Träumen in der Morgendämmerung

Träumen in der Morgendämmerung
A Journey Through the Pastoral Psyche of German Progressive Folk

What will you do, God, when I die? 

I am your jar (if cracked, I lie?) 

Your well-spring (if the well go dry?) 

I am your craft, your vesture I— 

You lose your purport, losing me. 

When I go, your cold house will be 

Empty of words that made it sweet. 

I am the sandals your bare feet 

Will seek and long for, wearily. 

Your cloak will fall from aching bones. 

Your glance, that my warm cheeks have cheered 

As with a cushion long endeared, 

Will wonder at a loss so weird; 

And, when the sun has disappeared, 

Lie in the lap of alien stones. 

What will you do, God? I am feared. 

Vineyard, pasture, old apple orchard, 

field that misses no spring, 

fig tree that even in ground as hard as marble 

bears fruit a hundredfold: 

Scent exudes from Your round branches. 

And You do not ask if I am watchful; 

fearless, dissolved in juices, 

Your depths rise quietly past me.

Rainer Maria Rilke (1875 – 1926) 

From: The Book of Monastic Life (1899) 

Translated by B. Deutsch, A. Yarmolinsky, and C.L. Cingolani 

“Träumen in der Morgendämmerung” (Dreaming at Dawn) is not merely a compilation; it is an invitation to drift through the mist-veiled landscapes of German progressive folk and kosmische music, where poetry, protest, and pastoral beauty merge in luminous harmony.

Opening with the melancholic introspection of Hölderlin’s “Waren wir”, the journey begins in the half-light of memory and reflection. From there, we set out with Witthüser & Westrupp, whose warm acoustic textures and gentle psychedelia in “Lasst uns auf die Reise gehn” encourage us to wander, spiritually untethered.

The spectral reverie continues with Bröselmaschine’s “Gedanken”, a raga-tinged meditation that blurs the lines between inner thought and outer space. Carol of Harvest follows with “Put on Your Nightcap”, an English-language lullaby draped in melancholic electric folk, further deepening the dream.

A playful interlude arrives in Ougenweide’s “Der Fuchs und der Rabe”, whose medieval folk-rock retelling of Aesop's fable injects whimsy and charm. Emtidi’s “Touch the Sun” then lifts us into celestial realms with crystalline vocals and synth-laced serenity, before Gila’s “This Morning” steers us into a darker, more experimental awakening; quietly intense and emotionally raw.

Zupfgeigenhansel’s “Es dunkelt schon in der Heide” roots us again in folk tradition, a haunting evocation of twilight fading into night. Hölderlin’s “Requiem für einen Wicht” follows, echoing with poetic gravitas, a lament not just for the small or forgotten, but for the fragile spirit of a fading era.

The penultimate stretch brings social commentary wrapped in theatrical funk-folk via Floh de Cologne’s “Sei ruhig, Fliessbandbaby”, a sharp yet playful critique of industrial life. Emma Myldenberger’s “Unter der Linden” then unfurls like an ancient ballad rediscovered, its winding woodwinds and modal melodies casting a spell of tranquil nostalgia.

Finally, Denise Krüger’s “Hier lebst du” offers a quiet conclusion; an intimate, grounded reflection on presence and place, sung as if whispered into the first light of dawn.

Together, these twelve pieces form a lucid, undulating soundscape; a dreamscape where the utopian visions, earthy harmonies, and poetic souls of 1970s German folk-prog commune. It is a world best entered slowly, with open ears and a quiet heart.

Bhagavad Gita for Dummies

Eknath Easwaran’s commentary on the Bhagavad Gita is often praised for making the text accessible, but in doing so, it loses much of the depth and complexity that make the Gita so powerful. His approach feels less like a serious engagement with one of the world’s most profound philosophical works and more like a modern self-help manual wrapped in spiritual language. While there’s nothing inherently wrong with making ancient wisdom relevant to contemporary life, the way he does it often feels reductive, smoothing over the difficult, even uncomfortable, aspects of the text in favour of a softer, more digestible message.

