I watched a lot of films on MUBI that became my favorite channel. I used to watch movies in the theaters, also with you, remember? But doing it on a couch in my living room, as you watch youtube, is something I learned during Covid and I like it. But I will go back to the theatres, I promise. Next week it will be the 25th edition of Berlin & Beyond  – May 25 to May 30 – and as a co-founder and long-time director I was asked to contribute one of my favorites. I suggested a few  films, most of them small productions that were not available to be screened at the festival. It came down to Christian Petzold’s YELLA, and I am glad to have see it again. A mesmerizing, compelling film that has Petzold’s unmistakable signature of thriller suspense embedded in politics, with elegant, clean cinematography and at the center the fabulous Nina Hoss, his long time collaborator. 

I watched Baby Sasha grow from a few weeks to a few months. Then he was packed into an astronaut’s suit and flew with mommy to Budapest without Oma – but I will visit soon. 

I watched you, Ella, navigate through zoom school and it was hard – you need real people to learn from – but you learned plenty from watching ipad, and from helping your sister Tessa get through the Covid isolation. Doggie Millie (adopted after Cleo’s sudden heart attack – not Covid)) helped as well,  the only unhappy one when school opened again.  

Like everybody else I started baking bread – and pizza –  and I really like it!

We saw another chicken die – Pumpkin RIP – and 4 new ones arrive that started laying eggs. And we found out that the color of the egg matches the color of the chick’s ear.  

And I saw the monster house next to my cottage getting bigger and higher.  

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A Sad Update to the Chicken Stories

Granny was hacked apart by a hawk. We all witnessed the attack and ran inside only Iris must not have made it to safety. When we huddled together for the night Iris was missing and she never came back.  She disappeared without a trace, not even a black feather in the yard. Could the hawk have been so greedy that he lifted her off the ground after devouring Granny? While we were running inside? No remains were found, no blood, no feathers, no screaming… Tux died today after a short illness of unknown causes. And Sugar stopped laying the XL eggs that we all so admired, especially our caretakers – may be they were too big.  So we are now reduced to a small family of 7 and only Brownie still lays an egg every day.

Hope next time we will have better news to report. Stay tuned.


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Here we are: of all colors – brown, black, white, light brown, dark brown, orange, sprinkled — of all Shapes – small, big, skinny, voluptuous — of all Characters – independent, aloof, social, cuddly, skeptical, curious, lazy, shy — and of all Ages – from 5 months to more than 5 years and that is pretty old for a chicken, be assured. We all get along fine, except for little fights over special treats and we used to lay those beautiful eggs of all colors but no more. Something happened gradually over several months and by the summer we all had stopped laying eggs. So sad, because the ladies who take care of us tried so hard to get us back on track with special treats – MacDonalds for chickens, they said, and special worms. Really delicious. They took some of us on their lab, patted our feathers, fed us out of their hands but nothing worked. One of the ladies has a little helper, perhaps her granddaughter – you can see her on one of the photos with Ruby. We love that little girl but she didn’t succeed either. No eggs. Yup, thats true. It has been an unusually hard year and I tell you why.


   I’m Audrey — like Audrey Hepburn, you guessed it. I look like her, they say, with the white top hat and the slim, elegant shape. I don’t know Audrey Hepburn, but if she looks anything like me she must have been beautiful. I have been around for about 4 years and most of them with my beloved brother, the rooster in our family of ten. He picked me as his closest companion over all the other beauties in the coop. Good choice. We were an attractive couple,  visitors took photos of us all the time. Max, like Maximum, that was his name. He died last winter all of a sudden. No slow ailing into nothingness. Just dead one day lying under the oak tree. I was devastated. Could not lay any eggs anymore. Would run around the garden looking for him. Stopped eating even the special treat that we got more often after Max had died. Perhaps to make us forget our Max but I’m still thinking of him with tears in my eyes. And I still run around looking for him. My closest friends among the chicks, Iris, the black one, and Hilary all in white, keep reminding me to slow down. Hilary and Iris are not really close friends like Max was, but we look good together since our colors match – black and white and grey feet – not yellow like ordinary chickens. It has been almost a year since Max left us and I can’t lay eggs anymore. Every other day I used to lay a perfect snow white egg and would get a special reward from him – he would surprise me by jumping on me and giving me a big big hug. Max, I miss you so much.


