Regie: Fabiane Kemann Musikalische Leitung und Klavier Peter Aidu Dirigentin Ekaterina Antonenko Musikalische Bearbeitung Arno Waschk Dramaturgie Satchel Reemtsma Produktionsleitung Isabel Aguirre, Daria Leduck Regieassistenz Leonard Beck Chorassistenz Anastasiia Sidorkina Requisite Amandine Monsterlet Produktionsassistenz Polina Efimova
Mit Almut Zilcher, Margarita Breitkreiz, Artemis Chalkidou, Thomas Dannemann, Edwin Cotton, Niels Bormann, Bernd Grawert
Chöre & Chorleiter*innen: Intrada (Moskau) mit Ekaterina Antonenko, Synagogal Ensemble Berlin mit Regina Yantian, Refugio Chor mit Regina Yantian, Lysius Chor mit Sergi Gili Solé, Erich-Fried-Chor mit Maria Haupert und Andreas Bunckenburg, Hans-Beimler-Chor Berlin mit Johannes C. Gall
The Devil’s Drivers has the intensity of a 1970s chase film as it follows Palestinian smugglers on high-speed trips to help workers cross the border.
“On the left side is Israel, on the right side is Palestine,” explains Hamouda as his beat-up car speeds through the desert trying to evade Israeli soldiers. His mission is to smuggle Palestinian workers across a southern gap where Israel’s border wall hasn’t been finished. Without viable jobs in the West Bank, they’re desperate to cross to where labour is in high demand. If they’re caught, everyone in the car will go to jail. Still, this gamble remains their best hope.
Corona liest ab von einer Textkarte: Die Rolle, die der Artist in seiner Nummer darstellt, ist allerdings keine Theaterrolle im üblichen Sinn. Anders als der Schauspieler realisiert er im Allgemeinen keine literarisch fixierte Dramenfigur. Er agiert aber auch nicht als Privatperson, sondern legt sich für seinen Auftritt ein bestimmtes Aussehen und ein bestimmtes Verhaltens- und Handlungsmuster zurecht, das dazu dient, seine Kunststücke möglichst publikumswirksam zur Geltung zu bringen.
The Nomads are friendly, humble and curious. They don’t see foreigners often but don’t mind too much either. It has been a long way. A 6 hour drive interrupted by a car break down at 4 hours in. We are going to get there, we knew – it would just take so much longer.
My friends uncle took us in. He hosted a small welcome tea, asking questions in translation and within an hour we are streched, teeth cleaned smiling adventurous, ready for the next day to come.
The valley farms citrus fruits that gives a living color to the rough and stoney soil. We eat it after breakfast, right from the tree. No chemicals, says the uncle. Everything right from the sun, advances my friend. Everyone farms them, he tells me. They come in closer, some take helping hands during the harvest, mostly afghan refugees.
The life is simple and poetic. The first nomad i meet hums and eats a citrus fruit. He allows my photograph and receives a snack as a gift from my hosts. Nomads come south during the winter and north in summer. Herding goats in a stone desert and walking from oasis to oasis as if along pearls on a necklace. Today we use cars, tells me one of them. We used to walk all the way.
The cracking of stone is the only interruption of a silent heat in summer. Stones creates a new pattern of sounds that is different from what i had heard before. The occasional bird would sing, the song would echo and the silence return. My host takes the shotgun and no bird chirps anymore. Every bird that rises, gets shot with pricision. Meal is selfmade tonight. Open fire at nine. Sit on my matress, on this solid piece of rock.
While playing at at a river between Iran and Irak, a small girl loses her kite to the other side of the border. The boys who play there, try to make contact but not only language seperates them. The dangerous playgrounds hold explosive leftovers from the last war.
When we went to the Berlinale 2020 we had heard of Covid before. But it did not make any difference: “This might be the last one” someone said “and after this it is apocalypse.” They might have been right we woulnd´t know until two months later, safely in our homes.
Several small groups of filmmakers gathered in a room with couches and hot beverages. Intimate, friendly and with a cool courisosity what might be happening next. The selected nominees for the generational competition at Berlinale had ensembled to glance on a prospective future.
The award ceremony was not until thursday and hundreds of films could be visited with free entrance. We had looked, seen and talked with some of the others teams before my new group would find their curiosity nursed, their stomach satisfied and the hydration appropriate. Time to watch some movies.
We travelled as four into Morroco. Our van broke down in Saragosa, Spain, we fixed it in Tangier. My main memory is the little bumb we did when arriving at the port in Tarifa in south of spain. One night in a hostel right at the Strait of Gibraltar that disconnects Europe from Africa by only 13 km.
We leave early in the morning, barely a jog from the hostel. We step onto the ferry, leave the van in the belly and enjoy the ride. There is an old american memory anchored in this part of the world. Jimmy Hendrix, the beat generation all had reported on the oriental promise it holds.
After some relaxing days in the high atlas, with hikes and camping, I travelled off towards Marrakesh, buzzling City of سوق . Find a sweet stop at Essouria and travel back to the inner Atlas.
Cities like Fes and Meknes
It takes long busride to get here, one of them peaking at 12 hours. The latter one a city with little tourist ambition remains still as daily life sweeps through it lightfilled corners.
As I made my days through the city and tried to capture something that felt more life like than the globalized frontlines of Hallo, Guten Tag! Möchten Sie … etwas kaufen? to kind hearted, warm, people, genuine exhaustion and a secret place for pride.