One of the biggest issues is how he reshapes the Gita to fit a modern, personal-development narrative. The Bhagavad Gita is not just about mindfulness or ethical living; it’s a deeply complex dialogue that wrestles with duty, morality, devotion, and the nature of reality itself. Krishna’s teachings to Arjuna on the battlefield are filled with contradictions and nuances, often challenging simple moral conclusions. But Easwaran tends to boil these teachings down to broad life lessons about inner peace and detachment, which, while appealing, don’t fully reflect the weight of what’s actually being said. This translates into repetitive metaphors where, for the benefit of Westerners, the innermost workings of spiritual life is reduced to a car analogy. By being constantly likened to the mechanical workings of an automobile, I did wonder if I needed an oil change after reading Easwaran's commentary.

His translation also takes a lot of liberties. Instead of staying close to the original Sanskrit, he paraphrases heavily, sometimes changing the meaning in ways that simplify or distort the text. The Gita is rich with philosophical terminology; concepts like karma, jnana and bhakti yoga carry layers of meaning; but in Easwaran’s version, they sometimes feel vague, as if they’ve been sanded down to fit a general spiritual outlook rather than being explored in their full depth.

There is also the issue of how he approaches the more difficult parts of the Gita. The text, after all, is set on a battlefield, where Krishna urges Arjuna to fight. This raises profound and challenging questions about duty, violence, and moral responsibility; questions that have been debated for centuries. But Easwaran, whose own background was rooted in pacifism, tends to downplay this aspect, framing the Gita in a way that aligns with his personal philosophy rather than engaging with the raw ethical tension that makes the text so compelling. It’s understandable that he would emphasize nonviolence, but in doing so, he risks presenting a version of the Gita that feels more like a comforting guidebook than the deeply challenging spiritual text it actually is. One of the most irksome outcomes of avoiding the conflicts of life yet over-simplifying human struggle is exemplified in a section where Easwaran castigates women who must sell cigarettes for a living, saying they are forever karmically tainted as a result, owing to the health impacts of smoking. This wanton and misogynistic mis-application of spiritual truth is of course easy to come up with from the comfort of a professor's armchair. 

At the end of the day, Easwaran’s Bhagavad Gita might serve as a gentle introduction for someone new to the text, but it’s not the kind of commentary that does justice to the richness of the original. If you really want to dive into the Gita; to engage with its contradictions, its depth, and its historical context; there are far better translations and interpretations out there. Scholars like Radhakrishnan, J.A.B. van Buitenen, Mohandas Gandhi, or even A.C. Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada approach the text with a seriousness that allows its full philosophical and spiritual weight to shine through. Easwaran, in contrast, offers something more like a simplified retelling; well-meaning, but ultimately too watered down with bloated clichéd lifestyle advice to capture the existential spirit of the Gita.

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Masquerade Artwork (1979)

I have such fond memories of this strangely occult and pagan-themed book, which I remember leafing through with amazement whilst at Junior school. After decades mostly out of the public eye, the iconic treasure from Masquerade resurfaced on the market and now belongs to a collector once more. In November 2025, Sotheby’s offered the same golden hare at auction again. The pendant originally sold for £31,900 in 1988, but this time it fetched £82,550, well above its pre-sale estimate. It was bought by a private collector in Great Britain.

Masquerade is a beautifully illustrated puzzle book created in 1979 by the English artist Kit Williams. At first glance it looks like a whimsical fairy tale about a small hare named Jack who travels through a dreamlike world, but every page is quietly doing something else: hiding clues. Williams embedded riddles in the paintings, borders, and lettering so that careful readers could piece together a set of directions leading to a real, physical treasure.

That treasure was a small golden hare pendant, made of 18-carat gold and decorated with jewels. Williams buried it somewhere in the English countryside and announced that whoever solved the puzzle in the book could claim it. The idea captured the public imagination. Hundreds of thousands of people studied the illustrations with magnifying glasses, looking for patterns, hidden words, and visual jokes that might reveal the location. After nearly three years, the hare was found in Ampthill Park in Bedfordshire, though the circumstances of its discovery later caused controversy, since it was revealed that the finder had been tipped off rather than having fully solved the puzzle as intended.

