1. Le grand Meaulnes / The Wanderer (Jean-Gabriel Albicocco, 1967)
If hopeless romanticism – translated into the language of (surrealist) cinema – could kill, The Wanderer would be one of the deadliest films. Appearing as if conjured in an alchemist’s laboratory two decades later, this period melodrama transforms the reality of rural France into a lucid dream, through the special lenses used by the director’s cinematographer father Quinto Albicocco. And its dreamlike qualities are maximized during the first wandering of a young protagonist, Augustin Meaulnes (the sublime debut for Jean Blaise), in a party sequence that can easily be described as pure magic.
Subjected to ethereal distortions, the hypnotizing imagery invokes the spirit of Jean Cocteau, and anticipates the works of Alexander Sokurov and the Quay Brothers, bringing to mind a whole lot of phantasmagorical features, from Wojciech Has’s The Hourglass Sanatorium (1973) to Juraj Herz’s Beauty and the Beast (1978). Elevating the visuals – beautifully and meaningfully matched to swift editing – is their indissoluble bond with the themes of memories, nostalgia, longing, the loss of childlike innocence, and the unending (and oh so poetic) quest for the unattainable ideal, weighed down by the melancholy of reality.
Recommended as a companion piece: Marianne of My Youth (Julien Duvivier, 1955)
2. Kárhozat / Damnation (Béla Tarr, 1988)
“The fog gets into the corners, into the lungs. It settles in your soul.”
It’s been a long, long while since my first and – up to this point – only encounter with Béla Tarr, through the sublime Werckmeister Harmonies, and all this time, I was (foolishly) afraid that the second one wouldn’t be as inspiring. And yet, I found Damnation – with all of the decay, despair and disenchantment conveyed so candidly and unapologetically – oddly comforting, with my brain waves attuned to its languorous pace, or rather, my spirit clinging to its bleakness.
Speaking of which, virtually everything in this film comes across as moodily melancholic if not absolutely depressing, from the characters’ physiognomies, to the sex scene shrouded in silence, to the night of dancing soaked in torrential rain, alcohol and shared (?) loneliness. Disillusionment, disorientation, doomed desires, and exhaustive disintegration are captured with an unflinching formal rigor – broodingly poetic monologues, the decrepit post-industrial landscape, starkly beautiful B&W cinematography, and the mournful wailing of accordion (as well as the other instruments) converge to establish a dense atmosphere of fatal inevitability...
3. А бяхме млади / We Were Young (Binka Zhelyazkova, 1961)
The sophomore feature from the first Bulgarian woman filmmaker, We Were Young is nothing short of a stunner. A missing link between The Cranes Are Flying and Ashes and Diamonds – a couple of highly acclaimed classics set during WWII, it revolves around a guerrilla group of young communists, with the focus being pulled on a sweet, innocent romance between Veska (Rumyana Karabelova) and Dimo (Dimitar Buynozov). Gorgeously shot with a master’s eye (kudos to Vasil Holiolchev) in expressive B&W, and directed with a delicately poetic touch and brilliant sense of mise en scène, it is a poignant yet strangely optimistic piece of anti-fascist cinema, exploring the themes of love vs. (political) sacrifice, youthful idealism vs. harsh reality, and the importance of camaraderie in the face of the oppressor (assisted by the traitors). Memorable for its use of the flashlight’s inspection beams as a leitmotif with high symbolic value, the film flows smoothly in a fine balance of inspired visual style and modernist storytelling.
4. Fedra (Manuel Mur Oti, 1956)
When a Greek tragedy (or precisely, a Roman one based on a Greek myth) meets Spanish Mediterranean temperament, sparks are bound to fly in all directions. A story of destructive obsession and untamable passion, Fedra sees absolutely magnetic Emma Penella as a wild village girl, Estrella, whom all the men lust after and the women hate. Falling for her is a widowed captain, Don Juan (Enrique Diosdado), but her heart beats or rather, loins burn for young horseman Fernando (Vicente Parra), who turns out to be Don Juan’s son... and most probably gay. The ‘nuclear love triangle’ is formed and nothing will prevent it from exploding, especially when the rumors start to spread, and hurt feelings are paired with miscommunication.
Unlike his characters, Mur Oti knows exactly what he is doing and how he wants it done – assisted by stunning B&W imagery from cinematographer Manuel Berenguer, and sweeping score from composer Guillermo Cases, he delivers a melodrama so intense, that every emotion, conflict and erotically charged advance feels like the crashing of waves against the rocks.
