Author: Tyran Grillo

Just Say No to Family Values (INDEX 036)

| Tyran Grillo

This INDEX anthology of queer, transgressive, and body-centered performance is a study of resistance in motion, shaped by Dietmar Schwärzler’s observation that, despite their aversion to gender fluidity, post-socialist societies are increasingly unable to suppress it. The selections curated here orbit one another like unstable particles, abrasive and intimate, each refusing the comforts of binary thinking. What forms is a constellation pushing against regulation and decorum, insisting that desire, embarrassment, violence, humor, and play be allowed to exist without being pressed back into polite accounts. It yields a portrait of a Europe whose margins speak more urgently than its institutions, where artists carve through rigid traditions with the unsharpened saw of selfhood.

This insistence on subjectivity announces itself from the beginning in John Giorno and Antonello Faretta’s Just say no to family values (2006), which stages an ecstatic performance in a tiny southern Italian village built to repel the unfamiliar. An elderly woman quietly observes Giorno as he recites his poem of the same name, a text that celebrates drugs as sacred substances and mocks Christian fundamentalism as a cultural virus, his voice ringing against the village’s stone surfaces. Giorno’s sentiments land gently in the air and harshly in the psyche.

Keren Cytter’s Der Spiegel (2007) elicits an even deeper tension. A 42-year-old woman sees herself as 16 because that is the age she imagines as desirable to the man she wants, a man who hardly deserves the labor of self-distortion. Mirrors open into recursive realities. Bodies multiply. Voices contradict themselves as if consciousness were rewriting its script in real time. A Greek chorus of women comments from outside the frame while the man who enters seems split between presence and condescension. Cytter reveals the violence that occurs when desire is shaped by misogyny: the self becomes a repertoire of poses rehearsed for someone else’s gaze until the poses crumble.

The body continues its revolt through the tangle of breath, fabric, and friction that is Maria Petschnig’s KIP MASKER (2007). Clothing is now a prosthesis, a means of making the body unrecognizable to those who would read it through convention. The soundtrack is raw: scraping threads, stretched seams, the sound of breath negotiating constraint. What emerges is an exploration of femininity stripped of its expected ornamentation, a choreography in which awkwardness becomes a form of liberation and confidence grows through estrangement.

Patrycja German’s Schenkeldrücken (Leg Wrestling, 2005) translates such interior struggles into a public contest. When the filmmaker challenges a group of men in Kraków to a leg wrestling match, they laugh at first, using humor to conceal their discomfort as they lose again and again. Her force remains steady, revealing the fragility of masculine assurance and the potency of female strength when staged without theatrics.

The anthology shifts into darker territory with Jaan Toomik, Jaan Paavle, and Risto Laius’s Invisible Pearls (2004), a descent into prison masculinities where desire, violence, and survival become inseparable. Men speak in fragments about coercion, self-enhancement, and mutilation in a disturbing film that reveals how sexuality mutates under duress, the body now the only site where agency can be claimed or lost.

Karol Radziszewski’s Fag Fighters: Prologue (2007) imagines milder forms of insurgency through craft turned militancy. An elderly woman knits pink yarn, which feeds into a machine that produces a vivid scarf, which in turn serves as the material for a ski mask. The mask is a tool for queer resistance, equal parts protection and provocation. Thus, domestic labor is reclaimed as an armament for a fantasy army that refuses invisibility.

If resistance often requires reinvention, it can also require drift, as in Deborah Schamoni’s Dead devils death bar (2008). In what Ken Pratt calls a Fassbinder-influenced satire of Berlin’s Bohemian nightlife, the single tracking shot features actors rotating through personas, conversations that collapse into absurdity, and an atmosphere thick with posturing. Nothing anchors these characters except their own shapeshifting roles. Even so, the emptiness of their talk becomes revealing. Behind the curated surfaces lies the weariness of souls trying to invent themselves with too little material.

The bonuses extend the anthology’s tonal range. Paolo Mezzacapo de Cenzo’s Under Water (1971) moves through a dreamlike forest of erotic projections set to Schönberg’s Verklärte Nacht. A man’s fantasies spill across scenes populated by multiple women, a baby, and a vague sense of guilt. Less a story than a psychic event, it is a veritable murder mystery conducted inside the self. John Giorno’s poem is also included as a PDF, revealing the sculptural precision behind his spoken word and reminding us that incitement can be both spiritual and surgical.

Across the entire collection, what emerges is not a stable argument but a terrain of embodied freedom. These films resist the false security that binary identities pretend to offer. They express different tactics of survival through erotic distortion, militant softness, and the refusal to quiet the thinking of the flesh. Together they form an archive of renegotiations, insisting that individuality is a continual act of becoming. And so, the most radical gesture remains the simplest: to let love explode on its own terms.

Ferry Radax: Thomas Bernhard – Three Days (INDEX 035)

| Tyran Grillo

“In darkness, everything becomes clear.”

Thomas Bernhard – Three Days is one of those rare portraits in which the filmmaker’s presence shapes every moment without ever imposing itself, guiding the flow of thought while allowing the subject to remain fully himself. Harun Farocki once described documentary as the art of arranging time; what Ferry Radax arranges here is solitude. Georg Vogt is right to call him a literary filmmaker, since he does not film people so much as he films the movement of their thinking. In Bernhard, he found a subject whose thinking is already cinematic: rhythmic, repetitive, self-correcting, darkly comic, and as angular as the cuts that shape this three-day conversation. The film becomes a study in how consciousness performs itself when given nothing but open space and a listening camera.

