FRED Film Radio - English Channel

German director Eva Trobisch is back at the Berlinale, after presenting her second film, “Ivo“, in the Encounters section back in 2024, with “Home Stories“.

Premiering in the 76th competition, the film is a coming of age story that also deals with an East German family and the eternal struggle we all have to face about our identity and the constant contrast between who we are and how we presents ourselves to others, to the outside world.

“Home Stories” sees Frida Hornemann in the film’s lead role, playing Lea, a sixteen-year-old girl who is selected for a talent show, an experience that forces her to present herself to the world, and to present her family as well.

Trobisch doesn’t only focus on the difficult path of Lea, looking to define who she is but she also finds the space and time to look into her father, Matze (Max Riemelt)’s life, his relationship with Lea’s mother, whom he’s separated from (and that is pregnant with another man) so that the audience can understand more about the dynamics Lea is being raised in.

“Home Stories” is also a film about father and daughter and how they navigate life while transitioning from invisibility to visibility because of their exposition to the outside world through the reality Tv show.

While Frida Hornemann tells us about her experience being directed by Eva Trobisch and the very first scenes they had to shoot (Lea’s TV performance was shot on Frida’s first day of shooting ever), Max Riemelt reveals how he was the perfect fit to play the East German man as Eva Trobisch didn’t want his character to be stereotypical.

As a man and actor who was born in East Germany, Max Riemelt was the perfect fit to play Matze, Lea’s father and to overcome any risk of representing a unidimensional character.

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At the 76th Berlinale, Manon Coubia arrives in the Perspectives section with “Forest High“, her first feature film, shot high in the French Alps, in a mountain hut that remains a functional refuge even as cinema enters the space. Speaking with FRED Film Radio, Coubia frames the project as both a return and a record: she once worked as a guardian herself, and the film is rooted in that familiarity.

The film follows three women who guard the refuge—figures defined by routines, gestures and the constant negotiation between hospitality and isolation. For Coubia, the location is inseparable from the story: the refuge is a place where people pass through, bring fragments of their lives, and leave again.

The film’s starting point is accumulation. Over roughly a decade of summers, Coubia wrote down stories inspired by visitors she encountered while working in the refuge. The spark, she explains, was the moment she understood those episodes could be connected, stitched into a portrait of a place and the women who keep it alive.

The decision to focus on female guardians is not presented as an emblem or thesis, but rather as an observation that carries social weight. “Often, we are women. And women who decide to come alone,” she notes, before adding that the film speaks about different kinds of solitude. In the mountains, solitude is often romanticised when embodied by men, an image of the lone wanderer. With women, the gaze shifts.

A line in the film crystallises that imbalance: “Are you afraid of being here alone?” Coubia points out how the question itself reveals a cultural reflex. If a man lives or hikes alone, it is considered normal; when a woman does, it triggers suspicion, concern, and even a demand for explanation. What struck her further is that the question in the film comes from a woman to another woman, evidence, she suggests, that expectations are internalised as much as imposed.

Coubia’s process sits deliberately between documentary observation and staged construction. She did not write a traditional script; she worked from a short set of intention notes and developed the characters with the performers. Only the last part, which she describes as the most fictional, relied on written dialogue.

The aim was to preserve real habits: how each guardian keeps the refuge, how she eats, how she watches the fire, how she receives strangers. The visitors, crucial to the film’s rhythm, could not be fully predicted. Coubia expected certain types based on her years of experience, but the reality of who arrived often forced adjustments, requiring the performers to re-tune their characters in response to the new encounters.

The shoot itself was an experiment in coexistence. The team was small, living in the refuge like guests. During part of filming, Coubia served as both director and guardian, keeping the refuge running while making the film—an overlap that made the set “porous,” as she describes it.

Though “Forest High“is her first feature, Coubia insists she approached it “like my short films,” with few resources and a “very confidential” production model. “During the shooting, I never think it’s my first feature,” she says. “I just continue to make my work.”

Arriving at the Berlinale with the same small team who lived together in the refuge feels almost surreal. “We were in this refuge, and now we’re in Berlin,” she smiles. “We don’t stop to say, it’s amazing.”

Viewers have been curious about the film’s hybrid nature, “which is documentary, which is fiction?”, but many responses have been more personal. “A lot of women say to me, ‘Thank you for showing a woman like this,’” she notes, referring to her solitary, self-sufficient protagonists.