5. Алые паруса / Scarlet Sails (Aleksandr Ptushko, 1961)
Based on Aleksandr Grin’s 1923 eponymous novel – recently (and lovingly) adapted by Pietro Marcello into L’envol (2022) – Ptushko’s least fantastical fairy tale is tailor-made for dreamers, and others who haven’t lost their inner child. Pervaded by a gentle yet strong sense of wide-eyed curiosity, it is soothingly humanist at its big heart, exploring the themes of hopeful individualism vs. cynical community, openness vs. isolation, the power of imagination, the rejection of privileges, and the creation of ‘miracles’ with one’s own hands. It may be too innocent or rather, naive for its own good, but its purity – eventually embodied by Anastasiya Vertinskaya in her zestful debut – is so irresistible, that you can’t help embracing it warmly. Ptushko directs with the wisdom of an experienced storyteller attentively listened by the audience gathered around the fire, his vision beautifully translated into painterly images and sweeping orchestrations.
6. Resident Evil (Zach Cregger, 2026)
After six action-oriented vehicles for the worship of Milla Jovovich, four CG animated features, and a trashy low-budget take Welcome to Raccoon City (yes, I’ve seen them all), Capcom’s long-running game series gets yet another cine-adaptation – on its 30th anniversary – in a surprisingly effective ‘black comedy’ key. Third time in the horror genre is definitely a charm for Zach Cregger (Barbarian, Weapons) who seems to be at the top of his game in a tone-consistent blending of body-altering biopunk and often hilarious dark humor. His right-hand man in front of the camera is Austin Abrams portraying Bryan – one of the most hapless and clumsiest couriers in the world – with a big heart, heightened vulnerability and ‘loser everyman’ charm turned irresistible, effortlessly earning the viewer’s rooting interest.
Behind the camera, Cregger is greatly assisted by DoP Dariusz Wolski (The Crow, Dark City, Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street) who captures Brian’s ‘infected’ misadventure from a variety of angles, including POV shots as one of the numerous nods to the gamers well-familiar with the source material. Thickening the wintry atmosphere and amplifying edge-of-the-seat suspense (which increases as things go from bad to absolute worst for poor Bryan) is not only an ominous ambient score by brothers Hays and Ryan Holladay, but also a very apt use of silence and diegetic noises. All in all, the latest (but probably not the last) Resident Evil is a self-contained crowd-pleaser that provides an energizing big-screen experience, especially if you approach it with lowered expectations like this writer who’s not a big fan of Weapons did.
7. Lilies Not for Me (Will Seefried, 2024)
Based on archival research of the early 20th century practices purported to ‘cure’ homosexuality, Lilies Not for Me is a poignant if harrowing drama revolving around a young gay novelist, Owen (Fionn O’Shea in a heartachingly sincere performance), committed to a ‘conversion’ clinic. In a series of awkward ‘therapeutic dates’ with a nurse, Dorothy (Erin Kellyman, portraying her role with profound compassion), we learn of his past relationship which disintegrated after his partner subjected himself to a risky surgical procedure...
The flashbacks of Owen’s life before the confinement in a cold and sterile institution operate as a ‘pastoral’ counterbalance, given that they are set in a remote country house and its lavish surroundings. However, as the story unfolds, even those portions grow darker, with the film approaching the psycho-thriller territory, its tonal shifts handled with utmost subtlety. Demonstrating confidence, composure and maturity beyond his experience, writer/director Will Seefried elicits genuine emotional response from the viewer, and delivers an admirable feature debut that feels refreshingly ‘classical’, even in the tree sex scene. Assisted by Theodosia Roussos’ hauntingly elegiac score, Birrie le Roux’s authentic (on location) production design, Grace Snell’s period-accurate costumes, and Cory Fraiman-Lott’s beautiful framing, he comes up with a powerful portrait of inextinguishable passion and queer resilience in the (ugly) face of institutionalized homophobia.
