The Screen as the Battle Front:
the 76th Berlinale

When discussing the world's leading three film festivals, Cannes is often described as industrial, Venice as artistic, and Berlin as political. While the actual nature of film festivals is undoubtedly far more complicated, it remains clear that from its very inception the Berlinale had been born into the field of politics. 

The first Berlinale, held in June 1951 at the Titania-Palast in West Berlin, was launched at the suggestion of Oscar Martay, who was the US military government's film commissioner then. This was two years after the lifting of the Soviet Berlin Blockade (1948-49) and much of the city was still lying in ruins. Opening with Alfred Hitchcock's Rebecca, that inaugural Berlinale positioned itself as the ‘showcase of the free world’, a Cold War stage flaunting the cultural supremacy of the Western bloc.

In 1970, when the film O.K., re-enacting the Vietnam War, was entered into the competition section, the jury president denounced it as anti-American, leading to the jury's dissolution and premature closure of the festival. However, this scandal was to become the catalyst for the creation of the ‘Forum’ section the following year. Opposition to censorship ironically forged a new platform for cinema, fortifying the Berlinale's DNA as a ‘political film festival’.

The Berlinale has since persistently brought to the screen realities where inequality and violence intersect around the globe. That issues such as Iran's state censorship, the Russian invasion of Ukraine, and the Israeli-Palestinian conflict continue to stir sentiments at the festival each year probably has to do with the Berlinale itself resounding with memories of the Cold War, censorship, and resistance.

Political Film Festivals, the Political Nature of Film

The 76th Berlinale, saw Wim Wenders, best known for Paris, Texas and Wings of Desire, serve as jury president. A total of seven jury members, including actress Bae Doona, Ewa Puszczyńska who produced Ida and Zone of Interest, and Reinaldo Marcus Green, director of King Richard, evaluated the 22 films in competition. Berlinale Director Tricia Tuttle described this year's programme as ‘a year demonstrating how great cinema can exist in very diverse forms: period dramas and comedies, genre films, animation, thrillers, love stories, magical realism.’ She acknowledged that ‘all types of film are political in some way,’ while stressing the need for ‘pure escapist pleasure’ for an industry facing challenging times. However, these remarks on formal diversity were interpreted as skirting any mention of pressing political issues and sparked controversy.

Particularly when the contradiction between the German government stance on military operations in Gaza and its sponsorship of the festival was pointedly highlighted during the press conference, Puszczyńska drew a line, stating that ‘Whether one supports Israel or Palestine is the decision of each audience member themselves. There are many other wars where genocide is taking place, yet we do not discuss them; that is an unfair question.’

Wenders added that ‘We must remain outside politics. The moment you deliberately make a political film, you slip into the realm of politics,’ and ‘Film should do the work of people, not the work of politicians.’

Their responses carried sufficient weight to be interpreted as the official stance of the festival, and the repercussions were immediate. The following day, Booker Prize-winning author Arundhati Roy issued a statement declaring, ‘I am appalled to hear that art should not be political,’ and withdrew from the Berlinale. Archive screenings by directors from Sudan and Egypt were subsequently removed from the programme. (Read Tricia Tuttle's full official statement here.)

Indeed, in recent years at the Berlinale, a single remarks on stage repeatedly made headlines larger than several of the films screened. The turmoil persisting since 2021 reached its climax at the 2024 closing ceremony when Yuval Abraham, director of documentary No Other Land, denounced the conditions in the Gaza Strip. At the time, Berlin's mayor and culture minister labelled this as ‘one-sided agitation’ and applied rhetorical pressure, while Executive Director Carlo Chatrian defended the filmmakers, asserting that politicians were ‘instrumentalising anti-Semitic rhetoric’. The intense internal and external criticism of the festival's political stance that erupted during this process ultimately led to fundamental restructuring of the Berlinale's governance as a whole. The Tricia Tuttle regime, launched after these growing pains, focuses on overcoming past controversies over bias and strikes a delicate ‘balance’ between artistic solidarity and political neutrality. This year’s edition, in particular, revealed a clear intent to step back from positioning the festival as a business battleground for industry stakeholders. Instead, it seeks to redefine itself as a public platform that tuning in with its audience thus restoring the voices of marginalised minorities.

Above all, the true essence of a film festival lies not in press conferences or on-stage events, but in the landscapes unfolding on screen over a period of ten days. Whether the festival organisers' approach stemmed from a cautious desire to let the films speak for themselves rather than through their own words, or whether it was deliberate avoidance to avoid any further controversy, remains a judgement to be made ultimately by the audience seated in front of the screen. In that sense, the very selection of the opening film reads as a message gauging the character of the festival. This year's Berlinale opener was No Good Men, directed, written and starring Afghan filmmaker Shahrbanoo Sadat. Set in Kabul just before the Taliban resurgence of 2021, it follows Naru, the only female camerawoman at a television station. Within a narrative imbued with romance and humour, the shadows of patriarchy and political violence loom large. Tuttle paid tribute to the film, calling it ‘a significant work illuminating the life of an Afghan woman, completed by the director at tremendous personal risk.’ In the competition section, Yellow Letters by İlker Çatak is noteworthy. The film depicts the story of an artist couple, residing in Ankara, who lose their jobs due to their political views and become targets of state censorship, positioning Berlin and Hamburg as surrogate spaces for Ankara and Istanbul respectively. The film opens with the caption ‘Berlin as Ankara,’ creating the effect that even the work itself was in a state of political exile. This raises questions not only about freedom of expression in Turkey but also within German society. When his daughter asks, ‘Can theatre change the world?’, the protagonist Aziz answers ‘Yes’ without a moment's hesitation. Even amidst a helpless defeat in court, he never abandons his path of confronting reality through the language of theatre.

Korean cinema also made its presence felt in the non-competitive sections. Director Hong Sang-soo was invited to the Panorama section with his 34th feature film, The Day She Returns, extending his record to a 13th Berlinale appearance.

Director Yoo Jae-in's debut film, En Route To, explores themes of power abuse and self-determination through the life of a teenage girl in the competition section Generation 14PLUS. Meanwhile, Director Chung Ji-young's My Name, invited to the Forum section, unravelled the Jeju April 3 Incident (Jeju April 3rd Uprising/Jeju Massacre) through the lens of names, earning praise as ‘a film that breaks the silence left behind after tragic historical events’.

Things Visible Only After the Lights Are Off

‘All films are political.’ Paradoxically, Wim Wenders’ statement from his 1988 essay The Logic of the Image points to ‘entertainment films’ as the most political. This is because popular cinema, frame by frame, offers reassurance that ‘things are fine as they are’, thus eliminating the possibility of change. Conversely, he adds that films which do not explicitly present political content, yet fail to render the audience foolish, are precisely those that are resisting the prevailing order.

While various media outlets have recently discussed the ‘Wenders paradox’, highlighting the disconnect between his past and current statements, his insight once again emphasises that cinema’s political nature manifests itself on the ‘sensory plane’ through the camera’s gaze and the rhythm of editing.

Even when the press conference room was filled with harsh questions demanding political positioning, on the screen itself, a female Afghan camerawoman, a theatre artist in Ankara, and a boy from Jeju are each confronting the world's absurdities through their own frames.

Precisely this visual resistance, which reconfigures the audience's complacent senses and renders the seemingly normal reality bizarrely unfamiliar, is surely the very identity that has sustained the Berlinale over the past 75 years through its countless political upheavals.

Author: Eunji Park
Concept: Sohee Shin
Editorial Collaboration: Leslie Klatte
Translation (GER/EN): Star Korea AG
Photos and Archives Provided by: Berlinale 2026