tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31952524719615119412024-03-16T19:52:15.037+01:00NGboo ArtNikola Gocićhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10802422474421337350noreply@blogger.comBlogger1531125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3195252471961511941.post-79939276969843597172024-02-29T14:57:00.000+01:002024-02-29T14:57:10.149+01:00Best Premiere Viewings of February 2024<p></p><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>1. Bride of Frankenstein (James Whale, 1935)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLIFgLWXl4mV2FhX1MiqLhHAz61gOnsQW31_lvTIE1flcnuRJATyFqKoYpEh4qTTZ_r14lVzGGxdjOhKXLf1g0Ce92oE84-z2PvkGuhu-lpJCj6S73evn37-4Gtkm3qc69K1Pi3engUX3VzgpTKIJGM3EHJyVgbOnsrAwg3_JddbDhJy9O3PbpD18J25w/s1000/01%20Bride%20of%20Frankenstein.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="742" data-original-width="1000" height="296" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLIFgLWXl4mV2FhX1MiqLhHAz61gOnsQW31_lvTIE1flcnuRJATyFqKoYpEh4qTTZ_r14lVzGGxdjOhKXLf1g0Ce92oE84-z2PvkGuhu-lpJCj6S73evn37-4Gtkm3qc69K1Pi3engUX3VzgpTKIJGM3EHJyVgbOnsrAwg3_JddbDhJy9O3PbpD18J25w/w400-h296/01%20Bride%20of%20Frankenstein.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: justify;">While ‘excavating’ for lesser-known pieces of cinema, I’ve often overlooked a number of must-see flicks, but as they say – better late, than never. When it comes to Whale’s masterful, ahead-of-its-time sequel to the most acclaimed adaptation of Mary Shelley’s novel, it is easy to see (and more importantly, feel!) why it has fascinated both audience and film scholars for decades. Its lavish studio sets, expressionist lighting, and eye-popping cinematography lend iconic vibe to great many shots, with the ‘monster’ turned into the feature’s tragic hero / emotional core shining high above very human evil (partly embodied by Ernest Thesinger’s Mephistophelian doctor Pretorius). Karloff breathes soul into Frankenstein’s creation through the nuanced performance largely dependent on grunts, facial mimicry and limited wording, making you root for him, as the clever screenplay inspires diverse readings...</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>2. Poor Things (Yorgos Lanthimos, 2023)<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeUSd1Be1hSXQZSeoh_v6ks5MAP7M12Y2QZdK0tqdVwrftbr87-XZdCn7BypXBaKuMVJuLWcqV3W8yVTgo8ayQecquJGDTWeW6N9J21uF43Vdjiq_S5zMRKkGAl7WXyuAT81ojBtcM5fyJj2XpjhtWTYYVLSs8mkwHS1UTovuoFjFwYLf9skiJBZZV9AE/s1000/02%20Poor%20Things.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="563" data-original-width="1000" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeUSd1Be1hSXQZSeoh_v6ks5MAP7M12Y2QZdK0tqdVwrftbr87-XZdCn7BypXBaKuMVJuLWcqV3W8yVTgo8ayQecquJGDTWeW6N9J21uF43Vdjiq_S5zMRKkGAl7WXyuAT81ojBtcM5fyJj2XpjhtWTYYVLSs8mkwHS1UTovuoFjFwYLf9skiJBZZV9AE/w400-h225/02%20Poor%20Things.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></i></b></div><br />Even at his most accessible, Lanthimos is weird as fu*k... pardon, <i>‘furious jumping’</i>. A bizarrely constructed vehicle for Emma Stone’s bold, uninhibited performance, <i>‘Poor Things’</i> is a delightful blend of audacious sex comedy and sumptuous steampunk fantasy, striking the right balance between a raunchy crowd-pleaser and thought-out arthouse treat. Brimming with quotable, oft-irreverently / provokingly funny lines magically matched to whimsical, invasively tempting cacophonies by Jerskin Fendrix, this prurient beast of a feature eschews politeness in favor of cinematic excess, in equal measures overwhelming and engaging. Its costume (Holly Waddington) and set design (Shona Heath & James Price) bring forth an alternative, cotton-candied version of Victorian period straight out of a deranged fairy tale told from the distorted (fish-eye) perspective of its heroine, Bella. Stunningly framed by DoP Robbie Ryan, her emancipatory (r)evolution begins with an accidental discovery of <i>‘keeping oneself happy’</i> through a genital stimulation, and culminates in fluent French, social mindedness, the discovery of cynicism, and the pursuit of a medical career, as Lanthimos and screenwriter Tony McNamara play jokes on all men who want to control her.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>3. The Zone of Interest (Jonathan Glazer, 2023)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyu3JAbgZvXO7oYiHJu-ojwwag0URFZtrzqS8R0zPLUQBHeQB5P0pXMYyrzq-ggNIv-RRX77eGaxlhRlfZ8eDILyaxrSXdwhMd61tlvJ922ZFwD8M8l9PaeDHc3YXhw1545ukJq5b-ZcUUTFBdAAW9Y1JbHgFAvhkmEJjeq2Flb54F8rWbCn47EWdAuY4/s1000/03%20The%20Zone%20of%20Interest.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="563" data-original-width="1000" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyu3JAbgZvXO7oYiHJu-ojwwag0URFZtrzqS8R0zPLUQBHeQB5P0pXMYyrzq-ggNIv-RRX77eGaxlhRlfZ8eDILyaxrSXdwhMd61tlvJ922ZFwD8M8l9PaeDHc3YXhw1545ukJq5b-ZcUUTFBdAAW9Y1JbHgFAvhkmEJjeq2Flb54F8rWbCn47EWdAuY4/w400-h225/03%20The%20Zone%20of%20Interest.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /></b></div>Kubrickian perfectionism meets the formal austerity of Haneke in a petrifying portrait of normality that is anything but normal, and of evil so immense that it staggers the mind, as it instills discomfort in your very viscera. That evil is not banal, as some reviewers have branded it, but rather horrifically and grandiosely absurd in its meticulously planned monstrosity / calculated absence of compassion. The atrocities it brings forth remain unseen – literally, behind the tall, concrete wall that separates the garden of earthly delights from hell, but they are strongly and insidiously felt in every fiber of your being, if your being hasn’t been robbed of humanity... Glazer’s vision – founded in history’s tendency to repeat itself – is unfaltering; his tautly unsentimental direction finely attuned to Mica Levi’s solemnly moaning score, Johnnie Burn’s eerily haunting sound design, and Lukasz Zal’s stunningly oppressive framing of ugliness that ferments under the pretty surface.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>4. Banel e Adama / Banel & Adama (Ramata-Toulaye Sy, 2023)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqUmP5oj10FWxCMdYOHzfmmjVtO5S6DE5JiP5UV-xo-E5KLpt-MZ1BO1jXTl0N-ZjI5YYdzePcnZAnliSdwR8H2ayS1uWjSdLtg12zWeVYVWIT3DLqTIYvcJu94_cflZe5hO7gDsJ2gF3V6VBSinFoxGXY_VwXwlPMrJupq4isDGrWZszjVGPtw-_5xsE/s1000/04%20Banel%20&%20Adama.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="563" data-original-width="1000" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqUmP5oj10FWxCMdYOHzfmmjVtO5S6DE5JiP5UV-xo-E5KLpt-MZ1BO1jXTl0N-ZjI5YYdzePcnZAnliSdwR8H2ayS1uWjSdLtg12zWeVYVWIT3DLqTIYvcJu94_cflZe5hO7gDsJ2gF3V6VBSinFoxGXY_VwXwlPMrJupq4isDGrWZszjVGPtw-_5xsE/w400-h225/04%20Banel%20&%20Adama.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /></b></div>An aesthetically triumphant debut for Senegalese filmmaker Ramata-Toulaye Sy, <i>‘Banel and Adama’</i> exists in a liminal zone between the reality and a fairy tale, as it deals with the conflict of collective superstition set in the stone of reactionary customs, and individual open-mindedness embodied by a headstrong woman. Mythically archetypal in its nature, with raw energies of non-professional actors igniting the emotional core, this simple, yet highly poetic drama also reflects on climate changes, and the power(lessness) of love in the face of nature’s harshness. The drought-stricken village whose sandy monotony is broken by colorful drapes and costumes provides a borderline surreal mise en scène expertly framed by DP Amine Berrada, and gently veiled in a delicate aural tapestry by composer Bachar Khalifé. <br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>5. La fille aux yeux d'or / The Girl with the Golden Eyes (Jean-Gabriel Albicocco, 1961)<br /><br /></i></b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYuMP_drkWxuRG8CBoyFb8tce2EHRSGcNW7rO2RRJb_JngZC7DsJz7SgpOQ5Xi7SEakPOZtgW9TmqeDY4pCEkEpoTofSUerN_7qbgxvNtJJD_8GrrkyiVCse43g2Ze634MBITGDIopXz96KYzlDxrjdWk0FLarD-6GDv7z9ECPh0owSkDjCwt87vH72qE/s1000/05%20The%20Girl%20with%20the%20Golden%20Eyes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="1000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYuMP_drkWxuRG8CBoyFb8tce2EHRSGcNW7rO2RRJb_JngZC7DsJz7SgpOQ5Xi7SEakPOZtgW9TmqeDY4pCEkEpoTofSUerN_7qbgxvNtJJD_8GrrkyiVCse43g2Ze634MBITGDIopXz96KYzlDxrjdWk0FLarD-6GDv7z9ECPh0owSkDjCwt87vH72qE/w400-h240/05%20The%20Girl%20with%20the%20Golden%20Eyes.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="text-align: justify;"><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">In Jean-Gabriel Albicocco’s entrancing debut that appears as mature as a peculiar mixture of Antonioni and Resnais with the hints of Cocteau and Franju, love is in equal measures folie and melancholy; as bizarre as pigeons suddenly appearing and flying around the bedroom, and as clichéd as raindrops sliding down the window-glass. It feels like a slap in the face, as well as like a snow of feathers from a torn pillow; it makes one inebriated, and the other mysterious, while both fall victims of obsession. But, above all, it brings forth a super-reality (or rather, surreality?) in which lovers and the viewer get lost, until it starts disintegrating once the third player joins the whimsical romance.</div></span></div><p></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><div>A modernization of Honoré de Balzac’s 1835 novella of the same name, <i>‘The Girl with the Golden Eyes’</i> is one of the most gorgeously photographed films, by virtue of the director’s cinematographer father Quinto Albicocco. Its elegant, shadowy film-noir looks subtly complemented by wistful acoustic guitar of Spanish virtuoso Narciso Yepes establish a dense, dreamlike atmosphere so seductive and immersive that you often find the dialogue transformed into cryptic, irrational codes under the weight of the mesmerizing images. The admirable stylistic artifice is further elevated by the leading trio of Marie Laforêt, Paul Guers and Françoise Prévost whose performances are perfectly attuned to the poetic sensibility of their characters.</div></div><p></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>6. Plein soleil / Purple Noon (René Clément, 1960)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZl8kbptl2fj3PLS7YyN5RYbpB9deyemysjtLgI0nihcYQHA7w-TKYMgOdoAJtZ4x8g3rO8EVZVhGrUMA0qxibq8JDl_ZiGsmhyphenhyphenkgX3jXnALxp9LHHr24-_oqD4lHy_ZaTO3gdwP4DULQR8n8t0YCiuMqpsb-O4hvv2uf3GsuxJwsDP8LR6qd_sY532pc/s1000/06%20Plein%20Soleil.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="597" data-original-width="1000" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZl8kbptl2fj3PLS7YyN5RYbpB9deyemysjtLgI0nihcYQHA7w-TKYMgOdoAJtZ4x8g3rO8EVZVhGrUMA0qxibq8JDl_ZiGsmhyphenhyphenkgX3jXnALxp9LHHr24-_oqD4lHy_ZaTO3gdwP4DULQR8n8t0YCiuMqpsb-O4hvv2uf3GsuxJwsDP8LR6qd_sY532pc/w400-h239/06%20Plein%20Soleil.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /></b></div>Filmed as an invitation to a summer holiday in Italy (if only time travel were possible, to experience it in the 60’s), <i>‘Purple Noon’</i> is a loose adaptation of Patricia Highsmith’s 1955 novel <i>‘The Talented Mr. Ripley’</i>. I haven’t read the book, and I’d have to re-watch the 1999 film to make comparisons, but Clément’s version – a stark character study – appears tailor-made for Alain Delon, as everything and everyone gravitate towards him, or rather, the dangerous, yet fascinating antihero that he portrays. Largely reliant on the actor’s natural charisma and glassy, penetrating gaze, his performance is the very definition of magnetism, making the viewer root for this bad, devilishly clever boy, and thus challenging one’s own moral code. As compelling as Delon’s Tom Ripley is Clément’s assured direction, so neatly synergized with Nino Rota’s authentic score, seductive Mediterranean locations, and Henri Decaë’s handsome cinematography, elevating a crime story.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>7. Le orme / Footprints on the Moon (Luigi Bazzoni, 1975)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8VX0WkG5JWzvR7S-cN_mONBAHITxkLGVxOyZ_psKAlMoJqpdfOtLaJYJNVXkIds69zQIafsXL4UDWI04pc77KUTkQBGBjW7Ygz4dyUt-u25k6FWKkV4nsmSHDsacgBLOTNa06sDCi1YS-oqKKL0Sx5qfPfON1NAcy-U0OQgU2YsaDloi5yfWzsnrhGB0/s1000/07%20Le%20orme.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="541" data-original-width="1000" height="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8VX0WkG5JWzvR7S-cN_mONBAHITxkLGVxOyZ_psKAlMoJqpdfOtLaJYJNVXkIds69zQIafsXL4UDWI04pc77KUTkQBGBjW7Ygz4dyUt-u25k6FWKkV4nsmSHDsacgBLOTNa06sDCi1YS-oqKKL0Sx5qfPfON1NAcy-U0OQgU2YsaDloi5yfWzsnrhGB0/w400-h216/07%20Le%20orme.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /></b></div>Befittingly named Alice, an Italian translator – portrayed with utmost dedication and gripping intensity by Florida Bolkan – falls into the rabbit hole of her own deteriorating sanity. Plagued by a B&W nightmare in which an astronaut is left on the Moon under the command of Dr. Blackmann (an imposing cameo of Klaus Kinski), and suffering a memory loss of the past three days, she travels to the (fictitious) town of Garma (pictured in a torn postcard), in hope of figuring out what the hell has happened to her. Some of the locals there, including a red-haired horror-regular Nicoletta Elmi, believe she is a woman called Nicole, and seem to know more about her than she is willing to accept. The struggle between her conscious and unconscious mind, as well as the clash between her and others’ perceptions of not only her identity, but reality as well are distinctly mirrored in beautifully captured and strongly felt spaces, initially defined by rigid geometries of modern interiors and exteriors, and then increasingly ‘softened’ through curvier lines of Islamic architecture (Garma is represented by Turkish locations), natural environment (beach and forest), and stained glasses in the style of Art Nouveau. Luigi Bazzoni’s unhurried direction, Vittorio Storaro’s breathtaking framing, and Nicola Piovani’s haunting melodies create a dense, entrancing, at times stifling atmosphere that put you in the paranoid heroine’s shoes, and leave you with a bitter, yet satisfying aftertaste. <i>‘Footprints on the Moon’</i> may not be a masterful psychological drama, but it is a noteworthy fusion of substance and style; an obscure anomaly from the period largely remembered by black leather gloves and brightly colored blood.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>8. Glitterbug (Derek Jarman, 1994)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkoK2X8GouZzlCzcsQLuGbXgI4LiottwnCWi26sdwKlG9mYPDtfJKQJJtqolV5s9BpG_mf4pwE6Dj97Fg4SAZ_B_5ZwH2JyJerVtkWrJr1KlOA4AZYM19eJQ1BEIM_xDFGyX43iFRCL4w3x5wfD3A712GbtcUEtOPDsiXXN7bAZBHuGwjvqgm006hRRUU/s1000/08%20Glitterbug.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="1000" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkoK2X8GouZzlCzcsQLuGbXgI4LiottwnCWi26sdwKlG9mYPDtfJKQJJtqolV5s9BpG_mf4pwE6Dj97Fg4SAZ_B_5ZwH2JyJerVtkWrJr1KlOA4AZYM19eJQ1BEIM_xDFGyX43iFRCL4w3x5wfD3A712GbtcUEtOPDsiXXN7bAZBHuGwjvqgm006hRRUU/w400-h300/08%20Glitterbug.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /></b></div>A punk patchwork of Super 8 ‘sketches’ captured in the period of almost two decades, Derek Jarman’s swan song is a cornucopia of filmmaking techniques; a poignant, if distorted self-portrait that transcends its essayistic form, erasing the boundaries between the private life and cinema. Featuring many of the director’s friends, from William S. Burroughs to Tilda Swinton, <i>‘Glitterbug’</i> is a sparkling, wordless stream of grainy imagery that flows whimsically across an infinite, melancholic soundscape composed by Brian Eno, evoking the sublime feeling of sadness, at once crippling, romantic and liberating. It is the angelic conversation of the creator and creation, in the shadow of the Sun that acts like the tempest...<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>9. All of Us Strangers (Andrew Haigh, 2023)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWESWTcqRL6egfh-v8xyqYApyrS_T2Rl2QxB3xsuizwQz7Q79DDl_WYWmW6KYpMAvyB5PPvEumppPm5Zp_wb97CsuENwT2jw9cufo_-v4gPChEjr6iSQ6DRLF8VMhe7Nn63TkVp1HOy3DAb8Zw2S3UpXBnvjl5H-5hbLKbvGlfKDRaxvdeBRmq2RJJ7HY/s1000/09%20All%20of%20Us%20Strangers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="417" data-original-width="1000" height="166" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWESWTcqRL6egfh-v8xyqYApyrS_T2Rl2QxB3xsuizwQz7Q79DDl_WYWmW6KYpMAvyB5PPvEumppPm5Zp_wb97CsuENwT2jw9cufo_-v4gPChEjr6iSQ6DRLF8VMhe7Nn63TkVp1HOy3DAb8Zw2S3UpXBnvjl5H-5hbLKbvGlfKDRaxvdeBRmq2RJJ7HY/w400-h166/09%20All%20of%20Us%20Strangers.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /></b></div>A deeply moving story of loss, grief, love and loneliness, <i>‘All of Us Strangers’</i> is firmly anchored in stellar performances and convincing chemistry of the leading duo, Andrew Scott and Paul Mescal, spellbinding you with its delicate emotional textures bathed in warm lighting of Jamey Ramsay’s dreamy cinematography, and interwoven with soft aural threads of Emilie Levienaise-Farrouch’s melancholic score. The thick aura of nostalgia that envelopes the gently-paced proceedings materializes from the 80’s pop tunes which magically awaken the ghosts from the pasts for one last goodbye. If approached with a pure, sincere heart, this queer fairy tale provides a rewarding experience.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>10. Pequeños milagros / Little Miracles (Eliseo Subiela, 1997)</i></b><br /></div><p></p><div style="text-align: center;"><i>“I have no philosophy, I have senses...</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><i>If I speak of Nature it’s not because I know what it is</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>But because I love it, and for that very reason,</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Because those who love never know what they love</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Or why they love, or what love is.</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>To love is eternal innocence,</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>And the only innocence is not to think...”</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">― Fernando Pessoa, The Keeper of Sheep II<br /><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDJV3TTh8NBIVXtlwtEAIaj_PmMhn5KyEtoBs40k0lLh-b43EIVTATRQv_1VdPnuc8BKGhxpTKV_zJm3BWjBceChzwNC2RSXFs3XVXHq9lKHedZrcyPgfIo-oWr5vQVzilNdOSWpKNjlwyHRIdk9Z80WIq8zyzu2RHVhS9KAJCSrQ84MTNrYvyX-ZfJLg/s1000/10%2010.%20Peque%C3%B1os%20milagros.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="700" data-original-width="1000" height="280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDJV3TTh8NBIVXtlwtEAIaj_PmMhn5KyEtoBs40k0lLh-b43EIVTATRQv_1VdPnuc8BKGhxpTKV_zJm3BWjBceChzwNC2RSXFs3XVXHq9lKHedZrcyPgfIo-oWr5vQVzilNdOSWpKNjlwyHRIdk9Z80WIq8zyzu2RHVhS9KAJCSrQ84MTNrYvyX-ZfJLg/w400-h280/10%2010.%20Peque%C3%B1os%20milagros.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div>The sweetest and most humane of four Subiela’s films that I’ve seen, <i>‘Little Miracles’</i> is a sensitive ode to (demure) adults who never lost their inner child. Directed with a keen sense of wonder, no trace of irony, and great sympathy for the characters, it follows a couple of lonely, lovely souls – a young supermarket cashier, Rosalía (Julieta Ortega, embodying innocence), who believes to be a fairy, and volunteers as a reader for the blind, and a nerdy scientist, Santiago (Antonio Birabent at his most introvert) who lives with his basset hound Lola, and works in the Institute for Radio-Astronomy, searching for extraterrestrial intelligence. Connected only through a web-camera installed at a bus-station in what can be labeled as ‘a subversion of voyeurism through romantic yearning’, the two go about their lives as the viewer roots for their encounter, basking in the warmth of Daniel Rodríguez Maseda’s cozy cinematography, poetic quotes from Fernando Pessoa, and euphonious score by Alex Khaskin and Osvaldo Montes. Magic does exist.</div></div><p></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>11. Reflections in a Golden Eye (John Huston, 1967)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoiRiuB1uRPI_CUOSQGeGBfGLnyv9phdC3Y69PKaCqLdU8Dc_HPn9apih0jjjCEKM0vQQAeBC0L_I5B4SMbeqS7d50yf1NgcOUBFWNL7LutSi9Al6xIgpgRhpZTjotkAM3Utgw9ZfXjkK2CN1Pl2X_O9wQaQFApY6dhGlJoR9OVCVNtW2BSQgKUvgGMak/s1000/11%20Reflections%20in%20a%20Golden%20Eye.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="416" data-original-width="1000" height="166" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoiRiuB1uRPI_CUOSQGeGBfGLnyv9phdC3Y69PKaCqLdU8Dc_HPn9apih0jjjCEKM0vQQAeBC0L_I5B4SMbeqS7d50yf1NgcOUBFWNL7LutSi9Al6xIgpgRhpZTjotkAM3Utgw9ZfXjkK2CN1Pl2X_O9wQaQFApY6dhGlJoR9OVCVNtW2BSQgKUvgGMak/w400-h166/11%20Reflections%20in%20a%20Golden%20Eye.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /></b></div>Beautifully framed in gilded widescreen, while swarming with suggestive lines, and overt symbolism, John Huston’s naughty melodrama eschews subtlety in favor of a stark, daring exploration of repressed desires – homosexual in the case of Marlon Brando’s character, major Weldon Penderton, and heterosexual for a reticent soldier, L.G. Williams, in a stoic, virtually dialogue-free portrayal by Robert Forster. Entangled in a sticky web of simmering emotions, Weldon lusts for private (parts of) Williams who embarks on nocturnal adventures that involve sniffing the lingerie of Mrs. Penderton (Elizabeth Taylor, camping things up) who enjoys riding her white stallion and ‘picking blueberries’ along with her next-door neighbor, Colonel Morris Langdon (Brian Keith). Mrs. Langdon (Julie Harris) suffers from deep, nipple-cutting depression after losing a child, and finds comfort in her gay Pinoy manservant, Anacleto (Zorro David), much to the annoyance of her cheating husband. Such a set-up can only lead to tragedy portended by a quote from Carson McCullers whose 1941 novel of the same name is adapted by first-time writers Gladys Hill and Chapman Mortimer, to be subjected to firmly held directorial reins or rather, horsewhip. In someone else’s hands, <i>‘Reflections in a Golden Eye’</i> would’ve easily slipped out of control, but Huston nails just the right tone in the depiction of painful yearning, voyeurism, sadism, but above all, his main protagonist’s fallout, with Brando’s superbly committed performance lending gravitas to the gold-cold proceedings.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>12. Le règne animal / The Animal Kingdom (Thomas Cailley, 2023)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGgJepcX7GH3_QGE1rx5JJrF-kPo_KUqswLxyxkiYefXa0Ne1YyxSnBznMwX_XU0BlzzVe6rIA8oodkgbp0B2RTQBaC03l46bS5EzdyH5hi5u3C4fEES0bFlbGnsq6WsK6g0z-45cl7DwMS9G2y3R2VkVr4TAhBrh3OYi0P7nGc1_E8792D895jrUAWs4/s1000/12%20Le%20r%C3%A8gne%20animal.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="419" data-original-width="1000" height="168" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGgJepcX7GH3_QGE1rx5JJrF-kPo_KUqswLxyxkiYefXa0Ne1YyxSnBznMwX_XU0BlzzVe6rIA8oodkgbp0B2RTQBaC03l46bS5EzdyH5hi5u3C4fEES0bFlbGnsq6WsK6g0z-45cl7DwMS9G2y3R2VkVr4TAhBrh3OYi0P7nGc1_E8792D895jrUAWs4/w400-h168/12%20Le%20r%C3%A8gne%20animal.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /></b></div>The beauty of the beast and the ugliness of discrimination. A genre-bending examination of otherness and our relation to it, refracted through dichotomies – parent/child, society/individual, acceptance/rejection, cruelty/compassion. Coming-of-age drama whose fantastical premise is treated with the utmost realism, and tonal shifts handled with great skill. Cailley elicits extraordinary performances from his cast, with 22-yo Paul Kircher standing out in his full-fledged portrayal of a conflicted teenager whose transition to adulthood is made extra difficult through a lupine twist. The protagonist and other mutants of ‘The Animal Kingdom’ may bring to mind films such as <i>‘Nightbreed’</i> and/or <i>‘X-Men’</i>, but what we have here is... well, a different animal, flawed, yet lovable.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>13. Brzezina / The Birch Wood (Andrzej Wajda, 1970)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjZ1hd4jvhZm7jrRmrtLrY1bE2pZQ_vARDybLBx1qfF9c61mhUBP90hi9mQKmWnQ0nvEHS6itDD94qwkB1CG7AUZ7_45mTHRSRKS1UYvasfFmJ3NoI4NzlbMqkkX4iSFTrSMxsxXzvk7s6EZWObyaast7D83mTXWCN3z9kaWxRyzXwUPD8LI-aqfhQuFM/s1000/13%20Brzezina.