  So why do I not lay eggs anymore? I can tell you. I don’t like what’s been going on this year. Max disappeared. Audrey, my sometimes companion,  got depressed. All our helpers came with a diaper around their face. Couldn’t recognize them anymore and it was hard to understand what they were saying. We used to love to talk to them in the morning when they fed us and cleaned up our poo. They did understand our chicken language – and we their  people languages that inspired us, or at least me, to lay a dark brown egg every day.  But that changed. With all the turmoil we had to go through I started loosing my precious feathers. I do have a lot of them, not like little Ruby, who really can’t afford losing any. (See this photo with the little helper, I think her name is Tessa.)  But you could hardly notice the loss on my big black coat – only I did. And that was in the middle of the summer, not like winter when that usually happens. In any case, that’s why I stopped laying eggs. But let’s listen to Ruby, Pumpkin, Hilary and Copper and the newcomers Sugar and Brownie. They might also shed a bit more light on their sisters’ death shortly after they had joined us. So sad.


 Some people call me Phoenix but ever since little Tessa showed up my name changed to Ruby. I joined the flock some years ago, was handed over the fence by the kids of the nursery school next door. I do like little kids, they hug me, feed me and carry me around like a baby because I was different from the others – smaller, grayer, never laid eggs on a regular basis, only once in a while, and all that made me an outsider to the gang. The big ones, especially Iris and Granny and Copper pushed me away when special goodies were handed out so I relied on  my little helper to feed me. Tessa is very concerned about my well being but she did not hand out much of that special “junk food” I liked so much. Why not? I asked her and she said that her mother, one of the caretakers, couldn’t afford buying special treats anymore for the chickens and for her. The virus had made her poor. I wish I could lay an egg every day just for little Tessa. But it doesn’t work. Something  stopped a while ago. I’m glad though that I can still be here and hope to spend the rest of my life with Tessa under the big oak tree.


Even though I’m not the oldest of the bunch but you can see why they gave me that name. I have a beard and hair – or soft down feathers on my feet my chest, my face, like an old rooster. But I’m not a rooster – I assure you – I used to lay eggs but when it got so hot this year and there was nothing but smoke to breathe all day and night I couldn’t lay eggs anymore. I lost a few feathers over the summer but not enough to keep me cool. I’m looking forward to the colder months and will see if the eggs will come back.


 Hilary – as in Hillary Clinton with white suit but only one L . From her I must have inherited my intelligence, grace and beauty and I’m proud of it. If only she had become the president instead of that rude, ugly guy with fake orange hair. I’m not the president of our chicken community – Iris or Audrey came closer to it before the pandemic changed everything. Yes, Corona starting with C divided this year in BC (before) and AC (after) , better would be DC – during Corona – because it is still around. Almost all people visiting us still wear the mask. Why don’t we have to put one on our face? I heard the virus originated from a market place in China where birds spread it to humans. We are birds too. A mask, please!


I joined the family more than 6 years ago and I became very cosy with whoever is feeding us. I like to sit on our caretaker’s legs – if they have time to sit down at all. Do you like my colors? Brown and light gray almost blue sprinkled into the light brown and a dark brown collar. Like Ruby I like being petted and hugged. I wish it would happen more often but this year during corona times even we chickens – except Ruby – had to stay 6 feet apart from most of the caretakers. Are we and perhaps our eggs carrying the virus too? So better not to lay any eggs to stop the spreading.


 Round, orange, with some dark speckles but  not ready yet for soup or pumpkin pie – even though I stopped laying eggs. Why, you are asking. Well, the answer is not so simple. I came to the coop about 5 years ago, laid many, many eggs but it stopped. I don’t know why. The virus, the smokey air, the young newcomers who don’t really socialize with me – and then two of them even died.  Strange things happened in our coop this year. I think I have done my share of laying eggs and am ready for retirement.


Black and white and that’s it. No other resemblance to those fine guys in tuxedos. I’m always pushed aside in the coop, you see Iris and also Brownie, the latest addition to our family, looking at me as if I don’t belong here – although I have been around for many years – and I’m pretty too, don’t you agree. I think, Pumpkin is right. After having laid many eggs we deserve a comfy retirement. I’m looking forward to it.


Hi we are SUGAR and BROWNIE – I’m sure you can figure out who is who. Let’s start with the sad news. We arrived together from a farm close to Yosemite with our beautiful sister COOKIE who got sick and died. The caretakers tried hard to make her feel better with hand-fed goodies, a safe place separate from all the others who attacked poor Cookie – Sugar and I did not. We watched her fade away and hoped that whatever she had would not get us. So scary with this dangerous virus going around. Cookie found a beautiful resting place near by, next to the rooster Max. We did not know him. Cookie was replaced by another Cookie from the same farm near Yosemite and that Cookie also died after a short illness. You see the three stones with flowers, the family grave. Very strange what happened to our Cookies. It must have been the virus but nobody else got it. Sugar and I became strong beautiful women. It took a while to find a comfortable place in our new family of 8 ladies, some of them, especially black Iris, can be very aggressive. And even my sister Sugar lately developed a mean streak attacking me over goodies. But we always end up making peace, go to our nests and lay an egg – every day. Sugar’s is huge, XL, said our caregiver, mine more size M, and lo and behold, even black Iris started laying a dark brown egg again. She would watch me on the nest and when I was done she would sit down right after me in the same warm nest and lay an egg that she then pecked to pieces. What a bummer. It made the nest sticky and uncomfortable but she stopped doing that. The other day the caretaker wrote with big black ink the number 3 on the calendar. Three eggs that day. So, be assured Ladies, better times are ahead. Cheers to 2021!




