We have all been there: A noise escapes in the bus, followed by an unpleasant smell – and everyone knows where it came from. But why are farts so embarrassing? At least that is what fart star Pongy Pippa wonders. She dances with tubas and trumpets in time with our digestion to show how much work and skill goes into making such sounds. A musical show for the most human of noises.

A tinted nitrate fragment of the company film “A. Gutberlet & Co., Leipzig-Mölkau, Spezialfabrik für Falzmaschinen und Faden-Buchheftmaschinen, gegründet 1901“ (specialist in the manufacture of folding machines and thread book stitching machines, established 1901) was an exceptional find. It could be restored in its original colour tones by analogue methods in 2024 and then digitised. Combined with the dupe negative of another version, it now offers insights into the factory halls and the work on the machines.

It sprawls, cracks, bursts: The balcony of two flatmates is slowly but steadily overgrown by a red climbing plant with evil-looking tubers. And our flatmates? Sit in the middle, stoically smoking, ignoring the bursting windows behind them. There was a funny rain – but not water.
With this poignant and charged one-take idea and beautifully realistic character design, Stella Hood examines the dilemma of the eternal spectator: Here are two figures who register that there is something fundamentally wrong with the world but simply continue with their daily routines. Who neither get worked up nor wonder nor take action. And whose lethargy is hilarious, not least because it is an uncomfortable reminder of our own inaction. What global crisis could the two be ignoring so nonchalantly? Stella Hood leaves this open, even though the plants make climate change an obvious choice. In any case, a parcel delivery is expected. Have a look downstairs? Sure, “but not today.” “Nah, not today,” the other one replies. “Perhaps tomorrow, we’ll see.”

In the evening of 9 February 2022, four young men sit around a table in Kyiv. The friends are discussing the situation: 120,000 Russian soldiers are stationed right at the Ukrainian border. What is going to happen? In “The Birds Are Silent”, director and cinematographer Leo Dzhyshyashvili captures an equally private and historical moment. What is striking is the clarity with which Andriy, Olexandr, Ivan and Sasha assess the consequences of the imminent attack: Potential decisions about their own future are mixed with concerns about relatives and the bewilderment at being thrown into a situation that provokes both helplessness and disgust. But there is a glimmer of hope – perhaps the imagined horror scenarios are nothing but a waste of energy? Cut. Some of the debaters have become soldiers; one has barricaded himself in the bathroom with a narrow mattress and a meal. Within eight minutes, Dzhyshyashvili has tied together a before and after that make you shudder.

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 figures in this experimental short film for cinema greenhorns seem to be spinning on a turntable. Houses, plants, birds, and a face pass before our eyes. To a lively tune, blossoms unfold, eggs and chicks fly, the sun goes up and down, until everything starts all over again. A small, tongue-in-cheek story that also tells of the early days of animation.

When Stella Nyanzi enters a room, action is guaranteed. The Ugandan feminist, gender researcher, anthropologist and poet does not mince her words in her fight against state oppression. She went to prison in 2017 for a vulgar poem in which she ridiculed head of state Yoweri Museveni, who has been in office for almost 40 years. After she was released, Nyanzi ran for Parliament without the necessary funds for a campaign, printing and distributing posters and flyers in the slums of Kampala with her children. Her daughter did her mother’s make-up and hair for public appearances. Sometimes her almost adult children longed for more time for themselves. The family repeatedly faced police violence and finally emigrated to Germany.
Using a mobile handheld camera, the film absorbs its protagonist’s power, its rhythm matching her angry lyrics. The result is the portrait of a woman who has made radicalism and provocation her way of life. We get to know an activist who permanently pushes herself and the people around her to the limits. Still, it is hard not to get infected by Stella Nyanzi’s energy.