Tra i titoli più originali di questa edizione delle Giornate degli Autori c’è Anatomia di un ritratto, il documentario di Francesco Clerici e Mattia Colombo dedicato a Fernanda Wittgens, prima donna a dirigere un museo italiano e figura chiave dell’antifascismo culturale del nostro paese. Il film sceglie una strada poco battuta per raccontare una vita così densa e così poco documentata, cioè un dialogo teatrale tra l’attrice Sara Drago e la storica Giovanna Ginex, filmato quasi come un esperimento a due voci.

È proprio questa scelta a rendere il progetto interessante. Con Wittgens si sapeva ormai poco, raccontano i due registi, e proprio per questo hanno pensato che il modo più efficace per avvicinarsi alla sua figura fosse passare attraverso l’intimità del gioco teatrale, piuttosto che affidarsi alla sola voce della ricostruzione documentaristica. Drago diventa il corpo e la voce di ricordi altrimenti sfuggenti, mentre Ginex agisce quasi da guida, da tramite tra il presente di chi guarda e il passato di chi è stato dimenticato.

Dietro la macchina da presa, Clerici e Colombo raccontano di aver lavorato con un metodo volutamente arretrato rispetto al processo creativo: pur avendo scritto il soggetto insieme a Giulia Cosentino, si sono messi al servizio del gioco scenico tra le due interpreti, lasciando spazio all’imprevisto piuttosto che imporre un percorso rigido. Lo stesso principio orizzontale ha guidato anche il montaggio, affidato a Ilaria Fraioli e Serena Pighi: una scelta non casuale, pensata per mantenere sul film uno sguardo femminile, contemporaneo e critico, capace di restituire un’immagine aggiornata di Wittgens piuttosto che una semplice commemorazione.

Se c’è un filo che lega tutto il progetto, è la convinzione che questa storia parli ancora moltissimo al presente. Fernanda Wittgens è stata una figura di impegno civile prima ancora che una storica dell’arte, e i due autori sperano che il film possa arrivare anche a un pubblico giovane, fuori dai circuiti abituali della sala cinematografica: da qui la scelta di pensare a un’opera accessibile, quasi pop nel linguaggio, capace di raggiungere studenti e festival senza le barriere che spesso separano cinema d’autore e grande pubblico. L’ambizione, dichiarano, è che “Anatomia di un ritratto” diventi anche un’occasione per discutere del ruolo delle istituzioni culturali e del loro peso politico — mantenendo viva, nel farlo, la memoria di una donna che ha attraversato la storia italiana da una posizione tutt’altro che marginale.

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Presentato a SIC@SIC della Settimana Internazionale della Critica durante la Mostra del cinema di Venezia 2026, il cortometraggio E-I-E-I-O di Noemi Arfuso racconta di due entità sintetiche che giocano a sterminare gli esseri umani, controllando l’avanzamento del loro piano attraverso una rete di telecamere di sorveglianza.

E-I-E-I-O è stato realizzato principalmente con immagini tratte da videocamera di sorveglianza. Noemi Arfuso spiega come questa forma sia nata dalla sua curiosità verso le nuove tecnologie e la possibilità di creare un’opera che esplorasse il controllo e la deumanizzazione attraverso immagini ricavate da videoregistrazioni. Ricorda di aver iniziato il lavoro senza una idea precisa, lasciandosi guidare più dalle suggestioni visive che dall’intento narrativo. La sua personale ricerca si è sviluppata durante una residenza di cinema sperimentale, Nouvelle Bug, dove ha scoperto la possibilità di accedere a riprese di sorveglianza aperte tramite degli indirizzi IP pubblici. Grazie a questa scoperta, ha raccolto un archivio di immagini provenienti da tutto il mondo, creando un ponte tra la tecnologia e l’arte visiva.

Un altro aspetto interessante riguarda il modo in cui Noemi Arfuso ha scelto di usare le immagini e le voci generate dall’intelligenza artificiale. Il suo interesse per il mezzo e la matericità dell’immagine si riflettono nella scomparsa progressiva delle figure umane sullo schermo, creata tramite tecniche di montaggio tradizionali di sparizione e disgregazione dei pixel. La peculiarità del suo lavoro risiede nella mescolanza di metodi classici e innovativi, come l’utilizzo di voci generate da Eleven Labs, un sistema di text-to-speech. Queste voci sono state caricate dagli utenti e caricata tra i personaggi del corto, creando così una dimensione partecipata e collaborativa. Arfuso ha scelto le voci in modo spontaneo, costruendo le identità dei personaggi sulla base di materiale disponibile online, un procedimento che aggiunge un livello di immedesimazione personale al progetto.