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="1000" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjZ1hd4jvhZm7jrRmrtLrY1bE2pZQ_vARDybLBx1qfF9c61mhUBP90hi9mQKmWnQ0nvEHS6itDD94qwkB1CG7AUZ7_45mTHRSRKS1UYvasfFmJ3NoI4NzlbMqkkX4iSFTrSMxsxXzvk7s6EZWObyaast7D83mTXWCN3z9kaWxRyzXwUPD8LI-aqfhQuFM/w400-h300/13%20Brzezina.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /></b></div>The film is Polish, but the colors of Zygmunt Samosiuk’s spellbinding cinematography speak a variety of languages, so the intense palette – a reflection of seasonal changes – alone is the reason enough to spend 90 minutes with it. An ode to life sung from the perspective of a tuberculosis-stricken musician, Stanislaw (Olgierd Łukaszewicz), and continually interrupted by the mournful sulking of his older brother, Boleslaw (Daniel Olbrychski), <i>‘The Birch Wood’</i> washes over the viewer like a fever dream of repressed emotions and incestuous desires. Oscillating between Stanisław’s lustful optimism and Bolesław’s fierce irritability, all the while squeezed between the two wars, this heightened, somewhat mannered drama strikes you as both deeply melancholic and broodingly joyful, fortified by ardent central performances.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>14. Jigokumon / Gate of Hell (Teinosuke Kinugasa, 1953)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiocz7T_ZnCqqyLW0YdujLKVZlJ9kSTSMg4YYq7XJB7GXUWQGh5IEWFq_pxdmJ-KyOIP1X9IJXBJNwb81CVVpkd9udBHMfpjnm-S2Ei-3s83QTEu7YyC13tOqjGOiBg0NO58svCHnuN6i5cTbEldmpGgixotipkn5CFW9EE85c8dli_8yKMgbSrAt8aHdY/s1000/14%20%20Jigokumon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="728" data-original-width="1000" height="291" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiocz7T_ZnCqqyLW0YdujLKVZlJ9kSTSMg4YYq7XJB7GXUWQGh5IEWFq_pxdmJ-KyOIP1X9IJXBJNwb81CVVpkd9udBHMfpjnm-S2Ei-3s83QTEu7YyC13tOqjGOiBg0NO58svCHnuN6i5cTbEldmpGgixotipkn5CFW9EE85c8dli_8yKMgbSrAt8aHdY/w400-h291/14%20%20Jigokumon.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /></b></div>The first color film for the Daiei Film studio, <i>‘Gate of Hell’</i> appears like a Japanese art scroll brought to life and then gently injected with the concentrated solution of George Barnard’s <i><a href="https://images.fineartamerica.com/images/artworkimages/mediumlarge/3/harmonious-arrangement-of-pigments-i1-historic-illustrations.jpg">‘Harmonious Arrangement of Pigments’</a></i>, transfixing the viewer’s gaze with the spellbinding costume design alone. But make no mistake, the 12th century tale presented here is not a ‘jidaigeki’ spectacle, but rather a sternly solemn meditation on destructive obsession, unrequited passion, and the nature of honor. Its serene or rather, extremely disciplined surface conceals a torrent of conflicting emotions threatening to break the shackles of intense formality, yet the mask of quietude never cracks, primarily by virtue of Kinugasa’s unhurried, methodical direction, and mannered, dignified performances from his cast, especially by Machiko Kyō of <i>‘Rashomon’</i> fame.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><i><b>15. Spider Baby, or the Maddest Story Ever Told (Jack Hill, 1967)<br /><br /></b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPp9-6QbnazCxrOON-RX2QlZmOhyXX4oQ2shSHwSjrkV2fljMjeoZoJMItH-dK3sa1AynLb6NhFyCjeSKgugeJirfM-ZFTpZLklKETX5Gq1A5x9kwLVTUDOMR9Hpjnz5PiBiyWOhzEo9fR8H_vDFuM4fi-yJ9b59wWDTuEC_lefobs-8tOgeXFHLczQ2M/s1000/15%20Spider%20Baby.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="1000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPp9-6QbnazCxrOON-RX2QlZmOhyXX4oQ2shSHwSjrkV2fljMjeoZoJMItH-dK3sa1AynLb6NhFyCjeSKgugeJirfM-ZFTpZLklKETX5Gq1A5x9kwLVTUDOMR9Hpjnz5PiBiyWOhzEo9fR8H_vDFuM4fi-yJ9b59wWDTuEC_lefobs-8tOgeXFHLczQ2M/w400-h240/15%20Spider%20Baby.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /></i></div>One of the most enjoyable pieces of camp cinema I’ve ever seen, <i>‘Spider Baby’</i> delivers a splendidly twisted blend of humor and horror, with its setting – a creaky, shadow-infested mansion of ‘impossible’ architecture – creating a ton of spooky atmosphere, and the trio of Jill Banner, Beverly Washburn and Sid Haig giving mischievously stellar takes on demented siblings at the core of the story. At once cartoonish and disturbing, the film is elevated to a whole new level by virtue of Lon Chaney Jr.’s emotive performance in the role of Bruno – a chauffeur turned guardian of family secrets, and it even dares to veer into a sexploitation territory, the courtesy of Carol Ohmart (<i>House on Haunted Hill</i>) in black lingerie that anticipates Victoria’s Secret. It gives the impression that both the cast and behind-the-camera crew had a whale of time shooting it, limited by the shoestring budget, but liberated by their combined creative energies.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>Honorable mention (short):</i></b></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><i><b>Last Spring (François Reichenbach, 1954)<br /><br /></b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDq-QEJ1LNVo3a472jLbSEPpabziQ7hsxfRNOpXEfXh1C1xSI5OKQNB3aPbJcL5EARD2635oSvXHTSGdHayispMsEZQ9P07hynQPlAK0-kfUH639DImenMwCRRdMF4m7pFvH4bDZxRB3NN3ekTCpjllbktTkUS83GbrXVeUbVDER5e7F_bwqSUg6PG4LY/s1000/HM%20Last%20Spring.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="730" data-original-width="1000" height="293" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDq-QEJ1LNVo3a472jLbSEPpabziQ7hsxfRNOpXEfXh1C1xSI5OKQNB3aPbJcL5EARD2635oSvXHTSGdHayispMsEZQ9P07hynQPlAK0-kfUH639DImenMwCRRdMF4m7pFvH4bDZxRB3NN3ekTCpjllbktTkUS83GbrXVeUbVDER5e7F_bwqSUg6PG4LY/w400-h293/HM%20Last%20Spring.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /></i></div>A cinematically eloquent portrait of longing, as well as a historically significant piece of queer cinema, <i>‘Last Spring’</i> is a mighty fine example of visual storytelling, greatly influenced by Jean Cocteau, particularly in the dream sequence that comprises the second half of the film, with James Dean’s movie persona inspiring the appearance of two lovers (played by non-professional actors, no doubt). Tamer than its colorful, boldly homoerotic counterpart <i>‘Nus masculins’</i> (produced in the same year), this romantic drama eschews dialogue in favor of inventive camerawork (intimate close-ups, suggestive low angles, melancholy-infused long shots, oneiric superimpositions, etc), anticipating the free-wheeling tendencies of the New Wave.</div><p></p>Nikola Gocićhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10802422474421337350noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3195252471961511941.post-63425025606082929342024-02-01T11:11:00.002+01:002024-02-01T11:33:23.658+01:00Best Premiere Viewings of January 2024<p></p><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>1. O fovos / The Fear (Kostas Manoussakis, 1966)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV-b4ELhZebwb0R5SG9zLStkqRN6ze7iScXMGLw8bZzSEQ5h9yvZYVfRWRzl_8q9byx_vzbwN7I0X49GIpYLRNsnltG5STKsTXwyxpnmXcuOXsTdxJvWN7O4jpveM5Vt879CvC0RJUcq4v8w1P1csib5Z92MVEiZZQ7Bff0UbQLPfElaH98AQg7VKE-ns/s1000/01%20O%20fovos.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="1000" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV-b4ELhZebwb0R5SG9zLStkqRN6ze7iScXMGLw8bZzSEQ5h9yvZYVfRWRzl_8q9byx_vzbwN7I0X49GIpYLRNsnltG5STKsTXwyxpnmXcuOXsTdxJvWN7O4jpveM5Vt879CvC0RJUcq4v8w1P1csib5Z92MVEiZZQ7Bff0UbQLPfElaH98AQg7VKE-ns/w640-h480/01%20O%20fovos.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: justify;">A stunning closure of a regrettably short filmography (Kostas Manoussakis made only three features), <i>‘The Fear’</i> is a stark, psychologically uneasy portrayal of sexual frustration and patriarchal pathogeny. Set against the pastoral Greek countryside, to a superb, unnervingly pulsating score by Yannis Markopoulos, it tells a grim story of a heinous crime and its aftermath, plunging the viewer into the twisted mind of a villain – the son of a wealthy farmer – portrayed with chilling austerity by Anestis Vlahos. Both the build up to his appalling act (rape & murder), and the ensuing downfall of the family turned accomplices are gripping in equal measures by virtue of Nikos Gardelis’s gorgeous, high-contrast B&W cinematography, with Giorgos Tsaoulis’s dramatic editing heightening the tension. The film’s most memorable highlights are dialogue-free sequences, such as the ‘staring clash’ between Vlahos and Elena Nathanail (who plays the perpetrator’s half-sister, Anna) in the wheatfield, and the very epilogue – a dizzying dance montage fraught with symbolism.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>2. Nar-o-nay / Pomegranate and Cane (Saeed Ebrahimifar, 1989)</i></b><br /></div><p></p><div style="text-align: center;"><i>“... And a shadow of my father’s hand was in the cupboard.”<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBD6XWt7pgh4MeJD9aKRRD-M0Kg3iW5qhl2K1AV05E4wirbMMt-b3KuZ3FmmTslEjzMO5TU1zHeSqFQKjyXfcRF9ugNbPKyd6THlMNAS2axxvezSbYHsBbwJKRHc6o6Yg8U14PldWSpQ_kpouwopOWkscYr0-w8Yd4vSaxZMwLREKi7j4uzq_5Fbi8V3s/s1000/02%20Nar-o-nay.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="679" data-original-width="1000" height="434" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBD6XWt7pgh4MeJD9aKRRD-M0Kg3iW5qhl2K1AV05E4wirbMMt-b3KuZ3FmmTslEjzMO5TU1zHeSqFQKjyXfcRF9ugNbPKyd6THlMNAS2axxvezSbYHsBbwJKRHc6o6Yg8U14PldWSpQ_kpouwopOWkscYr0-w8Yd4vSaxZMwLREKi7j4uzq_5Fbi8V3s/w640-h434/02%20Nar-o-nay.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div>Permeated by a bittersweet scent of nostalgia, and gently illuminated by elements of magic realism, Saeed Ebrahimifar’s debut is one of those films that make you deeply fall in love with cinema once again. A silky tapestry of one stranger’s memories as experienced through the imagination of a photographer protagonist, this tone poem of life and ennobling nature of art reaches the very depths of one’s soul, bringing to mind the likes of Mani Kaul and Sergei Parajanov. Its potent and sublime lyricism emerges from the knowing use of elegantly framed imagery in an oneiric fusion with poignant silences, sparse dialogues, introspective voice-over, and melancholic score of largely traditional melodies. That highly memorable tracking shot through the hospital corridor which takes us from the (bleak) present to the (romaticized) past gives the impression of a master, and not a beginner behind the camera.</div></div><p></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>3. Chłopi / The Peasants (DK Welchman & Hugh Welchman, 2023)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha882Yd4soH8b_WSEbSU-g5QdBC2xF26xe_RzuVAdTPyF08fhIgua-WxdYkbBvqRN9QwSanusi2nzN3LjcBf-MfhP21t1nR6PGnwxaw_Ol2ZCmJilLEmWpbKrSAkn5LxoV36krTxgAUb_iuIraTZNy4jpBvBtW0zGrNCqbdGQTsFwbOa75tFACNXxMrhw/s1000/03%20Chlopi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="541" data-original-width="1000" height="346" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha882Yd4soH8b_WSEbSU-g5QdBC2xF26xe_RzuVAdTPyF08fhIgua-WxdYkbBvqRN9QwSanusi2nzN3LjcBf-MfhP21t1nR6PGnwxaw_Ol2ZCmJilLEmWpbKrSAkn5LxoV36krTxgAUb_iuIraTZNy4jpBvBtW0zGrNCqbdGQTsFwbOa75tFACNXxMrhw/w640-h346/03%20Chlopi.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /></b></div>The directorial duo behind <i>‘Loving Vincent’</i> makes a triumphant return with an adaptation of Władysław S. Reymont’s Nobel prize-winning novel of the same name. Once again, their team pushes the boundaries of rotoscope animation, delivering a film in which literally every frame is an oil painting. When viewed on the big screen, it creates an overwhelming experience of poignant beauty, regardless of your attitude towards the art of realism. Nothing short of breathtaking, <i>‘The Peasants’</i> represents a combined effort of more than one hundred painters from Poland, Lithuania, Ukraine and Serbia, with their painstaking brush strokes stirring a symphony of emotions. Wonderfully complemented by Lukasz Rostkowski’s evocative score inspired by traditional music, the deeply immersive visuals also serve as an ‘absorbent’ for the ugliness of human nature that is reflected in the characters’ hypocrisies and actions. Orbiting around an independent-thinking heroine, Jagna (Kamila Urzędowska whose magnetic presence is only matched by her acting talent), the villagers are portrayed as a colorful, if eventually appalling bunch, their herd mentality – a seemingly incurable malady even in this day and age – subjected to the Welchmans’ critical blade.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>4. Il nido del ragno / The Spider Labyrinth (Gianfranco Giagni, 1988)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh591j_fzhVebYevYXB8PQporIuXtrGbwxpbzqQmL4RSgYzmqaguOzeqLhe4LT7hIlnbW4K40TuUKBB-ISCMPFay0u0NKYaA-_9-vDynJjTbN6Bbe3cvPcv1AGwp-jgCh732X4C4JRL77aIfpUqKpXGaP5i7-O_CensvO2DkNN9ZWMOI3Ay9m2ZpJEzFlA/s1000/04%20Il%20nido%20del%20ragno.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="540" data-original-width="1000" height="346" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh591j_fzhVebYevYXB8PQporIuXtrGbwxpbzqQmL4RSgYzmqaguOzeqLhe4LT7hIlnbW4K40TuUKBB-ISCMPFay0u0NKYaA-_9-vDynJjTbN6Bbe3cvPcv1AGwp-jgCh732X4C4JRL77aIfpUqKpXGaP5i7-O_CensvO2DkNN9ZWMOI3Ay9m2ZpJEzFlA/w640-h346/04%20Il%20nido%20del%20ragno.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /></b></div>In his fascinating debut – a beautifully photographed love letter to the masters of Italian horror, Gianfranco Giagni transforms Budapest into a mystical maze, employing the city’s distinct, kaleidoscopic architectural character as a ‘thickening agent’ for the immersively foreboding atmosphere. That alone is reason enough to see this lesser known piece of gothic/occult cinema that brings to mind both Bava and Argento by way of its stylish lighting, and anticipates <i>‘The Ninth Gate’</i> through the narrative structure. Justifying its title, <i>‘The Spider Labyrinth’</i> weaves a sticky web of intrigue and secrecy around its protagonist Alan Whitmore (the first out of only three screen appearances of Roland Wybenga) – a young professor of oriental languages, and pulls him ever deeper into a surreal nightmare that evokes his childhood phobia. Ancient evil lurks behind every corner or rather, in a courtyard surrounded by ramshackle walls, among the tables and chairs of a posh hotel restaurant, above the spiral staircase, inside a windowless room and in a well-hidden antique shop, with the brilliant production design by art director Stefano Ortolani keeping you glued to the screen. Even the aged stop-motion effects, and creature animatronics in the finale add to the film’s irresistibly esoteric charm, whereby Wybenga and his partner Paola Rinaldi (as one enigmatic Genevieve) elevate its sexiness in a couple of steamy scenes.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>5. El lado oscuro del corazón / The Dark Side of the Heart (Eliseo Subiela, 1992)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8XIJoscfMrNOIB7nebt1fatP__6avKDmXYY0jmuQMHjACuh6e_bExWl3kqsV36Mif8dWBVXU9ZP4kvb0AzMbJv_TjsmWp4R4gSUzuLWY1tA1sj_gykxMcqKqNC2Z8Uxii8gNbkwc4EpoBbJHiFHayTo3o1adjzeDCrL8Ho9RRDYRw0y_oEqHKDvqkpaE/s1000/05%20El%20lado%20oscuro%20del%20coraz%C3%B3n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="563" data-original-width="1000" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8XIJoscfMrNOIB7nebt1fatP__6avKDmXYY0jmuQMHjACuh6e_bExWl3kqsV36Mif8dWBVXU9ZP4kvb0AzMbJv_TjsmWp4R4gSUzuLWY1tA1sj_gykxMcqKqNC2Z8Uxii8gNbkwc4EpoBbJHiFHayTo3o1adjzeDCrL8Ho9RRDYRw0y_oEqHKDvqkpaE/w640-h360/05%20El%20lado%20oscuro%20del%20coraz%C3%B3n.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /></b></div><i>“Today’s man, as evolved as he thinks he is, hasn’t totally accepted his sexuality as God intended. Most of our problems are caused by people who haven’t had a good fuck. Badly fucked army officers and politicians... The masses are fucked too, but they are unable to find answers to the sexual violence of exploitation.”</i><br /><br />The elements of magic realism appear as completely natural in the cinema of a country that gave us Jorge Luis Borges (1899-1986). Knowingly incorporated into a (romantic) story revolving around a young idealist poet, Oliveiro (Darío Grandinetti, superb), here they manifest themselves through wry humor, carnal desires, and gusts of melancholy, oft-elevating the most banal situations into the realm of the sublime. As we follow the disheveled, rebellious, Mario Benedetti-quoting protagonist on his quest for a woman who can fly, not metaphorically, but literally, we see him disposing of one-night stands through a bed trap-door, conversing with Death (Nacha Guevara, at her most goth) who wields job ads instead of scythe, pulling a nine-feet tall statue of... ahem... guess-what through the streets of Buenos Aires, and tearing out his heart for a pragmatic, well-read prostitute, Ana (Sandra Ballesteros, utterly magnetic), the only one who meets his high standards of ecstatic levitation. At turns decidedly ridiculous, poetically salacious, nonchalantly philosophical, and emotionally resonant, <i>‘The Dark Side of the Heart’</i> is the film tailor-made for artistic, as well as other weird and passionate souls whose fire melts the shackles of mundanity, and rips open the portals to new realities. In the rare moments of outstaying its welcome, it still manages to keep you involved by virtue of Subiela’s keen sense of style, Hugo Colace’s handsome lensing, and/or enchanting soundtrack by Osvaldo Montes.</div><p></p><p></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>6. Dust (Marion Hänsel, 1985)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrQEyhMe3jfnCkphA7ginAItrJRIZgCZ3gNtusD9zYglZdHHRMpP8d_Fbo6xs6SB8FJYzhrMfexPmb7z04rbqLG8boKUCUTJahvSqzIS9j5pK7y7sHdjuH52PqTsQ4y6aR8Vy5_z_81DskAL0Teg4wBtpVfElB6_jJY3GEDKSnTkDR5i5ypc5QS9amxyU/s1000/06%20Dust.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="563" data-original-width="1000" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrQEyhMe3jfnCkphA7ginAItrJRIZgCZ3gNtusD9zYglZdHHRMpP8d_Fbo6xs6SB8FJYzhrMfexPmb7z04rbqLG8boKUCUTJahvSqzIS9j5pK7y7sHdjuH52PqTsQ4y6aR8Vy5_z_81DskAL0Teg4wBtpVfElB6_jJY3GEDKSnTkDR5i5ypc5QS9amxyU/w640-h360/06%20Dust.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /></b></div>Jane Birkin’s astute portrayal of Magda – a sexually frustrated spinster going through a mental breakdown – imposes as the major focal point in Marion Hänsel’s adaptation of J. M. Coetzee’s 1977 novel <i>‘In the Heart of the Country’</i>. Bound by servitude to her domineering father (Trevor Howard), Magda is a tragic heroine whose unreliable narration raises questions about what is real and what is but a figment of her imagination, leaving the viewer emotionally conflicted about her. The claustrophobic tone which Hänsel sets throughout the film, with a small, semi-desert farm setting mirroring the protagonist’s troubled state of mind, intensifies the viewing experience, in equal measures fascinating and harrowing. Not even the warmest hues of Walther van den Ende’s entrancing cinematography can conceal, let alone absorb the dry, overwhelming distress that weighs upon this stark character study, as it slowly creeps into you...<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b>7. Faraon / Pharaoh (Jerzy Kawalerowicz, 1966)<br /><br /></b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqo9NsRZN42B1iDVu1tUyYoUZxMLQqOA_Pr0LGhQ5H8LLkwEtqEc5R6WtRkdFILNTfDi-8YbtGFgJFvwVHETowQqOx9H52PTU-AHoIem-WWjiEujq604jvDyn-0n3OlQFcDJAWQLceiOIoKR2PbcLDNRs0QlsXX8Q91DYRuCHBgOK13W6ropRKrJ8U03s/s1000/07%20Faraon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="425" data-original-width="1000" height="272" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqo9NsRZN42B1iDVu1tUyYoUZxMLQqOA_Pr0LGhQ5H8LLkwEtqEc5R6WtRkdFILNTfDi-8YbtGFgJFvwVHETowQqOx9H52PTU-AHoIem-WWjiEujq604jvDyn-0n3OlQFcDJAWQLceiOIoKR2PbcLDNRs0QlsXX8Q91DYRuCHBgOK13W6ropRKrJ8U03s/w640-h272/07%20Faraon.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /></div>At once alienating and fascinating, Jerzy Kawalerowicz’s vision of ancient Egypt – an adaptation of the 19th century novel of the same name by Bolesław Prus – recounts a timeless tale of power struggle, boasting a state-of-the-art production and costume design in beautifully harmonized shades of sand, gold and bronze, with a decidedly stilted performances lending the film a dense aura of solemn ritual. Cinematically engaging in its carefully measured use of symmetrical composition and God’s eye view, tracking and subjective shots, subtle and overt eroticism, diegetic sounds and operatic chants, <i>‘Pharaoh’</i> can be labeled as a ‘Brutalist epic’ whose very scope demands the viewer’s appreciation.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>8. The Mystical Rose (Michael Lee, 1976)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtAeeYMKU1xx6RP-I9m0kL0_r8v3xo9EURafXb53x1hBnyBkQmLih-QKOrG-etVeluH20qAyKeGAnVJX6sBA2tSkko0TcIovYv_CnWLmRh8zNS4ytBzkoCcathA_RyyJAA6vNEXnW5YcgsSJhx1i1of_iEluMIesZJ5mCYHZEp3wvjJEe4wUY4OJX0CNA/s1000/08%20The%20Mystical%20Rose.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="1000" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtAeeYMKU1xx6RP-I9m0kL0_r8v3xo9EURafXb53x1hBnyBkQmLih-QKOrG-etVeluH20qAyKeGAnVJX6sBA2tSkko0TcIovYv_CnWLmRh8zNS4ytBzkoCcathA_RyyJAA6vNEXnW5YcgsSJhx1i1of_iEluMIesZJ5mCYHZEp3wvjJEe4wUY4OJX0CNA/w640-h426/08%20The%20Mystical%20Rose.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /></b></div>Holy penis of Yeshua Ha-Nozri, what did I watch?! A freewheeling hybrid of cut-out animation à la Larry Jordan by way of Terry Gilliam, live-action sequences ranging from a masturbation to a sheep slaughter to a religious procession, and archive footage serving as a witty break from the overload of sexually suggestive imagery (that brings to mind Marcel Mariën’s obscure 1959 short <i>‘The Imitation of Cinema’</i>), <i>‘The Mystical Rose’</i> is a singular piece of (wildly!) experimental cinema which can probably be used in a fertility ritual... if screened backwards. Playfully subversive, ravingly iconoclastic and seductively arrhythmical, it provides you with a non-stop barrage of surrealistic / stream-of-conscious / symbolic visuals that evoke hippy trips of Pierre Clémenti at their most psychedelic, and appear to take cues from the likes of Luis Buñuel, Kenneth Anger and Fernando Arrabal when it comes to transgression tactics. <br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>9. Eileen (William Oldroyd, 2023)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7Tov9eGIs43j2Is852BIkxBtrEY7KC3bfTLzUz7zsJZTlNaL3pvcYJo9zWlXXDVD4cD_7O_8_S7Akh34-Rg8vYdttdwxH0r0OpGhDggOUzZ2KfPedCRYEeDPkxBuIETkody8-WSQJEwtq3lkfiRUxOu55UryZMx3MtaDz_QTrBE836XvYGiQuGMiaImw/s1000/09%20Eileen.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="601" data-original-width="1000" height="384" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7Tov9eGIs43j2Is852BIkxBtrEY7KC3bfTLzUz7zsJZTlNaL3pvcYJo9zWlXXDVD4cD_7O_8_S7Akh34-Rg8vYdttdwxH0r0OpGhDggOUzZ2KfPedCRYEeDPkxBuIETkody8-WSQJEwtq3lkfiRUxOu55UryZMx3MtaDz_QTrBE836XvYGiQuGMiaImw/w640-h384/09%20Eileen.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /></b></div>They don’t make them like they used to... and then, this flick comes along. Set in 60’s Massachusetts, and feeling like a lost, at once offbeat and suave artifact from the past, <i>‘Eileen’</i> is a tautly controlled amalgam of an intriguing character study, stylish Hitchcockian thriller and latent lesbian romance, with a dash of delicious pulp spicing up the placidly paced proceedings. Its silent forte lies in the opposed, yet superbly harmonized central performances from Anne Hathaway and Thomasin McKenzie whose (anti?)heroine has such a vivid imagination, that you are left questioning the reliability of the whole story. Behind the quaint veneer of a small town, William Oldroyd conceals some perverse secrets, subverting the American myth of familial love, and delivering a down-to-earth neo-noir of attractively grainy visuals complemented by a cool jazzy score.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>10. Le Cœur battant / The French Game (Jacques Doniol-Valcroze, 1960)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk9TIw1ZpMHYllJf5K53xR3OmtDhTLOVjYt1AWwOdFTF63Spk0sKKiuGK0ILNFbYZ8TtXtqbBXX5qdRbhU-f65r5udsSSkBlx6nBU0EGlfKine7dF4jKepG7jFwcytmAu1U7CY_W8p6Gnhm3se4T3nVeqcgj5BGPH26x3DcapDEwK-NDjUVGtT_tnKiBk/s1000/10%20Le%20C%C5%93ur%20battant.