Jim, a lonely man who lives stuck in a rut, remembers when he was a child and his gut was alive. Despite his parents and doctor’s efforts, Jim decided to listen to his gut, which awakened enormous curiosity in him with a simple word: climb. After days of climbing everything, Jim discovered something that fascinated him… a mountain beyond the horizon.
On a winter morning in 1997, a father unintentionally leads his two children on an unnatural journey into the future, while struggling with his addictions.
Athens is transforming rapidly to absorb the tons of tourists who are flooding the city. The situation gets out of control, leading to big, stinky explosions in every corner of the city and then, all over the world!
Life is short, but there’s magic. The shadow of a small tree magically grows and evolves as the light transitions from dawn to dusk. The poetic artwork combines still photography with hand-drawn stop-motion animation.
The interactions between figure and paper, animating person and animated world, and tuba and double bass lead to dynamic confrontations and balancing acts. The environment is constantly reshaped by overlapping sheets of paper. A space is created in which the figure transcends the boundaries between the frames.
The story follows the internal monologue of an elderly, wooden creature as he writes a letter to his childhood friend, Icarus. Through his thoughts and memories, the past unfolds, revealing the events that led to Icarus’s violent departure from the city.
One night, Lea and her geese are awakened by the howling of approaching wolves. Using a forest horn, she warns the village of the danger. The villagers attempt to defend themselves, but fear overwhelms them. Lea quickly hides the goslings in a small shelter and faces the wolves empty-handed. She starts throwing snowballs at them. The smaller wolves are deterred, but the largest one only smirks and continues toward her. Paralyzed, she drops a snowball to the ground. It begins rolling, grows in size, and sweeps the wolves away. Lea embraces her saved geese.
“Why do I do anything?” This question has occupied my thoughts for a long time, as though I must assign meaning to my actions—meanings that must sometimes align with common values to be understood. It often feels as if my existence requires justification, like the desire to reproduce or to create value for society. But in truth, “living” itself does not require a reason or meaning; it is simply an experience. The harshest and inevitable end of life is death, and since that end is predetermined, my actions are not for the sake of the end, but for the experience of the journey towards it. I refuse to impose limits on myself or demand reasons for my existence, because every day I am alive is time I have gained before the end arrives.
In a queer utopia, two couples sit in conversation at a restaurant, waiting for service that will never arrive. As hunger grows, they talk about time and happiness. Not wanting to wait forever, they decide to leave.