More than a message, Coubia hopes to leave a sensation. “I hope something persists,” she says, “an experience of time different than the whole life.” The refuge suggests that “another time is possible,” slower and more attentive. Still, she is clear: “It’s also a film about disappearance.” The final image is not metaphorical excess, but a simple reminder that “a lot of things are disappearing now.”

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Screened in the Forum section of the 76th Berlinale, “Black Lions – Roman Wolves” stands as Haile Gerima’s most ambitious work to date. A central figure of the L.A. Rebellion and New Black Cinema, Gerima spent three decades crafting this 531-minute meditation on Italian colonialism in Ethiopia and its long shadow.

The film retraces the aftermath of Ethiopia’s 1896 victory at Adwa and the fascist invasion launched by Mussolini in 1935, when Italian forces deployed poison gas in a war crime that remains marginal in Italian public discourse. Through archival footage, testimonies of surviving witnesses, and excerpts from his father’s plays, Gerima builds a layered narrative of resistance, historical erasure and Black solidarity.

“I didn’t imagine it would take so long,” Gerima reflects. What began in the mid-1990s as a research project grew into what he calls an all-consuming process. “As I did the film, I realized how much I didn’t know.”

Central to “Black Lions – Roman Wolves”  is what Gerima defines as “the right to remember.” Yet, he argues, memory remains hostage to colonial structures. Accessing archival material proved fraught. Much of the footage documenting Ethiopia’s invasion is held by European institutions, from Italy to Britain and France, and shaped by the colonisers’ perspective.

“The manufacturer of those images is the fascist invasion of my country,” he says. “And I’m not entitled to them.” The monopoly over archival images becomes a second act of dispossession. Ethiopia’s own viewpoint was rarely filmed, and when it was, access remained restricted or incomplete. Gerima recounts the disappearance of crucial footage, including images of resistance actions and the dismantling of Emperor Menelik’s monument.

Gerima speaks candidly about Italy’s incomplete reckoning with its colonial past. While Italian cinema has extensively examined fascism’s domestic consequences, he notes a persistent silence regarding Libya, Somalia and Ethiopia. “Italian fascists were never indicted for crimes in Ethiopia,” he remarks.

He recalls encounters with Italians filmmakers, taxi drivers, and festival audiences, who insist that Italy was a “different” kind of colonial power. Yet testimonies from Ethiopian survivors contradict this narrative, particularly regarding the systematic use of poison gas. During screenings in Turin, Gerima observed young Italian viewers in tears, confronting a history rarely addressed in their education.

For him, historical amnesia is not accidental but structural. Both Ethiopians and Italians, he suggests, have been misinformed by elites who shape selective narratives. “History should be debated and discussed,” he insists, not curated to preserve national myths.

Watching “Black Lions – Roman Wolves”  today inevitably evokes contemporary conflicts. Gerima draws parallels between the League of Nations’ inaction during Italy’s invasion of Ethiopia and the perceived paralysis of the United Nations in current global crises. For him, the structural continuity is unmistakable: international bodies convene, resolutions are debated, but invasions proceed.

The resurgence of far-right ideologies in Europe and beyond intensifies his concern. Attempts to rehabilitate figures such as General Rodolfo Graziani, in his view, signal a failure to confront historical crimes. “Human beings don’t learn,” he says, reflecting on how denial perpetuates repetition.

At 531 minutes, the film resists conventional distribution logic. Yet Gerima rejects the idea of duration as provocation. “It sized itself,” he explains. His formal choices, shooting in Amharic, privileging oral testimony, and refusing simplified binaries, stem from a commitment to narrative sovereignty.

European producers, he notes, often suggested making the film in English for commercial viability. Gerima refused. “I don’t want to lose the accent of the story,” he says. For him, language carries melody, folklore and cultural specificity that cannot be translated into market formulas.

He also challenges reductive storytelling that frames history in simplistic oppositions of good and evil. “Filmmakers should search for the elusive truth,” he argues, warning against dogmatic narratives that replicate the same ideological rigidity they critique.

The post “Black Lions – Roman Wolves”, interview with director Haile Gerima appeared first on Fred Film Radio.