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="599" data-original-width="1000" height="384" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk9TIw1ZpMHYllJf5K53xR3OmtDhTLOVjYt1AWwOdFTF63Spk0sKKiuGK0ILNFbYZ8TtXtqbBXX5qdRbhU-f65r5udsSSkBlx6nBU0EGlfKine7dF4jKepG7jFwcytmAu1U7CY_W8p6Gnhm3se4T3nVeqcgj5BGPH26x3DcapDEwK-NDjUVGtT_tnKiBk/w640-h384/10%20Le%20C%C5%93ur%20battant.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /></b></div>Call me old-fashioned, overly nostalgic or just plain silly, but I find it utterly charming when actors in old movies talk on rotary telephones, making the use of mobiles in modern cinema appear borderline vulgar. And when you have Françoise Brion and Jean-Louis Trintignant in their prime holding handsets, the sight comes across as more electrifying than usual. With sparkling chemistry, sheer elegance and great charisma, the duo portray gallerist assistant Dominique and abstract painter François in a sweet romantic dramedy of subtle humor and breezy atmosphere that elevate even the most uneventful portions of the story. Two sides of a love triangle, they play quirky little games during a holiday spent in a seaside resort, which allows DoP Christian Matras to treat us to some beautiful shots of a couple on a (magically) vacant beach. That doesn’t mean the imagery captured in a hotel and narrow streets around it is any less attractive – on the contrary, his camera transmutes the most banal of scenes into visual poetry so seductive that you’re rarely bothered by how saccharine Michel Legrand’s score sounds...<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>11. Door (Banmei Takahashi, 1988)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnsv6OJ6HXpi2sF1RSy3y8qx1Frd1iqFBw2sYZoM1j1ks_MiAiWZZIXQU26_ew6RkGS9C2WoOyAi74KYy8JJOA1_kf_yAKUllqo8HfBcU3ngTLm3IIDXf3p_wtG3rNW1MUhm4W2SGIaIx7iOWaOOZNqqovZNzQzsSIUdFKjYDiZa4u-bIXFnxwVA5C26k/s1000/11%20Door.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="539" data-original-width="1000" height="344" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnsv6OJ6HXpi2sF1RSy3y8qx1Frd1iqFBw2sYZoM1j1ks_MiAiWZZIXQU26_ew6RkGS9C2WoOyAi74KYy8JJOA1_kf_yAKUllqo8HfBcU3ngTLm3IIDXf3p_wtG3rNW1MUhm4W2SGIaIx7iOWaOOZNqqovZNzQzsSIUdFKjYDiZa4u-bIXFnxwVA5C26k/w640-h344/11%20Door.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /></b></div>A Japanese answer to giallo and home invasion flicks, <i>‘Door’</i> plays out like a reserved, yet pretty unnerving psychological thriller for the first hour, only to go off the rails in the most viscerally rewarding way possible during the final third. Takahashi (whose pinku background is barely hinted at) puts his heroine, a paranoid (and often lonely) homekeeper, Yasuko, on equal footing with her stalker, a door-to-door salesman turned psycho, making their intense, cinematically unhinged clash a (queasy) delight to behold, and eliciting superb performances from the leading duo. The imposing formal austerity of the build-up is gradually ‘loosened’, with wry humor and unexpected stylistic flourishes seeping in through a hole chainsawed in the bathroom door, and the eye of Yasushi Sasakibara’s camera beautifully capturing the dominating greens of Yasuko’s meticulously furnished apartment.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><i><b>12. Lone Star (John Sayles, 1996)<br /><br /></b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw9fUXc3Z0taKPX10-Bnwo45BXx9Z2Pv1NkAPX9mxGk800R7oRz2bcn3x-TW3M4IrnkFFfNYy3vlkzaUUOTE5uv36WHkQ4I6lNK39p_KpqyM6U45TqjWAZ3kKyvBCSX3xm7cDz4asz9j3VKFusFS5qFus7T3gHkTDMXz0s3vbNkTA_LxbH8yO7vp4dcUQ/s1000/12%20Lone%20Star.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="419" data-original-width="1000" height="269" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw9fUXc3Z0taKPX10-Bnwo45BXx9Z2Pv1NkAPX9mxGk800R7oRz2bcn3x-TW3M4IrnkFFfNYy3vlkzaUUOTE5uv36WHkQ4I6lNK39p_KpqyM6U45TqjWAZ3kKyvBCSX3xm7cDz4asz9j3VKFusFS5qFus7T3gHkTDMXz0s3vbNkTA_LxbH8yO7vp4dcUQ/w640-h269/12%20Lone%20Star.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /></i></div>Veteran Kris Kristofferson portrays one of the slimiest Texan sheriffs in flashbacks of a cleverly written, austerely directed and tightly edited drama advocating an anti-racist attitude, and featuring smooth-as-silk in-camera transitions between the scenes of the present and the past. Also praiseworthy for their unaffected performances are the rest of the cast, from Elizabeth Peña to Chris Cooper to Frances McDormand in her bravura cameo role, all with a well-defined place in a story rich with subplots and hidden truths. Best viewed with fresh eyes, ‘Lone Star’ can be labeled as an examination of the sense of justice and its complexities, as well as an ode to the legends we weave to protect ourselves or the people we hold dear. <br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>13. Luminous Procuress (Steven Arnold, 1971)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFV0a6eKvfopelHJ_Wdusy8lui5ZPF7ByPNJHoMjQ3UjRMDG4wf4vnY9kiSNxf7H7fFrdT9uA7EPTb7xaoV6p3Al8b5MvYwRFssLR9E-35TeRJhSuuzCdjfn3sCAY44GJQgk4S_YybaCbuwvBudczvErjk5zl6wN9cGBzlvjiRwJzVULlimUAT4VDV8aE/s1000/13%20Luminous%20Procuress.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="727" data-original-width="1000" height="466" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFV0a6eKvfopelHJ_Wdusy8lui5ZPF7ByPNJHoMjQ3UjRMDG4wf4vnY9kiSNxf7H7fFrdT9uA7EPTb7xaoV6p3Al8b5MvYwRFssLR9E-35TeRJhSuuzCdjfn3sCAY44GJQgk4S_YybaCbuwvBudczvErjk5zl6wN9cGBzlvjiRwJzVULlimUAT4VDV8aE/w640-h466/13%20Luminous%20Procuress.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /></b></div>Cross-dressing glee of Jack Smith’s <i>‘Flaming Creatures’</i>, diluted solution of Kenneth Anger’s magick, and uninhibited flamboyance of Fellini’s <i>‘Satyricon’</i> are mixed, shaken and stirred in Steven Arnold’s first and only feature that elevated him to the rank of Salvador Dalí’s protégé. Coming across as a cacophonous ode to pansexuality, <i>‘Luminous Procuress’</i> is a phantasmagorical document of a saucy, LSD-infused burlesque by San Francisco-based theater troupe ‘The Cockettes’. Led by drag performer Pandora in the role of the titular character, the members of the group appear – often undressed or semi-nude, and sporting face paint – in a series of peepshow-like vignettes observed by a couple of friends in what can be described as a rite of passage through the mirror of gender fluidity. Apart from a hardcore sex scene (involving a straight couple), the proceedings largely play out like a queer farce, not without its flaws, but earning extra points by virtue of its sheer, perverse audacity. The hyper-colorful visuals brimming with outrageous hairdos, glittery makeup, and stupendous costumes inspired by diverse cultures are soaked in effervescent noises of Warner Jepson’s radical synth score and multilingual mumbling that, reportedly, replaces the poor sound recorded on the set (Arnold’s warehouse home).<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>14. Hung cheuk wong ji / Peacock King (Ngai Choi Lam & Biao Yuen, 1988)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-BdHwVnqSMyIcJgsd5FDiXCMPNwuGIUFbLgGaiTzkJa2kAl_NbwmiCb8h48mUU6RQG-KfY4izILM0SRWo8yZ03ES7ROfU1HzLTBJfU8LbTxdHzC_bafRNOuSSl5pjFZ5IK9hf4S8ddybA06buYKinogfXnQWzMebrgavDTmtyfd40T0xlA2w07vUF2V8/s1000/14%20Peacock%20King.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="533" data-original-width="1000" height="342" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-BdHwVnqSMyIcJgsd5FDiXCMPNwuGIUFbLgGaiTzkJa2kAl_NbwmiCb8h48mUU6RQG-KfY4izILM0SRWo8yZ03ES7ROfU1HzLTBJfU8LbTxdHzC_bafRNOuSSl5pjFZ5IK9hf4S8ddybA06buYKinogfXnQWzMebrgavDTmtyfd40T0xlA2w07vUF2V8/w640-h342/14%20Peacock%20King.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /></b></div>A live-action adaptation of Makoto Ogino’s manga of the same name (serialized between 1985 and 1989), <i>‘Peacock King’</i> is a bombastic amalgam of wuxia action, high fantasy, horror and comedy in which twin monks, Peacock and Lucky Fruit (in English translation), are tasked with stopping the apocalyptic revival of Devil King. On their perilous quest from Tokyo to Hong Kong to Tibet, they will have to pass a handful of challenges posed by Raga Witch who looks like a singer of an 80’s hair metal band until she transforms into a gnarly, vagina-faced monster straight out of a <i>‘Giger meets Harryhausen in Wicked City’</i> nightmare. That and a couple of possessed dinosaur models in a department store are not exactly typical Buddhist exorcist affairs, but as long as the set-pieces are the tongue-in-cheek peak of B-moviemaking, bring it on! Ngai Choi Lam – best known for the cult action splatter <i>‘Story of Ricky’</i> – directs this extravaganza with briskness and flair, assisted by one of the stars, Biao Yuen, who peacocks in his role with a self-confident grin. Fine-tuning the leading duo is Hiroshi Mikami whose composed character take things more seriously, which is why his performance lends some stoic elegance to the flamboyant proceedings. If you’re looking for a deliciously cheesy companion piece to <i>‘Big Trouble in Little China’</i> or <i>‘The Golden Child’</i>, you will certainly it here.</div><p></p>Nikola Gocićhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10802422474421337350noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3195252471961511941.post-32066832368385942452024-01-14T14:56:00.004+01:002024-01-15T15:25:33.949+01:00P-p-p-prljava pesma<p style="text-align: center;">Niko kao nitkov<br />reč u tri poteza<br />prvi je laž<br />i drugi je laž<br />a treći je opstrukcija<br />p-p-p-piše li olovka<br />ili je na pola nosa<br />i na pola koplja<br />na pola preseci<br />p-p-p-ponovo mi reci<br />čisto je i bistro<br />samo u mutnom<br />mutni mute<br />i skrivaju pod skute<br />decu i mamute<br />mutante i mrmote<br />p-p-p-popovi se gube<br />u blatu do kolena<br />mržnja od mila<br />mržnja odvajkada<br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgFf5a7AgSCIYiMA09WL6uLn6VCDILqoY6jL-4NryCjiT5WDM7ZOSYu9lCMuKZvlYmqbmzqQojewgYw9VZdHtOo4t9lgnhQjGPH-xx9Hj8Kuwe9FMWaCKAgLcj0DVG-5WtCHuBqISIGWeS2HuNwjXhWF0yB6_Zuyj5o_4IB58dWkv9K-3x_M7Hr7w-qUK0" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="800" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgFf5a7AgSCIYiMA09WL6uLn6VCDILqoY6jL-4NryCjiT5WDM7ZOSYu9lCMuKZvlYmqbmzqQojewgYw9VZdHtOo4t9lgnhQjGPH-xx9Hj8Kuwe9FMWaCKAgLcj0DVG-5WtCHuBqISIGWeS2HuNwjXhWF0yB6_Zuyj5o_4IB58dWkv9K-3x_M7Hr7w-qUK0=w320-h400" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">kolaž: <i>Metalitet Krda, ili Voznesenje Gluposti</i></div><div style="text-align: center;">(<a href="https://www.facebook.com/NGbooArt/">Nicollage</a>, novembar, 2021)</div><p></p>Nikola Gocićhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10802422474421337350noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3195252471961511941.post-64452443461802907912023-12-31T12:57:00.002+01:002023-12-31T13:05:26.789+01:00Best Premiere Viewings of 2023 (New Cinema Edition)<p style="text-align: justify;">When compiling my annual lists, one usually encompasses the personal 20th century premieres, whereas the other includes films released from 2001 onward. This year, however, I decided to make my job much easier by pulling focus on 2021-2023 features, and excluding blockbusters in favor of experimental, arthouse and genre offerings, as well as of animation that is so often unjustly overlooked. I will take this opportunity to wish all my friends and followers a year of numerous socio-political improvements, good health and bold cinema!</p><p style="text-align: justify;"></p><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>1. Elpis (Rouzbeh Rashidi, 2023)<br /><br /></i></b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZwFWy-7pTuB2oVYarqXtY4dshCYbJw5XvHNIBjTdRKN1W5kPgWfWzYb2g-rp2TMkuBiTyTBXubSfd6xfM_g7lKmkLkDtdMdGvfP5eKHYzXchlRvpJptFXj9JFRz6xDiatld5X569RduuEUYE8Fc-gNqZfuiFODnvjitE0DqUIj1_Qz67g-PmPz6IDEAI/s1200/01%20Elpis.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="633" data-original-width="1200" height="338" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZwFWy-7pTuB2oVYarqXtY4dshCYbJw5XvHNIBjTdRKN1W5kPgWfWzYb2g-rp2TMkuBiTyTBXubSfd6xfM_g7lKmkLkDtdMdGvfP5eKHYzXchlRvpJptFXj9JFRz6xDiatld5X569RduuEUYE8Fc-gNqZfuiFODnvjitE0DqUIj1_Qz67g-PmPz6IDEAI/w640-h338/01%20Elpis.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><i><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>“Achingly lyrical and lushly ethereal, this film compellingly synergizes the soul of cinema, the soul of the artist, and the soul of Mother Nature into the transcendental awareness of the (motion) picture and its sanctity, inspiring us to resist our insignificance in the grand scheme of things, and keep reaching for the farthest recesses of our inner universe...”</i></div></i><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Read the full review @ <b><a href="http://www.efspublications.com/elpis/">EFSPublications</a></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>2. Les chambres rouges / Red Rooms (Pascal Plante, 2023)<br /><br /></i></b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLaPTVIujt1Ez4AUWazPbwwp7rx6QBW8gB6e3rQ0Req3HGrlQs3oH17pU-dLF2GpxZ2KK45jx7Ovvi7Q57Hf5K0tblTlIWsuff37efmaghJioKcYuwuoxX3HCkfMYUPKNyfuWslHx_QIHKmTHWCF44XFhY-V1F-x4e5s2JA1U62FTC054JUFXtHhl5Gnc/s1200/02%20Les%20chambres%20rouges.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="802" data-original-width="1200" height="428" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLaPTVIujt1Ez4AUWazPbwwp7rx6QBW8gB6e3rQ0Req3HGrlQs3oH17pU-dLF2GpxZ2KK45jx7Ovvi7Q57Hf5K0tblTlIWsuff37efmaghJioKcYuwuoxX3HCkfMYUPKNyfuWslHx_QIHKmTHWCF44XFhY-V1F-x4e5s2JA1U62FTC054JUFXtHhl5Gnc/w640-h428/02%20Les%20chambres%20rouges.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">If I were asked to describe <i>‘Red Rooms’</i> in a single word, I would probably opt for ‘anti-sensationalist’, which also perfectly suits the author’s measured approach to the razor-sharp dissection of modern society, or rather, its evils, collective and individual alike, as well as to the stark, mystery-imbued study of a character fascinated by a heinous crime. Firmly anchored in the central, utterly magnetic performance from Juliette Gariépy whose micro-acting skills give Mads Mikkelsen a good run for his money, this stellar, thought-provoking, impressively cold, steely unnerving and formally ingenious psycho-drama/thriller needs no Hollywood-style ‘fireworks’ to keep you glued to screen. Right from the get-go set in a featureless, yet instantly captivating courtroom, it snatches your attention by virtue of extraordinary camerawork, especially the expert use of long takes, at once immersive and chillingly uncanny sound design, elaborate music score which elevates the bleakness of the atmosphere, and above all, incredibly pedantic direction marked by eerie, Haneke-like austerity, and to a certain degree, methodical mannerism of late Schrader. Beneath its ‘frigid’ surface of brilliantly played understatements, simmers a well of intense emotions, lending a refined patina to the proceedings...</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>3. Koński ogon / The Horse Tail (Justyna Łuczaj, 2023)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij4hDdUjLpcIOfsyzUFUC3rYcFd27E5rGYFnxKqL_uP5ohaX_Z06VLb0_KHwlxYj06VY4qXDAriwqF29seWYOrE3nK7FTaZ7Bf45o9HeuFI5vqaBRGjaAwJZ0YSNHSpBSq5TXCeSk9gu-t6f345ZceZ7TIvIqgz-tpKswaD1X9E-SqDIsIuxOjUw4dFtY/s1200/03%20Ko%C5%84ski%20ogon.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="723" data-original-width="1200" height="386" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij4hDdUjLpcIOfsyzUFUC3rYcFd27E5rGYFnxKqL_uP5ohaX_Z06VLb0_KHwlxYj06VY4qXDAriwqF29seWYOrE3nK7FTaZ7Bf45o9HeuFI5vqaBRGjaAwJZ0YSNHSpBSq5TXCeSk9gu-t6f345ZceZ7TIvIqgz-tpKswaD1X9E-SqDIsIuxOjUw4dFtY/w640-h386/03%20Ko%C5%84ski%20ogon.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: justify;">In a modern re-imagination of the Oedipus myth, first-time director Justyna Łuczaj discovers sublime beauty amidst mud, garbage and intricate relationships stained with traumas and erotic tension. Setting her (superb!) debut in an unwelcoming middle-of-nowhere – various decrepit locales in Poland and Slovakia – surrounded by a lush forest, she confidently builds a weird, borderline post-apocalyptic world, far removed from regal Thebe. Her hero is a young, orphaned outcast, Maj (a bold big-screen inauguration for magnetic Remigiusz Pocica), raised by a peculiar ‘daddy’ figure, Hans (uninhibited Przemysław Bluszcz, giving off some Udo Kier vibes), the boy’s estranged mother is an elderly sex-worker, Diana (the phantasmal presence of Ryta Kurak), and king Laius’s reflection is a deranged policeman, Max (Wojciech Bialas, imposing as a vile embodiment of toxic masculinity / authority).</div><p></p><p style="text-align: justify;">They all yearn for love, each one in their own (degenerate?) way, and incessantly fail to achieve it, although Maj is allowed a few moments of tenderness with his (yet unknown to him) half-sister Dagmara (Anouchka Kolbuch) whose character shines a short-living light of hope and innocence on her sibling’s bleak struggle. Dark hairs (of the titular horse tail?) float down the river, as a warning of impending doom, all the while the toothless narrator (Tomasz Mularski) – a deliberate vulgarization of Greek chorus – adds a few more pinches of filth into a fragmented, provocative and to a certain point puzzling narrative. Łuczaj demonstrates uncompromising resolve in her formally challenging, subtly transgressive portrayal of lost, lonely, loveless souls, eliciting immediate performances from a largely non-professional cast, and transforming the obscure reality of her protagonists into an emotionally raw ‘unreality’, simultaneously surreal, twisted, repellent and fascinating. </p><p style="text-align: justify;"></p><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>4. Сказка (Александр Сокуров, 2022) / Fairytale (Alexander Sokurov, 2022)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_hyphenhyphenIu23ty192smJijFH96CLX8KicvfYiitjVk-Wb7Bs5evWwb4wiaYH38xWff2LPCpWUUMKDF7k_wVPzS0yqw5LxyA8pUS00Ce7vpiaTOijbPsnIISkY2J3SNnVZwt179Pc6_ADIliJeGp5xrMzTU44hHO1TRPMnVhAhq6FtW7Qkk1WshJpdBHHqUKJA/s1200/04%20Fairytale.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="675" data-original-width="1200" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_hyphenhyphenIu23ty192smJijFH96CLX8KicvfYiitjVk-Wb7Bs5evWwb4wiaYH38xWff2LPCpWUUMKDF7k_wVPzS0yqw5LxyA8pUS00Ce7vpiaTOijbPsnIISkY2J3SNnVZwt179Pc6_ADIliJeGp5xrMzTU44hHO1TRPMnVhAhq6FtW7Qkk1WshJpdBHHqUKJA/w640-h360/04%20Fairytale.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: justify;">In the artists’ purgatory, Dante meets Beckett by way of Goya and Doré, their souls converge into a sly entity that possesses Sokurov’s dreams, and as a result of this esoteric act, he delivers a fascinating piece of experimental animation. Cleverly utilizing a combo of deepfake technology and archive footage, the Russian master brings four historical figures in their multiple versions to (after)life, and pokes some serious fun at them against the backdrop of foggy limbo where they’re stuck believing they deserve to enter paradise. The plot sounds like the beginning of a political joke that involves Stalin, Churchill, Mussolini and Hitler, with cameos by Jesus and Napoleon, and indeed, one can’t help but laugh at those egotistical, imperialistic mugs bickering about various topics, from their clothes and hygiene to religion and ideological isms. However, sardonically titled <i>‘Fairytale’</i> isn’t just an absurdist collection of darkly humorous quips – it is a powerful, provocative artistic experience that often remind us of history’s inconvenient tendency to repeat itself:</div><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"><i>“Don’t lament, my brother. All will be forgotten, we’ll start anew... The best it yet to come... Soon, soon...”</i></p><p style="text-align: justify;"></p><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>5. Totsukuni no Shōjo / The Girl from the Other Side (Yutaro Kubo, 2022)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinZocmicYyneZLt0EbWzh0_NFJy9Oy7XwbpzoDVN4FkdaXsCDJk3WPSThAkWP0pnGaP0OTvN74-xi0NkSHhnhlLySvZ83PJd-qpB9Pv_PIZWbtKTIq5EhI8ZIJjBNJTPSMMfXair1owD1pVNiXOxFxoXBLQspCKQXubviOfU4kAxF-TA9bgRPofByfzHI/s1200/05%20Totsukuni%20no%20Sh%C5%8Djo.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="675" data-original-width="1200" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinZocmicYyneZLt0EbWzh0_NFJy9Oy7XwbpzoDVN4FkdaXsCDJk3WPSThAkWP0pnGaP0OTvN74-xi0NkSHhnhlLySvZ83PJd-qpB9Pv_PIZWbtKTIq5EhI8ZIJjBNJTPSMMfXair1owD1pVNiXOxFxoXBLQspCKQXubviOfU4kAxF-TA9bgRPofByfzHI/w640-h360/05%20Totsukuni%20no%20Sh%C5%8Djo.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Nothing short of a modern anime classic, though bound to appeal to a niche rather than mainstream audience, Yutaro Kubo’s impressive feature debut attains an almost perfect balance between the unconventional style and gloomy content. Part melancholic tone-poem, and part mystery-imbued fantasy of the Victorian Gothic atmosphere, it appears like a soothing soul successor to Oshii’s masterpiece <i>‘Angel’s Egg’</i> and Takahata’s magical swan song <i>‘The Tale of the Princess Kaguya’</i>. Based on Nagabe’s manga previously adapted into a (lovely!) short in 2019, it gently addresses the themes of loneliness, ostracism, surrogate parenthood, the loss of innocence and death, drawing you into its quaint, peculiar world with an irresistible charm. Favoring lyrical mood over puzzling story, <i>‘The Girl from the Other Side’</i> rests upon a dreamy, hauntingly poignant score, and a delightful hand-drawn artwork akin to a childhood-favorite picture-book, with Jun Fukuyama’s and Rie Takahashi’s superbly attuned voices breathing life into leading characters.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>6. Moon Garden (Ryan Stevens Harris, 2022)<br /><br /></i></b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZXVJr01_NWMtVAg8oUklhDEMAcNzus8e6fVcUUHoDj4vVCp3s1ovV9LFlVXpGFDtnRnjJIwnOnitkVQ4PvT-GCHkzPvh23hPRbnEOzQWEH1T82ReLFbOZ9Oyjgs3KuNLRT_npiGMYulxicRy3emIy6ytbjHByKzAMPU2f72O8YyGK8lX_sHMNlvwpuvs/s1200/06%20Moon%20Garden.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="1200" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZXVJr01_NWMtVAg8oUklhDEMAcNzus8e6fVcUUHoDj4vVCp3s1ovV9LFlVXpGFDtnRnjJIwnOnitkVQ4PvT-GCHkzPvh23hPRbnEOzQWEH1T82ReLFbOZ9Oyjgs3KuNLRT_npiGMYulxicRy3emIy6ytbjHByKzAMPU2f72O8YyGK8lX_sHMNlvwpuvs/w640-h266/06%20Moon%20Garden.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><span style="text-align: justify;"><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">In his sophomore feature, Ryan Stevens Harris casts his own daughter as a comatose girl struggling to regain consciousness after a freak accident at home. Her name is Haven Lee and she is heavenly as the five year old heroine Emma stuck in a nightmare intertwined with past events that help her find her way back to reality. A simple tale is rendered with an astounding amount of creativity that puts the viewer in Emma’s tiny shoes, chiming in with her limited perspective, and wide-eyed curiosity. And those eyes – so innocent and sincere!</div></span></div><p></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><i>‘Moon Garden’</i> is a dark fantasy with horror undercurrents, so there has to be a monster. That role is filled by Morgana Ignis under a heavy mask, as a void-faced boogeyman Teeth that appears like the Pale Man’s equally grotesque cousin who escaped from the hell of Phil Tippett’s masterpiece <i>‘Mad God’</i>. Speaking of inspiration sources, <i>‘Alice in Wonderland’</i> is the first one that comes to mind, but think Švankmajer’s stop-motion version by way of David Lynch and Dave McKean (Mirrormask). The industrial dreamscape where Emma’s eerie adventure begins may be taking cues from Wes Craven’s seminal shocker <i>‘A Nightmare on the Elm Street’</i>, whereby lighting often suggests Bava and Argento. Steampunk elements, such as a tear-collecting machine, evoke Caro & Jeunet’s <i>‘The City of Lost Children’</i>, with the precious memories of time spent with mom and dad channeling Terrence Malick’s poetic sensibility. Some parallels can also be drawn with Neil Jordan’s <i>‘The Company of Wolves’</i>, and there’s even that frequently quoted <i>‘Alien 3’</i> shot, but make no mistake – <i>‘Moon Garden’</i> is not just a sum of its influences. Harris rises high above mere mimicry, delivering a film that is both visually and aurally dazzling, emotionally resonant, and tailor-made for the central performance that puts Haven Lee on the map of the finest child actors in the history of cinema.