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

“We don’t fit together”, one of them says of the “motley crew” tending a garden plot in a pre-fab estate in Schwerin. At first, everyone “muddles through” alone: Omar from Syria, who struggles with being voiceless in a foreign land. Manfred, a widower who thinks of his wife every day and looks after everyone. Kateryna from Ukraine, who tries to paint over the war with colourful pictures. Fawze, who lost his homeland three times. Ronny, Wiebke and Max, who are trying to make a fresh start after a life of drugs and violence. Sabine, whose laughter and mischief flare up briefly and vanish again. Petra, who cannot afford to go to a concert after a lifetime of hard work. Richard, who hangs up mirrors not to be alone. Abdul from Afghanistan, master of okra. They communicate with their hands, feet and “russki jasyk”, swap tips on the right way to plant garlic and on tools, soon sit together under the chestnut tree, singing, fighting for the project … And from her balcony Mrs. Müller recites Goethe, following it up with a peace poem. DEFA veteran Dieter Schumann and his cinematographer Michael Kockot achieve what was once the origin and virtue of documentary film: giving the unheard a voice through precise observation, a voice based on closeness, trust and respect. The neighbourhood garden is a site of “small miracles”. One of them is this film.

Grit Lemke

On New Year's Eve 2023, Thomas Heise begins to shoot his new film. It is to be called “Übergang”. His idea: A film in the “Heimatfilm” tradition revolving around Berlin’s Schönhauser Allee, where he has lived for decades. The author is to be a character in the film. A few months later, Heise falls seriously ill and dies. The small team continues to work on the film, unearthing unpublished texts and images from Heise’s estate and archives. “Images are […] encompassing”, Heiner Müller is quoted, but dreams curdle quickly. As soon as the personal story becomes a false image, it is gently but persistently put into perspective. A touching email exchange Heise had with a female high-school graduate in Karlsruhe who is searching for truth contains a whole primer for documentary filmmaking: “See what you would not otherwise see. Stay patient. […] Never expect financial security. Be happy about that. Because it won’t change.” Peter Badel and Chris Wright have not produced a hermetic artist tribute, but have, utterly in the spirit of Heise, pieced together fragments of lived history.

Jan Künemund

He is „always sad“, says Uncle Thuận. Connected via mobile phone with his family who are scattered across the world he sings sentimental songs about spring in Hanoi. Meanwhile, his wife Thúy tirelessly looks after the restaurant that the two have been managing in North Rhine-Westphalia for twenty years. They came to the GDR as contract workers at the age of 19. In conversations with their daughters, life stories unfold in which they were rarely expected to decide anything but always to work hard and to function. A role they accept without complaint and justify even today. But the protective shell accumulated over decades increasingly begins to show cracks. And somewhere in the endless routines and tasks of a restaurant kitchen which also structure the film, a question quietly emerges: the question of happiness. In Minh Anh Nguyễn, a post-migrant generation speaks up who regard contract work and racism in the GDR not as a closed chapter but as part of their history. Casual and very close to her protagonists, she tells of colonial legacies that have inscribed themselves into biographies and across generations. At the same time, she shows how this cycle can be broken: By the daughters asking questions which – even outside the Vietnamese community and above all in the East – are long overdue.

Grit Lemke