8. Une histoire d’âme / A Spiritual Matter (Bénédicte Acolas, 2015)
“All you need to make a movie is a girl and a gun”, said Godard, but in her only directorial effort, Bénédicte Acolas proves that when a girl is Sophie Marceau, a gun becomes superfluous. There are other props to be found here of course, but it is Marceau’s utterly mesmerizing performance that matters the most, carrying an intriguing psychological monodrama. Based on Bergman’s play originally titled En Själslig Angelägenhet (lit. A Matter of Soul), the film pulls the viewer into a troubled (likely insane) woman’s memories, dreams and hallucinations, with reality put to a severe test. Almost empty rooms of a seemingly inescapable house pose as compartments and extensions of our unreliable narrator’s mind, with her, Viktoria, playing various versions of herself, accompanied by the ghosts of the past and other imaginary partners. The claustrophobic character study is transcended by the subtle surrealist touches, some of which evoke David Lynch, whereas Marceau’s measured theatricality brings to mind the work of Antouanetta Angelidi. Viktoria’s introspection – framed with a keen eye by Gilles Porte – leaves a lot of space for the viewer’s own self-examination, and potential identification with lines such as: “My problem is I was born an artist... I live in a vacuum which I fill with my dreams and fantasies.”
9. Pillow Talk (Michael Gordon, 1959)
Quite possibly one of the most delightful rom-coms ever made, Pillow Talk boasts sharp comedic timing, a heightened sense of style with a special emphasis on colors, and sizzling, energizing chemistry between its leads, Doris Day and Rock Hudson, who portray an interior designer and a composer playboy sharing a party phone line. The first of three features to star the duo supported by Tony Randall as a ‘third wheel’ character, this vibrant piece of unapologetically escapist entertainment served as the main source of inspiration for Peyton Reed’s down-to-a-tee pastiche Down with Love. And if someone asks how did I end up watching it, the answer is – by accidentally stumbling across a fabulous split-screen shot of a sexy bathtub conversation.
10. Un beau monstre / Love Me Strangely (Sergio Gobbi, 1971)
Based on the eponymous novel by Swiss writer Dominique Fabre, Un beau monstre is a twisted psycho-drama in which ‘psycho’ or rather, ‘a beautiful monster’, which is the literal translation of the French title, is played with eerily seductive detachment by Helmut Berger. Partnered by ravishing Virna Lisi who channels unguarded vulnerability in the role of his victimized wife, he is the prime subject of a nuanced character study addressing the power dynamics of a relationship, trappings of obsession oft-mistaken for love, and moral ambiguities stuck in the web of mental manipulation.
Reminding us that physical beauty is only skin deep, the film operates as a starkly stylized portrait of cruelty – the sadism of gaslighting, to be precise, at once oddly irresistible and unsettling, but always decidedly anti-romantic, even in the moments of ostensible happiness. Unfolding at unhurried pace, it gives off some slight giallo vibes, especially if viewed through the psychosexual prism, but with black gloves and cold weapons substituted by brightly colored eyes, and blood-letting eschewed in favor of penetrating stares. What makes the film a fascinating watch is Pierre Guffroy’s unmistakable art direction – the off-kilter harmony between the costume and production design, the absolute highlight being the couple’s bizarrely furnished apartment with disorienting decoration, all handsomely framed by Daniel Diot.
11. En el caminho / On the Road (David Pablos, 2025)
Victor Prieto Simental makes a bold, uninhibited debut as Veneno, a young male prostitute on the run from the ‘shadows’ of his recent past who falls for a taciturn truck driver, Muñeco (Osvaldo Sanchez, excellent), pulling him into his own mess. As things for the two men go from bad to worse, their homosocial bonding transforms into a passionate romance, with white lines done, and dead bodies left in the wake. A captivating blend of road-movie, queer drama and crime thriller, On the Road posits itself at the intersection of daily life and dirty business, focusing on the marginalized, highly vulnerable individuals in search of affection and safety. Exploring the theme of day-to-day survival within a milieu largely defined by cruelty, the film also touches upon the effects of traumatic experiences, and the ways of meeting emotional needs in a society that is still rigidly constructed around heteronormativity. Pablos directs with a keen sense of pace and style, great understanding and sympathy for the outcasts, warning of the risks of homosexuality within the ‘easy money’ context, all the while evading the trappings of a cautionary tale. 
12. Powiedz mi, co czujesz / Tell Me What You Feel (Łukasz Ronduda, 2026)
According to John Maybury’s ‘study for a portrait of Francis Bacon’, love is the devil, but Polish filmmaker Łukasz Ronduda proposes a wholly different perspective – love as a form of free psychotherapy; an endless art performance involving tears dealing, role playing, and of course, facing the past traumas. Enter the lives of rich girl Maria (Izabella Dudziak) and poor boy Patryk (Jan Salasinski) who meet at a ‘crying lot’ of sorts, and almost immediately click with each other. At first, it seems that she is the more confident one, especially with his ‘premature finish’ issue taken into consideration, but gradually, we learn of both of their insecurities, and grow our sympathies for the couple. An oddly sweet chemistry between Dudziak and Salasinski, as well as their characters’ personality quirks and imperfections add a lot to the charm of this modern romance that invites the viewer to try to heal some of their own wounds along with the protagonists. In strengthening of the emotional connection, Ronduda relies on Weronika Bilska’s intimate cinematography of vivid colors, and the softness of pop-rock soundtrack (with one surprising metalcore intrusion).