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A Day in the Times of Corona

Good morning sunshine, a fine day is in the air. With a cup of hot tea a short walk through the community garden to the chickens. They can’t wait for food and company. Audrey, always stylish in black with a white box hat, controls the flock.


Enkelin Tessa loves Ruby and, of course, we stay 6ft apart. Oma with mask and gloves and wipes.  On the way back we pick some greens – kale, mache, beets – from my piece of the garden for lunch and dinner.

After catching up with nothing but depressing news a bit of brain exercise – the MINI  crossword puzzle. Then a late morning walk to my favorite place, the water reservoir with splendid views of the wetland projects at Hamilton. I made  5,437 steps, not quite enough, but beautiful steps.

My afternoon activities: reading and napping, practicing 5 easy pieces on the piano – always Bach – writing in my favorite place, the kitchen – and cooking dinner.

A spectacular sunset by the playground that was taped off limits. But life goes on while we are all sheltered in place. Nieta Ella (she goes to a Spanish school) turned 7 – a small party without Oma. Daughter Milena got married – no party. But spring has been painting it’s own colorful party and I’m happy to witness it in good health.


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EFFIGY – Poison and the City


On April 21, 1831, the last public execution in Bremen took place on the Domhof in front of a huge crowd of 35,000 curious citizens. Gesche Gottfried, 46 years old, was beheaded for having poisoned 15 people close to her over a stretch of 15 years, including her children, parents, brother, husbands, lovers, neighbors and friends. A stone with a cross, in the pavement of the Domplatz, memorializes the spot of her beheading and legend has it that people still spit on it. Gesche Gottfried confessed to have fed her victims Mäusebutter, pig fat mixed with arsenic, easily available over the counter to kill mice. Why did she do it? A question that she never answered during her three years behind bars; a question that has puzzled those who knew her, as well as psychologists, historians, writers, and filmmakers who again and again have tried to make sense of her gruesome murders. Germany’s first female serial killer who had risen to a status reserved mostly for men, was also known as the “Angel of Bremen” because she took good care of her victims. She sat at their bedsides like a loving nurse, mother or daughter while they were in pain and dying. Was she looking for love? Fassbinder wrote “Bremer Freiheit” about Gesche Gottfried, a play turned into a TV drama. Did she, an intelligent, attractive and seductive women, simply live at the wrong time, as Fassbinder implied? Was killing the people around her, Gesche’s  tormented path to freedom? Secretly she had learned French and to play the piano, how many other secrets did she have? At 21 her father forced her to marry a well-to-do impotent alcoholic …her first victim.

At the 1998 Berlin & Beyond Film Festival GESCHES GIFT, a first feature by Walburg von Waldenfels was on the program. A powerful psychological thriller trying to get into the head of the serial killer. EFFIGY – POISON AND THE CITY (an underwhelming title), also Udo Flor’s debut feature, takes a different approach. Flor has added a second woman protagonist, a young law student who arrives in Bremen in 1828 from the University of Göttingen and narrates the events (in English). Cato Böhmer’s dream is to become a lawyer. However, she is barely accepted in Bremen as the apprentice to Senator Droste, who is in charge of the Gottfried case. Böhmer soon convinces the senator with her acumen and understanding that she is the right person for the case. A hint of attraction between the two women – both fighting a system that is set against them – touches those central scenes played convincingly by Suzan Anbeh (Gesche) and Elisa Theimann (Cato). Gesche, unpredictable, flirtatious and caring, opens up to Cato and eventually confesses to the murders. Unfortunately, much of the film is slow and quiet which seems to suck the suspense out of the story. Too many distracting side-plots with long-winded conversations  dominate the action which does not end with the execution, alas, but with red rain from the Sahara falling on Bremen. Closing the frame story, Cato Böhmer comes back from studying in the United States and tells us that she did not give up on the very male dominated world of law.

The film will be shown at the SF INDIE FEST on January 31, 7.15 pm and February 4, 9.15 pm at the Roxie.

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HOW TO BUILD YOUR DREAM HOUSE on a Small Lot in a Historic District of San Francisco.

