Laïka Planchenault

Darkness can be mysterious and scary but also mind-provoking and triggering for one’s fantasy. elephantfish, a film as unusual as its title, starts by describing an equally peculiar dream narrated by a quiet voice in the background of the black frame: an elephant in the sea greedily drinks the water as if trying to swallow it all. As the dreamer approaches the monster, it gets smaller and smaller, no bigger than a fish. Instead of turning into a Leviathan1 as the quasi-mythological premise of the tale suggests, it eventually dies, and the film itself unfolds in a hardly expected way.

Prompted by the curious Vice article “Why Are Cuban Men Putting Pearls in Their Dicks?”, Joke Van den hof’s mind sprouted this steaming tale of love and lust. The Antwerp-based illustrator and animator ponders the consequences of total infatuation. If her playful rendering seems like a far leap from the original story, further consideration has it make perfect sense. Mamada Perdida—which roughly translates to ‘lost blowjob’—reminds us of the frenzied state so characteristic of first love. What better testament to the follies of love (or is it lust?) than a slew of men putting pearls in their penises in hopes of offering their sexual partners the ultimate pleasure?

Early on in the film, Servais employs the boundless possibilities of animated film to portray a surreal scene: two cranes squabbling over a wooden container. The container drops and breaks. Its content: a pile of rocket bombs. War is the central theme in many of Servais’ films (Chromophobia, Operation X-70, Tank); here, however, it seems to only casually add to the dystopian world. The future has been devoured by war and industry. Literally devoured: a lonely fisherman catches nothing but fish bones. He looks deeply saddened.

In The Summer Movie, nothing much seems to happen. A man, Philippe, meets up with his friend Aurélien and Aurélien’s 9-year-old son Balthazar. They travel around and talk about random things, seemingly without much of a goal. And then they all go their separate ways. Yet despite such a disparate narrative, the film seems rich and rewarding, redolent with an examination of a life lived and the momentary feelings of freedom in lives regimented by the pressures of the modern day.

Note on Multitude observes a multiplicity of queues—at first, from afar, and then, up close—aggressively bridging the distance with rapid cuts where ‘here’ and ‘there’ switch up their positions. In less than eight minutes, Ibro Hasanović (director, cinematographer, editor) has encapsulated an ever-unfolding web of stories, their nuclei forever embedded in these black-and-white nocturnal shots. A harsh but beckoning pull becomes the connecting tissue between sequences as bodies make room for faces in conversation with other faces.

Earlier in 1930, Storck was entitled ‘official filmmaker of the city of Ostend’. Allowing him to—next to his sales and administrative work in his late father’s shoe shop—take to town and record gentlemen in bespoke suits, seated in beach chairs with legs extended off the ground in an attempt to keep their precious shoes from touching the water, as seen in Trains de plaisir. The twentysomething had been tasked with capturing day-to-day life in Ostend, to be screened in theater. He himself, however, negotiated room for personal work and experiment.

Those moments between a first date and kiss, between a goodbye and a funeral, between a final exam and a proclamation are seemingly empty. With All We Ever Wanted Was Everything, Enzo Smits zooms in on this idea. What he finds is a beauty that is not easily discovered. Rather than a clear narrative structure, Smits’ debut film presents itself as a stream of impressions. A group of friends pass time together. They talk, walk, and play video games. They stare into nothingness and wander off. What are they waiting for? The first days of school? A taxi? The dawn of their adulthood? In the background, a clock is ticking while one of the boys prepares a cup of tea. Time is slipping by, but nobody’s in a hurry. Growing up is a lesson in patience.

With inequality as rampant as it can get and failed political structures eroding more and more as time shows their inherent futility, the milieu of the Latin American urban center has truly evolved into a no man’s land, a non-place of sheltered privilege juxtaposed to chaotic urgency, a “phantom city” as the initial narrator of Juanita Onzaga’s The Jungle Knows You Better Than You Do calls what she used to think as her hometown of Bogotá. The past tense of the latter statement has to do with her moving on from the Colombian capital, a setting that for her can only evoke violence and forgotten bodies, a sense of phantasmagoria close-knit with her family history.

Apart from water, salt, and clouds, Mello’s work often features young and older people, artists, animals, and cities; these things are the source of her documentaries. Her films always leave room for fictive contemplation and interpretations. Water and Salt, for that matter, hardly reads as a documentary. In these reflective ten minutes, she attempts to translate a thought, a feeling, an observation. In situations like this, where words are insufficient, and the outside world offers few answers, Mello constructs her own images. Or she turns to archival ones.

Athens often is perceived as the ideal holiday destination. It is the birthplace of democracy, overflowing with culture, and has exceptional cuisine and countless picturesque squares to spend time carelessly. This, however, isn’t the image the five twentysomethings in Waithood have of the Greek capital. For them, Athens feels like a prison where they are forced to kill time together. Christos, the only one in the group with a stable job, cleans up luxurious Airbnbs. When the tourists leave, he and his friends take over the apartments. And then the waiting takes over. Christos and his friends are insecure about their future. Waithood refers to the stagnation recent graduates can find themselves in, especially in economically challenged regions.

The year is 2017. As the French presidential elections approach, the spirit of the times marches at full speed into unrest. Pierre Nisse portrays a young adult whose inner conflicts resonate with those of the outside world. Exasperated trying to fit in with the upper-class frivolities of his university, Pierre looks for answers in the dominant political discourses. D’un château l’autre follows his steps and sneaks into the political rallies of Emmanuel Macron and Marine Le Pen to show us the self-evident artificiality of these gatherings à la Trump.

Gisberta’s murder holds an important, symbolic place in Portuguese LGBTQIA+ history, similar to the murder of Ihsane Jarfi in Belgian history—a no pasarán after which society decided to enact new laws. Luckily for us (and for her), this film, this short requiem, does not attempt to convince us of the horror by reenacting Gisberta’s death in horrific detail and length, like Animals early last year deemed necessary.

To be a giant comes with the burdensome nature of giant-ness. Most things look infinitely smaller than you. You move awkwardly, lankily, to not inadvertently step on anything you might not see. Thus, this Red Giant proceeds with unsure gestures, sluggishly, as if both depressed and aware of the potential inconveniences his size may cause. Yet, contrary to his stature, a sense of fragility surrounds the giant. Perhaps his nakedness makes him look like a tall, helpless baby. The film’s visual style further underscores this, with the pinkish hues of paint that collect around his small eyes and nose, denoting a form of innocence.

Plucieniczak is searching for the spiritual in the notion of Living For The Weekend, and as it gets closer, the colours are further enveloping, pink turning to red. Strobes flicker on Martens’ bald head. His body is out of focus, camera swerving left and right; it’s full Irréversible; the music begins to swoosh in, a trance banger waiting patiently to drop. But instead, we cut into the lounge.

Willy’s roots can also be found in the main character of De Swaef’s graduating film Soft Plants (2008). The short documentary follows an old and lonely officer who finds refuge in his thoughts and fantasies of a dark and magical forest. This longing for safety, a stubborn passivity, or even feigned innocence is woven into the duo’s oeuvre.