</p><p style="text-align: justify;"></p><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>7. Megalomaniac (Karim Ouelhaj, 2022)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirn7JQiYpOcghLIxWdDulNu3e1osnZ59qg9Dz02IdYLN1HNC89F2RwzXxw5SjXO4Ub1Mtmubc5RwowrLlsY0t3QeI7l3Z1T4LNPxF5YWA8ft4YW_FV5axQPkDoogOx0OK7MvhNuaVOy8VVaKKz_BRholJJR_yaCizEZcacRqdpw41EGi7rZJSQpmuLXc0/s1200/07%20Megalomaniac.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="511" data-original-width="1200" height="272" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirn7JQiYpOcghLIxWdDulNu3e1osnZ59qg9Dz02IdYLN1HNC89F2RwzXxw5SjXO4Ub1Mtmubc5RwowrLlsY0t3QeI7l3Z1T4LNPxF5YWA8ft4YW_FV5axQPkDoogOx0OK7MvhNuaVOy8VVaKKz_BRholJJR_yaCizEZcacRqdpw41EGi7rZJSQpmuLXc0/w640-h272/07%20Megalomaniac.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: justify;">At once repulsive and spellbinding, naturalistically dirty and nightmarishly surrealistic, <i>‘Megalomaniac’</i> is a relentlessly grim, thoroughly unsettling and viscerally thought-provoking exercise in evil of the human kind, blurring the line between the perp and the victim, reality and fiction. Directed with an assured hand and keen sense of ambiguity which permeates the story (based on a real-life serial killer in 90’s Belgium), it depicts the violence at its most disgusting, venomous and hard-hitting, as it sets a new milestone in the horror genre. Boasting a stylized, darkly arresting cinematography (François Schmitt) and haunting, insidiously evocative score (Simon Fransquet & Gary Moonboots), the film is also praiseworthy for superb performances by the entire cast, particularly from Eline Schumacher, awe-inspiring and subtly unhinged in the role of a mentally unbalanced Martha. A severely underrated flick!</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b style="font-style: italic;">8. L’envol / Scarlet (Pietro Marcello, 2022)<br /><br /></b><div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbmiyekiFXybIRCaM928tesbPVfq_PQQ-swA1xJ96RxkZBBjd7AxAgPSScS7u7LmNUi9vCjpy-NtwpRw8KBkUw6YIfqE8m8EWYnntWBetfAXNq_Z86rDDF37Amuq0wLUlSg8lCAA1tsBgZRRb8KV9fjbg-B3RwSpeVkVObO1f2MQgyjlztb5rYtqpD-Uc/s1200/08%20L%E2%80%99envol.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="779" data-original-width="1200" height="416" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbmiyekiFXybIRCaM928tesbPVfq_PQQ-swA1xJ96RxkZBBjd7AxAgPSScS7u7LmNUi9vCjpy-NtwpRw8KBkUw6YIfqE8m8EWYnntWBetfAXNq_Z86rDDF37Amuq0wLUlSg8lCAA1tsBgZRRb8KV9fjbg-B3RwSpeVkVObO1f2MQgyjlztb5rYtqpD-Uc/w640-h416/08%20L%E2%80%99envol.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><span style="text-align: justify;"><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">Once again, Pietro Marcello delivers a wondrous piece of cinema that is lost and beautiful (a reference to his 2015 docu-fantasy-drama <i>‘Bella e perduta’</i>, for the uninitiated) – lost in time, as it appears like a precious artifact from the 20th century, and beautiful not only on the utterly charming surface, but also at its big, unprejudiced heart. A loose adaptation of Alexander Grin’s 1923 novel <i>‘Scarlet Sails’</i>, the film – in spite of its simplicity – poses a challenge when it comes to the classification, gently meandering between a period coming-of-age drama and a whimsical fairy tale, a socially conscious ode to craftsmanship and a rapturous poem of love, platonic, familial and romantic.</div></span></div></div><p></p><p style="text-align: justify;">Set between the two World Wars, <i>‘Scarlet’</i> belongs to neither the past, nor the future, appropriating the outsider attitude of its protagonists who live modestly, yet complacently, ever-strengthening their libertarian spirit, and bonds of togetherness, guided by intuition and creative impulses. Revolving around an idealized father-daughter relationship, it portrays peculiarities of life in broad, yet sensitive strokes filled with dreams, longing and nostalgia. Its delightful 35mm cinematography lends it a soft, almost palpable texture, as well as an exquisitely painterly quality, further enhanced by seamlessly interwoven archive footage which is given a hand-tinted-like overhaul. The harmonious symbiosis of visuals and narrative evokes the delicate lyricism of Franco Piavoli, with Gabriel Yared’s emotional score bringing to mind the yearning romanticism of Jacques Demy, particularly during the musical acts of the amiable heroine, Juliette (an unaffected performance from newcomer Juliette Jouan).</p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><i>9. <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Hgglg94QBI4">Leda (Samuel Tressler IV, 2021)</a></i></b><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaxtYAvGWUzFWZOfeCt0w_Zux2IdZUxwWROdc15hzgNk50qxqgz0RSAoSbD5LUHpgavoFOyomUnHhyzje5JDXQGtxN3yjC97xs4yH_lVArlSzYW0J39Bu12-EOkyrOE17d2tNCv47cG6AsHQVmfxGs_3znMSvdz-6YIC42I7BklI470SLaE3B-UJrwbKE/s1200/09%20Leda.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="503" data-original-width="1200" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaxtYAvGWUzFWZOfeCt0w_Zux2IdZUxwWROdc15hzgNk50qxqgz0RSAoSbD5LUHpgavoFOyomUnHhyzje5JDXQGtxN3yjC97xs4yH_lVArlSzYW0J39Bu12-EOkyrOE17d2tNCv47cG6AsHQVmfxGs_3znMSvdz-6YIC42I7BklI470SLaE3B-UJrwbKE/w640-h268/09%20Leda.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p style="text-align: justify;">Not a single word is spoken in Samuel Tressler’s bold, dazzlingly beautiful feature debut which transmutes the Leda myth into an ethereally uncanny nightmare, part surrealistic period piece and part highly poeticized gothic psychodrama. Decidedly elliptical in its storytelling or rather ‘storyshowing’, this superb indie flick comes across as a cryptic, sensorial mood piece delicately touching upon a childhood trauma, rape, madness, loneliness and pregnancy. Densely atmospheric, in equal measures ominous and soothing, it unfolds in a deliberate pace towards a subtly visceral epilogue that further amplifies the all-pervasive ambiguity. Tressler and his co-writer Wesley Pastorfield keep pulling the rug from under the viewer’s feet, and each time they do so, you find yourself falling deeper into the rabbit hole of Leda’s dreams, memories and hallucinations. All the while, cinematographer Nick Midwig lulls you into a dreamlike state with eloquent B&W imagery immersed in a hauntingly minimalist score by Andre Barros and Björn Magnusson.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Highly recommended for the fans of <i>‘Meshes of the Afternoon’</i> (1943), <i>‘Angel’s Egg’</i> (1985), <i>‘Under the Skin’</i> (2013) and <i>‘November’</i> (2017).</p><p style="text-align: justify;">An interesting piece of trivia: One of the supporting roles is played by Nicolle Marquez who reminded me of Maya Deren in <i>‘Dawn’</i> – a delightful 35mm short presented as a part of <i><a href="https://www.kinoskop.co/selection-8-reality-uncheck.php">Reality (Un)Check</a></i> selection at the third edition of Kinoskop in Yugoslav Film Archive in 2021.</p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><i>10. New Religion (Keishi Kondo, 2022)</i></b><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIX-XbPUkGKPEfFbLWJ9ED3wIu2B-TXid7jp8eRrJvsBFpvboI5XIGmSU_2TJ4CGfmh0SGKluEKWIFe6wWGcg5Hx_Ha91hX1Bch82Kky2qR59PdbSXsA09rtuKkPHe7eNgKn1wxUeiT9oY4_3wXDDdFevLO8Ork37_sQsT3VMkWj5MYSk37zA90XWLRxA/s1200/10%20New%20Religion.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="505" data-original-width="1200" height="270" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIX-XbPUkGKPEfFbLWJ9ED3wIu2B-TXid7jp8eRrJvsBFpvboI5XIGmSU_2TJ4CGfmh0SGKluEKWIFe6wWGcg5Hx_Ha91hX1Bch82Kky2qR59PdbSXsA09rtuKkPHe7eNgKn1wxUeiT9oY4_3wXDDdFevLO8Ork37_sQsT3VMkWj5MYSk37zA90XWLRxA/w640-h270/10%20New%20Religion.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p style="text-align: justify;">Utterly hypnotizing in its portrayal of grieving process and its transformative potentials, Keishi Kondo’s crowdfunded feature debut comes across as an impressive calling card not only for its author, but also for a bunch of newcomers in his team, from the entire cast to cinematographer Sho Mishina. (According to IMDb, only colorist Dmitry Kuznetsov and co-editor Aleksandar Milenković have several short films under their belts.) Right from the experimental prologue soaked in deep reds (later turned into a leitmotif) and brooding drones (that dominate the haunting score), <i>‘New Religion’</i> pulls the viewer into its disjointed reality – one akin to a dream in which a dreamer is dreamed... perhaps by a moth.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Kondo could be quoting a couple of lines from Cronenberg’s defining body horror <i>‘The Fly’</i>, yet his keen sensibility is much closer to that of Kiyoshi Kurosawa’s brand of ‘slow terror’, as well as to David Lynch’s penchant for the unknowable, cryptic symbolism and bizarre characters... such as a presumably non-human photographer who speaks through an electrolarynx. Both his direction and editing are assured and precise, as he employs meticulously composed imagery, and uncannily immersive sound design to create a dense and heavy atmosphere of bleak melancholy, understated eeriness and deliberate disorientation. Lingering below the ostensibly desensitized surface of his puzzling psychological drama is a creeping sense of madness and dread in the face of a child loss, with the elliptical story unfolding from the unreliable perspective of a heroine, Miyabi (Kaho Seto, admirable at micro-acting). The horror underpinnings may prove too subtle for the hardcore genre aficionados, and the ever-present irrationality will significantly limit the audience, but if you’re looking for something refreshingly off-the-wall, just let ‘New Religion’ convert you... </p><p style="text-align: justify;"></p><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>11. Le pharaon, le sauvage et la princesse / The Black Pharaoh, the Savage and the Princess (Michel Ocelot, 2022)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz3D2L6IKdsMfEpKkTHTIC3mksSAbrC9ReerCFLkeUDFdcgZ7007-wUwZ2bsQLNPIQo13q4M5psnOo9QkuSGOszPcWmcKQx8ZR4UfGt5OAaPu_8JpSSDxUvRrC4ebs4t7ab-aAE23xj76OdonrGcAasHtcYxGVVo28p5r0ypc6Wja8vZGTqcXY2g3jHps/s1200/11%20Le%20pharaon,%20le%20sauvage%20et%20la%20princesse.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="632" data-original-width="1200" height="338" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz3D2L6IKdsMfEpKkTHTIC3mksSAbrC9ReerCFLkeUDFdcgZ7007-wUwZ2bsQLNPIQo13q4M5psnOo9QkuSGOszPcWmcKQx8ZR4UfGt5OAaPu_8JpSSDxUvRrC4ebs4t7ab-aAE23xj76OdonrGcAasHtcYxGVVo28p5r0ypc6Wja8vZGTqcXY2g3jHps/w640-h338/11%20Le%20pharaon,%20le%20sauvage%20et%20la%20princesse.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: justify;">If Michel Ocelot did not exist, it would be necessary to invent him. His latest opus – a fairy tale omnibus that celebrates multiculturalism, and mocks autocratic figures – is so enchanting, that I was under its spell the moment it began. Emotionally resonant in their (timeless) simplicity, three stories are presented in a gorgeous animation style that channels the spirits of, respectively, artists of ancient Egypt, the one & only Lotte Reiniger, and masters of arabesque, with the lavish orchestral score elevating the viewing experience. For 80 minutes, I felt like a child listening with wide-eyed attentiveness to the voice of its kind grandfather...</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>12. Kerr (Tayfun Pirselimoglu, 2021)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVZSU-BGAXmO6Y8W_n7iJhfccImWte9W39hUH6YV8lHMxDLyHNFzzkdFV5tTOiXwkFg0IKX7UtHd3Uc6XZYKx-WkvgMqHtVnehAeYbHbT6whytjbWlrDAMPtKjYgZvPQmGOkklNKII5TDZ7PnXaBebqTW5Kj4kX8cuUNr3ZjjojNp_P_LN8QG4FvUFk8A/s1200/12%20Kerr.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="503" data-original-width="1200" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVZSU-BGAXmO6Y8W_n7iJhfccImWte9W39hUH6YV8lHMxDLyHNFzzkdFV5tTOiXwkFg0IKX7UtHd3Uc6XZYKx-WkvgMqHtVnehAeYbHbT6whytjbWlrDAMPtKjYgZvPQmGOkklNKII5TDZ7PnXaBebqTW5Kj4kX8cuUNr3ZjjojNp_P_LN8QG4FvUFk8A/w640-h268/12%20Kerr.jpg" width="640" /></a></div></b></div><br />The echoes of COVID-19 isolation hang on decrepit walls of a small, purgatorial town in Pirselimoglu’s absurdist dramedy that sees its clueless, hapless hero (superbly cast Erdem Şenocak) lost in a Kafkaesque nightmare – as metaphysically inescapable as it gets. Injected with measured doses of wry, deadpan humor, <i>‘Kerr’</i> gives no answers to a lot of its questions, putting the viewer in the protagonist’s shoes that go with a dark coat of bewilderment. On the other hand, the embodiment of mystery wears a yellow coat surrounded by a ‘double agent’ aura, and even though her screen time is limited, she heads a weird bunch that wouldn’t be out of place in a David Lynch’s psychological thriller. The same could also be said for a jazzy theme that pays a loving homage to the genius of Angelo Badalamenti, as well as for a dimly lit nightclub, its backstage hidden behind a red curtain. Ever-growing despair is emphasized by the wintry weather, as the loudspeaker announcements warn of rabid dogs prowling the streets, and seemingly bottomless holes appear all around, out of nowhere, sucking in most of the possible meanings. There’s also a murderer on the loose, yet neither the police, nor the people seem to give a damn, their provincial mentality paralyzing Şenocak’s unnamed character. Deliberate pacing intensifies the cold, thick atmosphere of detachment, and the quiet denouement comes across as another ellipsis in this beautifully framed mindfuck of a film.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>13. Mammalia (Sebastian Mihăilescu, 2023)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiFPq5982ETusaXQFVs9Vl5lMOo8TN3kG9f9l3K7L7xy1cYvecei5Rz7C1-ARh3NrrbhNz8qZjt2IaDkoyS_Li0QEoQ7SGec4qF-xCVRUGRrhUSUBhVq5Ah2oKtAK4S8SxQs1YbmnLOOG2zZ5bZ01vrDODRyNH-NAnjk5OmYVUk_clmbnLMQb71mnK-Qs/s1200/13%20Mammalia.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="675" data-original-width="1200" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiFPq5982ETusaXQFVs9Vl5lMOo8TN3kG9f9l3K7L7xy1cYvecei5Rz7C1-ARh3NrrbhNz8qZjt2IaDkoyS_Li0QEoQ7SGec4qF-xCVRUGRrhUSUBhVq5Ah2oKtAK4S8SxQs1YbmnLOOG2zZ5bZ01vrDODRyNH-NAnjk5OmYVUk_clmbnLMQb71mnK-Qs/w640-h360/13%20Mammalia.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /></b></div>In Sebastian Mihăilescu’s bold fiction feature debut, the existential absurdity of Roy Andersson is filtered through the prism of the Greek Weird Wave (and the Buharov brothers’ work?) into a surrealistic, double-edged satire of gender norms, as well as of any attempt to soften their rigidity. Entirely composed of long and static takes beautifully shot on 16mm, with the main course of action often pushed into the background or even off-screen, this genre-defying experiment poses a formal challenge alleviated by deadpan humor. Its idiosyncratic tableaux vivants turn banalities of life (and the dangers of dildo-carving cults) on their head, putting the viewer in an awkward position between a nervous chuckle and invigorating befuddlement.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>14. Müanyag égbolt / White Plastic Sky (Sarolta Szabó & Tibor Bánóczki, 2023)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNGLzH0_wVAlzYJJZxZunP90b1v9t-HeLFRmdkenf8M-nlvyEBAdIs4wLk6cgGP6gUNRzV-ANZwZdRpQ29Jkf6jmP5NJKklBIXHTk0IqyLlEAYh8sRAP_Ujn9JUDoAogudLyecNkK1J5fuPjpz4gOmJA0-rDOcVxDMXRH20CHNE-Wmp1NAyb9btKthcrw/s1200/14%20M%C3%BCanyag%20%C3%A9gbolt.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="503" data-original-width="1200" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNGLzH0_wVAlzYJJZxZunP90b1v9t-HeLFRmdkenf8M-nlvyEBAdIs4wLk6cgGP6gUNRzV-ANZwZdRpQ29Jkf6jmP5NJKklBIXHTk0IqyLlEAYh8sRAP_Ujn9JUDoAogudLyecNkK1J5fuPjpz4gOmJA0-rDOcVxDMXRH20CHNE-Wmp1NAyb9btKthcrw/w640-h268/14%20M%C3%BCanyag%20%C3%A9gbolt.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /></b></div>Being a sucker for both post-apocalyptic fiction and rotoscoped animation, I am utterly impressed by the first collaborative feature from Sarolta Szabó and Tibor Bánóczki. Set 100 years in the future, <i>‘White Plastic Sky’</i> explores the burning issue of ecological sustainability, proposing a society that sees humans turned into trees once they reach 50. Opening in domed Budapest where holographic flora adorns a memorial park, its melancholy-fueled story moves on to the high-security ‘Plantation’ which introduces the viewer with the process of euthanizing transmutation, and later on, across the eroded wasteland and ghost towns remaining in the aftermath of a high-level devastation. In a manner that is in equal measures thought-provoking and de-sentimentalized despite a ‘parents who lost a child’ cliché attached to the film’s emotional core, it chronicles a return to a place that may become Eden with no humans to exploit it senselessly, shining over and again in the world-building department. A seamless blend of traditional and modern techniques – reportedly, 8 years in production – results in beautiful, immersive visuals of hyper-stylized realism, with sober pacing allowing us to feel all the textures, and an unobtrusively wistful score elevating the watching experience. <br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><b>15. Divinity (Eddie Alcazar, 2023)<br /></b></i><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge4Ej5u8BBZ8k5c2NGeKNGAmG95VnbSTyCruRbY68Nk8mFEPaYsxwfawHD1oO2RpEuJBnpWQeQNJ3og_Q4hNpsnfNSu8MYeyoXCOyDLo2ClHj50xCWfIhMkJ0fTJ4xPyUFjSmhyCLKOcBrgHqRsXOre-3fL94kPyLmmnkJ-InhdJfcabj-zcztDLfVGAE/s1200/15%20Divinity.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="675" data-original-width="1200" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge4Ej5u8BBZ8k5c2NGeKNGAmG95VnbSTyCruRbY68Nk8mFEPaYsxwfawHD1oO2RpEuJBnpWQeQNJ3og_Q4hNpsnfNSu8MYeyoXCOyDLo2ClHj50xCWfIhMkJ0fTJ4xPyUFjSmhyCLKOcBrgHqRsXOre-3fL94kPyLmmnkJ-InhdJfcabj-zcztDLfVGAE/w640-h360/15%20Divinity.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p></p><div style="text-align: justify;">A strong contender for the most (insanely!) stylish pulp experiment of the year, Eddie Alcazar’s sophomore feature is a bold, dazzling, overwhelming assault on the viewer’s senses. Stunningly shot on 16mm B&W film, with deep shadows absorbing its flaws all the while emphasizing its esoteric qualities, <i>‘Divinity’</i> comes across like an intoxicating concoction of wildly varied influences, from the psychotronic sci-fi of the mid-20th century and Ray Harryhausen’s brand of stop-motion to disturbing body horror of David Cronenberg, fever dream-like surrealism of David Lynch and, unexpectedly, fighting games à la <i>‘Mortal Kombat’</i>.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div><br /></div><div>At once quaint and futuristic, it examines our unending search for immortality and tackles the ethical issues thereof, casting a satirical lens on the modern society obsessed with superficial beauty and hedonistic frenzy. Whimsical in its plotting, it invites a mysterious couple of cosmic siblings (Moises Arias and Jason Genao) to Earth, and pits them against a mad scientist with serious daddy issues, Jaxxon (Stephen Dorff), and his appropriately named brother Rip (Micheael O’Hearn), in and around a desert house that – similarly to the movie itself – exists in an unspecified space between the past and the future / twisted geometries of German expressionism and imposing grandeur of Brutalist architecture. The sinister mansion plays a significant role in establishing the sombre and chimeric atmosphere of human decadence, further enhanced by forebodingly hazy electronic soundscapes from DJ Muggs (of Cypress Hill fame) and Dean Hurley (who has previously collaborated with David Lynch and Chrysta Bell).</div><div><br /></div><div>Unlike Alcazar’s ambitious, but ambiguously messy debut ‘Perfect’ excessively hampered by ad-and-music-video-like aesthetics, ‘Divinity’ actually benefits from its author’s background in commercials, with form and content / carnal and transcendental / articulate and ineffable being in a considerably improved balance. It blurs the boundary that separates the miraculous from the grotesque, and just for fun, subverts some Biblical themes as it pokes fun at New Age pretensions. The cult status is almost certainly guaranteed.</div></div><p style="text-align: justify;"></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>16. Suzume no Tojimari / Suzume (Makoto Shinkai, 2022)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLNRnYmnuafsX5AaRd09WETRAnrLFDnVg-oiODyqRwPze1n6P1gD3YIanP-Q8Mvncyk5UMuqUkAMZ73FEHA3d69RoWswN7oYcq0DoZfIH7xkOjSR2UVy9fIIt7vypYDDHtc0Tr-2b7xYWskqyGzI6kPyMuSWbJo0CxKr3EQib5pzhdmAQ38er8_cBD1eE/s1200/16%20Suzume.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="675" data-original-width="1200" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLNRnYmnuafsX5AaRd09WETRAnrLFDnVg-oiODyqRwPze1n6P1gD3YIanP-Q8Mvncyk5UMuqUkAMZ73FEHA3d69RoWswN7oYcq0DoZfIH7xkOjSR2UVy9fIIt7vypYDDHtc0Tr-2b7xYWskqyGzI6kPyMuSWbJo0CxKr3EQib5pzhdmAQ38er8_cBD1eE/w640-h360/16%20Suzume.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /></b></div>Growing along with its young heroine, the latest offering from Makoto Shinkai – a household name in the world of japanimation – portrays grieving process and nostalgia for the faithful departed in an equally poignant and clever fashion, with a quirky sense of humor keeping sentimentality at bay. Oh, and the animation is positively dazzling!<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>17. Sweet Dreams (Ena Sendijarević, 2023)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaxBjE4rsVBpH0guBIsXoUTjdXlrmU4P3TT7Mf_0ssvJJFLbxPHIza26uM0UQaWZZJ_Dtbz_7-KCJyeiQLynk55VfjLx9RPwKsbIrkQrX_6QNPx84DzYaYxrWyJBpD70AWldEhVMa5BF2nnrzhDsU1GyUD9V9Vok_KkOsvoiBHeFVuqVXkjXkX55iVljM/s1200/17%20Sweet%20Dreams.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1200" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaxBjE4rsVBpH0guBIsXoUTjdXlrmU4P3TT7Mf_0ssvJJFLbxPHIza26uM0UQaWZZJ_Dtbz_7-KCJyeiQLynk55VfjLx9RPwKsbIrkQrX_6QNPx84DzYaYxrWyJBpD70AWldEhVMa5BF2nnrzhDsU1GyUD9V9Vok_KkOsvoiBHeFVuqVXkjXkX55iVljM/w640-h480/17%20Sweet%20Dreams.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /></b></div>Deserving a place somewhere between Lucrecia Martel’s <i>‘Zama’</i> and Yorgos Lanthimos’s <i>‘The Favorite’</i>, <i>‘Sweet Dreams’</i> presents a big leap forward for its author Ena Sendijarević. Directed with more confidence, greater stylistic flair, and keener sense of pacing than her formally strong, yet emotionally numb road-movie debut <i>‘Take Me Somewhere Nice’</i>, this wry period piece boasts exquisite, appropriately decadent costume (Bernadette Corstens) and production design (Myrte Beltman), with bold colors popping out of the screen by virtue of Emo Weemhoff’s disciplined framing, particularly of interior spaces. By ‘squeezing’ all characters in 4:3 ratio, Sendijarević and Weemhoff strive to abolish the hierarchy of the (subtly caricatured) colonizers and the (delightfully deadpan) colonized in the story set around a sugar plantation in 1900 Indonesia, with the film’s aesthetical lavishness skillfully matched to both its acerbic insightfulness and satirical absurdity.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>18. Saules aveugles, femme endormie / Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman (Pierre Földes, 2022)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtIe3NliL9YfLvX9SPzaTBU1_q4AnV4oCKMR6vSXtMvdseh8iPNh1o8oi5pt78vF4IJJQVWK6LhmKy5Zsi5JulJl0wNGZy9LyBB9a_YvFnZtDxMY_cifU839VUIpOxLK8QkMyfSJem4S1me6511vs_G9pfwaHJOuyj6Lt78EjPBLk59BGQnNWY2P4CxYM/s1200/18%20Saules%20aveugles,%20femme%20endormie.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="646" data-original-width="1200" height="344" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtIe3NliL9YfLvX9SPzaTBU1_q4AnV4oCKMR6vSXtMvdseh8iPNh1o8oi5pt78vF4IJJQVWK6LhmKy5Zsi5JulJl0wNGZy9LyBB9a_YvFnZtDxMY_cifU839VUIpOxLK8QkMyfSJem4S1me6511vs_G9pfwaHJOuyj6Lt78EjPBLk59BGQnNWY2P4CxYM/w640-h344/18%20Saules%20aveugles,%20femme%20endormie.