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Thomas Heise ist ein deutscher Dokumentarfilmer, Autor und Theaterregisseur. Thomas Heise (* August in Berlin (DDR)) ist ein deutscher Dokumentarfilmer, Autor und Theaterregisseur. Inhaltsverzeichnis. 1 Leben; 2 Filmografie. Thomas Heise (born August 22, in East Berlin), is a German documentary filmmaker. Contents. 1 Life and work; 2 Filmography; 3 Sources; 4 External links. Thomas Heise, auf dessen Seite Sie sich hier befinden, arbeitet nicht für Spiegel-TV. Ein dort arbeitender Thomas Heise ist weder mit mir identisch, noch. Thomas Heise wurde am August in Ost-Berlin (damals DDR) als Sohn des renommierten Philosophieprofessors Wolfgang Heise geboren. Nach einer.
Thomas Heise (* August in Berlin (DDR)) ist ein deutscher Dokumentarfilmer, Autor und Theaterregisseur. Inhaltsverzeichnis. 1 Leben; 2 Filmografie. Thomas Heise wurde am August in Ost-Berlin (damals DDR) als Sohn des renommierten Philosophieprofessors Wolfgang Heise geboren. Nach einer. Seit ist Thomas Heise, geboren als Sohn des Philosophieprofessors Wolfgang Heise und der Germanistin Rosemarie Heise, als.
Thomas Heise VideoRudolf Steiner: 5. Agrippa von Nettesheim und Theophrastus Paracelsus Seit ist Thomas Heise, geboren als Sohn des Philosophieprofessors Wolfgang Heise und der Germanistin Rosemarie Heise, als. Berlin, Deutschland22 Videos Followers0 Likes. Ich mache Filme und lebe in Berlin. Mit einem gleichnamigen Thomas Heise von "Spiegel TV" bin ich weder. Thomas Heise was born in Berlin, capital of the German Democratic Republic, in After school he trained as a printer. After his military service in the East. Thomas Heise wird am August in Berlin geboren. Sein Vater ist der ostdeutsche Philosoph und Literaturwissenschaftler Wolfgang Heise. Nach seiner. Thomas Heise, Director: Vaterland. Thomas Heise was born on August 22, in East Berlin, East Germany. He is a director and writer, known for Vaterland. Der Regisseur beobachtet fünf rechtsradikale männliche Jugendliche, führt lange Interviews mit ihnen und forscht nach den Ursachen ihres politischen Verhaltens. Grit Lemke: Alles Imdb bloodline, oder war? Für "Neustadt. Leipziger Click here, in: Berliner Zeitung, Wikimedia Commons. English German. Im Glück Neger. Wie die Zeit vergeht. Stand: November Click at this page you're new here please create an account.
So was the history of the Soviet Union and the October Revolution, in books like How the Steel Was Tempered by Nikolai Ostrovsky, about the resistance of the working class and the communists against the fascists.
I must have been relatively small to have crawled under the sideboard to explore what was behind it. There I found an old shoe box. It contained multiple pieces of folded paper: brown and grey wrapping paper of various sizes and several envelopes with green and violet stamps showing Adolf Hitler.
My grandmother then told me that these were letters from my father and Uncle Hans, from a work camp on an airfield near the town of Zerbst.
I remembered the place where the letters were stored and at 14, without knowing exactly what I wanted to do with them, I secretly took them for myself to read.
I got myself a magnifying glass. Because of the forbidden stamps on the envelopes they held something mysterious for me, and because I knew nothing of my father from this time except the abstract fact of a camp stay.
I just kept them. At first it was the unusual violet color that struck me. Probably the first time I heard about Hitler was in the early years of school, around or after From the beginning he had something shady about him, but also something mysteriously interesting.
He was never alone; he was always in connection with the capitalism that had produced him. He played no role in our home life. It was his reputation that led me and probably most children to secretly scribble swastikas somewhere or carve them into the bark of trees.
I was often in the forest in those days. There was a beech forest nearby, whose trees were often marked with signs, with names—sometimes in Russian, hearts, sex organs, and swastikas.
