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Jeden Monat nähern sich unsere Kolumnisten, die Berliner Filmemacher Dominik und Benjamin Reding, dem jeweiligen Heftthema
auf ihre ganz eigene Art und Weise. Geboren wurden die Zwillinge am 3. Ja nuar 1969 in Dortmund. Während Dominik Architektur
in Aachen und Film in Hamburg studierte, absolvierte Benjamin ein Schauspielstudium in Stuttgart. 1997 begann die Arbeit an ihrem
ersten gemeinsamen Kinofilm „Oi! Warning“. Seitdem arbeiten sie für Fernseh- und Kinofilmprojekte zusammen.

Each month our columnists, Berlin-based filmmakers Dominik and Benjamin Reding, approach the respective issue-specific theme
in their very personal way. The twins were born on January 3, 1969 in Dortmund. Whilst Dominik studied architecture in Aachen
and film in Hamburg, Benjamin graduated in acting studies in Stuttgart. They started working on their first joint motion picture “Oi!
Warning“ in 1997. Since then they have tightly collaborated for TV and cinema film projects.

I t was one of those slips of paper with an address where one assumes that it will brities feel taken advantage of and slam the door shut. I rang the bell. Silence. I rang
never be needed. Carelessly torn out, illegibly scribbled, hectically folded and then,
again. Noises behind the door. A young woman hesitantly opened, her face flushed, her
shortly before the departure, buried deep in the trouser pocket. And now I was sitting long, black hair dishevelled. “Yes?” I recited my text, floundered, repeated myself. She
on a London double-decker bus worthy of being shown on a postcard and the note listened, looked uncomprehending. I saw that she carefully pushed the door closed
was my last resort. Trips to London can be great if you have a comfortable hotel room again. “I´m a friend of your family. My father knows your dad. They know each other for
or a trendy Airbnb den or even a rented flat with a view of Kensington Gardens. If you years!” It was almost the truth, after all, as my father had once seen the famous author
have none of this, if you happen to have no money at all, it can be hard. After five at a panel discussion from a distance of 150 metres. The young woman thought about
days in youth hostels and public dormitories, it became difficult. There was, yet again, it, rainwater was dripping from my hair, I was cold. She opened the door. “For one
something very important taking place in London, a demonstration, a legendary pop night.” A narrow hallway, a narrow staircase, a well-worn velour carpet, floral wallpaper
concert, a royal wedding. There were no rooms anymore, no, not even any beds, not up to the ceiling. An English terraced house, the full Monty! The steps creaking. “I´ve
even a folding bed behind the kitchen curtain. Unless for money. But that I didn’t some friends visiting”. Another hallway, again floral wallpaper, then the next door. Two
have! The address on my note cannot be found. Not on the Internet, not in the phone young men were squatting on the floor, looked up and languidly said: “Hi”. They did
book. It is secret. As with all the world-famous people! As in the case of this writer! not ask me any questions. The young woman sat down with them on the carpet, I on
Only the insiders, the illustrious, get it, as a business card or an encrypted SMS or as the only free chair and listened in. They talked about music, about pop stars, about
a confidential whispering on the occasion of a champagne reception. It was a coinci- friends, love affairs, the university, Tony Blair. It was so unspectacular, so normal. I be-
dence, that I knew it. A well-thumbed collection of poems by that author who fled came tired, threatened to fall asleep while seated. But that would be impolite. I got a
from the Nazis and had been living in London for deca- grip on myself. Maybe I had simply landed in the wrong
des and whose texts on peace, war, hatred and love are house. Did the famous author maybe live at number 207,
known to every pupil. Bought for 50 cents on the flea after all? Or in Grosvenor Road or Place or Avenue? I furti-
market, with an ex libris stamp on the first page: his pri- vely looked for the address note, but it had disintegrated
vate address! Something like Grosvenor Lane 206, Wil- in the rain. Sticky crumbs at the bottom of the trouser pok-