13. Vexanthrone (Jacob Green, 2024)
“I guess you could say I am pretentious, but I don’t believe in that word...”
A bizarre blend of art performance, mockumentary and body horror, Vexanthrone is essentially a one man show, and what a (gross-out) show it is! Written, directed, produced, scored, filmed and edited by first-timer Jacob Green, also starring as an outcast artist, this audacious experiment reflects on the trials of the creative process, blurring the lines between self-destruction and spiritual ascension. Our lone, isolated hero – exiled for an offensive work (hint: clay & excrement) – goes through a personal transformation or rather, mutation, even though he admittedly shuns change, as his inner turmoil externalizes through visceral practical effects.
Bloody blotches, a vulva-shaped palm ulcer, a toothed lump on the back of the hand, and a nasty wound spreading around his (previously penetrated) navel, inter alia, are all depicted in extreme closeups, and often turned into fetish objects, with soft focuses lending them an aura of otherworldly abstractions. Devoured by deep and dark shadows, as a single source of light produces a strong chiaroscuro effect, Green’s slender (and frequently naked) body – initially, charged with homoerotic desire – becomes a canvas at which madness throws its disfiguring colors. Thickening the claustrophobic atmosphere of the surreal ‘inward odyssey’, as well as emphasizing its transcendental nature is the haunting, broodingly mysterious soundscape somewhat evocative of David Lynch.
Likely to garner polarizing reactions, this flawed yet boldly provocative feature debut possesses a significant potential to reach cult following, particularly among the despondent and/or highly vulnerable creative souls.
14. Plagio (Sergio Capogna, 1969)
Set against the backdrop of 1968 leftist protests in Italy (Bologna, to be precise), this little known gem can be described as a spiritual predecessor to Bertolucci’s The Dreamers, although its foggy atmosphere feels much closer to Antonioni’s brilliant psychological drama Red Desert (1964). It revolves around a strange ménage à trois between a couple of student lovers, Angela (Mita Medici) and Massimo (Alain Noury), and a mysterious rich boy, Guido (Ray Lovelock), whom they save from brutal beating. That their disillusioned relationship is bound to end tragically is portended by the pre-credits scene in which we see Angela carrying a bouquet of flowers through the graveyard, accompanied by an elegiac inner monologue.
Pervaded by a thick air of melancholy, and laced with subtle eroticism, including simmering gay undertones, the feature anchors itself in the delicate helming from Sergio Capogna (who created only four films during his half-century-long lifetime), employing subjective sepia-toned sequences as both the narrative and stylistic tools. Greatly assisted by cinematographer Antonio Piazza, he delivers a number of empathically intimate shots of his incredibly attractive leads supported by equally beautiful Cosetta Greco in her penultimate role, and handsome Dino Mele who debuted along with the director Giuseppe Patroni Griffi in The Sea (1962). Plagio is also commendable for its soundtrack – a mélange of classical and rock music that emphasizes the themes of isolation, youthful angst, emotional codependency, and the blistering effect of a childhood trauma.
15. Москва, любовь моя / Moscow, My Love (Aleksandr Mitta & Kenji Yoshida, 1974)
A Japanese ballerina, Yuriko (Komaki Kurihara), falls for a Russian sculptor, Volodya (Oleg Vidov), during her studies at Bolshoy Theater, and gets a titular role in Giselle. Halfway through, we learn that her mother was a Hiroshima survivor, and at that point, a dark cloud begins to form over the sweet romance. Initially, this co-production between Soviet Union and Japan evokes Kon Ichikawa’s 1971 interracial love story Ai futatabi (minus the cultural clash), only to take a turn from a melancholy-laced melodrama to a tear-jerking tragedy with political undertones.
Advocating anti-nuclear policies, and celebrating art (as a hard, time-consuming work!) not only through its lovely leads, but also through the folk-song-collecting by Yuriko’s other suitor, Tetsuya (Masami Shimojō), Moscow, My Love shrouds the proceedings in deep shadows, prolly as a portent of the fatalist denouement, operating in a sort of a heightened reality, with a certain montage sequence appearing like a tribute to Maya Deren’s 1955 dance fantasy The Very Eye of Night. And despite the monotone voice-over that translates the Japanese-spoken dialogues, Mitta & Yoshida’s collaboration never feels dull, its artifice harmonized to honesty.
