by Shelly Schoeneshoefer

As the pandemic spread its ugly wings across the world in 2020, I was sitting in many theaters attending the Berlinale in person, not fully aware of what was coming or of its impact. We met in person, ate, drank, took buses and subways just to get our fill of our usual overwhelming schedule of films. The Berlinale is one of my favorite film festivals, since its venues cover lots of ground. We have opportunities to go to press conferences, interview directors, actors, and other specialists working behind the scenes. We can ask all sorts of questions and usually we get answers. The films are the kind that make you think or ignite you into wanting to becoming a director yourself.

So when 2021 rolled along, the festival team assumed quarantine rules of lockdown would be finished. How wrong they were. It didn’t come to a shock to most of us journalists who kept hounding them to organize an online venue which finally happened very shortly before the festival was supposed to open. I was very thankful that I did not book a hotel room. I understood why they wanted so badly to do it in person since Filmfest Hamburg managed it, but somehow the timing was all wrong. Instead of one film festival, they split it into two; one in March and the other in June. After attending a lecture in Hamburg about the kind of film that would be produce during a pandemic, I was worried that we would be bombarded with dystopia or apocalyptic themes.

Sure enough there they were—HAN NAN XIA RI (SUMMER BLUR) set in the outskirts of Wuhan (our first view of the pandemic) where Guo, 13 years of age, witnesses the drowning of a friend. Han Shua’s debut film focuses closely on Guo’s feelings of grief and loss. Her neglectful and irresponsible mother abandoned her by placing her in the loveless home of her aunt. Fed up with voice messaging with her mother, this shy observer attempts to break out of her bitter circumstances to become a young woman. The atmosphere is oppressive with images of airplanes flying away, the summer heat, and the constant sounds of cicadas. This tender portrait was the Grand Prix winner for Generation Kplus.