Bernhard sits on a bench in a Hamburg park, reluctant at first to “play himself,” eventually consenting to respond to a series of keywords Radax has prepared. This simple compromise yields a portrait in which artifice and confession blend into something more elemental. The park becomes a resonating chamber, an outdoor confessional where even the air seems to carry the weight of recalled experience. He speaks of playing a role in Lessing’s The Great Scholar and being unable for 20 years to move beyond the first line of an experiment he compulsively reenacts, as if treading a Möbius strip that mirrors his own philosophical dilemmas. He remembers the butcher shops of his childhood, the density of smell and sound that remains lodged in him with splinterlike insistence. He recounts the funeral of his brother’s friend, where he and his brother were beaten, their bicycle destroyed. These flashes enter abruptly and with startling clarity, then vanish again, as if delivered by a fragile projector that stutters between realms.

Radax punctuates the monologue with irregular fades to black. They do not function as dramatic gestures but as a kind of blinking, a punctuation suited to the syntax of thought. Bernhard often halts mid-sentence, not to create effect but because futility interrupts him, and the film chooses to honor these hesitations rather than conceal them. In the pauses, the park’s ambient life swells and the image inhales. One senses the weight of what remains unspoken, as though silence were an additional speaker at the bench.

When Bernhard reflects on isolation, he does so with the fluency of someone who has made loneliness his intellectual province. School was isolation, writing is a deeper isolation, and the self becomes a terrain that expands the longer one inhabits it. “If you are alone for a long time,” he says, “if you have become trained in loneliness, you discover more and more where for the normal person there is nothing.” He describes the page as a dark surface on which words suddenly appear like lightning strikes, as if language arrived from the same darkness it attempts to illuminate. Radax mimics this sensibility by allowing images to materialize from blackness with the same tentative grace.

Bernhard then recalls the sanatorium of his late teens, where illness and boredom pressed him into writing: “You either go mad or you begin to write.” For him, writing is less a craft than a disturbance, “the root of all evil I have to cope with now.” Yet when he turns to Vienna, his tone softens. The city’s melancholy, its overheard conversations, its minor tragedies unfurled on trams, all contribute to what he calls a “wonderful prerequisite for melancholy.” Vienna becomes a collaborator in his worldview, a place whose atmosphere trains one to hear the undertones of everyday communication.

Darkness is not a rhetorical flourish but a form of being. It is the origin from which truth emerges and the terminus to which everything returns: “The darkness is ultimate. It is farewell. It is everything.” Radax allows this final movement to settle without commentary, ending the film not with resolution but with an intake of breath, as if we are meant to accompany Bernhard toward that darkness rather than retreat from it.

A bonus interview from 2010 offers context without diminishing the resonance of the original film. Radax recalls reading Bernhard’s Frost and disliking it, yet becoming increasingly fascinated by the mind behind the work. He describes the challenges of filming, the elegant estate chosen as a location, Bernhard’s resistance to being directed, and the way the structure emerged as a matter of contingency rather than design. Above all, he insists on attention to detail. That attention is palpable in every frame of Three Days, which stands as one of the most intimate and spacious portraits ever made of a writer. It approaches documentary not as exposition but as shared solitude, a space constructed with meticulous care so that loneliness itself might speak.

VISIONary: Contemporary Short Documentaries and Experimental Films from Austria (INDEX 034)

| Tyran Grillo

VISIONary, the first two-disc anthology to make an appearance on the INDEX imprint, unfolds as a cartography of attention, an attempt to map the outer zones where Austrian documentary and experimental cinema probe the limits of seeing in the early 21st century. Curated by Michael Loebenstein and Norbert Pfaffenbichler, the set demonstrates how short-form filmmaking can bear witness to urgencies and absences, to architectures of power and of memory, to the world as lived and as imagined. How might images carry experience without embalming it, and how might sound reveal structures that narrative alone refuses to name?

Marine und Sascha, Kohleschiffer

Disc 1 begins by grounding these inquiries in the raw textures of endurance, displacement, and historical rupture. Ivette Löcker’s Marine und Sascha, Kohleschiffer (Marina and Sasha, Coal Shippers, 2008) introduces Lake Baikal’s frozen expanse as a site where labor and longing intermingle. Marina and Sasha wait for the ice to break so they can resume the work that both sustains and confines them. Their conversations drift between dreams and aphorisms, between faith in work and the sense that waiting for God and waiting for employment follow the same spiritual logic. Löcker’s camera listens as their voices echo across a landscape that offers neither comfort nor judgment. When Marina later writes that she and Sasha have left their profession, it resonates with the quiet force of two lives liberated from the time loop that once defined them.

Frauentag

Johannes Holzhausen’s Frauentag (Woman’s Day, 2008) turns from Siberia to the borderlands between Bavaria and the Czech Republic, revealing another kind of stasis. The border becomes a scar that is visible on maps yet continually reopens within remembrance. Through stories of displaced Germans, of lovers separated by territorial chess, and of families caught in the churn of postwar geopolitics, identity becomes a negotiation between inherited pasts and future uncertainties. August 15, Assumption Day, emerges as a memorial in which the land sponges the trauma that language often avoids. What might appear to be a minor observance serves as a reminder of our selective daily amnesia.