16. El amor brujo / Bewitched Love (Francisco Rovira Beleta, 1967)
Flames of passion turn quite literal at one point in Francisco Rovira Beleta’s romantic (and during the first half, psychological) melodrama in which a young blacksmith, Antonio (Antonio Gades), must fight against a naughty ghost of the past to win the heart, or rather, save the tortured soul of beautiful Candelas (La Polaca). Based on the eponymous ballet by the composer Manuel de Falla and the librettist María de la O Lejárraga, Bewitched Love is a classic love triangle story with flamenco edges that intensify already heated emotions. Particularly mesmerizing in nocturnal sequences and Candelas’ nightmares, the feature is expressively shot by Francisco Marín and Gábor Pogány on the authentic Andalusian locations, with Beleta employing both imagery and music – along with the folk mysticism – to capture his heroine’s distressed state of mind.
17. Sweet Sweetback’s Badasssss Song (Melvin Van Peebles, 1971)
All cops are bastards, especially the white supremacist ones, so seeing them fucked up – pardon my French – in various ways can certainly be labeled as a form of poetic justice. And literal fucking is what our hero, Sweetback, has been doing since his early adolescent years, as shown in a controversial, Emperor Tomato Ketchup-evoking opening for which the director/writer/producer/composer/editor/star casts his own son. A raw, boldly experimental chunk of independent cinema, and a pioneering example of the ‘blaxploitation’ subgenre, Sweet Sweetback’s Badasssss Song adapts the film language to African-American slang, turning art into an act of rebellion. Thin on plot, but brimming with free jazz grooviness in a strong conjunction with anarchic imagery – dizzying camerawork, split-screens, soft focuses, superimpositions, solarized sequences, etc, it plunges you into a ‘one man against the unjust law’ nightmare and rarely loosens its grip. Charmingly ‘amateurish’ (in a non-derogatory way!), the feature is, essentially, one long chase sequence that uncovers the rot of American society, taking no prisoners, and in an odd, pulpy, borderline-surreal manner, it works! 
18. Nož / The Dagger (Živorad ‘Žika’ Mitrović, 1967)
Žika Mitrović must’ve been familiar with the ‘Krimi’ subgenre popular in West Germany of the time, given that his ‘whodunnit’ appears to be cut from the same cloth, minus the masked villain and gothic atmosphere. Following or rather flowing smoothly in a police procedural pattern (kudos to editor Katarina Stojanović), the film dismantles the cult of celebrity created through the media ‘hyperboles’ (read: lies), and operates as a social commentary that hasn’t lost much of its relevance in six decades since its release. (Though nowadays, the forces of law and order are much closer to the criminals.) Its cast features some of the finest Yugoslavian actors joined by musician Zafir Hadžimanov in his first big screen role (as a murdered schlager singer), so the performances shine through in spite of slightly stilted dialogue, with Vera Čukić giving off camp vibes, and Mija Aleksić providing a comic relief. However, the main forte is Branko Ivatović’s crispy clean B&W cinematography beautifully complemented by Miljenko Prohaska’s delicuously jazzy score.
19. Rapa Nui (Kevin Reynolds, 1994)
Squeezed in-between two starring vehicles for Kevin Costner (here, credited as a producer), Rapa Nui sees Jason Scott Lee fresh out of Dragon: The Bruce Lee Story as Noro – a young native of Easter Island in a Romeo and Juliet-like romance within a story of social inequality that is also an ecological parable, and a critique of religious fundamentalism. On top of that, the feature strives to capture the timeless qualities of a legend (well, it is based on one), its main forte being the breathtaking beauty of the authentic location, with handsome, half-naked leads and dozens of extras in equally skimpy tribal costumes making you turn a blind eye to the flaws and clichés of the proceedings. Proposing a hypothesis on the mystery of moai statues, it sacrifices historical accuracy, yet it still feels relevant in its ostensibly simplistic dissection of human nature and its negative effects on the environment. Lending it gravitas are the sweeping score by Stewart Copeland, and Stephen F. Windon’s striking widescreen cinematography.
