It's hardly unusual for a major film festival to provide accredited attendees with disabilities the services they need to participate fully. But when I filled out my accreditation form for the Berlin International Film Festival on behalf of Ombre e Luci, I noticed for the first time that such needs could be flagged before accreditation, not after. It didn't surprise me. The Berlinale, held in the German capital every February for 74 editions now, is an event deeply attentive to social questions. For instance, since seating at screenings is first-come, first-served (arriving early is crucial for a good spot), the festival guarantees priority access to people with disabilities—and notably, this includes those with invisible disabilities, a distinction I'd never seen spelled out elsewhere.
Accessibility, while dear to organizers of festivals with major international press coverage, will likely be the least of the Berlinale's concerns. The real trouble comes from its very commitment to inclusion and dialogue: this year, two controversies have already erupted. First, the festival initially invited several far-right politicians to the opening ceremony on February 15, then rescinded the invitation, because the Berlinale's stated values are incompatible with racism and the verbal violence those parties represent. Second, some filmmakers have boycotted in protest of the Berlinale's equidistant stance on the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. The festival has publicly committed to dialogue between both sides, including dedicated debate forums, but some view this generic goodwill as tilted toward Israel, given the historical weight of Germany's relationship with Jewish people.
Amid all these possible quarrels, the hope is that cinema becomes a chance for encounter and inclusion, not division. As we await this year's program with curiosity, it's worth looking back one year to the Berlinale's 73rd edition. The Golden Bear winner then was On the Adamant — Where the Impossible Becomes Possible, a documentary by Nicolas Philibert. It finally opens in Italian cinemas from March 11–13, distributed by I Wonder Pictures. It's rare for a documentary to win a major festival prize, but the jury—despite other worthy contenders (including Totem by Lila Avilés, which captures a young girl's perspective on her father's grave illness with devastating delicacy)—recognized in Philibert's work the magic of cinema that gives voice, face, and soul to a part of society that often remains hidden. One wonders why.
The Adamant is a floating building moored on the Seine in Paris: a day center for patients with mental disabilities. The doctors there possess a humanity that, for people in their care, often means the difference between being treated as human beings and being treated as unworthy objects.
Philibert clearly has an innate gift for observing and listening to those who wish to be observed and heard—his films about children prove this too. He portrays his subjects, people who have granted him their time in interviews spanning minutes, with a fullness of humanity that makes them compelling to listen to. They emerge not simply as people in need of care but as people capable of caring for others, perhaps even for us, the viewers. The Adamant's world sits just steps from central Paris, yet remains invisible to most Parisians. This is why filmmakers capable of looking where we normally don't are so precious—and why, now and then, they win major prizes like the Golden Bear.
Read this article in english: From the Berlinale 2024