A stunning visual exploration of matter in various states of microbial transformation begs fundamental questions about human cultures’ complicated relationships with other species. Wrought begins with that universal moment of disappointment: despite all best efforts, our food has gone bad! But instead of turning away in disgust, Wrought zooms in, approaching the usually hidden world of decay with curiosity and stunning time lapse photography. Spoiling dinner leftovers bloom with successions of geometric bacterial colonies. Yeasts churn and froth in the torrential flood of juice leaking from a decaying melon. Cheese is slowly engulfed by carpets of furry, green mould. But, the narrator asks, would rot by any other name still reek?
In answering this question, Wrought unfolds a larger story about the ways humans create categories for the world around us that can be limiting. It explores (and challenges) terms like spoil, ferment, compost and rot as it coaxes audiences to decompose these categories and their associated binaries: self and other, human and non-human, and nature and culture. As the film title implies, we are all forged out of the relationships that transgress such binaries; we are all, indeed, wrought.

The film poem TURBULENCE stands in the field of tension between surreal fantasy and multi-layered reality.
Telemach Wiesinger's photographic recordings of aeroplanes from the perspective of the traveller encounter kinetic wing objects by the composer Alexander Grebtschenko.
In the congenial collaboration of the two artists, the electronically controllable "Chimera's" - elegant bird wings with megaphone - unfold expressive "acting" presence.
The dialogue between the sound level (Grebtschenko) and the visual level (analogue film workshop Wiesinger) opens up space for emotions, thoughts and interpretations.

The long poem Duswapna (Nightmare) addressed to a woman named Mrinal (which in Sanskrit would mean Delicate or Lotus) paints strange pictures in colors and sounds; aurality / visuality of which adds to the woman’s anonymity. And yet, the poetic enunciation by the Gujarati modernist poet Suresh Joshi acquires certain universality in its surreal imagery and sonic asymmetry, where the moon turns green, her body turns green that bites green, darkness turns green; the dancing fairies and the wind playing the flute fills the invisible air. The poet sees a golden idol in Mrinal. Who is she - his lover? his utopia? his dreadful dream? He walks through the crowds, effacing his face… who is faceless? Through his poetry, prose, criticism, the modernist Gujarati poet infused an internationalist environment and that deeply manifests in the poem Duswapna, the short film of the same name attempts to capture its nuances in abstractions - both in sounds and images where the resounding recitation by Mahendra Bhagat embalms the enunciation. His recording wasn’t available in its completeness but that absence perhaps deepens the poem’s overall ambiguity so the film’s...

Lifethreatening news have become a new reality in Europe. How do these news manifest themselves and influence the brains and minds of the future generation? Stefanie Sixt explores the phenomenon of transgenerational trauma that do influence ways of life and personal conditions unconciously. Markus Mehr returns in thought and emotion to the year 1973. He searches for the places in childhood that have shaped his inner stature to this day.

«Dear friend, I gather the last shadows, the last lights, before my sight leaves me completely. As long as I have strength, I will continue to travel and write to you. Who knows what awaits me beyond the darkness». Are these words, that open La Force (aka The Force, in the Major Arcana of the Tarot), addressed to me (to us)? Or are we "merely" accidental witnesses/spectators to a video letter correspondence (reminiscent of Sandor Krasna's in Chris Marker's Sans soleil) whose sender and recipient are unknown? Whatever our role in this correspondence is, we cannot remain indifferent to the intensity of images and words. Smoky, blurred, saturated-colored images of an India that appears to us more dreamed than seen, reflected in a distorted mirror. And words which never occupy the space of the discourse "obstructing it," they rather creep into images, producing melancholic, poetic sparks.

I killed you a dozen times, but you won’t go away. Maybe it’s because you’ve killed me first. Out in the cold, on a strange new globe.
"I Killed You a Dozen Times" immerses viewers in a captivating exploration of the aftermath of a traumatic breakup. The protagonist, driven to erase the other person from their existence, finds themselves exiled to a chilling and unfamiliar realm. As they confront the relentless echoes of their pain, the boundaries between reality and imagination blur, creating a surreal and introspective experience. "I Killed You a Dozen Times expertly uses the power of visual language and sound to communicate complex emotions and experiences. Through its striking imagery and sound design, together with the emotive poetry recited by the narrator, the film masterfully portrays the agony and emotional struggles stem from toxic relationships, a subject that is often challenging to express in words. The film's ability to vividly visualize and depict such complex emotions is a testament to its remarkable use of audio-visual storytelling."
Jane Ching
Sundance Film Festival Hong Kong, Hong Kong Arthouse Film Festival

The transition from day to night. It magically casts a spell over us, we glide into it like water and enjoy it: despite all its dangers: it is the night we love.

Magic occurs when the Swedish film composers Sebastian Rubinstein Öberg and Magnus Jarlbo together with the young multi-artist Emelie Markgren present new instrumental inventions in an encounter with northern Norwegian nature. Together, the two composers have created music for nearly 100 films. Sebastian Rubinstein Öberg for directors such as Jan Troell. Magnus Jarlbo composed the music for the Berlinale winner "A Soap".