The book itself became a cultural phenomenon. It essentially invented what is now called the “armchair treasure hunt,” a genre where readers try to solve elaborate puzzles from home using only what is hidden in a book. Even today, Masquerade is admired not just as a clever game but as a work of art, full of intricate, symbolic paintings that reward close attention.

Kit Williams, the creator of Masquerade, was born in 1946 in Kent, England. Trained as an artist, he wrote and illustrated the book entirely on his own, combining traditional painting techniques with a love of riddles, myths, and visual storytelling. After the success of Masquerade, he went on to design elaborate mechanical clocks for public buildings and continued working as a fine artist, producing detailed figurative paintings in oils. His reputation rests largely on how he merged art, story, and puzzle into a single experience, turning a picture book into one of the most famous real-world treasure hunts in history.

Kloster Antoniusstein & Wolfsschlucht

Hidden deep in the Brohltal valley, where steep cliffs of volcanic tuff and moss-covered stones bear the marks of ancient eruptions, lie the quiet remains of Kloster Antoniusstein, also known as the Tönisstein Monastery. Today, it is only a ruin; a hauntingly beautiful echo of a time when monks prayed in its vaulted halls and pilgrims climbed through the valley to seek healing, solace, and perhaps a miracle.

According to legend, the story began around the year 1388. A shepherd from the nearby village of Kell stumbled upon a strange vision: a burning thorn bush in which a Pietà appeared; the Virgin Mary cradling the body of Christ; while St. Antonius knelt in prayer before her. It was said that this miraculous sign marked the place as holy, and soon a small chapel was built there, dedicated to Mary, St. Antonius, and St. Wendelin. When it was consecrated in 1390, the valley began to draw pilgrims who came to see the sacred image and to pray in the solitude of the forested gorge.

By 1465, the site had gained enough renown that the Carmelite Order received permission to establish a full monastery on the spot. Over the following decades, the monks constructed a church and convent buildings out of the volcanic stone that surrounded them. They led a contemplative life, but they were also practical men, drawing water from nearby springs such as the Helpert source, which was already known by 1501 for its supposed healing powers. Centuries later, the same mineral waters would help turn the surrounding area into a spa region under the Elector-Archbishops of Cologne, linking faith and health in the fertile imagination of the Eifel landscape.

For several hundred years the monastery flourished quietly. Pilgrims came and went, the monks tended their gardens, and the sound of the nearby Tönissteiner Bach mingled with the chanting of psalms. But in 1802, everything changed. During the period of secularization that swept across German lands in the wake of Napoleon’s campaigns, Kloster Antoniusstein was dissolved. The Carmelites were forced to leave, and the property passed into state hands. The Prussian authorities later sold it in 1819, and without its caretakers the monastery began to decay. Stones were taken to build other structures, and the site slowly turned from sacred ground into a picturesque ruin.

What remains today are fragments of that once-spiritual world; walls up to eight meters high, traces of vaulted cellars, and outlines of the old cloisters. The ruins stand quietly amid trees and ferns, with the murmur of the Tönissteiner Bach flowing past, the same stream that once powered the monastery’s mill below. If you wander here, you can still sense the shape of the old church and imagine the lives that unfolded within its walls: the rituals of prayer, the echo of bells, the rhythm of devotion against the backdrop of volcanic cliffs.

The famous Pietà that inspired the founding of the monastery no longer rests in the gorge. It now resides safely in the parish church of St. Lubentius in Kell, a few kilometers away, still drawing quiet reverence from those who know its story. Visitors today reach the site by forest trails that weave through the Brohltal Geopark; paths that not only lead to the ruins but also reveal the geological wonders of the Eifel, where layers of ash and pumice tell the story of fire beneath the earth.