Presented in Competition at the 76th Berlin International Film Festival, “In a Whisper” marks a new chapter in Leyla Bouzid’s cinematic exploration of intimacy and inherited silence. The film follows Lilia as she returns home in Tunisia for her uncle’s funeral. Her family knows little about her life abroad, and nothing about the woman she loves. As relatives gather under one roof and old memories resurface, the film unfolds as both a family drama and a discreet investigation into the uncle’s sudden death.

“The film is about the untold, the taboos, the family secrets that are hidden,” Bouzid explains. “Even when unsaid, they resonate in everyone.” For the director, silence is never neutral; it reverberates, shaping relationships and misunderstandings across generations.

The film suggests that silence can be transmitted like a tradition. For Bouzid, breaking it is both a personal and political gesture. “At some point, things have to be said,” she notes. “Not saying them can make them worse. Everything is felt.” The director frames secrecy not only as a family dynamic but as a societal mechanism that regulates private life.

In Tunisia, homosexuality remains criminalised, and Bouzid approaches the topic without provocation, but with clarity. “People should have the freedom to love each other,” she states, insisting that private sexuality should not be policed by family or law. Yet the film avoids a binary opposition between individual freedom and collective belonging. Lilia does not reject her roots; rather, she negotiates her place within them.

Family, Bouzid stresses, remains the foundation of Tunisian society. “It’s not easy to reject everything,” she says, acknowledging the depth of generational transmission. “In a Whisper”  therefore refuses rupture in favour of dialogue, suggesting that new forms of kinship can coexist within traditional frameworks.

If family is central, the house becomes its embodiment. Bouzid describes the location as the film’s “main character.” The grandmother, the matriarch, is inseparable from this space, occupying its corners like a silent guardian of memory. Inside the house, time accumulates in layers: childhood recollections, old photographs, inherited gestures.

Working with cinematographer Sébastien Goepfert, Bouzid crafted a chiaroscuro aesthetic that mirrors the narrative arc. The interiors are initially dim, with figures framed in backlight or shadow. Gradually, windows open and light enters the frame. “In the beginning it’s quite dark; in the end there is much more light,” she explains. The visual progression mirrors the slow articulation of what was once concealed.

The ensemble cast is led by the formidable Hiam Abbass, whose performance anchors the film’s emotional core. Bouzid recalls meeting Abbass by chance at a festival. “I never choose actors impulsively,” she says. “But with her, it was immediate.” Abbass responded quickly to the script, engaging deeply not only with her own scenes but with the entire narrative structure, even coaching younger cast members.

“What I love is the way she inhabits silence,” Bouzid notes. “Her silences are full of emotions.” The film foregrounds women: grandmother, mother, daughter,  as decision-makers within the domestic sphere. “Inside the house, it is women’s territory,” Bouzid observes, while acknowledging the persistence of patriarchy in Tunisian society.

Rather than portraying victims, she constructs a matriarchal constellation of complex figures. Their faces, marked by age and experience, are filmed without cosmetic erasure. Wrinkles are not hidden but illuminated.

The film also addresses the asymmetry in how male and female homosexuality are perceived. While both are criminalised, Bouzid highlights how masculinity is often policed more visibly, whereas lesbian relationships may be dismissed or trivialised. Yet she connects Lilia’s trajectory to that of her uncle, binding their experiences within the same family narrative.

In the film’s closing movement, the presence of a child gestures toward continuity rather than fracture. After death, there is birth. After burial, there is a possibility. Bouzid is careful not to frame her work as provocation. “I try to be honest,” she says. “If art doesn’t bother at all, maybe it’s not the point.”

The post “In a Whisper”, interview with director Leyla Bouzid appeared first on Fred Film Radio.

After her second film, “Ivo“, premiered in the Encounters section of the Berlinale and received the Heiner Carow Prize in 2024, German director Eva Trobisch is back at the Berlinale, this time in competition, with Home Stories.

Starring Frida Hornemann and Max Riemelt, the film plays out as a coming-of-age story, as it follows Lea, a sixteen-year-old girl who is selected for a talent show—an experience that forces her to present herself to the world, and to present her family as well.

She comes from East Germany, from the provinces, with all their contradictions and inherited legacies. Using this as a springboard, the film expands into the story of a man and a woman who are no longer together but share parenthood (Lea’s father and mother), the story of a small-town hotel and of Lea’s grandparents who run it while trying to save it from crisis.

