“As an artist, you never retire.”

At 92, Edgar Reitz describes the journey of bringing Leibniz: Chronicle of a Missing Picture to life as anything but easy. The celebrated Heimat director had spent over a decade exploring the universal scholar Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz, yet his ambitious vision quickly ran into financial roadblocks, with an estimated budget of 25 million euros — an impossible sum for a German-speaking project outside mainstream entertainment. After multiple script revisions aimed at scaling down the scope, a new approach emerged: instead of a sweeping biopic, why not build an entire film around a single moment? The story takes shape as a chamber drama, focusing on Leibniz, played by Edgar Selge, in 1704 — an era when his intellectual contributions to law, mathematics, and moral philosophy were widely recognized, yet his career remained confined to Hanover, leaving unspoken scars. At the Berlinale, Nataliia Serebriakova spoke with Reitz about his film.

NS: How important is philosophy today?

ER: Perhaps academic philosophy is not as prominent anymore, but philosophy today is about developing new ideas and asking new questions. It may no longer be confined to academia but instead applied to politics, daily life, and practical decision-making. Maybe we shouldn’t even call it ‘philosophy’ in the traditional sense, but rather the process of thought itself.

As humans, we have the unique ability to think beyond our immediate circumstances. We do this constantly, even in small ways — like making coffee. We imagine the process: the coffee being ready, serving it, drinking it. This ability to foresee outcomes helps us understand the consequences of our actions. It also reveals our freedom — our ability to choose — because we can envision alternatives. We can picture something beyond what is happening in reality. This capacity for imagination is the foundation of modern philosophy.

I am not a philosopher myself, but I strongly believe that fundamental questions are essential for filmmaking. I always ask myself if I can imagine the alternative. What if I make the film? What if I don’t?

NS: What makes Leibniz different from other philosophers?

ER: People often talk about his universality. In English we might call him a polymath, but in German they use the term ‘universalität’. These days, however, this word conveys a different meaning. In the Baroque era an exceptionally intelligent person could still aspire to know everything, but that is no longer possible. However, for me, that is not the decisive point about Leibniz.

What fascinates me most is his view that everything in nature is interconnected. You cannot touch one thing without affecting everything else. There is no true separation in creation. Yet at the same time, nothing is identical — nothing exists twice, not even a single drop of water, let alone a human being. Every individual is unique, unrepeatable. And yet each person is connected to all others and to nature itself. If you harm one person, you harm everyone. If you give to one person, you give to all. Freedom for one is freedom for all. It is a beautiful thought, simple yet profound.

NS: How does the concept of a portrait in the film challenge traditional ideas of identity and representation, and how does this connect to Leibniz’s philosophy of truth?

ER: In our film, we explore this idea through the concept of a portrait. A portrait is inherently unmistakable — it captures individuality. However, we see a court painter arrive with a pre-prepared painting where the hair and cloak are already completed, and only the face is missing. This approach fragments the individual into separate parts. The subject might say: “Yes, my nose is my nose, but that is not my cloak, and that is not my hair. So it is not me.” This raises the question: Is it even possible for me to exist in the picture? Because I cannot exist twice — once as myself and once as an image.

This opens up the broader philosophical debate about truth in representation. Leibniz, whom I have studied in depth, would argue that all images are lies — none can fully capture truth. Many different factors influence perception. But in art, truth operates differently. A work of art is a creation that stands outside reality. Its truth is not judged by the same criteria as real life but by its own artistic principles.

When we consider resemblance in a portrait, we might say that similarity arises from the interaction between the artist and the subject. When I speak with you, we are two distinct individuals, yet we are also connected. We might ask ourselves where you end and I begin. Is there a transitional space between us? The answer must be that there is, otherwise we wouldn’t be able to understand each other or even have this conversation.

This notion of transition of connection is the task of art. It seeks to find and explore these in-between spaces. And in doing so, it aligns closely with Leibniz’s philosophy, which, as we observe in everyday life, is not so difficult to grasp after all.

NS: What is the reason behind casting Lars Eidinger as the court painter?

ER: Well, I needed someone brilliant for this introductory sequence. The main film is of course about Leibniz and the Dutch female painter, but I needed someone to set the stage and navigate the initial questions, so to speak. That’s why I came up with this court painter; he is not a historical figure, but entirely fictional. I also wanted to highlight the comedic side of the situation. You have this painter looking at his model and saying, “Think of nothing,” which is really funny. And to make that moment work, I needed a great artist. That’s why I chose Lars Eidinger.

NS: How would you react as a model if you were being painted?

ER: Well, I know what it’s like to be portrayed because I’ve been going through this all day with the photographer. And honestly, I suffer. I don’t understand the context of these photographs — who’s paying for them, who’s printing them, who’s interested in them afterward. I don’t even know where the photographer learned to use a camera.

So I always feel that this isn’t truly artistic work. The photographer doesn’t know me, hasn’t engaged with me. If they had, maybe the photograph would turn out completely different. In general, I think filmmakers don’t like being in front of the camera because we know what it’s like to be behind it. And the same principle applies to film itself.

NS: How did Kubrick, Rossellini, and Straub influence your film? While watching the film, I kept thinking of especially the latter two, in terms of aesthetics.

ER: When it comes to being in films, you always have to be mindful of how you are portrayed. I often think of Stanley Kubrick — there are hardly any photographs of him. Rossellini understood how to tell a story, and in cinema, it’s well known that costumes play a crucial role in shaping the film. In this film, we tell the story of an autocrat — a ruler who consolidates power through his appearance, through clothing. Historically, Louis XIV became king at the age of 18, but until then France had been under the rule of the church. So what did he do? He commissioned the most expensive tailors from across the globe to make his wardrobe. Then he ordered the entire court to dress like him, following his fashion. This was incredibly expensive, forcing the courtiers into debt. And then, of course, he established a bank to offer them credit, which allowed him to fully seize power.

NS: What was the challenge in lighting the film, given that it is a film where painting is an essential part?

ER: Even in Leibniz’s times, Caravaggio’s paintings were already well known, and his work was extraordinary. He developed a new technique — rather than outlining forms like other painters, he started with a black background and painted light onto it. Similarly, Rembrandt worked in a way that essentially invented the kind of lighting used in films today.

If you stand in front of a Caravaggio painting in a museum, it can look like a still from an elaborate Hollywood film. We didn’t want to lose that idea, so we created our own studio setup. Like Caravaggio, we used lighting strategically. In his time, he had only candles, oil lamps, or natural light from high windows. He used shutters to direct the light from below. We replicated this technique — our cinematographer used natural light coming in through windows, and the painter used mirrors to redirect it toward the subject. In essence, we applied 17th-century techniques to a 21st-century film.

NS: Where does the energy to keep making films come from?

ER: I actually have a great role model from Portugal — Manoel de Oliveira. He made his last film at the age of 106. In fact, he passed away during its production. That’s my dream. As an artist, you never retire.

Image copyright: Julia Stipsits