Both a sharp industry satire and a psychological character study, the film unfolds across Hollywood Hills mansions, Shoreditch clubs and green rooms, capturing the vapid glamour of modern celebrity through the eyes of its titular lurker, Matthew (Théodore Pellerin). An aspiring artist, Matthew quickly ingratiates himself into the life of rising pop star Oliver (Archie Madekwe). What begins as an innocuous backstage invite soon spirals into something darker as Matthew embeds himself within Oliver’s entourage of devoted employees and brash young friends. Russell cleverly examines the dynamics of young male camaraderie in fame’s orbit, where acceptance is transactional and hierarchy is enforced through casual cruelty.

Russell sidesteps the typical pitfalls of the genre by resisting the temptation to overanalyse Matthew’s psyche, instead presenting him as calculated, with something more sinister lurking beneath his awkward exterior. Pellerin’s performance is both unnerving and captivating, as Matthew’s presence oscillates between desperation and insecurity, shifting from social awkwardness to chilling calm in an instant. His vacant yet calculating gaze paints a striking portrait of obsession in the digital age.

Crucially, Lurker is less concerned with a simple rise-and-fall narrative than with exploring the dynamics of power – who wields it, who exploits it and how easily it shifts. The film’s use of digital media is particularly effective, emphasising Matthew’s voyeuristic documentation of Oliver’s life. The score pulses with subtle energy, while cinematographer Pat Scola’s lens captures the inauthenticity and exclusivity of these spaces with a detached, almost clinical eye.

As the film illustrates, fame is a delicate illusion, sustained by fragile egos and even flimsier friendships. By the time it reaches its inevitable reckoning, Lurker has transcended its psychological-thriller trappings to become something far more incisive: a study of fame’s fragility in the social media era. Russell’s directorial debut is a remarkable balancing act: funny, unsettling and strikingly contemporary. And while the movie may centre on an interloper, it firmly establishes Russell as a filmmaker to watch.

Christina Yang

Lurker does not have a release date yet.

Read more reviews from our Berlin Film Festival coverage here.

For further information about the event visit the Berlin Film Festival website here.

We spoke to the exceptional filmmaker about his interest in Leibniz as a subject matter, his penchant for philosophy and the importance of lighting in a film about painting.

How important do you consider the subject of philosophy today?

Academic philosophy might not be as crucial anymore, but philosophy today means developing and asking new questions. Maybe it’s more about taking this thinking outside of academia and putting it into practice, into politics, into human life. Maybe we shouldn’t even call it philosophy, but the process of thought. As humans, we are beings who are all able to think beyond the situation we happen to be in. We do that every day. When preparing coffee, we imagine it being ready, drinking it, serving it, or that sort of thing. So, imagination helps us see the consequences of the action we are performing. The perception of our freedom to do what we want to do, or not to do it, has to do with that, because we can imagine alternatives to our reality, at all times and in every practical context. That is the basis for modern philosophy. I personally am not a philosopher, but these fundamental questions are pivotal for making films. I can’t make a film without asking myself, what if I don’t do it, and imagining the alternatives.

What makes Leibniz stand out for you? Why did you dedicate your film to him?

When we talk about Leibniz, we always talk about his universality. In English, one would use the term polymath. But that would not be what we would imagine nowadays; when we hear this word, it means something different today. Today, no clever person can know everything. That was just about possible in Baroque times, but not anymore. But that’s actually not decisive for me regarding Leibniz. For me, the decisive point is that he realised that in nature, everything is connected to everything. So you can’t touch something without touching everything. There’s no separation in creation, he says. On the other hand, nothing is identical. In a world where everything is connected, everything is unique, nothing exists twice, not even a drop of water, much less any human being. Every human being only exists just once, is unmistakable, unrepeatable. Nevertheless, every person is connected with all other people and with nature. And if you hurt one person, you hurt everyone. If you give a gift to somebody, you give it to all. And freedom for one person is freedom for all.

This is a simple and very beautiful thought, but difficult to conceive concretely. But in the film, we chose a portrait as an example and, of course, within the process of creating a portrait, the question to the unmistakable is inherent. This court painter, in the first part, who comes in with a ready-made painting where the hair and the cloak have already been painted and only the face is missing. The individuality is already torn. Leibniz tells him, “perhaps if you add my nose it may be my nose, but that’s not my cloak, and that’s not my hair, so it’s not me.” And that opens up the whole question of whether it’s even possible for me to be in the picture, because I can’t exist twice. Where lies the truth in this painting? Does this painting really say something about me?

