Best Premiere Vieweings of July

1. Feng yue / Temptress Moon (Kaige Chen, 1996)

A film of both disciplined and dashing direction, finely chiseled performances, delicate sensuality, opium-high melodramatics, and awe-inspiring visuality, its opulent set and costume designs stunningly captured in noirish cinematography by unmistakable Christopher Doyle, Temptress Moon is an intoxicating (or rather, toxic) romance that pulls the viewer in a cleft between reactionary forces of tradition, and many temptations of modernity, portraying the battle of the sexes in a fashion so poetic that even the withered roses take your breath away moments before they’re replaced by the fresh ones.

2. Corazón azul / Blue Heart (Miguel Coyula, 2021)

“I am not going to say anything new. You all know how corrupt this government is... You all know that there are dictatorships where they engage in actual murder and you also know that in this one psychological death predominates. You know everything and you tolerate it. That’s why you are also guilty. Small minded beings who sacrifice their integrity for a comfortable and mediocre life...”

Shot and re-shot over the course of ten years, Blue Heart is not only a labor of love, but also a testimony to its authors’ continual resistance against multiple threats by the Cuban security agents. A powerful example of guerrilla filmmaking, it is a formally challenging, politically charged experiment that poses as an often direct attack on dictatorial ideologies, so it comes as no surprise it has stirred some controversy in countries such as Belarus. Set in an alternate reality where Fidel Castro turned to genetic engineering to create New Man for the sake of socialist utopia, the heavily fragmented story is presented in a mind-and-genre-bending blend of various formats, from found footage referencing Soviet cinema to fictitious anime to talking-head documentary to artistic pornography to newsreel montages. Speaking of the latter, the writer / director / cinematographer / VFX artist / animator / composer / producer Miguel Coyula demonstrates impressive editorial skills, delivering a cinematic equivalent of a tightly controlled fever dream which brims with beautifully framed imagery largely captured on cloudy days and thus, underscoring the all-pervading dread. His ‘partner in crime’, actress Lynn Cruz, plays one of the key roles in a manner that thickens the air of mystery surrounding the goings-on, as well as the cipher-like characters.

Available @ Vimeo on Demand

3. Yumenoshima Shōjo / Dream Island Girl (Shōichirō Sasaki, 1974)

A mood piece of hypnotizing, soul-healing quietude, Dream Island Girl exists somewhere between a secret and a reverie, in the haze of half-remembered memories of soft yet raw, proto-Jarmanesque textures, and poetic inwardness that anticipates the works of filmmakers such as Isao Yamada and Shunji Iwai. Largely told in flashbacks that often tear the boundaries between the dreamed and real, with dialogues significantly toned down in favor of lyrically composed images, it so wonderfully captures the melancholy of yearning, (im)possibility of love, intricacies of life, and vulnerability of the titular heroine (Sachiyo Nakao, then a high school senior, charmingly reserved in her debut), who seems to be lost in / shackled by a patriarchal society. Directed with a freewheeling ease, and shot with a keen if somewhat gazey eye, a plethora of wistful close-ups amplifying the emotional brooding, this experimental, stream-of-consciousness drama far surpasses its made-for-TV format, making for a shiny gem from the obscure side of Japanese cinema. 

4. Mina ni ko are / Best Wishes to All (Yūta Shimotsu, 2022)

Even before the cards of Yūta Shimotsu’s (promising) feature debut are laid on the table, ‘Are you happy?’ sounds like one of the most ominous questions your own grandmother may ask you. Dealing with the price of happiness, generational decay, the dichotomy of selfishness vs. selflessness, and (the lack of) empathy in a dehumanizing society, Best Wishes to All transforms the family home and its pastoral surroundings into a setting for a nightmare of false normalcy that seems impossible to awaken from. Laced with cynically dark humor, and soaked in ‘something feels off’ atmosphere right from the get go, the film serves as a constant reminder of how twisted reality tends to be, especially when you’re striving for kindness, like the unnamed protagonist sympathetically portrayed by lovely Kotone Furukawa. There’s no place for the meek here, and the bleak prospects are accentuated by Yuma Koda’s unnerving string score, and Ryuto Iwabuchi’s austere cinematography somewhat reminiscent of Kiyoshi Kurosawa’s works, not to mention the freaky bits of utter irrationality that amplify the psychological tension.

5.1. Antes, o Verão / Before, the Summer (Gerson Tavares, 1968)

A fragmented, flashback-punctuated story of the upper middle class disintegration, Before, the Summer feels like a cross between a piece of La Nouvelle Vague cinema, neo-noir, and Antonioni-esque meditation, charged with sexual tension. Revolving around a successful middle-aged man, Dr. Luiz (Jardel Filho), who conceals his insecurities behind the alpha male disguise (and gets his share of objectification), the film is set in and around a Cabo Frio summer house which poses as the extension of the protagonist’s personality. The glance-exchanging episode with his two teenage sons’ older friend, Roberto, and the mysterious hit-and-run in the vicinity of the resort portend the crumbling of Luiz’s marriage, and his own integrity, metaphorized through the ‘invasion’ of salt, sand and wind on his cozy (or rather, showy) cottage. The second of only two features Tavares helmed, this existential drama sees stellar performances from both professional actors and first-timers matched to assured direction, with the exquisite blocking and framing – laced with sensual, jazzy music – betraying the author’s background as a painter.

5.2. Amor e Desamor / With Love and Without (Gerson Tavares, 1966)

“I’m not sure whether I’m running from life or if life’s running from me.”

Existential melancholy and disillusionment seem to populate virtually every frame of Gerson Tavares’ debut feature – a chamber drama at once intimate and alienating, cold as modern edifices of Brasilia, yet deeply personal, and on a subconscious level, affecting. Focused on an architect and former university professor, Alberto (Leonardo Villar) – quite likely, the author’s alter ego, the film is set over the course of one night of whiskey, cigarettes, weighty discussions and (meaningless) sex, examining the (im)possibility of a genuine relationship. Only two more characters appear – a flirty freethinker, Norma (Leina Krespi), and somewhat shy, prudent Selma (Betty Faria), the latter of whom occupies Alberto’s memories in a series of flashbacks skillfully interwoven into the narrative, along with a cinematically engaging and psychologically revealing dream sequence. The minimalist cast delivers superlative performances, with the slightest of their gestures beautifully captured in stark, high-contrast B&W by cinematographer Hélio Silva whose imagery is elevated by Rogerio Duprat’s experimental score of elegant, oneiric dissonances.

