Christian Preuss

Indifferent landscapes, refracting light, some lonely bird and the window to the sebum-laden living room made of patterned wallpaper and trivialities. Cut. Tenacious sequences inflate moments to cliff-hangers and shatter their tremulous spectatorship. Thundering leitmotifs – in constant intoxication by German disinterest – with no backrest or lederhosen. Black-red-gold at full mast, the cinema is dead.

The 24-year-old Ekkehard is shocked by the suicide of Hans Georg, a young man under his care, and moves into his room because he initially believes that the causes of the suicide can be found in this environment. In his search for the reasons, his perception of his own reality changes.