Now, I’ve studied Leibniz, and Leibniz would say that all images lie. All sorts of different factors play a role here, but it does not apply to art. Because in art, the truth of an image lies somewhere else, and artwork is created outside of reality. With this new creation, there is a truth that can be measured by all these other factors. So now the issue revolves around likeness, around similarity between a picture and reality. There has to have been a touch, between the artist and the subject.

When I am talking to you, we are two completely different people, individuals, but on the other hand, we are also taking part in each other. When you ask yourself, “Where do you end? Where do I begin?,” there is an area in the middle. Otherwise, we wouldn’t be able to understand each other, wouldn’t even be here together. Depicting these transitions, that’s the task of art, that is Leibniz’s philosophy.

You mentioned the scene with the court painter, why was Lars Eidinger the best actor for this part?

I needed somebody brilliant for this introductory sequence, because the main film, of course, is about Leibniz and the painter from the Netherlands, that was always in my mind. But I needed somebody to overcome the first questions, so to speak. And so I invented this court painter. It’s not a historical person; he’s fiction, for which there were no models, no prototypes. I needed someone to see the comical side of the whole situation, because you have this painter looking at his model and say things like, “think of nothing!” It’s funny. To be able to do that, you really need a great artist, and that was Lars Eidinger.

Would you fare better as a model for a portrait than Leibniz does in your film?

I’ve been going through this all day here with the photographers, and I can only say I suffer. Because I don’t understand the background: I don’t know who pays for them. I don’t know who prints this photograph. I don’t know who’s interested in it, afterwards. I don’t know where this person learned to use his camera. I have the feeling this is not really artistic work, because he doesn’t even engage with me. If he did, maybe he’d produce a completely different photograph. In general, I believe that filmmakers usually don’t like being in front of a camera, because we know what it’s like on that side.

Lighting is an important subject for the painters in your film, but it feels like you also set yourself a particular challenge lighting the film in order to reflect this?

Lighting was crucial; yes, we studied the paintings of those times. Caravaggio was a wonderful Italian painter, and he invented a new method whereby he painted by having a black grounding on his canvas, and then painting the light on top. So he was not drawing contours or lines like all the others, but light, and in a similar way, Rembrandt – they basically invited the lighting for films, the way light hits objects. If you stand in a museum, in front of a Caravaggio, it looks like a film still. Caravaggio’s paintings could easily be stills from some elaborate US American film.

We didn’t want to pass up this opportunity for our film, so we created our atelier in the studio to the exact working conditions of a painter’s studio at the time.

You look at the individual pictures of Caravaggio, there were no spotlights, he used to have only candles or sometimes an oil lamp, but these are faint. The keylight was always natural light coming in through the windows, and these were placed very high up, with flaps to steer from below, so that you could change the lighting. And that’s what we recreated. Our cameraman, like Caravaggio, was using the outside light coming into the studio through the window, and then the painter in the film used mirrors to redirect the light towards the object. So, basically, what we did in the 21^st century was use the techniques of painters from the 17^th century. And it was a great pleasure!

Selina Sondermann

Leibniz – Chronicle of a Lost Painting does not have a release date yet.

Read more reviews from our Berlin Film Festival coverage here.

For further information about the event visit the Berlin Film Festival website here.

Saira’s story is a coming-of-age masquerading as a failed romantic escapade. Her efforts to save Kiki are less about their relationship (or lack thereof) and more so about her constant chase for love in other people. There’s a parallel in her journey with the straight white Maliens in terms of realising that true love starts within the self. As a protagonist, Saira speaks to a lot of people who suffer anxious thoughts and constant self-doubt. Her plights are amplified by her ever-successful parents who drill the fear of being single within her. Saira’s real fight isn’t against the straight white Maliens, but against the voice inside her head telling her she’s not good enough. Throughout the feature, she meets some very interesting characters, one of which is Willow. There’s a contrast in her dynamic with Willow against her dynamic with Kiki, and it’s one that firmly displays Saira’s growth as a character.

The script is crude, explicit and inundated with puns. It has a lot of fun playing with creative references to other films such as Bella’s depression sequence from New Moon and the sex scene in Blue is the Warmest Colour. But the most notable reference is America Ferrera’s monologue in Barbie. Here, the straight white Maliens recreate the speech on the struggles of being a woman and apply it to their struggles of being straight, white and male. It’s an interesting little twist that serves as a commentary on patriarchy’s negative effects on men expressing vulnerability. It also reflects the phenomenon of men victimising themselves against women when it’s the patriarchal structure that has resulted in the lack of emotional support for them. The references in general are not just fun little easter eggs; they serve as metaphors and critical analyses of society.

