1. Absences répétées / Repeated Absences (Guy Gilles, 1972)
“I felt life to be a poem.”
Unlike François Naulet (Patrick Penn in a magnetically moody debut) – a reticent, disenchanted bank clerk at the bleeding heart of Gilles’s psychological drama – I have never abused drugs, but I must say this: if film shots had been heroin, I would’ve gladly injected the imagery from Repeated Absences into my veins. The sublime melancholy they’re permeated with effortlessly reaches the subconscious mind, and instills itself there, with no intention to ever abandon you, as you find yourself attuned to the beats of dreamlike nihilism. Within the protagonist’s ennui and resolute refusal to adapt to the mediocrity-fostering society lies a sort of a Baudelairean anguish, a spiritual malaise that appears incurable in its disquieting transcendence. Not even the rejection of heteronormativity brings peace to his wounded soul – “Forever the contrary one, eh?”, says an older gay man to François, while priding in his young lovers. Both his inner worlds (B&W / truth) and the outside one (color / deception) are handsomely captured by DP Philippe Rousselot, with virtually every frame – closeups in particular – conjuring the potency of romanticized despair.
2. L’amour à la mer / Love at Sea (Guy Gilles, 1965)
Two recognizable faces of French arthouse cinema – Jean-Pierre Léaud and Jean-Claude Brialy – appear in cameo roles in the riveting feature debut from Guy Gilles who demonstrates enviable auteurist maturity and keen sense of sculpting time, musing on its transience. So, it comes as no surprise that Wall Engravings (1967) and Repeated Abscences (1972) – my previous encounters with the director’s oeuvre, both spiritual successors to Love at Sea – are nothing short of ciné-marvels. A fleeting love affair between a secretary and a sailor (Geneviève Thénier and Daniel Moosmann in their first major roles), serves solely as a pretext for a poetic character study which utilizes a proficient if arrhythmic interweaving of color and B&W images (Jean-Marc Ripert) to convey dense entanglement of emotions and recollections, hopes and disappointments. Every (beautiful!) face, object, place, gesture, shadow and reflection is imbued with meaning, and even the excerpt from a fictitious film La Traversée de l’apparenzia starring Juliette Gréco and Alain Delon (in meta-cameos) is given equal importance in Gilles’s fragmented and bittersweet story...
3. Komitas (Don Askarian, 1988)
“Love is always there... from eternity to eternity.”
Long, Tarkovskian takes and ritualistic intensity of Parajanov coalesce in a lyrical biopic on Armenian monk, singer, composer, choirmaster and ethnomusicologist Komitas (1869-1935), widely considered a martyr of Armenian genocide. Structured in non-chronological fragments which are imbued with intricate symbolism, the film transmutes a tragic life into a melancholic visual poem of immense spiritual strength, on par with masterpieces such as Andrei Rublev and Sayat Nova. Incredibly soothing or rather, peace-invoking in its mournful tone, it views Image as a temple, and Cinema – here, in its purest form – as a prayer, pulling you in the Dream that you do not want to end. Unhampered by its made-for-TV production values, it brims with painterly compositions that – elevated by an intoxicating cocktail of solemn silences, sparse, oft-ambiguous dialogue and experimental folk music – see the most banal of objects transcending their ‘profane’ purpose.
4. Le notti bianche / White Nights (Luchino Visconti, 1957)
It could be foolish idealism or some such talking, but when one is watching White Nights, everything from the elaborately designed studio sets, to an impressively choreographed (and partly improvised?) dance scene to the absolutely stunning B&W cinematography, its misty lighting and deep shadows engraving deeply into one’s mind, feels as if being experienced for the very first time. And all of it appears to be imbued with hope (taking form of a stray pup?), even though the screenplay – adapted from Dostoevsky’s story of the same name – epitomizes hopeless romanticism, further sublimated through Nino Rota’s elegant, caressing score. On top of that, the cast does a wonderful job at creating characters who simultaneously evoke sympathy and fit into the heightened artifice of Visconti’s purely cinematic vision, with Maria Schell’s disarming smile, Marcello Mastroianni’s humble Quixotry, and Jean Marais’s brooding appearance enhancing the healing properties of the Great Illusion.