Per quanto riguarda i progetti futuri, Noemi Arfuso anticipa che tra dieci giorni inizierà le riprese del suo primo lungometraggio, sempre con un approccio sperimentale, anche se diverso rispetto a E-I-E-I-O. Con sé porterà gli strumenti e le modalità maturate nel suo lavoro, prontissima a sfidare nuovi linguaggi e tecniche. La sua curiosità e passione per l’arte sperimentale rappresentano una promessa per il cinema di domani, e si dimostra molto felice che corti così innovativi possano arrivare in occasioni prestigiose come la Mostra di Venezia.

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Werner Herzog is in competition at the Venice Film Festival 2026 with Bucking Fastard, which follows two sisters, Jean and Joan Holbrooke, played by Kate Mara and Rooney Mara, who are so close that they speak in unison, love the same man, and share the same dreams, down to making the same slip of the tongue at once. The story also traces how the world reacts to them, through courts and press, through those who want to help and those who want to use them, with a cast that also includes Orlando Bloom and Domhnall Gleeson. Herzog spoke about the tribute to David Lynch that opens the film, the origin of its title, and why he sees storytelling as an art built to outlast any single era.

Asked why the film opens with a tribute to David Lynch, Herzog waves off any deeper reading: “Don’t read too much into it.” The idea came to him while editing, when he told his editor, “I would like David Lynch to be the first one to sit in the first screening with me.” He had hoped to have Lynch beside him at the world premiere in Venice, “but he died and I miss him.” Despite the differences between their films, he adds, “We had a deep recognition of each other even though we make such different films.”

The film’s title comes directly from its two central characters. “It is even in the dialogue,” Herzog explains: “the sisters are so close that they speak in unison, they move in unison, they have the same dream at night, they fall in love with the same unworthy, undeserving man, and they make the same slip of the tongue at the same moment.” That coincidence struck him immediately: “that’s stunning, and I thought this should be the title.”

For Herzog, Bucking Fastard belongs to a different timescale than most films. “It’s poetry,” he says, comparing it to his own back catalogue: “Fitzcarraldo was not for 1982.” Films like these, he argues, “are not trendy, and they will live fairly long.” He goes further about this particular film: “I think this Bucking Fastard has no precedence in film history. You have never seen anything like this, and you probably will not see anything like this later in your life.”

Asked which part of the filmmaking process gives him the most joy at this stage in his career, Herzog doesn’t single anything out: “Everything. Writing, directing, editing, creating music, acting in films, everything. I just love everything.” He lists what is keeping him busy at the moment: a voice role in a Pixar film, a part in another animated film by Korean director Bong Joon-ho, a book of photography he is writing for the publishing house Taschen, and a new film of his own that is “only days away” from being finished.

Herzog dismisses any suggestion that he might be pessimistic about the future of the industry. “No, not at all,” he says. “The storytelling we have since tens of thousands of years, and it will not go away.” Whatever the mood around cinema today, he insists the practice itself is not at risk: “No matter whether you are optimistic or pessimistic, there will be storytellers out for the next 40,000 years.”

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During the Venice Film Festival 2026 we spoke with director Sergei Loznitsa for his new film Imperium, presented here at the festival in the Venice Open – Out of Competition section. , director of the film Imperium, was interviewed at the eighty-third Venice Film Festival. This remarkable documentary, as the title may suggest, explores the cultural, social, and historical diversity of the former Soviet Union through a unique collage of footage and archive material. The “empire” in this context refers to the vast, imperial dimension of the USSR that the film aims to depict and analyze.

During our interview with FRED Film Radio, Sergei Loznitsa delved into the creative choices behind this huge project and on its reflection on history and identity, reconstructing the narration of the film Imperium from Soviet-era footage. Loznitsa explained that most of the existing images from that time were from Soviet propaganda, but the Italian filmmakers’ approach (the people that these images come from), had a respect for human personality and a clear disapproval of propagandistic symbols, revealing the true, diverse face of the territories, rather than the imposed image from the regime.

