In “Drei Kameradinnen”, reality is never quite as straightforward as it seems. Through fragmented memories, conflicting accounts, and a media narrative that increasingly blurs the line between fact and fiction, Milena Aboyan explores who gets to define the truth, and who gets to be believed.

At its centre are three friends: Kasih (Bayan Layla), Hani (Brikena Ray), and Saya (Manal Raga a Sabit). While Kasih struggles to find work despite having completed her sociology degree with excellent results, Hani works long hours for little pay, trying to navigate a society that offers her little room to breathe. Saya, recently returned from abroad, is more outspoken. She criticises Germany’s handling of right-wing extremism, particularly the ongoing trial of a far-right terrorist group responsible for a series of arson attacks. She questions the exclusion of the public from the proceedings and the apparent prioritisation of perpetrators over victims.

When Saya is arrested days later on suspicion of arson, the media quickly constructs a narrative of radicalisation, framing her as part of an alleged Islamist and left-wing extremist counter-movement. Kasih is approached by journalists eager to make sense of Saya’s supposed transformation. But much of what is presented as evidence has been stripped of context, shaped by leading questions, or manipulated to fit a story already in circulation.

Aboyan tells the story in episodic, non-linear fragments, returning to the same moments through different versions of Kasih’s memories. A childhood playground, for instance, becomes the setting for contrasting accounts. One recalls a carefree childhood in the 1990s, while another reproduces the familiar media image of a troubled, low-income neighborhood. Neither version fully captures reality. Instead, the truth emerges somewhere between them, shaped by memory, perspective, and the stories we tell ourselves.

The film’s restless energy is amplified by techno music and animated sequences, at times recalling “Run Lola Run“. Yet beneath its formal experimentation lies the more unsettling question of how much of what we believe is actually our own perception, and how much has been shaped by the images and narratives we consume?

In its final minutes, “Drei Kameradinnen“ radically reconfigures everything that came before. What initially appears to be a story about friendship, belonging, and resilience becomes something far more devastating. The film exposes the limits of the belief that hard work and good behaviour will guarantee acceptance, revealing how conditional that promise can be for those who are constantly made to feel like outsiders.

Ultimately, “Drei Kameradinnen“ is a reminder that people are too often reduced to stereotypes, their lives interpreted through assumptions rather than understanding. When the stories we are fed become the only stories we know, Kasih’s question remains: “Look at the images. What is real?”

“Drei Kameradinnen” opens in German cinemas on 5th November.

Few things test our convictions like a choice we cannot understand. “Los Domingos” explores the space between belief, doubt and acceptance.

Seventeen-year-old Ainara (Blanca Soroa) is about to finish school, with her whole future ahead of her. At that age, the possibilities seem endless. A gap year, a semester abroad, working as an au pair, university, internships or jumping straight into the corporate world. Some of us dream of a comfortable life, a steady income and a family of our own. Others prioritize personal fulfillment and choosing to live on their own terms, even if that means getting by with less. These decisions can still change well into our twenties, when we’re figuring out who we are and what we want from life. And then there is seventeen-year-old Ainara, who wants to leave all these possibilities behind and become a nun.

Ainara is the eldest of three daughters raised by her widowed father, Iñaki (Miguel Garcés), who seems more preoccupied with his restaurant and new girlfriend than with his children’s lives. Instead, after his wife’s death, his sister Maite (Patricia López Arnaiz) has become one of Ainara’s closest confidantes. When her niece tells her that she wants to enter a convent after finishing school, Maite is shocked. An atheist herself, she struggles to accept that someone so young would make such a life-changing decision. She wants Ainara to experience the world before committing herself to a life defined by faith, discipline and seclusion.

