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.

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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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“We Are All Strangers”, presented in competition at the 76th Berlinale marks the final chapter of Anthony Chen’s ‘Growing Up’ trilogy following “Ilo Ilo” and “Wet Season”.

Set again contemporary Singapore, the film offers a poignant exploration of class, inequality and the fragile dynamics between inherited and chosen family. “We Are All Strangers” is the first Singaporean film to be selected for the Berlinale Competition.

“We Are All Strangers” marks a pivotal point in Anthony Chen’s filmmaking journey, closing a trilogy that explores the complexities of human relationships and identity. The film embodies the director’s personal growth, reflecting his evolution from his 20s to his 40s, and encapsulates themes of connection, loss, and understanding. Chen emphasizes that this project was developed during the pandemic, highlighting a time for reflection and introspection. The film’s focus on authentic human interactions makes it a profound exploration of how we perceive ourselves and others.

Anthony Chen’s connection to “We Are All Strangers” is deeply personal, paralleling his own life experiences during key moments of self-discovery. He discusses making the film in his 40s, as a husband and father, and how these roles influence his storytelling.

Chen reflects on his earlier works, “Ilo Ilo” and “Wet Season”, noting that these films also drew heavily from his personal emotions and life stages. The director’s process involves casting actors he has worked with over many years, emphasizing the importance of trust and familiarity in creating truthful performances.

“Through these films, we’ve grown together” says Chen about his protagonist Koh Jia Ler. “Our 11-year old young boy has grown up, and I have grown older. And in many ways, his transformation mirrors the heart of these stories: how we become strangers to who we were, and how we find our way back again”.

For Chen, cinema is a means of searching for meaning, but often it’s life that finds him—pushing him to craft stories that echo his internal journey. The emotional weight of We Are All Strangers stems from this authenticity, revealing the raw feelings of love, loss, and hope.

Chen admits that making such personal films is both painful and cathartic, but ultimately rewarding, as it allows him to bare his soul on screen. His work demonstrates that in exploring personal truths, he connects with audiences on a deeply relatable level, reinforcing that we are all strangers, yet inherently connected through shared human experiences.

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In “Dust”, directed by Anke Blondé and written by Angelo Tijssens, the fall happens before the film even begins. Set over the course of one suspended, storm-soaked day in 1999, the story follows two Belgian entrepreneurs as they learn that their fraudulent empire is about to be exposed. The police will arrive by morning. There is no escape plan that can truly work.

In Competition at the 76th Berlin International Film Festival, the film resists the mechanics of a thriller. Instead of asking what will happen, it asks how it feels when everything you have built financially, socially, and psychologically disintegrates.

For the two men at its centre, Luc and Geert, that disintegration is embodied by Arieh Worthalter and Jan Hammenecker, whose performances hinge less on action than on internal fracture.

Because the outcome is known from the start, the actors approached their roles not through suspense but through sensation.

Hammenecker, who plays Luc, describes his character’s emotional state through a physical metaphor: falling off a bicycle. “When you fall, it feels as if time slows down,” he explains. “You think you can control it, but you can’t.” In that suspended instant, perception intensifies. Details become sharper. Awareness expands.

Luc experiences his collapse in a similar, slow-motion way. He becomes acutely conscious of how others see him, of friendships that may have been illusions, of the fragility of his constructed identity. Yet awareness does not equal acceptance. “It’s denial,” Hammenecker notes. “The outcome is not accepted.”

Worthalter sees Geert caught in the same liminal state. Even as the scandal becomes inevitable, he continues to hide money, manoeuvre, and negotiate internally. Jail remains abstract; the system still feels negotiable. “They don’t accept it,” he says simply.

What frightens these men more: prison or public exposure?

“The real punishment,” Hammenecker reflects of Luc, “is that people will see you as human and not as special as they thought.” For individuals who have internalised an image of near-divine control, the loss of status is existential. Prison may confine the body; shame dismantles identity.

Worthalter emphasises that Geert initially frames the scandal as a failure rather than wrongdoing. He deflects responsibility, diluting guilt into collective language. The deeper moral dimension, the harm done to others, remains emotionally inaccessible.