Loznitsa reflected also on how the footage, especially from the ’70s Soviet Union, hints at an empire with colonial characteristics, highlighting the awareness of the surroundings, capturing the empire’s subtleties without propagandist bias. Another interesting aspect to highlight was the lack of voice-over and its nearly three-hour length. The director stated that this choice demands an active interpretative effort from viewers, serving as a resistance to simplification of complex geopolitical realities. The fragmented footage, indeed, combined with sound, functions as a visual puzzle requiring audience engagement to understand the historical and social context of what Imperium really means.

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During the Venice Film Festival 2026 we spoke with Manuel Wetscher, director and co-writer of the film Eklipse presented here in the Orizzonti section of the festival. During our conversation, we discussed the autobiographical elements of the film, a exploring the themes of HIV illness, emancipation, and mostly ignorance and stigma. The film then delves into personal experiences, transforming into fiction and shedding a light on how personal memories influence cinematic storytelling and exploring the director’s artistic process and message.

During our interview with FRED FIlmmRadio, the director Manuel Wetscher explained that in the film Eklipse there was no clear line between personal memories and storytelling. He emphasizes that working with Bernard Jarosch on the screenplay was indeed about pursuing the story and capturing real emotional truths. Wetscher also highlighted how the use of VHS material from his childhood was used, which was incorporated mainly during editing and blending personal material with fictional elements.

Wetscher shared insights into the physical and sensory approach of the film, influenced by artists like Steve McQueen, who translates physicality into cinematic experiences. Talking about the persistent stigma surrounding HIV still today despite medical progress, Manuel Wetscher reflected instead on how placing the Eklipse story in 1999 is a way to highlight the ongoing challenge of confronting this stigma, in a gap between scientific reality and societal perceptions that’s still too big. Wetscher advocates for films like Eklipse to raise awareness and foster understanding, especially in a globally affected landscape where populist distrust of science exacerbates the problem.

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John Malkovich and Sam Rockwell bring Wild Horse Nine, directed by Martin McDonagh, to the Venice Film Festival 2026, where the film is in competition. At the heart of the film is the friendship between two CIA agents, set against the backdrop of Chile in 1973.

Rockwell and Malkovich go back years, long before Wild Horse Nine. “We’re old pals,” Rockwell says. “We became pals on this movie, but we know each other from The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy… we had to run a lot of lines together, so you tend to bond, because you’re terrified of not knowing your lines, and that terror brings you together.” Malkovich traces the friendship back even further, to around 2000, when the two met in New York City with Terry Kinney, before Hitchhiker’s. For him, that same bond sits at the core of the film itself. “This film is a story about a relationship,” he says. “Two best friends, one of whom asked his best friend to do something quite terrible. That’s a real burden for that friend… it’s mostly really a film about their friendship.”

Asked how the film speaks to politics and society today, Rockwell frames the historical setting as a narrative engine rather than a message. “I think that’s really just a dramatic platform for comedy and drama to ensue,” he says. “What it does is it sets up a danger immediately that we could possibly be killed, the two of us.” He compares the stakes to another familiar world: “That world is not unlike the mafia world. The game rules are the same.” Malkovich credits Martin McDonagh’s writing for grounding that danger in a real place and time. “Martin is a wonderful writer, both for the theater and for movies,” he says, describing how McDonagh set his two CIA agents in Chile in 1973, “when some very memorable things happened in Chile, and not in a good way.” Of the agency his character belongs to, he adds simply: “The CIA has done a lot of things, and some of them are not very nice.”

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Opening the Venice Film Festival’s Venice Spotlight section, Sumo: Spirit Weighs Nothing looks beyond the physical power and imposing bodies associated with sumo. Director Erik Shirai explores the spiritual and psychological dimensions of a tradition that is often misunderstood outside Japan. The title reflects the idea that sumo cannot be measured solely through weight, strength or victory. At its core, the discipline is about confronting oneself. The greatest opponent is often not the wrestler across the ring, but the person within.

Growing up in the United States, Shirai was familiar with a concept of strength associated with dominance, volume and being the loudest person in the room. Sumo offered him another perspective: strength can also be found in silence, restraint, respect and the ability to place something larger than oneself first.