6. Icare / Icarus (Carlo Vogele, 2022)

A co-production of Luxembourg, France and Belgium, Carlo Vogele’s feature debut is a lovingly crafted re-telling of Icarus and Minotaur myths, refracted through the prism of the friendship (or dare I say, bromance) between the boy who flew too close to the Sun and Asterion, the kind-hearted ‘monster’ who was abused by his royal step-father blinded by the thirst for revenge. Briskly paced, and featuring beautiful artwork – a stylized blend of 2D and 3D animation complemented by charming voicework and enchanting score, the 70-minute film brings a bittersweet, larger-than-life-or-any-kingdom tale of embracing otherness, staying true to oneself, and saving the last embers of humanity, even if it means defying the authority.

(BTW, Vogele and his artists team don’t shy away from undressing Ariadne and Theseus.)

7. O Menino e o Vento / The Boy and the Wind (Carlos Hugo Christensen, 1967)

A missing piece between Rashomon and Call Me by Your Name, with the elements of magic realism, noir, and Italian modernism permeating the proceedings, The Boy and the Wind is a peculiar queer drama, one with a poetic soul that may not be evident right from the get-go. Its emotional core – a gentle tale of the bromance between a young engineer and an adolescent boy who share the passion for the winds – gets fully revealed in the second half, through a flashback posing as the protagonist’s testimony during a somewhat Kafkaesque trial. Ênio Gonçalves (in a TV-to-big screen transfer) and Luiz Fernando Ianelli (unaffected in his debut) both bring subtlety and intuitive intelligence to their leading roles, as Antônio Gonçalves’ camera captures their handsome faces with great affection. The epilogue is, simply put, wonderful.

8. Das kalte Herz / Heart of Stone (Paul Verhoeven, 1950)

A Faustian fairy tale with a socialist moral, Heart of Stone is a loving adaptation of the eponymous story that was first published in 1826. Starring Lutz Moik as a young man who sells his heart to become filthy rich, and Hanna Rucker as his innocent sweetheart, this Agfacolor flick is a delight to look at, partly due to its pretty leads, but largely by virtue of the superb art direction. Even though some of its practical effects hasn’t aged well, the magic hasn’t been lost – it still manages to reach the viewer’s inner child, keeping it in a state of wide-eyed curiosity. There’s a lot for film buffs to appreciate here as well, such as a long tracking shot at the fair, or simple camera tricks that solidify the cinematic illusion. (And of course, its director is not the Paul Verhoeven we all know.)

9. Əlaqə / Contact (Jahangir Zeynally, 1989)

Nothing says exotic quite like Jhangir Zeynally’s only feature, reportedly the first of its kind in Azerbaijani cinema. Revolving around an unnamed student (Ilqar Hasanov) in search of the affordable accommodation, Contact blends psychological drama/thriller and sci-fi with surrealist, if uneven results, ending on a ‘love letter to Kubrick’ note. Largely set in an apartment on the 20th floor of a building everybody seems to avoid, it falls under the ‘losing grip on reality’ category, with bizarre dreams and vivid, occasionally eschatological hallucinations invading the protagonist’s mind, causing spatio-temporal paradoxes, and raising a number of questions. Is it stress that is taking a serious toll on the young man’s life, or is it an alien entity probing the limits of his self-control by affecting his psyche? Whatever the answer may be, Zeynally manages to capture and stimulate the viewer’s imagination, notwithstanding the over-reliance on inner monologue, and delivers some neatly composed, mystery-infused pictures married to a haunting score.

10. Bring Her Back (Danny & Michael Philippou, 2025)

In the sophomore feature from the Philippou brothers (Talk to Me), grief is possessed by evil under bizarre, ambiguous circumstances that involve a Russian VHS tutorial for a soul transfer (?) ritual. Many questions remain unanswered (because sorrow needs no explanation?), as the things go from nasty to nastier, and no one is spared, a couple of squirm-inducing scenes leaving deep, permanent scars in the viewer’s memory. The characters’ traumas feel palpable, yet – unlike the news regarding the escalation of police brutality in the rotten state of Serbia – they never feed suicidal thoughts, and the black bleakness that permeates the film, with a tendency to get under your skin, isn’t as stressful and hurtful as the current reality. Surprisingly, there are sparse, but welcome moments of poetic beauty to be found amidst the supernatural (and human) threat, making the nightmare slightly more bearable. The Philipous elicit excellent performances from their cast, young Jonah Wren Phillips being the standout on his way to the Pantheon of creepy kids of horror cinema.

11. Else (Thibault Emin, 2024)

Focusing on a couple of jarring opposites and weird chemistry, impulsive Cass (Edith Proust) and prudent Anx (Matthieu Sampeur), Else – Thibault Emin’s promising feature debut – chronicles a bizarre pandemic that takes metamorphosis to a whole new level of merging with one’s own possessions and surroundings, be it a cellphone, sidewalk, apartment walls or satin sheets. Themes of adaptation, evolution, identity (or rather, the loss thereof), oneness, trauma and love are explored through a bold if uneven, fever dream-like mélange of romantic dramedy, Tsukamoto-esque body horror, and surrealistic sci-fi, with psychological elements thrown in for good measure. A somewhat unbridled, experimental narrative with slight pacing issues evokes the lockdown memories as it glides towards the implosively abstract coda, whereby Léo Lefèvre’s excellent camerawork intensifies the sense of claustrophobia, striving to find the beauty in macabre mutations. Garish colors gradually fade into velvety B&W, signifying changes that occur not only to the characters’ flesh, but minds as well, with a possible influence of Eraserhead betrayed in the process... 

12. High Tide (Marco Calvani, 2024)

Marking directorial (feature) debut for its author, High Tide is a pleasant and meticulously crafted, if rather conventional queer drama which chronicles a summer fling turned romance between a Brazilian immigrant, Lourenço (Marco Pigossi, low-key in powering the emotional core), and an Afro-American nurse, Maurice (James Bland, unaffected, and not bland at all). For better or worse, Calvani mostly plays safe, both as the writer and the director, yet he creates a bunch of colorful (albeit stereotypical) side characters, one of them lovingly portrayed by always reliable Marisa Tomei. The sandy beaches of Provincetown where the story is set make for some beautiful long shots, courtesy of cinematographer Oscar Ignacio Jiménez, whose camera also has a knack of capturing the slightest of changes on protagonists’ faces.