Only when confronted with the inevitability of consequences does something begin to shift. Shame, Worthalter suggests, may become the first step toward reconnecting with empathy. But in “Dust”, that process is only just beginning.

Silence dominates the film as much as dialogue. Hammenecker notes that part of that restraint reflects a regional culture in Flanders, where speaking is often measured, even avoided. “Is it really worth it to speak?” he asks, describing a reflex to remain quiet rather than risk disruption.

Worthalter draws a distinction between silence and muteness. For Geert, silence is internal first: emotions surface but are immediately suppressed. To preserve the image of strength, the inner voice must be silenced. If asked directly about pain, he suggests, these men would freeze. They lack the vocabulary for vulnerability.

Silence becomes armour, a way to protect the façade of control. But it also traps them, isolating them from genuine connection.

The dynamic between Luc and Geert carries the intimacy and dependency of a long-standing partnership, almost marital in its intensity. Before shooting, the actors rehearsed and built trust, allowing a natural rhythm to develop.

On screen, their relationship often unfolds through glances rather than words. In a film where speech is dangerous, looks carry accusation, loyalty, and resignation.

In “Dust”, the spectacle of corporate scandal remains largely off-screen. What lingers instead is the interior echo of collapse, the moment when power evaporates, and what remains is a man confronted with himself.

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With “Dust”, Belgian director Anke Blondé and screenwriter Angelo Tijssens bring to the 76th Berlinale Competition a story that begins in corporate fraud and ends in something far more intimate.

Set in the spring of 1999, the film follows Luc and Geert, two wealthy entrepreneurs, as their network of shell companies is about to be exposed by the international press. An emergency board meeting is called. Evidence must be destroyed. By morning, the police will arrive. What unfolds is not a thriller about escape, but a slow, suspended descent into accountability.

Tijssens traces the project’s origins to a real-life Belgian fraud case. “Every country has a story like that,” he observes. Local businessmen celebrated as self-made visionaries until the system collapsed under the weight of deception. Yet what interested him was not the mechanics of the scam. “What happens when you take away everything they’ve built, not just the money, but the identity?”

For men who have come to see themselves as powerful and untouchable, the loss of status becomes existential. The fall is less financial than psychological.

For Blondé, whose previous work often centred on female protagonists, “Dust” represented a deliberate shift. “I was amused when I first read Angelo’s script,” she recalls. “There’s a lot of irony in it.” That irony coexists with a probing look at male identity.

The film dissects a form of masculinity shaped by social expectations: to provide, to succeed, to dominate. When work becomes identity, its collapse leaves a void. “Many men are suffering,” Blondé notes, “from the societal expectation of being successful.” Without the armour of power, Luc and Geert are forced to confront a fragile sense of self.

There is no conventional suspense. The scandal has already happened; the exposure is inevitable. Instead, the tension lies in proximity: the camera and edit remain close to their disintegrating mindsets. The narrative, unfolding over roughly 36 hours, loops and fractures time, mirroring their psychological confusion. Daylight never fully arrives. The film hovers in a perpetual dawn.

The Flemish landscape is not a mere backdrop. Rain, mud and empty roads shape the emotional terrain. Tijssens, who grew up in West Flanders, wrote the script with a reproduction of Pieter Bruegel’s Landscape with the Fall of Icarus on his desktop, a painting in which the mythic fall occupies only a small corner of the canvas, almost unnoticed.

That perspective informs “Dust”. The spectacular collapse of powerful men becomes, visually and narratively, unspectacular. The world continues. Ships sail. Fields remain muddy. “It takes away easy judgment,” Tijssens explains. Rather than constructing a morality tale, the film lingers in discomfort, asking viewers to sit with loss rather than cheer downfall.

Blondé describes the protagonists as “two cowboys” roaming their territory in iron horses, their reputations trailing behind them. Redemption, if it exists, is uncertain and interior.

Though set at the end of the 1990s, “Dust” resonates unmistakably with the present. The blind faith in tech entrepreneurs, the promise that innovation will bring connection and prosperity, feels familiar in an era shaped by AI and platform capitalism.

“Yes, there are parallels,” Tijssens acknowledges. The belief that technology will unite humanity has proven fragile. Today’s failures are less mechanical than moral. “Technology is failing us,” he says, pointing to a society saturated with connection yet starved of dialogue.