Ultimately, “Home Stories” is a film that questions who we are and what image of ourselves we present to the world, at a time when media exposure increasingly pushes us into visibility after we have long been invisible.

Precisely because of its many layers and nuances, “Home Stories”  can be viewed from multiple angles, and it can also be seen as a film that portrays Germany—East Germany in particular, which is less often depicted on screen.

As a filmmaker who comes from those places, Eva Trobisch paid meticulous attention to the mise-en-scène and to ensuring that her characters remain true to the traits and temperaments of those who grew up in that part of Germany.

The post “Home Stories”, interview with director Eva Trobisch appeared first on Fred Film Radio.

At the 76th edition of the Berlin International Film Festival, “A New Dawn” stands out as the only animated feature competing for the Golden Bear. Directed by Yoshitoshi Shinomiya, the film marks his feature debut. It signals a personal turning point for an artist who has long been associated with some of the most influential Japanese animated works of the past decade.

With a background in traditional Japanese painting and animation credits on titles such as “Your Name” by Makoto Shinkai and “In This Corner of the World” by Sunao Katabuchi, Shinomiya arrives in Berlin with a project that synthesises decades of artistic inquiry into place, memory and visual expression.

“I don’t see a strong difference between drawing a traditional Japanese painting and creating animation,” Shinomiya explains. “For me, it is the same act of drawing. The concept has always been about the relationship with a place and what art can express through it.”

Trained in nihonga, a genre deeply rooted in Japanese tradition, Shinomiya has spent over twenty years navigating how to engage with inherited forms without being confined by them. While animation has been a lifelong passion, “I loved anime since I was a child,” he recalls, it took time to feel ready to merge technical mastery with personal vision.

“I believed that with the techniques of Japanese painting, there was something only I could create now,” he says. Presenting A New Dawn in competition brings, in his words, “a sense of relief.”

The film translates painterly sensitivity into movement, transforming landscapes into emotional territories. Once surrounded by lush forests, the Obinata firework factory is now threatened by urban expansion. A road extension will cut through the premises; the factory is set to undergo an administrative shutdown. Inside, Keitaro has isolated himself for four years, obsessively crafting fireworks while seeking to complete the mythical “Shuhari” firework envisioned by his vanished father.

Fireworks in “A New Dawn” are not mere spectacle. They function as ritual objects, as vessels of collective memory, and as fragile bursts of light against darkness. Shinomiya draws a parallel between fireworks and cinema, both ephemeral illuminations that gather communities in shared contemplation.

“In Japan, fireworks are closely connected to August festivals, to welcoming the souls of ancestors, and to the memory of the end of the Second World War,” he explains. “They carry religious and political meanings. For many Japanese people, seeing fireworks is connected to mourning and remembrance.”

In this context, fireworks become a gesture of peace rather than destruction. “In a time when there are so many wars,” he adds, “how we use something like gunpowder is important. Fireworks can be a way of praying for peace and remembering what has been lost.”

Animation, like fireworks, becomes a handmade light, an artisanal act resisting oblivion.

The concept of “shuhari,” rooted in martial arts and traditional disciplines, structures both the narrative and the director’s own artistic trajectory. The term describes three stages of learning: preserving the rules, breaking them, and ultimately transcending them.

In the film, the young protagonists must confront inherited traditions while forging new paths. The abandoned factory, the disappearing village, and the tension between preservation and transformation reflect a broader generational condition.

When asked whether “A New Dawn” represents his own shuhari moment, Shinomiya smiles. “I didn’t think about it that way,” he admits. “But maybe you are right.” After two decades of engaging with traditional painting, the question resonates. “It makes me reflect.”

At its core, “A New Dawn” is also a portrait of contemporary Japan. Through its three young characters, the film addresses environmental anxiety and urban sprawl, themes acutely felt by younger generations.

“For the younger generation, environmental issues are more pressing than they were for us,” Shinomiya observes. “I wanted to think carefully about what I, as an adult, can create for them.”

The village threatened by development is not framed as a nostalgic lament but as a site of negotiation between continuity and change. The film does not offer easy resolutions. Instead, it dwells in the fragile interval between inheritance and reinvention.