To visit Kloster Antoniusstein is to step into a landscape where nature and history intertwine. The forest reclaims the stones, ivy drapes over crumbling arches, and the sound of water echoes through the gorge just as it did six hundred years ago. It is a place of stillness, where the spiritual past feels close enough to touch, and where the silence of the monastery lives on in the whisper of the wind and the flow of the stream.

English translation:

Board 1 – Route U “Lower Brohl Valley” – Point U6: Tuff Wall and Cascades

National Geopark VULCANIC LAND EIFFEL
Brohltal Volcanic Park / Laacher See

Because of deposits from glowing clouds (pyroclastic flows) during the Laacher See eruptions, this valley was also filled up.

Over thousands of years, the stream has cut its way back into the deposits. When observing the tuff wall – also quarried in this area – one can recognize a repeated alternation between fine ash and coarse pumice layers.

The deposits occurred in surges, so that the flow was made up of multiple flow units.
In the nearby “Wolfsschlucht” (Wolf’s Gorge), one can observe in just a few hundred meters how smaller stream forms emerge from these flows, during the cutting process of the stream.

In this side valley, the stream cuts through ash streams from the Laacher See eruption down to the underlying bedrock.

Photo captions:

• View of alternating layers of material flows

• Light pumice pieces in the upper area of a flow unit

• Cascades of the Tönisstein stream

The valley continues downward over several small waterfalls, merging from several smaller sections where the stream has little gradient.

At a small slope, streams and creeks often form many winding bends, called meanders. Such formations can also be seen here.

In some areas, the valley forms a stepped structure, where the stream flows in cascades (from the Latin cascata = fall). At the foot of these cascades, the water often carves deeper into the soft ash layers and creates hollows and small caves.

The water flow accelerates locally in small rapids due to the unevenness of the bed. When such rapids occur in a larger river, they are called cataracts (from Greek katarrhous = waterfall). Famous, much larger examples are the Cataracts of the Nile in Egypt and Sudan.

Information and guidebook
for the Geo-Routes are available at:
Tourist Information Brohltal
Kapellenstraße 12, 56651 Niederzissen
Tel. 0 26 36 / 1 94 33
www.brohltal.de · tourist@brohltal.de

English translation:

Board 2 – Route U “Lower Brohl Valley” – Point U7: Waterfall at the End of Wolf’s Gorge

“Stream Fall” at the End of the Quarry Area

The small Tönisstein stream, coming from higher up, had difficulty cutting its way through the tuff into the water-rich Brohlbach, into which it flows.

Over its course, it has created three steps, between which there are relatively flat sections. The uppermost of these steps forms a waterfall, which the stream “overcomes”.

This wild-romantic waterfall step has gradually receded upstream over time, as can also be observed with larger waterfalls.

A famous example of such a retreating waterfall are the Niagara Falls in North America.

Photo captions:

• Cascades

• Cross-section through the ash flow in the Wolf’s Gorge

Above the waterfall step, the Tönisstein stream flows in a wide, flat bed of stream gravel about 2–3 m thick, which in turn lies on the surface of the ash flow.

Cross-section through the Wolf’s Gorge

This diagram shows how the Tönisstein stream has cut its way through the relatively soft tuff down to the Devonian bedrock.

The basaltic blocks that hikers can find along the stream-bed come from the reinforcement of the road embankment.

The Fairy Faith in Celtic Countries (1911)

In the moorlands between Trossachs and Aberfoyle, a region made famous by Scott's Rob Roy, I have seen atmospheric changes so sudden and so contrasted as to appear marvellous. What shifting of vapours and clouds, what flashes of bright sun-gleams, then twilight at midday! Across the landscape, shadows of black dense fog-banks rush like shadows of flocks of great birds which darken all the earth. Palpitating fog-banks wrap themselves around the mountain-tops and then come down like living things to move across the valleys, sometimes only a few yards above the traveller's head. And in that country live terrible water-kelpies. When black clouds discharge their watery burden it is in wind-driven vertical water-sheets through which the world appears as through an ice-filmed window-pane. Perhaps in a single day there may be the bluest of heavens and the clearest air, the densest clouds and the darkest shadows, the calm of the morning and the wind of the tempest.

