In his early twenties, Mwita Mataro set himself three big goals: become a rock star, make a film, and then found an art school in Tanzania. He has already accomplished the rock star part – he is the frontman of a band. And this film is his directorial debut. There was a choice of many subjects, something beautiful like friendship, for example. But there is one thing that bothers him more than his white film colleagues, and that is the colour of his skin. So what does it mean to grow up as a Salzburg native with Tanzanian roots, as a Black Person of Colour in predominantly white Austria? To investigate this, he has teamed up with young BPoCs to create the animated fantasy world Greenland: a place where all the potato creatures are green except Bluekid and his blue family. They paint themselves green to be less conspicuous, but since this does not always work out, Bluekid experiences rejection and marginalisation.

In his documentary essay, Mataro reflects on a daily reality based on colours: racism, alien attributions, otherness, blues experiences in Greenland. He listens to children and adults, lets the audience participate in talks with pedagogues, psychologists and politicians and opens up in front of the camera at home. With “Austroschwarz”, Mataro also comes one step closer to his third goal.

One of the first productions of San Francisco Newsreel, a local offshoot of the nationwide network of Newsreel collectives, demonstrated solidarity with the Black Panther Party against the ghettoization of Black Communities in the cities and against police violence. “Off the Pig! – Death to the cops!” is the battle-call of the militarily organised protesters in the streets of Los Angeles. They demand the release of imprisoned Black Panther founding member Huey Newton. The latter speaks at length in a prison interview, as do his co-fighters Eldridge Cleaver and Bobby Seale. What they say and read out is aimed at nothing less than a revolution, a violent overthrow that is to liberate the Black US population from white supremacy.

A man throws off the shackles of slavery, lays the traditional Kente cloth aside, puts on a business suit – and starts to walk towards the future. Or towards what he thinks is the future, because this is not a pleasant walk: To the cheers of the people, the man pushes into the backroom of an Asian restaurant where he flogs plots of land, moves to the next backroom, money case in hand, to bribe the pastor and ultimately ends up on stage to give a state-supporting speech as President – against corruption, of course. The career of our nameless protagonist – whose sunglasses-covered face, interestingly, we get to see only in the limelight – takes him right through the streets of an African metropolis, past protests being suppressed, through a dilapidated infrastructure, criminal gangs, and even natural disasters.
Nobody has thrown off the shackles of slavery in Francis Yushau Brown’s relentlessly critical film. Instead, a few individuals have chained themselves to nepotism and keep the rest of the population poor and backwards. His film is a 3D indictment brimming with rage, including of the Western and Far Eastern (neo) colonizers. And far above hover the enraged gods, waiting for the people to put an end to this situation at last.

In 1885, two boys came across a large collection of Chumash Indian religious artefacts in a cave in California’s San Martin Mountains. Later named Bowers Cave, it is now located on a landfill site. Lee Lynch and Lee Anne Schmitt’s graceful, protean short braids together a panoply of different texts and images to unearth the different layers to this all-too American story and allow its wider implications to resonate: photos of museum exhibits given their Chumashan names in voice-over, historical quotes that move across views of contemporary industrial activity, Indigenous figures rendered as bright plastic toys, the mouth of the cave and the markings carved into its walls.

The painted lady butterfly travels 9,000 miles over several generations. Each generation flies to the next place without knowing the starting or end point of their route. The Hakka people, whose name translates as “guest family”, share this fate of constant movement – their identity is not tied to a specific territory but to their ancestors. The director, Hakka herself, follows her family’s migration history from their roots in northern China to Canada and India. As she traces their footsteps, she encounters Hakka from all over the world who tell their own stories of departure, adaptation, and the preservation of a unique culture.
Archive material, personal reflections, and interviews with members of the global diaspora combine to create the polyphonic portrait of a community whose language, customs, and collective memory are threatened by extinction. The film asks how identity is formed when one’s home keeps shifting – and how roots can be put down at ever new places without losing sight of one’s origin.

More than three quarters of the 650,000 inmates released from prison in the United States every year end up back behind bars within five years. Former drug dealer Coss wants to beat the statistics. After a long prison sentence, he returns to his family on New York’s Lower East Side in 2014, determined to build a legal existence for himself. Together with other former inmates, he opens a gym in his old neighbourhood which is rapidly being gentrified. If a guy like him can master this extreme challenge, can other ex-convicts do the same?
Filmmaker Debra Granik observed Coss’s efforts over a period of eight years. Through her camera, we experience frictions and obstacles, setbacks and successes, and learn what enormous stress it is to succeed against all odds in a racist environment that knows no mercy. Like a Bildungsroman – Granik explicitly refers to the social-realist literature of Charles Dickens –, the film is divided into chapters. The long form enables her to follow several narrative strands and focus on a variety of protagonists. This generates an increasing pull that soon makes us forget the time, lament every failure, and cheer every small victory.