13. Ars Amandi / Art of Love (Walerian Borowczyk, 1983)

The meandering or rather, incoherent nature of the narrative – set in ancient Rome, and framed by lessons on love from none other than Ovid (portrayed by veteran actor Massimo Girotti) – makes sense once the time-jumping twist is introduced. However, it is not the story but rather the successive slidings of sensual visions that provide a (titillating) viewing pleasure. Captured in often glimmering light, the gauzy scenes of delicate eroticism (minus a few bizarre and not-quite-necessary, borderline-hardcore intrusions) compensate for the film’s duller parts, shot with equal care, and also permeated by decidedly campy vibes. Art of Love comes off as almost chaste when compared to certain works from Borowczyk’s oeuvre, but it is the very restraint that makes it, in a way, refreshing.

Best Premiere Viewings of June 2025

1. Duhul aurului / Lust for Gold (Mircea Veroiu & Dan Pița, 1974)

Split in two loosely connected chapters – Mirza (directed by Veriou) and The Chest (directed by Pița) – Lust for Gold is an entrancing period drama which slyly mirrors the circumstances behind the Iron Curtain, all the while exploring the human predicament in a way that renders it timeless. Light on dialogue, but heavy on poetic, beautifully composed images and inspired camerawork (Iosif Demian), as well as on idiosyncratic score densely interwoven with premonitory folk songs (Dorin Liviu Zaharia), this little known 70s gem is one of those films that reinvigorate and elevate your love for (arthouse) cinema, locking you into its world – illusory, yet true – for ninety minutes.

2. Les quatre cents coups / The 400 Blows (François Truffaut, 1959)

It’s hard to say anything new about highly acclaimed classics such as Truffaut’s feature debut, but it is even harder being a child surrounded by a bunch of dysfunctional adults, or worse, a child in a grown man’s body disoriented in a dysfunctional society, but that’s a whole different story... Anyhow, Jean-Pierre Léaud plays the central role of a troubled kid, Antoine, with a fascinating blend of natural talent and the conviction of a versed actor, carrying the bittersweet, quietly poignant film on his still frail shoulders. Under Truffaut’s taut, unwavering direction, he is assisted by Henri Decaë who starkly captures the grit and melancholy through the keen eye of his camera, with Jean Constantin’s wistful score softening the edges of Antoine’s unenviable coming of age, as the themes of rebellion and never-ending search for freedom resonate as strong as they did more than six decades ago...

3. Hotel de lux / Luxury Hotel (Dan Pița, 1992)

A Kafkaesque allegory of totalitarian regime, often evocative of the current reality in Serbia, Luxury Hotel is told from the wry perspective of a young restaurant manager, Alex (Valentin Popescu), struggling with the mad, reactionary ways of the Employer who owns the titular place. Deliberately unsparing and increasingly absurd, the film reaffirms the viewer’s disdain for authority, and navigates us – in a fever dream-like daze – across the extravagant lounges, damp utility rooms, a dusty library, and a crowded prison, rarely providing a breather. Through the gates of a freight elevator moving slowly from one floor to the next, we are introduced to the hotel’s (ever-crumbling) model of class stratification, bearing witness to the metastasis of despair in a stifling atmosphere of paranoia emphasized by a number of restrictive medium shots and closeups, as well as by the VHS surveillance footage.

4. Thriller (Sally Potter, 1979)

Mimi – the tragic heroine of Puccini’s opera La bohème – joins forces with the free-spirited character of Musetta (turned her alter-ego?) to investigate the circumstances surrounding her own death in Sally Potter’s performative, formally challenging short Thriller. The French-accented voiceover leads the viewer through the feminist narrative with slight queer undertones, as Bernard Herrmann’s iconic string piece for Psycho intrudes the otherwise brooding soundscape planted with the excerpts of 1938 La Scala recordings of the said opera. In addition to the original footage largely composed of frozen, La Jetée-style vignettes, the film utilizes stills of productions at the Royal Opera House of London, as well as photographs of needlewomen, the courtesy of the National Museum of Labour History. It all makes for a potent concoction, plunging you, puzzled yet mesmerized, into the pitch-black shadows of the highly expressive B&W images that emphasize the experiment’s phantasmal qualities. The minimalist attic setting poses as a liminal (and limiting) space, adding to the dreaded sense of inevitability...

5. Predator: Killer of Killers (Dan Trachtenberg & Joshua Wassung, 2025)

One of the finest installments in the Predator franchise, animated omnibus Killer of Killers is anchored in utterly impressive action sequences, from the single take tracking shot in The Shield chapter, to no talking, and all showing ‘chanbara’ of The Sword segment, to disbelief-suspending dogfights in The Bullet, with the gladiatorial epilogue acting like a cherry on top. The viewer is taken to the 9th century Scandinavia, Edo period Japan, North Africa during World War II, and finally, an alien planet in the distant future, each of the settings beautifully rendered in stylized CGI, often channeling the (blood-stained) spirit of old-school anime. Tratchtenberg and Wassung prove to be a dynamic directorial duo, effectively utilizing the possibilities of the medium, and making the most of the 80-minute time frame, i.e. providing just enough meat to keep you invested in their heroes’ survival. 

6. Los hermosos vencidos / Beautiful Losers (Guillermo Magariños, 2021)

“This fucking world is so disgusting now.”

And yet, Magariños manages to find some exquisite if bleak beauty in a story of two strangers transporting a corpse across Mexico in his fiction feature debut. Initially, Mara (firsttimer Tania López) and Daniel (Diego Calva) are bound only by the promise of the payment they’ll receive once the job is done, but after a routine police check goes awry, their partnership grows stronger, and more intimate. As the two misfits open up to each other, sharing their perspectives on life, purpose and death, secrecy is traded for sincerity, and their odd, somewhat Beckettian journey creates a space for the viewer to reflect upon. The locations they use as stops are far from the postcard-perfect imagery, but they all appear inviting in their brooding remoteness, largely by virtue of DoP Carlos de Miguel’s picturesque framing. Although the pacing could’ve been tighter here and there, Beautiful Losers is a solid effort – a minimalist road movie carried by melancholic visuals and unaffected performances.

