A queer auto-narrative about longing in three acts that addresses seemingly chaotic but systemically functioning cycles of attraction and revulsion, fear and desire, consumption and withdrawal, ecstasy and regret. While the film creates a timeless immediacy, the first-person narrator's commentary, in contrast, sounds like overthinking rather than an unquestioned moment of just-being-there. Whether at the club, by the lake or in the student cafeteria – one’s own judgement is always quicker than the question of how one is actually doing at that moment. But gradually something begins to change: An initially barely perceptible frequency shift sets in. The fragmented staccato of the first comments gradually gives way to a tale that gently settles in the interstices between dune, dream and reality.

Luc-Carolin Ziemann

Anne (36) lives in Halle (Saale) and her life is in chaos. An apartment full of moving boxes, a yapping dog. She tells her mother on the phone that the electricity is about to be cut off again. Sometimes her daughter Leonie (14) drops by. Like her mother, she is at risk of slipping into drug addiction. Anne has already lost custody of her two younger children, too. The camera stays purely observational, captures loose scenes from the life of a woman who wants to take responsibility again. The film does not look for psychological explanations but shows Anne as she is. On her drives through the prefabricated housing estate, she seems isolated from her surroundings. Mother and daughter grow closer over an ice cream in a public square. Anne’s visit to her mother provides support but creates pressure, too. We grow ever closer to Anne, sharing her wish that she can become a role model for her daughter.

Anke Leweke

Haiguang dreams. Of his dead grandmother, his birthplace Lěng Shuǐ Jiāng in China, his performances and art projects and his job at a wholesale warehouse in Leipzig. But Haiguang not only dreams, he also films. Himself and his surroundings. Persistent, stoical, sometimes with a handheld camera, sometimes using a tripod – knowing that there is another layer under one’s everyday life that can only be perceived if one dares to search for meaning beyond the visible. If you dare to lie down on a crossing in the park and wait for what happens. If you dare to address the pressure to perform in Chinese society through a performance dragging a car tyre through Beijing. If you dare acknowledge your own fears and doubts and reveal them. Stylistically confident and constantly shifting between places and levels of meaning, Haiguang interlaces his life and dream in eight vignettes in which emotions condense and take on a form that goes beyond the personal. He interweaves the elements of his everyday life between the art academy and his parents’ coal shop in Changsha with equally precise and poetic descriptions. Thus, a puddle by the roadside can become the very place that connects him with his granny across space and time.

Luc-Carolin Ziemann

Abtin, a young anarchist from Iran, now lives in Greece after fleeing his own country. Back home he managed an underground library of banned books and was reportedly arrested, detained and tortured because he took part in protests. He continues his political struggle in Athen’s Exarchia district – a place of left-wing utopias and a fiercely contested site of gentrification: He joins the movement for refugees, squats in houses, protests against illegal pushbacks and fights for alternative ways of living, though his own situation is highly precarious, because every contact with the state can jeopardise his residence status. Director Jasmine Alakari follows Abtin over the course of a year, experiences his rage, hope and powerlessness, but also euphoria and solidarity. Time and again, the film returns to the question of how much political activism should be allowed to shape one’s life and what role violence plays in this. Meanwhile, the conflict with the police comes to a head in the street and Abtin finds himself in the crosshairs of the state. Alakari keeps filming but realises that she must also examine her own role. What does it mean to be an observer? How far can a film visualise the fears and hopes of a person who does not have the freedom to escape this situation? “Free Zone” has no easy answer to this question but passes it on. To us – the audience.

Luc-Carolin Ziemann

“How long have you known each other?” – “Six funerals.” Having grown old as a gay man is a privilege in the wake of the Aids crisis. At “Lebensort Vielfalt”, a Berlin housing project for lesbian, gay, bisexual, trans and intersexual persons, lived experiences are exchanged among three generations. They used to be pigeonholed, today children might just be allowed to learn to speak before they define themselves. A wild kind of growing up and ageing. All residents share the desire to be safe, even from having-to-explain-themselves. The camera roams the house, crosses the corridor, moves from one balcony to another, looks out of the window onto the street, develops new perspectives. Social backsliding is registered; sometimes new happiness is found. On deceased persons’ birthdays, the raspberry cake is cut. Falling asleep, the sound of riot rises again.