Eines Tages, nachts…

Moral clarity rings forth in Maria Arlamovsky’s Eines Tages, nachts… (A White Substance, 2008). A decade after the First Congo War, survivors speak on rape as a tactic of coercion, even as perpetrators offer evasions, officials shift responsibility, and UN peacekeepers are exposed as yet another predatory force. Lush landscapes collide with testimony that reveals the gulf between surface beauty and lived horror. As doctors describe children violated beyond comprehension, and how those treating them become collateral victims of their trauma, the film refuses to resolve such disorder, holding the viewer in a space where no disclosure can redeem the damage and no political rhetoric can soften its weight.

The disc closes with Klub Zwei’s Phaidon – Verlage im Exil (Phaidon – Publishers in Exile, 2007), which widens the frame to consider diaspora, cultural loss, and the ungraspable residue of ostracism. The story of Phaidon Press, founded in Vienna and driven into exile under National Socialism, becomes a parable of what happens when a country expels its intellectuals and artists. As Karin Gludovatz observes, “Phaidon is an example of the loss of people and of cultural resources that cannot be replaced through ‘reparations’—the voids Austria and Germany caused by National Socialism that must be made apparent.” Thus, the ruins of political upheaval are delineated as broken altars of restoration.

NightStill

Disc 2 offers some escape through abstraction. Michaela Schwentner’s la petite illusion (2006) opens with a cubist shattering of intimacy, portraying a couple through splintered interactions. In contrast, Elke Groen’s NightStill (2007) slows perception to a near-halt within the Dachstein mountains, where light and fog breathe through the landscape, and an electronic hum signals the presence of time itself. Unlike the work of Dariusz Kowalski, to which it might be compared, it has no feeling of menace but of a comforting progression that moves without intervention.

Minot, North Dakota

These shifts in tempo lay the groundwork for Angelika Brudniak and Cynthia Madansky’s Minot, North Dakota (2008), a study of a town sitting above 150 nuclear missiles once built to attack the Russians but which now lay slumbering beneath it. Children’s voices, testimonies from Air Force personnel, and the blank gaze of surveillance cameras mesh in quiet negotiation with catastrophe. The wonderful soundtrack from Zeena Parkins adds an unsettling undercurrent.

In the Mix

Jan Machacek’s In the Mix (2008) offers kinetic release, attaching a camera to a blender so the room becomes a spinning environment through which a dancer moves in playful resistance. The experiment pivots sharply into Siegfried Fruhauf’s Night Sweat (2007), a concentration on dread through lunar silhouettes and throbbing tones, evoking cosmic terror. Dietmar Offenhuber’s paths of g (2006) transforms Stanley Kubrick’s Paths of Glory into pure geometry, maintaining the original sound while turning the tracking shot into a bare-motion trace. War is reduced to a choreography of pixels stripped (but not robbed) of their humanity.

Borgate

Lotte Schreiber’s Borgate (2008) turns its attention to modernist Italian housing projects now stranded in their own saga. Fascist architecture, appropriated dialogue from Fellini and Pasolini, and crumbling structures combine into a palimpsest of utopian failure. billy roisz’s not still (2008) cuts across the grain with audiovisual glitch in a battle between screens and faces before Josef Dabernig and Isabella Hollauf’s Aquarena (2007) shifts the mode of inquiry toward infrastructure, revealing water systems as choreographies of law, design, and hidden logic. Michaela Grill and Martin Siewert’s cityscapes (2007) refashion archival photographs of Vienna into trembling proto-memories, suggesting that cities sustain themselves in glimpses, not foundations.

visibility of interim~

dextro’s 43 (2008) continues this interrogation of form by generating algorithmic white shapes that feel both biological and digital. Martin Bruch and Reinhilde Condin’s home.movie (2008) contrasts with deep intimacy as a camera travels along a track system designed by Bruch for his own mobility. Manuel Knapp’s visibility of interim~ (2007) conjures wireframe architectures that arise and collapse in the same breath, and Barbara Doser’s evolverevolve 01 (2008) concludes the anthology with pulsing neon synaesthesia where light and color find consonance in a kind of primordial signal.

Taken together, the works in VISIONary reveal cinema as a way of diving into the waves of experience. The documentary films remind us that truth is always situated within structures that sustain or wound. The experimental films remind us that vision itself is an invention, a means of producing what reality alone cannot yield. Through both modalities, portraits come to matter not because they are accurate but because they allow the visible to resonate with what we cannot see. In this sense, the anthology lives up to its name, offering not merely a record of the world but a proposition for how it might be perceived anew.

Maria Lassnig: Animation Films (INDEX 033)

| Tyran Grillo

Maria Lassnig’s Animation Films presents one of the great, insufficiently recognized revolutions in 20th-century art, staged not in monumental canvases or heroic gestures but in trembling lines, volatile anatomies, and the relentless honesty of a woman drawing her sensations from the inside out. Predominantly self-taught, expelled from art school in 1943, and overlooked for decades, Lassnig created an animated cinema that Maya McKechneay describes as governed by “changeableness,” an elasticity of form, gesture, and identity that refuses containment. At the center of her drawings and films is Körpergefühl, or body-awareness, the attempt to depict the flesh not as it appears but as it feels. These films, modest in scale yet vast in invention, move between autobiography and a kind of intimate sorcery. They deliver humor and metamorphosis while also releasing long-buried truths, distilled into tactile intelligence rather than argument.

