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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 Benjamin Reding
E He rolled in the mud, snorted, grunted and roared. And wrestled with his mate. flexed his biceps, “if you can beat me in arm wrestling.” He enjoyed my puzzled
“You need to talk to him, he's our Presi.“ The frock wearer pointed at the sludge,
expression. “Nah, it was a joke. We are in if you…,” he pulled out a self-made tattoo
at the taller, stronger one of the two. North German lowlands, field, cows. A few stalls, machine from his leather jacket, “get tattooed!” His club mates laughed, whistled
a suckling pig on a spit and motorcycles. Many, many, many, many motorcycles. What and yelled. "Nope, nope. Just kidding. We'll go along with you if you...", he thought,
had given me the idea of including a big, complex scene with a biker club in the script took his time, looked at my worried face "... empty a bottle of whiskey with me!"
for my next movie? Maybe I had done this myself. I was driving a Suzuki GS 400, 27 That wasn’t a joke. We went into the tent, to the counter. Faust drowned half a glass
hp, maximum speed 130 km/h, built in 1983. Not a bike that makes an impression, of whisky. Then he walked over to the motorcycles. They were lined up along the tent
but I loved to ride it and I loved motorcycling. It is not possible to cast a rocker club wall. The bikes of his club mates and his own one. Of course, the biggest, heaviest,
in a film with extras from the state theatre or inexperienced amateurs from the agen- fastest, darkest of all. He got on, started the engine, engaged first gear, pulled the
cies offering the "special something". You can immediately tell from the way they get front brake all the way through and accelerated. Full throttle. The rear wheel went
on their motorcycles, whether they do it for the first time or every day. And they're crazy, produced a lot of noise and smoke. The tire rubber splashed in all directions.
not tattooed either. Not in the face, anyway. Like some of the guys here. No, they have Then, casually, as if it were nothing, he pushed the spinning motorcycle with his legs
to be real. I thought. And now I found myself in a field near Uelzen, on a biker meet- over the concrete, bit by bit. He made it rotate like a compass. The smoking rear
ing in the haze of beer, gasoline and cow manure, looking around, searching and wheel drew a trace. A perfect circle, black, painted with melted rubber. Amazing that
searching. Three clubs had declined right away. “You film freaks misrepresent every- the tire didn't burst. His colleagues cheered. Pungent smoke swirled through the
thing!”; “It won't be any better than Easy Rider!”; “He doesn't even know what a Presi marquee in thick swaths. It irritated the lungs, I choked, coughed.
is.” Somebody patted me on the shoulder. Or “There's still a lot to talk about, why don't we
rather, he pushed me a few inches into the just go over to your house?” My eyes watered,
mud. "Is this your child's portion?” The “Presi” the cough became a cramp. The bikers looked
(“President” of a biker club, that much I knew), grim. “This is our clubhouse. You can't go in
the one from the mud pit, wiped the dirt off his there. For members only.” Again, it was the
face and pointed at my Suzuki. I nodded. He youngest one who explained this. “It's like our
looked at my machine in detail. “Yeah... well... headquarters, our office. We keep everything
it's a motorcycle.” He tapped against the metal important in there.” “Ah, your archive.”
panel, then again on my shoulder. Every pat of “Arch...?” The young biker looked at me inse-
his hand made me sink a little deeper into the curely. “Nope.... well... there are meeting invi-
muddy meadow. “So, you want to make a tations and spare parts and the badged for
movie about a biker club?” “No, it's just one our clothes and...” Faust stared at him, briefly
scene.” “And we're supposed to be the club?” and penetratingly, and he stopped immediate-
“Yes, that would be possible. But I need to get ly. Then the Presi got off his “hog”, as he
to know you a little bit more.” The Presi looked called his bike, and turned on the music,
at me. And shook his head. “Nah, we have to AC/DC, “Highway to Hell”, full volume. The
get to know you.” Then he grinned and showed tent vibrated with each bass. And now they
his gold fillings and a few tooth gaps. were playing. That's what they did well: arm
In the evening, in the marquee, he and his club wrestling and boozing and circling with the
members stood together, staring at the stage. Foto: Benjamin Reding motorcycles. Three tires burst. “Wow!”, the
The classic motorcycle meeting programme was youngest nudged me, “cool, huh?” I nodded
on: trophy for the longest journey there, trophy and said to myself in a soft voice: “This won’t
for the oldest motorcycle, trophy for the best remodelling and then, loudly acclaimed, work out. I'll shoot with laymen." The Presi motioned to me, just a small gesture
the strip show. "Come by sometime. When there is no meeting.” The youngest mem- with his hand, maybe he didn't want his club colleagues to notice it. He stomped
ber of the group was sent over to sort things out with me. “Faust will be in touch with to the clubhouse. What would I have to expect? A secret LSD lab? An arsenal? Or
you.” “Faust?” “Our Presi.” The young biker said it with a lot of emphasis in his voice, files, neatly sorted in alphabetical order? He unlocked the door and switched on the
almost reverentially, then he swayed back to his gang, turned to the side and vomit- light. A self-made pub counter, with the club's flag hanging above it, trophies on the
ed. Maybe they didn't feel like it, or Faust had changed his mind or they had simply shelf and a cheap safe from the DIY store on the opposite wall. “Okay, we are in.”
forgotten it. The call never happened. And the start of shooting came closer. I took He walked across the room. “But only on one condition.” He bent over, opened the
the car. It gets you out faster if something goes wrong. The core area of the motorcycle safe. “Zausel must be in the picture.” He pulled out a bear. A stuffed bear. The nose
club was fenced in, a concrete area on the field. The marquee stood in the middle, rubbed off, the fur ruffled. “I've had it since I was a kid.” The president indicated
and between the fence and the entrance gate stood a house which, judging from the his former height with his hand above the floor. “Zausel is involved in everything
shutters and plasterwork, had once been a decent, bourgeois home. The concrete that's important.” Then he stroked the cuddly teddy bear, first a little bit flaunted,
floor in front was covered with black circles. probably more for me, and suddenly self-forgotten and gentle. Three weeks later, I
“Finally! What took you so long?” They had been expecting me. “Today without a shot the film. Somewhere behind the bikers and their bikes, if you look closely, you
motorbike?” The Presi looked at me critically. “Of course, we're in. But only...,” he can see the teddy bear.

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