lesden Green, London, NW10. Of course, you would ket! Slowly, the conversation petered out. The boys looked
never go knocking on the door there. Taxus hedges, se- at the girl. “I’ll show you your room”, she said and got up.
curity fences, video surveillance, doorbell panels wit- We went down the stairs back to the ground floor, she un-
hout names. And should you make it to the entrance de- locked a double door and turned on the light. “He´s in Vi-
spite all this, there would be a housekeeper standing etnam, lecturing.” It was the study of that famous, respec-
there, a chauffeur, a gardener, and would say: “Sorry, ted author represented in every schoolbook. There was no
nobody´s at home.” It was raining in London, it was au- doubt, since he was present. With his dishevelled hair, the
tumnal, it was cold. Where to, where to? I dug deep into striking glasses, the serious, sad look: As a bronze head,
my pockets: just a few pence were still left (for fish & oversized, the face perfectly portrayed, in its mixture of
chips or a bus ticket?) and, wet and crumpled, the slip Abbildung: Benjamin Reding sorrow, wrath and desperation. “Until tomorrow”, the
of paper with the address. Should I try it? Go to the young woman said and closed the door without any furt-
world-famous author? Go there, ring the bell, soaking her explanation, no commentary. A scholar’s study, a wri-
wet from the rain, chilled to the bone, looking sad and ter’s refuge, a room for a poet, as English as a set of a Miss
then hoping for the charity invoked in his poems? I took the bus to the next hostel and Marple film. Bay windows with lead-glass diamonds, a fireplace with columns left and
was turned away once more. The drizzle became heavy showers, the cold biting, it be- right, bookshelves sagging under the heavy intellectual load. A desk in the middle, ta-
came dark early. I bought a bus ticket to Willesden Green. What would it look like? A king up lots of space, a sofa next to it, more of a chaise longue, as known from Sigmund
respectable town house with Palladian windows, temple gables and a column portal Freud. Spread across the desktop were drafts of new poems, hand-written, suddenly left
perhaps. And would there be a butler serving sherry or hot punch. And celebrities lying there while originating, the pencil still next to them. I didn’t dare to look closer, as
would be present. One is among kindred spirits in such circles, after all, writers, ar- if I were rummaging through private mail. The rain was splashing against the window,
tists, actors: Damian Hurst, Helen Mirren, Hugh Grant, cheerfully chatting, about the the streetlights blurred, I stretched out on the sofa, watched over by the strict gaze of
most recent book, the latest play, the newest film. And then, late at night, would the the bust. The feeling of being an intruder, a shameless impostor, faded away. And now,
butler invite me “upstairs” where a luxuriant canopy bed, “Queen-Anne style”, would finally, finally, sleep came. Early in the morning, I had been awake for a long time al-
be waiting for me and a glass of Amber Moon cocktail as a night cup and ham and ready, the young woman knocked. “Good morning!” I still had a day and a night in Lon-
eggs on a silver tray for breakfast and … don ahead of me. Thus, I again asked her for shelter, very carefully I did this. She
Grosvenor Lane. The bus stopped. I strapped on my backpack and started to march. thought about it and answered in a friendly way: “No.”
Number 204, 205, 206! So, this was it. A terraced house. Not a palace. The usual two I quickly went outside, back into the rain. At first, I was indignant, just one more night,
meters of grass strip behind a low wall. But, as expected, no name on the doorbell that should have been possible; but then, when later I found a place in a 30-bed dor-
panel. “I´m Dominik Reding from Germany. I´m visiting London and I have no place to mitory and looked for quiet among the snoring, panting, coughing, I was thinking
sleep. Could you give me shelter for one night? That would be delightful.” I had come about it and felt somewhat proud: in the home of which world star could I have slept
up with the text on the bus. No way would I even mention the celebrity, since the cele- on the sofa? And then: in whose home at all?

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