1. Il conformista / The Conformist (Bernando Bertolucci, 1970)
Disquietingly resonant with the present moment, Bertolucci’s adaptation of Moravia’s anti-fascist novel is a transfixing piece of (timeless!) cinema, with Vittorio Storaro’s camera – oft-appearing as light as a feather in its movements – stunningly capturing the austere elegance of Ferdinando Scarfiotti’s imposing production design. Nothing short of a masterclass in art direction, this political drama is also memorable as an insightful character study which reflects a strong synergy between then 29-yo auteur epitomizing self-confidence, and Jean-Louis Trintignant’s superb portrayal of an antihero, Marcello Clerici, torn between his own conscience, and loyalty to the hideous regime. On top of that, the film addresses a number of underlying themes, from religion to sex to philosophy, all skillfully woven into the fragmented, flashback-based narrative, its certain chapters, such as the one leading to the forest murders, transformed into state-of-the-art set pieces.
2. Sokout / The Silence (Mohsen Makhmalbaf, 1998)
Telling of the struggle of a blind, 10-yo instrument tuner, Khorshid, Mohsen Makhmalbaf weaves the softest of kilims out of mesmerizing images and evocative sounds, the very same ones that chase the darkness away from the boy’s sightless life. The most banal of episodes from the protagonist’s day-to-day grind are imbued with pure lyricism, and the aural distractions that always make him disoriented on his way to work often slip into surrealism that comes as natural as a bee’s buzzing. There’s a folk tale vibe to the proceedings, though the author doesn’t provide us with a clear resolution or moral, instead elevating his vulnerable hero (angelic Tahmineh Normatova) above his unenviable situation through bazaar artisans’ rendition of Beethoven’s 5th symphony. From the non-professional cast who lace the film with authenticity, Makhmalbaf elicits at once unaffected and roughly stylized performances, their unique charm beautifully captured in Ebrahim Ghafori’s meticulous framing.
3. He bian de cuo wu / Only the River Flows (Wei Shujun, 2023)
Set in the late autumn of 1995, and appearing – to the tiniest of details – as if Wei Shujun has found a time machine and shot his film three decades ago,
Only the River Flows is an exquisitely crafted neo-noir which operates as an elegiac ode to cinema or rather, a lament over its many deaths. In the murky background of a murder investigation conducted by a world-weary, chain-smoking captain Ma Zhe (Yilong Zhu, approaching the role with a restrained commitment), social criticism echoes with existential (or even metaphysical) dread, pulling the protagonist ever closer to the abyss. His point of view proves to be unreliable, as the procedural, at once puzzling and frustrating, begins to affect his grip on reality, already made tenuous by a problematic pregnancy of his wife (a superb support from deglamorized Chloe Maayan), lending the events an aura of a heavy dream. Posing as an extra weight are the specificities of a provincial locale whose secrets thicken the mystery, whether they remain buried or get unearthed. The haunting atmosphere of restrained absurdity and stark melancholy – elevated by Beethoven’s
‘Moonlight Sonata’ used as a leitmotif – is stunningly captured on 16mm by Chengma Zhiyuan, with the imagery’s grainy textures emphasizing the pervasive grittiness.
4. The Girl with the Fork (Ignacio Maiso, 2024)
Directed with a formal rigor that evokes Haneke and Glazer, and accumulating mystery by way of Lynch,
The Girl with the Fork is a hypnotizing puzzle of a film which leaves the viewer in murky waters of many unanswered questions. Unfolding in a non-linear narrative structure, and at a deliberate pace that will surely test the patience of those with a short attention span, this peculiar psychological drama oozes with uncanny atmosphere emerging from prolonged silences, unseen presence(s), and cryptic dialogue. A study of human fallacy (or rather, guilt), and a reflection on the act of remembering (and trying to forget), it traps you in an intricate web of interconnected lives navigated by unspecified ‘them’ in a retributive, privacy-invading game. As ‘they’ pull the strings of perplexed characters – all portrayed with a marvelous restraint by a small, yet excellent cast, a typical British suburb transforms into an inescapable limbo where no one but protagonists seems to exist. Both exterior and interior spaces are given important roles in amplifying labyrinthine traits of intertwined mindsets through DoP Matthew J. Hicks’s austerely composed shots tightly tucked in a haunting aural veil weaved by composer Fernando Gimeno. If you like the pieces of cinema that stubbornly refuse to spoon feed you (opting for a symbolic fork instead), you shouldn’t miss this one.