Baroque Statues (1970-74) begins as a dialogue between religious sculpture and the living human body. The camera turns, zooms, and trembles around the saints, mimicking their gestures and completing what the stone cannot express. Regal Baroque music rises, and Lassnig pivots from carved figures to flesh: a woman outdoors, dancing in a costume that hovers between historical pageant and playful novelty. She overlays colors, freezes frames, and distorts movement in an effort to determine the temperature at which stone shades into skin and skin eventually becomes immaterial. Organ music lifts the sequence into a meditation on vitality, on the tension between cultural ideal and interior sensation.

Iris (1971) stages an erotic self-metamorphosis. A voluptuous body emerges from a heap of clothing, forming itself through gesture and breath. The figure is both biological and mechanical, a self-directed organism. Lassnig’s distortions—mirrors stretched into wounds, reflections that resist obedience—enact the struggle to become one’s own image. The soundtrack shifts from contemporary classical into a spectral rendition of “Sometimes I Feel Like a Motherless Child,” infusing the animation with a spiritual ache. It is one of her clearest expressions of psychic inside-outing.

Chairs (1971), drawn in felt-tip on paper, turns everyday furniture into sentient beings. Chairs sprout limbs, bodies collapse into seating surfaces, and recliners burst like sacs of tissue. Boundaries between animate and inanimate dissolve. Lassnig reveals how objects injure and absorb us, how the body co-creates its environment. The jaunty gypsy-jazz soundtrack introduces a layer of irony to what is ultimately a haunted deliberation of mortality.

Selfportrait (1971), the first cartoon self-portrait in film history, is Lassnig’s defiant rebuttal to patriarchal modes of representation. She maps failed relationships onto grotesque transformations: a face becoming a heart, a heart becoming a machine, veins linking her to a man who drains her vitality. Yet she insists, “I still love humanity despite my horrible experiences with men.” The film anticipates the surreal body-horror of Bill Plympton but exceeds it in emotional clarity. Lassnig rejects flattering likeness and instead draws a living diagram of pain, humor, and renewal.

Shapes (1972) presents silhouetted figures dancing to Bach’s harpsichord, later joined by starched-cloth stop-motion forms. The result is an animated counterpoint in which shapes stretch and collapse with the music, each silhouette a brief embodiment. Couples (1972) extends this into a portrait of relational struggle. Awkward figures pair and separate, pursuing and avoiding one another. Lassnig uncovers the animal core of domestic life. A man complains, “I have my needs and desires, but you’re not my universe,” only to hear, “Oh? This is life?” Magazine cutouts erupt into Terry Gilliam-style interludes that remind us how romance becomes a collage of need, illusion, and endurance.

Palmistry (1973) interprets fortune-telling as a psychosexual science of misreading. Lassnig layers childhood development, superstition, and self-distortion. The hand becomes a site where knowledge and desire collide, a literal reading of a life shaped by fear, imagination, and longing for impossible relationships.

Art Education (1976) is her most openly feminist work. She stages scenes from Vermeer, Michelangelo, and other canonical male artists, revealing how women’s bodies are objectified, ignored, or disciplined. Then, she reverses the order of things: the model paints the artist, Adam pleads with God to alter him, and Eve’s desires become unanswered questions. Guided by French Baroque music, the film exposes the absurdity of institutional authority and the violence within art history’s gender scripts. “You are Michelangelo’s invention,” Adam accuses God, a line that elegantly reveals how male fantasies pass as divine truth.

Maria Lassnig Kantate (1992), previously included in As She Likes It (INDEX 023) and co-directed with Hubert Sielecki, is the late flowering of this sensibility into song. At 73, Lassnig turns her life into an operatic self-portrait: childhood, art-school humiliations, betrayals by lovers, creative victories, and the joy of teaching, all rendered with humor, vulnerability, and exuberant self-possession. It is the natural culmination of a career devoted to reclaiming the body—its sensations, distortions, humiliations, and triumphs—as the truest site of art.

Across these films, Lassnig masterfully rewrites animation as a form of interior autobiography. She is not concerned with fantasy but with feelings that refuse to remain private: the embarrassment of being seen, the tenderness of self-regard, the absurdity of desire, the slow healing of wounds inflicted by patriarchy, memory, and time. In every frame, she insists that to draw is to inhabit, which is already an act of resistance.

This treasure trove belongs in every experimental cinephile’s collection.

Dariusz Kowalski: Optical Vacuum (INDEX 032)

| Tyran Grillo

Optical Vacuum opens into a territory that is neither fully voyeuristic nor fully clinical, yet borrows from both dynamics to unsettle the viewer’s most basic assumptions about seeing. Dariusz Kowalski poses the provocation at the heart of his project: “If surveillance really does scare society,” he asks, “why aren’t people marching in the streets?” Perhaps because these mechanisms have already seeped into our daily routines. Perhaps because their ubiquity now feels natural. Or perhaps, more troublingly, because we have forgotten how to see what they see. Situated between fascination and dread, Kowalski’s work draws its power from the way it reanimates what is usually overlooked: cameras that watch without intention, spaces in which nothing happens yet everything remains visible, the dull hum of existence captured with no expectation of an audience. His images vibrate with a tension that belongs neither to narrative cinema nor documentary reportage but to the uncanny region between them, where meaning thins to near-invisibility. This atmosphere is sharpened by the spare, icy electronic music of Stefan Németh, which lends each frame a crystalline edge.