Jan Künemund

A bizarre still life. Everyday objects lie carefully lined-up around a bed: scissors, keys, audio cassettes. A dead fish on a plate is surrounded by lemons and tomatoes. A young man lies listlessly on the bed – he does not stir even when the telephone rings and the answering machine clicks on. A rigorously choreographed scenery meets the real voice of a father. He seems needy, absurdly asking for anchovies. Suddenly, the son’s body is wrapped in a bubbling bag, only the feet sticking out, a tube supplying water. The father fancies some Roquefort cheese, but the real thing. Personal overload and powerlessness take on an original shape here – and that is far from all.

Anke Leweke

The mother’s film archive raises questions. What did she see in the many doll’s faces staring at us through her camera? Why so many shots of flowers? When she herself is in the picture, she is always moving. Was she trying to get away from something? The narrator wants to find their own motifs. But where? It is easy for the mother to say: Film your own reality! Sounds great, but how, when you feel that you are different? As the material is questioned, more and more own images find their way into the film. Integrating themselves. Perhaps they ask the same questions of the world.

Jan Künemund

They develop software, work as lifestyle coaches, own marketing agencies or an Amazon shop, travel around the world without paying for accommodation: digital nomads for whom a laptop on a suitcase is sometimes enough of a workplace. Some of their aspirations fall by the wayside in the process and become the project of an enterprising Munich-based developer: Mathias is courting rootless individualists and clever investors to become backers of a project that is to turn a deserted former luxury hotel in the Bulgarian mountains into a hip coworking space. He promises a sense of community, intense human connections and few taxes, an outdoor pool and a campfire idyll. While the nomads who dream of home are waiting for the utopia to become reality, the residents of the surrounding villages sense a new “Wind of Change” with some scepticism. A brilliant structural analysis of a business model that capitalises on modern longings and knows how to carve out the necessary space.

Jan Künemund

Schnapps is carefully poured into hip flasks and handed to the men. Their faces are marked by the traces of homeless life. A housing project in Berlin Kreuzberg gives them more than a roof over their head. The people who work here listen to them, accompany them to the doctor and hand out controlled amounts of alcohol. The project’s approach is consistently addiction-accepting – without the enforcement of abstinence and with the goal of relieving the affected persons from existential pressure. In this protected space, the men can breathe freely again after many years of living in the streets, rediscover their own personality and dignity. The camera follows some of the residents and social workers over several years, always at eye-level, showing the work of this institution and leaving space for the men’s personal stories. A fragile community emerges in front of the lens.

Anke Leweke

1995. It is the sixth summer since the fall of the Berlin Wall. Artists live, love and work on a farm in East Germany. They film each other with a video camera. They have seen the world, have wondered and learned, became homesick and returned. To where there was space. Fruit hangs from the trees, sparrows chirp, sculptures in the garden. Time and again the camera captures a young woman, her open gaze, her focus. The material which has become fragile today vibrates, gets stuck, freezes. Unperturbed, the narrative evokes the paean of summer, which will not be followed by a seventh for one of them. A white light shines into the present.

Jan Künemund

In the early 2000s, Maria Nikolaidou took a photo on Munich’s “Panzerwiese” (tank meadow): Her son Alexandros and another little boy playing war. A woman with angel’s wings wraps her arms protectively around the two of them. Twenty-three years later, mother and son return to the spot where the black and white photo was taken. Alexandros now uses the same camera to make a photo film about the image and also meets with his former playmate. Their voice-over memories and associations reveal different perspectives and moods. The history and stories behind a photograph are being reconstructed: What was overlooked at the time? Why were Alexandros’ grandparents not allowed to give him a gun? Who is the person on the hill in the background? In the end, a new image emerges.

Anke Leweke

When the writer Jan Christ talks about himself and his work, the words take on a life of their own. “The asshole in which I exist”, he says, referring to his progressive dementia, which causes not only the loss of memory, but also of language and authority. He is working on his last great oeuvre, a “Buch vom Grunde” (Book from the Depth). He struggles for lofty words. As an artist, he supports the artistic work of his daughter, who accompanies him with her camera during his final eight years. He directs himself or allows himself to be directed, while the filmmaker insists and does care work at the same time. In between, we see a vixen roaming the nocturnal streets of Berlin. Tete Hoffmann’s portrait of her father is at once a tribute, a confrontation, a crafty game and a helpless observation of the disintegration of a beloved person. Who has the right here to get attention, and when? Is it still permissible to continue exploring when the father and the writer have drifted apart? Clinging to language is contrasted with the letting go of images. “You are a vixen”, the brilliant father tells his brilliant daughter.

Jan Künemund