Популарно Од Romania

Aribelle (Ari) is an amnesiac teenage girl stranded in a dangerous metropolis, Lost City, with only the clothes on her back and a heart-shaped locket. She meets Hugo, a very resourceful orphan kid who becomes her best friend. In a rather amusing situation Ari borrows the name Lara because he can't remember her real name. The action takes place in two cities, Capital City and Lost City, before the accident and after the accident in which Lara loses her memory and ends up in Lost City. The two, Lara and Hugo go through all sorts of adventures and end up at the city orphanage. Fausta, the director of the orphanage, is truly evil and has her own plans for Lara and Hugo.

Professor Ioan-Matei Agapi, an 80-year-old photographer and cameraman from Iași, Romania, owns a unique collection of 16mm films and photographs documenting almost fifty years of the city’s history. His daughter, also a filmmaker, has decided to make a film about her father's archives. In the unconventional surroundings of his old apartment, he reminisces about the past until one day, Ioan is informed that he must leave or be evicted from the apartment where he has spent the past 40 years. Ioan’s years of work suddenly transform into a huge burden, and the film unexpectedly changes into drama in which conflicts with city officials reveal old and hidden conflicts within the family.

On Saint Andrew's day, Safta leaves the comfort of her home to find the veterinary doctor who could help her save the family cow. Safta's plans change when a bizarre encounter forces her to face her past.

Animation short.

By the time Slavomir Popovici filmed this documentary, his protagonist was already famous for the museum of history and folk art he had established in his house in Arbore village. His museum was visited by thousands of tourists each year, while the journals that he had kept for four decades had been published in 1972 as The Chronicle from Arbore. Hrib was a peasant autodidact from Bucovina, North Romania. Although he was an eccentric, he was also the perfect film protagonist for 1970s Romanian documentary.

Armed with a gun he finds thrown in the corner of the block of flats where he lives, Nae sets off on a nocturnal adventure through the city. Influenced by his cinephile imagination, the reality of the almost deserted streets merges with a noir drama atmosphere he obsessively watches. Projected into the grey landscape of Bucharest in the late 1990s, the tragic and absurd action of Cristian Lucian Dobrovicescu's short film is cut out and stylized in the manner of comics.

In order to cure his patients, a doctor makes a show using mad people, presented to other mad people. From innocent games, the show gradually leads to unsetting occurences.

A portrait of the caricaturist Mihai Stănescu, the film is not a conventional documentary, as it resorts to small comic scenes that highlight the playful personality of the plastic artist. "Antiinterviu" contains a prologue conceived in the aesthetics of silent comedies, with a little boy who scribbles on any surface he finds, from the walls of buildings to the clothes of citizens standing in line at the Alimentara, being chased and pulled by the ears by police officers and other adults around him for his disobedience. The defiant attitude of Mihai Stănescu, known at the time for his caricatures with political allusions, also appears to have a mischievous dimension.

The film begins as a cultural reportage of the most conventional kind, with a series of frames filmed around Peleș Castle, set to classical music and accompanied by a commentary describing the museum's ceramic collection. What is surprising in this construction is the unusual effect that the natural setting, chosen as the original backdrop of the presentation, has on the exhibits. Removed from the museum and displayed outdoors, the objects fail to resonate with nature and stand out like anomalies in the wintery, postcard-like landscape. But the romantic surplus of Chopin's music, which is added to the increasingly abstract visual compositions, with vases, trinkets and precious tableware fancifully placed in the water of a stream and among snowy fir trees, represents an at least extravagant attempt to deviate from the aesthetic norm.

Two identical hotel rooms, two phone conversations, a single door and a single point of view from which all these glimpses of days in the lives of two strangers are captured: a man in transit through an unidentified provincial town (we only get to know that it's somwehere in the mountains) and a woman who came from far away to seek a better life, who makes love for money every night. The film's visual minimalism, the elliptic, fragmented narrative structure, the lack of a clearly-articulated theme turn this experiment into an early exemplar of a certain type of modernism, which would reach its peak in Romania only two decades later.

Fired from the editorial board of a humor magazine because he isnțt funny enough, protagonist Vică remains unemployed until he accidentally reunites with an old acquaintance on the muddy streets of Bucharest in winter.

When a meat factory worker tries to apply for a new job at the company's central headquarters, two worlds collide! Brebenel is now torn between joining the soulless machinery of the corporate world for financial incentives, or turn back to the fragile, but alive, world of the simple man.

Bridges are built to connect people, unless it is forbidden to cross them. The towns of Sighet in Romania and Ukrainian Slatina are separated by the river Tisza. A recently rebuilt bridge is supposed to not only reunite the two towns but also bring back together friends and relatives who have been divided throughout history by various political decisions. The former bridge was destroyed by German troops in 1944. After WWII, the border was closed. For 50 years there was nothing but silence between the inhabitants of Romanian Sighet and the city of Slatina, which then belonged to the Soviet Union. The film documents the long, often absurd and eventually vain struggle of the local inhabitants and politicians to reconnect the two communities.

After years of exercise, contemporary painter Lucian Prună paints pieces of the life of romanians as he recounts about his own life.

“Cinema, Poetry, and Trains in Tîrgu Neamț” might serve as the subtitle for this film, which Copel Moscu composes in a deliberately atomised manner, capturing the rhythm of a small provincial town in late-1980s Romania: cinema as escapism, pouring rain à la George Bacovia, and a vague love story between a woman projectionist and a railwayman come one after the other over the course of this somewhat comical elegy, whose meanings do not achieve the poignant depths of Moscu’s other films.

What do you see when you listen to the radio? What do you hear when you look at the image of water? Like a crossword, this film is made up of a series of questions and answers that, viewed from a distance, seem chaotic and meaningless, but put into relation to each other become simple truths.