Optical Vacuum (2008) clarifies the Kowalskian aesthetic with particular force. For 55 hypnotic minutes, alongside the disembodied voice of American artist Stephen Matthewson—recorded on a Dictaphone and recounting fragments of a life that never reveal their anchor—we watch images extracted entirely from internet camera feeds. Crucially, the words and images never intersect; they pass one another like strangers in a narrow corridor. The diary traces the outline of a subject without a body, while the surveillance footage supplies bodies emptied of subjectivity. The viewer drifts between attachment and estrangement, moving from a mahjong table to a radio station control room, from a Japanese laundromat to Alaskan icefields, from snippets of pedestrian routine to desolate rooms thickened by absence. The most disturbing footage is not that of human activity but of empty spaces: rooms whose only occupant is the camera itself, regarding the void with mechanical patience. Each feed is a miniature cosmos that never asked to be witnessed. Kowalski reveals the macro hidden in the micro, the metaphysical weight of absence, the enormity of unhappening. The effect recalls the vast, impersonal atmospheres of ambient musician Thomas Köner yet remains grounded in the banal infrastructure of online surveillance.

Elements (2005) functions as a companion, turning toward the frozen expanses of Alaska through webcams of the Alaska Weather Camera Program. Intended to track climatic conditions at airfields and remote outposts, these feeds become landscape cinema once reframed by Kowalski. They are, as Marc Ries notes, “horizon films rather than object films,” concerned less with discrete entities than with thresholds, with the way space dissolves at its perimeter. Time-lapse and mechanization erode immediacy, transforming clouds and light into drifting stains on low-resolution surfaces. Snowfields take on painterly abstraction. The smallest shift in illumination feels catastrophic, as if some distant rupture were passing through. Human presence is reduced to traces: tire marks fading into whiteness, a runway half-consumed by drifting snow, a horizon line trembling in ambient pressure.

Luukkaankangas – updated, revisited (2004) shifts its attention to Finland via the webcams of the Finnish Road Administration. Remote roads, blanketed in snow and rarely interrupted by headlights, evoke a world moving without witnesses. Wind skimming across asphalt becomes a form of drawing. The roads seem to register the presence of travelers who never appear. It is as if an unseen hand were composing messages that dissolve before they can be understood.

The bonus films take us further inward. Ortem (2004), an arresting work in its own right, descends into the Viennese metro system. Tunnels, stairways, elevators, and security feeds compose a subterranean organism, something cellular and pulsing beneath the city’s surface. Distorted loops create circuits of motion and memory. At times, the tunnels blank out into a red screen, as if the system itself were undergoing a convulsion. The film ends with trains sliding past in opposing directions and a static wall, a return to the network’s resting heartbeat.

Interstate (2006), composed from thousands of still photographs, provides a final act of distillation. Real-time traffic sounds persist, but the images freeze: rest stops, windmills, gas stations, vehicles suspended in mid-transit. Time advances while the frames remain inert. The effect is spectral, a country glimpsed only in that state between motion and stasis. The highway becomes a long exhalation of images that never congeal into movement, a road movie where the road never bends.

Together, these works propose a distinct way of seeing. Kowalski offers a cinema rooted not in events but in the conditions that allow events to be seen. He gives us a world composed of glances without biological gazes. And in doing so, he raises a disquieting possibility: that surveillance is not terrifying because it watches us but because it reveals how much of the world continues without us, indifferent to whether anyone bears witness or turns away.

Ursula Pürrer, A. Hans Scheirl, Dietmar Schipek: FLAMING EARS (INDEX 031)

| Tyran Grillo

Ursula Pürrer and Hans Scheirl’s Rote Ohren fetzen durch Asche erupts as a feverish, low-budget surge of post-Actionist, speculative queer cinema. Scheirl has described the film’s ethic as born of “passion, instant greed, an irresistible physicality,” made possible only through the harsh conditions in which the collaborators lived and worked. That extremity becomes generative rather than restrictive, producing an aesthetic suspended between collapse and invention, flickering amid the debris of a future already lost. The film’s “sheroes,” a term claimed without irony, are not classical heroines but warriors who carve desire from ruin. Their world is one of survival, lust, rage, and refusal: a cyberdyke vision that is gender-warped, tactile, devoted to color, texture, and bodily exaggeration, and resistant to patriarchal legibility.

Set in the year 2700, in the post-apocalyptic sprawl of Asche, the story imagines a city “too big for its souls, an unruly ferocious animal ready anytime to pee into the face of death.” Women carry the force of action, labor, and narrative agency, while the few men on screen perform clerical work, caretaking, child entertainment, and service roles. Power maps differently across bodies, and desire takes on its own logic. Spy (Susanna Heilmayr), a comic-strip artist, becomes our beacon. She sits late at night, sketching eroticized warriors, her quill scratching with urgency while storms lash her windows. Her printing house has just burned, and the rain only externalizes her psychic collapse. “Purity is a long-lost dream,” the narrator observes, and so it is that the film proceeds to strip away whatever illusions might remain.

Spy soon meets Volley (Ursula Pürrer), a volatile “sexed-up pyromaniac” whose fires serve as both erotic vocabulary and survival strategy. Her early scenes take place in a skating rink or some abandoned industrial corner. She masturbates, convulses with pleasure, then casually sets the place ablaze. Fire is not a symbol but the material of desire itself. Into this circuitry enters Nun (Hans Scheirl), an “amoral alien” wrapped in red plastic who moves through the city like a predatory seductress with no regard for human coherence. She eats snails and unnameable matter and loses a hand after devouring what may be an explosive possum. Her appetite is endless, her body a site of ongoing damage and regeneration. She gathers violence, humor, and eros into a single gravitational presence, the embodiment of anti-naturalism.

