The first competition lineup under festival director Tricia Tuttle was presented at this year’s 75th Berlinale and featured several films with young protagonists in focus. The world of children and teenagers is portrayed in vastly different ways. How do these films differ? How is the young perspective brought to the screen? And which of these films are fitting for a young audience?
Liv Thastum reflects on three of this year’s competition films: the Argentinian El mensaje by Iván Fund (Silver Bear winner), the Norwegian winner of the Golden Bear Drømmer by Dag Johan Haugerud, and the Ukrainian documentary Strichka chasu by Kateryna Gornostai.
Oppressed: El mensaje
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© Iván Fund, Laura Mara Tablón, Gustavo Schiaffino / Rita Cine, Insomnia Films
The Argentinian film El mensaje (The Message) is a bleak, black-and-white road movie. It portrays a young girl who lives in a trailer with two adults, Myriam and Roger. Her ability to communicate with animals is turned into a business model by the adults, in which Anika, who is around nine years old, bears the main burden. The family travels across the country, with Anika speaking to both living and deceased pets. The owners hand the money to the adults.
What’s interesting about this film is not so much the question of whether Anika’s gift is real, but rather how the film depicts the child’s powerlessness within this relationship dynamic. The narrative structure is cleverly chosen: from the very beginning, the film shows Anika’s neglect. With wet hair and no clothes, she sits at the back of the parked trailer, knocking in vain on the door and calling for her clothes. The next scene shows Anika at a photoshoot with Myriam. Forced to smile into the camera, Anika endures the session as Myriam relentlessly takes one business photo after another. The scene drags on — to the child’s distress. As the film progresses, loving moments between the adults and Anika do appear, but they remain overshadowed by the financial exploitation shown at the beginning. The black-and-white cinematography casts a suffocating veil over the events, one that never lifts. Because, unfortunately, despite setting it up so effectively, the film fails to take its conflict further. We see the three characters traveling from place to place, but nothing changes. No one speaks about the child’s exploitation, and Anika never resists. In fact, she hardly speaks at all -- except to the animals. Her inner world remains entirely hidden. The film unfolds like an immobile line. Sure, this choice is deliberate, meant to emphasize the child’s helplessness. There is no escape for Anika. Nothing can or will change for her. However, at this point, the film relies too heavily on its aesthetic and poetic elements. When the plot stalls, the film must continue on other levels. The soundtrack played by trumpets feels artificial, and combined with the black-and-white imagery, it comes across more melodramatic than artistic. The intended aesthetic tradition of El mensaje is apparent, but the tragedy fails to reach out. The viewer never understands how the child feels within this world. As a result, the drama remains external—imposed by an adult perspective rather than genuinely conveyed.
A film that doesn’t live up to its potential. Due to its lack of engagement with its central conflict, it is more interesting as an aesthetic experience and probably also won the Silver Bear for its poetic visuals. But for a young audience, other films in the competition are far more compelling.
Empowered: Drømmer
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© Motlys
The Norwegian film Drømmer (Dreams) could hardly be more different. In this gripping drama, we meet 17-year-old Johanne, who falls head over heels in love with her teacher. The film lays bare its protagonist’s inner world with unflinching honesty—because Johanne is writing a book. A book in which she describes, in a raw and deeply intimate way, what it feels like to be in love. She writes about joy and shame, about the fact that she has no one to talk to, and about the loneliness that follows. The film lovingly explores how writing can serve as a medium for reflection and how literature can help process personal experiences. When the film was awarded the Golden Bear of the 75th Berlinale competition, director Dag Johan Haugerud highlighted the power of writing: "Drømmer is a film about writing and reading. Write more, read more — that expands the mind, and that’s good for all of us!"
This sentiment is perfectly reflected in Johanne’s character. The film takes its intelligent protagonist and her emotions seriously, empowering young people and their capacity for self-reflection. That’s precisely what makes Drømmer a film that resonates deeply with younger audiences. In the form of an intimate voice-over, Johanne’s thoughts are given more space than is typically seen in cinema. And since the film is about writing, it’s essential to mention the strength of its screenplay. The script plays a major role in the film’s quality — both through its poetic and detailed descriptions and its skillful use of narrative techniques like flashbacks, but also through the way the characters are written: multidimensional and capable of selfreflexion. Johanne’s mother, for example, initially overreacts after reading the manuscript and wants to report the teacher. But later, she reconsiders and even supports the book’s publication.
