In 2013, during a trip to Cape Verde, I discovered the story of Amílcar Cabral. I was fascinated by the determination that drove Amílcar to devote his life to what seemed like a crazy dream: the union of two countries in the struggle for their independence. Who was this young African agricultural engineer? How did he manage to gain international support for such a small territory and challenge Portugal?

It was 2017 when we first discovered this place — a plateau at 2,000 meters above sea level, the second-largest pastureland in Europe — whose mysterious name can be interpreted as “Shining Heights” or “Mountain Ocean.” We met Gara and Nada at the very moment news arrived that this precious mountain, whose snows provide water for the entire region, was to be turned into a military shooting range. From our first encounter, it was clear that there was something more to them — that they were part of a larger story, reminiscent of epics from ancient times but rooted in a painful present. Their destiny carried the echo of Greek tragedy, and we felt compelled to share their lives and understand their paths. For more than seven years, we quietly explored, lived together and gathered elements that carry the power of this place and its people. We did not ask — we listened, until the story revealed itself. Gara and Nada represent mothers and daughters across centuries who, despite everything, have nurtured a culture of love. The film also reflects our contemplation of the deep connections between women and land, patriarchy and militarization, duty and love.

— Biljana Tutorov and Petar Glomazić

In the autumn of 1996, a group of journalists accompanied one of the most sensitive expeditions in modern Brazilian history. The government had decided to initiate contact with a fraction of the Korubo group after a long history of deadly encounters between the Indigenous community and intruders in the Javari region. One of the embedded journalists is a countryman of mine, Swedish filmmaker, Erling Söderström. He will document the entire expedition and the first contact in great detail.
Thirty years after the contact, I am given the opportunity to view the raw footage filmed by Erling, as well as documentaries he did with the material. Watching the rushes it is clear to me that the material is more extensive than what I saw in his portrayals of the events. My view leaves me with questions about the ramifications of the expedition. Why was a Swedish filmmaker present in this tense moment, and what consequences did it have for the Korubo people to, on the first day of their contact, be filmed and photographed?
With Amazomania, I allow the viewer to share Erling’s gaze upon the Korubo — and the Korubo’s gaze back at him thirty years later. The film is an uncommented journey through the times, with stops at 1996, 2003 and 2023. It is my examination of the complex relationship between the Swede, the media, and the Korubo, from the well documented October day in 1996 when the Korubo exited their isolation, until today. Who owns the right to a story of contact? What does the power of holding the camera entail? Where is it aimed? And how does it feel to be in its sight? In 1996, the Korubo people thought “the camera was a gun.” Amazomania investigates what scars remain, and gives the next generation of Korubo a window toward restitution in relation to the person that today owns the intellectual property rights to their history.

Shot in a studio, London stages encounters between strangers during a series of ride-sharing trips. The minimalist setup, akin to a chamber play, allowed for a process-oriented approach involving the actors and the story. I wanted to capture a sense of raw presence while using cinema to elevate it to another plane, creating a film that oscillates between the real and what lies beyond it.

London takes place on the Westautobahn, also known as the A1, a seemingly functional motorway connecting Vienna and Salzburg before ending at the German border. People from across Europe travel along it for a variety of personal reasons, often unaware of the deep vein of history running through it—for this road follows a line first drawn almost 90 years ago, at a time of great unrest.

The A1 twists and turns like a river, its banks accumulating stories and history like sediment: past and present, private and political, trivial and profound. Despite being strangers, the time Bobby and his much younger passengers share in a confined space draws them closer. At times, they become a mirror, reflecting the lives he could have lived back at him. Their conversations seem to skim the surface, only to plunge into deeper waters, as the immediacy of their everyday lives intertwines with history at every bend in the river. When Arthur waves to Bobby from across the shore, he waves back, remembering their time in a city beyond the mainland – one that cannot be reached by road.