20. Spiti stous vrahous / House on the Rocks (George Zervoulakos, 1974)
Rocks, goats, tan lines and incest! In the second of only four big screen appearances, Christo Spyropoulos portrays a young man, Alexis, engaged in a steamy affair with his archaeologist stepmother, Eleni (Bente Børsum), on a remote, sparsely populated Greek island. According to the synopsis of his first feature, Love on a Horse, Spyropoulos reprises the role of an incestuous stepson, spending a considerable amount of time shirtless or in his birthsuit, basking in the sun, skinny dipping, and defying his estranged father through Eros.
Alexis’ cumming-of-age story is paralleled by the awakening of Eleni’s repressed desires magnified by self-imposed isolation, exposing both of their characters’ vulnerabilities, which they seek to burn in the flames of forbidden passion. The fisherman’s daughter also named Eleni (Anda Vartholomeou), and the later arrival of the paternal figure (Andreas Barkoulis) further amplify the psychosexual tension, so some wrong moves are bound to be drawn. Curiously, the taboo relationship doesn’t feel as awkward as one might expect, but rather almost as natural as the idyllic surroundings that give the story strong Arcadian vibes, emphasized by a pagan ritual ‘living on to our times’. Linos Kokotos’ flute-heavy score – intertwined with traditional music and Schlager ballads – adds to the kinky romanticism of the proceedings, beautifully captured in the natural light by Aris Stavrou who would collaborate with the great Nikos Papatakis on his penultimate feature, The Photograph, in 1986.
21. Wetiko (Kerry Mondragon, 2022)
Associated with ‘greed, selfish consumption and a loss of the connection to the community and nature’, Wetiko is a malicious spirit from the folklore of the Algonquin people of Canada. However, In Mondragon’s sophomore feature, it ‘possesses’ a phony gringo shaman, Zake Zezo (Neil Sandilands, brilliant as a silver-tongued manipulator), who appropriates the culture of the Maya minority and exploits their women deep in the thick jungle. Falling into his clutches is a local boy, Aapo (Juan Daniel García Treviño, embodying the viewer’s growing confusion, as an unlikely hero), whose simple task of delivering poisonous toads turns into a bad, hallucinatory trip.
The story of ‘spiritual gentrification’ – spoken in Maya, Spanish, English and Afrikaans, and permeated by an anti-colonialist sentiment – unfolds in an oddly deliberate pace, so some viewers may find their patience severely tested, even though their eyes will be glued to the screen by virtue of the delightfully grainy 16mm visuals providing the ‘lost 70s cult film’ vibes. Cinematographer Carlos Gerardo García captures all nuances of both the reality and ‘fever dream’ bits, even when the latter feels too disjointed for its own good, defying or twisting what little logic there is, whether it is an intentional move or a miscalculated one. Adding to the quirkiness or rather ‘offness’ of it all are the musical choices, such as the ‘Silence Is Golden’ cover by The Tremeloes, although the lyrics ‘Talking is cheap / People follow like sheep / Even though there is nowhere to go’ align with the critique of New Ageism.
22. Tarung: Unforgiven (Razaisyam Rashid, 2026)
If you like your crime-dramas hard-boiled, and fighting sequences gritty and realistic rather than physics-and-human-stamina-defying, with queer-coded relations between friends, frenemies and enemies thrown in the mix, then Tarung: Unforgiven may be just the film you’ve been looking for. A story of a young fighter haunted by guilt and returning into the ring (or rather, underground cage) to help his sick older sister doesn’t break any new ground (breaking is reserved for bones), but Malay filmmaker Razaisyam Rashid delivers a classy B-actioner with decent performances and solid camerawork.
23. Sex-Power (Henry Chapier, 1970)
The obscure fiction debut for Romanian-born French journalist, critic and filmmaker Henry Chapier, Sex-Power stars Alain Noury as a young, unnamed man who travels to California to forget his lost love (Jane Birkin), only to encounter archetypes representing feminine power, all embodied by gorgeous actresses, with an early experimental score from the legendary Vangelis accompanying the bizarre ‘odyssey’. Appearing to be partly improvised and ‘documented’ rather than scripted, this feature is very much a product of its (post-68) time – marked by the death of the hippie counterculture, it is loosely structured as a quest for (personal) freedom, exploring the themes of self-discovery and youthful disillusionment. Blurring the line and refusing to differentiate between the physical reality and the protagonist’s fancy, it unfolds or rather, meanders at a relaxed pace, as it evokes the comforting sense of abandon by virtue of its raw, rhymeless poetry. By the end, in one of its several desert-set scenes, it comes dangerously close to being labeled as a spiritual predecessor to Philippe Garrel’s Inner Scars.
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