5. Cela s’appelle l’aurore / This Is Called Dawn (Luis Buñuel, 1956)
In his book on Luis Buñuel, British critic Raymond Durgnat calls this film the first part of the ‘revolutionary triptych’ followed by La Mort en ce jardin (brilliant!) and La fièvre monte à El Pao (yet to be seen), whereas Time Out labels it as ‘curiously one of Buñuel’s most moving films’. Both remarks are absolutely valid, because This Is Called Dawn is at once a subtle invitation to insurrection underlined by the author’s disdain for clergy, police and capitalist bourgeoisie, as well as a profoundly humane story of love, solidarity and commitment. Superficially grounded in realism, rather than surrealism for which the director is known, this politico-romantic drama is delicately laced with ‘heretic’ symbolism and bits of offbeat humor that only a figure such as Buñuel could’ve come up with, making for an equally entertaining and thought-provoking viewing experience. Set in a lovely Corsican town beautifully captured by the keen eye of Robert Lefebvre’s camera, and told with ethical sincerity and conviction embodied in the proletariat-sympathizing character of Doctor Valerio (Georges Marchal, excellent), the feature finds its emotional core in a mysterious widow, Clara (Lucia Bosè, enchanting). Their extramarital affair is depicted as pure and true, transcendental even, as the institution of what appears to be a marriage of convenience (with a woman who has daddy issues) gets subverted in the exposure of the system’s exploitative ruthlessness.
6. Clay (Giorgio Mangiamele, 1965)
“Why do I feel as though time has become crystallized? The past, present, my own being. Everything loses meaning. Everything is like an endless dream...”
An unjustly forgotten gem of Australian (independent) cinema, Clay is one of the most European films to be conceived outside of the Old Continent, along with John Guillermin’s Rapture released in the same year and, coincidentally, also dealing with an affair between a young woman and a handsome criminal. Written, directed, produced, photographed and edited by Italian expatriate Giorgio Mangiamele, this arthouse drama is the offering of remarkable formal prowess, its striking visual poetry seamlessly blending a wide variety of influences. Deliberately paced, and beautifully framed in moody monochrome, it plays out like a 40’s piece of Italian neorealism with modernist / Antonioni-esque tendencies, and a dreamlike atmosphere evocative of French impressionists and surrealists, from Jean Epstein to Jean Cocteau. At times, I was even reminded of Sava Trifković’s short experimental masterpiece Hands of Purple Distances (1962), though I doubt that Mangiamele was familiar with it, and the film’s muddy environment (around a remote artists’ colony where the story is set) felt like it anticipated the works of Béla Tarr. Clay is the first Australian feature to be selected for competition at Cannes Film Festival, losing Golden Palm to Richard Lester’s The Knack …and How to Get It (which has to be one of the biggest and greasiest stains in the history of the festival – what was the jury on to award THAT?!).
7. Honey Bunch (Dusty Mancinelli & Madeleine Sims-Fewer, 2025)
Judging by my score, Mancinelli and Sims-Fewer’s 2020 debut Violation left me either ambivalent or not very impressed, which is why I cannot recall any of it, even after watching the trailer. Their sophomore (and not a bit sophomoric!) effort, however, is a different story. A true labor of love and commitment, it glides between genres, from psychological drama to gothic horror to darkly humorous romance, with effortless grace, hearkening back to the 70’s through a remarkable period re-creation.