The film’s handmade quality feeds its atmospheric veracity. Scale models, scratch-film textures, and frenetic edits create a setting where time feels smeared as scenes drift from alleyways to nightclubs, from ersatz shelters to desolate urban expanses. Nothing fully coheres, yet everything builds momentum. Narrative accumulates as fragments, settling like ash after a fire. The city becomes a labyrinth of clandestine passes, erotic combat, and improvised alliances. Caretakers replace mothers, lovers replace authorities, and scarcity shapes every action.

Spy is saved by Volley, not through obligation but through an erogenous and political instinct. Women protect one another because no one else will. Volley and Nun form a symbiotic pair. Nun hunts, returning with scraps and stolen goods to offer. Meanwhile, Volley burns openings for their movement across the city’s ruins. Their relationship hovers between survival and seduction. Each nourishes the other’s hunger, restoring what the city has stripped away. This is a world of pleasures forged in absence, appetites sharpened by deprivation. Their love grows out of hunger, not merely for food or sex but for connection, autonomy, and a sense of embodiment in a world that has lost its coordinates.

The film unfolds as a chain of ritual encounters, improvisations, and ruptures. Women’s speech and action catalyze its current, while men drift at the margins as functionaries, interlopers, or ghosts of earlier orders. Queer futurism here emerges through the raw tactility of bodies, liquids, flames, plastics, and debris rather than through technological sheen. To fight is to feel. To consume is to connect. To burn is to speak.

The final movement spirals into a chaotic montage of destruction—all fires, wounds, collisions, and desperate attempts at sustenance—before settling into a strange and tenuous calm. It is not earned or explained; it arrives the way an afterimage lingers, the trace of everything endured. A world so thoroughly scorched cannot be made pure again, but it can reach a kind of exhausted equilibrium. What remains is the quiet sovereignty of women who fought for the sun with their bare hands and survived the blaze, marked by the flames yet still standing.

Martina Kudláček: Notes on Marie Menken (INDEX 030)

| Tyran Grillo

Martina Kudláček’s Notes on Marie Menken (2006) is equal parts revival and homage, an attempt to restore visibility to a figure whose brilliance shaped the American avant-garde even as her name slipped, mysteriously and unjustly, into obscurity. The director approaches Menken not as a lost saint of the underground but as a complex modernist force whose work wove spontaneity with discipline and lyricism with documentation. “Menken’s films,” writes Christian Höller in his booklet essay, “are not presented as an auratic holy grail but a mix of contemporary document and lyricism.”

Kudláček’s shimmering black and white contrasts with the bursts of color in Menken’s own films, allowing the latter’s sensibility, fluttering and incandescent, to punctuate the cooler investigation surrounding it. John Zorn’s score adds a pulsing undercurrent that avoids nostalgia and amplifies the restless intelligence of its subject.

Menken emerges as a figure of vivid contradictions: a commanding presence who made films of extraordinary delicacy, a private artist whose work entered public circulation only after encouragement from her family, a pioneer whose influence shaped Stan Brakhage, Kenneth Anger, and Andy Warhol. Brakhage appears in the documentary and acknowledges that Menken provided the deepest inspiration for his own handheld aesthetics. Her volatile marriage to filmmaker-poet Willard Maas, which partly inspired Edward Albee’s Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?, is recounted with a balance of humor and pathos. Their creative ambitions, infidelities, and drunken fights become an off-screen theater that fed directly into Menken’s art. She accepted Maas’s homosexuality, lived amid bohemian tumult, and converted chaos into cue, color, and cadence. Archival material of Menken and Warhol filming each other reveals more than a historical rapport. It shows a shared excitement in experimentation and the way Menken taught him to wield the camera as a kinetic partner rather than a simple recording device.

Throughout, the documentary mirrors Menken’s own style, hovering over surfaces with a sensitivity that echoes her tactile curiosity. Her films were part of what she considered an “extended notebook,” entries in a life lived at the nerve endings of perception. They were unpretentious yet revelatory, the direct expression of a sensibility attuned to visual poetry in the smallest gestures, whether a branch lifting in the wind or a holiday light glinting for a moment.

Four of Menken’s essential films appear here as a miniature retrospective. Visual Variations on Noguchi (1945), shot handheld to Lucille Dlugozewski’s surreal score, turns Isamu Noguchi’s sculptures into kinetic events. The camera animates form, tracing contours while inventing counter-contours.

Glimpse of the Garden (1957) offers an intimate wander through the garden and greenhouse of Menken’s friends. Here, the camera breathes, moving between micro-details and broader gestures with a dancer’s intuition.

Arabesque for Kenneth Anger (1958-61), filmed during a trip to Spain, offers a camera that speaks its own language, responsive to light as if to music. The Spanish guitar and castanets accompany images that oscillate between architecture and gesture, producing a visual prosody that approaches the condition of speech.

Finally, Lights (1964-66), assembled from three consecutive years of filming New York’s Christmas displays between midnight and one in the morning, may be her signature work. It is whimsical, electric, and full of delight yet grounded in an adult awareness of the city’s mingled magic and melancholy. Its frenetic sparkle becomes a translation of Menken’s spirit, playful and restless yet deeply alert.

