Interview with Ted Fendt and Leonie Rodrian

In Foreign Travel (Auslandsreise), the only visible suitcase serves as a carrier of the possessions of one character moving from one place to another, on the search for a long-term lease. Ted Fendt’s 16mm feature film, which premiered at the 76th Berlinale (2026) in the Forum section, plays entirely in Berlin, and for most part, in the same neighborhood, Bergmannkiez. The main means of travelling in the film are the books of Italian author Anna Maria Ortese, which Leonie – one of the characters, played by Leonie Rodrian, who also co-wrote the film together with Ted Fendt – reads one by one, as months pass, in the time-frame of a year. Yet if time is set in a linear cycle, with the film divided into chapters corresponding to the months in which the story unfolds, we get to know the characters mostly through an interwoven, fragmentary reading of Ortese’s work, without ever really going deep into the biographies of either. “Ich bin niemands Tochter. Das sagt Sie gleich am Anfang” are the first words Leonie utters in the film, paraphrasing Ortese, already setting her close identification with the author and the braiding of first-and-third-person perspectives.

Here, the act of reading, like in Fendt’s earlier film Classical Period (2018), is for most parts collective, allowing the characters to share a common ground, a reason to hang out. In the film, Leonie reads Ortese’s books in Italian and in their translated versions in German and French, and she reads them together with her friends – Hanna, Alejo and Florian. Reading, etymologically, comes from proto-Germanic rēdaną, meaning “to advise” or “to interpret”. Its Latin roots, from legere, originally referred not to reading per se but to the acts of “gathering” and “collecting”. In this sense, the characters in the film restore reading to its original meaning, by assimilating Ortese’s words with their own reflections, generating multiple interpretations, not only gathering together physically as readers, but also gathering different layers of meaning within their discussions. Their deep engagement with the text is made possible both by the complexity and beauty of Ortese’s writings and by the readers’ receptions of ambiguity – a quality that feels almost magical in an age in which the written word is too often used to convey false assertions or pseudo-factual information.

As spectators, however, we are invited not to read but to watch and listen, entering a deep state of attention while the camera repeatedly frames one speaker at a time, as if at the moment of their speech, their thoughts were all that mattered. But because their thoughts matter mostly in relation to the others and that it is while being exchanged that they take the shape of discourse, the camera frequently and unhurriedly pans to connect all characters one with another within the spaces they share, always at eye level, as if we were amongst them, all the while occasionally dragging us out of the circle to show a wider view of the group from a distance. Most of the time, we closely feel the presence of the characters, and while the camera does sometimes turn away from them to show snippets of Berlin, those moments never last for long and seem to function as pauses, akin to commas within a sentence. 

I had the great pleasure of interviewing both Ted Fendt and Leonie Rodrian, who after knowing each other for ten years, decided to work on this project together, both avid readers themselves. And so, my first question to them was, Why Anna Maria Ortese?

Clara Thym:
Did you read all her books beforehand, or during the making of the film? While answering, maybe you could also tell me how you two came to collaborate.

Ted Fendt:
Well, I discovered Anna Maria Ortese’s books in 2015, when I was in Paris. I was working on the subtitles of a Straub film by Jean-Marie Straub. By chance, there was an actress from another Straub-Huillet film in Paris, Giovanna Giuliani, who was there with a theatre piece on tour. So I met her for coffee, and we were talking about various things, including authors we liked. She told me that Ortese was her favorite Italian author, and that she had done a performance based on one of her novels. So I went and bought La douleur du chardonneret – which is Il cardillo addolorato, her novel from the early ’90s. I read that first and was really enamored with it. Then I read The Iguana in English, and also a collection of short stories, covering different periods of her work. At that point, I had the impression that this was everything available in translation, which wasn’t true. In French, quite a lot had already been translated – I think now almost everything is. So that was kind of the starting point: I had these three books. When I later moved to Germany, I only brought La douleur du chardonneret with me, and I reread it maybe two more times over the following five years. Then, when I had the idea for this project, it was initially just about a group of people living in my neighborhood, and filming there. I thought that a book could be a good way to generate conversations and meetings between people. By chance, I saw that there was a German translation of Il cardillo addolorato, which I knew was considered her major work – something that was very badly received when it came out, almost a disaster for her, but also very important. So I felt I had to read it. After about a hundred pages, I thought: this is the book. This is the one I want to be at the center of the film. And by that point, I had already asked Leonie to be involved in the project. For the past ten years, whenever I’ve seen her, books come up a lot. I knew she would have interesting things to say about them. So I gave her Il cardillo addolorato – Die Klage des Distelfinken in German.