With Sumo: Spirit Weighs Nothing, Erik Shirai challenges Western assumptions about Japanese culture. Qualities such as humility, quietness and respect can sometimes be perceived as weakness, but the film presents them as expressions of discipline and inner power. The wrestlers are not portrayed simply as athletes. Shirai presents them as warriors and craftspeople devoted to mastering an art rooted in a centuries-old, almost sacred tradition. The camera focuses not only on their bodies and rituals, but also on what remains invisible: their fears, doubts and emotional sacrifices.

Shirai spent nearly five years earning the trust required to enter this guarded world. Sumo wrestlers are trained not to show emotion, since vulnerability can be used against them. Much of the battle, the director explains, takes place in the mind. One of the film’s most moving moments involves a veteran wrestler who continues to lose without understanding why. His frustration eventually reaches a breaking point, revealing the person beneath the image of the invulnerable fighter.

For Shirai, this emotional collapse is a reminder that every wrestler is first and foremost a human being. The documentary allows moments of exhaustion, fear and pain to emerge naturally, without reducing its subjects to symbols of strength.

The documentary also explores the unusual relationship between friendship and competition in sumo. Wrestlers may train together, share meals, travel and form close bonds, only to face one another in the ring. This contradiction is particularly clear in the story of Yonezawa Ryu, a young wrestler who hospitalizes a close friend during a bout. The incident shows how sumo brings affection and violence into the same communal space.

For Erik Shirai, this tension reflects life itself. Dedication sometimes means confronting people we care about and continuing forward despite emotional ties. In Sumo: Spirit Weighs Nothing, the ring becomes a place where friendship, ambition and responsibility collide.

The film follows four wrestlers at different stages of their careers, from a fifteen-year-old newcomer to reigning Yokozuna Terunofuji. Spending time with Terunofuji away from the ring allowed Shirai to reveal the personal cost of carrying sumo’s highest rank. A Yokozuna cannot simply walk away whenever he chooses. He represents the entire tradition, and that responsibility comes with a heavy physical and emotional burden. Terunofuji’s life reveals the sacrifices that affect his body, family and time.

Ultimately, Sumo: Spirit Weighs Nothing is a portrait of men who fight publicly while carrying their deepest struggles in silence. Erik Shirai’s documentary suggests that true strength is not the absence of vulnerability, but the courage to continue facing oneself.

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The film Falling House (Moragheb) traps its audience from the very first frame. Unfolding entirely within the claustrophobic walls of a single residence, the narrative creates a space that feels less like a home and more like a prison. For director Mohsen Gharaei, this setting was a deliberate choice to externalize the internal decay of the family unit. The house functions as a pressure cooker, where secrets and silence create a suffocating atmosphere that reflects the broader social anxieties prevalent in the filmmakers’ home country.

Gharaei notes that while the script was written long before the cameras began rolling, the underlying societal structures governing people’s lives remain stagnant. This unintended resonance makes Falling House feel hauntingly prophetic, even if the creative team insists they were not attempting to forecast specific political events. Instead, the film captures the inevitable byproduct of a system that exerts constant, invisible control over its citizens. The result is a domestic tragedy that feels universal in its depiction of how state-level pressure trickles down to fracture the most intimate human bonds.

One of the most striking aspects of bringing Falling House to the screen was the logistical and creative tightrope the filmmakers had to walk. Milad Khosravi and Mohsen Gharaei faced the reality of a sanitized script-submission process—a necessity in an environment where certain truths are considered dangerous to depict. Yet the final product refuses to be muted.

The film serves as a poignant, multigenerational portrait, particularly through its focus on three generations of women. Their struggles, woven together by grief and silence, represent both the resilience and the burdens carried by women navigating a complex, restrictive society. Gharaei’s approach to the narrative arc was not to simplify these struggles, but to ground them in a harsh, unvarnished reality that demands the audience’s attention. By choosing to present these stories despite the risks, the team has crafted a work of cinema that stands as a testament to the power of artistic defiance.

At the heart of the film lies the character of the father, Rashid—a figure defined by his contradictions. In one of the most powerful scenes, a character exclaims, “You are not a human being,” a moment that serves as a breaking point for the audience. However, Gharaei avoids the trap of portraying the father as a one-dimensional villain.

“I tried to show the father as a human first,” the director explains. He intentionally avoided creating distance between the protagonist and the audience, wanting viewers to recognize the proximity of the “monster” within us all. Gharaei highlights that the violence the father suffers outside the home—the humiliation and lack of trust he experiences in society—inevitably resonates within the family walls. It is a cycle of trauma in which the victim becomes the oppressor, a narrative choice that Gharaei insists was vital to evoke sympathy and understanding rather than simple condemnation.

