Memories of a loved one: The camera explores the dark confines of a flat. Light is still burning in the kitchen; objects are scattered haphazardly on the living room tables. The eyes follow into the labyrinthine self, now turned into space, of a once familiar and now absent person. The narrator’s voice begins by asserting that everything in this place is true. It “shows” the places where the remembered person learned to crochet and where she shelled peas.
The narrative remains factual, but a gap begins to open. Ghost-like apparitions intrude in the old video images, phantom voices populate the noise-like echo sounds. Just like the crocheting and the peas, a naked murderer and other unpleasant shadows are part of the house inspected here. As things progress, individual threads are spun together to form the symbolic crocheted doily of a home. Incredibly poetic and very personal, Ayden Lamb’s “Haunted House” brings to life on film a person who during their lifetime was present – had to be present – in two worlds.

There are large paintings showing views of houses wherever you look. Each house is meticulously outlined; at first glance, they all look the same. Sometimes they keep their distance from each other, sometimes they seem to float in the void. Combined in ever new arrangements, these houses seem strangely unlocalised. With stencil and brush, Johannes Kloosterhuis is already working on the next painting. Each house has its own story, but perhaps the idea of privately owned homes is an outdated ideal, he muses aloud.
As he draws, Kloosterhuis thinks about different forms of living and housing. He himself prefers to look at the world from his window, enjoying the view of car park roofs, gardens and trees. His usually monochrome tableaux, though, have no horizon. Perhaps Kloosterhuis’s artistic vision are so fascinating because they develop an unfathomable life of their own. We get the chance to watch with the camera as they take shape, as a new miniature house, a new miniature fate emerges with every brushstroke.

A music video realised as a sand animation and visualising the eponymous rap song of the Mestizo band Ojos de Brujo from their 2002 album “Barí”. Swirling, merging, powerfully rhythmic images materialise in the flow of sand. The energetic beats and the haunting vocals carry a tale of greed and deceit that we follow as if in a trance.

Thomas Heise’s last film deals with his family archive, initiated by the deaths of his mother and brother. With suggestive comments and inserted into contemporary images, he appropriates the term “Heimat” by bringing the contradictions of more than a hundred years of German history to the fore. The counter-programme is formulated in a hit song by Marika Rökk: “Don’t look hither, don’t look thither, just look forward.” Heise’s monumental arrangement of fragments is at the same time open and insistent, devastated and hungry for life, never straightforward. Historiography and self-observation, never completely belonging: a touch in the dark cinema, a crack in the autobahn, lists, biographies, après-ski. Watching what happens (to them).

At the turn of 1961/62, Agnès Varda travelled to Cuba and saw a country that integrated Marx and Lenin into the everyday life of the Caribbean. Cha-cha-cha was part of it, but also cars à l’américaine. At her Parisian animation stand, Varda animated the black and white photos she had brought back home in an almost jaunty photo film. Chris Marker, her close friend from the Rive Gauche circle of the French Nouvelle Vague, had just paved the way for this cinematic form. They also shared an enthusiasm for the Cuban Revolution – and finally even a bit of Leipzig festival experience: In 1964, Varda’s moving photo montage won the Silver Dove. Despite or because of the subtle irony with which she looks at this somewhat improvised socialism?

Monsieur Comolli asks her to film the roses in the garden. But they do not bloom until May, and the critically ill octogenarian does not have much time left. The writer, film critic and filmmaker Jean-Louis Comolli spends some of his last days in the spring of 2022 with his long-term friend Dominique Cabrera and the film scholar Isabelle Le Corff. They philosophise, fantasise, enjoy, in short: they live, in the face of the imminent farewell. The result is the portrait of a witty, intelligent and highly erudite person who never tires of speaking about cinema – the art that enables us to share in the emotions of others without having to fear the consequences that may befall them.

Picture postcards, travel brochures and holiday photos are all this merrily caustic collage needs to portray moods and desires between the fall of the Berlin Wall and German reunification. In spring 1990, the first Interflug plane carrying GDR citizens touched down on Majorca. About the mediterranean colours of the island, the first-person narrator remarks in the voiceover: “We knew them from the postcards sent by our West German relatives. This was the West, this was West-West.” Ostensibly naïve, her recollections nonetheless develop an ironic undertone. However blue the sea shines in the photos, however loud the castanets play, the travel group with their East German money are never more than onlookers in this half-board paradise. Everything seems like an empty promise: the bursting oranges on the trees, the sumptuous breakfast buffet and the giant hotel pools.

A sunny day in the winter forest. Piglet dashes across the frozen brooks and lakes on ice skates. Piglet’s friend the cow also attempts a few pirouettes. When a big fish with spiky teeth knocks against the ice, the two run away in fright and lose a skate in the process. They finally gather the courage to go back and realise that the creature in the lake has only peaceful intentions.

In a fantastic sphere somewhere between animation, live-action film and performance, a tale of Hun Tun, King of Chaos, unfolds. Hun Tun cheers you on, Hun Tun drives you forward, Hun Tun keeps you awake. He gives you strength for countless hours of overtime and endless leisure activities. But in return, Hun Tun robs you of your sleep and transforms you.
Fragments of everyday life – cups, bottle caps, pill packages – speak of sleepless nights and complete exhaustion, of wanting to sleep and being unable to. Superimpositions of elegantly animated, delicate sand elements introduce rhythm and texture. Danced narrative moments in expressive costumes bring lightness and at the same time convey intense moods, with a precise overarching sound design weaving the various levels into a gripping reflection on a very personal conflict.

The Phenakistiscope in 3D: Guido Devadder has created a sculpture that shows the ghostly march of silently screaming people across a landscape of stretched-out arms and grasping hands in small animation loops. To Kaitlin McSweeney’s enchanting vocals and the beat of an old machine, he tells the dark fairytale of the constant cycle of desire and greed.

Beer is out in Prague … well, actually only at a food stall away from the touristy Old Town. But that doesn’t make the death rattle of the spigot less dramatic for Hurikán, a regular who spends his days and much of his nights at these haunts of lost souls. With a crush on the stall manager, Hurikán takes matters into his own hands. Things get rolling, just like the empty barrel he wants to have filled. An epic parkour begins, starting with small mocking gestures and rapidly expanding into a breakneck chase through the drowsy but steep side streets of Prague’s Žižkov neighbourhood.
With brilliant timing and tongue-in-cheek humour, Jan Saska weaves typical genre elements from comics and action movies together, all revolving around a guy whose life is not easy. This time he needs luck if he does not want to die of thirst.