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Polish writer Witold Gombrowicz has a\u00a0diary entry that I\u00a0think about frequently \u2013 one of my favorites in literature. On a\u00a0Wednesday in 1953<\/span>, pertaining to a\u00a0peculiar curiosity he felt developing, Gombrowicz asks: \u200b\u201c<\/span>Around the corner\u2026 what will be there? A\u00a0man? A\u00a0dog? If it is a\u00a0dog, what size of dog? What breed? I\u00a0am sitting at the table and soon from now a\u00a0soup will appear\u2026 but what soup?\u201d. He adds: \u200b\u201c<\/span>This fundamental experience has to this day not been adequately studied by art\u201d. This was, of course, several decades before the CNFW<\/span>, but it was meaningful for me to recognise, guided by the festival\u2019s programme, just how filming one\u2019s life or endeavour can propose to resolve the phenomenon described by Gombrowicz, that assignment of meaning to the void of possibility.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n That\u2019s what happens in the 2004<\/span> film\u00a0<\/span>Kings &<\/span>\u00a0Extras: Digging for a\u00a0Palestinian Image<\/i> by Azza El-Hassan who asks in Jordan, in Syria and in Lebanon, \u200b\u201c<\/span>Where is the missing archive?\u201d, referring to the films in the PLO<\/span> Media Unit that went missing during the Israeli invasion of Beirut in 1982<\/span>. The material is not present, so the film is built around this negative space.<\/span><\/p>\n It\u2019s what happens in\u00a0<\/span>MS<\/span> Slavic 7<\/span>\u00a0<\/i>by Sofia Bohdanowicz and Deragh Campbell, where we follow Audrey, an amalgam of the two directors, as she investigates the letters between her great-grandmother, Zofia Bohdanowiczowa, and fellow Polish poet J\u00f3zef Wittlin. Like Gombrowicz, Zofia and J\u00f3zef were also displaced by WW2<\/span><\/span>. Here the box of letters is present, but the material is impassive and monolithic: the filmmakers attempt to find its meaning.<\/span><\/p>\n In <\/span>Shared Resources<\/span><\/i>, the 1<\/span>PM<\/span> Sunday screening, filmmaker Jordan Lord procures meaning in their parents\u2019 domestic life, health and financial debt, the devastation of Hurricane Katrina still a\u00a0stark piece of the past. The film is brilliant. Lord and their parents narrate, comment and discuss\u00a0<\/span>over<\/i> the footage and after the fact, often describing things so minute as hand or face movements, building something like a\u00a0painting or diorama of their relationship, every detail recognized and cared for as a\u00a0family.<\/span><\/p>\n Finally, L.A. based filmmaker Julian Castronovo offered a\u00a0wholly different approach in his fascinating film\u00a0<\/span>Debut, or, Objects of the Field of Debris as Currently Catalogued<\/i>, also a\u00a0UK<\/span> Premi\u00e8re. It\u2019s a\u00a0dense, thrilling, slightly terrifying autofiction about a\u00a0missing filmmaker called Julian Castronovo and his attempt to locate an enigmatic art forger known as Fawn Ma. The film is peppered with meta-commentary, as the protagonist is struggling to find financing for his first feature, and Castronovo has some pretty amazing answers to my questions, claiming that the things he made happen to his character \u200b\u201c<\/span>demanded that a\u00a0film was made about them\u201d. A\u00a0clear budding master of the personal film, he equates his method to existence in society; pretending to be a\u00a0given person has always been a\u00a0fundamental approach to being that given person.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n Things got intensely meta as the festival team themselves appeared to grapple hands-on with these notions, in recursive fashion. At a\u00a0certain point there was an impromptu showing of personal documentaries that Smith, Ipakchi, and Technical Director Nick Bush filmed about their friendship during the\u00a0<\/span>Caveh Zahedi UK<\/span> Tour<\/span><\/a> they organized this past March, as well as short films made by applicants of the workshop they hosted then. After watching the pieces, a\u00a0kind of personal-life Q&<\/span>A slash group therapy session with the co-directors ensued \u2013 I\u00a0remember thinking, can other festivals claim that they have something like\u00a0this?<\/span><\/p>\n We vacate the mysteriously furnished room and the organization resets the placement of things. A\u00a0single rug lies on the floor. This is the setup for the CNFW<\/span>\u2019s final surprise: a\u00a0work-in-progress, brand-new interactive piece by film editor Joe Bini (<\/span>All the Beauty and the Bloodshed<\/i>,\u00a0<\/span>You Were Never Really Here,<\/i> and 27<\/span> films with Werner Herzog). A\u00a0tablet is set up on a\u00a0table, and I\u00a0pick it up for reading. One-person only, this session. It gets really peaceful. A\u00a0narrator in the book begins to describe a\u00a0scene in San Francisco. At a\u00a0certain point, things move to a\u00a0TV<\/span>, as I\u00a0am seeing on screen the results of what I\u00a0have been imagining. I\u00a0faintly hear Howard Shore through the basement walls. It\u2019s David Cronenberg\u2019s\u00a0<\/span>The Shrouds<\/i> playing in the other room: the festival\u2019s stay at the Rio is coming to an\u00a0end.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n Bini\u2019s piece is around 45<\/span>\u00a0minutes long. It\u2019s about the interpolating psychologies of being an author and being a\u00a0reader. We have tea the following morning at the Bar Italia in Soho: this is not autofiction \u2013 it really happened. The weekend is over, and the effects of CNFW<\/span>\u2019s dedication to its world are beginning to be felt; everyone who came out for the festival is already reaping the rewards of a\u00a0grassroots programme truly dedicated to its craft and audience. If a\u00a0voiceover played somewhere at that point it would be about my return, camera in hand and all, coming to document the documenters in whatever plans they had\u00a0next.<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n