As the only animated film in competition in Berlin this year, “A New Dawn” asserts animation’s capacity to engage with philosophical, political and ecological questions without relinquishing its artisanal roots. Like the fireworks it portrays, it illuminates briefly yet precisely, an act of drawing light against the encroaching dark.

The post “A New Dawn”, interview with director Yoshitoshi Shinomiya appeared first on Fred Film Radio.

After winning the Silver Bear for Best screenplay in in 2023 with her feature film “Music”, Angela Schanelec returns to the Berlinale competition, at the 76th edition, with her new film “My Wife Cries”.

The film stars actor- director Vladimir Vulević and actress Agathe Bonitzer as a couple in crisis trying to survive betrayal and lack of communication.

Some critics defined german director Angela Schanelec’s films as “strange trips”. Her actors, especially Agathe Bonitzer who already worked with her in Music (2023) confirms that the director has her own way of directing, being very precise in her scripts but not really explaining every step of the film’s process.

Vladimir Vulević, who’s also a director in Serbia, reveals that, according to Serbian cinema’s rules, the actors have to totally trust their directors and follow their directions. It’s not up to the actors to five their own interpretation of a story or the character they’re playing as they were conceived by the director.

About her protagonists in the film, Angela Schanelec writes: “After their love has been called into question by what has happened, Thomas and Carla no longer have a plan, no idea what they should do, how their lives are to continue. But life does go on. Things happen, friends appear, dreams come to light”.

Vladimir Vulević and actress Agathe Bonitzer comment on this sentence confirming that the film delves into complex themes of communication, loneliness, and human connection, offering a compelling narrative that resonates deeply with audiences.

“My Wife Cries” captures a poignant story that revolves around the silent struggles and emotional crises faced by its characters. The film explores how not just words but the absence of communication influences relationships.

One of the central themes in “My Wife Cries” is the complex relationship between communication and silence. The characters’ inability to fully express their emotions creates an underlying tension that drives the narrative. Vladimir Vulević reflects on how the film examines not only the lack of communication but also moments when communication succeeds despite barriers like language and emotional distance. It’s a story about shared loneliness and the unspoken desire to connect, demonstrating how silence can be both a barrier and a bridge.

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From a master of Italian cinema, Marco Bellocchio and his 1965 directorial debut, I pugni in tasca, comes “Rosebush Pruning”, the new film by Brazilian director Karim Aïnouz, who—after “Firebrand” —returns to directing an English-language feature with an all-star cast including Callum Turner, Riley Keough, Jamie Bell, Lukas Gage, Elena Anaya, Tracy Letts, Elle Fanning, and Pamela Anderson.

Presented in competition at the 76th Berlinale, the film is an outrageous contemporary satire about the absurdity of the traditional patriarchal family.

“Rosebush Pruning” brings together Karim Aïnouz’s feverish imagination and a classic of Italian cinema, Marco Bellocchio’s “Fists in the Pocket”. More than a simple remake, the film is a radical rewrite that shifts the center of conflict: no longer the mother as the family’s pathological fulcrum, but the father—an embodiment of blind yet pervasive power, and a mirror of a patriarchal society that perpetuates itself

Karim Aïnouz reveals the reason he loved Marco Bellocchio’s debut feature and the ways his “Rosebush Pruning” is connected to the 1965’s film : “I think it was the energy—the madness of it, really. Fists in the Pocket was made a year before I was born, and when I watched it again, years after the first time, I was struck by how modern it still feels. There’s something in it that makes you think: How did he do this? And maybe he didn’t even fully know what he was doing, because it was his first film. It feels incredibly intuitive, exciting, and inventive. of course, it’s not the same film and it’s not about the same themes. Bellocchio’s film isn’t about privilege; it’s about loss, mental illness, and other things. But what interested me was the blueprint—the structure. We took that blueprint and shifted the center: we removed the mother from that position and put the father there instead. So yes, it’s the same underlying framework, and it comes from my love for Bellocchio”.

If in the 1965 film the urgency was to break away from the provinces and their conventions, here the challenge is to expose the moral emptiness that lies beneath privilege.

The polished image of the family serves as the perfect counterpoint to its emptiness and to the inability of its members to form genuine bonds.

Karim Aïnouz develops the idea—already expressed during the film’s press conference—that the analysis of this family, the microcosm it represents, serves as a perfect example of the dynamics that gave rise, and still give rise today, to fascist-minded attitudes.

