Das Unsichtbare Kino

A space imagined by avant-garde director Peter Kubelka together with the architect Friedrich Kurrent. Black walls, doors, floor, stairs, seats, ceiling and curtains melt together once the film is projected on the screen; the light from the image enters in contrast with the darkness of the room; the cinema disappears in favor of the story. Das Unsichtbare Kino is the name of the projection room inside the Filmmuseum of Vienna, a city that is nothing but visible, bearing an abundance of monumental buildings, sculptures and paved streets on which tourists travel in horse-drawn carriages. Horse-shit-smell intertwines with fancy pastries. There is something enjoyable about leaving the cinema to find yourself in what feels like another film-set for its old-school and picturesque aspect. The 61. Viennale was the first I attended and it was a pleasure to watch the selected films in institutions such as the Filmmuseum, Gartenbaukino, Stadtkino im Künstlerhaus, Urania and the Metro Kinokulturhaus – all having characteristics proper to an immersion not only in films, but in the citys’ history as conveyed through its architecture.

As a multidisciplinary artist, thinker and avant-garde filmmaker, Kubelka sought to represent cinema not as an industry but “as an instrument to develop human thought1 Kase and Johnson, Cinema as artifact and event: Peter Kubelka as Curator, Archivist and Media Theorist, The Moving Image: The Journal of the Association of Moving Image Archivists, Volume 13 n1, p.194. His curatorial practice was linked to his worry of preserving and sharing pieces of films as art forms. The Anthology Film Archives, which he has created along with other artists of the time, has been a model in its concept for many coming institutions. However, even in the continuity of practicing the transmission of love and care for independent and avant-garde cinema, there are some breaks in the way people perceive and receive films throughout History. In today’s context, it is unavoidable to notice that even within the non-commercial film branch, there are segregating rules. Either you comply with them or you take the risk of facing censorship and losing funds – or not getting them at first hand. Twisted and unfair words such as the ones delivered by the director of the short film festival in Oberhausen have rightfully caused indignation. Coming from someone who has held the same position since 1997, his stance might not be that surprising; it takes effort for anyone whose status is taken for granted to have their mind evolve with present issues: I guess not everyone has the will or force for it, but where there’s no will and force – when experience is not coupled with some sort of creativity and curiosity – there’s not much to take from. 

I’m discovering this field freshly and am learning that under whose name a festival is organized is a factor to actively consider. It’s not about having someone with a strict political agenda but someone whose values are in alignment with the ones intrinsic to non-commercial film, which in its opposition to being made merely for profit and entertainment should be used to “develop human thought” (rebounding on Kubelka’s words) as opposed to restraining it by clinging to old convictions without questioning them. Thirty years have passed since 1997 and since then, Eva Sangiorgi – the present director of the Viennale – has accumulated diplomas, moved from Bologna to Mexico and created a film festival there before moving back to Europe, participating as a jury for various festivals (FID, Doclisboa and the film festival in Mar del Plata) and starting holding her current position in 2018. In the meantime, Friedrich Kurrent had grown to a 91 year old man before passing away in 2022. That same year, Hong-sangsoo, Ulrike Ottinger, Michael Haneke, Laura Huertas Millán and others2 https://www.filmmuseum.at/aktuelles/fotos_unserer_gaeste visited the invisible cinema, making themselves visible to a crowd driven by their creative will and force. 

Visitors of 2023 included Hito Steyerl, Laura Mulvey, Costa-Gavras and others, including Peter Kubelka. As part of the 61st Viennale, this historical projection room welcomed a major retrospective of the engaged Chilean director Raúl Ruiz. In the meantime, other cinemas were showing Monographies of Argentinian artist Narcisa Hirsch and French director Nicolas Klotz. As for the films produced in 2023, most of them had also been screened at festivals like the Berlinale or the one in Cannes and Venice, filling the Viennale program with internationally awaited releases. Amongst them: Cub Zero by Jessica Hausner, La Chimera by Alice Rohrwacher, Cerrar los ojos by Víctor Erice, Music by Angela Schanelec, Roter Himmel by Christian Petzold, In our Day by Hong-sangsoo. Still, some directors seem to have been favorites at the Viennale for years, including James Benning who has had some of his films premiered there in past editions and who was present in this one with Allensworth. I had the chance to watch some of these films in other festivals; my following reviews are about those I discovered during the Viennale.