The lot is 25 ft wide in a historic district. The existing one family home (yellow, 2200 sqft) can not be erased – so what do you do to build a comfortable home with 7000 square feet living space? That’s what we need for two people, minimum, really. But on this lot you can’t go up, not right or left you can only dig deep. So add 2 underground levels with elevator from garage to the highest roof deck, (there is a 2nd one, of course) turn the garden into concrete  (inside / outside living adds more space)  with a little bit of green here and there for the eyes; add big glass boxes to the existing structure and bingo: there is the dream house. Will show you the result when it is done in 5 years from now and up for sale. See the yellow vests on the photo? They are not digging for gold, or bones or other archeological finds, no, just to prepare for the walls that need to be there to support the dream house. Lots of jackhammering to get rid of the rocks that prevented the houses from collapsing in the 1906 and 1989 earthquakes. Those rocks have to go. Luxury is coming with glass and steel and concrete where nature dominated the scene. Nature is overrated. Only the old lady next door does not agree. She likes flowers and plants (see those photos of flowers and blossoms around her cottage – like everywhere on Face Book – boring). Why did they build that cottage in the first place? Would be so much easier to triple the size of the yellow house without that stupid cottage next door and that woman who spends too much time at home. She got a set of beautiful headsets from us, the best, even 2, one for visitors. She writes, she says, and the noise is excruciating. Hmm, not with the headset. We also put up a high dark-green dust curtain next to her lemon tree and rose bush (see photo). They will not survive, she says, her roof deck is already covered with yellow dust and she has been coughing since the digging started. She is exaggerating.  Anyhow, this is all we can do and we are doing the right thing. Helping to bring badly needed luxury living to this vibrant neighborhood. That’s why all the building commissions and the appeals board gave us the green light and told her when she appealed the permits: Wake up lady, this is San Francisco. If you don’t like it, move someplace else. Yes, move and we will happily buy your house.

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Peter Handke & Deutschstunde

When Austrian writer Peter Handke was recently honored with the Nobel Prize for literature, it caused quite an uproar. His political views, not his writing immediately became the center of attention by journalist and fellow writers. During the Yugoslav war of the 1990s, Handke, who has Slovene roots on his maternal side, developed a strongly pro-Serbian stance, resulting in his 1996 book A Journey to the Rivers: Justice for Serbia, in which he painted Serbia as the true victim of the conflict. In 2006, he spoke at the funeral of the Serbian war criminal Slobodan Milošević, declaring: “I don’t know the truth. But I look. I listen. I feel. I remember. This is why I am here today, close to Yugoslavia, close to Serbia, close to Slobodan Milošević.” Speaking to Austrian media after the Nobel Prize was announced Handke said: “I’m standing at my garden gate and there are 50 journalists – and not from a single person who comes to me do I hear that they have read any of my works or know what I have written,” And he concluded that he will never speak to the media again.

The Nobel committee has made a troubling choice. I love some of Handke’s earlier works, his plays and scripts turned into unforgettable films by Wim Wenders. Kindergeschichte (1981) tells the father’s story of raising his young daughter after a divorce, Der kurze Brief zum langen Abschied (1972, the road story of a young man traveling across the United States in search of his estranged wife (reminiscent of Wim Wenders’s Alice in the Cities (1974)) Wunschloses Unglück (1972), a semi-autobiographical story about his mother who took her own life. No doubt Handke is a great writer although his later works did not make it into my top ten list. Does he deserve the Nobel Prize? That highest recognition should be given to writers who we admire whole-heartedly for their writings and if outrageous political views overshadow the writing the Nobel Prize is not the right choice. No.

The recently released film Deutschstunde  is another troubling choice. Why make another film based on Siegfried Lenz’s novel Deutschstunde (1968) that focuses on an overly authoritarian father who blindly follows orders given by the Nazis and forces family and friends to do the same. Michael Haneke’s The White Ribbon did all that with much more depth, horror, insight and beauty. The trouble with Deutschstunde is that filmmaker Christian Schwochow and his mother who wrote the script decided to stick to the novel which portrays the painter Emil Nolde as a Nazi victim. Extensive research on his life and work documented in a recent exhibition in Berlin has revealed that Nolde was not just a member of the Party but also an outspoken anti-semite, who tried to cozy up to the authorities which was not always successful – some of his paintings ended up at the degenerate art exhibition in Munich. But still Nolde made more money with his art than other German painters before, during and after the war. The film shows us a slice of Nazi drama in a small village by the north sea around Nolde’s home. Beautiful cinematography of seascapes are the backdrop for stylized images of discipline, submission, terror, confusion and pain. The images don’t go beyond that, they don’t dig into the past, the present or the future. Like Nolde’s beautiful paintings they remain on the surface. Christian Schwochow is a talented filmmaker and I had really hoped for a different Deutschstunde.


