Jann Clavadetscher

Little is known of Jean Speck (1860-1933) beyond the fact that he opened Zurich’s first cinema. Rouzbeh Rashidi and Jann Clavadetscher consider the flittering black and white ghosts and shadows that he left in his wake in their phantasmagorical experimental feature film. This journey through a cinematic night probes the very essence of the cinematic image.

An intimate stream of memories reaching out across time and space, taking on a uniquely experimental form that cuts the viewer adrift in a weave of old footage rising to the surface of consciousness like a dream.

A bleak, cryptic vision of life in contemporary Iran that eschews overt social commentary in favour of a very personal vision of stifled lives. Directed remotely by Rashidi from Ireland over Skype, the making of this unique film reflects the alienation it so compellingly portrays.

Obinagụ is not human. They are a spirit who walks among us, taking the form of a worker each day, only to return each evening to the forest they call home, a place where they feel whole and free, where they don’t have to perform or hide.

HE, the third work in the ongoing collaboration between Rouzbeh Rashidi and actor James Devereaux, is a troubling and mysterious portrait of a suicidal man. Rashidi juxtaposes the lead character’s apparently revealing monologues with scenes and images that layer the film with ambiguity. Its deliberate, hypnotic pace and boldly experimental structure result in an unusual and challenging view of its unsettling subject.

A boobs flasher tells us, a boobs flasher lets us see.

This isn’t a film. It’s a leaked ritual.  Somewhere between analog prayer and digital disease, a collection of gestures tried to become human again. They failed.  Children orbit the fence like insects around an electric hymn. A figure holds a violin but never plays — his silence is louder than the sound. The man in the branches hasn’t fallen in years. The killer appears, or doesn’t — but you’ll feel him beneath the cuts, mouthing things you’ll wish you didn’t understand.  There are bodies, sometimes clothed in flesh, sometimes not.  There is scripture, mangled and reversed — not to mock it, but to unlock it. The voice speaks, but only when you stop listening.  This is the place where lost footage remembers you. Where noise prays back.  CHOKE ECHO was compiled under duress by 0xHamza in 2025 using material never meant to be rearranged. Watch it if you must — but it will keep watching after you close the tab.

in my darkest moment, fetal and weeping, the moon tells me a secret, a confidant  As full and bright as I am, this light is not my own and a million light reflections pass over me, the source is bright and endless. She resuscitates the hopeless. Without her, we are lifeless satellites drifting.