Every single aspect is attuned in a way that makes you feel like you’re watching a recently unearthed cine-relic from 50 years ago, the standout being Adam Crosby’s striking cinematography, with beautifully framed images of earthy colors lent a grainy, analog film patina by special lenses. And the vintage vibes do not stop there, because the directorial duo go as far as casting the actors whose very faces and performances awaken the 70’s nostalgia / anemoia, giving Ti West at his The House of the Devil best a good run for his money. Grace Glowicki – whose peculiar appearance marks another great indie flick, Strawberry Mansion – is particularly engaging in the lead, her partner Ben Petrie who plays the eerily caring husband adding to the feature’s admirable quirkiness.
As you may have noticed, I’ve avoided revealing any plot points, urging you to go into the film as blind as possible, so in conclusion, I’ll just honorably mention Scottish actress Kate Dickie and her irresistible accent, as well as veteran Jason Isaacs in a highly memorable supporting role.
8. Der Leone Have Sept Cabeças / The Lion Has Seven Heads (Glauber Rocha, 1970)
From the linguistic quip of the original title to virtually every stylistic choice made, The Lion Has Seven Heads is a great if not prime example of anti-racist/capitalist/colonialist/imperialist piece of cinema which eschews subtlety in favor of mockish or decidedly blunt didacticism. A politico-poetic ‘fantasy’ so real it hurts, it chronicles an African uprising that pits an indigenous leader and Latin-American rebel against a German mercenary, CIA agent, Portuguese advisor and a ‘haute bourgeois’ collaborator in a feverishly anarchic, fourth wall-shattering tirade. Add to that some tribal rituals of raw, rapturous primordiality, and a mad preacher portrayed by Jean-Pierre Léaud at his most raving, and you have an avant-garde delirium, startling in its fiery insurgency. Referencing the seven-headed beast from the Book of Revelation, this angry, irreverent assault on the viewer’s senses also exudes with the resentment towards the instrumentalization of religion, and feels more relevant than ever.
9. The Bride! (Maggie Gyllenhaal, 2026)
Helmed with great ambition, blazing passion, anarchic energy and insurgent urgency, Maggie Gyllenhaal’s sophomore directorial feature captures the very essence of l’amour fou, reminding us that hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, particularly in a society that tends to scorn her on regular basis. Wild and unflinching in its rise against patriarchy, The Bride! often eschews subtlety in favor of electrifying spectacularity, and finds its embodiment in Jessie Buckley who portrays the heroine, Ida / Penelope (possessed and guided by the spirit of Mary Shelley!), in an amped-up ‘force of nature’ mode. Her tempestuous lead – worthy of at least two more exclamation marks in the title – is followed by the entire cast, with a complementary stand-out being heavily masked Christian Bale as Frank (from Frankenstein, after his father), a lonely and horny creature who gets more than he bargained for.
Also praiseworthy is Hildur Guðnadóttir’s superb score, in turns propulsive and evocative, partly to ‘blame’ for post-modernist vibes that the 1930’s setting is imbued with, as cinematographer Lawrence Sher (Joker) beautifully captures everything from Karen Murphy’s steampunk designs for Dr. Euphronious’ laboratory, to neon-lit metropoles infected by violence. Speaking of which, Gyllenhaal doesn’t shy away from graphic depictions of head-smashing and tongue-ripping, but her film is not horror (not even by a long shot), as one may expect judging by the literary influence, but rather a crime-romance in the vein of Bonnie and Clyde, seasoned with dark humor and elements of road movie and musicals of the talkie era. Filled with a number of cinematic references, it looks, sounds and feels utterly fascinating when experienced on the big screen, so a visit to the nearest multiplex is highly recommended.
10. Haunters of the Silence (Tatu Heikkinen & Veleda Thorsson-Heikkinen, 2025)
Read my review HERE.
11. Gaua / The Night (Paul Urkijo Alijo, 2025)
Exploring the 17th century superstitions along with his heroine, Kattalin (excellent Yune Nogueiras, who debuted in another witch-related feature, Akelarre, in 2020), Paul Urkijo Alijo (Errementari, Irati) delivers once again a finely crafted dark/horror fantasy rooted in Basque folklore. Structured akin to an omnibus, The Night tells Kattalin’s ‘forbidden love’ story through multiple converging perspectives, introducing the viewer to bizarre mythical creatures lurking around a village of God-fearing community, from the Inguma demon associated to nightmares, to Gaueko, the lord of the night.
