In the late 60s a group of artists decides to settle in a village in the ‘darkest-deepest’ Spain. Today only Felix Cuadrado Lomas still remains there, determined to reflect the landscape which surrounds him: the lands built by those who work on them.
It’s the late 70’s in London and a new generation is asking questions and finding answers, It’s called PUNK, and it doesn’t matter what you are or where you’re from. Patrick, a young Londoner growing up in the 1970’s, questions his identity. Living with his widowed mother and younger sister he’s trying to honour his late Father’s memory by learning Irish music, but he discovers another music. One that speaks for him, one that’s being created by people like him, first generation Irish. A generation that’s English but seen as Irish. A lesson that Patrick learns in a brutal fashion but emerges from with a clear idea who he is.
There is a little island, close to the Southern coast of Iceland: its name is Heimaey. This story is like the island itself: it has no real beginning and no concrete end, but it just shows a way of existing. So the land, so the people. Un’isola minuta affianca la costa meridionale dell’Islanda: il suo nome è Heimaey. La storia che segue ha i contorni dell’isola stessa: non traccia un punto d’inizio, nè vuole chiudersi concretamente in una fine, ma si limita a descrivere un certo modo di esistere. Così per la terra, così per i suoi abitanti.
The project is divided in 2 parts. The first one depicts Heimaey from the outside: its landscapes, streets, houses. Slowly, the project gets to the second part, where the human presence is the protagonist: Heimaey is approached from the inside, depicting some of its inhabitants and their peculiarities.
Being the tale of a young man who came in for a shave, and whom quickly became the focus of the Barber’s murderous rage.
An immigrant works in a laundry to buy a wedding suit. One day he is found stealing a suit from a sick groom who has just been left at the altar. To atone for his sins, he will have to avenge the robbed man. Teaser https://vimeo.com/391930900 Password: ilvestito2020
Bill arrives home early from work to surprise KAREN, his wife. He sets out some wine and cheese as he preps for her arrival. Bill notices their anniversary frame, which Karen has been nagging him to hang. He grabs a hammer, a previously engraved gift from Karen, and some nails to put it up. As he is preparing to hang the frame, he hears a noise coming from upstairs. He goes to investigate. The closer he gets, the louder the sound becomes: the unmistakable sounds of lust. From outside his bedroom he sees, what appears to be, Karen with another man, in his bed. Panicked and disgusted, he goes back to the kitchen. As his anger rises, all of his memories become tainted by the betrayal he feels. Succumbing to his emotions, he grabs the hammer and heads towards the bedroom. Bill bursts into the room and violently kills the two people in his bed. In a state of shock, he proceeds to hang the frame on the wall. At that moment, Karen walks in. Unaware, she asks if her sister and fiancé had arrived yet. Still in shock, Bill stays silent. Karen heads up stairs and discovers the bodies. As she frantically makes her way back down, Bill grabs the hammer and walks toward her.
An elderly and honest Bolot works as a heating man at a village school. When the coal in his house finishes, his wife persuades him to steal coal from the school, despite the school’s small supply.
A man sitting in a bar munches pistachio nuts to kill time. another man browses through a magazine, looking for interesting topics and keeping up to date with the world. the barman follows his routine, not caring about his customers. second chapter of a trilogy with poems by attilio lolini.
Henri returns to see his family after a long absence to visit his mother admitted in a psychiatric clinic. Despite his anxieties, unconsciously transmitted by his mother, Henri decides to get her out of the hospital and take care of her…
The house welcomes the vivacious, the wise, and the crazy. It welcomes the rain, the wind. Never judging, never labeling any living being. It lets weeds grow and walls crumble. This house taught me the smells of wood, rust, motor oil. It sharpened my ear to the song of the piano, to the strings of the cello, to Bach, to Gurdjieff. It gave me a taste for liveliness, and has left me with memories that continue ever still to frame and build me, much like the bricks in my own home.