Dag Johan Haugerud also excels in the film’s subtle handling of queerness. Johanne herself never questions the fact that she has fallen in love with a woman—the feeling is what matters. That’s why she’s caught off guard when her mother refers to the book as a story of queer awakening. "Am I queer just because I fell in love with Johanna?" Johanne asks, surprised.
Drømmer stands out through its poetic and intimate combination of text and visuals, its strong performances, and a narrative that leaves room for interpretation.
From May 8 Drømmer can be watched in German cinemas, offering a touching and engaging experience for anyone who has ever been in love — or dreams of being.
Overlooked: Strichka chasu
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© Oleksandr Roshchyn
For the first time since 1997, a film from Ukraine has been included in the Berlinale competition. This fact is surprising, given that Ukraine’s film industry has been producing high-quality, internationally successful films for decades. In the Generation section young audiences have regularly encountered films from ukraine since the section presented Shkola nomer 3 by Yelizaveta Smith in 2017. Just like this year’s competition entry Strichka chasu Timestamp these films — often in documentary form — portray children and teenagers searching for a place in a world marked by war. In 2021, director Kateryna Gornostai won the Crystal Bear in the 14+ category for her senstive film Stop-Zemlia . Now, she returns to the Berlinale with Strichka chasu and with her film finally a Ukrainian documentary is to compete in the festival’s main section — receiving the deserved attention.
"Let’s go see our classroom." Children wander through a completely destroyed school building. The gym floor is covered in shards of glass. Every step crunches. The walls of the classroom have been reduced to scattered pillars. Chairs and desks lie abandoned in the surrounding fields.
A third of Ukraine’s schools can only partially or not at all function due to the war. Many children are forced to attend online classes. Parents and students have been waiting for years for their schools to be rebuilt. Strichka chasu documents the situation in schools across the country. Despite bombed-out classrooms, air raid sirens, and lessons held in underground shelters, efforts are made to provide children with a sense of normalcy and connection. Without interviews or voice-over narration, the film delicately and respectfully captures the daily lives of the children and teenagers. As in Stop-Zemlia Kateryna Gornostai succeeds in developing a gentle, empathetic cinematic language —one that addresses war without reproducing its brutality or exploiting it for dramatic effect. This approach sets the film apart from the sensationalist war reporting that so often dominates media coverage.
In addition to its political relevance, Strichka chasu is both aesthetically and narratively impressive shaped. Through artful cinematography and outstanding editing, the film achieves a remarkable balance: it portrays a multitude of places and people while still maintaining a cohesive rhythm. At the press conference, editor Nikon Romanchenko revealed that some of the earliest filmed scenes were intentionally placed at the end to create a narrative arc — one that reshapes the development of the war. Another brilliant dramaturgical choice: the film begins with elementary school children before gradually shifting its focus to high school students and young adults in vocational training. The passage of time — the growing up of these children — is subtly woven into the film’s structure.
The greatest challenge in documentary filmmaking is often the selection and arrangement of material—and here, the team of Strichka chasu bravurös. Selbst der Soundtrack fügt sich stimmig. Die Bilder werden untermalt von einem ukrainischen Frauenchor. Die meist in Staccato gesungene, teils polyrhythmische Stimmführung verleiht dem Film Dynamik. Die Musik hilft dabei, sich in das Geschehen hineinzuversetzen. Wenn in Momenten die O-Töne ausgeblendet werden und die Vocalmusik erklingt, wird das Unausgesprochene spürbar: Ein schweigendes Kind im Klassenzimmer dem Unterricht nicht folgen kann – die Gedanken wandern woanders. Beim Vater? Beim Bruder? Vielleicht auch nur beim Kuscheltier.
The only thing this film lacks is a broader perspective. Not all Ukrainians find it easy to position themselves in the war, and not everyone supports the military effort without hesitation. Many have family in Russia, and not all identify with strong nationalist sentiments. For a different view, When Lightning Flashes Over the Sea by Eva Neymann, featured in this year’s Berlinale Forum, is highly recommended.
Nevertheless, Strichka chasu was the most powerful and courageous film in the competition—a favorite for the Golden Bear in many eyes. It remains a mystery why the most politically significant film in the competition was left empty-handed at the awards ceremony. Considering the dominance of Western high-budget productions in the competition lineup, one can only hope that in the race for financial success and glamour, the Berlinale does not lose sight of its reputation as a festival with political relevance.
Because it is films like Strichka chasu that can help us — young or old — to understand what mainstream media and Hollywood war narratives so often fail to convey: In the midst of war, people carry hopes and dreams that are not so different from our own. War is not about abstract numbers and exploding buildings. It is about people — people like you and me.