At night in Aberfoyle after such a day, I witnessed a clear sunset and a fair evening sky; in the morning when I arose, the lowlands along the river were inundated and a thousand cascades, large and small, were leaping down the mountain-highlands, and rain was falling in heavy masses. Within an hour afterwards, as I travelled on towards Stirling, the rain and wind ceased, and there settled down over all the land cloud-masses so inky-black that they seemed like the fancies of some horrible dream. Then like massed armies they began to move to their mountain-strongholds, and stood there; while from the east came perfect weather and a flood of brilliant sunshine.

And in the Highlands from Stirling to Inverness what magic, what changing colours and shadows there were on the age-worn treeless hills, and in the valleys with their clear, pure streams receiving tribute from unnumbered little rills and springs, some dropping water drop by drop as though it were fairy-distilled; and everywhere the heather giving to the mountain-landscape a hue of rich purplish-brown, and to the air an odour of aromatic fragrance.

On to the north-west beyond Inverness there is the same kind of a treeless highland country; and then after a few hours of travel one looks out across the water from Kyle and beholds Skye, where Cuchulainn is by some believed to have passed his young manhood learning feats of arms from fairy women—Skye, dark, mountainous, majestic, with its waterfalls turning to white spray as they tumble from cliff to cliff into the sound, from out the clouds that hide their mountain-summit sources.

In the Outer Hebrides, as in the Aranmore Islands off West Ireland, influences are at work on the Celtic imagination quite different from those in Skye and its neighbouring islands. Mountainous billows which have travelled from afar out of the mysterious watery waste find their first impediment on the west of these isolated Hebridean isles, and they fling themselves like mad things in full fury against the wild rocky islets fringing the coast. White spray flashes in unearthly forms over the highest cliff, and the unrestrained hurricane whirls it far inland. Ocean's eternally murmuring sounds set up a responsive vibration in the soul of the peasant, as he in solitude drives home his flocks amid the weird gloaming at the end of a December day; and, later, when he sits brooding in his humble cottage at night, in the fitful flickering of a peat fire, he has a mystic consciousness that deep down in his being there is a more divine music compared with which that of external nature is but a symbol and an echo; and, as he stirs the glowing peat-embers, phantoms from an irretrievable past seem to be sitting with him on the edge of the half-circle of dying light. Maybe there are skin-clad huntsmen of the sea and land, with spears and knives of bone and flint and shaggy sleeping dogs, or fearless sea-rovers resting wearily on shields of brilliant bronze, or maybe Celtic warriors fierce and bold; and then he understands that his past and his present are one.

Commonly there is the thickest day-darkness when the driving storms come in from the Atlantic, or when dense fog covers sea and land; and, again, there are melancholy sea-winds moaning across from shore to shore, bending the bushes of the purple heather. At other times there is a sparkle of the brightest sunshine on the ocean waves, a fierceness foreign to the more peaceful Highlands; and then again a dead silence prevails at sunrise and at sunset if one be on the mountains, or, if on the shore, no sound is heard save the rhythmical beat of the waves, and now and then the hoarse cry of a sea-bird. All these contrasted conditions may be seen in one day, or each may endure for a day; and the dark days last nearly all the winter. And then it is, during the long winter, that the crofters and fisher-folk congregate night after night in a different neighbour's house to tell about fairies and ghosts, and to repeat all those old legends so dear to the heart of the Celt. Perhaps every one present has heard the same story or legend a hundred times, yet it is always listened to and told as though it were the latest bulletin of some great world-stirring event.