Los Delincuentes

Argentines have been facing successive socio-political crises over the past decades and are now subjected to an inflation beyond 100%; they’re paying the price of serious economic mismanagements from the part of their past governments and the present one is far from offering a reassuring alternative. No wonder that their films are filled with stories of robberies, scams, violence and revenge. In a country driven by high social injustice and corrupt politicians, the locals – victims of their dysfunctional state – might be inclined to find a way of taking control over their lives by contourning the system and therefore choosing illegality – from minor to major actions – sometimes involving immorality. Ricardo Darín, who has starred in 63 films, has mostly played either the role of the criminal or of the victim and numerous times the role of the assaulter becoming the victim or vice-versa. The desire for a better life partly explains the many narrative turnarounds present in these fictional outputs and the widespread of the Magic Realism genre in South America at large. 

In Rodrigo Moreno’s Los Delincuentes, a middle-class, middle-aged “average man” named Morán (played by Daniel Elías), lonely and bored, hates his job. The typical modern anti-hero; so far nothing groundbreaking, apart from Darrín not appearing on screen. The originality of the scenario lies in the fact the anti-hero works in a place full of money he can touch but not possess; in a metropolitan hub of cash-flow; in an institution supposed to guarantee the safety of its clients’ capital: inside a bank. How to escape his monotonous forthcoming faith? By stealing his work-place and never working again, of-course. In contrast to most heist-films, there’s no proper running away in this one; the law-breaker willfully delivers himself to the police. The thing is, by having robbed the bank, he has also put at risk his colleagues, then placed under high suspicion. A worker scamming a bank also scamming its workers and falling into the scheme of pure individualism. That’s how the story begins, and it does so using narrative choices assimilating it to realism. 

In the first part of the film, the aspects of everyday life are thrived to be authentically reproduced. The first shots show closed-up details of the eclectic buildings characterizing Buenos Aires before introducing us to Morán in his morning routine that is typical of one preparing to go to work. Semi-magical elements start to appear once he has turned himself to the police and left the realm of his previous, depressing duties. For example, in the prison, the head of a gang is played by the same actor as his superior in the bank. The thing is, there is not much magic in that realism, and that realism does not feel very real at first. By referring to it being neither realistic nor magical, the purpose is not to cage films in some abstract terms and cinematographic genres, but by neither exploring one side nor the other in depth, it delivered a quite boring piece. The characters were not shown in any complexity, nor were they portrayed as caricatures within a complex world. There were attempts at introducing the viewer to some poetry (choice of diptychs, showing two friends inclining to same acts in different spaces – one being inside a jail cell, the other free, both being conditioned by a growing anxiety) but they were rare, sparse, and overly too unambiguous to perpetuate any strong emotion. 

The Human Surge 3

Although also originally from Argentina, Eduardo Williams’ universe has nothing to do with the one of Rodrigo Moreno and his clique. Williams is from a different generation, probably submitted to similar worries (in addition to others) but in the capacity of imagining different ways of confronting and overcoming them; beholding different dreams – actual dreams. With a 360-degree camera, he embarks us in a visual and sonic journey in which characters have multilingual dialogues, never betraying their language of origin all the while crossing borders. Williams uses continuity-editing with repetitive sounds and elements (such as water splashes) to integrate spaces from different continents into a narrative thread and in that, borrows mechanisms from experimental cinema. Although the end-result is to be considered a feature film (with a storyline and actors), the director did experiment with the perks and limits of a VR camera’s images transposed into a flat screen and in this way gave his piece the effect of a psychedelic experience. 

The named camera has amongst others the advantage of capturing more than what the human eye can grasp, of being small and light and of resisting to different environments – including water. Still, its images’ quality is not the best (as in the sharpest) and what is filmed often undergoes different degrees of amorphisms. In El Auge Humano 3, the big – as in a feature film – is done with a small-sized camera and the minor – as in mistakes – are given importance; instead of obstructing the camera’s amorphisms, Williams integrates and turns them into additional attributes of the film. The strength of the piece lies in the fact that what is depicted still feels real. Indeed, a fluid coherence is made out of the disruptions, whether they’re spatial, linguistic or technical. We are transported. “You’re floating”, says one character to another, both midscope in the sea. We are brought to be illusorily altered by the lightness of the camera, as if we too were light, as if we were deprived of a body. 

