Somewhere on the Bosnian-Croatian border. Green hills, forests, fields, a few houses and sheds scattered along the roads. If the territory of the European Union did not end here, it would be a rather unspectacular, interchangeable region. But the seemingly untouched landscape is deceptive – many mines from the Bosnian war have not been cleared yet; war traumas are far from over. Today the paths of migrants and locals cross here, refugees from Afghanistan, Syria and Iraq trudge through the area, braving rain and snow in search of protection and a better life. At night you hear their cries from the forests when they are brutally chased across the border. The villagers on the Bosnian side open the old school building to allow their exhausted bodies a moment of rest. But everyday life continues. Wood is chopped, corn harvested, school kids recite poems. The imam calls to prayer. Everything normal, everything as usual.
As a reporter, Nicole Vögele spent several years researching this border region, reporting on the illegal pushbacks of the Croatian police for the “Der Spiegel” news magazine and others. In her film essay, she now takes the time to observe. She does not ask direct questions, giving as much space to the seasons, the weather and the forest as she does to the people.

Breathing is vital and needs space. A small blue square appears out of nowhere, vibrating nervously and growing into a narrow line. Its red mirror image follows suit. Both take up more and more room in a contest to outdo the other, while a growing shortness of breath is wedged between them.
Martin Schmidt pulls off an astonishing feat: He generates a physically tangible cinematic experience from abstraction. He choreographs smooth surfaces in the cold, technical logic of their skirmish and electronically deconstructs the sounds of gasping. As the battle is getting fiercer, things are visually and acoustically compressed and stretched, twisted and filtered, until a heavy monster of tension emerges. “Lines” is big and loud; it can be read metaphorically, but also understood only in terms of its aesthetic power.

In 1945, the Red Army are advancing on German territory, the Second World War is drawing to an end. Families are still trying to escape to America, but many plans fail. Five-year-old Sophie also loses her father and mother during the flight. They are killed by Nazi officer Scharf and a Soviet soldier named Vasily, with Hitler Youth Beckmann as a witness. The gruesome event takes place in an extremely strange hotel which henceforth will bind the four survivors to its premises in bizarre ways, no matter which rooms of the truly scary building they find themselves in. Up in the lounge, where the new customers arrive one by one, down in the kitchen, where the now grown-up Sophie prepares food, or even in an alcove near the elevator shaft, where Beckmann hides with the rats. The involuntary permanent guests age but never tire of courting Sophie.
Heinrich Sabl has built an excitingly disturbing dollhouse decorated with quotes from reality for the German-Soviet history of guilt and coping. In his first feature-length animated film, on which the director worked for more than twenty years, he sends extraordinary characters on an equally extraordinary visual and acoustic time journey through the war-damaged suites of the 20th century.

There was an eery silence after a fire had destroyed the Moria camp completely in September 2020. Not just locally, but in public discourse. The world did not seem particularly concerned with the inhumane conditions in other camps on Europe’s external borders or the countless pushbacks in the Mediterranean. Nor did the arrest of six adolescents who were accused of arson resonate in any audible way – though even a second glance at the circumstances of the investigation and the criminal proceedings revealed the actions of the Greek judiciary to be questionable. Not to mention the underlying refugee policy of the European Union.
Jennifer Mallmann dares to take this second glance with her film. At its centre is her correspondence with Hassan, one of the convicted youths, who tells her of his everyday life, his desires and fears from prison. Calm, precisely framed images document “normality” on the fringes of Fortress Europe. They show how strategical isolation and the ensuing structural exclusion work. If you want to know how our community of nations imagines its future you only need to look at the newly-built futuristic high-security camp on Lesbos, where new arrivals are treated like people who have committed serious crimes.

Amid Russia’s escalating war on Ukraine, the cheerleading team „Nice Ladies,“composed of women over 50, faces a tough test. Team-member Sveta flees to the Netherlands with her family, while her friends Valia and Nadia remain in Kharkiv. The film shows how war permeates everything, yet sport and their sisterhood continue to connect them.

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.

The aeroplanes are stationary, nothing moves, nothing takes off at the US military airbase in Arizona – until a young woman in a white dress begins to jump on a trampoline outside the fence, framed by an idyllic sunset. She conveys her story from the silent offscreen – only through subtitles. Having come from Saudi Arabia, she is stuck in the US because her father stole her identity papers. So homesick that she is considering drastic measures to get back home, she almost enlists in the military. But the US Army is suspicious and would not station her, a risk factor, anywhere near the Middle East. But there is a Baghdad in Arizona, too …
Artist Samar Al Summary’s work is an investigation into systems of power. She does not only talk about herself, the prejudices and obstacles she faces as a Saudi woman, but also about the crash of two Iraqi air force pilots who were to be trained by the US Air Force but never made it home either. In her dramatically condensed film essay, she takes up the symbolic fight – both against gravity, which she can at least temporarily defy by using cinematic means, and against patriarchy. The latter, however, is not so easy to fight.

A dimly lit, scarcely furnished flat, the hissing and buzzing of an open microphone. What follows is an argument in Arabic between mother and son. She complains about his lethargy. He sees no point in school while the country is at war. At last, the boy sets out through the busy streets of his neighbourhood which is a chaotic patchwork of everyday life and the debris of war.
Using 3D graphics software, Husein Bastouni reconstructs from his personal memories the situation in the Palestinian refugee camp of Yarmouk in the south of Damascus when the area found itself between the frontlines in the Syrian war. Visually and acoustically – indeed, almost olfactorily – his film draws you into this world from the first second with terrifying immediacy, and yet poetically. In a moment of shock, the rhythm slows down, the images become sparser, but the protagonist’s reflections become crystal clear. In the silence of thought, the eye glides like a deep-sea diver through a sunken city and a lost home.

Something is wrong. Something is completely wrong. With the sound and with the image. The notes are crooked, the piano lid squeaks, the movement falters. Corrections are needed to bring everything together in harmony and in tune with Johann Sebastian Bach’s beautiful music.
Six roles of painted toilet paper are worked on by human hands on an editing table, one after the other. The editing device consists of coloured building blocks and a few wooden sticks. It is a game, a trick, it’s entertainment. At the same time, the simple images on the film strip take us deep into the current events of our time. But the material resists sharply delineated representation. It soaks up the paint and blurs the boundaries. It tears. It is limited. Before the story can pick up speed, the roll is unspooled. Narrative is difficult in view of this situation. And yet animation artist Anna Samo manages, with a very light touch, to transform ambivalent feelings, confusion, rigidity and speechlessness into a work of hope and courage.