The film opens with the phrase: “Nothing is entirely true. And not even that.” While it gestures toward our so-called post-truth age, the quote dates back to the late 19th century. For Tijssens, that detail matters. Periods of disillusionment are cyclical. What ultimately restores balance, he argues, is not innovation but conversation, people speaking and listening to one another.

In “Dust”, silence carries more weight than speech. On a narrative level, the protagonists avoid conversation because words would implicate others. Culturally, Blondé adds, silence reflects a tendency to bury emotional complexity “under the rug, or in the mud.”

There is bitter irony in the fact that these men built a speech-technology company yet cannot communicate, not with each other, not with their partners, not even with themselves. Words are dangerous because they expose vulnerability. Silence, however, traps them in isolation.

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After competing in the 74th Venice competition with “Sweet Country” and winning the Special Special Jury Prize, Australian director Warwich Thornton went back to those atmospheres and the western genre with “Wolfram”.

The film, presented in competition at the 76th Berlinale, is set in the same 1930s Australia, this time focusing on the female side of the story and history.

Wolfram’ script, co-written by Thornton with David Tranter is based on the latter’s family heritage and story that he was keen to revisit. The “First Nations” director Warwick Thornton didn’t want to do a sequel and he only agreed to go back to those same settings as Sweet country because of the possibility of talking about women’s resilience.

“Sweet Country had focused on the male side of events” underlines Thornton It was filled of the real brutality Thornton’s ancestors had to face. Wolfram talks about what his and David Tranter’s Great grandmothers experienced. They both worked as child miners in the desert. “Wolfram is really an opportunity to reveal the true history of Australia. A story that hasn’t been told, a story we need to hear” declares the Australian director, screenwriter and cinematographer.

The Role of Authentic Storytelling in “Wolfram”

Norton’s approach to “Wolfram” reflects a broader effort to tell truthful, nuanced stories about indigenous peoples. He is conscious of the manipulative danger in filmmaking, aiming to avoid sensationalism or victimization. Instead, the film focuses on survivors and their resilience, revealing the complexity of their histories without resorting to melodrama. The film’s authenticity is reinforced through careful storytelling that respects truth and minimizes manipulative narratives. Ultimately, “Wolfram” aims to educate and entertain, ensuring viewers gain a genuine understanding of indigenous history and resilience.

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The Emilia-Romagna Film Commission stands at the forefront of supporting the film industry in Italy’s vibrant Emilia Romagna region. Its primary goal is to promote local talent and attract international productions by providing financial incentives and logistical support. The commission plays a crucial role in fostering a dynamic environment where filmmakers can develop and realize their projects seamlessly. By offering tailored funding, it ensures that both domestic and foreign producers see Emilia Romagna as an ideal filming location. At the European Film Market 2026 during the 76th Berlinale we met with Emma Barboni to know more.

The Emilia-Romagna Film Commission is deeply committed to celebrating regional culture through cinema. It actively encourages productions that highlight the unique landscapes and traditions of Emilia Romagna. The commission’s initiatives include grants and subsidies aimed at promoting films that showcase the area’s rich history and local stories. This focus on cultural promotion not only enriches the regional cinematic landscape but also attracts international attention to its diverse heritage.

A core activity of the Emilia-Romagna Film Commission involves providing financial support for film projects. They have announced a new film fund, open from July to February, dedicated to backing both feature films and documentaries. The fund supports various production costs, including cash rebates based on expenditure and specific initiatives like nursery services on set to improve inclusivity and support for crew members. This proactive approach helps streamline film production while ensuring sustainable filmmaking practices within the region.

The Emilia-Romagna Film Commission continues to actively promote the region’s cinematic potential, making it a compelling choice for filmmakers worldwide. With its comprehensive support and dedication to cultural storytelling, it remains a vital hub for the growth of the Italian film industry.

This interview was recorded during Berlinale 2026, in partnership with the Italian Film Commissions Association and with the support of the Italian Trade Agency.

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Empowering musicians and filmmakers through dedicated funding and programs is essential for fostering a vibrant cultural scene. The IDM Music and Film Commission stands out as a key organization committed to nurturing talent, offering financial support, and developing industry infrastructure. Its initiatives help bridge the gap between music and film sectors, enabling creative professionals to bring their projects to life. During the 76th Berlinale we talked about all that with Renate Ranzi, Head of the commission.