The overwhelming sounds, bright colors, the rounded shape of surfaces, the abundant hills and the water standing still, flowing or splashing – serve to overcome words; here language is secondary and it is preceded by feelings. The anthropomorphic view is dissentered; the camera possesses a field of vision nearing more the one of an owl than of a human – it sees more than the director. The story could consequently only be properly defined during the editing process as that is when some frames are chosen over others; that is when the superhuman perception becomes human again: when the choice is made to select one field of vision over another. The world is here represented as being flexible. The camera falls along a cliff and yet it continues to perform its function by revealing to us what is there, at the bottom of that cliff. In this realism there is some magic. No wonder that the most psychedelic scene of the film unfolds inside the amazon forest, where abundance of life is depicted as surreal. 

A invenção do outro

The amazon forest is also where brazilian director Bruno Jorge brings us with his film A invençao do outro. There, he documents the thrive for survival and redemption of the indigenous Korubo tribe, during a humanitarian mission organized by members of the FUNAI (Fundação nacional do índio). Rather than being centered on the help of the tribe members received by the organization, the film seeks to underline the fructuous exchange between the ones and the “others”. The helpers are invited to participate in the korubo rituals, the korubos are encouraged to get vaccinated; in-between, they get to know each other – bonding, for example, through humor. The film feels quite immersive due to its length (2,5 hours) and its extended closed-up shots of cathartic emotional manifestations (for example when one of the korubos finds his brother whom he thought dead) or repetitive rituals. Yet the filter that has been added to the image (a blue-ish, undersaturated tint) also keeps us at a certain distance with reality to bring us closer to a sort of dream experience (this being enhanced by effects such as the slow motions by the end of the film). But having the vivid colors of nature from the “planet’s lungs” reduced made the place look rather sinister.

The film did succeed in showing neither a romanticized version of the forest or one defined entirely by violence, which are stereotypes its representations easily fall into. The Korubos are shown in their daily routine that does include violence (when hunting for example) but also a deep understanding of their environment and strong care for members of their community. Now if the intention of the documentary was to show some sort of universality present in everyone regardless of the group they belong to – or how the self is an “invention” – the narrative was still strongly focused towards the observation of the Korubos. At the Q&A, the director cited Lacan’s onion peeling metaphor for the ego: “The ego is constructed like an onion, one could peel it, and discover the successive identifications which have constituted it”. This concept was tried to be highlighted in the film on different layers: it’s shown how, through contrasting stylistic and ritualistic habits, Korubos differentiate themselves from other tribe-members, how Funai-members differentiate themselves from Korubos and so on. Yet the length of the documentary contributed to a rather egocentric statement from the part of the director. It seemed like his main motivation was to translate his feeling of immersion into the Amazon with his film into some dreamy imagery, and that his excitement made it difficult for him to properly select the footage actually necessary for the outspoken purpose of his piece. Although there’s nothing wrong with transferring a sensation or a feeling to the screen, it has to be done carefully when it comes to ethnographic content. 

If one wants to show an image of a group of people living in a different way than oneself – even if the end purpose is not a scientific one but the one of getting to know oneself better – it would be relevant to show how different aspects of the community are propagated by their distinct members and what their roles are. This was neglected both in the depiction of the Korubos as in the one of the FUNAI workers. Only one female FUNAI-member appeared in front of the camera and her appearance was very brief. As for the Korubo women and children, we see them only towards the end, from afar. In the Q&A, the director justified this by women being very difficult to approach in the tribe. That might be a valuable argument, but as viewers it still is frustrating to have the focus set on adult men within an unknown community. 

This is when a child becomes a poet 

Céline Sciamma’s short film has succeeded better at nailing aspects that have shaped her sense of self. This is when a child becomes a poet inspects how the death of a close poet friend (Patrizia Cavalli) provokes memories and how these memories, leading to introspective “awakenings” show up at the sight of material leftovers inside the flat. Patrizia’s death is not the theme of the film, but the motif for existential reflections. Her death is the vector through which the director will acknowledge a sense of her existence. Being inside a room full of furniture and objects which have been placed there by someone who no longer inhabits that space – being confronted to the silence of that furnished space – surely activates one’s imagination. Suddenly, the objects don’t belong to their initial owner anymore, but to their present observer who revives them through her memories. New significations are given. Still shots showing details from the room succeed each other. Some objects show marks of fresh human contact, such as the couch still holding the hollow from someone having sat on it recently. 