Maite persuades Iñaki to join her in speaking to Ainara’s spiritual guides at school, Padre Txema (Víctor Sainz) and the Madre Priora (Nagore Aranburu). For Maite, who is unfamiliar with finding comfort in religion, their influence is difficult to understand. Initially, she and her brother seem united in their concern. But when Iñaki discovers that Ainara’s stay at the convent will not cost him anything, his reservations seem to disappear. Desperate to change her niece’s mind, Maite even tells the Madre Priora Ainara’s private business, hoping to disrupt her plans, even at the risk of damaging their familial bond. But Ainara remains steadfast in her love for God.

The film places us right in the middle of a conflict between respecting someone’s choices and questioning whether a seventeen-year-old can fully understand the consequences of a decision that will shape the rest of her life. Some might applaud Iñaki for allowing his daughter to follow her own path. Others might wonder whether his acceptance has less to do with trust than with the convenience of having one less responsibility to shoulder. For Ainara, the convent seems to offer more than a religious calling. There is a sense of order, a set of rules and a community with a shared purpose. She seems remarkably untroubled by the prospect of giving up much of the freedom most people her age take for granted. Is this the life she genuinely wants, or does its structure offer something she feels is missing elsewhere?

“Los Domingos” never quite resolves these questions, and that is precisely what makes it so compelling. Maite eventually runs out of ways to persuade her niece, Iñaki seems content with Ainara’s decision, and Ainara herself appears certain that she is ready to devote her life to God. But we are left wondering what might have happened if she had waited a little longer and experienced more of the world. At the same time, who are we to say that her conviction is any less genuine simply because she is seventeen?

The dialogue is particularly strong, and the film makes sparing use of its soundtrack, allowing the conversations and silences to carry much of the emotional weight. The choral pieces woven into the story feel all the more significant against this restraint. Patricia López Arnaiz delivers a remarkable performance as Maite, whose position in the family shifts from trusted confidante to someone Ainara increasingly shuts out. Her frustration is understandable, even when her attempts to intervene become intrusive. Neither does the film present Ainara’s faith as an uncomplicated virtue. Rather than telling us what to think, Ruiz de Azúa asks us to consider how far we are willing to respect a choice we cannot understand.

“Los Domingos”, released in Germany under the title “Glaube” (Faith), opens in German cinemas on 29 October 2026.

Can people from entirely different social backgrounds ever truly understand one another? In “Possible Love”, South Korean filmmaker Lee Chang-dong explores class divides, the limits of empathy and whether good intentions are enough to bridge the gap between two different worlds.

The film follows Ho-seok Choi (Sul Kyung-gu), a former factory worker whose life was shaped by a violent confrontation during a workers’ strike. After being injured and laid off, he struggles to come to terms with his past and the people he once considered brothers. His wife Mi-ok (Jeon Do-yeon) tries to keep their family together as they navigate the uncertainties of life after his dismissal.

Their lives take an unexpected turn when Ye-ji (Cho Yeo-jeong), an independent documentary filmmaker married to wealthy businessman Sang-woo (Zo In-sung), becomes interested in documenting the experiences of laid-off workers. Hoping to make their struggles visible, she brings the two couples together at Sang-woo’s lavish coastal retreat. The encounter offers a glimpse into two vastly different realities, raising questions about privilege, belonging and how well we can ever understand lives so unlike our own.

Lee Chang-dong captures these differences through seemingly insignificant moments. Mi-ok’s curiosity about Ye-ji’s designer bag and the luxuries surrounding their hosts reveals a social divide that extends far beyond money. While one couple takes such comforts for granted, the other experiences them as a rare glimpse into an otherwise inaccessible world.

At the heart of the film lies Ye-ji’s documentary and her desire to connect with the people she films. Her intentions may be sincere, but the film asks where genuine intimacy ends and observation begins. Can we truly understand someone whose experiences lie beyond our own, even when we believe we share the same values?

Despite its nearly three-hour runtime, “Possible Love” unfolds through awkward conversations, uncomfortable silences and moments of unexpected absurdity. Rather than offering easy answers, Lee allows the tensions between his characters to reveal themselves gradually, examining how social class shapes the way we see one another

Ultimately, “Possible Love” leaves us with a question that extends beyond its characters: Can people from entirely different social backgrounds ever become true friends? Is it possible to love someone without fully understanding their reality, and can empathy bridge a divide that privilege itself makes difficult to see?