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /></b></div>I am not familiar with Haruki Murakami’s short stories the film is based upon (I’ve only read <i>‘Dance Dance Dance’</i> several years ago), but I will surely be keeping my eye on composer turned filmmaker Pierre Földes. Addressing the stresses of everyday life and attempts of ordinary people to find its meaning (if any), <i>‘Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman’</i> is a finely nuanced amalgam of light philosophical musings and quirky flights of fancy. Magic realist at its core, it introduces an anthropomorphic, Nietzsche-and-Hemingway-quoting frog as one of the guides in interconnected existential crises of three people stuck in their dead-end job, marriage or solitude. At once detached and compassionate, this fantasy-drama flows like a slightly disorienting dream in which almost each encounter gives off a Schrodinger’s cat vibe, and the cat has both the first and last name – Noboru Watanabe. The employed technique of animation similar to rotoscoping goes well with the liminal realities of the narrative, with Földes’s piano-heavy score conveying the brooding, yet comforting feeling of chronic melancholy.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>19. Saltburn (Emerald Fennell, 2023)<br /></i></b><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglmiRoV9mC812rTw8tgq5-oXcwfdKwczJdrGwVIEksTa7IEkrH2t9Td646UghPSQKZq4OPxP3A_hNd149C_LowVrb9p1YshD9tC9bN1Yoo8HszArLccXVt5sA2SjWDX5XZmPJKx8hb6iGG_rUm_OjCahsdoGuAwXGdSjZcD1Du32dQHvSeCj_114rP23Y/s1200/19%20Saltburn.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1200" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglmiRoV9mC812rTw8tgq5-oXcwfdKwczJdrGwVIEksTa7IEkrH2t9Td646UghPSQKZq4OPxP3A_hNd149C_LowVrb9p1YshD9tC9bN1Yoo8HszArLccXVt5sA2SjWDX5XZmPJKx8hb6iGG_rUm_OjCahsdoGuAwXGdSjZcD1Du32dQHvSeCj_114rP23Y/w640-h480/19%20Saltburn.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p></p><div style="text-align: justify;">Not to be taken too seriously, nor to be dismissed as ‘off the mark’ in its examination of toxic elitism, envy, desire, class conflict, and social privilege, dark, whimsical, psychosexual dramedy <i>‘Saltburn’</i> cements Barry Keoghan’s position among the finest actors working today. His devilishly on point and, ultimately, daringly uninhibited or, simply put, ‘cocky’ take on Oliver Quick – a young opportunist as talented as Tom Ripley, and as increasingly insidious as Martin from ‘The Killing of the Sacred Deer’ – constitutes the focal point in the film brimming with provocative eccentricities and slyly inserted cine-references. Supported by the likes of Rosamund Pike (brilliantly campy) and Richard E. Grant (playfully weird), Keoghan effortlessly sparks strong chemistry with his colleagues, particularly when partnered by Jacob Elordi and Archie Madekwe, as his anti-heroic character navigates the turbulent sea of decadent opulence. Speaking of which, Fennell finds superb conspirators of eye-pleasing pleasure in production designer Suzie Davies, supervising art director Caroline Barclay, and cinematographer Linus Sandgren, with some wittily inserted musical numbers amping up the twisted atmosphere.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div><br /></div><div>Also, after that bathtub scene, I’ll never hear the chorus of No Doubt’s <i>‘Bathwater’</i> in the same way again...</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>“... But I still love to wash in your old bathwater</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Love to think that you couldn’t love another</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>I can’t help it, you’re my kind of man...”</i></div></div><p style="text-align: justify;"></p><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>20. La bête dans la jungle / The Beast in the Jungle (Patric Chiha, 2023)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLFUlqHLHfti6eQWT4JXjjpNzMnhacqb4T8_jEwErudOStph3k27MZoPPNYoji3pQve8OgBUZhMmc4JSum98AukPTUdisR5o_6TgsT8C4hHJZBbN3b4y_4cbm0PgPdA51wWp9Gg9hgqjcxddVVEOTA-YRgxKPdxJXK_RoD7klCpvOqF62oRHFBE5VckhA/s1200/20%20La%20b%C3%AAte%20dans%20la%20jungle.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1200" height="384" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLFUlqHLHfti6eQWT4JXjjpNzMnhacqb4T8_jEwErudOStph3k27MZoPPNYoji3pQve8OgBUZhMmc4JSum98AukPTUdisR5o_6TgsT8C4hHJZBbN3b4y_4cbm0PgPdA51wWp9Gg9hgqjcxddVVEOTA-YRgxKPdxJXK_RoD7klCpvOqF62oRHFBE5VckhA/w640-h384/20%20La%20b%C3%AAte%20dans%20la%20jungle.jpg" width="640" /></a></div></b></div><p></p><div style="text-align: justify;">Henry James’s 1903 novella <i>‘The Beast in the Jungle’</i> (which I haven’t read) reaches the big screen through a couple of (loose) adaptations this year – one is Bertrand Bonello’s (yet to be seen) sci-fi upgrade <i>‘The Beast’</i>, starring Léa Seydoux and George MacKay, and the other is Patric Chiha’s neo-surrealist drama with Anaïs Demoustier and Tom Mercier as May and John waiting for an unknown event in a nameless nightclub supervised by Béatrice Dalle’s mysterious Physiognomist. Already provoking polarizing reactions, the latter film comes across as an oneiric tone poem, strangely hypnotic in its ambiguous languor set against disco-to-techno rhythms which mark the passing of time from 1979 to 2001, even though the protagonists remain ostensibly unaffected by its tooth. A meditation on lost opportunities, unfulfilled dreams and wasted youth, or in broader terms, love(lessness), life and death, it turns the setting into a sexy and sweaty purgatory of hedonistic rapture, yet it manages to keep the viewer bewitched in the duo’s puzzling, emotionally inert, but intimate orbit, largely by virtue of Demoustier’s and Mercier’s stellar performances. Both the dancefloor intoxication and anticipation of the right moment are beautifully captured by DP Céline Bozon, with warm tones of the 80’s gradually fading into darkness as the 20th century approaches its end. There’s a <i>‘Last Year at Marienbad’</i> vibe attached to the proceedings, though it appears as if refracted through the queer prism of Yann Gonzalez.</div>Nikola Gocićhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10802422474421337350noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3195252471961511941.post-22497097379841761532023-12-30T15:36:00.003+01:002023-12-30T15:36:48.910+01:00Best Premiere Viewings of 2023 (Vintage Edition)<p style="text-align: justify;">My 2023 was deeply marked by classic cinema, and finding their ways to my heart were more than 100 (!) films released during the 20th century, but seen for the first time in the past 363 days. In that regard, the top 30 selection you will find hereinafter represents but a glimpse back at extremely diverse viewing pleasures, with monthly lists linked in post scriptum.<br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB0RwY2Q-lI7zZZ6oBZ61xEEdTYvDpcbpkB7WUf8Yl8mFhnOE7_iZfF68-2Gnd3r_wQ-gA-x_f6tY5iPGhHMPlFjAZkgQaGPkZbK921JtqnFxTKRIsTPnpw_uPzz9GPob8tcTfTVbxJ_hSyfjGdvakrsFDhvEFseoZLOuC9ao4zyB9gRczuBrDrpm24_c/s1000/01%20Anmonaito%20no%20sasayaki%20wo%20kiita.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="541" data-original-width="1000" height="346" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB0RwY2Q-lI7zZZ6oBZ61xEEdTYvDpcbpkB7WUf8Yl8mFhnOE7_iZfF68-2Gnd3r_wQ-gA-x_f6tY5iPGhHMPlFjAZkgQaGPkZbK921JtqnFxTKRIsTPnpw_uPzz9GPob8tcTfTVbxJ_hSyfjGdvakrsFDhvEFseoZLOuC9ao4zyB9gRczuBrDrpm24_c/w640-h346/01%20Anmonaito%20no%20sasayaki%20wo%20kiita.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p></p><div style="text-align: justify;">1. Anmonaito no sasayaki wo kiita / I’ve Heard the Ammonite Murmur (Isao Yamada, 1992)</div><div style="text-align: justify;">2. Ilektra / Electra (Michael Cacoyannis, 1962)</div><div style="text-align: justify;">3. Bariera / Barrier (Jerzy Skolimowski, 1966)</div><div style="text-align: justify;">4. Utopia (Sohrab Shahid Saless, 1983)</div><div style="text-align: justify;">5. La Notte / The Night (Michelangelo Antonioni, 1961)<br /><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi4uckrTo1URoOLOGQ7-kY0fKIVtrInhSEdUCxmlJbepb33TFuouMQExYrFyjaHTaIGctjr68PPo0xZsfhI7PyIzOsgW53s7nHsTQUGwQxRrK1zOjBBC5EwSOEAt5BzuK4CT-eqeDBKwiUQRBWlIQYWlAyG_nzJk5ZwHuBIF7DFLd6tguiX3F2IL3Q7mg/s1000/02%20El%20extra%C3%B1o%20caso%20del%20doctor%20Fausto.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="614" data-original-width="1000" height="392" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi4uckrTo1URoOLOGQ7-kY0fKIVtrInhSEdUCxmlJbepb33TFuouMQExYrFyjaHTaIGctjr68PPo0xZsfhI7PyIzOsgW53s7nHsTQUGwQxRrK1zOjBBC5EwSOEAt5BzuK4CT-eqeDBKwiUQRBWlIQYWlAyG_nzJk5ZwHuBIF7DFLd6tguiX3F2IL3Q7mg/w640-h392/02%20El%20extra%C3%B1o%20caso%20del%20doctor%20Fausto.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">6. El extraño caso del doctor Fausto / The Strange Case of Doctor Faust (Gonzalo Suárez, 1969)</div><div style="text-align: justify;">7. Людина К (Сергій Рахманін, 1992) / The K Man (Sergey Rakhmanin, 1992)</div><div style="text-align: justify;">8. Khane-ye doust kodjast? / Where Is the Friend's House? (Abbas Kiarostami, 1987)</div><div style="text-align: justify;">9. La fiancée du pirate / A Very Curious Girl (Nelly Kaplan, 1969)</div><div style="text-align: justify;">10. Ďáblova past / The Devil’s Trap (František Vláčil, 1962)<br /><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhupzY3LSNyKlsGtALoPHgFiFDXbmUl53IzDy-_Gi6dQWjBD1ljuqSCkoNhxrMb-TCLguKwJP85ow5uGZxNF-I8HQk4Ub6QDVrvq7VyYjBWSKoLzihyphenhyphenpUmmObAF9G8LZ8n1V2SesdNKyc0pPF15M36G_dqd21j_0vEtuU6PeqPl6fdflt-f3TlAJg-fHEg/s1000/03%20Diabe%C5%82.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="602" data-original-width="1000" height="386" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhupzY3LSNyKlsGtALoPHgFiFDXbmUl53IzDy-_Gi6dQWjBD1ljuqSCkoNhxrMb-TCLguKwJP85ow5uGZxNF-I8HQk4Ub6QDVrvq7VyYjBWSKoLzihyphenhyphenpUmmObAF9G8LZ8n1V2SesdNKyc0pPF15M36G_dqd21j_0vEtuU6PeqPl6fdflt-f3TlAJg-fHEg/w640-h386/03%20Diabe%C5%82.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">11. Diabeł / The Devil (Andrzej Żuławski, 1972)</div><div style="text-align: justify;">12. Diabły, diabły / Devils, Devils (Dorota Kędzierzawska, 1991)</div><div style="text-align: justify;">13. Flesh and Fantasy (Julien Duvivier, 1943)</div><div style="text-align: justify;">14. Erosu purasu gyakusatsu / Eros + Massacre (Yoshishige Yoshida, 1969)</div><div style="text-align: justify;">15. Kyōnetsu no Kisetsu / The Warped Ones (Koreyoshi Kurahara, 1960)<br /><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgySjpT8wsjmdGmRCfw-kL5k3LhA2JFffKEgcUGExK_1tNCUxC6GNPcZE0oE84RQKPng2qH_E6V0yGG4UFBArC4lJ99xC60hk3kWQsBlA5FNRJk59M-VGfaaEOVT4mGXsWcA9vadq6n5lHC6QHOpbY31MC7QppkvH5JGrnwit9wVTOYelXnLhCmvGlI-Y8/s1000/04%20Hiroshima%20Mon%20Amour.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="726" data-original-width="1000" height="464" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgySjpT8wsjmdGmRCfw-kL5k3LhA2JFffKEgcUGExK_1tNCUxC6GNPcZE0oE84RQKPng2qH_E6V0yGG4UFBArC4lJ99xC60hk3kWQsBlA5FNRJk59M-VGfaaEOVT4mGXsWcA9vadq6n5lHC6QHOpbY31MC7QppkvH5JGrnwit9wVTOYelXnLhCmvGlI-Y8/w640-h464/04%20Hiroshima%20Mon%20Amour.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">16. Hiroshima Mon Amour (Alain Resnais, 1959)</div><div style="text-align: justify;">17. La mort trouble / The Unquiet Death (Claude d’Anna & Férid Boughedir, 1970)</div><div style="text-align: justify;">18. Žuvies diena / The Day of the Fish (Algimantas Puipa, 1990)</div><div style="text-align: justify;">19. Le collier perdu de la colombe / The Dove’s Lost Necklace (Nacer Khemir, 1991)</div><div style="text-align: justify;">20. Bruges-La-Morte (Ronald Chase, 1978)<br /><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYCKGkHKspWrl53YPPogNCmBD8AcHvZgteHT312DaT19mIbHvgf2_O69kLiAMqbD41gT4ojeu2ct-HiUvDxnLYwSpkC-oT2VihpNlq5twCewdeXBS_iHRREqFIg75YyXP0EvFNvdVHXBpw7xMuCTHTIcMzlrZeV5ozzkUG3lnlxKCHHxJ_o79pmajgle8/s1000/05%20Martin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="565" data-original-width="1000" height="362" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYCKGkHKspWrl53YPPogNCmBD8AcHvZgteHT312DaT19mIbHvgf2_O69kLiAMqbD41gT4ojeu2ct-HiUvDxnLYwSpkC-oT2VihpNlq5twCewdeXBS_iHRREqFIg75YyXP0EvFNvdVHXBpw7xMuCTHTIcMzlrZeV5ozzkUG3lnlxKCHHxJ_o79pmajgle8/w640-h362/05%20Martin.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">21. Martin (George A. Romero, 1977)</div><div style="text-align: justify;">22. Adieu Philippine (Jacques Rozier, 1962)</div><div style="text-align: justify;">23. Genji Monogatari / The Tale of Genji (Gisaburō Sugii, 1987)</div><div style="text-align: justify;">24. Soleil Ô / Oh, Sun (Med Hondo, 1967)</div><div style="text-align: justify;">25. Mickey One (Arthur Penn, 1965)<br /><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwfIkmVNrGsdwK91ISaa4HBb9EvVS-LN9QCxJLZ8TB9ZfYgcI0lP5WFeB7b5-5eaeFYYyD0V7VVBv5bXlaqhA0n4wYxmT5pWgVcnUlmBxBk8Sn5FL6cjmOtPK21Q3hFI6w8x9ulsNV0-FYDR0syaImoowcgmOT-M-_MM1kZ9guS2PNjOJpyxXDFWh29Bw/s1000/06%20Pesceni%20grad.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="1000" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwfIkmVNrGsdwK91ISaa4HBb9EvVS-LN9QCxJLZ8TB9ZfYgcI0lP5WFeB7b5-5eaeFYYyD0V7VVBv5bXlaqhA0n4wYxmT5pWgVcnUlmBxBk8Sn5FL6cjmOtPK21Q3hFI6w8x9ulsNV0-FYDR0syaImoowcgmOT-M-_MM1kZ9guS2PNjOJpyxXDFWh29Bw/w640-h426/06%20Pesceni%20grad.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">26. Peščeni grad / A Sand Castle (Boštjan Hladnik, 1962)</div><div style="text-align: justify;">27. La femme bourreau / A Woman Kills (Jean-Denis Bonan, 1968)</div><div style="text-align: justify;">28. Baron Prášil / The Fabulous Baron Munchausen (Karel Zeman, 1962)</div><div style="text-align: justify;">29. Salomé (Pierre Koralnik, 1969)</div><div style="text-align: justify;">30. Herzog Blaubarts Burg / Bluebeard’s Castle (Michael Powell, 1963)</div><br /><div style="text-align: center;">More great oldies to be discovered among the cine-favorites of...</div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://ngbooart.blogspot.com/2023/02/best-premiere-viewings-of-january-2023.html">January</a> | <a href="https://ngbooart.blogspot.com/2023/03/best-premiere-viewings-of-february-2023.html">February</a> | <a href="https://ngbooart.blogspot.com/2023/04/best-premiere-viewings-of-march-2023.html">March</a> | <a href="https://ngbooart.blogspot.com/2023/05/best-premiere-viewings-of-april-2023.html">April</a> | <a href="https://ngbooart.blogspot.com/2023/06/best-premiere-viewings-of-may.html">May</a> | <a href="https://ngbooart.blogspot.com/2023/07/best-premiere-viewings-of-june-2023.html">June</a> | <a href="https://ngbooart.blogspot.com/2023/08/best-premiere-viewings-of-july-2023.html">July</a></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://ngbooart.blogspot.com/2023/09/best-premiere-viewings-of-august-2023.html">August</a> | <a href="https://ngbooart.blogspot.com/2023/10/best-premiere-viewings-of-september.html">September</a> | <a href="https://ngbooart.blogspot.com/2023/11/best-premiere-viewings-of-october-2023.html">October</a> | <a href="https://ngbooart.blogspot.com/2023/11/best-premiere-viewings-of-november.html">November</a></b></div><p></p>Nikola Gocićhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10802422474421337350noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3195252471961511941.post-90358772226210589452023-12-16T18:13:00.000+01:002023-12-16T18:13:42.365+01:00Divinity (Eddie Alcazar, 2023)<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI6Ct3J-iVnzgUY4rLlQmqL6OaluqS6w5wOJSiImoXzJp6D6qQ5xgC-VadQjTu-RR5A5BsjUbWkYx7gIcG2YxGRtPo925jrJFsb4MbyoepliDjEPGTMbrWSEUTcdAgMl70gZcs-cYlB9GPjvPy03wYmjzVgGsoO3Gx-8h2E6ewXL2lo2rGII2oatJcMk4/s2000/Divinity1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1125" data-original-width="2000" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI6Ct3J-iVnzgUY4rLlQmqL6OaluqS6w5wOJSiImoXzJp6D6qQ5xgC-VadQjTu-RR5A5BsjUbWkYx7gIcG2YxGRtPo925jrJFsb4MbyoepliDjEPGTMbrWSEUTcdAgMl70gZcs-cYlB9GPjvPy03wYmjzVgGsoO3Gx-8h2E6ewXL2lo2rGII2oatJcMk4/w640-h360/Divinity1.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />A strong contender for the most (insanely!) stylish pulp experiment of the year, Eddie Alcazar’s sophomore feature is a bold, dazzling, overwhelming assault on the viewer’s senses. Stunningly shot on 16mm B&W film, with deep shadows absorbing its flaws all the while emphasizing its esoteric qualities, <i>‘Divinity’</i> comes across like an intoxicating concoction of wildly varied influences, from the psychotronic sci-fi of the mid-20th century and Ray Harryhausen’s brand of stop-motion to disturbing body horror of David Cronenberg, fever dream-like surrealism of David Lynch and, unexpectedly, fighting games à la <i>‘Mortal Kombat’</i>.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">At once quaint and futuristic, it examines our unending search for immortality and tackles the ethical issues thereof, casting a satirical lens on the modern society obsessed with superficial beauty and hedonistic frenzy. Whimsical in its plotting, it invites a mysterious couple of cosmic siblings (Moises Arias and Jason Genao) to Earth, and pits them against a mad scientist with serious daddy issues, Jaxxon (Stephen Dorff), and his appropriately named brother Rip (Micheael O’Hearn), in and around a desert house that – similarly to the movie itself – exists in an unspecified space between the past and the future / twisted geometries of German expressionism and imposing grandeur of Brutalist architecture. The sinister mansion plays a significant role in establishing the sombre and chimeric atmosphere of human decadence, further enhanced by forebodingly hazy electronic soundscapes from DJ Muggs (of Cypress Hill fame) and Dean Hurley (who has previously collaborated with David Lynch and Chrysta Bell).</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Unlike Alcazar’s ambitious, but ambiguously messy debut <i>‘Perfect’</i> excessively hampered by ad-and-music-video-like aesthetics, <i>‘Divinity’</i> actually benefits from its author’s background in commercials, with form and content / carnal and transcendental / articulate and ineffable being in a considerably improved balance. It blurs the boundary that separates the miraculous from the grotesque, and just for fun, subverts some Biblical themes as it pokes fun at New Age pretensions. The cult status is almost certainly guaranteed.</div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD9XMoOLEV93BmpaKaNeOKePAXaPxe41cDmeH23pBCmUTh6kuYTyuD2HFQh9OtCbWwNOoaR270vggDeXHEoeDWNEcun-n5YKLF0zXhvmpsYWAAAshG02kk2IeUM0BlJoqDB5WF1NOe-gRM2mAi1OyU0Q0_-EfOD4TK_hrf2FOwcVqqkS-r2hq9PhFhgpY/s2000/Divinity2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1125" data-original-width="2000" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD9XMoOLEV93BmpaKaNeOKePAXaPxe41cDmeH23pBCmUTh6kuYTyuD2HFQh9OtCbWwNOoaR270vggDeXHEoeDWNEcun-n5YKLF0zXhvmpsYWAAAshG02kk2IeUM0BlJoqDB5WF1NOe-gRM2mAi1OyU0Q0_-EfOD4TK_hrf2FOwcVqqkS-r2hq9PhFhgpY/w640-h360/Divinity2.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>Nikola Gocićhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10802422474421337350noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3195252471961511941.post-64094100539375831942023-11-30T22:56:00.001+01:002023-11-30T23:02:37.016+01:00Best Premiere Viewings of November 2023<p></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>1. Bitterroot Episode 1: Greed’s Dream (Johnny Clyde, 2023)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNsqUOf0xsN4N5p2DpOqXP4ZQqunYr_0frQk_MI-UQxMIKijMUNkVPz3r5egzdGV3nLTgaVOzj-2ow4Wkv3t_pGmLflPuAd_ys7gbUt3Oo-oHIwkpx4eBD4ubelOeb7oqmPKqgYjZAEpuZMjt6yqeU8uivhhNV6JYzynDMjOx9qlB5AVk8-1qPf2aJTuQ/s900/01%20BITTERROOT%20Episode%201%20-%20Greed's%20Dream.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="506" data-original-width="900" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNsqUOf0xsN4N5p2DpOqXP4ZQqunYr_0frQk_MI-UQxMIKijMUNkVPz3r5egzdGV3nLTgaVOzj-2ow4Wkv3t_pGmLflPuAd_ys7gbUt3Oo-oHIwkpx4eBD4ubelOeb7oqmPKqgYjZAEpuZMjt6yqeU8uivhhNV6JYzynDMjOx9qlB5AVk8-1qPf2aJTuQ/w400-h225/01%20BITTERROOT%20Episode%201%20-%20Greed's%20Dream.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></b></div><br />Initially conceived as a feature film, <i>‘Bitterroot’</i> has been transmuted into an online series, and its first episode is a pure surrealist bliss! A mesmerizing blend of photo-novel, painting, and 2D animation, it utilizes a dazzling barrage of phantasmagorical imagery to reach your subconscious mind. Elevating the viewing experience – akin to a hypnagogic trance – is an ethereal, mystifying score synergized with a cryptic, distorted voice-over. Johnny Clyde (<i><a href="https://ngbooart.blogspot.com/2018/07/the-forgotten-colors-of-dreams-johnny.html">The Forgotten Colours of Dreams</a></i>) once again proves to be one of the most distinct voices of independent cinema.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>2. Les chambres rouges / Red Rooms (Pascal Plante, 2023)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpyNmvjMKwihszEmZ1sohJmu0ebWogjuXHojmxKV69ra5IULE7QblF7Guc7eBEm2QEnG_j4jEbwfliE2Q8Nb2vLEbEmzyKuEdATUHKF1wKJZYA4GueM8FDcLrHXTmTqik0Xw1QVtiXcZAgIBfUuXUUWrWI3bs3fD6PiSfWHSaKW7qxLxsXGLxfyCA_n8c/s900/02%20Les%20Chambres%20Rouges.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="900" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpyNmvjMKwihszEmZ1sohJmu0ebWogjuXHojmxKV69ra5IULE7QblF7Guc7eBEm2QEnG_j4jEbwfliE2Q8Nb2vLEbEmzyKuEdATUHKF1wKJZYA4GueM8FDcLrHXTmTqik0Xw1QVtiXcZAgIBfUuXUUWrWI3bs3fD6PiSfWHSaKW7qxLxsXGLxfyCA_n8c/w400-h266/02%20Les%20Chambres%20Rouges.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></b></div><br />If I were asked to describe <i>‘Red Rooms’</i> in a single word, I would probably opt for ‘anti-sensationalist’, which also perfectly suits the author’s measured approach to the razor-sharp dissection of modern society, or rather, its evils, collective and individual alike, as well as to the stark, mystery-imbued study of a character fascinated by a heinous crime. Firmly anchored in the central, utterly magnetic performance from Juliette Gariépy whose micro-acting skills give Mads Mikkelsen a good run for his money, this stellar, thought-provoking, impressively cold, steely unnerving and formally ingenious psycho-drama/thriller needs no Hollywood-style ‘fireworks’ to keep you glued to screen. Right from the get-go set in a featureless, yet instantly captivating courtroom, it snatches your attention by virtue of extraordinary camerawork, especially the expert use of long takes, at once immersive and chillingly uncanny sound design, elaborate music score which elevates the bleakness of the atmosphere, and above all, incredibly pedantic direction marked by eerie, Haneke-like austerity, and to a certain degree, methodical mannerism of late Schrader. Beneath its ‘frigid’ surface of brilliantly played understatements, simmers a well of intense emotions, lending a refined patina to the proceedings...<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>3. Diabły, diabły / Devils, Devils (Dorota Kędzierzawska, 1991)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi37xTqQPFK_h0gCCHsJzFqPh9IiLDTaNOnExhwKtNhqYYFRJSSneK7BEKNKEqPMPGVm5tcg79_wAL-TNsy5SZnZvjRdQpVw4wudB-0KBnp9xWaVIyqg4zzbL-OZnq8T4ChVG2ChTGPk6OENE7K_uBKFtVZ9CWoLVOi3d_Swg1hGKcOMwMyUHQFFZ2-U6Y/s900/03%20Devils,%20Devils.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="675" data-original-width="900" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi37xTqQPFK_h0gCCHsJzFqPh9IiLDTaNOnExhwKtNhqYYFRJSSneK7BEKNKEqPMPGVm5tcg79_wAL-TNsy5SZnZvjRdQpVw4wudB-0KBnp9xWaVIyqg4zzbL-OZnq8T4ChVG2ChTGPk6OENE7K_uBKFtVZ9CWoLVOi3d_Swg1hGKcOMwMyUHQFFZ2-U6Y/w400-h300/03%20Devils,%20Devils.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></b></div><br />Dorota Kędzierzawska gently blurs the boundaries between innocence and eroticism in her feature debut – a highly poeticized coming-of-age drama that explores the budding sexuality of a teenage girl, Mała (lit. little one), against the backdrop of the tension between villagers and Romani nomads – ostracized and demonized by country bumpkins – in 60’s Poland. Eschewing dialogue in favor of stunningly beautiful, psychologically penetrating close-ups, she also paints one of the most romantic portraits of Roma people, immersing herself, the young heroine (Justyna Ciemny, absolutely wonderful in the central role) and the viewer in their songs and dancing. From the largely non-professional cast who give off Pasoliniesque vibes at times, she acquires a great deal of authenticity, as well as a strong sense of freedom, delivering the film of pristine energies and meaningful silences, with every look, smile, touch and step impregnated with keen lyricism.