Honorable Mention:

Un rêve plus long que la nuit / A Dream Longer Than the Night (Niki De Saint Phalle, 1976)

“Everything you can imagine truly exists.”

Best Premiere Viewings of May 2025

1. ...a pátý jezdec je Strach / ... and the Fifth Horseman Is Fear (Zbyněk Brynych, 1965)

“Hate is contagious. More so than any plague. And it spreads by chain reaction.”

I have seen great many films that are beautifully shot, but Jan Kalis takes B&W cinematography to a whole new level of stunning, the party scene being the standout, with its brilliant blocking and the subtlest (i.e. not once showy) use of camera angles and movements. Making the meticulous framing even more compelling is Zbynek Brynych’s art of transmuting those images into a mesmerizing if dread-inducing portrait of paranoia that permeates Nazi-occupied Prague, and – in an anachronistic twist – actually represents the city under the stern Stalinist regime. The sublime expressiveness of the visuals is accentuated by uncanny silences, and Jiří Sternwald’s sparsely, yet cleverly deployed score – discordantly disquieting as the epitome of mental strain caused by oppression which is best reflected in the ‘nervy’ performance from Miroslav Machácek as a tragic hero, Dr. Armin Braun. The undercurrent of Kafkaesque absurdity adds another layer of nightmarish depth to the story that seems unfortunately relevant today.

2. Mr. K (Tallulah Hazekamp Schwab, 2024)

Kafka meets Jeunet, and Cronenberg passes by to say ‘hi’ in a surrealist mystery of absurd proportions, with the leading man Crispin Glover amplifying eccentricity via both his strong presence and superb performance. His magician protagonist’s desire to escape is at a weirdo heart of an existentialist allegory / a meditation on (metaphysical) loneliness set in a decrepit but extravagant hotel whose labyrinthine, charmingly vintage, and ever-shrinking interior establishes a dense atmosphere of claustrophobia. Broom closets are turned to secret passageways, and members of brass orchestra emerge from small wall openings, as things go from irrational to ludicrous, all tucked into exquisite, green-and-brown-dominated designs by Manolito Glas and Maarten Piersma. The ‘impossible architecture’ of the place appears to reflect Mr. K’s growing confusion, or rather living and breathing nightmare, whereas the pacing – along with the quirky inhabitants unwilling to change status quo – works against his efforts to find the exit. Not much is disclosed about this character, and yet his unenviable situation feels relatable, the inexorable vagueness of the narrative compelling the viewer to root for him. I’m not familiar with Schwab’s earlier directorial efforts, but being a sucker for Kafkaesque cinema, I can’t wait to see what she has in store next.

3. Manhunter (Michael Mann, 1986)

In one of the most stunningly framed thrillers (hats off to cinematographer Dante Spinotti!), the immersive, chilling austerity of visuals finds a perfect match in the psychological tension that simmers under the surface. Suspense is built and maintained through an expert use of cinematic language, and is sometimes strongly felt when you least expect it, the scene of petting a sedated tiger being a great example. Even the watching of home videos is enveloped in a menacing aura largely emanating from Tom Noonan in the role of a deranged killer dubbed ‘the Tooth Fairy’. Although his screen time is limited and none of the heinous crimes is shown, what is left to the viewer’s imagination is nauseating enough. And that gives a pretty good idea of the mental strain under which the hero of the story – adapted from Thomas Harris’s novel Red Dragon – operates, as he tries to enter the perpetrator’s mind, with William Petersen approaching his character in a similar fashion. Mann has a firm (at times, perhaps, too firm) grasp over the material, providing us with a somewhat bizarre, In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida catharsis.

4. Sinners (Ryan Coogler, 2025)

In a postmodernist throwback to the early 1930s, the vampire horror is revitalized with a lively blues twist, introducing the incredible, viscerally velvety baritone of Miles Caton in his outstanding silver screen debut. A perfect choice for someone with a legendary gift of ‘piercing the veil between life and death’, as shown in the anthological scene of ‘conjuring spirits from the past and the future’, he is partnered by Michael B. Jordan in a twin role played smoothly, and with indelible charisma. Actually, it is the entire cast that leaves a lasting impression, making you forget that what you’re watching brims with all-too-familiar bloodsucking tropes, seamlessly blended with elements of crime, musical and action genres. Also lending gravitas to the proceedings is Coogler’s gripping direction, and his keen sense of suspense and mise-en-scène, beautifully supported by Autumn Durald Arkapaw’s crisp cinematography, and Ludwig Göransson’s brilliant score. 

5. Kuro Tokage / Black Lizard (Kinji Fukasaku, 1968)

In one of the most fascinating (not to mention feminine) drag performances, Akihiro Miwa commands every scene (s)he’s in, as the titular mastermind criminal who runs a nightclub adorned with Aubrey Beardsley’s art, has a thing for shiny jewels, and owns a secret living doll museum in which one of the ‘statues’ is played by THE Yukio Mishima. The latter’s stage adaptation of Rampo Edogawa’s novel serves as the foundation for Kinji Fukasaku’s psychedelic noir – a sparkling confluence of comic book-like pulp and classy camp aesthetics that turns a cat-and-mouse battle of wits into a dreamlike cinematic delight. A bizarrely romantic ode to beauty, Black Lizard is a feast for the eyes, whether it is soaked in deep shadows, awashed in vivid colors, or both at once, providing a fitting backdrop for Miwa’s compelling melodramatics.

6. Den stygge stesøsteren / The Ugly Stepsister (Emilie Blichfeldt, 2025)

A spiritual successor to Coralie Fargeat’s acclaimed sophomore flick The Substance, The Ugly Stepsister is one of the boldest takes on the Cinderella story, amping up the gruesomeness of the Grimm Brothers’ version, and adding a dash of kink. Set in a fictitious kingdom of what appears to be the 19th century, the film is told from the twisted perspective of Elvira (Lea Myren, a tour de force in her first big-screen appearance), whose daydreaming of marrying prince Julian (Isac Calmroth) – charming only in her imagination – sets her on a painful, self-destructive path of meeting the cruel beauty standards. Assisted by her toxically ambitious mother, Rebekka (Ane Dahl Torp), and challenged by the original protagonist turned mean-spirited blondie (Thea Sofie Loch Næss), she subjects herself to inhuman procedures of Dr. Esthétique, and her tutoress, ranging from eyelash sewing (evocative of the iconic Opera scene) to a tapeworm diet (!) with a sickening epilogue.