Over those little islands, so far away to the north, out on the edge of the world, in winter-time darkness settles down at four o'clock or even earlier; and the islanders hurry through with their dinner of fish and oat-bread so as not to miss hearing the first story. When the company has gathered from far and near, pipes are re-filled and lit and the peat is heaped up, for the story-telling is not likely to end before midnight. The house is roomy and clean, if homely, with its bright peat fire in the middle of the floor. There are many present—men and women, boys and girls. All the women are seated, and most of the men. Girls are crouched between the knees of fathers or brothers or friends, while boys are perched wherever—boy-like—they can climb. The house-man is twisting twigs of heather into ropes to hold down thatch, a neighbour crofter is twining quicken root into cords to tie cows, while another is plaiting bent grass into baskets to hold meal. The housewife is spinning, a daughter is carding, another daughter is teazing, while a third daughter, supposed to be working, is away in the background conversing in low whispers with the son of a neighbouring crofter. Neighbour wives and neighbour daughters are knitting, sewing, or embroidering.

Then when the bad weather for fishing has been fully discussed by the men, and the latest gossip by the women, and the foolish talk of the youths and maidens in the corners is finished, the one who occupies the chair of honour in the midst of the ceilidh looks around to be sure that everybody is comfortable and ready; and, as his first story begins, even the babes by instinct cease their noise and crying, and young and old bend forward eagerly to hear every word.

From: Evans-Wentz, W.Y. (1911) The Fairy-Faith in Celtic Countries. Oxford: Clarendon Press.

The Wonder (2022)

 The Wonder (2022), directed by Sebastián Lelio and based on Emma Donoghue’s novel, is a haunting, slow-burn psychological drama that grips you with its unsettling atmosphere and richly layered narrative. Set in 1862 Ireland, the film revolves around a young girl, Anna (Kila Lord Cassidy), who, it’s claimed, has not eaten for months yet remains alive and well, leading to widespread fascination and suspicion. A nurse, Lib (Florence Pugh), is sent to observe her, tasked with determining whether this is a miracle, a hoax, or something more sinister.

The beauty of The Wonder lies in its ability to create a sense of claustrophobia and tension from the simplest moments. The rural Irish setting, with its mist-covered fields and stark interiors, adds a weight to the already heavy atmosphere. Lelio’s direction is meticulous, focusing on the subtle interactions between the characters, while also drawing attention to the larger societal and religious forces that are at play in this small community. The cinematography is breathtaking, but it’s the sound design; the quiet creaks of a wooden house or the soft murmur of voices; that truly elevates the film’s sense of dread.

Florence Pugh delivers yet another stellar performance, embodying Lib with a quiet intensity. She brings depth to her character, whose own troubled past slowly unravels over the course of the film. Pugh’s subtle shifts in expression and her interactions with the villagers, particularly Anna’s mother (Elaine Cassidy), are riveting. It’s a performance that demands patience from the audience but rewards it with a deeply human portrayal of a woman searching for truth amid an ocean of superstition and fear.

The story’s central mystery; the “miracle” of Anna’s survival; raises poignant questions about faith, power, and the human need to control the uncontrollable. The Wonder doesn’t offer clear answers. Instead, it invites the viewer to reflect on the nature of belief and the lengths people will go to uphold it, even when faced with evidence to the contrary. The film’s pace is deliberate, requiring patience, but it’s also beautifully crafted, with each scene building toward a revelatory conclusion that is both satisfying and disquieting.

However, the film’s slower pace may be a point of contention for some. While the slow-burn tension works for most of the film, certain moments feel drawn out, and there’s a sense that some viewers may find themselves impatient for the story to move forward. The tension, though palpable, can sometimes feel as though it’s spinning its wheels before reaching its emotional payoff.

In the end, The Wonder is a film that demands reflection and a willingness to sit with its discomforts. It’s not a traditional mystery or thriller, but rather an exploration of human nature and the often dangerous grip that belief can have on people. With a standout performance from Pugh, evocative cinematography, and a story that lingers long after the credits roll, The Wonder is a meditative, unsettling experience that doesn’t give easy answers; but perhaps that’s exactly the point.

