An unnamed man in his thirties travels down from Albania in the summer to the Lithuanian tranquility of his home village to spend time with his parents. It’s business as usual: dad is behind the barbecue set and mom is hanging up the laundry. His arrival is neither unwanted nor remarkable. Boredom sets in. He peeks at the neighbour, cuts a watermelon into a bowling ball, and muddles along. Vytautas Katkus captures all this with the absurd gaze of a curious man peering through the bushes—voyeuristic and childishly fascinated.

In a car journey towards a barn fire that is driving the entire village towards disaster tourism, the father tries to tell a story. His son sticks his head out of the window. The common ground has been lost and neither of them shows any initiative to find it again. They only understand each other in their shared disinterest. They exist alongside each other, not because of each other. 

Community Gardens reads like fertile ground for nihilism, but through small, often dry gestures of rapprochement and affection, Katkus shows that even in alienation and monotony, there is a fascinating world to discover. (Flo Vanhorebeek)