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Der Vorname/How About Adolf is a remake of the French film Le Prénom from 2012, a huge success in France but at that time not in Germany. However the new film by Sönke Wortmann (Das Wunder von Bern, Der bewegte Mann) adjusted to the present political and social trends and wrapped into a feel-good narration became an audience favorite in Germany as well. A dinner party in the family – host Stefan, a  know-it-all professor of literature lectures everybody incessantly about everything, from the dangers of eating pizza to Goethe’s thoughts about names. How can his wife stand him? We will have to wait to the end of the film when she has the last word – not her smart-ass husband  –  wrapping up an evening that almost ended in a family feud.  Her brother, a school drop-out turned wealthy realtor, is expecting his first child, a son, they intend to name Adolf. That gets the ball rolling. How can you name your child Adolf? The family is shocked. Fast moving, aggressive talk turns into personal attacks unravelling long-held prejudices and grudges. To keep the dramatic arc from collapsing, new things have to be thrown into the discussion – flash-backs spike up the story, family secrets are revealed and when things seem to fall apart the hostess/narrator attaches a feel good happy ending to the story. Compared to the French film of 2012, Wortmann has focused on the comedy aspects mellowing down the political, social implications. But a smart screenplay with unexpected twists and turns, fine performances and fast-paced dialogues make up for the short comings. (In German with English subtitles)

The Tobacconist/Der Trafikant is based on the bestselling novel by Robert Seethaler who is acting in this film that takes us to 1937 Vienna. 17-year-old Franz is sent by his mother from the idyllic countryside to the big city to apprentice for a tobacconist, her former lover who is Jewish and has fought in the Great War where he lost a leg but keeps the door of the smoke shop open for all and any customer. One of them is Sigmund Freud – Bruno Ganz in one of his last performances shines as a grandfather-like advisor for Franz on all things sexual. A coming of age story in difficult times that exposes Franz to so many hardships from coming to terms with his sexual awakening and meeting the father of it all, Sigmund Freud, to antisemitic atrocities at his workplace and falling in love with a young  prostitude. Unable to digest it all in the course of just a year Franz seems to move from one plot point to the next without showing how much it touches and changes him. The friendship with Freud shifts the focus from the tobacconist at the center of the  political turmoil of antisemitic attacks to Franz’s teenage preoccupation with sex and does not really allow him to develop emotionally any of the inner and outer upheavals shown in the film. Vienna in the late nineteen thirties has been beautifully reconstructed and that alone is worth seeing The Tobacconist. (In German with English subtitles)

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THE AUSTRIAN TOUCH at Frameline 43

THE GROUND BENEATH MY FEET /Der Boden unter den Füßen, DIR Marie Kreutzer

When we talk about “Austrian Cinema” the famous names of Pre- and Post-War2  are often incorrectly thought of as German, for example Maximilian Schell, Romy Schneider, Hedy Lamar, Oskar Werner, Curd Jürgens, Klaus Maria Brandauer, Arnold Schwarzenegger (always Austrian),  Christoph Waltz, and directors like Billy Wilder, Fritz Lang, G.W. Pabst, Josef von Sternberg, Otto Preminger and Fred Zinnemann.  Most of them pursued careers in Germany and in the United States. The 1950s brought Austria the largest film production boom in its history. Heimatfilm was the focus. Without national subsidies neorealist or New Wave schools that had revitalized other European cinemas during this era had not yet developed. By the late 1960s the commercial Austrian film industry had collapsed. Austrian television became the medium for entertainment film. The short films of the radical Viennese Actionism movement rejected narrative structure completely, and Austria’s alpine landscape, as well some of its directors and actors, were used for West German comedy productions.

Not until the late 1980s, when national subsidies had arrived, did a new generation of Austrian filmmakers establish themselves at home and in the first decade of the 21st century, Austrian cinema found its long-delayed New Wave and gained international critical success. Michael Haneke, Barbara Albert, Ulrich Seidl, and Michael Glawogger among others, entered the international circuit with disturbing often shocking films like Funny Games, Dog Days, Megacities, Free Radicals. Compared to their German counterparts they dissected society in much harsher, darker, more sarcastic or cynical ways. That trend has continued until today.

Marie Kreutzer’s film, Der Boden unter den Füssen, seems to prove the point. It’s like “Toni Erdmann” without the comic relief, to sum up my immediate reaction. Lola (Valerie Pachner), an attractive workaholic with a business career on the fast track to success, manages her personal life with the same ruthless efficiency she uses to optimize profit margins. She keeps her relationship with her boss Elise a secret, as well as the existence of her older sister Conny, who has a long history of mental illness. When she learns that Conny has attempted suicide, Lola’s life seems to unravel and the secrets threaten to explode into the open. As in “Toni Erdmann”, a driven young woman tries to make it in the glitzy business world but family interference shakes up the ground under her feet. Kreutzer’s film is a dark, twisted psycho-thriller with many secrets and characters bordering on clichés. But fine performances and good camera work should keep your eyes glued to the screen. The film premiered in the competition of the 2019 Berlinale.


