolitics are as aggressive and painful as they are, artists must reinforce steadfast commitment to humanization, which means centering and exploring shades of intimacy with even more rigor.
Oday and I have spent years discussing the impact of politics and public opinion on film and life. Adam and I had deep discussions off-camera between scenes. Really, most of us cast and crew did. This kind of project lends itself to a team that cares deeply about the state of the world, so discussion about politics, art, relationships, love, migration… they were all swirling throughout the years of work, from script stage to set to post-production. All of that finds its way on screen, overtly in some cases and subconsciously in others.
You also worked on Plan C, which speaks to another urgent issue. How do you choose projects that live at the intersection of art and activism?
I loved working on PLAN C with Tracy. I had a long-time relationship with the organization at the center of the documentary, Plan C Pills, because of the medication abortion I had as a teenager, so the movie came onto my radar through that relationship. I follow my gut and my heart and pursue projects and stories that interest me. These tend to be stories that uncover something taboo or hold space for conversations that polite society asks us to keep in the shadows. But I’ve found shadows to be shame-inducing, and it’s so much more fun to shine a light and get my hands a little dirty. I like projects that have an element of healing to them—not in a new-age way but in a real reckoning kind of way. Art as balm. I am also a firm believer that policy follows culture, and not the other way around, so to change our lived circumstances means to challenge dominant narratives. I’ve encountered a lot of projects that approach an “issue” as the endpoint (i.e., here’s how we got here, or here’s what an experience looks like), rather than as the starting point to imagine a better future or a more righteous outcome. There’s an ongoing responsibility to reckon with the dominant narratives we’re being fed, which often flatten the realities of human beings who are in front of us at any given moment, and to tell new stories. I hope this film contributes to that effort.
What do you hope audiences carry with them after watching If You See Something, especially now?
I never like to tell audiences what to think, because all the questions we want to ask are on screen… but I’ll say this: I hope audiences see themselves in multiple characters and therefore experience the beauty of complexity and diversity towards an understanding of how much more alike we are to each other than we are different. Particularly during an era where divisive language and policy are so pervasive, this is what I hope this film and others like it can offer people. We are social creatures; we need each other, and we are only safe when all of us are safe.
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