We have probably all thought about the influence of digital logic and algorithms on our perception of the world at some point. This equally humorous and profound short film takes the interactive online tour service “Google Street View” as a starting point for an investigation of where the reality mapped by fifteen automatic cameras and the one perceived by human senses drift apart – and what the consequences are.
The “Accidental Animals” that happened to come across the lenses of Google cars defy the claim that every area, however remote, is reproduced as realistically as possible. Instead, their appearance in the frame produces unintentionally funny situations. Like glitches in the matrix, they remind us that we are watching only a patchy series of snapshots. Before we “drop” into a random place on the map, before we arrive to look around, the animals are already there. The fact that Google’s technology blurs many of those bird, dog and pig faces – like ours – to protect personality rights furnishes the directors with the perfect excuse for a provocative question: How is it that in this respect the algorithm acts more ethically than the humans who programmed it?

Where the sandy beach of the Salton Sea, the biggest lake in California, begins to crunch harder, it does not even consist of sand any more: Millions of dead fish, plants and insects pile up on the shore to form a highly toxic substance. This is how Derek explains it, a member of a Cahuilla tribe that managed to escape an attempted genocide in the 19th century to the Salton Sea and now sees itself as a protective force for the once flourishing but increasingly deserted area and its outcasts.
Derek is one of the many locals whose trails Lukas Marxt and Vanja Smiljanić calmly follow, gliding with them through the desolate landscapes. In the process, they pick up slivers of nuclear history time and again: During the Second World War, the area was a test site for the bombs that were dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. The experiments continued through the Cold War; the armed forces are still training here. The film finds its starting point and end two states away: The nuclear devices were sent on their way from Wendover, Utah. The local Airfield Museum pays tribute to their development. Once, the camera performs an almost weightless dance around a model of the Hiroshima bomb “Little Boy” on display there, to the sounds of the indestructible World War classic “We’ll Meet Again.”

A slight body, wrapped in dusty rags. The gas mask on the face reveals only a tired pair of eyes with almost extinguished pupils. The figure slowly winds its way through a grey landscape of crumbling concrete and rusty iron parts. The human-amphibian hybrid contorts itself so bizarrely in this post-apocalyptic world that the laws of physics seem suspended. It is unclear what is up and down, almost impossible to determine on which planet the action is taking place. Observed by other fantastic chimeras, the creature sneaks out of its hiding place again and again to find water for a modest bath.
This avant-garde balancing act between documentary remnants of civilisations, found footage, dance, performance, puppetry and pantomime finds fascinating ways to push familiar definitions of animation to the limit – and beyond. With superbly staged movement choreographies, clever visual ideas and outstanding audio design, Niles Atallah makes a different kind of tale shine brightly.

The camera calmly explores the holes and fissures of a cliff face, the traces of the ocean. The austere landscape seems to have fallen out of time. Only a few decades ago, fishermen threw their trap baskets into the water from here. Today, the sea around Malta has long been fished dry. Punta, a moustachioed islander, wants to have one more go.
A weir is woven from the hairs of a horsetail, a forgotten craft is demonstrated. An intercut Super 8 film documents the diversity of marine life in the past; its grainy images radiate something irretrievable. An octopus curls around a foot, a jellyfish floats through the eternal blue. Punta gazes melancholically at the sea, far beneath him the waves are crashing against the rock as they have always done. And yet the sight is deceptive, because he and we know that no fish will ever stray into his weir. The rough singing of a woman’s voice begins.

“It is places like Laikipia that make some Kenyans begin to ask: Are we really independent?” For centuries, this region in the central Kenyan highlands has been a grazing area for the Samburus’ animals. With colonialisation, white people began to settle there, built ranches and farmed cattle. After Kenya’s independence in 1963, they stayed on. So far, relations between them and the locals have been alright, albeit distant. Climate change, however, increases the potential for conflict in the country and intensifies the competition for resources.
Laikipia has been suffering from the effects of global warming for several decades. Long periods of drought destroy the grassland the Samburu and their herds depend on. The white cattle farmers’ ranches and not least the privately managed and strictly guarded nature reserves cut through their traditional migration routes and block off the paths with electric fences. When elections are near, the disputes threaten to escalate. Daphne Matziaraki and Peter Murimi followed Kenyans of all parties over a period of five years and give them a chance to tell their stories in this film.

Jessica Sarah Rinland visits zoological gardens across Argentina to craft a portrait not of a single institution, but rather its underlying concept: an observational, yet still ever-probing exploration of zoo itself. The different types of image and their textures she collects to this end—the silky 16mm that comprises the bulk of the film, the crisp surveillance footage, the grainy black-and-white cameras that capture creatures roving “undisturbed”, the yellowing photographs that pin down Indigenous people and animals alike – perfectly correspond to the varying perspectives she gathers on her subject: a place of imprisonment and colonial legacy, but now also one of everyday routine, conservation and even tenderness.
For all the ambivalence of its central theme, this is, like all of Rinland’s work, a film of extraordinary tactility: Human hands that clean, catalogue and caress, leathery trunks and furry fingers that reach between iron bars in search of comfort, plumage glistening in the sun. Jean Piaget coined the term collective monologue to refer to the developmental phase in which the child believes nature is created for them alone and can be controlled as such. It is so strangely moving to see control give way to care.

