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

„My life is a prison“, Adelina says. The young woman is smoking and looking into the camera, her parents sitting on the sofa to her right and left. In black and white and the narrow 4:3 ratio, this family scene feels oppressive: Adeline spent eleven years under house arrest here, with a father who refuses to accept her identity and a mother who seems loving but powerless. In Georgia, there is neither freedom nor security for trans persons like Adelina. Anti-queer attacks happen in broad daylight; the legal situation of the LGBTQ community has recently deteriorated further. When the protagonist at last leaves her parents’ village to go to Vienna, the style of Rati Tsiteladze’s debut film also changes. The lipstick glows red, the lights of the big city neon yellow. A different, freer life seems possible. But the freedom brings new challenges: financial and health problems, communicating in a foreign language – and loneliness. “A Song Without Home” is the intimate, impressionistic long-term portrait of a person who wants to define herself and clings to an unshakeable conviction: “No law can erase who we are.”

Jan-Philipp Kohlmann

What does a person’s library say about them? James Paul Dallas doesn’t just create a portrait of a life, but also shows a present in which possession, memory and identity are all becoming shaky. In early 2025, the anonymous protagonist guides the director via mobile phone through his empty apartment in Brooklyn. What can stay and what can go in what was his home for 20 years? The kitchen crockery is first up, then the books. Giacometti and Basquiat can stay in New York. But please pack up everything between Lequeu and Brick. A course is thus tracked through an intimate microcosm. It’s not just one individual’s paths to wisdom that are being measured out here, but also his desires, preferences and guilty pleasures. The footage gives fragmentary glimpses into a private world, piquing the curiosity and sparking the imagination of all those watching: what were all the things that happened in this apartment? What sort of person lived here? And why does he have to give up all these things, and maybe even a part of himself?

Borjana Gaković

“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

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

The Chilean folk group Illapu only really became famous under the military dictatorship. The five musicians were allowed to work, but had to “keep a low profile”. When they gradually joined the cultural resistance against the Pinochet regime, they were expelled in 1981. From their French exile, they toured Europe, including East Berlin. This is where Carlos Puccio’s film begins: The Chilean directing student observed Illapu’s rehearsals and concerts for his diploma film project at the Film and Television Academy of the GDR. They talk about their enduring bond with Chile and about what would happen if individual members of the band were given entry permits and Illapu would consequently break up. In 1986, they moved to Mexico together and returned to Chile two years later because of the changing political climate.

Florian Wüst

György Kurtág is a renowned Hungarian composer and a major figure of the post-war avant-garde. Born in 1926, he has now reached the age of 100, yet his mind remains wonderfully active. Living in an attic flat of the Budapest Music Center, he continues to work tirelessly with some of the world’s finest musicians who open their creations up to the humbling process of collaboration. Traversing geographies, the film takes us from his birth town of Lugoj to the different places that shaped him, from Transylvania to Budapest to Paris. It traces his early steps into the world of music, which began with dance and four‑hand piano sessions with his mother — something he later continued with his wife and pianist Márta. It then follows his life and many artistic collaborations, including with Icelandic pianist Víkingur Ólafsson and British cellist Steven Isserlis. The film also weaves in the work on his magnum opus “Fin de Partie”. “The map is not the territory; the notes are not music…” To pianists Halla Oddný Magnúsdottir and Ólafsson, Kurtág has “found a way of writing music that is impossible to play without going beyond the notes”. It’s a sentiment shared by Kurtág, who remarks that it’s not about his ideas but about whether the piece, played by a musician, truly “happens” to them. A portrait of a man who lives and breathes music, composing entire worlds brimming with emotion.

Sevara Pan