In 1937, Dominican dictator Rafael Leónidas Trujillo ordered the murder of the Haitian population of the Dominican Republic. Tens of thousands were brutally killed. A language test made the difference between life and death: The Creole-speaking Haitians who could not pronounce the Spanish word “perejil” had to die, which is why this genocide went down in history under the innocuous name of “Parsley Massacre.” Until today, the region is marked by deep traumatisation, racism and classism, which are linked to the colonialist past of this two-state island.
Haitian filmmaker Pierre Michel Jean approaches this rarely examined subject with great delicacy and succeeds in creating a history lesson that combines different historiographies – from factual research to problematic narrative constructions through to the haunting testimonies of the last survivors – in a kind of montage of knowledge. At the same time, his documentary addresses the complexity of collective guilt and the important question of who can and should say “mea culpa” today, more than eighty years later. A performance workshop organised by theatre director Daphné Ménard, which brings together artists from both states, and the memories of the elderly Henry Noncent form the heart of this filmic monument whose empathy makes it compelling.

Luciana’s office is a place of miracles. This is where strangers confide in her, share their most profound desires and concerns. And Luciana? She circles her huge magnifying glass over the pages of old books to soon find the perfect coordinates for a spiritual new beginning. In his new film, Peter Kerekes becomes nothing less than a witness to psychomagical acts. The Neapolitan astrologer is not only able to calculate the perfect birthday spot for those who seek advice – in her blunt way, she aims right at the centre of personal dramas. A pair of identical twins, for example, argue whether one of the sisters should fulfil the other’s longing for a child, while an unhappy mother yearns to rekindle her relationship.
Luciana sends the twins to Beirut, the mother to Alaska. Kerekes accompanies them on their journeys of salvation, even if Alaska turns into an air conditioner and a few buckets of ice cubes for reasons of practicality. He always brings out the comic potential of a story while pointing out complicated conflicts with astonishing poignancy: possessive mother figures and absent fathers, loneliness in a relationship and the fear of change. “Wishing on a Star” is a charming consultation that boldly confronts the big questions in life.

Does the sexual revolution complete the communist revolution? Some believe that Makavejev himself invented subversion. This footage, fiction and Wilhelm Reich film seems to confirm this.

Renata Lučić, both director and protagonist, returns to her hometown to visit her father in a small village in the Croatian part of Slavonia, near the Bosnian border. She has always hated the rural area on the banks of the river Sava, “those endless meadows and gardens,” as she reveals right in the opening sequence. Even as a child she knew that she would leave. Like her older brother, like her mother. And like 124,667 other women who “went West” after the war, usually to Germany or Austria, to work – and never to return.
She now hangs out in the almost abandoned and womanless village with her estranged father Tomislav and his best friend Joso. The men follow their routines, working in the forest or eating river fish they caught themselves. Emotional closeness and intimacy gradually form in at first seemingly trivial conversations and despite initial misunderstandings and distinctly different world views. The film project, which started as the story of an emigration, gradually turns into a sensitive study of loneliness, human relationships, friendship and love; about the beauty of the little things that leads to larger insights – not just for Renata.