Leonie Rodrian:
I hadn’t read anything by her before. I didn’t know her at all. Ted gave me the book, and I started reading it. I think I was quite slow with it, but that was actually nice, because I knew we would be talking about it, so I took a lot of notes. That made the reading slower. Unfortunately, I lost most of my notes, but I still have some – and especially the emails we exchanged. We didn’t meet that often at first – maybe once in a café – but we wrote to each other a lot about the book: what I was thinking, what he was thinking. I read the book and I was immediately very intrigued. I think she’s now in my top five authors. It’s very impressive writing, and also quite mysterious. I became interested very quickly not only in the text, but also in the person who wrote it. The text itself raises that question. It feels like you can sense the author, but not in a straightforward way. You feel her presence, but at the same time, she often addresses the reader very directly, almost playfully. So you’re constantly asking yourself: who is speaking here? Is it the author? Is it a voice? What is the position of the writer? I also started trying to find out more about her, but she’s quite mysterious. She didn’t publish that much about herself, didn’t really give interviews or explain her work. So both the text and the person invite you to search further. If you are that kind of reader – and I think I am – you become very active while reading. The texts leave a lot of space for imagination. You can sense many references – literary, but also social and political ones. So you can really play with the text. And if you enjoy that, you can read her again and again. That’s what I did. I took notes, we discussed them, and I’m very happy that I started with this book. The second book we read is very different. It has similar qualities, but it’s much longer, more poetic, and heavier. It deals much more with death, with very intense emotions. So it creates a different mindset while reading. It’s less playful, less light. So I’m glad we started with this one, because it contains those themes, but in a more subtle, lighter way.

C.T:
Did you sometimes feel like you were identifying with Ortese while working on the project?

L.R:
No, not really with her. But I think it’s easy to get into the mood of the book. Especially with the second one – you kind of have to, in order to enjoy it, or even to understand what’s going on. It’s not a book you can read quickly, or just skim through – I couldn’t, at least. So when you read in that way, it can resonate with things you’re experiencing yourself. I think that’s true for the character, and maybe also for me, but I wouldn’t push that too far. It’s not something I would claim strongly. But I’m very grateful for the experience. I don’t think I would have gone that far into it otherwise.

C.T:
For obvious reasons, this film is a bit similar to Classical Period (2018), since it also follows a group of people reading a book and really diving into the work of a single author. But it’s also very different. Here we are introduced to an author not many people know, whereas in Classical Period, with Dante Alighieri, we’re dealing with a canonical figure. Also, Classical Period is mainly centered around a group of male friends, while here it’s more Leonie’s character who holds the reading group together and brings people in. And the setting shifts as well – from Philadelphia to Berlin. So I was wondering: was this in any way conscious? Is it a kind of sequel, or even a response to Classical Period?

T.F:
Not consciously, no. It was really more practical. I felt like I needed something that would help me write dialogue and get the characters talking – a way not to just sit in front of a blank page. And I mean, it’s probably also just related to the fact that I spend about 80% of my waking time reading, quite obsessively. So I think it comes more from that than from any idea of making a sequel.

C.T:
Do you spend more time reading than watching films? 

T.F:
It depends. I have trouble watching things at home, because for work I’m always on the computer, and I don’t have a proper home cinema setup. So I mostly watch films in cinemas, and when I can go regularly, I do see a lot. But at home, I prefer reading – it’s more comfortable. So I read quite a lot, whenever I have the time.

C.T:
How is it for you Leonie, do you watch many films? And also, since you co-wrote the film, how was it to think about writing within the structure of a script?

