Synopse
It´s the way it is: a billowing structure, a big confusion, un gran casino. Pork ears sticky with blood combined with a plastic sieve become a hat; a desolate heating plate becomes best friend to the man on a leash. The simultaneous presence of the past and the future: people, plants, objects, animals – even dead things – resemble vital actors in an ensemble that almost accidentally and spontaneously comes together. A kind of mythology evolves, adhering to absolutely no order. Like a child´s dream come true, without sense in the best sense of the word.
Katharina Copony´s Moghen paris – and all come along is the filmic translation of this structure, a carnival procession in a Sardinian mountain village, a spectacle most unique by virtue of its unruliness. In this respect, no narrative meaning is provided, but instead filmic sense is made: Moghen paris – and all come along is the ecstasy resulting from the meeting of carnival with cinema.
At the same time the text by Andreas L. Hofbauer somehow whirrs through the film and is ungraspable. "Blacken, take off armor, raise visors, dress in new winged body jewelry." Everything evades control, also the words. Black-faced visages, bell tones, roaring motors, everything is in a state of permanent transformation. Only the ancient cork trees in the forest seem to be still. But even here one can sense thousands and thousands of tiny insects – an anarchic ensemble in miniature. (Emily Artmann)
Katharina Copony´s Moghen paris – and all come along is the filmic translation of this structure, a carnival procession in a Sardinian mountain village, a spectacle most unique by virtue of its unruliness. In this respect, no narrative meaning is provided, but instead filmic sense is made: Moghen paris – and all come along is the ecstasy resulting from the meeting of carnival with cinema.
At the same time the text by Andreas L. Hofbauer somehow whirrs through the film and is ungraspable. "Blacken, take off armor, raise visors, dress in new winged body jewelry." Everything evades control, also the words. Black-faced visages, bell tones, roaring motors, everything is in a state of permanent transformation. Only the ancient cork trees in the forest seem to be still. But even here one can sense thousands and thousands of tiny insects – an anarchic ensemble in miniature. (Emily Artmann)