Saint or Swindler? Wild Wild Country (2016) vs Osho The Movie (2022)

Few figures in modern spirituality are as controversial as Osho, and few documentaries are as diametrically opposed in their portrayal of him as Wild Wild Country and Osho: The Movie. One is a gripping exposé of power, deception, and unchecked ambition, the other is a carefully curated PR campaign disguised as a film. Watching them back to back feels like stepping into two entirely different realities; one where Osho is a megalomaniacal cult leader presiding over a criminal enterprise, and another where he is a peaceful sage tragically undone by his own followers. The only real question is: which one is selling you a bigger illusion?

Wild Wild Country, the Netflix documentary that took the world by storm in 2018, is an absolute rollercoaster of madness, crime, and spectacle. It doesn’t need to embellish because the real story is stranger than fiction. A charismatic guru moves his thousands of red-robed followers to a small Oregon town, builds a utopian city, and then; because utopian cities never go as planned; everything descends into wiretapping, arson, bioterror attacks, and assassination plots. It’s a documentary that unfolds like a thriller, letting a cast of ex-Rajneeshees, Oregon locals, and law enforcement officials piece together a story that keeps getting wilder by the minute. At its centre, though largely silent for much of the runtime, is Osho himself; his presence looming over every act of devotion, every shady legal manoeuvre, every whispered conspiracy. When he does finally break his silence, it’s to throw his once-loyal secretary Ma Anand Sheela under the bus in the most passive-aggressively divine way possible.

And then there’s Osho: The Movie, a film that seems to exist primarily to rehabilitate Osho’s image, or at the very least, to make sure no one blames him for anything. Here, he is the wise master, the enlightened rebel, the man too evolved to concern himself with petty things like immigration fraud or poisoning an entire town’s salad bars. If Wild Wild Country suggests Osho might have been complicit in the darker elements of his movement, Osho: The Movie insists he was just meditating while his empire crumbled around him. The film bends over backward to absolve him, casting Sheela as the power-hungry villain who took things too far while Osho, poor innocent Osho, simply wanted to spread his message of love. Never mind that he had a fleet of Rolls-Royces or that his movement collapsed in a spectacular mess of legal battles and criminal convictions; the film would rather you focus on his radiant presence and misunderstood genius.

The biggest difference between the two films is how they treat the moral complexity of the story. Wild Wild Country doesn’t hand you a simple answer. It acknowledges that many Rajneeshees were sincere seekers who got caught up in something far bigger than themselves, that Osho was undeniably charismatic and visionary, but also that the movement was riddled with corruption, cult-like behaviour, and outright criminality. It doesn’t tell you who to believe—it simply lays out the chaos and lets you decide. Osho: The Movie, on the other hand, has no such interest in ambiguity. It isn’t here to make you think; it’s here to make you admire Osho. It cherry-picks the narrative, downplays the scandals, and frames the entire collapse of Rajneeshpuram as the tragic consequence of a few bad apples, rather than the inevitable implosion of an empire built on unchecked power.

If Wild Wild Country is an unsparing dissection of a movement that spiralled out of control, Osho: The Movie is spiritual fan fiction, written for those who still want to believe. One presents the Gita rewritten as a courtroom drama; the other, as a self-help book with all the inconvenient parts removed. The truth, as always, is probably somewhere in the middle; but only one of these films is actually interested in finding it.

My enduring takeaway from watching both documentaries is to hold Osho up as a spiritually developed man who ultimately became drug-addicted (particularly to laughing gas) and by degrees lost control of his own mass movement to opportunistic egoists. While there is no official diagnosis or historical evidence suggesting Osho was autistic, some of his traits invite speculation. His intense focus on certain philosophical ideas, unconventional communication style, disregard for social norms, and periods of isolation could align with characteristics seen in autism. However, Osho was also highly charismatic, performative, and skilled at manipulating social dynamics; traits more commonly linked to personality disorders like narcissism. While it’s unlikely Osho was autistic in a clinical sense, viewing him through a neurodivergent lens opens up intriguing possibilities about how his mind worked and what fuelled his radical approach to life and spirituality.