It stands in space, so to speak. The high pines tell of a distant past—nature that grows above man. The forester, the wolf, the grandmother, and the Little Red Riding Hood figurines, cut from steel plates, set up and painted awkwardly, are probably monuments or memories.
They clearly date back to the time period after and are an attempt to attract potential tourists to the very lonely Brandenburg region.
They extend the past to the present, but it could also be something from a distant future. We do not know.
If one looks closer, it has the face of a boy with a red cap. It was the black, red, and gold or yellow of the Weimar Republic.
Our teacher explained it to us: black stands for the soil of the homeland, red for the blood of the working class fighting for freedom, and gold for the grain that grows on the soil.
The forest with the signs is something else. Beech bark is soft and smooth, the bark of the pines is hard and brittle.
We drove there to shoot those scenes out of personal sentimentality and spent two relaxing and sobering days there. It was a place of childhood for me.
Above all it was a place of silence. Only the sound of the wind and strange birds. I liked that. Can you tell me a little about filming the locations where many of these past events took place?
How did you go about locating the sites, how did you hope to depict them, and also how long did this part of production take? The film was untidy.
There was a book that roughly contained the story, but not all the characters. It was more a fragment of traces and questions, a hunch, nothing precise.
I spent almost a year with a student of mine working on the texts: deciphering the letters, diaries, notes, and other documents.
We copied everything and stubbornly arranged it chronologically into over 40 files. I had no idea what Tyrol was, what the municipality of Zell am Ziller looked like, or what was there.
But otherwise I had no real idea. There was always a lot of pressure to decide on locations and it had to go fast.
A few initial locations grew into more and more locations. Some places we seemed to find by the wayside, so to speak, like the Rotkäppchenwald, the lake with dead sheep in it and the swan.
I set the shooting time quite arbitrarily for February, independently of everything else, perhaps to have snow, and certainly to have no greenery and no leaves, with flat, often pale light.
To have peace; to claim something, a safety that never really existed. We started to shoot landscapes and places without any concrete text reference.
We proceeded associatively, without a decided order, quite freely, without knowing much except that we were producing material for the film.
The same goes for the sound. We gave the sound engineer—a musician, actually—the assignment to follow his thoughts on the story, not the story itself, and he went somewhere far away, through woods and fields, and listened to the creaking of the trees, the cry of distant animals.
He recorded everything he found important. That was new for me and everyone involved—it was exciting, to just move like sensors in space and time.
Can you describe the research and archival process? What was it like diving into family and state documents in such a thorough manner?
I knew parts of this material, but not the context. A student of my film class at the Vienna Academy of Fine Arts, a Germanist, helped me to systematize this to some extent.
Then I had to think. That was good. We arranged everything chronologically as much as possible. All this material was stuffed disorderly into boxes, envelopes, and bags.
It was a complete mess, often incomplete: conclusions without beginnings, beginnings without endings, fragments without dates.
Everything was copied and filed. The copying process creates the permanent presence of the texts in the mind. Then everything piles up on top of each other.
I always took notes when something seemed important or interesting to me, and marked these pages in the folders: always the original in a slide in front of the copy, with comments, often question marks.
We did this from April until the start of shooting at the end of January By the end there were 40 large folders—or there still are.
Somewhere under the pile on my table must still be the page, the sheet that my father had in the typewriter before he died.
I took the paper out of the typewriter and held it in my hand just a few months ago. Then something else came up and the paper sank down, among the other things, and simply never appeared again.
Again and again I search for it, sporadically, if it occurs to me. There is no end in sight. Your work seems to indebted to various forms of cinema: on the one hand landscape filmmaking and observational nonfiction, and on the other, essay and archival filmmaking.
What all my works—the films as well as the plays I have directed, and the works for radio—have in common is their biographical foundation, even if it is certainly not apparent at first glance.
It probably has to do with my broken biography, the multiple, mostly forced, rapid changes. In addition, I was never really part of a milieu.
As we grew older, the relationships to unite with others changed and from that grew a closeness of our own. At the same time, completely different childhood and youth friendships developed from school and the teachings we learned on the streets.
Each came from completely different, rather proletarian social contexts. These friendships, which had a great influence on us, did not develop solely in the form of discussions.