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The Wealth Train Is Steamrolling My Neighborhood

A rehearing request to the San Francisco Board of Appeals may be granted only to prevent manifest injustice. A month ago I did request a rehearing – my last chance, I thought, to present a case of severe injustice to the commissioners. An architectural drawing (above) shows the vast difference in scale between my cottage (yellow) and the planned construction next to it (purple). The outrageous size of the new home in the Liberty Hill historic district of the Mission struck all who saw the drawing – all except for the 4 members of the Appeals Board present at the hearing – Rick Swig, Daryl Honda, Ann Lazarus, and Rachael Tanner. They never asked the developer to downsize. They did not grant me a few months of construction delay to provide peace and quiet for the guests, who had booked my small airbnb place long ago. I had asked for a sound barrier to protect me from the torturing noise of deep excavation set to start any time and run for 8+ months. I did not get that either. Without addressing any of my requests at all one board member opined that  no manifest injustice had been done and the others agreed. End of discussion. Monster homes are welcomed by the city, no matter where, even on small lots and next to my unique historic cottage, the oldest home on the block.  A 2300 square foot home will be turned into 7000 square feet of luxury living, with 2 roof decks taking away the last bit of privacy from the neighbors, and a basement unit without access to daylight on top of the deep garage. The City has blessed it all adding more tax revenue to this already superrich city but taking forever away the charm, comfort and quality of life from this neighborhood. When I presented my case to the historic preservation commission I was told “Wake up, this is San Francisco!” If I don’t like it, I should go someplace else. My new neighbor, however, was never told to wake up and build his dream house someplace else. He will live there, so he swore. Welcome, Justin Mc Baine!

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BERLIN & BEYOND March 2019

If you can see only one film at this year’s Berlin & Beyond Filmfestival (March 8-14) then  choose GUNDERMANN. Veteran filmmaker Andreas Dresen, a frequent guest at the festival  (HALBE TREPPE, SOMMER VORM BALKON, DIE POLIZISTIN, WOLKE 9, HALT AUF FREIER STRECKE) worked for 12 years on GUNDERMANN, longer than on any of the films he has made since 1990. Why? “Der singende Baggerfahrer aus der Lausitz” – the East German singer, poet and excavator driver whose songs gave a voice to the coal miners, was a convinced communist but also hardheaded critic, a Stasi collaborator but also its victim. Gerhard Gundermann makes for a good story, the film foundations in Germany agreed, but who the hell knows Gundermann? Nobody in the West, except Bob Dylan and Joan Baez who had him as opening act for a concert in 1994. Dresen did not give up.  After all, he countered, who the hell knows Toni Erdmann? At the premiere in Potsdam in November 2018 Dresen shared the stage with his star Alexander Scheer to present his favorite Gundi song: Alle, die gehen wollen, sollen gehen können/ Alle, die bleiben wollen, sollen bleiben können/ Alle, die kommen wollen, sollen kommen können. I had never heard of Gundermann. The film opened the door to a captivating singer and beautiful songs and to a chapter of the past seen here through a different lens, different from all the recent GDR films I have seen. Here the focus is on Gundermann in the seventies and nineties – the fall of the wall is not mentioned implying that Gundermann’s life had not really changed when the wall disappeared. He kept driving the excavator, he kept singing songs about the coal miners, about love, life and death. He wore the same clothes, the same super thin pony tail, only the frame of his glasses had changed,  He had married Conny, the love of his life, who at times shared the stage with him. The big difference however, was that the Stasi was gone in the nineties. The only thing left were huge stacks of Stasi files – of the victims and of the perpetrators. A thick file on Gundermann turned up documenting in detail his collaboration with the Stasi, the people he spied on, what he reported mostly trivial, intimate stuff. No files of him as a victim of the system ever showed up although he fought  the authorities, questioned the goals of the leadership, threw quotes of Marx and Engels at them, defended communism in its pure form. Dresen recreated Gundermann’s life truthfully, even swapping apartments between ex-husband and new lover happened the way it is shown on screen, says Conny who now lives in Prenzlauer Berg. Dresen grew up in the GDR and when he visited Berlin & Beyond with CLOUD 9 THE LIVES OF OTHERS had won an Oscar for best foreign film. He did not like the film. It did not show what really happened in the GDR, he said. It was a view from the West across the border, how the West Germans and the people in Hollywood imagined what was going on behind the wall. GUNDERMANN seems to be Dresen’s “Gegendarstellung”, his response: a nuanced, intimate portrait of a “Bürger der DDR” full of contradictions, honesty, compassion, anger, openness, quirkiness, wit and sensitivity – all of it powerfully performed by Alexander Scheer. Gundermann had to live in a world he did not fit in but loved. He died in 1998 at the age of 43.