A storyline unfolding from someone’s absence. This can be assimilated to Chantal Ackerman’s approach, although in her work the absence of a person often has the counter effect of accentuating their presence. This is most obvious in News from Home where the mother’s letters are read on top of New Yorck’s street scenes but it also applies to No home movie where the scenes of deserted landscape stand for the mother’s death – her absence is present in the filmmaker’s mind and gives meaning and life to an inhabited, empty space. Céline Schiamma on another hand uses the absence of the person in a home to fill it with her own presence, even when not appearing physically in front of the camera. In that sense, the film can be seen as a short autobiographical documentary. One’s ego put into a cinematographic shape following the death of a friend sounds odd, but the director managed to avoid falling into tasteless narcissism. 

Instead, by stroking the furniture and objects with the camera, she enhances their existence as having a significance beyond their previous owner’s death. There is a sense of endlessness reverberating into what they symbolize. For the film to be about “how a child became a poet”, it could have been about many things; it could have taken a sociological, economical or psychological approach. But the one chosen here is closer to poetry itself. Not because of the narrative (it is quite straightforward and linear), but because of how she translated the mechanism of a memory through some of her editorial choices. If there is something she managed very well, it is to infiltrate Novak’s clap (which she refers to as evoking one of her first feelings of desire) into my mind and turn it into an echo to reverberate inside my mind. She transferred her memory into one that seemed to initially belong to me. 

Anatomy of a fall

Whereas Sciamma anatomizes a memory consequent of becoming a poet, Justine Triet uses the trial as an opportunity to reveal the different anatomies possible in a fall. A literal fall: provoking someone’s death, but also and foremost the fall of a relationship and of a writer’s career. In the trial, the dead victim exists only through voice recordings, pictures, and memories of others. It’s a kind of inverted version of Schiamma’s film. Whereas in This is when a child becomes a poet, the death of Patrizia permits the space inhabited by her to evoke memories, memories in Anatomy of a fall serve as hints, as motives expected to incorporate facts used to defend or attack: they’re threatening. Memories, along with specific events, are expected to be reconstructed in a way that brings the deceased back to life. Film as a medium of expression opens this possibility. Whatever you see or hear in the film exists in the film and is part of a story that appears (if that’s the intention and if it’s well done) to be real. Whatever is imaginable can become an image combined with sound that is visible and audible not only by the one who imagines this visual and sonic combination but also to a public. The inner becomes outer. A singular, personal reality becomes a collective one. Someone’s viewpoint can become real for us. Or more precisely: once it becomes ours too, we have power over it to decide whether it is real to us or not. 

Justine Triet plays with this in a subtle manner and there is a scene that is especially representative of it. At some point Daniel – the son of the deceased man – “confesses” a memory: one that would justify a suicide committed by his father. He remembers a conversation with him inside the car. As soon as he starts recalling it in front of the court, the image shifts from the court to the one this memory refers to. We see the father driving the car from the perspective of his son sitting next to him. But instead of hearing the voice of the deceased man, we hear, dubbed on his lips, the voice of the son recalling his father’s worlds. We are left to wonder if it was made up or not – if we are indeed confronted with a memory or with the child’s invented story aimed at protecting his mother from being accused of murder. Overall, it shows how institutional justice is constructed upon fictions regardless of its claim to elucidate the truth. By being confronted to visual reconstructions of imagined or remembered scenes, these mind-processes of ambiguous nature are given more credibility. This puts us in a position of powerlessness because as fiction is inseparable from truth, we come to realize we don’t have the adequate tools to come to an ultimate judgment, and that’s what is, paradoxically, powerful about this film. 


When it comes to highlighting the inconclusive nature of reality, Quentin Dupieux is a master of it. He knows how to extract the bizarre out of the mundane and turn it into an absurdity that still feels familiar. His idiosyncratic style and humor is apparent in all his films yet his three previous ones (smoking causes coughing, incredible but true and Yannick) are bound by an additional similarity: the one exploring the ambiguous nature of storytelling and allowing stories told by the ones or the others – as random and tasteless as they may sound – to unfold into a story played out by actors and given a setting to. In smoking causes coughing the script dives into the most absurd stories told by its characters and plunges us into a chain of childish worlds full with adult problems. In Incredible but true a circumstance announced by a real-estate agent that sounds not credible at all is proven to be real to the point of being destructive to a happy couple. In Yannick a brilliant but illiterate man takes a theater crew hostage for them to perform his own play which happens to be far from matching the eloquence of his initial discourse. 

