They want to change the course of History, but they probably should start changing the mind of their neighbour first. In a nutshell, this is the essence of my impression of Dear Future Children, and this is the reason why I would not like to be the future children of two of the three activists in focus here, because I will play with harder fascism their romantic game of playing the global hero, the anarchist, the victim, the rebel. I mean, playing the disastrous game of confronting police can be a necessity in countries where the opinion of the majority has no meaning anymore, but in weak democracies such as in Chile or Hong-Kong, one should use one’s own education to find more efficacious strategies, first of all addressing oneself directly to the conformist masses that, against their interests, tend to accept liberticide and authoritarian regimes.

The case of the Ugandan story is different, insofar as its young hero is more involved in campaigning than in violent struggles, and yet she also appears frustrated by her own speaking, asking for more action. Action however, dear activists, is a Sisyphus’ job when it is not coupled with strong collective consciousness and motivation, exactly as command or prohibition are. One should never cease to use words instead of stones. Therefore, the constructive example of the Ugandan girl is a moment of hope in a film that otherwise conveys a desperate message, for it constitutes the portrait of an educated and informed young generation that acts out of despair and neglects intelligence – no more David against Goliath, but little Goliaths against the Leviathan…

Dear Future Children tells the sad story of some well-intentioned but anachronistic beautiful souls, of a generation that is (already) as old-fashioned as Bakunin or the Che (and Böhm himself, his young age notwithstanding, actually uses the quite conservative filmic language of mass journalism and its cliched emotions). This is a sad reality that one would like to forget, hoping for a future where humanism and democracy will be a matter of intelligence. The film also tells the story of other young people around the world, that work to concretely defend the well-being of the planet: as the almost isolated Ugandan girl is the representative of another category of people that founds communities, creates parties, proposes solutions, speaks with the political rivals, connects with real people and gives the example. Through what I see as an essential distinction, the idea itself of “activism” should be sharply redefined, so as to avoid the catastrophic misunderstanding according to which changes should come from rioting in the streets.

Dear Future Children | Film | Franz Böhm | DE-UK-AT 2021 | 89’ | FIFDH Genève 2021

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La Guerra di Algeria, prima, durante e immediatamente dopo. Ma è indirettamente che Villi Hermann ci racconta la follia fratricida di questa guerra, andando a scegliere le persone come lui, come lui a Parigi in quegli anni, persone che hanno scelto la diserzione, trovando tutti riparo in Svizzera, ma quasi tutti confrontati infine alla prigionia. Con il suo approccio personale, quasi intimo, Hermann racconta un pezzo di storia svizzera e semplicemente la storia di persone comuni e del loro gesto di resistenza civica, fino all’esperienza volontaria in Algeria nell’immediato dopoguerra, a cui Hermann in persona ha partecipato.

Uno degli aspetti più intriganti di questo film è il suo montaggio – firmato da Jean Reusser – che compone con intelligenza e senza semplificazioni un mosaico complesso alla cui fisionomia ultima ci avviciniamo lentamente, attraverso un discorso cinematografico di pura polifonia.

Choisir à vingt ans | Film | Villi Hermann | CH-ALG 2017 | 100’ | Locarno Festival 2017 | Solothurner Filmtage 2018, Solothurner Filmtage 2021

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Online streaming at the Solothurner Filmtage 2021

Was treibt junge Menschen heute in den Widerstand? Und wie weit darf, muss und kann so ein Protest gehen? Um diese zentralen Fragen kreist Und morgen die ganze Welt und stellt dabei mitunter zweifelhafte Thesen auf. Denn die junge Frau, Luisa, um die es in Julia von Heinz’ energiegeladenem Politdrama geht, ist nicht nur in der Grauzone zwischen Mitmachen und Kämpfen gefangen, sondern vielmehr in ihren Gefühlen zu einem gut aussehenden Antifa-Typen, der ihr bei ihrem ersten Einsatz gegen rechts zu Hilfe kommt. Ein derartiger Ansatz bringt jedoch Probleme mit sich, zum einen im Hinblick auf die Motive, die tatsächlich hinter Luisas Radikalisierung stecken, sowie in Bezug auf die Glaubwürdigkeit der Figur insgesamt. Und was zunächst als eine wachsame Kritik am heutigen Verständnis von Politik und Gesellschaft beginnt, entwickelt sich zunehmend zu einer seltsamen Dreiecksgeschichte zwischen modernen Revoluzzern, die letztlich viel weniger resolut sind, als sie gerne sein würden. Vor allem aber, dass die Jurastudentin aus gutem Hause irgendwann im Alleingang mit einem Jagdgewehr ihres Vaters auf die Nazis zielt, um anschliessend, wie es so schön heisst, die Flinte ins Korn zu werfen, verärgert eher, als dass es auch nur entfernt plausibel erscheint. So wie Luisa nicht hören will, was ihre beste Freundin ihr zu sagen hat, als die beiden sich in ihren politischen Aktionen immer weiter voneinander wegbewegen, so scheint auch von Heinz mit allzu sturem Blick auf ihre Figuren zu schauen.