L.R:
I don’t have such a strong connection to film. I enjoy watching movies, but I come more from reading, and also from theatre. The writing process was more about exchanging ideas around the books. Ted would write scenes and dialogues, and then we would discuss them, go back and forth, and refine things together.

T.F:
I wrote the script, but it wasn’t something fixed from the beginning. It developed over time, during the making of the film. I would take notes while reading, and then gradually write scenes. I’d write a draft, send it to Leonie, she would respond, and then I would revise it again. After that, I would integrate shot ideas – so you’d have dialogue on one side, and notes on the shots on the other. Not extremely detailed, but enough to structure the scene. Some things also changed later – for example, I cut a shot during editing, which made a scene shorter and more condensed. In my previous films, I worked much less with written scripts. It was more like scene descriptions and bullet points – topics to cover. That meant I would often hear the dialogue for the first time on set, during rehearsal, and we had to quickly figure out positions, shots, everything. Those films usually had only one or two shots per scene. But here, I wanted to return to a more analytical editing style – breaking scenes into multiple shots, emphasizing certain elements. And to do that, I felt I needed a more written script beforehand, so I could make those decisions already on the page.

L.R:
It was slowly evolving. And in the beginning, we really stuck very closely to the text – almost word by word. I remember especially the first one or two scenes. At that point, we didn’t feel very free yet. I think we needed that structure to feel safe in front of the camera. Alejo is a very relaxed guy. He’s also a filmmaker, and perhaps that gave him a different kind of confidence. But for Florian and me, in the beginning, it felt important to stick closely to the script. The idea of just improvising freely – of saying, “this is the topic, now speak” – would have made us very nervous. And I think you can actually see that in the film: at the beginning, we are very precise, very close to the text, maybe also a bit tense or excited. But as the shooting went on, we became more relaxed. The script was still there, but we didn’t stick to it quite as rigidly anymore. There was more space to be a bit freer within it.

C.T:
Relating to the evolvement in time, I found it really interesting how the piece works almost as a loop, with the first scene reminiscent of the last, it seems to end where it begins. And although the story unfolds within the span of a single year, this apparent continuity is complicated by ellipses: certain months are omitted entirely, while others are extended and dwelled upon. As a result, the film offers a chronological framework, but simultaneously distorts the experience of duration.

T.F:
That really came out of practical circumstances. I didn’t think I could film more than one day per month. That was the starting point. Sometimes it was two days, or two half-days, but not much more. So that determined the structure. And between those shoots, I had time to write the next scene as we went along. I’m not sure if it was planned from the beginning that the film would end in May, but that came relatively early. After shooting a few scenes, the overall direction became clearer. There were also practical gaps – for example, in the summer months, the cinematographer was working on another film, so we couldn’t shoot. But that was also helpful, because it gave me time to work and save money – I hadn’t calculated the budget very well. In February, I also didn’t film because I was busy with other work and it felt too stressful. So some months are shorter simply because we had less footage. But I also like that rhythm – some parts longer, some shorter, the same way within a sequence of a longer shot followed by a shorter one creates a certain emotional effect.

C.T:
That’s also how time feels in real life. Some months pass very quickly, others feel endless. In a way, by showing that some months are shorter simply because you had less material, you’re also documenting the process of making the oeuvre itself.

T.F:
Yeah, I think it’s nice when those things align – when the available resources and the formal qualities of the film are in some kind of harmony.

C.T:
That same fluidity seems to carry over into how the film handles language. Leonie’s character moves between German, French, and Italian – although we don’t really hear her speak Italian, it’s still implied. Alejo knows Spanish and Italian. I felt like the characters’ knowledge of these different languages created different ways of accessing Anna Maria Ortese’s texts. Sometimes it seemed important for a passage to be read in French, then in German, to compare both translations.

L.R:
German is often considered quite precise and less open to interpretation structurally, but here it seems to open up multiple meanings.  I remember one moment in particular – we had a sentence that I kept reading again and again, and I realized that depending on how you emphasize it, it could mean several different things. I became really unsure about its meaning. That’s when I turned to the French translation. But even then, it’s not a final answer, because you’re still relying on another interpretation. And I didn’t read the Italian, so there’s always another layer of mediation. It became a kind of layered game. I even asked a linguist friend about one sentence, and she sent me a long analysis – pages of possible meanings, depending on how you read it. I really liked that.