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>4. La fiancée du pirate / A Very Curious Girl (Nelly Kaplan, 1969)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6g8PRzV7G8BFplAsQ44s4BMqpUV2J46nbUbw1Nis6yG8IjobnOWigxoQk0LGBZdyXrmxqQEgdZGxJZpaOgW_zApUR-86b2AzFYyk73mO4Uzg_5mV2jCGRfBizfCpCaOcLLZn0Wck7HuZKAk7ZNyyw14Ntk7mtoX2Re6CvCYaBVDxC6za3bkyNT3FrWV0/s900/04%20La%20fianc%C3%A9e%20du%20pirate.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="542" data-original-width="900" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6g8PRzV7G8BFplAsQ44s4BMqpUV2J46nbUbw1Nis6yG8IjobnOWigxoQk0LGBZdyXrmxqQEgdZGxJZpaOgW_zApUR-86b2AzFYyk73mO4Uzg_5mV2jCGRfBizfCpCaOcLLZn0Wck7HuZKAk7ZNyyw14Ntk7mtoX2Re6CvCYaBVDxC6za3bkyNT3FrWV0/w400-h241/04%20La%20fianc%C3%A9e%20du%20pirate.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></b></div><br />Chytilova’s feminist radicalism, Buñuelian gleeful irreverence, Papatakis’s anarchic verve, and Godard’s bold use of primary colors coalesce in one of the most entertaining cine-humiliations of capitalist patriarchy. Nelly Kaplan directs her feature debut with playful audacity and rebellious openness, channeling her confrontational zeal through Bernadette Lafont in the central role. Her vibrantly farcical story of a young woman’s liberation from the confines of provincial hypocrisy sees the weaponization of female sexuality as a form of modern-day witchcraft whose practitioner ‘doesn’t let herself to be burned’, in the words of the director herself. <i>‘A Very Curious Girl’</i> makes me very curious about other Kaplan’s films.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>5. Scavengers Reign (Joseph Bennett & Charles Huettner, 2023)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirrGcyFqFSxUEnxOrdLveI6O2_6U2rgYJ6PSoUrtbh5pPC0_pxDcCV-qafAyRS4jMumSX2h3DYxoMLyOXKKmOQ6T8C7Qrmp3MuDrAvqiV0P7xV7twpyRXhIB4mRmCcKjenBMcDlQvmfQYDxs9nXQ71cljYDtXI2KtM5HPk9PT1Jak5CsUjv1JE7oBmiWo/s900/05%20Scavengers%20Reign.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="506" data-original-width="900" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirrGcyFqFSxUEnxOrdLveI6O2_6U2rgYJ6PSoUrtbh5pPC0_pxDcCV-qafAyRS4jMumSX2h3DYxoMLyOXKKmOQ6T8C7Qrmp3MuDrAvqiV0P7xV7twpyRXhIB4mRmCcKjenBMcDlQvmfQYDxs9nXQ71cljYDtXI2KtM5HPk9PT1Jak5CsUjv1JE7oBmiWo/w400-h225/05%20Scavengers%20Reign.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></b></div><br />Taking cues from Mœbius’s artwork, and Laloux’s cult favorites such as <i>‘Gandahar’</i>, Miyazaki’s adaptation of <i>‘Nausicaä of the Valley of the Wind’</i> manga, and Dudok de Wit’s masterpiece <i>‘The Red Turtle’</i>, as well as from a number of movies involving a spaceship crew lost in an alien environment, Bennett & Huettner deliver one of the most imaginative pieces of science-fiction in recent years! <i>‘Scavengers Reign’</i> follows a group of survivors from a space freighter Demeter 227 who find themselves stranded on a gorgeous, yet not quite welcoming planet Vesta, and the utterly impressive world building alone is reason enough to visit this short series. Brimming with outlandish vistas and bizarre creatures that make up the setting’s intricate, not to mention awe-inspiring eco-system, it strikes you hard with its surreal-like qualities that are further enhanced by dream sequences and hallucinations, all presented in charmingly (and refreshingly!) quaint 2D animation accompanied by a mesmerizing score.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>6. Žuvies diena (Algimantas Puipa, 1990)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVC4mjduewqkkwEtcxcn7guaHjXXqBPkJQSuc8iOtoTTLQKiXzSaZ-lY_HbDPre_eBKw0xtU6ApRo9JccQsBNv_KzjZpEnAbaDNKbXOqnLZbcd2GTDVO2GxzWtR9LwO4ywQ8748MdRvb1TdUHi0zLhiAoeeRthhs-rd369Mte5XV5joCdNJjc9DzOM8BE/s900/06%20Day%20of%20the%20Fish.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="660" data-original-width="900" height="294" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVC4mjduewqkkwEtcxcn7guaHjXXqBPkJQSuc8iOtoTTLQKiXzSaZ-lY_HbDPre_eBKw0xtU6ApRo9JccQsBNv_KzjZpEnAbaDNKbXOqnLZbcd2GTDVO2GxzWtR9LwO4ywQ8748MdRvb1TdUHi0zLhiAoeeRthhs-rd369Mte5XV5joCdNJjc9DzOM8BE/w400-h294/06%20Day%20of%20the%20Fish.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></b></div><br />Veronika’s reality resembles a disorienting dream, and her dreams are almost as tangible as off-kilter reality. In-between the two indistinguishable ‘extremes’ lies her writing with <i>‘imaginary exotic setting’</i>, <i>‘characters who aren’t real’</i>, and <i>‘everything messed-up on purpose’</i>, in the words of her editor. <i>‘Why not talk to a film director?’</i>, he asks, hinting at the meta-quality of the fragmented, freewheeling narrative, and quite probably referencing to Jolita Skablauskaitė’s work which served as the source of inspiration for Liucia Armonaitė and Regina Vosyliutė’s screenplay. Whimsically poetic, decidedly meandering and starkly intuitive in its stream-of-consciousness rapture, <i>‘The Day of the Fish’</i> stubbornly refuses to conform, placing the viewer in the heroine’s disjointed point of view, and employing a combined barrage of borderline oneiric imagery, dissonantly eclectic soundtrack, and often allusive dialogue to a hypnotizing effect. <br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>7. Papa les petits bateaux... / Papa, the Lil’ Boats (Nelly Kaplan, 1971)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi91bK_mfnRvUbDMF1YoaP4-tIh7GgRUFiNorRC8gPlzuM8r_DDx91CEAnqvHmKxDhzM5pNLY7EBTY9B9zxbVml2SV3-U5wY-D4I7JN6XrsRCZA3mB8A1m2Zl7YHBFlVB8SPkH3N0H6RNg2sh6Nknl_4DEi69_JNTZQ2H9hovlVdqwpbDS9aMAWeobBolA/s900/07%20Papa%20les%20petits%20bateaux....jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="541" data-original-width="900" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi91bK_mfnRvUbDMF1YoaP4-tIh7GgRUFiNorRC8gPlzuM8r_DDx91CEAnqvHmKxDhzM5pNLY7EBTY9B9zxbVml2SV3-U5wY-D4I7JN6XrsRCZA3mB8A1m2Zl7YHBFlVB8SPkH3N0H6RNg2sh6Nknl_4DEi69_JNTZQ2H9hovlVdqwpbDS9aMAWeobBolA/w400-h240/07%20Papa%20les%20petits%20bateaux....jpg" width="400" /></a></div></b></div><br />Nelly Kaplan and her crew must’ve had a whale of a time on the set, because <i>‘Papa, the Lil’ Boats’</i> sizzles with their sparkling energies combined in a most fascinating way! Insanely farcical, cartoonishly silly, and brimming with a cult potential, this comedy sees a rich, not to mention shrewd heiress, Vénus ‘Cookie’ De Palma (outlandishly funny Sheila White!), transforming from a victim into a kicking, screaming, scheming and dancing, or simply put, seductively misbehaving nightmare for an unlikely band of kidnappers. As they fall one after another in a series of ‘accidents’, unaware that their ‘brilliant’ plan is doomed right from the chloroformless start, Kaplan gleefully mocks greed, stupidity, possessiveness, and a capitalist paternal figure embodied by Sydney ‘son of Charlie’ Chaplin in a superb supporting role. She makes the most of the limited locations, with DoP Ricardo Aronovich (who filmed <i>‘Jaune le soleil’</i> by Marguerite Duras in the same year) capturing all the deliciously colorful zaniness with aplomb.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>8. La giornata balorda / From a Roman Balcony (Mauro Bolognini, 1960)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-GBLVidx3QBFN-0XCF5pgziPKa9nXLpRCPdQH8BZ-OjeUcXLLjqGV2vP41NGnyxpunx2YavOCwgyeCthy-J8XlGDA-ezk9zvrf3nyV96nb6YWU5hjnyCXgSNiK5GPQyljbV12sp29kPAMbvC2aies3r0Pv8ON7WNpFmrQKn1NQQ8riegNLaGmjLtQkrQ/s900/08%20La%20giornata%20balorda.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="657" data-original-width="900" height="293" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-GBLVidx3QBFN-0XCF5pgziPKa9nXLpRCPdQH8BZ-OjeUcXLLjqGV2vP41NGnyxpunx2YavOCwgyeCthy-J8XlGDA-ezk9zvrf3nyV96nb6YWU5hjnyCXgSNiK5GPQyljbV12sp29kPAMbvC2aies3r0Pv8ON7WNpFmrQKn1NQQ8riegNLaGmjLtQkrQ/w400-h293/08%20La%20giornata%20balorda.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></b></div><br />Opening with a dizzyingly beautiful long, low-angle take that captures not only the dilapidation and poverty of a slum tenement, but its very soul as well, <i>‘From a Roman Balcony’</i> immediately pulls you into a bold deglamorization of Rome, as it follows a sexed-up ne’er-do-well protagonist, Davide Saraceno (Jean Sorel, his talent matched with good looks), in the seemingly futile search for a job. More interested in women than work, with a teenage fiancée (angelic Valeria Ciangottini) and newborn son waiting at home, Davide crosses paths with three gorgeous paramours-to-be, manicurist Marina (Jeanne Valérie), prostitute Sabina (Isabelle Corey) and mysterious, truck-driving Freja (Lea Massari), approaching his goal in most unexpected ways, through the Roman underbelly. Heavily censored at the time, Bolognini’s social drama appears like a bridge between neorealism and modernism, seducing the viewer with Piero Piccioni’s smoky jazz score, and Aldo Scavarda’s brilliant cinematography, all the while thematically anticipating one of its co-writer’s debut – Pasolini’s <i>‘Accattone’</i> (1961). <br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>9. Finský nůž / The Finnish Knife (Zdenek Sirový, 1965)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOwLj2EH9z030HaWP49BI5UAJrlWd7pKwDJu30oIhWaIDy7hFhW3LUzeiCZyy2NY135qyuQiHKiHAHl1yw8HggHw_vhBIM-dcnsVcuCiAjhzocQS8cxsTPhyphenhyphen-_d-dASaDAP8j0X472txNtXYB99IoEcptk-LY-kBdWCf0OqHod-QVRajHVd8Gm_DwkDms/s900/09%20Finsk%C3%BD%20n%C5%AF%C5%BE.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="657" data-original-width="900" height="293" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOwLj2EH9z030HaWP49BI5UAJrlWd7pKwDJu30oIhWaIDy7hFhW3LUzeiCZyy2NY135qyuQiHKiHAHl1yw8HggHw_vhBIM-dcnsVcuCiAjhzocQS8cxsTPhyphenhyphen-_d-dASaDAP8j0X472txNtXYB99IoEcptk-LY-kBdWCf0OqHod-QVRajHVd8Gm_DwkDms/w400-h293/09%20Finsk%C3%BD%20n%C5%AF%C5%BE.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></b></div><br />From Věra Chytilová and František Vláčil to Juraj Herz and Juraj Jakubisko, the Czechoslovak cinema of the 60’s holds a number of must-see titles for any true cinephile. Even the lesser known / overlooked films such as <i>‘The Finnish Knife’</i> tend to leave a strong impression. Co-written by director Zdenek Sirový, and Pavel Juráček who would work alongside Chytilová’s on her cult feature <i>‘Daisies’</i> in the following year, this psychological drama / road movie belongs to the ‘misguided youth’ drawer in the New Wave archives. A taut examination of guilt, it revolves around two adolescents, Tonda (Karel Meister) and Honza (Jaromír Hanzlík), who flee from justice believing the latter is responsible for murdering a man with the titular knife. On the way to Poland, the boys’ friendship is put to a severe test, because apart from the (unproven) crime, they don’t share much in common, with their disparate inner states and insecurities externalized through the beautiful chiaroscuro cinematography of Jan Čuřík (<i>The White Dove</i>, <i>Joseph Killian</i>, <i>Valerie and Her Week of Wonders</i>), editor Jan Chaloupek’s insightful cuts, and Wiliam Bukový’s mood-swinging score. At times, it appears that Sirový leans on Jan Němec’s masterful debut <i>‘Diamonds of the Night’</i> (1964), although his piece is not nearly as bleak, nor does it slip into surrealism, with tonal oscillations handled deftly.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>10. Jowita / Jovita (Janusz Morgenstern, 1967)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv_G4Um7gm7FC8_g63i0LxbbWBvCNtX7fjjEvUnb_jfNtjWhuWzOuEBbwb1b7E9gv67bQ1RlWBGxDZbzrqb5P4SPCAQlIzHNB03HGafrWW448V1EmIs-Ea-z-u1eJyPjcfZotpKeKRYhQr0Z4eOKDBKN-OIzX0L5GytL0QYexS4J2x3SRAprAnsD8kesU/s900/10%20Jowita.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="659" data-original-width="900" height="293" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv_G4Um7gm7FC8_g63i0LxbbWBvCNtX7fjjEvUnb_jfNtjWhuWzOuEBbwb1b7E9gv67bQ1RlWBGxDZbzrqb5P4SPCAQlIzHNB03HGafrWW448V1EmIs-Ea-z-u1eJyPjcfZotpKeKRYhQr0Z4eOKDBKN-OIzX0L5GytL0QYexS4J2x3SRAprAnsD8kesU/w400-h293/10%20Jowita.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></b></div><br />Daniel Olbrychski – memorable as a leading protagonist in Andrzej Wajda’s masterful epic <i>‘The Ashes’</i> – brings playboyish charm to the role of an architect and athlete, Marek Arens, whose obsession with an enigmatic woman from a masquerade party leads him down the spiral of frustration and self-pity. His flings, as well as an ostensibly meaningful romance with Agnieszka (Barbara Lass, utterly delightful), and frequent visits to concerts of classical music, are all captured in captivating B&W (Jan Laskowski, who was also behind the camera of Morgenstern’s sparkly debut <i>‘Good Bye, Till Tomorrow’</i>), accompanied by mood-establishing, if slightly underused jazzing by saxophonist Jerzy Matuszkiewicz. Helmed with a keen sense of modernity characteristic of the European cinema of the time, Jowita is a delectable treat for any 60’s-loving movie buff.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>11. L’ordre et la sécurité du monde / Last In, First Out (Claude D’Anna, 1978)<br /></i></b><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdWdYY4BkyYLc9NPuXG95EE-XFoCGvxROvDUnJnm88r45Q4ahkVu8Y2pPDup3e7j7v76xASz9Y7r-5PG_pacAJGYbYg4ZZthNuR-khRUG87opOF4Ttnxx_UqCJhP-t0mRLuw4wfZHRaZA9tr0jImwD27SNVFLpbqOouhMhreU7X0I26Zd1z5JncMslW44/s900/11%20Last%20In,%20First%20Out.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="354" data-original-width="900" height="158" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdWdYY4BkyYLc9NPuXG95EE-XFoCGvxROvDUnJnm88r45Q4ahkVu8Y2pPDup3e7j7v76xASz9Y7r-5PG_pacAJGYbYg4ZZthNuR-khRUG87opOF4Ttnxx_UqCJhP-t0mRLuw4wfZHRaZA9tr0jImwD27SNVFLpbqOouhMhreU7X0I26Zd1z5JncMslW44/w400-h158/11%20Last%20In,%20First%20Out.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>“Where imperialism is retreating, it is robbing, destroying and starving. Rich countries are preparing a bloody future for themselves.”</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div><br /></div><div>Three years after <i>‘Trompe l’oeil’</i>, Marie-France Bonin (aka Laure Dechasnel) and Claude D’Anna come up with another mystery as co-writers and star + director duo, but this time, they take cues from Hitchcock and Melville, with some proto-Lynchian vibes channelled through Dennis Hopper’s Methadrine-sniffing, Frank Booth-anticipating baddie, Medford. Set against some shady dealings involving higher-ups from European and American fractions opposed over a vague Third World exploitation business, the opaque thriller-drama revolves around Hélène Lehman (Bonin), a young woman mistaken for a spy after a passport mix-up with Bruno Cremer’s journalist hero, Lucas Richter, on the railway line from Paris to Zurich. Although dialogue-heavy, and reliant on long-distance calls turned leitmotif of sorts, the film is fraught with tension simmering under its ‘autumnal’ surface, and establishing an atmosphere at once gravely conspiratorial and frigidly melancholic, permeated with the oppressive sense of urgency, paranoia and danger. Emphasizing the gloom is Eduard van der Enden’s neo-noirish cinematography of predominantly muted colors, and clickety-clack humming of a train sparsely interrupted by a jazzy / electronic score intermittently elegiac and foreboding. </div></div><p></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>12. Slike iz života udarnika / Life of a Shock Force Worker (Bahrudin ‘Bato’ Čengić, 1972)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinhSsJ7OOwRxk5hvbjzLR78rSqBirxZZgk-0ywt8ewCS-1CvhW1ilS2BHQNok8ZKvqs_HzCr0Fa3QBb2CTWGGVHvKzX5FiYoIRJgqjs1ww38AuWy4aIpmYzC8XQzM5Rdbg5KhGxVjH4yeobxNlufwghp125fLKBTJxdbSa-hYaNnZ2QoKU8J5Y90MBIxQ/s900/12%20Slike%20iz%20%C5%BEivota%20udarnika.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="655" data-original-width="900" height="291" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinhSsJ7OOwRxk5hvbjzLR78rSqBirxZZgk-0ywt8ewCS-1CvhW1ilS2BHQNok8ZKvqs_HzCr0Fa3QBb2CTWGGVHvKzX5FiYoIRJgqjs1ww38AuWy4aIpmYzC8XQzM5Rdbg5KhGxVjH4yeobxNlufwghp125fLKBTJxdbSa-hYaNnZ2QoKU8J5Y90MBIxQ/w400-h291/12%20Slike%20iz%20%C5%BEivota%20udarnika.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></b></div><br />Brimming with bitter irony and unwavering determination, <i>‘Life of a Shock Force Worker’</i> employs acerbic humor and meticulously composed vignettes somewhat reminiscent of Parajanov’s tableaux vivants or rather, pieces of naïve art to tell the story of the rise and fall of proletariat, focusing on a Bosnian coal miner, Adem. Based on a script co-written by director Bahrudin Čengić, and Branko Vučićević (<i>Love Affair, or The Case of the Missing Switchboard Operator</i> / <i>Innocence Unprotected</i> / <i>Early Works</i>), this satirical dramedy is beautifully lensed by acclaimed cinematographer and filmmaker Karpo Aćimović Godina (<i>The Medusa Raft</i>, also penned by the aforementioned Vučićević), featuring an authentic cast of both professional and non-professional actors.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>13. La vocation suspendue / The Suspended Vocation (Raúl Ruiz, 1978)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxI-WrarrjPGNlRpgk7R9aLsejnzWX_98ME1CB8VIS_cpIzQBky7wim5S1AbXmtKC1MrE0U7NeJKCWe2gvNj3wri6ovWOaLFcKSMsIXCNUlkndM9na-yK8Iz9dRa2xTzTuP75e1W7eGHVD45IPRmrwT5diert63UNG-qCjNFDDeXdTigxXK-IecZKVPYE/s900/13%20La%20vocation%20suspendue.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="677" data-original-width="900" height="301" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxI-WrarrjPGNlRpgk7R9aLsejnzWX_98ME1CB8VIS_cpIzQBky7wim5S1AbXmtKC1MrE0U7NeJKCWe2gvNj3wri6ovWOaLFcKSMsIXCNUlkndM9na-yK8Iz9dRa2xTzTuP75e1W7eGHVD45IPRmrwT5diert63UNG-qCjNFDDeXdTigxXK-IecZKVPYE/w400-h301/13%20La%20vocation%20suspendue.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></b></div><br />Watching a film signed by Raúl Ruiz always poses a challenge, and <i>‘The Suspended Vocation’</i> situates itself in the pantheon of the most difficult ones. Semantically complex and formally playful, this unconventional drama is – on the surface – about ideological disputes between two fractions, the Devotion and Black Party, within French Catholic Church. However, it delves much deeper than that, into the (left-wing) politics, the nature of cinema, philosophical conundrums, as well as into one’s own dichotomies reflected in the film’s ‘dual’ structure, with Pascal Bonitzer and Didier Flamand portraying a protagonist, father Jérôme, in color and B&W parts, respectively. Add to that the fact that Ruiz operated in exile, and you’re in for a Borgesian treat, impossible to grasp in one viewing, and too heady in its intricacies to be approached again. One thing is sure, though, and that is the beauty of cinematography by Sacha Vierny of <i>‘Hiroshima Mon Amour’</i> fame, and Maurice Perrimond who collaborated with Ruiz on <i>‘The Hypothesis of the Stolen Painting’</i> released in the same year.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>14. Plaisir d’amour / The Pleasure of Love (Nelly Kaplan, 1991)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP0Xq8lum9gDKCeXh_ET31mwDhS185HoEQKzJ7kxaC9YngL09MAYw0uXRPR3CtpiQio-FjPA8XPoCx97UIqr62NhVXhPS21vNKMyIoRRlCwORhFPUrEkkScqnKmKyEZ9OPpYDCKMR-otBWFAaGLK0m4kceQ-jLVUD6suFL7NL8nLcLNEzqzs-QKfOXN_I/s900/14%20Plaisir%20d%E2%80%99amour.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="538" data-original-width="900" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP0Xq8lum9gDKCeXh_ET31mwDhS185HoEQKzJ7kxaC9YngL09MAYw0uXRPR3CtpiQio-FjPA8XPoCx97UIqr62NhVXhPS21vNKMyIoRRlCwORhFPUrEkkScqnKmKyEZ9OPpYDCKMR-otBWFAaGLK0m4kceQ-jLVUD6suFL7NL8nLcLNEzqzs-QKfOXN_I/w400-h239/14%20Plaisir%20d%E2%80%99amour.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></b></div><br />Cécile Sanz de Alba, Dominique Blanc and Françoise Fabian are all superb as witty seductresses Jo, Clo and Do in Nelly Kaplan’s sexy, campy, quirky, surreal, visually stunning and most elegantly directed comedy.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>15. Lekcja martwego języka / Lesson of a Dead Language (Janusz Majewski, 1979)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBEg-WUVJYJ7D-MjDEO9IHeJ61e2idCfFWlj0i2edAnfMOauf4FGCU8PFyitwsIQ1QIoBIchvYyD72pKEzzohtI0m1uKFleLugxW0q9e0COcjmynw6fQ5H74_mlWKQr2IN2lk9j9C2bQrFtTcJldD1EopIahjtP47Lqq1oGs9f1AbHBcN2Wk0ep_BmPeE/s900/15%20Lesson%20of%20a%20Dead%20Language.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="543" data-original-width="900" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBEg-WUVJYJ7D-MjDEO9IHeJ61e2idCfFWlj0i2edAnfMOauf4FGCU8PFyitwsIQ1QIoBIchvYyD72pKEzzohtI0m1uKFleLugxW0q9e0COcjmynw6fQ5H74_mlWKQr2IN2lk9j9C2bQrFtTcJldD1EopIahjtP47Lqq1oGs9f1AbHBcN2Wk0ep_BmPeE/w400-h241/15%20Lesson%20of%20a%20Dead%20Language.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></b></div><br /><i>“I cannot fight evil. What shall we fight and what for anyway? We live in void. We have impressions and hallucinations sometimes, but no one really knows, what it is.”</i><br /><br />An allegorical, stunningly framed chronicle of a dying, morally ambiguous soldier at the end of the Great War, operating as a moody meditation on death.</div><p></p>Nikola Gocićhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10802422474421337350noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3195252471961511941.post-81371153580411414552023-11-14T13:44:00.004+01:002023-11-14T13:44:49.813+01:00Nikola Gocic: Bridging Realms Through Digital Collage<p style="text-align: justify;">A wonderfully penned article titled <i style="font-weight: bold;"><a href="https://aatonau.com/nikola-gocic-bridging-realms-through-digital-collage/">Nikola Gocic: Bridging Realms Through Digital Collage</a></i> and providing insight into my collage art practice has been published today on AATONAU - a platform dedicated to promoting talented artists worldwide.<br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhmu3lM56UDl36aBrQV-tvNRWyBxiGiBTmDrhNToVCDSoNhQ4jwBQKoZHFNj1Dya-EQnuRFcRJneiiMyhZhBvqUFREyo8E64PIuCQ8gSOd33Hms5HIahLEhsGHD3A1iHgdBhlek2MFctO-CONPxnJfomGmGyHCfRaL4cIV4Wr54swP7RHevEv1F34q_7tU" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="550" data-original-width="1583" height="222" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhmu3lM56UDl36aBrQV-tvNRWyBxiGiBTmDrhNToVCDSoNhQ4jwBQKoZHFNj1Dya-EQnuRFcRJneiiMyhZhBvqUFREyo8E64PIuCQ8gSOd33Hms5HIahLEhsGHD3A1iHgdBhlek2MFctO-CONPxnJfomGmGyHCfRaL4cIV4Wr54swP7RHevEv1F34q_7tU=w640-h222" width="640" /></a></div><p></p>Nikola Gocićhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10802422474421337350noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3195252471961511941.post-88931983353565192642023-11-01T12:40:00.000+01:002023-11-01T12:40:30.928+01:00Best Premiere Viewings of October 2023<p></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>1. Koński ogon / The Horse Tail (Justyna Łuczaj, 2023)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpSQMhP_V4OQSmvm7qaFGb8Q5NzNLBt9iNb3g4mKv8X5R0Npf4WOG0-SJ-Q8M6COl-u5v0jGWQm7trl2c_jyaGbWnuaGIuzUafPjcmeDUdBRJwMulWeymCW2IN-hvFWee99MGWotfhA6d1PSL262hiXtJe9FyBPIj1DfLqH8hbGlNNelAyKcBs-KlK0tU/s1000/01%20Ko%C5%84ski%20ogon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="603" data-original-width="1000" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpSQMhP_V4OQSmvm7qaFGb8Q5NzNLBt9iNb3g4mKv8X5R0Npf4WOG0-SJ-Q8M6COl-u5v0jGWQm7trl2c_jyaGbWnuaGIuzUafPjcmeDUdBRJwMulWeymCW2IN-hvFWee99MGWotfhA6d1PSL262hiXtJe9FyBPIj1DfLqH8hbGlNNelAyKcBs-KlK0tU/w400-h241/01%20Ko%C5%84ski%20ogon.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></b></div><br />In a modern re-imagination of the Oedipus myth, first-time director Justyna Łuczaj discovers sublime beauty amidst mud, garbage and intricate relationships stained with traumas and erotic tension. Setting her (superb!) debut in an unwelcoming middle-of-nowhere – various decrepit locales in Poland and Slovakia – surrounded by a lush forest, she confidently builds a weird, borderline post-apocalyptic world, far removed from regal Thebe. Her hero is a young, orphaned outcast, Maj (a bold big-screen inauguration for magnetic Remigiusz Pocica), raised by a peculiar ‘daddy’ figure, Hans (uninhibited Przemysław Bluszcz, giving off some Udo Kier vibes), the boy’s estranged mother is an elderly sex-worker, Diana (the phantasmal presence of Ryta Kurak), and king Laius’s reflection is a deranged policeman, Max (Wojciech Bialas, imposing as a vile embodiment of toxic masculinity / authority).