A Bigger Splash is the name of one of painter David Hockney's best known works and part of a series of pool portraits of the artist's close friends, one of them his lover Peter Schlesinger, an artist in his own right. When in the early 1970s the relationship between the two men started to unravel it affected #Hockney so much it almost rendered him incapable of working.

“I paint what I like when I like, and where I like.”

– David Hockney

While going through Polaroids he found that two of the shots, one of a man #swimming underwater, the other of a man standing on a poolside, fell into the composition he was looking for. The resulting Portrait of an Artist (Pool with Two Figures) – where an unknown man can be seen swimming towards Hockney's fully-dressed former lover – bears similarities to Renaissance paintings where the composition of human figures, landscape, and perspective culminate in proto-cinematic storytelling.

 

Cinematographer and filmmaker Jack Hazan juxtaposes David Hockney working on Portrait of an Artist (Pool with Two Figures) with speculative scenes about the creation of the work and the disintegration of Hockney's and Schlesinger's relationship. It did create a splash, in particular in its ordinary depiction of a homosexual relationship.

 

A Bigger Splash is of course not the only (pseudo) documentary about an artist and his or her life, but one of the very few honest ones. The struggle to create is not romanticised, nor is the intimate relationship between artist and muse a playground of lazy, perverse speculation. As Hockney creates, destroys, and recreates his Pool, so we all destroy our lovers to bloom again.

Inmates preoccupy themselves with making cardboard boxes. While working together, talking, gaining trust, plans for an escape unfold.

“Hello. My friend Jacques Becker recreated a true story in all its detail. My story. It took place in 1947 at La Santé prison.”

– Jean Keraudy as himself

Le trou is based on a real prison escape and introduced by one of the men involved, Jean Keraudy.

“No, Wagner! Stay in Hell where you belong!”

– Franz Liszt

It's easy… no lazy to put this documentary away as a failed Idi Amin propaganda project. In 1974, German-Swiss Barbet Schroeder, privileged son of a diplomat, already knew more than enough about how to select framing and manipulate timing. The result, Général Idi Amin Dada: Autoportrait, is a prime example of the neo-colonialist gaze.

“You film. Film helicopter.”

– The General explaining a director's one and only task

Amin, clearly not speaking his native language, tries to explain his plans for #Uganda. The camera (Spanish cinematographer) moves in on his gesturing hands, then a jump cut (French editor) to soldiers who – instructed in English – seem unsure of what is asked of them. When (in the copy I watched) people speak in Swahili, no translation is provided and the portrayed are little more than undeveloped, exotic backdrop. Everything seems to be a joke to Schroeder: the air force's MiGs, Amin and his higher-ups joining tribesmen in dance, even the President's children are used to exemplify the stereotype of the overly virile, primitive African male.

 

Amin was, as Schroeder is, a product of Europe's Scramble. With the difference that, although bloody and despicable, Amin's strategy was not to embolden the West's moribund empire.

During the tense hours of a solar #eclipse, the locals spend their time in a bar. One litre of vodka is the wager for he who can correctly guess a woman's dress size. Of course, tailor Józef Romanek (Kazimierz Kaczor) doesn't need to guess and that one litre later, finds himself walking through space. When he comes round from his coma, Józef builds an observatory in his house, where the tailor with his home-made telescope dreams of finding an unknown planet, and discovers the world around him.

 

Polish tailor Adam Giedrys is not only the subject of Planeta krawiec, but also served as the film's consultant. For his passion for and devotion to astronomy, Giedrys was the first Pole to receive Lunar soil from #NASA's 1969 Apollo 11 Moon mission.

Nevinost bez zaštite is a treasure trove. Of fantastic people, feats, footage, and genres. We sit down to watch #Serbia's first feature talkie, also named Nevinost bez zaštite (1943), and are joined by the people who created it.

“Dragoljub Son of our native land! Teeth and muscles, Tried and true All our hearts go out to you!”

While they speak, and occasionally burst out into song, about living in Yugoslavia under Nazi, then communist control, we meet Dragoljub!, the movie's lead with the jaws of steel. A man of great works, humanitarian and other, demonstrates his iron will. And while so, we all, starstruck and in love, sing:

“When they hammer your head, The skull is hard, And never cracks, Mother's little babe of steel! Dragoljub Son of our native land!”

Not a film you can be prepared for, Padre padrone. The author, Gavino Ledda, hands a stick – that stick – to the actor who plays his part. There we are, in Sardinia, beautiful Sardinia. A boy in class, learning. His father barges in: the boy must attend the sheep, or else. From that moment on we become that boy Gavino. Life's cruel on the island, but his father, his master, is worse. But that's how it is, there's sheep to herd. When Gavino enlist in the army, he encounters a new world. The precise world of electronics, other people, other sounds, the Italian #language. When he returns home, he finds his father a small man.

“Don't laugh at Gavino. Hands on your desks! Today is Gavino's turn. Tomorrow will be yours.”

– father

In a 1977 New York Times article the Taviani's are cited as seeing Gavino in the same light as #Truffaut's L'Enfant sauvage (1970) and #Herzog's Kaspar Hauser (Jeder für sich und Gott gegen alle) (1974). However, the Sardinian boy's outsiderness is not caused by estrangement, but an immense loneliness that cannot be put into words. This is why Ledda's newfound language is such an important tool. It's not a stick, or a fist, or a dead snake. It's the foundation of his Home.

A mucky, nihilistic #punk adaptation of the Billy the Kid saga foreshadowing Alex Cox's Straight to Hell by 15 years.

– All right, Billy. All right. You still haven't answered my question. What do you want to do?

– Nothin'.

“These are not pretty stories but they need to be recorded.”

– Odette Robert

A songwriter as the lead.

“This song is called 'Alice's Restaurant', and it's about Alice. And the restaurant. But Alice's Restaurant is not the name of the restaurant, that's just the name of the song. And that's why I called the song 'Alice's Restaurant'.

– Arlo Guthrie, intro to “Alice’s Restaurant Massacree” (1967)