Last day of a divorcing couple where they start to share a feeling to make the last day to be a good one. but the more they get closer, the more they realize the relationship is already over.

Last day of a divorcing couple where they start to share a feeling to make the last day to be a good one. but the more they get closer, the more they realize the relationship is already over.

讲述了两个在飞机失事中幸存的男女，在科罗拉多州渺无人烟的荒山野岭等待救援的日日夜夜中相爱的故事。

A long-distance driver, a drifter, journeys from a tenuous reality into a vision of the afterlife, called forth by the spirit of the mountain. 　　Storyline： 　　I received a phone call from a friend I hadn't heard from in years. I answered, excited, but on the other end was only uncontrollable sobbing. "Daniel passed away," she said, through choppy breath and loud tears. A shrill, hot, ringing sound filled my ears. Our mutual friend had overdosed on heroin. I first met Daniel during one of those hazy, humid summers you only get in Georgia. He was a living enigma: overflowing with mystery, and a sarcastic humor about what it was to be human on this planet. Our time together was spent driving around the suburbs, skinny dipping in the creek, and spending sleepless nights making art together. I was lucky to become close friends with him, he was the kind of person you meet once and never forget. During this time I had decided to come out as gay, despite a lot of backlash from the very conservative community I was living in. Daniel was the antithesis of all of that. He wasn't spitting hate and shame, but instead loved me for who I was. He continued to treat me with respect like the friends we always were. Daniel was the first person that was very close and special to me, to pass away. It happened like a flash. This sent me reeling through the long night trying to make some kind of peace. Which is when I started to write.—Caleb Addison Lanier

A long-distance driver, a drifter, journeys from a tenuous reality into a vision of the afterlife, called forth by the spirit of the mountain. 　　Storyline： 　　I received a phone call from a friend I hadn't heard from in years. I answered, excited, but on the other end was only uncontrollable sobbing. "Daniel passed away," she said, through choppy breath and loud tears. A shrill, hot, ringing sound filled my ears. Our mutual friend had overdosed on heroin. I first met Daniel during one of those hazy, humid summers you only get in Georgia. He was a living enigma: overflowing with mystery, and a sarcastic humor about what it was to be human on this planet. Our time together was spent driving around the suburbs, skinny dipping in the creek, and spending sleepless nights making art together. I was lucky to become close friends with him, he was the kind of person you meet once and never forget. During this time I had decided to come out as gay, despite a lot of backlash from the very conservative community I was living in. Daniel was the antithesis of all of that. He wasn't spitting hate and shame, but instead loved me for who I was. He continued to treat me with respect like the friends we always were. Daniel was the first person that was very close and special to me, to pass away. It happened like a flash. This sent me reeling through the long night trying to make some kind of peace. Which is when I started to write.—Caleb Addison Lanier

A summer day in the park: Through the ears, the pathways of both acceptance and rejection, Maha Maamoun weaves together multiple auditive registers and references to literary and visual articulations of the act of listening and the status of the listener (Berlinale 2014)

A summer day in the park: Through the ears, the pathways of both acceptance and rejection, Maha Maamoun weaves together multiple auditive registers and references to literary and visual articulations of the act of listening and the status of the listener (Berlinale 2014)

Carmen is 16. She spent her childhood in Berlin’s Kreuzberg district, but now lives with her mother Ruth and her brother Tito in estate housing on the edge of the city. Her father, a Puerto Rican soldier, abandoned the family. All that’s left to remind them of him is a handful of exotic postcards and his record collection of Caribbean and Hawaiian music. Mother Ruth works as a cleaning lady. Carmen dreams of becoming a dancer. She talks thoughtfully about her daily life and her dreams. Replete in lavish make-up and flamboyant robes, she acts out her fantasies in front of the camera – “I dream of a great love”. Inspired by the camp aesthetics of American underground films, Elfi Mikesch’s documentary celebrates, without fear of pathos or bombast, a teenager’s “small escape” from the restrictions and routines of everyday life. Approaching her protagonist on equal terms, the director uses both picture and sound to develop a vision of an alternative tropical world as a counterpoint to West Berlin’s barren Gropiusstadt projects. And with that, it suddenly seems as if the conditions in those petty bourgeois living rooms could, in fact, be changed.

Carmen is 16. She spent her childhood in Berlin’s Kreuzberg district, but now lives with her mother Ruth and her brother Tito in estate housing on the edge of the city. Her father, a Puerto Rican soldier, abandoned the family. All that’s left to remind them of him is a handful of exotic postcards and his record collection of Caribbean and Hawaiian music. Mother Ruth works as a cleaning lady. Carmen dreams of becoming a dancer. She talks thoughtfully about her daily life and her dreams. Replete in lavish make-up and flamboyant robes, she acts out her fantasies in front of the camera – “I dream of a great love”. Inspired by the camp aesthetics of American underground films, Elfi Mikesch’s documentary celebrates, without fear of pathos or bombast, a teenager’s “small escape” from the restrictions and routines of everyday life. Approaching her protagonist on equal terms, the director uses both picture and sound to develop a vision of an alternative tropical world as a counterpoint to West Berlin’s barren Gropiusstadt projects. And with that, it suddenly seems as if the conditions in those petty bourgeois living rooms could, in fact, be changed.