</div><p></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><div>They all yearn for love, each one in their own (degenerate?) way, and incessantly fail to achieve it, although Maj is allowed a few moments of tenderness with his (yet unknown to him) half-sister Dagmara (Anouchka Kolbuch) whose character shines a short-living light of hope and innocence on her sibling’s bleak struggle. Dark hairs (of the titular horse tail?) float down the river, as a warning of impending doom, all the while the toothless narrator (Tomasz Mularski) – a deliberate vulgarization of Greek chorus – adds a few more pinches of filth into a fragmented, provocative and to a certain point puzzling narrative. Łuczaj demonstrates uncompromising resolve in her formally challenging, subtly transgressive portrayal of lost, lonely, loveless souls, eliciting immediate performances from a largely non-professional cast, and transforming the obscure reality of her protagonists into an emotionally raw ‘unreality’, simultaneously surreal, twisted, repellent and fascinating. ‘An acquired taste’ may be an overused phrase, but it certainly applies to this feature which is a strong contender for this writer’s annual Top 5. </div></div><p></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>2. Megalomaniac (Karim Ouelhaj, 2022)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCm2xQxqtBGBmRhi-mVf7rrY2MNKXZO7UMpX-vqs2-Kj1YUN5CJDi2P1Vivqewrgng2XG2ZhYeMdw44ISXb2KrXslBudtQwwz_fFifvhv2TDD4mZuakyA6LkG23OvJGiQuGXFNMIXD591Wd3KsCHuDDJDbOmYs2llhVAxsuygUmh_Yq4f0b-t6BQSjfNk/s1000/02%20Megalomaniac.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="426" data-original-width="1000" height="170" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCm2xQxqtBGBmRhi-mVf7rrY2MNKXZO7UMpX-vqs2-Kj1YUN5CJDi2P1Vivqewrgng2XG2ZhYeMdw44ISXb2KrXslBudtQwwz_fFifvhv2TDD4mZuakyA6LkG23OvJGiQuGXFNMIXD591Wd3KsCHuDDJDbOmYs2llhVAxsuygUmh_Yq4f0b-t6BQSjfNk/w400-h170/02%20Megalomaniac.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></b></div><br />At once repulsive and spellbinding, naturalistically dirty and nightmarishly surrealistic, <i>‘Megalomaniac’</i> is a relentlessly grim, thoroughly unsettling and viscerally thought-provoking exercise in evil of the human kind, blurring the line between the perp and the victim, reality and fiction. Directed with an assured hand and keen sense of ambiguity which permeates the story (based on a real-life serial killer in 90’s Belgium), it depicts the violence at its most disgusting, venomous and hard-hitting, as it sets a new milestone in the horror genre. Boasting a stylized, darkly arresting cinematography (François Schmitt) and haunting, insidiously evocative score (Simon Fransquet & Gary Moonboots), the film is also praiseworthy for superb performances by the entire cast, particularly from Eline Schumacher, awe-inspiring and subtly unhinged in the role of a mentally unbalanced Martha. A severely underrated flick!<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>3. Le pharaon, le sauvage et la princesse / The Black Pharaoh, the Savage and the Princess (Michel Ocelot, 2022)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8YzYOYsjFPcH2wCwn7IB9w0eUJVnH2rGCb0CQa6mm_4KS0zr2rVwwZGUbIxTylWx8haBgEz7KD8gXw2Qj4adRseli8y9wFUjSfMZrnI8vHk7dxUCGNE3wQQG88s6cZAzZFiB6x0EPKHQtfZUO0PYl74BSO7Y_W7JTu0xeeEJiB5rUo2hZMSmQ_rlh15c/s1000/03%20Le%20pharaon,%20le%20sauvage%20et%20la%20princesse.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="527" data-original-width="1000" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8YzYOYsjFPcH2wCwn7IB9w0eUJVnH2rGCb0CQa6mm_4KS0zr2rVwwZGUbIxTylWx8haBgEz7KD8gXw2Qj4adRseli8y9wFUjSfMZrnI8vHk7dxUCGNE3wQQG88s6cZAzZFiB6x0EPKHQtfZUO0PYl74BSO7Y_W7JTu0xeeEJiB5rUo2hZMSmQ_rlh15c/w400-h211/03%20Le%20pharaon,%20le%20sauvage%20et%20la%20princesse.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></b></div><br />If Michel Ocelot did not exist, it would be necessary to invent him. His latest opus – a fairy tale omnibus that celebrates multiculturalism, and mocks autocratic figures – is so enchanting, that I was under its spell the moment it began. Emotionally resonant in their (timeless) simplicity, three stories are presented in a gorgeous animation style that channels the spirits of, respectively, artists of ancient Egypt, the one & only Lotte Reiniger, and masters of arabesque, with the lavish orchestral score elevating the viewing experience. For 80 minutes, I felt like a child listening with wide-eyed attentiveness to the voice of its kind grandfather...<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>4. Kyōnetsu no Kisetsu / The Warped Ones (Koreyoshi Kurahara, 1960)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq24koWvp9jr84HVWuwrhpaIOI6DFf-ix3w5Wj5PMQIQLloPf1DGzk7NbPSVHcvPvG5BzOiXMYoO16o2_hj8VH90mXCN0lU1_fdh_WsxUCaULpPtFDe2ecmT-P0LAuAxDc1_TEX-glZ-WScFb1LR-FyiYEBaJvh0TH7Zg5wAQRImHmOfYihPhi7K2di5Q/s1000/04%20The%20Warped%20Ones.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="563" data-original-width="1000" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq24koWvp9jr84HVWuwrhpaIOI6DFf-ix3w5Wj5PMQIQLloPf1DGzk7NbPSVHcvPvG5BzOiXMYoO16o2_hj8VH90mXCN0lU1_fdh_WsxUCaULpPtFDe2ecmT-P0LAuAxDc1_TEX-glZ-WScFb1LR-FyiYEBaJvh0TH7Zg5wAQRImHmOfYihPhi7K2di5Q/w400-h225/04%20The%20Warped%20Ones.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div></b></div></div><p></p><div style="text-align: center;"><i>“Only guys who can’t appreciate jazz get into fights.”</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div><br /></div><div>And jazz – turned into a guiding force and even a weapon of sorts – seeps from virtually every pore of <i>‘The Warped Ones’</i>, not only through its swingin’ soundtrack that dictates its irregular rhythms, but also in the dizzying camerawork that leaves you breathless, more effortlessly than Godard’s seminal work, as well as in the way its anti-hero, Akira, moves and grimaces in his hellbent recklessness, brought to uninhibited life by Tamio Kawaji in the utterly magnetic performance. This young delinquent is hardly a sympathetic fella, but he possesses tremendous bad-boy charisma, and his seemingly inexhaustible energy propels the (anarcho-pessimist?) narrative, demolishing all obstacles like a wrecking ball. According to film critic Tim Lucas, he must’ve served as the inspiration for Alex DeLarge in 1971 rendition of <i>‘A Clockwork Orange’</i>, especially when a number of parallels between them are taken into consideration. So, could it be that Kubrick had seen <i>‘The Warped Ones’</i> in a double bill with <i>‘A Funeral Parade of Roses’</i> which is known to have influenced him? Whatever the case may be, Akira is a wild, unstoppable force of nature whose portrait is beautifully painted in euphemisms of a supporting (artist) character (just before he starts choking on a cigarette smoke): <i>“What a muscular, tanned body! And your eyes reflect boredom with modern society. Those dry lips of yours express contempt for society. And that nose! It expresses rebellion against power. The perfect image of a modern man.”</i></div></div><p></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>5. Martin (George A. Romero, 1977)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX5n0GAZOCIdIn01T18SKIx0srVzSCmy8yRDzo54YSnAn4iriqb2iwk4h_R5slZsdZan7EOdjta4gtaaRWSdbiwf6oyicGNxKo1prgQOCXpqe_K1lG5NMNY2G2SbF9xNMbkgeE3TgURNgiYEZrSlwghexSwjzL-LImYTdckxkn3Y7rc3DgjMxeRoz7TJY/s1000/05%20Martin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="565" data-original-width="1000" height="226" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX5n0GAZOCIdIn01T18SKIx0srVzSCmy8yRDzo54YSnAn4iriqb2iwk4h_R5slZsdZan7EOdjta4gtaaRWSdbiwf6oyicGNxKo1prgQOCXpqe_K1lG5NMNY2G2SbF9xNMbkgeE3TgURNgiYEZrSlwghexSwjzL-LImYTdckxkn3Y7rc3DgjMxeRoz7TJY/w400-h226/05%20Martin.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></b></div><br />One of the most peculiar and inimitable vampire flicks that I've seen! As intriguing as its titular character (a wonderful debut for John Amplas), it is at once sad, bold, gritty, quirky, intimate, satirical, and mysterious.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>6. I Walked with a Zombie (Jacques Tourneur, 1943)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5Jz5G2fjEAi-K1EXak4BugpGEOSC46sLUiIKGmaPeov1uJRGJpKDc7Ofy0_2o-8ABC8UybiamH5qYsLzND0TPJAa7WN2I7LCSfwk3pnjUkGjLw8ashsQHN04CmjVQDpqriQ3mAHFnF1lVn5bZgoKnR-a2bkCSpibRRT_sT8APd_ZuJ2WuEWVPSZCepsg/s1000/06%20I%20Walked%20with%20a%20Zombie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="754" data-original-width="1000" height="301" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5Jz5G2fjEAi-K1EXak4BugpGEOSC46sLUiIKGmaPeov1uJRGJpKDc7Ofy0_2o-8ABC8UybiamH5qYsLzND0TPJAa7WN2I7LCSfwk3pnjUkGjLw8ashsQHN04CmjVQDpqriQ3mAHFnF1lVn5bZgoKnR-a2bkCSpibRRT_sT8APd_ZuJ2WuEWVPSZCepsg/w400-h301/06%20I%20Walked%20with%20a%20Zombie.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></b></div><br />Part romantic melodrama veiled in dark secrets of a sugar planter’s family, and part candid reflection on American colonialism, slavery and racism through the prism of Haitian vodou, <i>‘I Walked with a Zombie’</i> is one of the most beautiful and poetic pieces of the classical Hollywood cinema. ‘Out-noiring’ film noir with its superbly expressive, shadow-infested cinematography, and depicting the rituals of African diaspora with a rarely-seen respect, it is directed with stately elegance matched by classy performances, particularly from Frances Dee, Tom Conway and James Ellison. Although pretty tame in terms of chill-inducing, as many other horror movies of the time, it bewitches the viewer with its palpable gothic atmosphere, leaving you with a haunting feeling of melancholy...<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>7. Mammalia (Sebastian Mihăilescu, 2023)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn_ZFcc1wbuWLOnjc9WUypHc2XUxiAWOpOic8h2vlB8KFQLWgAwPvwDCLbdgNxY9L4dhM-jU4SFitFT2mxKNMDu6Pluhh_4wmxNRzJkcV8yUvSNNmHVAY78ZS2MV2Ru3TLBbcG9j9Tb5kuYHIelLp9oJITavwz-vBJ4aILFv73i6rdzgIf2P6fdCFQnuw/s1000/07%20Mammalia.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="563" data-original-width="1000" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn_ZFcc1wbuWLOnjc9WUypHc2XUxiAWOpOic8h2vlB8KFQLWgAwPvwDCLbdgNxY9L4dhM-jU4SFitFT2mxKNMDu6Pluhh_4wmxNRzJkcV8yUvSNNmHVAY78ZS2MV2Ru3TLBbcG9j9Tb5kuYHIelLp9oJITavwz-vBJ4aILFv73i6rdzgIf2P6fdCFQnuw/w400-h225/07%20Mammalia.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></b></div><br />In Sebastian Mihăilescu’s bold fiction feature debut, the existential absurdity of Roy Andersson is filtered through the prism of the Greek Weird Wave (and the Buharov brothers’ work?) into a surrealistic, double-edged satire of gender norms, as well as of any attempt to soften their rigidity. Entirely composed of long and static takes beautifully shot on 16mm, with the main course of action often pushed into the background or even off-screen, this genre-defying experiment poses a formal challenge alleviated by deadpan humor. Its idiosyncratic tableaux vivants turn banalities of life (and the dangers of dildo-carving cults) on their head, putting the viewer in an awkward position between a nervous chuckle and invigorating befuddlement.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>8. Suzy Q (Martin Koolhoven, 1999)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLf-IAT8munzGqU9y4bVmzaDzuU5AJbooVFxihgksYesRgLSQmonEbS3D-KAxJEDcpXOgBtxQjtYEMuED0TFZfEPjTpRVdhJAqhVb9HeYxw9gRZzNCQU3fEFdZfkPlq96Gj8OoZmqbsYZw_Y2mOrUNcc-meEfVUpAc9f57jYJ9TrvRQ4d4YXBSxYJpgBk/s1000/08%20Suzy%20Q.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="564" data-original-width="1000" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLf-IAT8munzGqU9y4bVmzaDzuU5AJbooVFxihgksYesRgLSQmonEbS3D-KAxJEDcpXOgBtxQjtYEMuED0TFZfEPjTpRVdhJAqhVb9HeYxw9gRZzNCQU3fEFdZfkPlq96Gj8OoZmqbsYZw_Y2mOrUNcc-meEfVUpAc9f57jYJ9TrvRQ4d4YXBSxYJpgBk/w400-h225/08%20Suzy%20Q.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></b></div><br />In her first collaboration with filmmaker Martin Koolhaven, which is one of the best looking made-for-TV productions, Carice van Houten brings her natural charm and low-key idiosyncrasies to the role of the film’s namesake – a teenage girl who lives in late 60’s Amsterdam and obsesses over Mick Jagger. Granted once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to pay a hotel-room visit and enjoy a short bonding-session with her favorite rock star and his then-girlfriend Marianne Faithfull, Suzy makes her domestic situation (shrouded in stepfather’s abuse, mother’s apathy and brothers’ waywardness) just a little less miserable. Sensitive themes – inspired by co-writer Frouke Fokkema’s childhood experiences – are handled with admirable subtlety by Koolhaven who employs mod-esque imagery oozing with vivid colors to blow away the dark clouds looming in Suzy’s sky. The reason for such treatment of the dysfunctional family drama could be justified by his sympathy for the heroine, and desire to protect her at least through the visual poetry, or it can be simply viewed as a reflection of her dreamer world view. On the other hand, the frequent use of perspective-distortion lenses and canted camera angles suggest the psychopathology of the household, anticipating the tragedy...<br /></div><p></p><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>9. Piaffe (Ann Oren, 2022)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggSnFcZFwl6BnY4YURfhIKkW9NoacWiIf-a5w8ItuUVps4omezHgPzqebe03jUYoHMX27TRH1HnAMntkGGjGEB7IpAGb_1xMLrP9g7qfnOMIzKbzlH16MEDfBcOXnw9ukd82XiWtZfU5F9iSjO734HGpHuLWvAHsYQGfqsWUf5I3nHv8p5xYXesP4wcYk/s1000/09%20Piaffe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="607" data-original-width="1000" height="243" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggSnFcZFwl6BnY4YURfhIKkW9NoacWiIf-a5w8ItuUVps4omezHgPzqebe03jUYoHMX27TRH1HnAMntkGGjGEB7IpAGb_1xMLrP9g7qfnOMIzKbzlH16MEDfBcOXnw9ukd82XiWtZfU5F9iSjO734HGpHuLWvAHsYQGfqsWUf5I3nHv8p5xYXesP4wcYk/w400-h243/09%20Piaffe.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />Simone Bucio (of <i>‘The Untamed’</i> fame) brings both vulnerability and seductiveness to the role of introvert Eva who is forced to accept the Foley artist job after her sister Zara (portrayed by non-binary filmmaker and performance artist Simon[e] Jaikiriuma Paetau – the star of Piaffe’s spiritual predecessor Passage) suffers a nervous breakdown. While struggling to create sounds for an antidepressant commercial, she unexpectedly grows a horsetail that empowers her to lure a kinky botanist, prof. Novak (Sebastian Rudolph), into a game of submission. And so begins Ann Oren’s weirdly hypnotic, magic realism-inspired examination of identity, gender, and intimacy that blurs the boundaries between humans, plants and animals, pulling you ever-deeper into Eva’s sensuous reality. Resting upon a peculiar kind of cinematic artifice somewhat comparable to the likes of Lucile Hadžihalilović, Catherine Breillat, Jessica Haussner and Julia Leigh, <i>‘Piaffe’</i> largely operates like a deliberately stilted tone-poem in which dialogue is eschewed in favor of (powerful) visual and aural stimuli – the warm 16mm cinematography by Carlos Vasquez, and Danylo Okulov’s exquisite sound design, as well as of the film’s dense mood turning quirkier as the story progresses.</div><p></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>10. The Ordinaries (Sophie Linnenbaum, 2022)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtZNfqq9fi2iUZm0AWNaoxhRAi-YiV16o90rDFBEOmEmTQLDlAIN2SjGwP3ee4CbFF5j-bgbRePu2DivLYAqug0VvP_tth68i1DA7LqO-MiR9RoOvf_YDr60Uw-9vyDTQscD6NtctqlVeK3FwQUvRjTA5jbhMT9iev_9V0vuKNoKm16gh8Fl3uOM-qvqM/s1000/10%20The%20Ordinaries.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="563" data-original-width="1000" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtZNfqq9fi2iUZm0AWNaoxhRAi-YiV16o90rDFBEOmEmTQLDlAIN2SjGwP3ee4CbFF5j-bgbRePu2DivLYAqug0VvP_tth68i1DA7LqO-MiR9RoOvf_YDr60Uw-9vyDTQscD6NtctqlVeK3FwQUvRjTA5jbhMT9iev_9V0vuKNoKm16gh8Fl3uOM-qvqM/w400-h225/10%20The%20Ordinaries.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></b></div><br />A harmonious, genre-bending marriage of a quirky metafilm with a capital ‘M’ and edgy satire on classism and racism, at times eerily evocative of the extreme right chapter in the German history, as well as of New American Apartheid, Sophie Linnenbaum’s graduate film also strikes a finely tuned balance between art and entertainment. Demonstrating <i>‘ambition and craft on a mightily impressive level’</i> (Jonathan Romney, Screen Daily), <i>‘The Ordinaries’</i> is an insightful dissection of human society, unafraid to lay bare the mechanisms of exclusion which propel it. Set in a world inhabited by the Main Characters straight out of a 50’s musical, Supporting Characters living in Brutalist suburbs, and Outtakes (censored ones, black-and-whites, miscasts, jump-cutters, etc) ghettoized on the outskirts of an Institution-controlled city, this dystopian dramedy can be simply viewed as a meditation on cinema, its rules and ways to break them, subverting the predetermined contrivances. In exploring both the film medium and the class discrepancies, Linnenbaum opts for easily recognizable references, thus making her work accessible to casual viewers and experienced movie-buffs alike. Her <i>Pleasantville</i>-inspired vision may not be revolutionary, but it is wonderfully realized by virtue of highly sympathetic heroine (Fine Sendel), exquisite production design, handsome framing, taut editing, and wittily employed music. (An extra point for a talking Lassie cameo.)<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>11. Mortal Kombat Legends: Cage Match (Ethan Spaulding, 2023)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuWJkeyAzRFEDBeOM6a0ORWOWvXH7iJXv182KavV9S8jup9bEm4MEKQ9fZ11fVwYZB8tiZV2lOWpOYJ_eLuLtH6_myG3KXWlsE6ZciwYmX0IyeTmCRaH5GcJma-WvMvmvcx7RHNzHc3ebgVd_JkwpHtSjZ-RC7RBgchULdYL8Ei_bvbeQaWhi8KZtHafE/s1000/11%20Mortal%20Kombat%20Legends%20-%20Cage%20Match.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="564" data-original-width="1000" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuWJkeyAzRFEDBeOM6a0ORWOWvXH7iJXv182KavV9S8jup9bEm4MEKQ9fZ11fVwYZB8tiZV2lOWpOYJ_eLuLtH6_myG3KXWlsE6ZciwYmX0IyeTmCRaH5GcJma-WvMvmvcx7RHNzHc3ebgVd_JkwpHtSjZ-RC7RBgchULdYL8Ei_bvbeQaWhi8KZtHafE/w400-h225/11%20Mortal%20Kombat%20Legends%20-%20Cage%20Match.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></b></div><br />Arguably the finest animated feature in <i>‘Mortal Kombat Legends’</i> series, <i>‘Cage Match’</i> is also one of the most loving homages to the 80’s pop-culture, with its Patrick Nagel-inspired artwork, <i>‘Miami Vice’</i> vibes, and synth-heavy score coalescing into both aurally and visually colorful action fantasy whose metafilmic moment involves Jennifer Grey of <i>‘Dirty Dancing’</i> fame.<br /></div><p></p><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>12. Вельд (Назим Туляходжаев, 1987) / The Veldt (Nazim Tulyahodzhayev, 1987)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGLsnFFiA_JKqSoaeHefotcwKRmEM4wmkcUx9qT5hLvaBRK17Hg7j_I5JxqSkhH4asW4eJ9B0o2C2zQL1_ivL1dbhFpZndvd2pEiaepaJiHnfhSgSwUemtQbc7sZFG7BFrKEtwp3GoBm08y0sufDQZQI9bTen4MQ505YWjtH4-mmzhooHnpgjkmK_TIh0/s1000/12%20The%20Veldt.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="1000" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGLsnFFiA_JKqSoaeHefotcwKRmEM4wmkcUx9qT5hLvaBRK17Hg7j_I5JxqSkhH4asW4eJ9B0o2C2zQL1_ivL1dbhFpZndvd2pEiaepaJiHnfhSgSwUemtQbc7sZFG7BFrKEtwp3GoBm08y0sufDQZQI9bTen4MQ505YWjtH4-mmzhooHnpgjkmK_TIh0/w400-h300/12%20The%20Veldt.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />Irresistibly bizarre, and pervaded by a strong sense of despair that corresponds with the present time, <i>‘The Veldt’</i> marks the feature debut for Uzbek (then Soviet) filmmaker Nazim Tulyahodzhayev. An adaptation of Ray Bradburry’s short story of the same name, it blends in motifs from other of his writings into a disjointed, yet intriguing, at times broodingly poetic narrative transcended by the oppressively immersive atmosphere. The film’s bleakly beautiful visuals of washed-out and sepia-tinged colors seem to be inspired by <i>‘Dead Man’s Letters’</i> released only a year earlier, and are perfectly suited for the post-apocalyptic setting in which the bioorganic walls of a nursery room act as portals to virtual reality, and the (alien?) doppelgängers of the beloved dead are disposed off by squads in hazmat suits. Emphasizing the dreadfulness of it all are synth-heavy portions of the hauntingly unnerving score that portends tragedy as the outcome of holding on to happy memories for too long, or alienating oneself through technological escapism.<br /></div><p></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>13. Kyūketsu dokuro-sen / The Living Skeleton (Hiroki Matsuno, 1968)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSFThQWrE66eHTHt94831OySUsWHcYX1olGrOz39tSmzROyFIF72GFRPgy-mgwr2GEraPSrmCfpcBbeDsifwGvE83Ym-sQ4TBO4E_9NbI7KeNTuYptWtq2nSt-hnmQSGvfiYaEAmeTclOW0XmVaiaofBtb7sYsmbI8pRfivE4J1NLEO-12Ov0LxCMZqUM/s1000/13%20The%20Living%20Skeleton.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="401" data-original-width="1000" height="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSFThQWrE66eHTHt94831OySUsWHcYX1olGrOz39tSmzROyFIF72GFRPgy-mgwr2GEraPSrmCfpcBbeDsifwGvE83Ym-sQ4TBO4E_9NbI7KeNTuYptWtq2nSt-hnmQSGvfiYaEAmeTclOW0XmVaiaofBtb7sYsmbI8pRfivE4J1NLEO-12Ov0LxCMZqUM/w400-h160/13%20The%20Living%20Skeleton.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></b></div><br />The second of only two films under the helm of Hiroki Matsuno, <i>‘The Living Skeleton’</i> is an obscure piece of Japanese gothic noir high on pulp content, beautifully captured in expressive B&W, and shrouded in a bizarre aural tapestry that marks composer Noboru Nishiyama’s swan song, occasionally giving off some Spaghetti Western vibes! Although it lacks in an actual living skeleton – there’s only a bunch of immobile (and unrealistic ones) chained to the sea bottom, the film delivers other genre goodies, such as a ghost ship veiled in fog, vengeance from beyond the grave (or is it?), necrophilic priest twist, and bodies melting in acid. Densely atmospheric for most of its running time, and in the final third, outrageously campy, it also features hokey bats on strings flying around like some crazy red herrings, and seems pretty bold (as in ‘a freighter massacre prologue’ bold) for its time, finding its anchor in swell central performances, as well as in versatile direction.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>14. Через тернии к звёздам (Ричард Викторов, 1981) / To the Stars by Hard Ways (Richard Viktorov, 1981)<br /></i></b><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3bF6JNTFxp59bcHw67DOsl2ilSl5NapQtSkd9doe5wCw7KJ7M1FafIifHl6An_r2p0KlMhFelPhTk0ZiuLKDghb2_4WthdHmq7g5d0GoRfrbn5NAUymB0gYfiQ_D2C9dgg4RHKtTrm8BP4jX3HWEeu6oJA-1LycTIJF3jGN7L0ByNyQVOqhyV71EcB1s/s1000/14%20%D0%A7%D0%B5%D1%80%D0%B5%D0%B7%20%D1%82%D0%B5%D1%80%D0%BD%D0%B8%D0%B8%20%D0%BA%20%D0%B7%D0%B2%D1%91%D0%B7%D0%B4%D0%B0%D0%BC.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="565" data-original-width="1000" height="226" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3bF6JNTFxp59bcHw67DOsl2ilSl5NapQtSkd9doe5wCw7KJ7M1FafIifHl6An_r2p0KlMhFelPhTk0ZiuLKDghb2_4WthdHmq7g5d0GoRfrbn5NAUymB0gYfiQ_D2C9dgg4RHKtTrm8BP4jX3HWEeu6oJA-1LycTIJF3jGN7L0ByNyQVOqhyV71EcB1s/w400-h226/14%20%D0%A7%D0%B5%D1%80%D0%B5%D0%B7%20%D1%82%D0%B5%D1%80%D0%BD%D0%B8%D0%B8%20%D0%BA%20%D0%B7%D0%B2%D1%91%D0%B7%D0%B4%D0%B0%D0%BC.