The green opening credits race across the screen so fast that the only wayto read everything is by pausing the film. The scenes that follow are cuteven shorter: Each consists of solely a single frame taken from otherfilms, reproduced carefully, including the sprocket holes, and mounted insequence. When projected in the normal way they are 1/24 seconds inlength, and they are all differentiated so clearly that the successioncreates a kind of flickering, which is rhythmically synchronized with thestuttering of the somewhat fragmentary optical soundtrack. This makes itdifficult to tell who is a boxer, who Viktor is, and where the dike ofSylt is located. At the same time Johann Lurf’s super-short cuts appropriate the structureof a classic feature film. In the twitchy editing the individual framesdeconstruct the normal sequence: The passage with various blackframeswhich serves as a kind of leaderis followed by another withfragments of a number of opening credits, then snippets of locations,possibly from establishing shots. Then come individuals or groups of twoor more people, posing inside or outside, walking, driving cars, makingmusic or having sex. Here and there subtitles appear suddenly, here andthere a star can be recognized. But whether Charlotte Rampling, KlausKinski, wet asphalt, Kubrik’s The Shining, a box terrier or the sky:Everything possesses the same contingency. There is no dialogue, noshot/countershot, no chase ensues after these brief appearances. On thecontrary, Lurf’s thesis film has a great deal in common with thefound-footage experiments made by artists of the American neo-avant-garde,such as Morgan Fisher or Bruce Connor, though the way Lurf accelerates hisvisual salvoes is undoubtedly intended to produce ambiguity betweenmedia-specific reflection and overwhelming the audience.(Rainer Bellenbaum)