Worin der Film dafür umso mehr überzeugt, ist in der Vermittlung einer latenten inneren Unruhe, einer Nervosität, die sich von den Protagonisten ausgehend mittels kluger Kameraführung und gekonnter Schnitte auf das Geschehen überträgt und deutlich macht, wie dringlich die Lage ist. Bei von Heinz, die in ihrer Jugend selbst jahrelang bei der Antifa war, sind die Autonomen heute noch so unerschrocken wie damals in den Achtzigern. Die Diskussionen, die zwischendurch unter den Linken geführt werden, gehen dagegen nie unter die Haut. Vieles bleibt an der Oberfläche, wird nur kurz angerissen, manches ganz ausgelassen, und auch die Nebenrollen bleiben jede für sich eindimensional und flach. Eine derartige Typisierung und Verkürzung in der Charakterzeichnung führt schliesslich dazu, dass die Jugendromanze unweigerlich in den Vordergrund rückt und einer Wut im Bauch den Platz streitig macht, die eingangs verspricht, was sie erst ganz am Ende, im Abspann, als es bereits zu spät ist, einzulösen vermag. 

Und morgen die ganze Welt | Film | Julia von Heinz | DE 2020 | 111’

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What’s going on in the Philippines? How is Rodrigo Duterte conducting his “war on drugs”? What are the real consequences of his brutal regime? These are probably the questions that pushed many viewers to attend the world-premiere of Alyx Ayn Arumpac’s Aswang at IDFA last year, and convinced new ones to watch it when screened at Zurich Film Festival.

In the local folklore, “aswang” is an umbrella term used to describe many shape-shifting spirits that prey on humans, such as vampires, ghosts, witches and other monstrous creatures. Since 2016, this “nightmarish” term has become part of everyday life in Manila and all over the archipelago. The documentary opens with a shot depicting a flashing police siren and what seems to be a crowded crime scene. «Night after night the darkness unravels bodies, sprawled face down on the streets. Death floats down the rivers and the sea», says the voice over narrator at the end of this short prologue. That’s exactly what happens in the Philippines, where police are allowed to torture, kidnap and kill anyone suspected of being involved in drug-dealing activities, with minimal or no consequences.

Here, Arumpac chooses wisely to focus her attention on the experiences of a limited group of people – among these the portrait of Jomari, a street boy, is the most shocking. She successfully documents the cruelty of the death squads in an impassioned cri de coeur that manages to remain lucid and achieves her goal of a “wake-up call” to the rest of the world. The camera work is functional and skilfully avoids sensationalising misery and violence. The score is essential and does a fair job, without overdramatising such despair. The lack of testimonies from the other side of the “barricade” (for example, police officers or government officials) represents a strong political statement itself and the choice to set almost the entire film at night already serves as an obvious, unintentional metaphor of the “dark times” under Duterte’s dictatorship.

All in all, Arumpac proposes a brave, urgent piece. Her documentary builds up multi-layered criticism towards the regime, showing how the current system is the result of connivance and corruption at many societal levels, ultimately proficient in protecting the strong and the powerful. There are surely certain areas that might have been explored in more depth; for example, the actions (or inactions) of political opponents, intellectuals and the Church. Nevertheless, Aswang accomplishes its main mission and leaves the viewers petrified and perplexed, reminding them that in the Philippines «whenever they say an aswang is around, what they really want to say is be afraid», and today it is still so.

Aswang | Film | Alyx Ayn Arumpac | PHL-FR-NO-QAT-DE 2019 | 85’ | FIFDH Genève 2020, Zurich Film Festival 2020

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