Add to that the rotting corpse of Cinderella’s father that plays a sort of a stand-in for the fairy godmother, and the infamous toe-cutting depicted in all of the practical SFX g(l)ory, and you have yourself a squirm-inducing reading of a fairy tale that puts Emilie Blichfeldt on a map of filmmakers to keep an eye on. What elevates her feature debut is the empathy she feels for her (anti)heroine, as well as for other deeply flawed (and largely opportunistic) characters, embodying it in another stepsister, Alma (Flo Fagerli, lovely!), and eliciting it from the viewer. Her sense of style, pacing, dark humor, and edgy satire are also commendable, complemented by sumptuous set and costume designs that convey the period, without taking away from the contemporaneity simmering under the surface.

7. The Committee (Peter Sykes, 1968)

“I think the whole world is a madhouse... an extended madhouse...

As long as the dialogue goes on, there’s a chance of rationality.”

During an engine check-up, a hitchhiker decapitates the driver with a car hood, sews his head back on, and the victim miraculously comes to life with no memory of what happened. Later on, the unnamed (anti)hero –portrayed by singer and actor Paul Jones (credited as Central Figure), and showing no signs of psychopathic behavior whatsoever – gets the invitation to the mysterious Committee, when the elements of Kafkaesque reality start kicking in. In the so-called Lodge where Central Figure is summoned along with many others, including his amnesiac Victim (Tom Kempinski), people socialize in a rather relaxed (holiday) atmosphere that is at one point heated up by the wild, out-of-nowhere performance of The Crazy World of Arthur Brown. Pink Floyd is also featured on the psychedelic soundtrack, and the dialogues vary from absurdly comical to (pseudo)philosophical to metaphysical, touching upon dichotomies such as individual vs. society, authority vs. its rejection, impulsiveness vs. passivity, and providing you with a mind-titillating experience. Anchored in cinematographer Ian Wilson’s keen lensing, with certain angles emphasizing the ‘offness’ of the goings-on, Peter Sykes’s hour-long debut is a cool, charming cinematic oddity, something like Cocteau’s ‘cenatur in reverse’ that is initially mistakenly referenced as ‘senator in reverse’ during a mod party. The real question is: “Do you play bridge?”

8. Freaky Tales (Anna Boden & Ryan Fleck, 2024)

With its heart (and attitude) in the right place, the latest offering from Anna Boden & Ryan Fleck (Captain Marvel) brings a delightful concoction of (dark) humor, action, drama and fantasy all neatly packed in four interconnected stories of Oakland’s underdogs. Teen punks defend their hangout zone from skinheads, a rap duo is immortalized after a local stage duel, a weary debt collector is given a chance for redemption, and a basketball player releases his inner ninja on a racists’ den. A pulptastic love letter to the 80’s, cinema, music, comics, and the town of Oakland where Fleck grew up, the film wears its various influences – from Heavy Metal and Scanners to Blue Velvet and Pulp Fiction to Scott Pilgrim vs. the World – on its sleeve, gluing them with edgy social commentary or rather, keen sense of poetic justice, and blurring the boundaries between myths and memories. Its nostalgic hyper-reality is beautifully framed in academy ratio by Jac Fitzgerald, and sprinkled with a pinch of VHS artifacts in post-production, whereby the mixtape vibes of the narrative structure are reinforced by the soundtrack’s eclecticism. Lending gravitas to this charming, fun-filled romp is the solid cast, the standouts being Dominique Thorne and Normani (in her big-screen debut) as empowered besties, Pedro Pascal, brooding in the role of an ex-henchman, Tom Hanks in a movie-connoisseur cameo, and Ben Mendelsohn with his pitch-perfect take on a slimy police sheriff.

9. Swimming Home (Justin Anderson, 2024)

So, it seems like Theorem and Swimming Pool have a child baptized by Yorgos Lanthimos in a secret queer chapel haunted by Yoshishige Yoshida’s spirit. As odd (and off!) as it gets, Justin Anderson’s feature debut marries deliberate emotional inertia with uncanny formal austerity into a surrealist drama that wears absurdity and alienation proudly on its sleeves. ‘An acquired taste’ label easily applies to pretty much every aspect of this film, from the weird framing that emphasizes detachment, to Coti K’s discordantly unnerving score pulling you into an opaque dream, to mannered performances from the ensemble cast orbiting around always reliable Ariane Labed in the role of a mysterious, ‘toxic’ stranger. Even nudity / eroticism is treated in a way that makes one more puzzled than titillated, adding to the (inspiring) sense of disorientation. Now, that is a good fix of unconventional cinema!

10. Houdini (George Marshall, 1953)

Filmed in glorious Technicolor, with a resplendent score adding to the magic, Houdini is a snappily paced, partly fictionalized biopic on one of the greatest illusionists portrayed by Tony Curtis whose good looks are matched by innate charisma, dedicated performance, and sparkling chemistry with his then wife Janet Leigh, also great. Breezy, zesty, and crackling with life-affirming energy, the movie can be seen as a celebration of following one’s dreams at any cost; its eye-pleasing set and costume designs beautifully framed by Ernest Laszlo who previously collaborated with Joseph Losey on his version of M.

Scents of Arcadia

Conceived in times of heightened repression, Scents of Arcadia may be viewed as my most rebellious series, its sensual, exuberant compositions defying not only the reactionary forces / conservative thought, but the very bleakness of life’s realities, as well as the ever-growing miasma of death. Portraying mythologized entities / heralds of the subconscious mind, these lucid, omnierotic visions of often symbiotic bond between vegetation and flesh strive to cloud suicidal ideation, and through the eyes that pop up in peculiar places, peek into the observer’s soul. An exploration of collages’ painterly potential, they exist between flights of fancy, and deeply rooted fears, dissolving the latter in the ethereal vastness of the skies.