C.T:
Yes, translation is also a creative process. 

L.R:
I consider the translation of a book like this one – so highly poetic – to be a piece of art by itself. It is not only about another language but it’s about another way of thinking. Languages also define what one can imagine. So by putting it into another language you also frame it within another way of thinking. So it’s very creative indeed.

C.T:
Ted, as a translator yourself, do you feel like you’re in a creative process when translating? What kind of state do you enter when you translate?

T.F:
It’s a mixture of different things, I guess. And I’m not usually translating literature – or at least I haven’t yet. Generally, it’s more academic or scholarly texts, which maybe changes things a bit. When I’m translating, it’s some combination of looking up as many words as possible, trying to be faithful to the author, trying to really understand the text. It’s all these active and unconscious processes at once. I don’t think about it very theoretically while I’m doing it. It’s more like: how do I understand this, and how can I best formulate that in English? And then I revise it, trying to keep it faithful but not too stiff. It’s always a kind of navigation, a strange balance. And it’s difficult. For example, someone once asked me to translate something very literally. I did my best, but I flagged a lot of passages where it simply didn’t work – where a literal translation would make no sense. If you translate the same word on page one and again on page ten, in a different context, it just won’t function the same way. There’s no perfect equivalence. So yes, it’s a lot of different things at once. There was a translator once I saw a talk given by, who translated Queneau in English, and he did it very quickly, and what he basically said about the process is that you just have to make decisions. So it’s that. But behind these directions there are a lot of different processes and hopefully you have time to do it. Often I’m doing these things under time pressure, which doesn’t help. 

C.T:
Do you also see cinema as a form of translation? In this film, for example, it’s about many things, but also about Ortese’s work. There is a lot of dialogue, which is close to the medium of writing, but obviously there are also images. Do you see the process of transforming the script into moving image as a form of translation? And what can images do that words can’t?

T.F:
I remember describing Ortese’s Il porto di Toledo to someone as a book which you couldn’t really adapt into a film – it’s too essentially literary somehow. So then the question becomes: how do you bring it into a film? My response was to quote it, to discuss it, but also to allow some kind of echo of it to appear visually. For me, film is more about recording – it’s about capturing and intensifying the presence of things in front of the camera. I don’t know if that constitutes a translation of the world into cinematic material. Cinema is to me a way of capturing presence and discreet moments of time, and when you project them, they become more intense, more noticeable than they were in lived experience. 

L.R:
I suppose you could call it a translation. But perhaps it’s a more radical form of translation, in the sense you mentioned earlier, Ted – because it involves making very definite decisions. When you translate from one language to another, you still leave a certain openness; multiple possibilities remain. But when you translate into images, those decisions become more fixed – you commit to something highly specific. So yes, in a broad sense it can be understood as translation, but it is also something beyond that.

C.T:
There was one scene that to me felt like an “emotional translation.” When the translator is being filmed, she says she would like to go back to Sicily – but also that she will never go there again. There was silence after that, and it felt very intense. Through that silence, we get to think about death. That felt very specific to cinema.

L.R:
Now that I think about it, what I said before isn’t completely true. Because if you move away from the concrete thing that is being shown in image and words and the underlying emotional topics that are there, I think you can make links between what’s happening in the movie and what’s happening in the books in terms of the emotional topics that the characters are dealing with, so it is a translation, these emotional topics, and it’s a free translation: you are able to perceive that in the movie or not and you can interpret what is going on between characters and actors. You can move in this open space of interpreting what you see on an emotional level and that’s maybe a very good translation of the book.

T.F:
Perhaps. But then there are many things that occur unconsciously or unplanned. For instance, there’s a moment I really like: during the reading scene in March, when you see Leonie saying “I like how the book makes you tap in the dark”. And at that exact moment, a cloud passes, and the room suddenly gets darker. This is some kind of interplay of content and light and there is no conscientious act of translation. That wasn’t planned – it’s just something that happened. And it’s the kind of thing that can only happen in a film.