Set during the height of the Inquisition-conducted witch hunt, and inhabited by largely archetypal characters that frequent oral tradition, the film (expectedly) grapples with the themes of patriarchal oppression and female empowerment, building towards a highly memorable epilogue of orgiastic occultism. Its outstanding Gothic imagery is reportedly influenced by Goya’s Black Paintings, comics by Mike Mignola (Hellboy), the ethnographic research of priest Jose Miguel Barandiaran, and Neil Jordan’s coming-of-sexual-age fairy tale The Company of Wolves, though one may easily find parallels to Guillermo Del Toro’s work, with Urkijo Alijo being bolder in terms of... ehm, certain details. If you’re craving for a primal / pagan phantasmagoria, spoken in an exotic language, and brandishing a queer edge, The Night may be exactly what you’ve been looking for.
12. Scarlet (Mamoru Hosoda, 2025)
Based on Hamlet, but also drawing inspiration from other sources, including the Joan of Arc’s story, Frank Herbert’s Dune and Wayne Barlowe’s Inferno, the latest feature from Mamoru Hosoda (Summer Wars, Wolf Children, Belle) is a bold fantasy of epic scope which utilizes the anime medium to the fullest. Largely set in the Otherworld – a limbo where life and death, the past and the future coexist – the plot follows the titular princess’s quest for vengeance, embodying the all-pervading pacifist idealism in the character of a young paramedic from the present, Hijiri, who partners the feisty heroine, and acts as yang to her yin. 
The question is no longer ‘to be or not to be’, but rather ‘to forgive or to destroy one’s own soul in the act of killing’, which emphasizes the director’s audacity in his phantasmagorical, gender-swapping deconstruction of Shakespeare’s influential tragedy – likely one of the main reasons for the polarizing reactions. But, what’s undeniably superb about Scarlet is its dazzling visualization – a highly expressive CGI reminiscent of the traditional animation which often compensates for the narrative shortcomings, all the while being married to the dedicated voice acting by the Japanese cast.
13. Maya, donne-moi un titre / Maya, Give Me a Title (Michel Gondry, 2024)
A child’s mind moves in mysterious ways, and once it joins forces with the parent’s still active inner child, miracles abound. Created in a series of video correspondences between Michel Gondry (Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind) and his daughter Maya – separated for a few years due to his work commitments – this one-hour-long omnibus marries wide-eyed wonder with surrealist abandon, employing cut-out animation to utterly charming, smile-eliciting result. Paper compositions akin to a homemade picture-book brought to life, 12 frames per second, have not only the father’s and daughter’s hearts beating in sync, but also the hearts of Gondry’s wife Miriam Matejovsky, her parents whom Maya refers to as Boum Boum and Pampa, as well as of actor Pierre Niney who lends his voice to all of the characters. Imaginative, delightfully weird scenarios range from a drum-induced earthquake to hammock-stealing squirrels to the trio of thieving cats, throwing at you one surprise after another, their playfulness infectious, and all imperfections underlining its sincerity.
14. ‘Hukkunud Alpinisti’ hotell / Dead Mountaineer’s Hotel (Grigori Kromanov, 1979)
Penned by the Strugatskiy brothers best known for their collaboration with Tarkovsky on Stalker, Dead Mountaineer’s Hotel is an offbeat blend of neo-noir and science-fiction that gives off proto-Lynchian vibes, and acts as a missing link between The Twilight Zone and X-Files. Its whodunnit story revolves around a motley crew of characters staying in the titular resort, as inspector Peter Glebsky (Uldis Pucitis, bringing a rugged charm to the role) investigates a locked room murder, and symbolizes the state control. Touching upon the themes of ‘otherness’ and xenophobia, isolation and paranoia, gender identity and non-conformity, it slyly deconstructs the said genres, and challenges the rules of both logic and authority. An important role is played by the rigid geometries and deceiving mirrors of the hotel interior captured under moody lighting by Jüri Sillart, who would debut as a director on harrowing historical drama Äratus one decade later. Far removed from the majority of Soviet films, this quirky piece of cinema is a commendable swan song for Grigori Kromanov (1926-1984).
