The feature film “Innocence Unprotected” by Dragoljub Aleksić tells the story of a young woman who’s to be forcibly married to a horrible rich man while her true love is for a daring acrobat. This first Yugoslavian sound film was made in 1941 in occupied Belgrade and never released because of Nazi censorship. Dušan Makavejev’s deconstruction of this bizarre work, which he re-edited, partly hand-coloured, supplemented with German newsreels and current footage of former participants and thus turned into an eponymous documentary film in 1968, was awarded a Silver Bear at the Berlinale.

Following a quarrel with the DEFA, the Sorbian animation and documentary filmmaker Jan Hempel established the independent IWT-Film studio in Dresden. Commissioned by the German Book Traders’ Association, these impressions of the 1977 International Book Art Exhibition were created there. Referencing Leipzig’s century-old tradition as a book city, the film presents production companies, publishers and, last but not least, the IBA itself.

In this work, too, the technique of working directly on the film strip by scratching and painting proves to be beautiful and timeless. The sound, created by analogue interventions on the optical soundtrack of the material is charming, jaunty and organic. Two abstract creature shapes fall for each other in the darkness, come together and fade into the distance.

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.

In Denmark, the police regularly offer so-called boot camps to find new recruits. They especially target girls from less privileged backgrounds. 12-year-old Tatheer from Copenhagen takes part in one of these one-week courses. Far away from home, deep in the forests, she is forced to find her way in this new group, and will have grown a few centimetres at the end.

What does it mean to make an animated film accessible to people with impaired vision? Can audio description convey what’s happening on the screen and what is, especially in animated film, often entirely a product of the imagination? Anne Isensee (Golden Dove for “Megatrick” in 2017) tackles these complex questions with a light touch, humour and verbal wit. She pulls off the feat of producing a concentrated cinematic investigation into the multi-layered quality of (all) perception.

A city crossing: Many things happen, one after the other, at the same time and sometimes inexplicable. Even in animated images reduced almost to symbols there is a lot to discover at this place. A speaker describes what is happening in words for people with visual impairments, but she increasingly questions the meaningfulness and translatability of what she sees.

Planes of all sizes, fun fairs, neon advertising, protesting people, men, women and children having fun, desert-like landscapes, urban views – the shimmering 8mm images develop a peculiar pull. They come from our present day but seem strangely distant, past. It’s the visual diary of I.O, a girl who lives in a future surveillance state and remembers the world before climate change.

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.

In a sterile white examination room, a young woman is asked by a doctor to undress completely. An exhaustive examination of the protagonist’s skin begins during which every centimetre, the palm of her hand, the sole of her foot, the back and also the genital area are closely scrutinised. The doctor meticulously probes every nook and cranny of the young woman’s outer shell until she is able to identify a suspicious birthmark. A timely appointment to remove the mole is made.

Exposed and irritated, the protagonist finds herself confronted with her fears about the surgery and the after-effects of the examination. A tiny birthmark triggers an inner process: an analysis of her own body and the control others are allowed over it. Fragile lines on scarred paper and a tonal design that gives us goosebumps make us participate intensely in her emotions.

Nature is out of joint. Frogs are raining from the sky. A young woman has returned to her childhood home but no longer feels at home there. The loneliness on a few square metres makes her fall into a kind of twilight state. The anguish erupts in nightmares that leave marks on her body. The past tugs at her, insects take possession of her, her body shell dissolves.

This animated short film documents a workshop with Mehndi artists in Ahmedabad. While the women work together to create phantastic forms in henna colours, they tell their tutor Isabel Herguera what they dream of: flying, for example, a women’s parliament, or a journey to Switzerland. Samira longs for independence – and makes herself heard with a rap.

A cinematic daydream in corrugated cardboard and paint, shot with a Super8 camera. The soundscape consists of hills, some easily climbed, others requiring the last ounce of strength. The shapes, colouring, cross-fades and rhythms of this encounter with paper also shift between tough and tender and are made tangible both on the visual and the tonal level.

Grandfather’s hands making pottery, the vertical linearity of a tower, a train crashing into a car – all of these are fragile, newly born film sketches that crowd each other out in a survival game for the filmmaker’s attention. The sceneries fight against each other, intertwine to form new strands, sink into an endless flood of information, shatter in a sea of open browser tabs. With his authentic voice-over and a mesmerising collection of moving images, director Konstantin von Sichart’s alter ego offers us a deep insight into his creative process. Marked by his neurodivergence, he learns before our eyes to cope with his inability to concentrate on one thing – and to weave meaning from these strands, remain true to his film idea. But how can this ever result in a film?
Toxically coloured images, naively drawn and finely crafted, AI-generated, filmed from a monitor, collaged, worked-on – a wealth of tools and aesthetic approaches translates the described mental overload into the language of design. The film thus becomes more than a self-reflection of modern filmmaking: It is the portrait of a new generation – caught between the compulsion to take everything in and have a position on everything and the urge to stand still or even run away.

The day is dwindling, and the world is exhausted. The hour of the great sandman has come. He enchants his clients with grains of slumber while busy helpers fluff up pillows so that everyone who is sleepy may lie softly. At some point, almost everybody is likely to sense that there are more things between night and day than are dreamt of in our philosophy.

On an uninhabited island off the Mexican Pacific coast, members of the army do their uneventful duty. The film watches drills and everyday routines, but mainly the breaks which they spend playing board games in the shade of trees, in hammocks, swimming, flying kites or doing karaoke. The peaceful environment, however, does not hide the violent reality of their country which they are always confronted with, even out here.

In this paradisiacal seeming island landscape, the life marked by gang wars which these young men and women escape for an indeterminate time is visible only in metaphorical images, for example when the calm ocean surges up or when an octopus caught at the beach is slaughtered with bare hands. But in the conversations, the self-descriptions of the military men and women, everything revolves around the reality they grew up in: the brief moment that determines which side you’re on, the constant game of hide-and-seek, kin liability, the cruel consequences of wrong decisions. In her first feature-length documentary film, which is carried by the tension between the visible and the invisible, Mariana Flores Villalba wisely chose not to show the event but its effect.