C.T:
Yeah, I see. That also adds something a bit supernatural to it. 

T.F:
Yeah. I think it would actually be very limiting to try to translate Ortese’s words directly into film. That’s what I meant: in Porto di Toledo, the visual world she describes is influenced by  the painter El Greco. It’s like a combination of her city and her memory of the city from forty years earlier, plus El Greco’s paintings. There’s even a character in the book who is named after a figure from one of his paintings. And when I saw those paintings – most of the ones she refers to are in the Metropolitan Museum of Art – I could recognize the world she was describing. But it’s not one-to-one. It’s a poetic interpretation. So there’s a risk of limiting things if you translate too directly from a book into a film.

L.R:
I remember we also talked about that – how sometimes her writing feels very cinematic, when she describes the colors of the sky, the landscapes… 

T.F:
But I don’t actually know what her relationship to cinema was. I haven’t read any essays or texts where she talks about film. I’d be curious to find out.

C.T:
I’ll definitely read her when I have time. Actually this is also something which gave your film an idealistic dimension. The characters seem to have a lot of time – apart from Florian, who feels more grounded in reality, since he talks about his financial situation, about not earning money and living off his savings. But for the others, we don’t really know how they earn money. It feels like they have all time to read and to think and to talk. So I was wondering if you could talk about that choice, because it feels different from your earlier films, where we sometimes see more clearly how people work or make a living.

T.F:
In my first three short films, up until Short Stay (2016), I always felt like I had to justify that within the diegetic world – to show what their jobs were. But then, with Classical Period (2018), I decided to abstract that. It could exist off-screen. In the film, they clearly have money – they’re living somewhere, they’re not homeless – so they must be working. But I don’t have to show that. I can just focus on these parts of their lives. Here, in Foreign Travels, you do have Florian’s character, who talks directly about financial problems, and that’s part of why he’s unable to escape his father’s grip, and why he goes back to south Germany to do what his father wants him to do. But for the others, I don’t think: “we don’t see them working, therefore work doesn’t exist”. Work is just not the focus of the film. I could even justify it through some kind of realism argument, the same way that, when they’re talking about the books, they’re not saying things that would contextualize it for an off-screen viewer. When I talk to people I know about a book we’ve both read, there are certain things we don’t have to say. It would feel unnatural to include those explanations just for the audience. Likewise, when I meet someone I know for coffee, we rarely talk about our jobs or how we make money, because that’s an assumed background and not something we need to talk about. So I treated it the same way in the film.

L.R:
I also think the relationship between the characters – Leonie and Florian – is interesting. At the beginning, he brings up a problem, and she doesn’t really engage with it. She’s very absorbed in her own world, in what she’s reading, and not really attentive to his problems. 

T.F:
Definitely. But by the end, there’s more exchange between them – more empathy. She comes out of that immersion in the literary world, and they begin to share the same space. 

L.R:
I think the film also reflects something about Berlin today. People might earn the same amount of money, but their living situations are very different. If someone has had a flat for ten years, they might have low rent and no financial pressure. But someone looking for a flat now can be in a much more difficult situation, even with the same income. So there’s a kind of structural inequality that has developed.

T.F:
Yes, I mean everything Florian describes about searching for an apartment – that’s exactly my experience. I wasn’t poor or in immediate financial danger, but it was still very difficult to find a place.

C.T:
One last question, following up on the topic of money: did you finance this film yourself, as you did with most of your previous ones?

T.F:
Yes. We did try to get funding, but to make a film within the system, you have to work within that system – you have to follow certain expectations and make a certain kind of film. I’m open to that challenge. But for this project, I didn’t go that route. A friend suggested that, since I had already worked independently in the U.S., I could continue that way. But that approach doesn’t really align with the European funding system. If I wanted to work within that system, I would have to accept different parameters. And I’m open to that – but it would result in a different kind of film. So it’s difficult: if you want to work in a certain way that doesn’t fit what institutions are interested in supporting, you have to find another way. And I haven’t fully figured that out yet.