As the film reaches its final act, it challenges the audience to reckon with the secrets that keep families apart. Mohsen Gharaei explains that the tragedy in Falling House lies not only in what is done, but also in what remains unsaid. The family is paralyzed by fear of the father’s reaction, choosing to hide truths about health and dreams rather than risk the fallout.

Ultimately, the father emerges as a stranger in his own home—a man who has missed the defining moments of his family’s existence. Gharaei suggests that even if the truth had been revealed, the outcome might have remained the same: the damage had already been done. It is a bleak, sobering conclusion that leaves viewers questioning the possibility of reconciliation when the foundations of trust have been eroded by years of fear. Despite the darkness, Gharaei holds onto a fragile hope for the new generation, believing that through the lessons of the past, a better future might still be built, however uncertain that path may be.

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Presentato alle Giornate degli Autori durante la Mostra del Cinema di Venezia 2026, Waiting for Ken Loach di Simone Amendola racconta un’esperienza in cui il cinema smette di essere soltanto uno spazio di visione e diventa un luogo di formazione, partecipazione e trasformazione sociale.

Al centro del documentario c’è un gruppo di adolescenti di Mesagne, in Puglia, che decide di riportare il cinema in una comunità che per molti anni ne era rimasta priva. Un gesto apparentemente semplice che assume un significato più profondo in un territorio segnato anche dalla presenza e dalla memoria della Sacra Corona Unita. La riapertura di una sala diventa così la possibilità di immaginare una storia diversa da quella ereditata.

L’origine dell’esperienza raccontata da Amendola ha qualcosa di quasi involontario. Durante un laboratorio scolastico, i ragazzi realizzano un cortometraggio nel quale immaginano di chiedere al sindaco l’apertura di un cinema. Quella che inizialmente era una finzione si trasforma, pochi mesi dopo, in una richiesta reale.

Nasce così il Piccolo Cinema Ken Loach, gestito direttamente dai ragazzi. Alcuni di loro hanno appena undici anni, i più grandi non sono ancora maggiorenni, ma progressivamente si occupano di programmazione, biglietteria, proiezioni e organizzazione degli eventi. Il film osserva il momento in cui ciò che era iniziato quasi come un gioco comincia a essere riconosciuto anche dalla comunità come qualcosa di concreto.

È particolarmente significativa, in questo senso, l’immagine dei ragazzi che attraversano la città trasportando le vecchie sedie del cinema storico, chiuso dal 1993. Da quel momento, racconta Amendola, non vengono più percepiti semplicemente come studenti impegnati in un laboratorio scolastico, ma come i gestori di un vero spazio culturale.

Uno degli aspetti più interessanti di Waiting for Ken Loach riguarda il rapporto tra il cinema e il territorio. Dopo molti anni senza una sala cinematografica, una comunità può quasi dimenticare di averne bisogno. Nel momento in cui il cinema ricompare fisicamente, però, diventa improvvisamente evidente anche la sua precedente assenza.

In un periodo in cui la fruizione cinematografica è sempre più legata alle piattaforme e alla dimensione individuale dello schermo domestico, il Piccolo Cinema Ken Loach riafferma il valore della sala come luogo di incontro. Il cinema torna a essere qualcosa che accade insieme agli altri e che produce relazioni, discussioni e responsabilità condivise.

È proprio questa dimensione collettiva a rendere l’esperienza raccontata da Amendola qualcosa di più di un semplice progetto di educazione cinematografica.

Il documentario segue anche la trasformazione personale dei suoi giovani protagonisti. Attraverso la gestione della sala, alcuni sviluppano competenze tecniche molto concrete: uno dei ragazzi diventa, a soli diciassette anni, il direttore tecnico del cinema, imparando a gestire autonomamente impianti audio e video e persino l’arena estiva.

Per altri, l’esperienza apre possibilità differenti. C’è chi scopre la recitazione, chi comincia a scrivere e chi intravede nel cinema un possibile percorso professionale. Ma Amendola evita di trasformare questa esperienza in una semplice fabbrica di futuri cineasti.