5. Rumours (Guy Maddin, Evan Johnson & Galen Johnson, 2024)
“Do you think it might be illuminating to view this situation allegorically? Given that it is quite a simple matter to consider each of us as personifications of our respective nations?” At her most Angela Merkel-esque, Cate Blanchett – as reliable as ever – appears to have a whale of a time in the role of German chancellor Hilda Orlmann who at one point offers a tension-relief massage (and a little bit of extra service) to Maxime Laplace, the hunky prime minister of Canada (Roy Dupuis of the Nikita series fame, excellent) subjected to self-deprecating jokes even when turned into a hero. Both of them attend a G7 meeting trying to resolve an unspecified crisis, in the latest offering from veteran experimentalist Guy Maddin reinforced by the Johnson brothers, their highly quotable screenplay bursting with irreverent humor, and sharp darts thrown at the demagogic uselessness of the world leaders. A running gag involves Charles Dance (brilliant in a subtle subversion of his typecasting) lending a perfect Brittish accent to POTUS Edison Walcott who tends to doze off (despite feeling he could run the country for another 100 years, damned be term limits), with Nikki Amuka-Bird, Takehiro Hira and Rolando Ravello as the prime ministers of the UK, Japan, and Italy, respectively, pushing in turns a wheelbarrow containing a corpulent, flaccid-legged French president (Denis Ménochet).
It goes without saying that Rumours is a deliberately silly, yet edgy and super-entertaining satire blown to apocalyptic proportions that see the rise of the prehistoric bog men found in the Dankerode area where the story takes place, as well as a mysterious appearance of a gigantic brain that has something to do with the new world order, as babbled by Alicia Vikander in Swedish mistaken for an ancient language. Although the silent-era-revival aesthetics that one expects from Maddin are abandoned in favor of down-to-earth imagery (particularly during the first act), cinematographer Stefan Ciupek comes up with expressive lighting schemes which portend the inevitable doom. The original score by Kristian Eidnes Andersen (Antichrist, Ida) and the accompanying songs such as Enya’s Exile are wittily contrasted to the viewer’s dramatic involvement, thus eliciting additional chuckles. And the scariest thing about this dark comedy laced with the elements of horror is the fact that its sour absurdity is too reminiscent of our political reality...
6. Verführung am Meer / Seduction by the Sea (Jovan Živanović, 1963)
In this co-production of West Germany and Yugoslavia, the camera of Stevan Mišković (who would end his career with Makavejev’s
Innocence Unprotected in 1968) is head over heels for Elke Sommer portraying a poor student hired by an older woman to bring back her son, Peter (Peter van Eyck, as reliable as ever), who lives in self-imposed isolation on a Dalmatian island. A simple premise that, of course, leads to a romantic entanglement of the two central characters is delivered with great confidence and keen pacing by Živanović, and is seasoned with Nouvelle Vague vibes perfectly matched to the stylized dialogue (Jug Grizelj and Rolf Schulz), and jazzy score – composed by Darko Kraljić and performed by RTV Ljubljana orchestra – that oscillates between playful and sultry. The stunning B&W cinematography captures the poetic beauty of the untouched Mediterranean, and is lent irresistible sex appeal by Ms. Sommer whose lovely face is oft-framed in a way that highlights her charisma and elevates her screen presence.
7. Kaidan otoshiana / The Pit of Death (Kōji Shima, 1968)
Part noir and part kaidan,
The Pit of Death reaffirms my love for the 60’s cinema. A classic and timeless story of guilty conscience manifesting as an apparition, the film is set in a corporate world of corruption and opportunism, seeing Mikio Narita as a soft-spoken, cold and calculated antagonist, Haruo Kuramoto. His unscrupulous ascent up the social ladder leaves a slimy trail of lies, as well as a corpse of his lover Etsuko (a passionate performance by Mayumi Nagisa), all starkly photographed by Jōji Ohara in his enchanting swan song. Brooding interplay of light and shadows matched to inspired framing, and rigid geometries of modern architecture makes for the attention-grabbing visuals beautifully accompanied by Seitarō Ōmori’s jazzy, and eerily evocative score.
