A short yes and a long but. A man in a plaid shirt says a friendly hello and rhapsodizes about travelling to southern countries. But when he returns, he finds those southern foreigners have been swept, yes, into Switzerland. That’s not good. Not good at all! Every sentence fires up the next. The longer his hate-rant lasts, the redder and madder the otherwise friendly plaid man grows.

Is he crazy or a genius? An impoverished compulsive hoarder or a millionaire? Many legends surround octogenarian Adolf Haeberli, who lives in a cramped and dilapidated house in the luxury spa town of St. Moritz. For some residents his home is an eyesore, while for others it’s a creative place of resistance. Haeberli himself thinks he was born under a lucky star. In this humorous but never exposing portrait of a lateral thinker, every voice is heard.

Three children and their families have fled from crisis areas and found a new home in Germany. What are their wishes for the future, their dreams? The conversations with the three were turned into animated children’s drawings. We see a schoolkid’s life from their perspective.

An eerily beautiful bedtime story with lots of loose ends. Featuring: a princess and her toy mouse, a mother who advises the girl to always be suspicious of strangers, and a bizarre grandfather who secretly munches dogfood. It’s possible that the sleepy child is taking in only a quarter of this absurd and morbid tale, but that’s probably a good thing.

Everyone in Leipzig is familiar with the Hotel Astoria, which has stood vacant since 1996. This film takes a look back to the time when the hotel was the hotspot of the trade fair city, where professionals, politicians and guests from all over the world were entertained with the greatest possible GDR pomp. But the Stasi also came and went in the hotel. The story of an exciting chapter in the city’s history is told with archive material, staff reports, and the distinctive animations by Falk Schuster.

In collaboration with the mycologist and activist Giuliana Furci a VR experience was created that actually contains a whole universe. Hardly anyone knows the world of fungi, though it surrounds and shapes us. We shrink to the size of a hypha, communicate with tree-roots, transform toxins into valuable nutrients and become part of a nearly endless but invisible network carrying our earth.

She is the centre of attention, but exhausted by life. An old woman in her final days, bedridden and too weak to speak to her husband and daughter. Her selfhood fades away while in the care of her relatives, who have problems of their own. But Julia Orlik brings the woman back into the foreground with her minimalist concept and touching puppet design.

When the artist duo Karnapke and Johnson are separated by Covid-19 in the middle of a project, the result is a correspondence about the constant change we live in. The VR experience based on this is a walk-in meditation: about reality, about normality and about the signs that distinguish the rule from the exception, visualized in a space made of countless particles.

In the blink of an eye – as the film is titled – 66 years pass by, seven centuries of stone crumble and a savings bank replaces a church. In six and two half chapters, Jorge Moneo Quintana succeeds in a feat of archival work, montage and sound design. The organic merging of images that show the site’s transformation submerge the audience into a pleasantly sober reflection on the beauty and sadness of decay.

During a ramble through the forest we see video colour fringes break through the shadows of the canopy. Rolls of thunder and birdsong spread as a deep red pixel moss carpet. Ambient sounds creep up from the distance to filter the visual world. Hallucinogenic data errors drag like scrapers across a discarded layer of paint. The forest becomes a cathedral for the eyes and ears.

Click, frame change, click, frame change. The narrator presents her family in snapshots: the father in his youth, the mother posing in an armchair, siblings, birthdays, excursions, the usual. But the commentary by the daughter looking back adds something profoundly salty, perhaps even poisoned, to the unfolded normalcy. Tiny insults accumulate into sadness. It (almost) doesn’t matter that the family members in question are sloths.

The Russian travelling circus “Joy” promises joy to the outside world – and not just in name. Behind the scenes the tone is rather harsh, unless there’s a party going on: life is dominated by jealousies, small and bigger cruelties. In a debut film full of wit and tragedy, Daria Slyusarenko portrays great artistic dreams in a small tent and four people who, each in their own way, cope with life in the circus.

Their permanent tour takes them through small towns where only a few kids are still enthusiastic about snakes, parrots and clown acts. Otherwise the tiers remain mostly empty. The tent is run-down, the animals are tired, “Joy” has seen better days. The nomadic life isn’t easy for the artists either: putting the tent up and down, in pouring rain and stormy weather, the only retreat is the mobile home and money is tight at every turn. The show still goes on, without artistic compromises. When Yana turns up, after many years of working in Europe, and becomes clown Valeriy’s new partner, enthusiasm spreads. While the two rehearse ambitiously, the animal dressage couple struggles to keep up the status quo and the stars of the ring together. A portrait of bittersweet circus life that comes amazingly close to its characters.

The small recording device named REC lives all alone in an abandoned attic when a bird appears at the window. REC is really excited and wants to talk to it. But when the bird hears REC’s “voice” it flies away in terror. Now REC tries everything to record the bird’s beautiful song. Time is running out, because its battery will soon be exhausted.

An infrared dot pattern scans body shapes to supply system information for fascinating volume images. The space casts are virtual sculptures, mouldable, with unstable aggregate states. DJ Dixon’s “Transmoderna” performance is pulverized to the beats of Mëhill’s track “Through Withdrawals”: waves of millions of luminescent coloured microbodies against a black infinity.

A group of old men in an abandoned asbestos mining town on the edge of the Kalahari Desert resist evacuation. They have no place to go because they were once notorious as soldiers of the infamous South African Battalion 32, also known as “The Terrible Ones”. Both perpetrators and victims of history, they become actors in the biblical story of Judas Iscariot in Boris Gerrets’ equally disturbing and fascinating cinematic legacy.

The spectacle under a blazing sun confronts the men, who live in abject poverty, with their unresolved past. Many of them had been forcibly recruited by the FNLA and UNITA resistance movements in the Angolan War of Independence against Portugal. After the communist MPLA took power, they found themselves as mercenaries fighting alongside white South Africans against their own people and finally defending the Apartheid regime in the colonial struggle in Namibia and the South African townships. On the fringes of the surreal film location between the decaying buildings of the old mining town, they speak for the first time about their life stories, talk about betrayal, guilt and remorse. Having been steamrolled by global politics, turned into undesirables, exiles, forgotten, suppressed and broken men, they finally become visible again as human beings in front of the camera.

The filmmaker Herbert Kasinski portrays the Mitropa restaurant at Leipzig Central Station which seems a little out of time. The figures quoted at the beginning of the film and the number of hungry and thirsty people extrapolated from them are still impressive today: Every day, 800 trains carrying 250,000 passengers arrived at Europe’s biggest terminal with its then 32 platforms.