A major downside to Lesbian Space Princess is that its message comes across as condescending in some parts. At times, it also falls into the very stereotypes it tries to critique, especially when it comes to the straight white Maliens. There’s also the oversimplification of the dangers of hypermasculinity and incel culture. The fast pacing and extreme focus on Saira leave little room for nuanced dissections of these other topics. However, there is more good than bad throughout the picture, and it is an enjoyable movie overall. From the visuals, the eccentric soundtrack and the endearing characters, Lesbian Space Princess is a clever and wildly entertaining animated film for adults – and one with plenty of lessons to teach.

Mae Trumata

Lesbian Space Princess does not have a release date yet.

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Watch the trailer for Lesbian Space Princess here:

While Diman’s character is clearly inspired by one of the earlier 007s, the film’s visual aesthetic draws heavily from the Euro-thrillers of the 60s. Directors Cattet and Forzani revel in excess at every turn. Diamonds glimmer on bare hands, while blood splashes across the screen in frenetic bursts, creating a visual palette that is initially mesmerising but soon slips into the realm of self-indulgence. What starts as a dazzling exercise in style gradually gives way to a feature that feels less like a cohesive narrative and more like an extended fashion spread or music video.

The story’s fragmented events – replete with time slips and secret identities – recalls the campy, unpredictable nature of golden-age comics, giving the film a distinctive narrative structure at the cost of coherence. However, in an era where movies often aim for a sense of gravity, its pulpy, experimental tone carves out a niche as a fascinating anomaly in an increasingly self-serious cinematic landscape.

Yannick Renier’s portrayal of the younger Diman is striking, with his strong brow and magnetic presence that recall the confidence and charisma of Sean Connery’s Bond. Though the visual excesses may prove to be overwhelming, Testi and Renier bring to life the essence of the legendary British agent – charming, dangerous, and always on the brink of a thrilling adventure – better than any spin-off or parody.

Reflection in a Dead Diamond will not resonate with all viewers, but its unapologetic embrace of style over substance is both visceral and subversive. Prioritising aesthetic intensity over traditional narrative, the film is a hypnotic experience for those drawn to cinematic excess and the unconventional.

Christina Yang

Reflection in a Dead Diamond (Reflet dans un diamant mort) does not have a release date yet.

Read more reviews from our Berlin Film Festival coverage here.

For further information about the event visit the Berlin Film Festival website here.

From the outset, Hong wordlessly establishes a tone of quiet discomfort. As Donghwa drives Junhee to her parent’s house, an undercurrent of unease lingers in their interactions, and a hesitation in Junhee’s voice hints at her uncertainty about the meeting. What could have been a simple family introduction instead becomes a deeply revealing examination of social and class dynamics, heightened by Hong’s keen observational style.

Hong’s use of low-resolution video and soft focus mirrors Donghwa’s blurred perception of his own role in Junhee’s life and his discomfort in her privileged world. Every static shot and slow zoom reinforces a sense of detachment, allowing viewers to absorb the unspoken tensions that permeate each interaction. The camera lingers on faces and spaces with a gaze that is both intimate and removed, creating an effect that oscillates between voyeurism and naturalism.

What stands out thematically is Hong’s treatment of class and artistic struggle. Donghwa, despite his poetic aspirations and appreciation for the sublime, fails to articulate anything truly profound about Junhee when asked. His insistence on financial independence is subtly scrutinised and condescended to by her family – until intoxication, a long-standing staple in Hong’s films, loosens inhibitions.

Yet, unlike the overt cruelty that often characterises Hong’s portrayal of artistic figures, What Does That Nature Say to You is more melancholic than brutal. The film’s observational style allows these moments of discomfort to unfold organically, never forcing the drama but allowing it to simmer. As always, Hong leaves us with an open-ended conclusion, but the writing is already on the wall – some relationships are destined to fall apart, no matter how poetic they may seem.

Christina Yang

What Does That Nature Say to You does not have a release date yet.

Read more reviews from our Berlin Film Festival coverage here.

For further information about the event visit the Berlin Film Festival website here.