The IDM Music and Film Commission plays a pivotal role in strengthening regional industries by providing tailored funding opportunities. For example, their recently established fund dedicated to musicians allows applicants to produce albums, singles, and music videos, regardless of their location within the region. This approach encourages diverse participation and supports project development at various production phases, similar to film funding systems. Such initiatives are instrumental in cultivating a thriving ecosystem for both music and audiovisual sectors.

Beyond funding, the IDM Music and Film Commission is actively involved in training programs and industry networking. Their international short film training program, which includes scholarships and collaborative projects, exemplifies their commitment to education and cross-border partnerships. Celebrating 15 years since its founding, the commission has contributed to over 5,000 shooting days and invested more than 132 million euros into regional productions. This legacy underscores the commission’s ongoing dedication to fostering a dynamic and sustainable creative industry, a mission that continues to thrive through initiatives like those of the IDM Music and Film Commission.

This interview was recorded during Berlinale 2026, in partnership with the Italian Film Commissions Association and with the support of the Italian Trade Agency.

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The Toscana Film Commission plays a vital role in fostering the growth of the film industry within the region. With a focus on developing new local talent and supporting international productions, the commission acts as a bridge between creative professionals and Tuscany’s scenic locations. Its initiatives aim to enhance skills, preserve local craftsmanship, and attract international filmmakers to the area. Talking with Stefania Ippoliti during the 76th Berlinale, we delved into the educational programme they bring on.

The Toscana Film Commission has been actively involved in educational programs to cultivate a new generation of film professionals. They organize courses and laboratories aimed at young filmmakers and technical crew, emphasizing practical skills in costume design, content creation for targeted audiences, and post-production. By engaging talented individuals from the region, the commission ensures a sustainable future for Tuscany’s film industry. It also promotes Italy’s unique artistic traditions, integrating them into modern audiovisual productions with the support of the Toscana Film Commission’s initiatives.

One of the key objectives of the Toscana Film Commission is to attract international film productions to Tuscany’s breathtaking landscapes. With a focus on specialized craftsmanship such as costume design, the commission highlights Tuscany’s world-renowned fashion and artisanal traditions. The Toscana Film Commission’s strategic support simplifies the logistical aspects of filming, making Tuscany an appealing destination for global filmmakers. Through such efforts, the commission continues to bolster Italy’s reputation in the international film community and ensures that regions like Tuscany remain vibrant hubs of creativity, fostering new talent and welcoming major productions with the assistance of the Toscana Film Commission.

This interview was recorded during Berlinale 2026, in partnership with the Italian Film Commissions Association and with the support of the Italian Trade Agency.

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The Genova Liguria Film Commission plays a vital role in supporting film productions and promoting regional cinema. As a key partner for filmmakers, the commission offers various resources, including film funds and industry events, to foster the growth of the local film industry. Its involvement ensures that Liguria remains an attractive location for both historical and contemporary film projects, encouraging international collaborations. During the 76th Berlinale we discovered more about this with Roberto Lo Crasto, production manager and member of the board of the film commission.

The Genova Liguria Film Commission oversees initiatives aimed at developing the regional film landscape. While the commission itself does not directly manage film funds, it collaborates closely with entities like FILSE, which handles the regional film fund. This partnership helps streamline access to funding for productions and development projects, ensuring regional talent and locations receive deserved recognition and support. Plans for future calls in 2026 aim to further boost production and development opportunities.

One of the commission’s recent initiatives highlights its commitment to storytelling rooted in regional history. A notable example is the upcoming film about Amedeo Peter Giannini, a Ligurian-born financier who became a Hollywood mogul, financing major films and projects like the Golden Gate Bridge. This project exemplifies the commission’s dedication to showcasing Liguria’s cultural heritage on an international stage, leveraging local stories with broad appeal. Through such efforts, the Genova Liguria Film Commission continues to position Liguria as a dynamic hub for creative filmmaking and cultural exchange.

This interview was recorded during Berlinale 2026, in partnership with the Italian Film Commissions Association and with the support of the Italian Trade Agency.

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