15. Wuthering Heights (Emerald Fennell, 2026)
Unapologetically relishing in excesses of varied sorts, from the final hard-on of a hanged man in the establishing scene, to every emotion accentuated to the point when it becomes a distilled, scented artifice, Emerald Fennell’s ‘personal memory’ of Emily Brontë’s book blurs the boundaries between kitsch and high art in a boldly sassy, no-fucks-given manner. Its campified forte lies within eye-popping set designs straight out of a neo-baroque nightmare of shiny, frozen blood-like floors, human skin-patterned walls (veins and stains included), sculptures composed of countless hands, and gilded canopy beds with heavy curtains of dark-green velvet. Equally memorable for its decadent, unrestrained extravagance are the gowns worn by Ms Margot Robbie in the leading, tear-soaked and accent-faking performance brilliantly counterbalanced by Jacob Elordi’s passionately brooding take on Heathcliff. Their doomed romance – unabashedly outpulping the pulpiest of novels – is handsomely framed, often appearing like an equivalent of conceptual fashion editorial, and being proud of it. This is post-postmodernism at its most hyperbole-epitomizing and hyper style-prioritizing, strangely alluring in its luridly painted portrayal of contempt for the rich.
16. Good Boy / Heel (Jan Komasa, 2025)
Retitled Heel (as in a dog command) for the US market, in order to avoid confusion with the canine POV horror of the same name, Jan Komasa’s first English-spoken feature is a twisted chamber thriller that probes into the grayest areas of morality, exploring the themes of subjugation, coerced rehabilitation, dysfunctional family dynamics, and the (in)toxic(ating) effects of attention economy. Evocative of A Clockwork Orange, Dogtooth and The Skin I Live in, it toys with your expectations, beginning on a sinister note, only to gradually transform – along with its anti-hero – into an oddly moving piece, at once sensible and absurd. Refusing to reveal all cards, Good Boy occasionally requires a boost or two to your suspension of disbelief (code: chain and bearing beams), and leaves you to fill certain blanks, including its Macedonian subplot, yet it keeps you engaged primarily by virtue of exquisite performances from the leading quartet, and eye-pleasing cinematography from Michał Dymek (Wolf, EO, The Girl with the Needle). The opening montage of (self)destructive hedonism deserves a special mention for its instant attention-grabbing qualities.
17. La femme publique / The Public Woman (Andrzej Żuławski, 1984)
Sex, violence, politics, madness and meta-cinema blend anarchically in a self-referential psycho-drama (or rather, psychotic melodrama), as Żuławski ponders on whether he can reach new heights in hyper-histrionics, transforming them into sheer hysteria, all the while utilizing the camera as a dildo-shaped tool to penetrate the viewer’s gaze and mind. In the leading role, Valérie Kaprisky often plunges into episodes of uninhibited wantonness as an up-and-coming actress, Ethel, struggling to retain her grasp on reality after being cast by an eccentric filmmaker, Lucas Kessling (Francis Huster, voraciously chewing scenery as the director’s alter ego), and coerced (?) into replacing the murdered wife of a mentally unstable Czech dissident, Milan Mliska (Lambert Wilson, at his most handsomely neurotic). It all sums up into an equally fascinating and frustrating experience laced with so much yelling that silence comes across as extremely bizarre once the film ends...