8. Die Halbstarken / Teenage Wolfpack (Georg Tressler, 1956)
At his youthful prime, Horst Buchholz gleams or rather, sizzles with a bad boy charm in the leading role of an adolescent delinquent, Freddy, that earned him comparisons with James Dean. However, his antihero’s rebelliousness has a number of causes, and one of them may have something to do with post-war traumas. His gang is a wild one (even without Brando and motorcycles), and their recklessness – albeit tame for the standards of the psychotic reality we live today – poses as a harbinger of tragedy, if not doom. Under Georg Tressler’s dynamic direction, Buchholz dominates the screen, so it is no surprise that Freddy is passionately followed by both his girlfriend Sissy (stellar debut for Karin Baal), and his homies, with Christian Doermer who portrays his younger yet more reasonable brother Jan acting as a counterbalance to his (self)destructive persona. The ‘mischief’ at display is beautifully captured in noirish B&W by Heinz Pehlke who would, along with Buchholz, collaborate with Tressler on masterful
Die Tottenschiff in 1959, as the groovy score by Martin Böttcher amps up the film’s energy, particularly during the restaurant dance scene.
9. The Prize (Mark Robson, 1963)
Set against the backdrop of the Nobel Prize awards, Robson’s flick plays out like a Hitchcockian thriller that gives off some Donen vibes, and thus makes for a great companion piece to
Charade released in the same year. A highly entertaining and somewhat farcical caper story has a slow start, but builds to a suspenseful climax, as it sees an American writer, Andrew Craig (Paul Newman in his prime), embarking on a series of spy-ventures across Stockholm, including a forced dive into a canal and a narrow escape visit to a nudist convention. Partnered by ‘Teutonic temptress’ Elke Sommer as Inger Lisa Andersson of the Swedish foreign ministry assigned to keep Mr. Craig’s booze and womanizing issues under control, Newman seems to have a whale of a time playing the role, his charm spilling out from pretty much anything he does. The remaining cast also shines through, with veteran Edward G. Robinson in a dual role, Diane Baker as his ambivalent cousin Emily Stratman, Micheline Presle as a jealous chemistry laureate, Leo G. Carroll taken along with the cues from Hitchcock, and the list doesn’t end here. Cinematographer William H. Daniels, and composer Jerry Goldsmith form a power duo responsible for the film’s superlative visual and aural textures.
10. You Never Can Tell (Lou Breslow, 1951)
“These are humans we’re dealing with. You can’t tell ‘em the truth and expect them to believe it.” If you are a dog people, you’ll probably have a blast with Lou Breslow’s first and only feature-length flick – a fluffy blend of crime, fantasy and comedy. Its wacky premise involves a poisoned German shepard, King – a sole inheritor of a cracker magnate fortune – returning from Beastitory (that is, a purgatory for animals) to Earth as a ‘humanimal’ private detective Rex Shepard (Dick Powell, growling, howling, munching on kibble treats and checking out the fire hydrants) determined to apprehend his own killer. The movie’s tone couldn’t be any lighter (though it could’ve been weirder), and the entire cast appears to enjoy the script’s whims and quirks, with delightful Joyce Holden partnering Powell as a former racing mare Golden Harvest turned Southerner sprinter secretary Goldie Harvie, and charming Peggy Dow as Ellen Hathaway – King’s lovable trustee and No. 1 suspect in the public eyes. (A damn shame Ms. Dow’s career lasted less then a dozen roles, the color of her voice alone is enchanting enough!) Exploring the possibility of a romantic love between a woman and a dog reincarnated as a man, You Never Can Tell doesn’t take itself too seriously, despite its straight-faced bits, its celebration of canine faithfulness, and criticism of animal abuse justifying the antics and high jinks at display.
