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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.

An Essay by Dominik Reding
D oris Day is actually Beverly Boyer or simply “Happy Girl” because she dearly harmony, the materials a flawless combination, the appearance was closed, impera-
tively, almost hypnotic. I looked at the house for minutes. There was no trace of
loves the Happy Soap. Then she kisses the soap until she has foam at the mouth.
Her husband does not like his wife’s advertising ambitions and drives his Cadillac potential residents. There were no children playing in the front garden, no shoes in
into the on-site swimming pool in a fury. In the course of this, detergent boxes drop front of the door, no car in front of the garage, no radio music sounding from the living
into the pool. They are stacked up there for the next Happy Soap advert. It starts to room, no food odours coming from the kitchen window. Like a paused picture of a
foam unbelievably and Beverly’s children are happy because it is snowing in summer. film, a hand-coloured photo postcard, a fairy castle after the magic spell – that’s how
When I was young, this was broadcasted as part of the TV programme on Sunday it stood there. Keeping the secret of its residents. I was amazed. And even more so
afternoons. I was excited. Not about the film story, which I did not understand, but when I came there next time. The house was no bungalow at all. One could see it
about the house in the commercial. The kitchen was as big as our school sports hall, from the neighbouring gardens: the house stood on a slope, the rear side opened up
the staircase in the corridor as zigzag-sweeping as my grandmother’s flower vase and with balconies and floor-to-ceiling windows on three levels towards a small lawn
the front garden as geometric, green and tidy as football pitches on Panini stickers. shaded by conifers. Here, too, the house was discreet, curtains prevented insights.
Are there really people who live like that? Only a handful of stacked up garden chairs provided evidence of potential residents.
I would have never ended up in this street. But my older brother turned 14 and didn’t The floor would be tiled in blue, a staircase would spiral through the house in wild
want to deliver the church magazine anymore. windings, there would be a kitchen, as large
So I took over his job and earned five Mark. The and white and chrome glossy as in Doris Day’s
magazine was called “The Cathedral”, did not house, there would be a Cadillac or at least an
use photos and featured titles like: “Priest Dr. Opel Admiral in the garage. Alas, I would love
Remigius Altbüschel is the new dean of the to see the interiors, but then I had to ring the
Sankt Pius Church in Rheda-Wiedenbrück” or bell, request admittance - sweaty from riding
“Chaplain Pater Klaus-Dieter Strunk receives my bike, panting, with dirty shoes. I did not
The Order of Merit for his 50 years of pastoral have the guts to do it.
activities in the Christkönigs Congregation”. But once, for sure, toys would be scattered in
Who read that? Well, there were people who the garden and the lawn would not be mowed,
not only read that, they even subscribed it. the front door would be open and reveal the
The junction was hidden behind tall trees. A residents. It turned into a game, maybe an
cul-de-sac. Bungalows and single-family houses, obsession. Every weekly delivery of the maga-
rectangular lawns and privet hedges, lined up zine had this moment of tension: I turned into
one the left and right. Gravel scrunched under- the cul-de-sac, quickly passing the first few
neath the bicycle wheels. It smelled of box- metres with my bike, looking to the left and...
wood, flower fertilizer and freshly mowed grass. But no, everything was as always. The lawn
I pushed the church magazine through the slit of was mowed, the curtains drawn, the front door
the letter box. The smallest house in the street. closed. I no longer only came on Sundays to
Church magazine subscribers do not live in vil- Foto: Benjamin Reding deliver the magazine, I came for no reason,
las. And cycled back. It was quiet here – only during the week, quasi unexpected. I came in
birds’ twittering and the uniform murmur of the morning, at dusk and in the evening, short-
lawn sprinklers. I hurried up, my groaning, breathing, rattling of pedals disturbed the ly before dark. I came in mild spring, in the blazing heat of summer, in rainy autumn,
peace and quiet. I pushed the pedals, once, twice ... and then I saw it: on the other in snowy winter. I peeked around the corner and ... The lawn was mowed, the cur-
side of the street, guarded by two old birch trees – this house. I stopped, got off my tains drawn, the front door tightly closed.
bike. A yellowish bungalow rectangle dating from the time of black-and-white televi- I left the city in the Ruhr area, studied, changed my place of study, my field of study,
sion and cars with tail fins, a time when I did not exist yet. I walked towards the rec- the cities, the countries, the continents. I saw other streets with rectangular lawns and
tangle. Lush green, manicured lawn, a garage annexe next to it, the wooden double bungalows. And yet, whenever I returned to my hometown, I returned to that street.
doors tightly closed. The house entrance was recessed, dark red door leaf, glass bricks Maybe, just for once, the curtains would have been moved to the side, the lawn
and a pill-shaped frosted glass lamp above the doorbell. The row of windows in the would not have been mowed, the front door would be standing ajar. In vain. Then I
front façade did not allow any insights. Rippled glass blurred the interiors, curtains directed my films, wrote the AIT column and so came my last, my great chance: Well,
were only vaguely perceptible – white, with folds in motionless, strict parallel rows. I dear unknown residents of Eichendorffweg 10, surrounded by blue tiles, mowed lawn
pondered. Actually, the bungalow did not look much different from the other ones in and opaque glass bricks, if you read these lines: please, please let me enter your
the street. And I swallowed. Well, it did. It was perfect. The façades were in absolute house. I will take off my shoes, wash my hands and do not touch anything. I promise!

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