Additional note: The titles of 12 ‘chapters’ form a sort of a prose poem.

“Immortality lays eggs in a twisted lullaby of our birdless nest. Heaven may bleed and hell may freeze, but she will be here, tormenting me, reinventing me. Softer than distance, I reopen portals, and silence escapes. Everything (b)ends.”

Immortality Lays Eggs

In a Twisted Lullaby

 Of Our Birdless Nest

Heaven May Bleed...

... and Hell May Freeze

But She Will Be Here

Tormenting Me

Reinventing Me

Softer Than Distance

I Reopen Portals

And Silence Escapes

Everything (B)Ends

Best Premiere Viewings of April 2025

FEATURES

1. Myth of Man (Jamin Winans, 2025)

“Let me take you by the hand,

Away from here, to another land...”

(The Cranberries / Put Me Down)

Another land – an incredible and mystical one at that – is exactly where Jamin Winans (Ink, The Frame) takes the viewer with his third fiction feature, reviving your sense of childlike wonder, and excelling in the world building department. A passion project years in the making, Myth of Man is the director’s finest offering to date – aesthetically compelling, whimsically playful, and emotionally resonant, it washes over you like a soft wave of the purest dreams that don’t need to be analyzed to be cherished. Told or rather shown from the perspective of its deaf-mute heroine credited as Ella (Laura Rauch, gently creating one of the most adorable and humane characters to hit the screen recently), it completely eschews words in favor of images and music, coming across as a modern silent film. Exploring the timeless themes of love, loss, death, and firm belief in what you do (especially if it’s art), this delightfully quirky steampunk fantasy transcends the genre confines in its becoming of sublime audio-visual experience. More marvelous than anything Marvel and other big studios have been hyper-producing, Myth of Man blends live-action, SFX, and animation on a less-than-1-million budget, in a way that you can almost sense the pulsing of its authors’ souls.

Recommended as a companion piece to Amélie (2001), MirrorMask (2005) and/or La Antena (2007).

2. Bushidō muzan / The Tragedy of Bushido (Eitarō Morikawa, 1960)

An impressive showcase of formidable formal talents, The Tragedy of Bushido is sadly the only feature helmed by writer/director Eitarō Morikawa. Drawing parallels between the draconian ‘way of the warrior’ and the unforgiving corporate system of post-WWII Japan (or capitalism, in general), it thematizes loyalty, honor, and sacrifice through a provocative melodrama giving off some Greek tragedy vibes. A tale of a teen boy (played with stoic intensity by then 21-yo Junichiro Yamashita) forced to commit ‘seppuku’ for his late lord is expressively lensed by another debutant, cinematographer Takao Kawarazaki, its B&W gorgeousness masterfully complemented by a dreamlike, mystery-evoking score from Riichirō Manabe. Morikawa elicits remarkable performances from his entire cast, demonstrating a deep understanding of cinematic language, as well as a keen sense of suspense.

3. Io la conoscevo bene / I Knew Her Well (Antonio Pietrangeli, 1965)

“Trouble is, she likes everything. She’s always happy. She desires nothing, envies no one, is curious about nothing. You can’t surprise her. She doesn’t notice the humiliations, though they happen to her every day. It all rolls off her back like off some waterproof material. Zero ambition. No moral code. Not even a whore’s love of money. Yesterday and tomorrow don’t exist for her. Even living for today would mean too much planning, so she lives for the moment. Sunbathing, listening to records, and dancing are her sole activities. The rest of the time she’s mercurial and capricious, always needing brief new encounters with anyone at all... just never with herself.”

This elaborate, if unflattering description of the film’s protagonist – a naive country girl, Adriana – comes from the lips of a moody writer (krimi-regular Joachim Fuchsberger), one of many men she gets involved with on her way to the stars, and the only one who takes away from the irony of the title. A magnificent starring vehicle for Stefania Sandrelli supported by the likes of Mario Adorf, Jean-Claude Brialy and Franco Nero, I Knew Her Well feels much like a spiritual successor to Fellini’s La Dolce Vita, exposing (and condemning) the superficiality of showbiz, and its effects on unsuspecting victims, all the while addressing the evils of a capitalist machinery. Its fragmented structure is tailor-made for depicting of Adriana’s carefree life, each episode working like a charm that turns this young woman strangely and increasingly captivating, in spite of her flaws. She is adored by Armando Nannuzzi’s camera that captures all the subtleties of her freewheeling nature, and elevates her beyond an object that she is in the eyes of various ‘predators’, into a vulnerable human being desperately searching for a meaningful connection. A diversified soundtrack that acts like a time capsule of the 60’s popular music, beautifully complementing the stark B&W imagery, adds more nuances to her not fully graspable character.

4. Kyūba no koibito / Cuban Lover (Kazuo Kuroki, 1969)

Released between Silence Has No Wings and Evil Spirits of Japan, both highly recommended, Cuban Lover commemorates the 10th anniversary of the Cuban Revolution, combining a romance and travelogue with archive footage of Castro’s and Guevara’s speeches. The film’s deliberately meandering tale chronicles the road trip of a young, aimless Japanese sailor, Akira (Masahiko Tsugawa, charmingly assertive), making advances to chiquitas (when ome exquisite use of POV shots comes into play) until he encounters Marcia (Obdulia Plasencia, superb in her only screen appearance) and falls head over hills for her. Following her around the country, he learns of its turbulent recent past, but is oft-left to his own devices, as the girl doesn’t seem too keen to abandon her post-revolutionary ideals for love. Their awkward relationship operates as a guerrilla-counterpart of the one from Resnais’s 1959 masterpiece Hiroshima, Mon Amour, leaving plenty of room for the reflection on the struggle for freedom and equality. The camerawork by the great Tatsuo Suzuki who would later frequently collaborate with Shūji Terayama, also working on feature offerings from Toshio Matsumoto (Funeral Parade of Roses, Dogura Magura), captures a specific time in history with such an inviting flair that one gets the impression of being there. Adding to the authenticity of the experience is the selection of popular songs intertwined with Teizō Matsumura’s euphonious, harp-heavy score.