11. El Vampiro / The Vampire (Fernando Méndez, 1957)
Somewhat quaint even for its time,
The Vampire is a fine piece of vintage gothic cinema, marking the big screen debut for Spanish actor Germán Robles, today best remembered for his vampiric roles in Mexican cult films. With a suave demeanor, he portrays Count Karol de Lavud intent to resurrect his brother, all the while turning the ladies of the neighboring hacienda into new members of his bloodsucking family. Joining him in the ‘penetrating stare’ contest is Carmen Montejo, elegantly menacing as Eloisa, her long black dress and veil designed and worn as shadow extensions. Solid performances are also delivered by Ariadne Welter as a damsel in distress, Marta, and Abel Salazar as an unlikely hero, Dr. Enrique, but it is Rosalío Solano’s starkly expressive lensing of muddy roads shrouded in fog, spiderweb-infested chambers, and torch-lit secret passageways that steals the show.
12. Älskarinnan / The Mistress (Vilgot Sjöman, 1962)
Worth seeing for Bibi Andersson’s nuanced performance alone, Vilgot Sjöman’s feature debut is a simple, yet neatly told, and beautifully photographed story of adultery or rather, the mysterious ways of woman’s heart, in this case torn between Per Myrberg and Max von Sydow. None of their characters is named, which underscores the film’s universality, its abrupt coda leaving the viewer with a feeling of ambiguity.
13. La casa de Bernarda Alba / The House of Bernarda Alba (Mario Camus, 1987)
Based on Federico García Lorca’s play of the same name – finished only two months prior to his death at the hands of fascists,
The House of Bernarda Alba is a harrowing, claustrophobic exploration of repression, (unrestrainable) passion and (non)conformity, with the household of a despotic mater familias standing for a microcosm of the autocratic state. The limitations of the setting amplify the stifling aspect of the atmosphere, with director Mario Camus and DoP Fernando Arribas responding to the (stagy) challenge with a keen sense of blocking and composition. Dominated by earthy tones and mourning black ‘relieved’ by shades of blue in nocturnal scenes, the arresting cinematography is only matched by stellar performances, particularly from Irene Gutiérrez Caba as the tyrannical mother of five daughters.
14. La casa con la scala nel buio / A Blade in the Dark (Lamberto Bava, 1983)
With an atmosphere so dense that you can cut it with a knife, and slow build-up often heightening tension, who cares that Michele Soavi is a lousy actor? Lamberto Bava’s sophomore flick may not be as stylized as the finest of gialli (originally, it was made for TV), but it does possess a certain charm, largely due to a villa – owned by producer Luciano Martino – where the great deal of the story is set, lending palpability to both dread and the most illogical of scenarios. Elevating suspense are the De Angelo brothers who cleverly play the meta-game of blending the actual score with a ‘fictitious one’ composed by a protagonist, Bruno (neatly played by Andrea Occhipinti).
15. Jennifer (Brice Mack, 1978)
Brice Mack is no Brian De Palma, and Lisa Pelikan is no Sissy Spacek, yet she gives a memorable central performance in the role of a bullied heroine in this
Carrie knockoff that adds a viper twist to ESP powers. Also praiseworthy is Amy Johnston as a psychopathic antagonist, Sandra.
16. The King of the Kickboxers (Lucas Lowe, 1990)
Well, what do you know, even B movies get ripped off! Taking a number of cues from JCVD vehicles such as
Bloodsport and
Kickboxer, Lucas Lowe delivers a highly entertaining actioner that plunges the viewer in the (under)world of Thai Boxing snuff. The role of a hero – a cocksure, hotheaded cop, Jake, with a tragic past and a reason for vengeance – is played by Loren Avedon who chews the scenery and spits it all around, when not trying to steal the ‘split master’ title from the abovementioned Muscles from Brussels. His cheesy charm is contrasted by Billy Blanks who literally sweats it all out as a ‘final boss’ Khan, also serving as a role model for the Dee Jay character in the
Street Fighter game series. Eventually, the two of them clash in a climactic, Hanuman myth-inspired battle set in a dome-shaped bamboo cage, with all the usual narrative checkboxes, including a heavy training montage, previously ticked. The dialogues tend to be ridiculous, but the fights – being the main attraction – are nicely choreographed by Chinese actor, stuntman and director Siu-Hung Leung, with all the thumps and wooshes reminiscent of Hong Kong cinema. The most pleasantly surprising aspect of
The King of the Kickboxers is a solid camerawork by first-time cinematographer Viking Chiu who demonstrates a penchant for low angles, and provides some inviting shots of Bangkok night life, jungle hideout, and ancient temples.