18. Pretty Lethal (Vicky Jewson, 2026)
A strong contender for the most stupidly entertaining high concept trash of the year, Pretty Lethal defies Timothée Chalamet’s backlash-inducing statement by turning ballet into deadly arts, with a tutu-wearing quintet disposing of ruthless Balkan criminals in the middle of Hungarian nowhere. For once, Hollywoodian xenophobia is to a certain extent forgivable, because our heroines’ survival is imbued with something akin to poetic justice, especially when you’re aware that those scum whose asses they’re kicking are likely the closest collaborators of some oppressive regime. Largely set in a hotel turned into the baddies’ hideout, and run by Uma Thurman’s grudge-holding, not-too-evil ex-ballerina she-boss, the film works best in its action sequences that incorporate everything from a pirouette to grand battement to pas de deux into beautifully captured fighting choreography (kudos to Bridger Nielson of Bullet Train fame). Of course, pieces of craft knife attached to the tips of pointe shoes have their advantages too. Also praiseworthy is the production design by Zsuzsa Kismarty-Lechner (Atomic Blonde) assisted by Charlotte Pearson – those hallway walls covered in maroon-colored fake fur look ridiculously cool, and have ‘don’t take any of this seriously’ written all over them. Oh, and the young actresses portraying Bones, Princess, Grace, Chloe and Zoe who must leave all of their rivalries and bickering behind to operate as a tightly knit team seem to have a whale of a time.
19. Nefertiti, figlia del sole / Nefertiti: Daughter of the Sun (Guy Gilles, 1994)
Sung in a somewhat ‘broken’ voice (the director contracted AIDS in the late 80’s), and not always in tune, Nefertiti is the flawed yet commendable swan song by one of the most criminally underseen filmmakers of La Nouvelle Vague. More conventional than Gilles’s earliest (and highly recommended!) features, this Italo-French-Russian co-production keeps some formalistic traits from its author’s heyday, though unrecognizable in camp garments – often revealing, probably by virtue of Walerian Borowczyk’s involvement. The titular heroine is portrayed by Michela Rocco di Torrepadula in her suggestive big-screen debut, and her rise from princess Tadushepa of the Mittani to the Queen Nefertiti of Egypt – symbolizing social change – is told from the perspective of a mysterious man, Abdul Mehez (Paul Blain), who may be the reincarnation of Nefertiti’s sculptor sweetheart Yame. Blending romance and court intrigues, the story unfolds at a brisk pace in a 67-minute-long cut that is slightly hampered by editing issues, with its visuals making the most of financial constraints, and heart in the right place – closer to the left. (In the role of the pharaoh Amenophis III you will recognize the veteran Ben Gazzara.)
20. Ato noturno / Night Stage (Filipe Matzembacher & Marcio Reolon, 2025)
Unbridled passion and unchecked ambition intermingle with dangerous consequences, as protagonists draw some morally dubious moves in the third feature from the directorial duo (and real-life partners) Marcio Reolon and Filipe Matzembacher. Their (homo)erotic thriller contains traces of Showgirls DNA, and one very obvious nod to De Palma, with all of the familiar narrative beats delivered in a stylish package. 
An uninhibited first-timer, Gabriel Faryas, is cast as a novice theater actor, Matias, competing with his white and straight colleague Fabio (Henrique Barreira) over a potential TV series breakthrough. Entering the scene is his Grindr hookup, Rafael (Cirillo Luna), who turns out to be a politician running for the mayor of Porto Alegre where the story is set, and which serves as the two men’s exhibitionist playground. Namely, they develop a fetish for sex in public spaces, to a disapproval from a (shady) representative of the campaign sponsors (Ivo Müller), which leads to more-or-less predictable results. Nevertheless, Night Stage rarely if ever feels stale in its serving of saucy provocations that challenge societal norms, and strive to strip away the layers of pretense, on the stage, in the politics, and on the daily basis. Firmly anchored in strong chemistry between Faryas and Luna, the film also owes a lot to a quartet of women behind the camera – DoP Luciana Baseggio, production designer Manuela Falcão, costume designer Carolina Leão, and makeup artist Juliane Senna.