5. Die Sünderin / The Sinner (Willi Forst, 1951)

Controversial or rather, scandalous for its time (and place), The Sinner is a tautly directed melodrama told in retrospective by (luminous!) Hildegard Knef who portrays a former party girl/street walker involved with an unsuccessful painter (Gustav Fröhlich, superb) diagnosed with a brain tumor. Described as ‘a masochistic romantic fantasy’ by Jeff Stafford (Cinema Soujourns), it features incestuous prostitution, a lesbian kiss, brief (and tastefully done) nudity, as well as a mercy kill, inter alia, which is why it caused such an uproar in moralistic circles, and had screenings interrupted by clergical stink bombs. Beautifully shot in velvety B&W married to an ellegiac score that amps up emotions, the film brings a feverishly poetic, if overwrought tale of idealized, death-defying love, exploring the themes of self-sacrifice, perseverance, and (ennobling) suffering, with both the director’s and the viewer’s sympathies lying with its ‘sinful’ heroine. 

6. Siraa Fil-Wadi / The Blazing Sun (Youssef Chahine, 1954)

A film that launched Omar Sharif into stardom on the native Egyptian soil, The Blazing Sun is a soaring melodrama skillfully blended with the crime genre, and outspoken in its criticism of the authorities. Social realist at heart, it portrays a ‘forbidden’ romance against the backdrop of unfortunate events caused by greed, powerblindness, and disregard of progress. Its tale of (in)justice is as timeless and universal as it gets, with Chahine’s sympathies drawn toward the working folks idealized through Sharif’s character, Ahmed, a young engineer who introduces new methods for improving the production of sugar cane to the fellow villagers. Emphasizing his hero’s virtuous nature, the director pits him against an unscrupulous land owner, Taher Pasha, and his even more malicious nephew, Riad Bay, whose archetypal villainy is rooted in reality much deeper than it may initially appear. Zaki Rostom and Farid Shawqi, respectively, effortlessly slide into the roles of sleazeballs that one loves to hate. Embodying advance and modernity is Ahmed’s sweetheart and Pasha’s own daughter, Amal (Sharif’s future wife Faten Hamama, stellar), who’s given an emotional load as heavy as that of her lover, and she admirably endures. Further elevating the feature is the excellent choice of locations, particularly in the suspenseful finale, and Ahmed Khorshed’s arresting, noir-like cinematography, its high contrasts mirroring the class struggle at display. 

7. Az ötödik pecsét / The Fifth Seal (Zoltán Fábri, 1976)

A watchmaker, a carpenter, and a book seller sit in a bar, and chat with its owner, when a stranger walks in. It may sound like the beginning of a bad joke, but the time and place – 1944, Budapest – suggest something much more sinister. One topic leads to another, and then, the watchmaker (Lajos Öze, brilliant!) tells a story of a tyrant and a slave, asking his buddies a hypothetical question which will haunt not only them, but the viewer as well, long after the film has ended. Dubbed ‘a spiky political cabaret of cruelty and fear’ by Peter Bradshaw for Guardian, The Fifth Seal occupies a morally ambiguous zone, exposing hypocrisy as innate to human nature, and providing an intoxicating concoction of religious, political and philosophical musings that put you into a state of disquietude... or heighten your awareness of already being there. It often feels as if it could work as a stage play, but there are certain camera movements, and sequences, such as the Bosch-inspired surrealistic hallucination, and not to mention the epilogue, that reassure us the cinema is where this bleak, anti-fascist narrative belongs.

8. Orfeu Negro / Black Orpheus (Marcel Camus, 1959)

Largely set in the heightened reality of Afro-Brazilian favela during the Carnival in Rio de Janeiro, the bossa nova adaptation of the Orpheus myth bursts with colors, oozes with passion, and overflows with energy, making for one of the most kinetic pieces of the 50’s cinema. Borderline delirious, and deliciously campy in its naivety, it utilizes dance as the primary means of expression, hypnotizing you with its infectious rhythms, as it reaches for the primordial essence of your being. Call me crazy, but I recommend it double billed with Emil Loteanu’s musical melodrama Queen of the Gypsies.

9. Les salauds vont en enfer / The Wicked Go to Hell (Robert Hossein, 1955)

In Robert Hossein’s directorial debut which marks my third encounter with his oeuvre, a prison break drama gradually transforms into a revenge flick, with the destruction of earthly paradise marking the turning point. Ravishingly enigmatic Marina Vlady – then the author’s wife – jumps into the role of a (righteously!) fatal young woman, Eva, her name highly symbolic, as she faces the threat in the form of two escaped convicts played by Henri Vidal (Pierre) and Serge Reggiani (Lucien). Hossein’s father André – French composer of Iranian Azerbaijani origin – provides a propulsive score for what can be labeled as a dissection of men’s evil captured in attention-grabbing B&W by DoP Michel Kelber.

10. Art College 1994 (Jian Liu, 2023)

Let me begin by saying that I’m not a big fan of dialogue-heavy films, and yet the third (and arguably finest) feature from Jian Liu (Piercing I, Have a Nice Day) had me immersed in its endless, philosophically-tinged talks on art, life, love and the possibilities of the future, all permeated by tension between traditionalism and modernity / the East and the West / conformism and self-expression. Its four protagonists – a group of art students at the unnamed academy in mid-90’s / reforming China – may often bite more than they can chew with their choices, yet they all feel relatable or at least sympathetic in one way or another, evoking the early days of adulthood with de-sentimentalized nostalgia. Rendered in retro-style rotoscoped visuals of gloomy, de-saturated colors that reflect their (confused) inner states, with some of the supporting characters voiced by acclaimed filmmakers such as Bi Gan and Jia Zhang-ke, Art College 1994 ranks among the grungiest pieces of Chinese cinema, and not only because its ruminative, long-haired hero Zhang Xiaojun keeps his walkman charged with Nirvana cassettes. Simultaneously anachronistic and timeless, thought-provoking and slackerish, this film is one bitter cup of tea, quite pleasing if you sip it as deliberately as it is paced.

