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62 min

In development

Rosemarie / Oh, My Sailor

Directing: Zoran Krema

Synopsis

Two former lovers who meet coincidentally through the Internet after fifty years, being in their old age, review their memories – he while cleaning his unkempt, messy house on a Croatian island, she while watching neatly arranged photos in an old album in her apartment in Berlin.
On a summer evening of 1961, on the terrace of a hotel on the Island of Krk, Nikola (31) and Rosemarie (21) danced for the first time to the tune of Oh my sailor. She had come from far away Berlin to catch some sun and sea, and he was waiting for girls just like her. Fifty years later Nikola s (81) phone rings and on the other side Rosemarie tells him that she has found his phone number "Googling" his name.
A month later Rosemarie gathers her courage to travel once more to the island of her splendid memories. Nikola decides to do a big clean-up of his house which has stayed almost identical to the one in which he and the young girl had stayed.
Removing old spider webs, washing grimy windows, putting the books in order…during his cleaning we learn about different adventures of the pair. Night swimming, jealousies, dancing places, Nikola visiting Rosemary in Berlin.
The deal to meet again soon challenges their imagination and curiosity. What does the other one look like today, what has he/she been doing during his/her life? Will he/she be very old, has he/she got hair, does he/she remember when they were swimming nude under the moonlight in the Adriatic Sea, has he/she got anyone today?
Their encounter answers the questions in part, her memories start one way, his memories finish another way. One song remains the uncertain connection – the Croatian song Oh, My Sailor.
Here stops the documentary and starts the fictional part of the film, shot in 3D technology.
They dance among the ruins of a former Grand Hotel of Yugoslavia with a real quartet playing their song in these unreal surroundings. A stand-off between reality and fiction just like their romantic past and the prosaic present…
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