Notes on Marie Menken performs a double rescue. It retrieves Marie Menken from the margins of film history while returning her oeuvre to the living environment that gave it life. The result is an aesthetic rooted not in simplicity or naïveté but in a cultivated mode of attention that stood apart from the grand, self-serious ambitions of much mid-century cinema. Her world is one in which the camera is a nervous system, a shimmering extension of the body. Thus, Menken appears not as a historical artifact but as an artist whose immediacy still strikes the eye with the force of a fresh brushstroke, whose motion remains contagious, and whose energy continues to ripple outward through the underground she helped invent.

Hans Scheugl: The Seconds Strike Reality (INDEX 029)

| Tyran Grillo

Hans Scheugl’s The Seconds Strike Reality traces a restless artistic intelligence moving at a slant to the avant-garde from which it emerged. Although he co-founded the Austria Filmmakers Cooperative in 1968 with Peter Weibel, Kurt Kren, Ernst Schmidt Jr., VALIE EXPORT, and Gottfried Schlemmer, Scheugl always kept a certain distance from the dominant gestures of Viennese Actionism. Dietmar Schwärzler notes this divergence in the accompanying booklet: Scheugl may have begun as a radical provocateur, but he did not remain one. He moved instead toward cinema as a probe into perception, daily life, and the body, particularly the queer body, which he examined cinematically and historically, long before such subjects received real attention in Austrian film culture. What he retained from his Actionist years was not the shock aesthetic but the courage to investigate the uncharted margins of experience: eroticism beyond prescribed gender roles, the strange temperature of the everyday, and the unstable relation between image and reality.

Wien 17, Schumanngasse (1967) lays out the blueprint of Scheugl’s method. A structural exercise masquerading as a brief road movie, the film hinges entirely on equivalence. The length of the 16mm reel must equal the duration of the drive through Schumanngasse. The resulting document is simultaneously indexical and abstract. Cars wait on the street without owners. Pedestrians drift through the frame stripped of identity. As Weibel observes, the film reveals the impossibility of ever measuring the world in any final sense, since our sense of it is always mediated by the optical and mechanical structures that shape representation. The real Schumanngasse becomes unknowable, dissolved into the rules that depict it.

In Hernals (1967), the seventeenth district of Vienna becomes a small social ecosystem. Everyday rhythms of women with grocery bags, men maneuvering a ladder, and children fidgeting on the sidewalk are complicated by staged interruptions. Scheugl films simultaneously with two cameras, generating parallel versions of the same events. The mirroring is subtle yet disorienting. When Weibel and EXPORT stage a physical altercation in the street, the performance blends almost too seamlessly with the documentary texture, and the moment lands with a force that feels disturbingly real. The film becomes a test of perception: which gestures belong to the world, which belong to performance, and why does the distinction feel so permeable?

Safety Film (1968), a proto-found-footage Western, pushes this instability into more chaotic terrain. Scheugl’s camera prowls the projection screen, disrupting the legibility of a rescue narrative. Scenes from a genre film collide with street shots and negative exposures that flash like X-rays, revealing cowboys’ teeth as skeletal artifacts. The heroic figure returns again and again, yet the editing renders him uncanny, emptied of mythic power.

Sugar Daddies (1968) is a queer love letter disguised as a collage. Laurel and Hardy, perhaps early cinema’s most domestic male couple, repeatedly appear in bed together, their physical nearness recharged into subversion. These scenes alternate with bathroom graffiti from the University of Vienna and candid shots of men urinating under the camera’s intrusive stare. Scheugl’s visible grin signals mischief and tenderness at once, an acknowledgment of queerness hidden in plain sight.

Eroticon sublim (1968) reduces cinema to its most elemental form. An uncut strip of deep crimson is projected in any orientation. Dedicated to “the color of the material,” the film is a meditation on film grain as sensual surface, an erotic presence achieved through simple saturation.

By 1985, Scheugl returns transformed in Der Ort der Zeit (The Place of Time). This masterstroke of durational cinema, and one of the most remarkable works in the INDEX series, moves the camera to the right at regular intervals, as if ticking along to a cosmic metronome. Over 24 hours, it captures an entire ecology of unimportant events. The film opens on two drunk men at a wake, both speaking Japanese, both isolated in their linguistic drift. They ask for the time, complain about empty bottles, and eventually part company. When one encounters passersby who cannot understand him, he looks up and remarks, “The sun is up,” a moment of dry poetry that encapsulates the film’s sense of displacement. After this, the camera continues on its own, indifferent to human intention. It records buildings, trees, train tracks, and snippets of conversation. A woman lounges in a lawn chair while a man speaks to her, and a cello echoes the cadence of his voice. Day yields to night. Darkness fills the frame. Still, the camera moves, as if time itself were the protagonist and everything else merely passing through.

Prince of Peace (1993) brings Scheugl back to his confrontational impulses. Anonymous men seem to be sucked into and expelled from a toilet. A man with a Jesus tattoo returns the viewer’s gaze. Images from gay pornography are scattered among passages of mournful music. Dedicated to a friend who died of AIDS, the film mourns the violence with which such images are consumed, judged, and discarded. The title, evoking Christ, becomes a bitter invocation of a witness who can neither intervene nor heal.

(Calcutta) GO (1993) shows Scheugl at his most observational, offering a wide-eyed passage through the streets of the titular city. Honking cars, voices, and passing bodies accumulate into nothing more, and nothing less, than the sensation of presence. The film’s modesty clarifies Scheugl’s long-standing devotion to cinema that does not impose meaning but lets it gather.

