Ģirts and his friend plan an excursion to a mystical place, the abandoned Potassium Park. In order to get the family car, Ģirts lies and says he is going fishing, so his parents compel him to take his younger brother along. Ģirts’ friend backs out, and he is forced to go fishing after all. Bitter about the failed plan, Ģirts is mean, but his brother’s joy over the first fish caught is a self-revelation of his pervasive injustice towards his younger brother. As a gift, Ģirts shows him the secret entrance to Potassium Park. The brothers head off on an exciting foray through the abandoned and mysterious structures, until they accidentally uncover a box of explosives that tests their newly-developed camaraderie.
The carelessness of summer residents, relentless sun, bare skin, water, and blood. Sudden injury of Kiril's girlfriend rips the temporal and spatial boundaries in his hazy consciousness. Struggling to find a way and help his girlfriend, he tries to distinguish the harsh reality from the acid dream, where his parents' country house still reigns in peace, surrounded by closest friends enjoying tranquil summer days.
In the beginning there was the forest. Then came the live performance, and then the film. The yellow wagtail, Eurasian skylark, white-backed woodpecker, corncrake and hazel grouse have not only gotten their voices back, but have taken on human form — clad in elegant tailcoats and bearing names — to recount ancient tales. Through the interplay of theatrical metamorphoses and the creative team’s reflections on nature and relationships, a field of meaning unfolds, vaster than any single spectator. Where ends the self, and where begin the wings of birds and the branches of trees? Can culture, standing on the shoulders of nature, also nurture it? Or will it merely glisten in the light like a sawblade?