DAAAAAALI! continues on this scheme by featuring the surrealist painter Dalí in his full eccentricity. His role is incorporated by ten different actors (Édouard Baer, Pio Marmai, Gilles Lellouche, Pierre Niney, Jonathan Cohen, Alain Chabat, Didier Flamand, Jérôme Niel and Hakim Jemili) – he is represented as multiple. Dalí loved appearing on TV and was as much a painter as a public figure; his oeuvre is inseparable from his persona and his melting clocks, giant eggs are entangled to his iconic mustache. The film shows how the attachment to his image made him obsessed about having control over his narrative; he’d want not only his paintings but also himself to be filled with mysticism and out of the norm, out of the real. With some scenes filmed in reversed motion and endless loops in the narrative (the dream inside the dream inside the dream inside the dream), Dupieux aimed to pay homage to this character by attributing to his representation quirky cinematic tricks. These effects sometimes give some surrealist power to the painter (for example the reverse effect making him able to challenge gravity and having food traveling towards his mouth) and occasionally he becomes a victim of them. To have the character who loved appearing on screen being trapped in its cinematic representation is an idea that can easily lead to an entertaining film and that is exactly what it led it to. But it barely managed to go beyond that. What we can retain from it is that representation in cinema holds a limit; some properties belong to painting solely and can’t be translated into film. 

In our day + In water

Hong Sang-soo delivered two films at the Viennale – In our day and In Water. The director has a more “modest” way of showing reality. The camera serves to film what is in front of it. People having tea, talking, drinking soju, going into existential monologues, being confronted with their loneliness. But in his films, the camera also holds the place of a semi-present character. In our day has a film student aiming to shoot a documentary about a poet. When he talks, she films. By doing so, she mostly looks at her camera screen to see what she records. But at some point, all the while holding the camera, she stops looking at its screen to look at the poet. “If you’re asking what the meaning of love is, you’ve never been in love”. She looks at the poet because she’s listening to him. “We don’t know what life is as long as we’re living”, he continues. The camera is a means through which one can see but Hong Sang-soo explores the motives behind watching through this intermediary and the limits of this experiential act. The camera can record what is being seen by the filmmaker, but can it reflect the depth of her*his “soul” and psyche? 

In water, like most Hong-Sangsoo films, also features a filmmaker. Soung-mo is searching for inspiration, disillusioned and full of doubts. But in this film a more active role is given to the camera. Not only to the one of the young filmmaker but also to the one used to shoot the film In water itself. The majority of the images are blurry. As if witnessing the world seen by someone underwater, in apnea, lacking breath. Or by someone whose eyes are constantly moistened by tears. As confirmed during the Q&A, this effect matched an unconscious choice of the director, sparing the spectator with a duty of questioning the meaning of this blur and instead setting up an atmosphere, softly melancholic, unsharp – like an indefinable feeling. Both In our day and In water give importance to the act of contemplation all the while retrieving it from a state easy to achieve or even to be in. The characters communicate one with another in an open and eloquent way; still, they give off a feeling of contemptuous solitude. A sentiment Hong-sang soo continues to depict refinedly. 

The Beast

Spanning over different epochs – including one in the future – Léa Seydoux plays the same character in different times and settings: she “loves” the same man (acted out by George MacKay) over centuries but their love can never be lived through. Inspired by Henry James’ novel The beast in the jungle, Bertrand Bonello’s The Beast is however very different from Patric Chiha’s cinematographic adaptation of the same novel which also came out this year. Whereas Chia chose to insert the story in the nightlife context by having the club as a setting both generating the feeling of love and obstructing it (which I found to bear cheap moralism), Bonello’s approach at portraying the feeling of a missed love is more drastic, puzzled and ambitious. I put “love” into brackets as the sentiment portrayed here corresponds more to the one of obsession – the uncontrollable attraction towards another person translating into a belief of them belonging together – as if bound by some power as strong as faith, or by faith itself. In the film, the characters subjugated to that magnetism are foremost victims of their loneliness; that’s what keeps the story away from the more common narrative of a fatal attraction in which the plot builds up around a carnal finality. Having the past, present and future meet and intertwine has both the ingenious effect of feeding the state of obsession itself, which in its irrationality is exposed to constant, contradictory, counter-current fluxes, and of inserting the feeling of loneliness into different contexts. Every era has its systematic repressive apparatuses complicit of plunging individuals into solitude (whether real or felt) which in extreme cases lead to self harm or the harm of others. 