The bonus excerpt from Wiener Underground (1969) presents Scheugl in full post–’68 fervor. He hurls rocks, names influential figures, and tries to define the “underground” as a sensibility tied to feeling rather than ideology. Yet already his future direction is visible: toward a cinema rooted not in revolt but in attention.

Taken together, Scheugl’s films reveal a singular artistic position. He is an Actionist who moved beyond Actionism, a documentarian who mistrusted realism, a filmmaker for whom the seconds do not simply pass but strike. Reality is not recorded; it is encountered, shaken, and lightly annotated by the camera’s drifting curiosity. He reminds us that each moment is already an event, and each image an invitation not to master the world but to experience how little of it can ever be fully known.

Ivan Ladislav Galeta – Obsession: Structuring Time and Space (INDEX 028)

| Tyran Grillo

Ivan Ladislav Galeta treats architecture as perception, rigorously constructed yet permeated by metaphysical play. A pioneer of Croatian media art, he works with meticulous control over frame, duration, and spatial relation, so his films feel less like recordings and more like experiments conducted on the fabric of time itself. Yet this precision never settles into rigidity. As Hrvoje Turković notes, Galeta’s work may be a “meaningful psychological experiment,” but it is also unmistakably free. His creativity speaks in diagrams, animated by curiosity and shaped by questions rather than assertions. What is an image, Galeta seems to ask, and what does it become when it is nudged, delayed, mirrored, doubled, or placed in conversation with itself?

TV Ping Pong (1976-78) offers the clearest proposal. The film begins as a simple tableau of two men playing ping pong but gradually destabilizes the very space in which the game unfolds. A split-screen wipe initially feels like a technical convenience, yet as Galeta recombines the players spatially, placing them back to back on two televisions, superimposing them so that each faces his own double, aligning them side by side, and shifting angles with every hit, the logic of the game begins to fracture. The table, once a stable center, splinters into an L-shape, a cross, and an oblique angle that no longer corresponds to the geometry of lived space. Negative images pulse into view. The ordinary match becomes unmoored from its physical coordinates and reassembled in a realm both cerebral and playful. Galeta demonstrates how easily habitual perception masquerades as natural law and how invigorating it can be when that illusion loosens.

This principle deepens in Two Times in One Space (1976/84), perhaps his most haunting demonstration of expanded cinema. Using Nikola Stojanović’s 1968 film In the Kitchen as source material, Galeta introduces a precise delay of 216 frames between two simultaneous projections of the same footage. A family engages in domestic rituals such as eating, cleaning, and resting, doubled by an echo from the recent past. A hand reaches for a cup before it can grab it; a glance lands where it has already been; a small movement is performed twice, first by memory and then by presence. The delay creates a loop of perpetual arrival and departure, a household haunted by its own temporal afterimage. Nearby, a couple on a balcony professes their love, and their presence becomes strangely entangled with the time warp inside. The film’s emotion arises not from narrative but from the sensation of watching a memory overlapping itself before it has even had time to gel.

Galeta’s interest in temporal recursion becomes more explicitly cosmic in sfaĩra 1985-1895 (1984), subtitled “An Homage to Silent Movies.” He replaces Kubrick’s monolith with Ivan Kožarić’s sculpture EARTHBOUND SUN, an intervention both monumental and tactile. The sun or sphere becomes an object of interaction, tapped and caressed as if the universe were offering a lesson in its own grammar through physical contact. Dedicated to Pythagoras and Plato, the film conjures a vision of time as cyclical and harmonic. Its 72-frame delay produces a rhythm that feels almost biological, a slow, meditative breathing. Galeta writes that sound is silence in this film, and indeed, it brings forth our internal pulse, which anchors our relation to the image.

Water Pulu 1869 1896 (1987/88) shifts the structuring object, a ball in this case, into the center of a water polo match. With Debussy’s La Mer opening the film, a bright sphere floating on the surface becomes an axis around which the surrounding chaos of bodies revolves. Hands reach for it with the inevitability of gravitational pull; the ball rises through the frame as if it were a second sun. Anchored by its constancy, the film transforms the match into a study of centripetal desire, a choreography of approach and withdrawal that yields one of the great masterpieces of experimental cinema.

Galeta’s fascination with recursion and musical structure continues in WAL(L)ZEN (1989), a deconstruction of Chopin’s Waltz Op. 64, No. 2, as performed by Fred Došek. The music is played forward and backward, superimposed on itself until it becomes a fugue of temporal slippages. The melody remains recognizable but troubled, locked in a round where movement and stasis collide. The waltz, meant to turn endlessly, becomes trapped in a hall of mirrors, revealing the mechanism that underlies its pleasure.

The play with geometry reaches a different register in PiRâMidas 1972-1984 (1984). Filming from the back of a train, Galeta transforms the vanishing point, the most fundamental element of perspectival space, into a rotating triangulation. The image turns, folds, and inverts; the horizon becomes a hinge. What should remain the most stable point of orientation becomes fluid, exposing the conceptual scaffolding that quietly organizes our visual world.

Even the bonus track, an introduction to PiRâMidas and the drawings for it and WAL(L)ZEN, reinforces that Galeta’s films are not spontaneous experiments but rigorously conceived visual theorems. The drawings reveal how structure and intuition coexist, how mathematical clarity can merge with a sense of wonder.

Across these works, Galeta emerges as a cartographer of perceptual instability, reorganizing reality through his camera until its assumptions become visible. Time is his greatest collaborator, and we are his faithful allies in chronological skepticism.