“Possible Love” opens in German cinemas on October 22nd and arrives on Netflix on November 6th.

A soldier questioning his military service, a history student who considers Avatar a Marxist masterpiece, a man fascinated by Nazi architecture. The passengers in Sebastian Brameshuber’s “London” are an eclectic bunch, and their conversations rarely go where one might expect. Bobby (Bobby Sommer) picks them up on his weekly drive from Vienna to Salzburg, offering strangers a seat in his car to share the cost of petrol. What begins as a practical arrangement becomes a space in which people who have never met find themselves talking about things they might not tell anyone else.

Bobby has his own reason for making the journey. In Salzburg, his old friend Arthur lies in a coma. The two were once very close, but something happened between them, and they eventually lost touch. With Arthur unable to respond, Bobby is left wondering whether he will ever get the chance to address what happened. As the passengers come and go, he gradually begins to share fragments of his own life. When another passenger asks why he never started a family, Bobby speaks of the freedom and independence he was unwilling to give up. His answer leaves room for questions he does not seem ready to resolve. The more he listens to others, the more he reveals about himself.

His memories of his father offer another glimpse into the distance that has shaped his life. A postman who spent much of the war at the front, his father rarely spoke about his experiences. Bobby recalls returning home after two years in London and finding his father sitting in the same train carriage, pretending not to recognise him. It is a small but telling memory of estrangement, of a relationship in which even the simplest acknowledgement was withheld. Against this background, Bobby’s regret over Arthur takes on a different weight. His journeys become attempts to approach a past he can no longer change.

Brameshuber lets these encounters move between humour, awkwardness and unexpected intimacy. Some passengers talk almost without interruption; others struggle to find common ground. Their stories touch on migration, family, love and the expectations people inherit or choose to reject. Questions about Bobby’s own relationships linger, too, including the possibility of a life he has never fully explained. The film leaves these ambiguities unresolved rather than offering easy answers.

As a road movie, “London” is less concerned with reaching a destination than with what happens along the way. The motorway connects people who might otherwise never have met, giving them a temporary closeness without promising anything beyond the journey itself. Bobby can listen to a stranger or offer help, but he cannot undo the years of silence between himself and Arthur. What emerges is not simply a portrait of loneliness, but of someone who needs these exchanges as much as the people he picks up. For a brief stretch of road, he is no longer just the person behind the wheel, carrying others towards their destinations. He is someone looking for a way to live with what he cannot put right. “London” opens in German cinemas on October 15.

The visual language reinforces that childlike disorientation without turning it into a gimmick. In one striking sequence, Cornelia lies collapsed on the floor and sends Ela away to eat, with the image suddenly turning upside down as Ela moves through the room. It is one of the rare moments in which the film briefly shifts away from Ela’s usual vantage point, making the physical world feel as unstable as the one she is trying to understand. Lehmann trusts the perspective of a child who sees and absorbs far more than she can articulate.

The performances make that perspective particularly affecting. Rosalie Thomass gives Cornelia warmth and vitality alongside the gradual exhaustion of a woman constantly being told to make herself smaller. Golo Euler plays Werner with an unsettling mixture of self-pity, insecurity and resentment, while Juliane Köhler brings a sharpness to Martha, Cornelia’s mother in law, whose complicity reinforces the pressure on Cornelia. Elise Lindner (Ela), meanwhile, carries the film’s emotional centre with remarkable restraint, capturing a child caught between what her parents tell her and what she instinctively understands.

Based on Daniela Dröscher’s bestselling novel, “Lügen über meine Mutter” is ultimately less interested in explaining its characters than in showing how a child learns to make sense of them. What begins as Ela’s attempt to understand why her father sees her mother the way he does becomes a quieter story about perception, memory and the things children understand long before they have the words for them. “Lügen über meine Mutter” hits German cinemas on October 8.