The island is not merely a backdrop but a character in its own right, its isolation mirroring Munir’s internal conflict. The harsh weather and seasonal floods serve as metaphors for his personal turmoil and the uncontrollable forces that shape his fate. With the constant threat of the encroaching sea, the island seems to reflect life’s inherent fragility. And as the story takes off, a powerful storm rises on the horizon – its ominous approach conveyed through slow, sweeping shots of turbulent winds and surging waters.

The unlikely connection between Munir and Valeska is built through seemingly simple, yet profound moments: shared meals, brief conversations and spontaneous dances. These ordinary actions take on great emotional weight, revealing the tenderness and depth of their growing bond. Eldin’s pacing is deliberate, giving the audience the time to settle into the rhythms of life on the island, while allowing the subtleties of Munir and Valeska’s evolving relationship to unfold. The storm, building in intensity, becomes a metaphor not only for nature’s unpredictability but for the emotional turbulence both characters are navigating. As the tempest looms, their personal connection deepens, and the film quietly becomes a meditation on the healing power of human connection – even in the most desolate of places. The relentless, indifferent forces of nature stand in stark contrast to the fragile beauty of shared humanity, where moments of intimacy become acts of defiance against an indifferent universe.

At its heart, Yunan is a tale of rebirth and redemption: a gentle yet profound exploration of the unexpected solace found in human connection. Through Munir and Valeska’s friendship, Eldin delves into the hopeful potential of renewal, leaving viewers with a poignant reminder that even in the most secluded corners of the world, solace and meaning can still be found.

Christina Yang

Yunan does not have a release date yet.

Read more reviews from our Berlin Film Festival coverage here.

For further information about the event visit the Berlin Film Festival website here.

En route to their summer residence in the South of France, a privileged German family witness and scoff at locals protesting the poverty in their region. A few days into their holiday, the parents find themselves in a predicament of having to hire a young woman as a housemaid, but (coming as no surprise to anyone but them) she may not have their best interests at heart.

If the plot description sounds in any way uninspired, it is because first-time filmmaker Nele Mueller-Stöfen decided to haphazardly throw different elements of recent films concerning themselves with wealth disparity (Parasite, Infinity Pool, The Menu) into a blender and proudly present the stale concoction as a new dish, presuming her audience as gullible as her protagonists. Rather than not having an original bone in its body, it is this continued insult to the viewer’s intelligence that is Delicious’ worst crime: everything seen on screen is spoon-fed and over-explained, even the inciting incident is presented a second time, as if amounting to a big reveal at the end, believing spectators incapable of coming to a conclusion by themselves. There is no sense of discovery, and nothing drives behind any of the creative decisions in this feature.

While the scripts’ scenarios are bland in their unimaginative renditions, the character’s dialogues and actions are so outlandish, they reveal a complete lack of understanding of both parties portrayed. Neither the rich nor the poor ever feel like corporeal members of the human species – just how someone who comfortably falls in the middle and has had no contact with either end of the spectrum imagines these people to be.

In the kitchen, it doesn’t suffice to randomly throw popular ingredients into a pot and turn on the heat to prepare a delectable meal. There needs to be sensitivity for flavours, which can complement one another, how simmering or searing make a difference and, as you eat with your eyes, garnish and presentation are part of the process. The same is true for film. Not only is Delicious an utterly insipid and hollow watch, its frustrating ignorance of the world it tries to satirise makes it the movie equivalent of “Let them eat cake!”

Selina Sondermann

Delicious does not have a release date yet.

Read more reviews from our Berlin Film Festival coverage here.

For further information about the event visit the Berlin Film Festival website here.

Watch the trailer for Delicious here:

Down the line, her dentist father will describe Vera as his greatest disappointment, but by means of breaking the fourth wall, the film informs its viewers that this is what musicians call a “false start” (including a nod to Bob Dylan by A Complete Unknown actor Michael Chernus).

Vera (Mala Emde) is still in high school, sneaking off to an ice cream parlour that doubles as a jazz venue at night, when her obstinacy lands her her first job: organising German tour dates for international musicians passing through Europe. After seeing Keith Jarrett (John Magaro) perform at a festival in Berlin, the young woman is hellbent on bringing the genre-defying pianist to Cologne, but in the hours leading up to the show, everything threatens to fall apart.

As the majority of the film focuses on Brandes and what is at stake for her, the introduction of a storyline surrounding Jarrett’s health problems, his friend and producer Manfred Eichner (Alexander Scheer) and journalist Michael Watts (Chernus) comes rather late in the game to have an equally potent impact on the viewer. This is somewhat disappointing, because even as the artist’s point of view may be the more common one, it is no less interesting, and because Scheer and Magaro offer the most inspired performances.