Sarajevo–Rimini. This route once took ten-year-old Mirela to safety from the Bosnian War in 1992, when she was evacuated to Italy by a United Nations convoy along with a group of other orphans. Their stay was to be temporary, but no one came to pick her up. So Mirela began a new life on the Adriatic coast. As an adult, she returns to her homeland in search of a mother whom she last saw as a four-year-old, a journey accompanied by many questions: Why was she among the few who were sent to exile? Would it have been better to have stayed in Sarajevo, free of guilt? Mirela finds no clear answers. But from the traces she gathers and the threads that cross in her life, “Dom” weaves a sensitive meditation about identity and belonging.

Doing research in Swiss museums, Sri Lankan artist Deneth Piumakshi Veda Arachchige comes across objects in storage that were collected as evidence of the life of an Indigenous Adivasi community in her country. Even though Switzerland had no colonies, it benefited from the colonial system. Between 1883 and 1913, naturalists Fritz and Paul Sarasin organised expeditions to British Ceylon and the Dutch East Indies. They explored these areas – assisted by forced labourers – and brought exotic animals, plants and artefacts, as well as human skulls and skeletons to Basel: The result was one of the largest ethnological collections in German-speaking Europe – paradigmatic of colonial violence and Eurocentric scientific pretensions. Sri Lanka demanded their return as early as the 1970s, but Switzerland refused.
Deneth Piumakshi Veda Arachchige travels along the Sarasins’ route and, together with Adivasi representatives, campaigns once again for restitution. An obstacle course through bureaucracy and rigid museum structures begins. The film consistently follows the interdisciplinary artist and co-author of the script as she creatively and investigatively negotiates ownership issues, shedding a highly uncomfortable light on the colonial entanglements and their still existing blind spots in the global North.

“The past is an endless cookie.” The past is omnipresent in this fabulously original family portrait. We feel it in the very first minutes, when filmmaker Seth from Toronto calls his half-brother Pete, who is a member of the Indigenous Cree people: The globe on which the distance between the two is visualised snips away the little sign “Dominion of Canada” to reveal the world Shamattawa underneath – the name of the First Nations community where Pete lives. The past is still present because of the injuries the Cree suffer(ed) from the white majority, including police violence and land grabbing. Nonetheless, humour is the Scrivers’ defining stylistic tool – from subtle jokes to self-irony to the detailed, lovingly surreal look of all the characters which they bestow even on racist police officers.
The brothers initially wanted to tell seven stories. At the end there are hundreds – because every sound recording is interrupted by the daily life of an extended family, every anecdote leads to the next. No matter whether the subject is building a teepee, supermarket shopping or butchering animals. This never-ending family chronicle, which also proposes a special chronicle of Canada, was produced over nine years. The result is a distinctive cookie one can chew on for a long time.

A granddaughter visits her grandmother in her house in the country, her grandmother is close to 100. We never see the granddaughter, as she is the one behind the camera, and we only see the grandmother fleetingly, moving through the shadowy interiors, gathering herbs from the vegetable patch to make tea, watching a mantis perch on her hand. But this is as much a portrait of her as it is of the space she inhabits, although we never see the whole of that either, just carefully selected fragments in compositions that play with focus and shade: knick-knacks and trinkets, photographs, textures, glimpses of sky through the window, ants, butterfly wings, resting pigeons, a wasp nestled in her palm, the fur of the last remaining dog.
Sounds ebb and flow through this hushed bestiary of the everyday, the voice of the grandmother talking in voice-over of family, spirits and canine reincarnation, the noises of the places in the photos, the television blaring in the background, the different layers of rippling silence that reassert themselves when everything else goes quiet. How do you capture a whole life in just 20 minutes? By listening to its echoes in space.

The landscape presented by Randa Maroufi in the final part of her trilogy about Moroccan cities seems unreal. This is Jerada, where a coal mine once attracted numerous workers to the region. And even though the mine closed in 2001, mining is still going on – secretly and under dangerous conditions. Maroufi interweaves Super8 images of the miners and their families with 3D scans of the area. But the most impressive parts are her re-stagings of the processes and threats featuring the workers of Jerada themselves: In long shots, taken both above and below ground, hard work becomes visible: physical, persistent, carried out with the simplest of tools. Hands with shovels fill coal sacks and load them onto a converted motorbike, a few metres below men crawl through narrow shafts that can collapse any moment. In conjunction with a sophisticated sound backdrop, “L’mina” evokes an almost surreal place. At the same time, documentary images remind us that this mining area is not a walk-in diorama but reality. As Maroufi emphatically puts it in her dedication at the end: “For those who live in the shadows to enlighten us.”

The art of the documentary portrait is to introduce an individual to the audience within a short period of time while going beyond a collection of biographical facts and capturing what actually defines this person. “Open Game” succeeds by showing its young protagonist Amir as someone who seems permanently on the move. First, he mastered the unsafe route from Afghanistan to Germany, now he constantly moves between school, job, and chessboard. He finds rest only when he moves his pieces on the 64 squares of the board, when he delves into a world where every move must be considered and where strategy, not luck, determine the outcome. In chess, Amir knows all the rules and can determine the course of the game – from the cleverly chosen opening move to the end, planned move by move.
“Open Game” structures its material along the phases of a chess match and portrays Amir as a person whose life was exposed to chance. Those who have to hope for luck too often appreciate a controlled environment.