KitKatClub: Kinks of Berlin Celebrate Pleasure

“Now I really look like one of those 80s aerobics-hussy,” Raven Van Krueger says proudly after squeezing into a tight bodysuit and topping a gigantic wig for the party night. Off we go to KitKat.

The club, which basically everyone calls only “the Kitty,” is a place where desire has moved in. Hardly any other spot exists in Berlin—and far beyond—for how unrestrained the city can be. A sex-positive temple that revels in a singular hedonism. A space shrouded in myth.

A Deep Trust-Based Rule

What happens in the Kitty stays in the Kitty. There is a photo ban; smartphone cameras are taped over or must be checked at the cloakroom. This is meant to keep the space safe so that every guest can move around there as they please.

The documentary “KitKatClub — Kinks of Berlin” breaks this rule. The film manages to pull some images out into the open — which was only possible thanks to a great level of trust with the operator. So the whole world can at least get a tiny glimpse of the club, of the place that even people who have nothing to do with kinky sex parties have at least heard about.

Casual Sex That Just Comes With It

Will the club be demystified in this way? Will it lose its appeal? That question isn’t easy to answer. Inside-the-room scenes aren’t wildly provocative: Techno plays, people dance, many are naked, here and there a penis in the mouth of another guest, someone hanging from ceiling ropes.

At least since the enormous success of the “Shades of Grey” BDSM novels, this has almost reached the mainstream. “KitKatClub — Kinks of Berlin” avoids sensationalized staging. On the contrary: sex is described matter-of-factly; it simply belongs.

First the Mares, Then the Stallions

Something different happens with the “Fickstutenmarkt,” a party series that also happens at the KitKat. Before entry, guests must decide whether they are mares or stallions. The mares wear a hood, the color of which indicates whether going without a condom is okay. Like at a real livestock inspection, the mares receive a stamp on their butt. Then the stallions enter, free to do as they please with the mares. “After the fifth cock, basically anyone fits in,” says Foxy.

The scenes at the “Fickstutenmarkt” are the most explicit in the documentary. Are they voyeuristic? What kind of picture of queer sexuality do they convey? The film deliberately forgoes an explanatory voice-over. There are no interview scenes either.

Almost a Dozen Protagonists

Why? “Not for reduction, but for stance. The film doesn’t seek explanations, it seeks experience. It observes, without judging,” explains director Philipp Fussenegger. What sounds like a noble motive, in truth ignores the fact that there is no objective observation. Every camera angle, every scene choice, every cut is an intervention.

This becomes even clearer in scenes where the protagonists talk to one another—often so wooden that it becomes painfully obvious the conversations are contrived. Why would Oli, for instance, suddenly ask his partner Foxy if his parents know about their pet-play relationship?

The documentary follows nearly a dozen regulars of the KitKat Club: beside the “80s aerobics-hussy” Raven Van Krueger, the Pet Players Oli and Foxy, also the club’s co-founder Simon Thaur, his partner Mali, the renowned performance artist Hottie de Paris, David, who wants to get sober, and a few others.

Simon Thaur, the Macho

Raven Van Krueger is the only figure in whom a real arc is discernible: Tim, his civilian name, relies on the job center but wants to launch as a drag queen. His passion is sympathetic, his drive convincing—even if he ultimately fails mostly because of himself.

The other protagonists come across more like stock characters pinned to obvious roles: KitKat co-founder Simon Thaur embodies a completely different generation, a machismo whose relationship dynamic with Mali is perplexing and uncomfortable to watch. He still shoots pee-fetish porn, which he edits together in a tank top with a cigarette, seemingly detached.

The New Glans Piercing

The film seeks spatial proximity to the figures, and it finds it. But just because you see Foxy getting a new glans piercing doesn’t automatically create emotional closeness. How did these people discover their kinks? What can they do with them? What does it mean to go to the KitKat? Why do they enjoy this place so much? On all these questions you get almost no answers. It seems the documentary is less about understanding than about showing.

There is almost no criticism of KitKat expressed. Yes, one person describes how annoying it is to constantly get an unsolicited penis in their face. Many talk about the importance of consent—important and relevant. Yet not a word about the alleged rape in September 2024, nor about the “taz” investigation that claimed security personnel have ties to the far-right hooligan scene. The claim of offering an “unpolished” film is thus far from accurate.

Anfängende Zielgruppe des Films?
Die Entscheidung, einen der buntesten und vielfältigsten Orte in Schwarz-Weiß zu drehen, ist mutig. Doch es funktioniert, die Bilder verfügen über eine hohe Ästhetik. Keine Farben lenken ab, die Konzentration liegt auf den Figuren.

Die sind nur — und vielleicht ist das ja auch eine starke Aussage des Films — ziemlich gewöhnliche Menschen. Sie fahren U-Bahn, essen Hummus zum Frühstück, gehen shoppen. Das ist nur weitaus weniger aufregend, als der Titel verspricht. Abends besucht die US-Amerikanerin Lexi eben eine private Orgie, bei der sauber beschriftet Keta, Speed und 3MMC auf Tellern liegen.

Und so fragt man sich doch, an wen sich dieses — laut Eigenbeschreibung — “Zeitdokument einer Stadt” richtet. Wahrscheinlich an neugierige Menschen, die schon immer mal wissen wollten, was so im sagenumwobenen Kitty passiert. Alle anderen besuchen solche und ähnliche Orte einfach selbst — und erleben eine Stimmung, die kein Film der Welt einfangen könnte.