“The state is like a garden,” says Putin’s old form teacher’s husband, “you have to destroy the weed so that something worthwhile grows.” “We’ll do just that,” the lifetime president-to-be answers almost shyly and leaves his teacher’s flat, which he visited to shoot an advertising clip directed by Vitaly Mansky who, as the country’s leading documentary filmmaker, was allowed to follow and record the campaign. After 18 years of concrete rule by the little man with the strong hands, the long-emigrated director looks back at the fateful year of 2000 and reviews his footage. What he discovers is breathtaking and has the emotionalising power of an almost intimate home video. The Mansky family already dread the new Mao while Yeltsin’s clan is jubilant at first and ex-Tsar Boris even sees his successor Vladimir as the guarantee of real media freedom –later he disgustedly calls the pivotal turn-back “krasnenko” (reddish). Putin himself talks about reasons of state and an autocratic life which he intends to avoid at all costs. Finally, the question whether it was right to reanimate the old Soviet hymn with quasi new lyrics becomes a bone of contention in the duel Putin vs. Mansky. The sad conclusion is that nobody was just a “witness”. Everybody played a part in the many compromises made in hopes of a “better life.”

Barbara Wurm

The Einstürzende Neubauten are playing “Mela-Mela-Melancholia”, questioning the state of the nation. Between the somnambulistic scenes played out in the border area between documentary and fiction, deep-seated intimacies that concern us all are addressed. The project – the winner of this year’s Golden Bear – is experimental: many of the protagonists are “real”, play themselves; others, like Laura Benson and her fellow actor Tómas Lemarquis, pick up on scripted sketches but let their roles come so close that they penetrate their own lives. They talk about and perform sex, about inhibitions and visions, fears and ways to overcome them. Their goal, the goal of this unusual film: (self) liberation.

The director enters the frame occasionally, sits on the couch with Christian Bayerlein, the “kissability” blogger, or with the transsexual Hanna Hofmann, letting us know that she is taking part, looking at things but resisting voyeurism as the camera floats above a group BDSM session or follows a touch therapy workshop, some of whose participants are physically severely disabled, at close range. She speaks, too, about her own boundaries of shame, far removed from the “Likes”-obsessed narcissistic Social Media egos. A transgressive critique of norms, aesthetically and politically correct (which is a good thing). And extremely bold into the bargain.

Barbara Wurm