And if you have time for a second film I recommend 3 DAYS IN QUIBERON about Romy Schneider, who also died at 43. In 1981 a year before her tragic death she agreed to pose and talk about her life with journalists of Der Stern, at a spa hotel in Quiberon, Britanny. Filmmaker Emily Atef (DAS FREMDE IN MIR, MOLLY’S WAY) chose black and white to recreate the interview and the photographs starring Marie Bäumer whose uncanny resemblance with Schneider and convincing  performance anchor this portrait of a tortured actress. Schneider’s tremendous popularity never made it across the ocean, not as Sissi, the pure, sweet Austrian princess who made her a major screen celebrity at 17, and not later when she tried to break away from that role moving to France, where she chose ever more challenging roles and where affairs, marriages, and divorces, made her major fodder for the tabloids. Even those less familiar with Schneider as an outstanding actress will sympathetically respond to this portrayal of a troubled woman on the cusp of further tragedies (her teenage son was accidentally killed later that year, and she died of a heart attack not long after). The family of  Schneider has attacked the film  which they claim paints her as an alcoholic. Her daughter, who was 4 when Schneider died, insisted her mother went to the spa every year simply to recover and lose weight. Yet  Atef’s fictionalized recreations – not always truthful – create a portrait of Schneider’s inner struggles, self-doubts, evanescent moods and magnetic personality that she might have liked.

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Zum 2. Mal auf dem Jakobsweg in Frankreich – von Aumont-Aubrac, wo wir letztes Jahr aufgehörten, bis nach Figeac. Acht Tage strammes Wanders, was dieses Mal Spuren an Knien und Füssen hinterlassen hat. Beäugt von Kühen mit Hörnern (die Aubrac Gegend ist bekannt für gutes Rindfleisch, was offensichtlich von glücklichen Kühen stammt, denen man nicht nur ihre Hörner gelassen hat, sondern auch ihre Kälber und die Gesellschaft von mächtigen  Bullen) und bestaunt von verdutzten Eseln, wenn sie mit Kniefällen begrüßt wurden, ging der Weg an uralten Kirchen und Klöstern vorbei, die nicht nur als spirituelle Wegweiser dienten, sondern auch als Schlafstätten oft neben dem Glockenturm, der mit Rücksicht auf die Wanderer abends ab 10Uhr schwieg. Morgens Nebel über den Wiesen noch schöner als in San Francisco, und nachmittags Sonne, so heiss, daß man den Schnee herbeisehnte, der die Landschaft fünf Monate im Jahr bedeckt. Nach fast 200km am Ziel – nicht in Santiago de Compostela, aber in Figeac, unserem Ziel, noch zwei Monate von Compostela entfernt.


Elbphilharmonie Hamburg. Ein beeindruckendes Gebäude, wie ein riesiges Schiff aufs Wasser der Elbe  gebaut von den Architekten des hiesigen de Young Museums. Aus Backstein der Rumpf, wie die Speicherhallen nebenan, und obendrauf die Takellage, geschwungen wie große Segel (erinnert an Frank Gehry’s Disney Hall in LA) . Das Schiff scheint jedem Wetter zu trutzen – nichts kann es zum Kentern bringen. Unterwassermotive ziehen sich durch den langen tunnelartigen Eingang, der die Besucher hochsaugt auf eine Plattform mit Blick über die Hafenstadt. Von dort kann man ohne eine Konzertkarte nicht in die Säle oder die Restaurants gelangen. Entgegen allen Warnungen war es nicht schwer, einige Monate vorher über die offizielle Webseite gute Karten zu – für amerikanische Verhältnisse – geringem Preis zu bekommen. Unser Konzert war im grossen Saal, in dem sich Meer- und Wasser fortsetzten.  Der Fußboden aus hellem sandfarbendem Holz, an den Wänden Muschelmotive, die Sitze hart gepolstert rund um die Bühne und hoch hinauf, wie in vielen neuen Konzerthallen. Auf dem Programm stand das Ensemble Resonanz. Ein junger Mann, nicht der Dirigent, gab eine ungewöhnliche Einführung ins Programm, das der Stimme gewidmet war. Nicht nur der Gesangstimme, sondern auch der politischen Stimme, die, wie er betonte, wichtiger denn je ist, zu erheben und zu artikulieren. Das Publikum klatschte begeistert. Den Abend eröffnete eine Solostimme mit allem, was eine Stimme an Tönen hervorbringen kann. Die Solistin war irgendwo oben in den Rängen platziert, für viele nicht sichtbar aber gut hörbar, glasklar vom Pianissimo zum Forte. Stravinsky’s Apollon musagête unterstrich die messerscharfe, klare Akustik der Halle. Zum Schluß Mozarts’s Jupiter Symphonie zu der ich mir einen wärmeren Ton gewünscht hätte, der die einzelnen Instrumente mehr verschmelzt als seziert. Dennoch ein wunderbares Erlebnis. Ich bin ganz gespannt auf eine große Symphonie mit großer Besetzung im großen Saal der Elphi.