Incels are a contemporary example, nurturing and spreading their hate and frustration online and blaming women’s emancipation for their misery when they’re actually victims of their own masculinity and of the internet as a possible hallmark for conspiracy theories. Bonello explores how a character who could have appeared as a gentleman in another century could easily fall into a scheme of extremist psychopathic behavior in our present times, which calls into question the codes proper to seduction. Rarely have I felt the heartache characteristic of watching a romantic melodrama as intensely as the tension and fear typically conveyed through mainstream horror films, like in The Beast. Mixing genres has become a trend in recent cinema (Nope by Jonathan Peele, Parasite by Bong Joon-ho, Everything Everywhere all at once by Daniel Scheinert and Daniel Kwan being a few examples), but it often seems to soullessly adjust to the impatient mind of the spectator who is used to a ceaseless shift of information. We’re increasingly being offered a spectacle of the spectacle, a rendering of everything as meta and auto-derisory, which to me hints to a general lack of creativity. In the case of The Beast, the mixture of temporalities and genres not only serves the purpose named above; it also conveys multiple interpretations and an open end. The referred “Beast” can be many things. Furthermore, despite many explosive, ecstatic moments, an overflow of fancy costumes and intrusive “shock” images, Bonello managed to maintain a sense of sincerity all the way through and to lead the multiple emotions meant to be felt along the unfolding of the story, to a singular one at the end – the scream in the last scene can’t fool anyone and corresponds to one of the best performances I’ve seen recently. 

Other films I have seen at the Viennale include, amongst others, La Chimera by Alice Rohrwacher, Last Summer by Catherine Breillat, Ferrari by Michael Mann, Last Things by Deborah Stratman and Menus plaisirs – Les Troisgros by Frederick Wiseman and if I could write about every film I watch, I would. But in-between each – after and before every story acted out by others for you to passively act and actively watch, personal life is acted out by others in relation to you and by you in relation to others. The more I get involved into watching films and writing about them, the more I notice an unsystematic emotional and intellectual reception towards them and how that does not necessarily depend on the quality of the piece or it matching my taste. What I eat before, who I am with, what point I’m at in my hormonal cycle or just what my life’s like outside the theater – all these things come and interfere with the involvement and capacity to passively act, but actively think and feel: to actively watch. Leaving out personal circumstances, the environment of the festival plays a crucial role in defining that.   The more performance-driven its attendance feels, the more difficult it might be to have the meaningful “life-moments“ in-between allowing one to properly connect with one’s emotions. The expenses of its attendance (as in the costs outside the festival; primarily food and accommodation) can also hinder an ideal feeling of weightlessness when watching a film. 

At Cannes for example, it was quite frustrating to be by the sea but having difficult access to it, as most beaches are privatized. Attending festivals in capitals is more convenient in many ways as there are more alternatives when it comes to basic needs. Vienna is an expensive city, still it is possible to find relatively cheap food. We also paid little for our accommodation as we got it subleted by locals without the intermediary of a profit-based platform. The city offers a wide range of museums and bars, allowing one to take a break from films. All the cinemas I named above are very close to each other (apart from Urania which still is close), keeping away the stress one might resent when having to hurry up to catch the next session. They’re also close to very nice parks with loads of benches to sit on and rest, if the weather allows it. As for the atmosphere of the festival, it felt quite unpretentious. The festival director was personally present during many of the projections to give a short announcement beforehand, contributing to that feeling. Indeed, she has been responsible for the Viennale having a focus not on the glamorous aspect of premieres and an overflow of star guests but on the actual programming, recentering the attention on films themselves. This is mirrored in the event not revolving around a competition. The one reproach I can make, is that I only figured by the end where the Viennale Zentrale was, a place meant for networking, which I ended up not doing. 


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    Kase and Johnson, Cinema as artifact and event: Peter Kubelka as Curator, Archivist and Media Theorist, The Moving Image: The Journal of the Association of Moving Image Archivists, Volume 13 n1, p.194
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