11. The Intruder (David Bailey, 1999)

A silky, sax-heavy jazz score (by Haim Frank Ilfman) appears to be in command of not only the dreamy or rather, drowsy atmosphere which this slightly trippy neo-noir / urban gothic / psychological drama is soaked in, but also of the smooth, leisurely pace, as well as performances that often have an ASMR effect to them. The entire cast, especially Nastassja Kinski, is well-attuned to Charlotte Gainsbourg, brilliantly low-key in the leading role of a woman, Catherine, who experiences strange phenomena after marrying and moving in with a widower, Nick (Charles Edwin Powell). Is she imagining things or is she being gaslighted? Could it be the ghost of the dead wife that haunts her, or is the past parallel to the present, as hinted at in the opening, causing frequent power outages in the building, and materializing the mysterious intruder? Finding answers in the claustrophobic environment of modern, austerely and coldly elegant apartments is made more difficult by dense, foreboding shadows of Jean Lépine’s meticulous cinematography, elevating the film even in its wacky, tonally questionable conclusion. 

12. Le foto proibite di una signora per bene / The Forbidden Photos of a Lady Above Suspicion (Luciano Ercoli, 1970)

A pretty stylish giallo that eschews body count in favor of blackmailing and gaslighting, Luciano Ercoli’s directorial debut revolves around Minou (Dagmar Lassander, her pulchritude matched by an above-average performance) – a struggling businessman’s wife coerced into a sadistic relationship with a mysterious man (Simón Andreu, believably threatening) in possession of compromising info on her husband. Lassander is rivaled by Nieves Navarro (credited under the moniker Susan Scott) portraying her scene-stealing bestie Dominique, both ladies often appearing as if they wandered off a photo-session promoting the fashionable costumes by Gloria Cardi. Set designs are equally alluring in their groovy color combinations, quirky decor, and moody lighting, all neatly framed by DoP Alejandro Ulloa who previously collaborated with Fulci on One on Top of the Other (1969), with Ennio Morricone composing an appropriately sultry score. There’s a fine balance between (s)exploitation, melodrama, psychological tension, and subgenre-specific irrationality  achieved here, making for a worthwhile viewing. 

13. Ash (Flying Lotus, 2025)

Musician turned filmmaker Flying Lotus (born Steven Ellison) returns with a sophomore feature that threads the familiar territory of space-set horror, initially operating like a psychological thriller, only to deliver some bonkers Hidden-Alien-Thing goods in the final third. For most of the running time, the narrative rests on the shoulders of Eiza González (solid) as an amnesiac astronaut, Riya, with Aaron Paul as her colleague Brion amplifying her paranoia, and Iko Uwais, Kate Elliott, Beulah Koale, and director himself providing support in the flashbacks. As pulpy as B-movies get, Ash – a nickname for the planet K.O.I.-442 where the small crew of ‘terraformers’ is stationed – seduces the viewer with its colorful, psychedelic, hyper-stylized visuals somewhat reminiscent of Nicolas Winding Refn and Panos Cosmatos, enhancing the primarily sensorial experience with a brooding to throbbing, and at one point, giallo-esque score. There’s also a quirky treat for the Japanophiles in the form of a so-called Medbot – a scan & surgery robot that speaks in a dulcet female voice with a thick Japanese accent.

14. In the Lost Lands (Paul W.S. Anderson, 2025)

“Down with the Overlord! Down with the Church!”

Maybe it’s my soft spot for Milla Jovovich, or a simple fact that I don’t remember ever seeing a witch and a werewolf in a duel, but I really enjoyed the latest flick from Paul W.S. Anderson. Pulpy to the bone marrow, and in a way evocative of something Albert Pyun might’ve conceived in his heyday, ‘In the Lost Lands’ is a flashy, if overly familiar B-movie mélange of a post-apocalyptic western, steampunk-by-way-of-medieval fantasy, and monster-beating action delivered in a glossy, video-gamey package. Ms Jovovich – Anderson’s wife and muse of the last sixteen years – plays a cursed sorceress, Gray Alys, whose abilities are deemed devil-sent by The Patriarch and his sect of faux-crusaders seeking to seize the power from the dying, yet still feared Overlord, and his scheming Queen. The enslaved (miners) see her as a potential leader of a revolution – another reason she is marked as the most painful thorn in the fundamentalists’ side. Tasked by the Queen to find a dangerous shapeshifter, she joins forces with a lonesome gunslinger, Boyce (Dave Bautista), as her guide, and together they set across the titular wastelands where the director deftly applies ‘the rule of cool’ on everything from the slow-motion sequences to the world building of his post-modernist fairy tale. There’s even a certain ‘campy poetry’ and esotericism (!) to be found here, captured in deliberately scorched visuals of dirty sepia tones and grayish blues befitting of the setting, with the (overused) ‘diffraction spikes’ effect creating an almost dreamlike vibe.

SHORTS

1. El-Fallâh el-fasîh / The Eloquent Peasant (Chadi Abdel Salam, 1970)

Primarily an art director, Chadi Abdel Salam (1930-1986) helmed only two films – a brilliant, atmospheric drama Al-mummia (The Mummy), and this short masterpiece, both starring Ahmed Marei. Based on a text from the Middle Kingdom period of ancient Egypt, The Eloquent Peasant – originally, a combination of a poem and morality tale – follows a simple, wrongly accused man whose kind words open even the iron door, anticipating an old Serbian proverb. His well-spoken reaching of justice is gorgeously framed in academy ratio, with historically accurate costume and set designs evoking Jerzy Kawalerowicz’s 1966 epic Pharaoh, and the minimalist, wind-swept score by Gamil Soliman synergizing with earthy tones of Mustafa Imam’s inspired cinematography. 

2. Žena, růže, skřítek, zlost / A Woman, A Rose, A Goblin And Anger (Antonín Horák, 1969)

Various toys and trinkets come to life in one of the most bizarre pieces of stop-motion animation to come from Czech Republic (Czechoslovakia back in the days). A hyper-surrealist (or rather, dadaist?) fantasy, this 10-minute short is a non-stop barrage of puzzling visual weirdness complemented by a mystery-intensifying music into something that probably puts a curse on the viewer who doesn’t appreciate it. The stuff that the most fragmented of feverish dreams are made of.

3. Muse (Paweł Pawlikowski, 2025)

Starring model and actress Małgorzata Bela as Muse, and Marcin Masecki as Pianist, the latest offering from Paweł Pawlikowski (Ida) is a dialogue-free ode to the joy of creation; an expressive, sumptuously shot B&W short in which the titular mythological character is challenged by the artist’s mood swings, evoking the spirit(s) of early, noir and post-modernist cinema through her ‘haute couture’ transformations.