Bis Ende September war Sommer in Berlin mit richtig heissen Tagen dabei, an denen ich mich ins Kino verzog, wo es allerdings auch nicht immer AC gab. Wie die Berliner nur den heissen Sommer überlebt haben? Meine kleine Wohnung im 5. Stock fühlte sich wie im Treibhaus aus, Ventilatoren waren längst ausverkauft. Leider hab ich um einen Tag WERK OHNE AUTOR, den neuen Film von Donnersmarck, verpasst, aber er kommt hier sicher auch bald ins Kino. Mein Augenmerk war auf MACKIE MESSER – Brechts 3Groschenfilm gerichtet, der aufrollt, was schief ging, als die Oper Anfang der dreißiger Jahre zum Film werden sollte. Wie zu erwarten, wollte Brecht nicht nach der Pfeife der Produzenten tanzen und die Verhandlungen als Beispiel kapitalistischer Ausnutzung anprangern. Das hat er erreicht. Lars Eidinger spielt Brecht überzeugend in Ledermantel mit Zigarre und klugen Zitaten, die alle aus Brechts Mund stammen. Kurt Weill, Lotte Lenya, Helene Weigel scharen sich um den Meister, der unbeirrbar seinen Weg geht. Immer wieder faszinieren die Lieder, die auch für diejenigen, die sie zum xten Mal hören nichts an Qualität verloren haben – wenn nur Max Raabe nicht eingeladen worden wäre, Mackie Messer zu singen. Sein weiches Gesicht, in dem nur die Lippen dramatisch verzogen werden, um dem Text eine schräge Note zu geben, scheinen das Beißende aus den Liedern zu nehmen. Zum Glück schließt  alles mit Brechts kratzender Stimme, er liest “An die Nachgeborenen”. Ein langer Film, der am Schneidetisch hätte gestrafft werden können um den Fokus nicht zu verlieren. Am Ende ist man froh, dass alles vorbei ist, aber man ist auch froh, den Film gesehen zu haben, ein Kapitel in der Geschichte der Dreigroschenoper, das zugleich ein bedeutendes Kapitel in der deutschen Geschichte ist. BALLON basiert auf der bekannten Ballonflucht von zwei Familien aus der DDR in den späten siebziger Jahren. Die spannende, unglaubliche Geschichte wurde von Disney vor 30 Jahren verfilmt und konnte erst jetzt, nach Ablauf der Rechte, als deutscher Film auf die Leinwand kommen. Man kennt den Ausgang und dennoch sind die letzten Szenen so überwältigend, daß man in Tränen ausbricht.—- Zum Schluß ein paar lobende Bemerkungen zu ALLES IST GUT, ein Debutfilm von Eva Trobisch, der auf vielen Festivals gelaufen und Preise bekommen hat. Eine #MeToo Geschichte über auferzwungenem Sex nach einer durchfeierten Nacht. Die Konsequenzen sind weitreichend, obwohl die junge Frau, der alles widerfahren ist (sehr einfühlsam gespielt von Aenne Schwarz) so tut, als ob alles gut ist. Aber nichts ist gut, was dieser bemerkenswerte Film deutlich zeigt.


Nach über 50 Jahren hab ichs endlich zu einem kleinen Klassentreffen geschafft. Nur eine Handvoll der 20 Abiturientinnen unserer Klasse sind erschienen und davon hab ich nicht mal die Hälfte wiedererkannt. Ja, wir sind älter geworden. Gibt es wohl noch Gemeinsames außer der Schule, die wir alle besucht haben, dachte ich beim Hinfahren. Worüber kann man sich nach so vielen Jahren wohl unterhalten? Es war einfach: über Reisen, Kultur und Politik wurde gesprochen, über Familie, Krankheit und Todesfälle. Alle sind jetzt Rentner, viele nach einer Lehrerkarriere. Und nun werden Enkel gehütet, man reist, töpfert, Christina schreibt auf Plattdeutsch – “Wüer” ist bei Amazon.de erhältlich (was heisst nur wüer?). Andere malen – nicht Picasso verdächtig (die Hühner mit 13 gemalt, hab ich gerade in Perpignan entdeckt), aber den Zenith des Schaffens kann man auch noch im hohen Alter erreichen, sagen die Forscher. Auf jeden Fall sind aus meinen Mitschülern hervorragende Kuchenbäcker geworden: Apfel- und Zwetschenkuchen, Windbeutel mit viel Schlagsahne schmeckten so lecker als käme es aus der Küche meiner Mutter.

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