What does this have to do with form? I learned to be a printer because I also wanted to become a proletarian. At the same time I started experimenting with Super 8.
After my apprenticeship I was determined to become a film director, to make feature films. But maybe not really, because I had no idea how to achieve it.
I had only unattainable role models. That impressed me very much and did not let go—it always comes back to me. Why Make a Film about These People?
In working with this strand of artifacts, Heise provides eyewitness testimony to the workings of 20th-century German history, first under the Third Reich, and then under the Stalinist regime of the GDR.
But he also delineates intensely personal relationships: between parents and children, siblings, spouses, and dear friends.
The question the film presents is not just how individuals were subject to the vicissitudes of history, but also how those broader structures, insidious as they were, worked to shape the very conditions under which personal bonds could form.
The film begins with a highly ambiguous opening shot, slowly panning up a thin, greenish-brown pole. None of this will be mentioned again in Heimat , but the images are suggestive.
How do the mythic tales of Germania correspond to the actual families and lives that supposedly blossom forth from the homeland?
The next image is a photograph of a little boy holding up the German tricolour, a flag that is just a bit bigger than him.
In it, young Wilhelm decries war as the preoccupation of bloodthirsty patricians who have no concern for the destruction it creates among the people of the world.
After introducing his grandfather as a learned, humanistic man, Heise similarly introduces his grandmother, Edith Hirschhorn.
This fact will obviously put both the Hirschhorn and Heise families in the crosshairs of the Nazis, in somewhat different ways.
During these passages, Heise shows us the rain-occluded view from the rear window of a tram moving through a Vienna street, and a U-bahn station with a couple passionately kissing.
This is the primary aesthetic mode of Heimat : the relationships between the concrete information we are receiving and the visual track are often contrapuntal, evocative, but not denotative.
In this regard, the film bears resemblance to other experimental documentaries that have used space and landscape as a kind of pushpin in a temporal map, indicating possible layers of activity that those specific spaces might have seen—in US filmmaking, for example, the work of James Benning, John Gianvito, or Deborah Stratman.
We hear trains beginning to move during this sequence, immediately followed by the single longest passage of the film.
Although the progression of the letters does not make it absolutely clear which family members were deported when, it is evident that the Hirschhorns were forced from their home, shoved into smaller quarters with other Jews, and eventually sent to their deaths.
While they obviously share a distinct set of historical and political concerns, the films do not display a single dominant style.
His Volkspolizei , banned by the GDR assumes a somewhat observational stance toward a social institution, and could be considered a sort of Eastern Bloc counterpart to the work of Frederick Wiseman.
Beginning with a shot of children in what appears to be the courtyard of some public housing, there is immediately an ambiguity: they are playing and climbing on a large stack of metal pipes, but then they begin moving them, as if preparing to build a pipeline or more likely sell the metal on the black market.
Who knows? But Heise is demonstrating a fundamental truth about the GDR. Life, work, and play are inextricably confused from a very early age, as a warped form of socialism limits the very horizons of subject formation.
Heise gradually lets us know that we are looking at a series of highly unofficial images from the final days of the GDR.
More specifically, Heise shows us what it looks like when a sovereign nation collapses, when its institutions begin to fail, and, perhaps most importantly, when citizens who have shared a sincere belief in an ideal, however imperfect, are suddenly stripped bare before the unforgiving court of historical judgment.
What overwhelms the viewer of Material , and is the dominant subject of STAU , is the crisis of faith and betrayal that ordinary comrades felt, not only as the GDR collapsed but also as it continued to exist as a totalitarian state.
There are entire generations of people whose dreams of a better way of life were shattered on the rocks of global capital.
History owes them a hearing. Heise has a fairly extensive archive of letters sent back and forth between his grandfather and the boys, who were interred at a labour camp in Zerbst.
In Vaterland , we hear a number of the letters as we see tracking shots through the woods, showing us what the area around Zerbst looks like in There are remnants of the labour camp, but mostly it is overgrown with trees.
Its most predominant feature now is a trio of wind turbines that cast a large, sweeping shadow over the surrounding forest.
Heise explores the nearby town of Straguth. Who lives there now, and what are their lives like?
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