In three chapters, this film takes us through the Nigerian megacity of Lagos and explores its fluid side. The tour begins with boatman Osan, constantly moving, balancing on his waterway. In split screens we see the human body as a vessel containing water. Then we are chauffeured through the flowing traffic to the Lagos market and finally perform a water dance above the rooftops of the city. Interspersed are mobile phone videos of a young man on Tarkwa Bay Beach: The waves are good, the sun is shining. May the water bless us!
“Fluid Lagos” was created in three collective workshops conceived and moderated by filmmaker Nora Mandray. Inspired by documentary practices, the participants developed a hybrid film form in which different voices and perspectives combine to talk about water, about a place and its arteries.

Highly focused groups of humans move through nature. It is night and they are listening. Or it is midday and they are counting. Sometimes they carry antennas on their backs and roam meadows at the edge of the forest. They are the witnesses of the so-called sixth extinction, the people who document the disappearance of biodiversity in the Anthropocene. Marianna Milhorat approaches them with patience, spending a long time with women who discuss the intensity of the croaking of frogs, while the roar of the streets can be heard in the background. Others report on the “sea star wasting disease”, a mysterious illness that turns starfish into a whitish mush.
“Just Above the Surface of the Earth” leaves little room for hope, but at the same time puts its faith in the indefatigable individuals who have at least decided not to close their eyes. It is to them that Milhorat dedicates this experimental portrait, sophisticated on all cinematic levels. For it is not only bats that flutter through the film, but also thoughts: by Cormac McCarthy, William Golding, Martin Heidegger, or about the mythical river of the dead, Styx. The score, composed by Brian Kirkbride, translates the various microcosms into immersive sound art, giving us access to a world that we often inhabit as if blind and deaf.

Surreal formations, stalactites, rocks moulded by water and poisonous bubbling. The images that turn into an exploration of her own soul for Paula Ďurinová seem like a dream landscape. Grief plays a key role – Ďurinová’s grandparents both died during the Covid pandemic. She looks for them between the gases and fumes, dives through a body of water that has ceased to exist but in whose cool freshness her grandfather once bathed his feet and across which she used to swim with her grandmother.
“Lapilli” works in an associative and abstract way. At the same time, the minerals recovered by Ďurinová have something very concrete about them: compressed, buckled and broken, sharp-edged, corroded or gently polished. At one point, the director compares herself to a stone detached from its rock, questioning and without orientation, drifting around: “I don’t feel the ground anymore.” “Lapilli” leaves no doubt that feelings of pain and helplessness can harbour greater strength, but also a very special poetry and beauty. The interplay with an organic experimental soundscape opens up an intimate, almost universal experience.

In the deliberately chosen style of an old-fashioned field report, a fictional explorer describes his observations on gold-mining in Venezuela. His mission takes him along the Orinoco, from remote jungle mines to industrial zones. His focus stays on the workers and their environment. The titular Moriche palm tree, an edible and crop plant growing along the river, serves as an example for the relationship between humans and nature and their use of raw materials. Paradoxically, the gold-diggers live in harmony with Mother Earth as their nourisher and healer, but at the same time destroy her. As in so many other places in the world, their very survival depends on an economic system inherited from colonialism. The rapid pace of capitalism is in glaring contradiction to the arduous extraction of the gold dust, produced only by slow processes of erosion.
As the narrator drifts along the river and meditates on different contexts, the images work their way through the layers of the complex subject. The immersive poetic journey alternates between observational Bolex shots and archive footage, hand-drawn illustrations and abstract visualisations of photochemical reactions. Accompanied by a sound design both distinct and elaborate, the lustre of the gold literally glitters from the screen.

The child and the otter live in a small cottage in the woods. Their water source has dried up a while ago. In their distress they set out together to the snow-covered mountains to bring back a supply from the icy summits … With her first animated film, illustrator Malin Neumann delivers a poetic tale in warm colours about the vital importance of water.

A tired sun creeps across the horizon for the last time. A cold wind is already blowing over the lake. The migrant birds depart for warmer climes and leave the Nordic natural paradise. Heavy snow showers cover the land with a white coat. The animals condemned to stay – fragile creatures of delicate porcelain – cling to branches, looking for shelter. None of them will escape the frosty grip of the spreading winter. They are observed by a tiny girl, also made of wafer-thin, translucent white ceramics, who is the only one left in the freezing landscape in the end.
Anu-Laura Tuttelberg’s symbolic story is touchingly beautiful and at the same time full of inspiring irritations, because she makes her art run up against the reality of nature. She did not animate her puppets in a warm studio but exposed them to the elements, on location in northern Estonia and an island in the Norwegian Sea. In her film, cruel forces, disturbing fragility and the renewing force of the cold meet – ambivalently and elegantly.