Il cinema appare piuttosto come uno spazio nel quale è possibile scoprire capacità che potranno essere utilizzate anche altrove. È significativo il caso di uno dei ragazzi, entrato nel progetto a quattordici anni e successivamente diventato, appena maggiorenne, il più giovane consigliere comunale di Mesagne. Proprio l’esperienza del set e del Piccolo Cinema Ken Loach gli avrebbe permesso di scoprire la propria capacità di parlare in pubblico e di confrontarsi con gli altri.

La forza del film sta anche nel non idealizzare eccessivamente i suoi protagonisti. Il Piccolo Cinema Ken Loach non viene presentato come un’esperienza destinata necessariamente ad accompagnare per sempre tutti i ragazzi che vi partecipano.

L’adolescenza è per sua natura una fase di cambiamento: alcuni si allontanano, altri ritornano, altri ancora trovano nuovi interessi. La continuità del progetto dipende proprio da questo ricambio, dalla possibilità che nuove persone entrino mentre altre proseguono altrove.

Il cinema diventa così un luogo di transito e, allo stesso tempo, uno spazio capace di lasciare un segno duraturo. Non è necessario che tutti i ragazzi diventino registi, tecnici o sceneggiatori perché l’esperienza abbia avuto valore. Ciò che conta è avere sperimentato concretamente la possibilità di costruire qualcosa insieme.

Waiting for Ken Loach racconta quindi una piccola esperienza locale capace di porre questioni molto più ampie: cosa significa oggi avere una sala cinematografica? Che ruolo può svolgere il cinema nei territori? E soprattutto, cosa accade quando ai più giovani non viene semplicemente offerto un contenuto culturale, ma viene affidata la responsabilità di costruirlo e condividerlo?

Nel film di Amendola il cinema diventa uno strumento di autodeterminazione, un modo per prendere parola e per immaginare possibilità diverse rispetto a quelle già scritte dal proprio contesto.

Più che un film sulla gestione di una sala, Waiting for Ken Loach è allora il racconto di una comunità che, attraverso il cinema, riscopre la possibilità di incontrarsi. E di un gruppo di adolescenti che, mentre prova a tenere aperta una sala, comincia anche a immaginare quale posto occupare nel mondo.

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We spoke to Leonidas Christopoulos, CEO of EKKOMED (the Hellenic Film Audiovisual Centre), right after the panel “Greece on Screen,” where Christopoulos was one of the panelists, together with Orestis Andreadakis, the Artistic Director of the Thessaloniki International Film Festival.

Greece was on every screen this summer thanks to Odyssey by Christopher Nolan. Now it is the Country in Focus in Venice, it will be hosting the European Film Awards next January, and it will be the Country of Honour of the Cannes Marché du Film 2027.

Two years ago, the Greek Film Centre and Ekome merged to form a unique institutional body, EKKOMED (Hellenic Film Audiovisual Centre). Christopoulos spoke about the ambitions of the next five-year strategy, for which the film industry can count on €750M, to be invested across four axes: Funding; Internationalization; Education, Innovation and Audiovisual Heritage; and Technical and Institutional development.

The €750 million were approved by the government in April, says Christopoulos, and legislated in early August. The plans are ambitious: he explains that, now that the budget has increased, the intention is to go out into the world and show that Greece is placing the audiovisual sector alongside its most traditional economic sectors. Visual creativity enters the table. He adds that, as boundaries within the creative industries are fading, “also our policies should adjust consequently” — what they call the Audiovisual Fusion approach.

There are many Greek projects in the selection of the festival and in the Venice Gap Financing Market. “Being selected by big festivals, they are becoming stories of the world,” says Christopoulos. He mentions A Day in the Life of Jo: Chapter Phaedra by Jacqueline Lentzou and the short Tropic of the Mourning Gecko by Stavros Markoulakis (both in Orizzonti Competition).

The projects in the VGFM are: African Grey by Yorgos Goussis, Lionfish by Thanasis Trouboukis, Patrimonial Fears and Other Illusions by Elina Psykou, The Smugglers by Kaveh Bakhtiari, Wake by Thelyia Petraki, The Mysteries of Eleusis by John Fitzgerald and Simon Critchley (Venice Immersive), and Visitor by Spyros Boukas (Biennale College Immersive Cinema).

The next appointment for Greece at the VPB will be September 6th at 2pm, on the Immersive Island, with the panel “Greece and the Future of Immersive Storytelling.”

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