How does the graphic gesture in animated film manifest itself, what specific eco-system are we talking about when we refer to line and movement? Aline Helmcke invites us to think about drawing for film and simultaneously celebrates the sensual act of drawing: whether with light or sand-like material or classic drawing tools, on paper or blank film, in associative scribbles or structuring lines. And so lines turn into insects, a whole flock of dots, a pattern of lines, an industrial landscape … only to dissolve back into lines once more. Fleetingly, imagery and meaning emerge from simple elements. The intuition of the drawing process and the planning exercise of drawn animation, the restlessly wondering human eye and the unrelenting camera eye freezing time, they all whir around each other in this intelligent and luscious cinematic essay.

André Eckardt

Some childhood wounds never heal. Once primary school boy Tsubasa and Kyotaro make friends, their dreary existences as outsiders finally come to an end: they see each other, they understand each other. Tsubasa actually prefers origami to pursuing dreams of being a football star and is under a lot of pressure to excel by his mum, who barely gives him any affection at all. Kyotaro lives with his old, impoverished grandmother and likes nothing more than drawing dinosaurs. Together, they wander through the neighbourhood, they play, they are inseparable. Yet Kyotaro’s impulsive, nerdy manner and the other children’s mean tongues sow the seeds of mistrust in Tsubasa – is his best friend perhaps an alien? One little misunderstanding and a bigger confrontation lead to everything falling apart. Kohei Kadowaki’s debut takes its time in crafting the perspectives of both children: the camera often lingers close to stunned, horrified or crying faces that sometimes morph into aliens – the director uses rotoscoping to make the emotions particularly tangible. This empathetic emotionality is also a distinguishing feature of the narration, which seems to be pushing the “coming of age” principle to the realm of absurdity: trapped by society’s masculinity conventions, both protagonists are condemned to grow up eternally wounded, perhaps never to fully arrive in the here and now.

Marie Ketzscher

There’s a marvellous view of Sokhumi from the roof – and it’s also possible to see the beautiful girl moving into the house across the way with her dog. In Mamuka Tkeshelashvili’s wistful, poetic stop-motion short film, the 13-year-old protagonist is enjoying a carefree summer on the football pitch and at the beach, above all when the girl is also there. But these days of innocence are soon over once he sees her fleeing pell-mell and planes shooting over the city. Mamuka Tkeshelashvili’s puppet and cutout animation remembers the 1993 Sokhumi massacre, in which Abkhazian separatists murdered up to an estimated 7000 Georgian civilians. Yet Tkeshelashvili only hints at the violence, concentrating primarily on the positive memories of the place and the feelings of longing from exile – the girl’s red hair flying in the wind or the beautiful, lovingly fashioned miniature buildings that tell of Sokhumi’s former charm.

Marie Ketzscher