Köln 75 operates on a humorous tone, which works well enough for the most part, coaxing a few smiles and chuckles here and there, but as the comedy should reach its peak in the chaos surrounding the untuned and subpar piano, Jarrett refuses to play on, the film fails to push itself across the finish line by wavering. The script isn’t concrete enough as to why some of the proposed alternatives don’t work, why Brandes’s previously established stubbornness yields to an obtuse secretary of all things, why a half-baked speech is suddenly enough to change Jarrett’s mind.

With its unusual approach to chronicling this incisive event in jazz history, The Girl from Cologne is more Saturday Night than any musician’s biopic. The result is entertaining, but ultimately a little unspectacular, as it fails to convincingly capture the magic of spontaneous creation.

Selina Sondermann

Köln 75 does not have a release date yet.

Read more reviews from our Berlin Film Festival coverage here.

For further information about the event visit the Berlin Film Festival website here.

Without additional commentary, the two-hour-long documentary tours various schools in different parts of Ukraine during the ongoing Russo-Ukrainian War. Some of them have opted for virtual classes, revealing that a lack of (uniform) equipment in each home has made physical education one of the greater challenges. Other schools stand strong against daily bomb alerts and try to cling to a sense of normalcy, keeping their doors open for in-person teaching. The film also takes viewers to school buildings that have fallen victim to Russia’s course of destruction, or addresses teenagers’ plans to enlist come graduation.

As the feature forgoes a more traditional approach of adding voice-over or interviews to contextualise the footage and the way it is strung it together, some of the material can feel indistinct, lacking in a clear focal point. There are scenes that make anyone’s blood run cold – children being taught not to play with teddy bears that have missiles attached to them – that clearly seek to address those still apathetic to the terrors going on in the midst of Europe, and rightfully so. However, the movie’s most resonating material is sometimes sandwiched between less expressive segments, making for a somewhat unbalanced flow and pacing.

Despite their obvious efficacy, one also has to address that repeated zoom-ins on crying children have an exploitative air to them; in one instance, the presence of a camera clearly agitates a distraught girl further. In another, a teacher uses a young student’s bereavement as a motivating factor (“Show your dead Dad how well you can read!”), which leaves a questionable connotation to the film’s intent to celebrate these children’s resilience.

True to its title, Strichka chasu offers a snapshot of the time these events are occurring in, and just like a timestamp marks a moment that can’t be erased, what these young people are made to experience will leave an indelible mark on their future and who they grow up to be.

Selina Sondermann

Timestamp does not have a release date yet.

Read more reviews from our Berlin Film Festival coverage here.

For further information about the event visit the Berlin Film Festival website here.

The shining star of the movie is the boy’s great-grandmother (Liliane Rovère), who first appears lounging on her couch as ominous opera music plays in the background. As the matriarch, her larger-than-life persona and unpredictable nature light up the household. With years comes a rich history: born and raised in Ukraine, she speaks fondly of Paris, though it’s clear it will never compare to her vivid memories of warships and cannons at the port of Odessa. She anchors the story in a post-war European context, adding emotional depth that extends beyond the specific political situation in Paris.

The family dynamics are chaotic and sometimes amusing, but they often veer into theatricality without offering deeper substance. The two eccentric uncles, in particular, quickly become tedious rather than endearing. While the boy’s relationship with his parents feels authentic and his love for his great-grandmother is especially touching, the film’s attempt to portray a loving yet dysfunctional extended family is weakened by many of the characters’ one-dimensionality.

Visually, The Safe House has moments of brilliance. Baier’s careful attention to mise-en-scène and Wes Anderson-inspired colour palettes create a nostalgic feel. The confined, somewhat claustrophobic home setting could have served as a powerful symbol of the family’s insular existence, but its heavy-handed visual storytelling makes it feel more like a deliberate stylistic exercise than an organic reflection of their inner lives.

More gratingly, the value of creativity – voiced most explicitly by the grandfather (Michel Blanc) – is repeated with an almost doctrinal fervour throughout the feature. While it reinforces the household’s intellectual atmosphere, the frequent articulation comes across as didactic instead of an organic part of the story. It’s a fitting reflection of the work itself: artistically ambitious, yet often too self-conscious to feel truly alive.

Christina Yang

The Safe House (La cache) does not have a release date yet.

Read more reviews from our Berlin Film Festival coverage here.

For further information about the event visit the Berlin Film Festival website here.