From desperate attempts to round up injured troops from the trenches to children playing on burnt-out tanks, Ukrainian filmmakers have brought the battle against Russia in all its horror to this year’s Berlinale film festival.
“There are no red carpets at the front line. There is red blood-soaked soil,” Ukrainian ambassador to Germany Oleksiy Makeiev told visitors to an event to showcase Ukrainian cinema at the country’s embassy in Berlin.
“There are no second cuts on the front line. There is only one chance to protect the country,” he said.
Photo: EPA-EFE
The Berlinale is championing Ukrainian cinema this year in a bid to support filmmakers and highlight the brutal reality of the country’s war with Russia on its first anniversary.
Europe’s first big cinema showcase of the year, which runs until Sunday, is spotlighting Ukraine with a host of screenings, merchandise and fringe events. The festival opened on Thursday last week with a video address from President Volodymyr Zelensky, who is the subject of a documentary premiered at the event by two-time Oscar winner Sean Penn.
Makeiev will also join Ukrainian filmmakers for a red-carpet demonstration today, exactly one year on from Russia’s invasion.
And a new European support fund for Ukrainian cinema worth 1 million euros (US$1.06 million) was launched during the festival by the culture ministers of France, Germany and Luxembourg.
New Ukrainian films showing at the Berlinale include Eastern Front, a no-holds-barred documentary filmed on the front line by filmmaker and volunteer medic Yevhen Titarenko.
Co-directed by Titarenko and Russia’s Vitaly Mansky, the film leaves nothing to the imagination as it follows the desperate effort to round up injured and dying troops from the trenches.
Titarenko, 34, ran a film production business in Crimea until 2014, when Russia annexed the peninsula. He travelled to the Donetsk region later that year, initially with the intention of making a documentary.
“I saw with my own eyes what was going on and made a decision to take part as a volunteer,” Titarenko said.
He has since made more than a dozen films “to show people how (war) looks from the inside,” including this latest focused on the first months of Russia’s full-scale invasion.
“Ukrainians don’t want to fight and (go to) war, we want to make culture, normal things like in other countries. But we’ve got no other choice,” he said.
Another new film showing at the festival is Alisa Kovalenko’s We Will Not Fade Away, a documentary following the lives of five teenagers in the Donbas.
Kovalenko, 35, began filming the teens in 2018 as they were preparing to embark on an expedition to the Himalayas. After Russia’s invasion, she temporarily abandoned the project to spend four months fighting on the front line with volunteer battalions in Kyiv and Kharkiv. She then eventually returned to the footage and began editing it, a process that turned out to be “heartbreaking.”
“We understood that we had to change everything in the editing. It’s completely another film,” Kovalenko said.
The result is a haunting portrait of a fragile peace through the eyes of the teenagers, with the Himalayas expedition itself fading into the background.
“It’s about hope and the power of dreams,” Kovalenko said.
“Russia can bomb our cities, we stay without electricity, we can have no lights in our windows but if you still have this hope and you have dreams you still can have this light inside you. And this light Russians and war cannot take away from you,” she said.
Two of the protagonists have since fled the region, while two have gone missing.
Other Ukrainian films on show include Do You Love Me?, a fictional portrait of a teenage girl coming of age amid the collapse of the Soviet Union, and In Ukraine, a documentary showing snapshots of daily life under war in Ukraine’s towns and cities.
In Ukraine shows children playing on burnt-out tanks and in urban play areas with destroyed buildings in the background. The festival is also screening Ukrainian director Roman Liubyi’s Iron Butterflies, which chronicles the 2014 downing of Malaysia Airlines Flight 17 by Russian-armed separatists in eastern Ukraine.
“We want to show our solidarity with Ukraine and with the people in Ukraine as well as the filmmakers,” festival chief Mariette Rissenbeek told visitors to the Ukrainian embassy.
June 9 to June 15 A photo of two men riding trendy high-wheel Penny-Farthing bicycles past a Qing Dynasty gate aptly captures the essence of Taipei in 1897 — a newly colonized city on the cusp of great change. The Japanese began making significant modifications to the cityscape in 1899, tearing down Qing-era structures, widening boulevards and installing Western-style infrastructure and buildings. The photographer, Minosuke Imamura, only spent a year in Taiwan as a cartographer for the governor-general’s office, but he left behind a treasure trove of 130 images showing life at the onset of Japanese rule, spanning July 1897 to
One of the most important gripes that Taiwanese have about the Democratic Progressive Party (DPP) is that it has failed to deliver concretely on higher wages, housing prices and other bread-and-butter issues. The parallel complaint is that the DPP cares only about glamor issues, such as removing markers of Chinese Nationalist Party (KMT) colonialism by renaming them, or what the KMT codes as “de-Sinification.” Once again, as a critical election looms, the DPP is presenting evidence for that charge. The KMT was quick to jump on the recent proposal of the Ministry of the Interior (MOI) to rename roads that symbolize
On the evening of June 1, Control Yuan Secretary-General Lee Chun-yi (李俊俋) apologized and resigned in disgrace. His crime was instructing his driver to use a Control Yuan vehicle to transport his dog to a pet grooming salon. The Control Yuan is the government branch that investigates, audits and impeaches government officials for, among other things, misuse of government funds, so his misuse of a government vehicle was highly inappropriate. If this story were told to anyone living in the golden era of swaggering gangsters, flashy nouveau riche businessmen, and corrupt “black gold” politics of the 1980s and 1990s, they would have laughed.
It was just before 6am on a sunny November morning and I could hardly contain my excitement as I arrived at the wharf where I would catch the boat to one of Penghu’s most difficult-to-access islands, a trip that had been on my list for nearly a decade. Little did I know, my dream would soon be crushed. Unsure about which boat was heading to Huayu (花嶼), I found someone who appeared to be a local and asked if this was the right place to wait. “Oh, the boat to Huayu’s been canceled today,” she told me. I couldn’t believe my ears. Surely,