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Presented at the 76th Berlinale, “No Salgas” by director Victoria Linares Villegas touches on themes such as loss, identity, and fear in youth. From its opening scenes, viewers are invited to reflect on how trauma can trigger both internal and social tension, often expressed through extreme behaviours. The work seeks to connect with young audiences through the story of Liz, a university student who confronts her own ghosts after the death of her girlfriend, in a narrative that blends elements of horror and social realism.

The narrative in “No Salgas” moves from moments of intimate stillness to situations of violence and paranoia, reflecting a reality in which fear and desire intertwine in an emotional struggle. Director Victoria Linares Villegas explains that she intends this approach to enable young viewers to recognize themselves in the protagonist and to understand the importance of embracing their authentic identity, even in challenging circumstances.

Which aspects of “No Salgas” may resonate particularly with the young generation is a question that director Victoria Linares Villegas answers clearly. She aims to convey that, although the path toward acceptance can be difficult and often dark, the film also offers a message of hope. The protagonist’s journey evolves into an act of courage at the end, when Liz confronts her family and finds support in a new friendship and love, demonstrating that love and authenticity can overcome even the harshest obstacles.

The post “No salgas”, interview with Director Victoria Linares Villegas and actors Cecile van Welie, Gabriela Cortés, Camila Issa appeared first on Fred Film Radio.

With “Moscas”, Mexican filmmaker Fernando Eimbcke returns to the Berlinale but this time in Competition, with a project whose origins stretch back decades.

“I found this file on my computer from 25 years ago,” Eimbcke recalls. What began as an abandoned draft gradually resurfaced as a viable story, but only once he began working with novelist-turned-screenwriter Vanesa Garnica. Their collaboration, which previously brought Olmo to Panorama, became the decisive factor in finally realising Moscas.

“I needed to work with her,” Eimbcke explains. “She’s very generous. She taught me a lot during the writing process.” With a strong premise in place, a solitary woman forced to rent out a room, only to see her rigid world destabilised by the arrival of a father and his nine-year-old son, the duo felt confident enough to dig deeper into character psychology rather than plot mechanics. “We knew where the story would end,” he says. “So we could go deeper and deeper.”

The script evolved during production. Initially, the screenplay contained extensive dialogue for the child character, including a lengthy monologue in a hospital scene in which the boy recounts events to his mother.

But reality intervened. “It was not that the actor couldn’t learn the lines,” Eimbcke clarifies. “He just didn’t care about the dialogue.” Rather than forcing performance into words, the director chose to rethink the scene entirely.

He called Garnica. The solution was radical in its simplicity: erase the monologue. Replace speech with action.

In the revised version, the boy sees his mother, puts on his shoes, and quietly asks if they can leave—the emotional weight shifts from explanation to gesture. The scene becomes less about information and more about presence.

For Eimbcke, this transformation reflects a broader artistic principle: cinema as action rather than articulation. Meaning emerges not from what characters declare, but from what they do — or cannot do.

At the centre of “Moscas” is Olga, a woman living a meticulously regulated life in a vast, impersonal apartment block. She has no friends, no visible attachments, no disruptions. Financial necessity forces her to rent a room. The tenant arrives and brings his son in secret.

The intrusion is gradual, almost imperceptible. Against her will, Olga begins to form a bond with the child. What destabilises her is not dramatic confrontation but proximity. The presence of another life in her controlled environment exposes the fragility she had kept contained.

Eimbcke approaches this transformation without melodrama. As in his earlier films, stillness and silence carry narrative weight. The apartment becomes both fortress and prison, a space where routine substitutes for connection.

Throughout the interview, Eimbcke returns to the idea of collaboration as a process of surrender. Working with Garnica required openness, not only to structural changes but to vulnerability in storytelling. The rewriting of the hospital scene became emblematic of that trust.

The decision to privilege action over speech mirrors Olga’s journey. Just as the script sheds explanatory dialogue, the character sheds emotional defences. Change does not arrive through confession but through shared space and small gestures.

In a Competition lineup often marked by overt political narratives, “Moscas” offers something quieter: an examination of solitude interrupted. The film suggests that transformation rarely announces itself loudly. Sometimes it enters the room uninvited, like a fly.

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