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><div style="text-align: center;">(watched the 20th anniversary cut by director’s son Nikolai Viktorov)</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div><br /></div><div>Appearing as if she time-traveled from the distant future to the early 1980’s, Yelena Metyolkina is a perfect casting choice for a humanoid alien created through genetic engineering, with her unorthodox beauty often glorified or even fetishized through the lens of Aleksandr Rybin and Shandor Berkeshi (restoration). In other words, her very screen presence is so strong, and her character so wonderfully outworldly, that she is the reason enough to give the film a try. Flawed, yet fascinating, <i>‘To the Stars by Hard Ways’</i> aka <i>‘Per Aspera Ad Astra’</i> opts for epic proportions, cramming in a plethora of topics of ethical, ecological, emotional and political concerns in its two hour running time, which is often reflected in tonal inconsistency. In turns high-brow, campy, cartoonish, philosophical and experimental, it takes the viewer from the 23rd century Earth to the fictitious planet of Dessa, successfully setting both utopian and dystopian societies against the Brutalist architecture. Although its ideological context is excised in 2001 cut, it doesn’t take a rocket scientist degree to recognize it in the anti-corporate sentiment of the final third which anticipates Lopushansky’s masterful debut <i>‘Dead Man’s Letters’</i> in certain sepia-toned sequences. Somewhat quaint (and delightful at that!) in its 60’s and 70’s-inspired aesthetics, Viktorov’s highly ambitious feature is a neat treat for those who love their sci-fi weirder than usual.</div></div><p></p><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>15. Elvira Madigan (Bo Widerberg, 1967)<br /></i></b><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4Ssc_7xB9Ut83gtgokINvDskzy-Xw0ahGakI-MFq4ICdf-NHL_jzNabTvifjBrwx_q8G4bhUEhpsRIuj2knl3-A1fDm8CaOuOZJ16M43iVk9GuhTvWDJiYazeBbPERaogzEpgPQ4_zKNAHJIsqUwQ0VfD3C-Sx0Rgk-PUhzsqMDwjhhgvhJZsRXwXLCU/s1000/15%20Elvira%20Madigan.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="1000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4Ssc_7xB9Ut83gtgokINvDskzy-Xw0ahGakI-MFq4ICdf-NHL_jzNabTvifjBrwx_q8G4bhUEhpsRIuj2knl3-A1fDm8CaOuOZJ16M43iVk9GuhTvWDJiYazeBbPERaogzEpgPQ4_zKNAHJIsqUwQ0VfD3C-Sx0Rgk-PUhzsqMDwjhhgvhJZsRXwXLCU/w400-h240/15%20Elvira%20Madigan.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>“To borrow another person’s eyes... to experience the world as your beloved sees it and feels it. Isn’t that what love is?”</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div><br /></div><div>The anti-war sentiment and free love philosophy of the 60’s counterculture movement densely permeate Widerberg’s period drama (and director’s first color film) based on a short-lived affair between slackrope dancer Elvira Madigan (born Hedvig Jensen, 1867-1889) and dragoon lieutenant Sixten Sparre (1854-1889). Somewhat naive in its hyper-romanticism dangerously close to slipping into self-parody, and accentuated by Mozart’s Piano Concerto No. 21 in C major, K. 467, <i>‘Elvira Madigan’</i> is gorgeously photographed, every frame imbued with painterly qualities. However, it is not all poetic, ‘fingers and raspberries dipped in thick cream’ rapture, because the opening epigraph informs us of a murder-suicide fate of star-crossed lovers, so the dark clouds incessantly loom over the bright, bucolic imagery elevated by Pia Degermark and Thommy Berggren’s strong chemistry and pleasant screen presence.</div></div><p></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>16. No One Will Save You (Brian Duffield, 2023)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiJxoI2xUBrJKNe3zpZG6efFcBpBEM__KA0xqflxQM2pcbLnqvQ4gA9rrlYzeapHEUWv7oBPyQAPMg7eGBRUlJS2NhNp9nRv_mpNOQaR7UShNqHUcOViJBmNeVGL0xh05A5I2DP7a3P-v6rcHUzMU-fiXi_kzep3Nj5dWsernst06Q0FpqRurEMa1Iwk8/s1000/16%20No%20One%20Will%20Save%20You.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="563" data-original-width="1000" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiJxoI2xUBrJKNe3zpZG6efFcBpBEM__KA0xqflxQM2pcbLnqvQ4gA9rrlYzeapHEUWv7oBPyQAPMg7eGBRUlJS2NhNp9nRv_mpNOQaR7UShNqHUcOViJBmNeVGL0xh05A5I2DP7a3P-v6rcHUzMU-fiXi_kzep3Nj5dWsernst06Q0FpqRurEMa1Iwk8/w400-h225/16%20No%20One%20Will%20Save%20You.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></b></div><br />I have a very soft spot for (almost or completely) wordless films, especially when the absence of dialogue is not a mere gimmick, but it actually makes sense, as in Duffield’s sophomore directorial effort. A follow-up to his explosive coming-of-age extravaganza <i>‘Spontaneous’</i>, <i>‘No One Will Save You’</i> comes across like <i>‘Home Alone’</i> during <i>‘Invasion of the Body Snatchers’</i> set in <i>‘A Quiet Place’</i>, not because one must remain silent, but rather for having nobody to talk to. Proudly wearing all of the influences on its sleeve, this home + alien invasion flick is a rare example of ‘elevated horror’ that provides intense edge-of-the-seat excitement prior to revealing its metaphor-inscribed cards. Tropey and referential to its core, from the Roswell Greys-inspired designs for uninvited visitors, to a trauma-struck heroine, Brynn (wonderfully fleshed out by virtue of Kaitlyn Dever’s utter commitment to a demanding role), the film makes the most of the threadbare concepts, and is unafraid to tap into some deliberate silliness for the sake of fun that many recent genre-offerings have been drained off. Directed with aplomb and grounded in the arresting central performance, it explores the themes of estrangement, guilt, anxiety, and the nature of spectatorship, ending (openly?) on a sardonically optimistic note. It doesn’t revolutionize cinema, nor does it need to, but at least it doesn’t babble you into tedium.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>17. Itim / The Rites of May (Mike de Leon, 1976)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi6k4anYMq_qAZlj4Eunuij4lbosgBT36qH8JFk3PLMO_3sDjeHYja72V6AHpLxKJuJn5Wr-GUKuzk3U3v5t1DhkvIBv6hk7aDTs9ehk5byI2AhWnH2EWSHQlrKlf1qYHMNOYvYpqIAkyhA5_vGob98Ng1OP39Ih9Y0c3YAS30waSt6FctmeytbqA5lKU/s1000/17%20Itim.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="541" data-original-width="1000" height="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi6k4anYMq_qAZlj4Eunuij4lbosgBT36qH8JFk3PLMO_3sDjeHYja72V6AHpLxKJuJn5Wr-GUKuzk3U3v5t1DhkvIBv6hk7aDTs9ehk5byI2AhWnH2EWSHQlrKlf1qYHMNOYvYpqIAkyhA5_vGob98Ng1OP39Ih9Y0c3YAS30waSt6FctmeytbqA5lKU/w400-h216/17%20Itim.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></b></div><br />A feature debut for director Mike de Leon, leading actress Charo Santos, and both cinematographers, Rody Lacap and Ely Cruz, <i>‘The Rites of May’</i> (original title literally translates as ‘black’) is a solid horror drama light on scares, but heavy on atmosphere, with superbly moody visuals that evoke European arthouse cinema of the time. Similarly to many genre offerings from Asia, it treats superstition with utmost seriousness, so it requires some extra effort in suspension of disbelief, and it hints at its twist too early, slowly threading to a predictable denouement...<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>18. Um Fio de Baba Escarlate / Name Above Title (Carlos Conceição, 2020)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGAVDGtnFdYLab0IXlJDQoKTv8GxzaZuIrXSO7kHKLzsiae8-8jFxfCHOh3F3kLuwdbvrCsmA9gI7ffpcFEVaMi8_-Tb2V5wnssYxpMNv619uRiVNenX-GDdvaVG03X2muPmnOPqy32J9V1YyIhV5iHaxtd5Pq3GIfkiKPhygV35-hz5mR8exKsGFOQHA/s1000/18%20Um%20Fio%20de%20Baba%20Escarlate.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="751" data-original-width="1000" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGAVDGtnFdYLab0IXlJDQoKTv8GxzaZuIrXSO7kHKLzsiae8-8jFxfCHOh3F3kLuwdbvrCsmA9gI7ffpcFEVaMi8_-Tb2V5wnssYxpMNv619uRiVNenX-GDdvaVG03X2muPmnOPqy32J9V1YyIhV5iHaxtd5Pq3GIfkiKPhygV35-hz5mR8exKsGFOQHA/w400-h300/18%20Um%20Fio%20de%20Baba%20Escarlate.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></b></div><br />A surrealistic, giallo-inspired experiment that utilizes zero dialogue and hyper-stylized visuals to satirize celebrity culture, with one actress playing all the victims, and overt religious symbolism literally hammering the message to the audience.<br /><br />Honorable (short) mentions: <i><a href="https://www.cinematheque.fr/henri/film/154644-pier-paolo-pasolini-agnes-varda-new-york-1967-agnes-varda-1967/"><b>Agnès Varda - Pier Paolo Pasolini - New York – 1967</b></a></i> (Agnès Varda, 2022) and <i><b>Hymn to Persephone</b></i> (Angelina Voskopoulou, 2023).</div><p></p>Nikola Gocićhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10802422474421337350noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3195252471961511941.post-47808280874477821052023-10-20T11:13:00.000+02:002023-10-20T11:13:09.376+02:00Body Issues (Marjorie Conrad, 2023)<p style="text-align: justify;"></p><div style="text-align: center;"><i>“If you’re not afraid of this world, you should be...</i></div><i><div style="text-align: center;"><i>... Their inner psychos are coming out.”<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0d3e5OgHTMiqlg1DeF0SjCwmafYHlUj_4DVKHs1RAJ7mZUmNjKn9H45AmL8xXlghxjmmE4VLZ3SFRhkyoiPbbW5F58abNbJ08ZY0GCPvMP3Sy2tkx0nRJVJ_eESZ3S9l7Snx_t8lC9H0mz_FqsAxEzocsooQWsUBSF-ZDFGm2VvBDmNyPJ6X2HLFqSt4/s1920/BodyIssues1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1920" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0d3e5OgHTMiqlg1DeF0SjCwmafYHlUj_4DVKHs1RAJ7mZUmNjKn9H45AmL8xXlghxjmmE4VLZ3SFRhkyoiPbbW5F58abNbJ08ZY0GCPvMP3Sy2tkx0nRJVJ_eESZ3S9l7Snx_t8lC9H0mz_FqsAxEzocsooQWsUBSF-ZDFGm2VvBDmNyPJ6X2HLFqSt4/w640-h360/BodyIssues1.jpg" width="640" /></a></div></div></i><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">Spoken by a protagonist, Jane, whose face remains hidden behind the camera, these words ring eerily true, reflecting her paranoid mentality, as well as the disorienting point of view which sends you on a nocturnal journey of (phantasmal) confusion. Who is she? A young content creator taking a stab at a less conventional fare, or a wandering, disembodied consciousness, alien or AI-generated, <i>‘struggling to establish connection with her body’</i>, as noted in the synopsis? Is she even alive? Considering the lines such as <i>‘everything outside smells like week-old corpses’</i> (heard during the very first minute) and <i>‘I think I died right over there’</i>, Jane may be but a restless spirit; a ghost of a suicide or homicide victim remembering her past life in fragmented soliloquies.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Regardless of the answers to these questions, Marjorie Conrad delivers another boldly experimental feature – a follow-up to her vampyric tone-poem Desire Path – that constantly keeps you guessing, as it pulls you in Jane’s <i>‘inner labyrinth’</i>, and leaves you with an unreliable narrator as the only guide. Shot with a GoPro on Washington locations (streets, parking lots, motel rooms, parks and beaches) at wintry nights, in the form of a found-footage horror, <i>Body Issues</i> is one hardly classifiable piece of cinema. Part introspective essay that hangs above the thin line separating life from death, and part moody city symphony or rather, elegy distorted through the prism of the loneliness affliction, the film feels like a heavy dream in which you’re enveloped in darkness, and lost in a place you can’t recognize. Its lo-fi aesthetics of tenebrous visuals, dizzying montages, brooding sound design and whimsical electronic score are all beautifully matched to the dense, nightmarish atmosphere that brings to mind Philippe Grandrieux and David Lynch (in the <i>Inland Empire</i> element).</div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3fKBeGZjHy8h1XPK0NUbROjuojXdLan9wZavOtG4xLK_wUfACsWHcqCstoUVGnS5RROQ8Lf6zIlAOsQ-idUlRoCogs5W6IoZMGB2_4N95ALkZT0-U2VbGRdXXlWjdiBPCFoMZ8bRBjGTuM87hUseTPIsJx2dhGiCjdWpKMReEgkawzyuSYNcIG06uNVM/s1920/BodyIssues2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1920" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3fKBeGZjHy8h1XPK0NUbROjuojXdLan9wZavOtG4xLK_wUfACsWHcqCstoUVGnS5RROQ8Lf6zIlAOsQ-idUlRoCogs5W6IoZMGB2_4N95ALkZT0-U2VbGRdXXlWjdiBPCFoMZ8bRBjGTuM87hUseTPIsJx2dhGiCjdWpKMReEgkawzyuSYNcIG06uNVM/w640-h360/BodyIssues2.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p style="text-align: center;">(The review is based on the private screener provided by the author.)</p>Nikola Gocićhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10802422474421337350noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3195252471961511941.post-44301530927535682152023-10-01T12:11:00.000+02:002023-10-01T12:11:06.213+02:00Best Premiere Viewings of September<p></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>1. Totsukuni no Shōjo / The Girl from the Other Side (Yutaro Kubo, 2022)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7dBHSFgso2A88w7H-dwR0DC7FPGHvQkOW5Srx01ReNKrr8eh97CO5pRF1pcUUusI2xsUV1Bvnujtjw8WX9P49JSEKhOHwwXs04leDUFbh-6OwwDcmh5mR6GMSVcnsjnh6FpxN9yrnAhFX6khuwCddY-83xZQLZatf046n9g3IypLmJKSV5ETR_76BppU/s1000/01%20Totsukuni%20no%20Shoujo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="563" data-original-width="1000" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7dBHSFgso2A88w7H-dwR0DC7FPGHvQkOW5Srx01ReNKrr8eh97CO5pRF1pcUUusI2xsUV1Bvnujtjw8WX9P49JSEKhOHwwXs04leDUFbh-6OwwDcmh5mR6GMSVcnsjnh6FpxN9yrnAhFX6khuwCddY-83xZQLZatf046n9g3IypLmJKSV5ETR_76BppU/w400-h225/01%20Totsukuni%20no%20Shoujo.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></b></div><br />Nothing short of a modern anime classic, though bound to appeal to a niche rather than mainstream audience, Yutaro Kubo’s impressive feature debut attains an almost perfect balance between the unconventional style and gloomy content. Part melancholic tone-poem, and part mystery-imbued fantasy of the Victorian Gothic atmosphere, it appears like a soothing soul successor to Oshii’s masterpiece <i>‘Angel’s Egg’</i> and Takahata’s magical swan song <i>‘The Tale of the Princess Kaguya’</i>. Based on Nagabe’s manga previously adapted into a (lovely!) short in 2019, it gently addresses the themes of loneliness, ostracism, surrogate parenthood, the loss of innocence and death, drawing you into its quaint, peculiar world with an irresistible charm. Favoring lyrical mood over puzzling story, <i>‘The Girl from the Other Side’</i> rests upon a dreamy, hauntingly poignant score, and a delightful hand-drawn artwork akin to a childhood-favorite picture-book, with Jun Fukuyama’s and Rie Takahashi’s superbly attuned voices breathing life into leading characters.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>2. La mort trouble / The Unquiet Death (Claude d’Anna & Férid Boughedir, 1970)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkUE_ckssxOZiO_STPbVglA2ohQ_RKntmEWDOQwJN-2gsRsfaiJR9VWUgXDhJ2w1cWWj_f4znqpWOOHOWHnUxvAJkkKnuppMGpCGCGAAZWF1LUepcTdsDGAc0LOAmEZap57jcvNpthJMePmiK-c4I891w4NUlZ9VlMoXzOfs9siOcDU4mG00zy_-cgUkA/s1000/02%20La%20mort%20trouble.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="602" data-original-width="1000" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkUE_ckssxOZiO_STPbVglA2ohQ_RKntmEWDOQwJN-2gsRsfaiJR9VWUgXDhJ2w1cWWj_f4znqpWOOHOWHnUxvAJkkKnuppMGpCGCGAAZWF1LUepcTdsDGAc0LOAmEZap57jcvNpthJMePmiK-c4I891w4NUlZ9VlMoXzOfs9siOcDU4mG00zy_-cgUkA/w400-h241/02%20La%20mort%20trouble.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></b></div><br />At the time of the film’s release, French writer and journalist Louis Chauvet (1906-1981) described it as <i>‘a cinematographic treatise on insanity and degradation’</i> for Le Figaro. And if I were asked to draw parallels with other filmmakers whose work I’m more familiar with, I’d probably say ‘Alain Robbe-Grillet by way of Nikos Papatakis’ or ‘Godard perverted through the prism of Zwartjes’ or ‘Losey’s ‘The Servant’ transmuted by Panic Movement’s anarchic insurgency’, with each comparison meant to be the highest compliment. As brazen as its protagonists – three sisters and their late uncle’s butler, all fucked-up excuses for human beings, <i>‘The Unquiet Death’</i> plunges the viewer into a twisted game of shifting power dynamics, exploring gender disparities, class struggle and racial tension in an increasingly radical series of formally daring vignettes that see the quartet emanating dangerous amounts of unnerving energies, anticipating Żuławski’s singular oeuvre. Delightfully scandalous and forcefully liberating, this rarely seen piece of (experimental) cinema redefines the overused ‘acquired taste’ phrase, and makes you want to paint yourself in primary colors and throw eggs at everyone that annoys you at the moment.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>3. Le collier perdu de la colombe / The Dove’s Lost Necklace (Nacer Khemir, 1991)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNf9fYa48nZLdrK5kggUX6tyotIJrUHFSRcHFlfbuPOigzZIkZm2ShE1mV4iG8YN-l0gfihyphenhyphennwmIvwchVq3wyXVKJdLj1kbe8AH-pVyYgBUCLIyT2u0ZX_mxpgVnSiO2V1cpCTPkZVdGOggnB_0wH2BCzB3vhfweXu2vvVQ4xmdxhy7JL1r_oVDbQEcdg/s1000/03%20The%20Dove%E2%80%99s%20Lost%20Necklace.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="563" data-original-width="1000" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNf9fYa48nZLdrK5kggUX6tyotIJrUHFSRcHFlfbuPOigzZIkZm2ShE1mV4iG8YN-l0gfihyphenhyphennwmIvwchVq3wyXVKJdLj1kbe8AH-pVyYgBUCLIyT2u0ZX_mxpgVnSiO2V1cpCTPkZVdGOggnB_0wH2BCzB3vhfweXu2vvVQ4xmdxhy7JL1r_oVDbQEcdg/w400-h225/03%20The%20Dove%E2%80%99s%20Lost%20Necklace.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></b></div><br />A delightful co-production of Tunisia, France and Italy, <i>‘The Dove’s Lost Necklace’</i> is the second part in Nacer Khemir’s <i>‘Desert Trilogy’</i> which is deeply rooted in medieval Arabic Romanticism. Chronicling an elliptical search for the (unfathomable) secrets of love, it immerses the viewer in a world of calligraphers, booksellers, cursed princes, and mysterious disappearances, and invites you to observe it through the prism of childlike wonder. Sublimely poetic to its very core, it weaves the soft threads of micro-stories into the tapestry of the main narrative, rich with colors and folklore, undulating in an unhurried, hypnotic rhythm of a dream stolen from a rose (a reference to one of the lines). Similarly to its equally magical predecessor <i>‘Wanderers of the Desert’</i> (1984), it easily earns comparisons with Pasolini’s <i>‘Arabian Nights’</i> (1974) and Parajanov’s mystical artistry, with Mohsen Makhmalbaf’s drama <i>‘Gabbeh’</i> (1994) crossing the mind as a perfect companion piece.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>4. Genji Monogatari / The Tale of Genji (Gisaburō Sugii, 1987)<br /></i></b><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEint9dihd6Y9YBudyUGkRs7Fyg70jKy_sqovETZGd560nI602mUc6HejECDE2W0MQtRP7UDHbIBexg_vaq-tTnAi5mh26_kqN8aCTAj1SumKaF1F-utYBlSTROVSMeh4t1bkNguu7eDGFkamUF_U8e3gBAKoZpiY7MspI4tt-iNHf8pUINL7KyZaeJOiKM/s1000/04%20Genji%20Monogatari.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="563" data-original-width="1000" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEint9dihd6Y9YBudyUGkRs7Fyg70jKy_sqovETZGd560nI602mUc6HejECDE2W0MQtRP7UDHbIBexg_vaq-tTnAi5mh26_kqN8aCTAj1SumKaF1F-utYBlSTROVSMeh4t1bkNguu7eDGFkamUF_U8e3gBAKoZpiY7MspI4tt-iNHf8pUINL7KyZaeJOiKM/w400-h225/04%20Genji%20Monogatari.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><div style="text-align: center;"><i>“An autumnal farewell needs nothing to make it sadder. And enough of your dismal songs, crickets.”</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div><br /></div><div>Written by poet and lady-in-waiting Murasaki Shikibu more than a millennium ago, <i>‘The Tale of Genji’</i> is considered a classic of Japanese literature and the world’s first (psychological) novel. Depicting the lifestyle of Heian courtiers, it chronicles romantic adventures of emperor’s son Hikaru Genji, and his internal agony caused by the unhealthy obsession with his young stepmother, Lady Fujitsubo. For Gisaburō Sugii’s feature – a true gem of the 80’s anime – screenwriter Tomomi Tsutsui adapts the first twelve chapters of Shikibu’s voluminous oeuvre into a solemn, lyrical melodrama of carnal desires, political intrigues and metaphysical reflections. Her measured approach is wonderfully matched by Sugii’s restrained and unhurried direction, unique art style inspired by illustrated handscrolls (emakimono), as well as by a haunting blend of traditional and electronic music composed by Haruomi Hosono – the leader of Yellow Magic Orchestra and one of the most influential J-pop figures. Due to the budgetary constraints, animation is limited, yet the artists find a number of creative ways to keep you immersed in their elegant, sophisticated visuals, whether it is Genji’s reality or his stream of consciousness portrayed.</div></div><p></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>5. Adieu Philippine (Jacques Rozier, 1962)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyj81lmtj193Rf0Ihap1d1PWhV9RlvDQzt782zyeZRq97gIXLioHhQrKQoBlmEB59Upl1GnfHR-fPOiNt8EScTreD5C0RwcgtN63mLQb6YyezHNJIyC2LYEXKuPHvHdKYkvvR0hJGNGCUc4ZPWJ5E06pV1VlHO1FerYQ883AawjFwdynQoL0-zsPZlb1I/s1000/05%20Adieu%20Philippine.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="1000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyj81lmtj193Rf0Ihap1d1PWhV9RlvDQzt782zyeZRq97gIXLioHhQrKQoBlmEB59Upl1GnfHR-fPOiNt8EScTreD5C0RwcgtN63mLQb6YyezHNJIyC2LYEXKuPHvHdKYkvvR0hJGNGCUc4ZPWJ5E06pV1VlHO1FerYQ883AawjFwdynQoL0-zsPZlb1I/w400-h240/05%20Adieu%20Philippine.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></b></div><br />A spiritual sequel to Rozier's 1958 short <i>‘Blue Jeans’</i>, <i>‘Adieu Philippine’</i> feels like an intoxicating injection of concentrated ‘joie de vivre’. It fizzles with youthful energy emanating from the leading trio of non-professional actors whose naturalness is perfectly matched to the freewheeling spontaneity of the narrative. The superb interplay of craftily edited visuals and vivacious score provides a refreshing sensorial experience.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>6. Trompe l’oeil / The Broken Mirror (Claude d’Anna, 1975)<br /></i></b><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlN0F7-OywbiibZhQap2kT1oGnBfuylpdnVBCsZLWt6dCygvRNi2SV_gtfJdJy5mOK2ITVQFERBh1Ix-TgXMi0lyRgmTYuaK6XMU1CTnPmz_8URtEBYjf0ponIDRNKxBLdUjf_LdYoUnY_e7WJ75FBy0Kn6bBbSIuKybQLwnwntmc84Wp45OAQEqw_WK4/s1000/06%20Trompe%20l%E2%80%99oeil.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="605" data-original-width="1000" height="243" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlN0F7-OywbiibZhQap2kT1oGnBfuylpdnVBCsZLWt6dCygvRNi2SV_gtfJdJy5mOK2ITVQFERBh1Ix-TgXMi0lyRgmTYuaK6XMU1CTnPmz_8URtEBYjf0ponIDRNKxBLdUjf_LdYoUnY_e7WJ75FBy0Kn6bBbSIuKybQLwnwntmc84Wp45OAQEqw_WK4/w400-h243/06%20Trompe%20l%E2%80%99oeil.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><div style="text-align: justify;">A missing link between <i>‘Rosemary’s Baby’</i> and <i>‘L'hypothèse du tableau volé’</i>, with <i>‘Judex’</i> referenced, or <i>‘Panna a netvor’</i> anticipated in the highly surrealistic coda, <i>‘The Broken Mirror’</i> revolves around a painting restorer, Anne (Laure Dechasnel), who suffers a prenatal depression. Her fragile mental health is worsened by the frequent absence of her ostensibly carrying husband Matthew (Max von Sydow), the visit of her nagging and inquisitive mother (Micheline Presle), the recent event that left her partially amnesiac, and a mysterious man of the proto-Lynchian kind who lives in a supposedly vacant house across the street. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div><br /></div><div>As the boundaries between Anne’s reality, dreams and memories are blurred, the viewers are left to their own devices to unravel the mystery, or simply immerse themselves in meticulously composed images which beautifully capture the extremely moody set designs – the ornate predecessors to ‘Lost Highway’ modernist interiors, and an exact reflection of the heroine’s loneliness and troubled state of mind. The illusory nature of the narrative is hinted in the original title – a term describing optical trickery in fine art, as well as in Jan van Eyck’s <i>‘Arnolfini Portrait’</i> shown during the opening credits, with lush ambiguities and glacial pacing, particularly during the first hour, further thickening the heavy atmosphere of consuming melancholy. Claude d’Anna directs this befuddling psychological melodrama with grim elegance, eliciting a superb performance from Laure Dechasnel in a role which marks her debut, and provides her with a sturdy support in von Sydow and Presle.</div></div><p></p><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>7. Talk to Me (Danny & Michael Philippou, 2023)<br /></i></b><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjybM13uAFcBZeNnietrOCb9_6YYx8aeMR06d-SZSnHqnYeVKjaOv01qBLcsnOSEsRAydNp0-5kLCSvD648GRue5XJBiFiTUPEAQSZ-oURJRAJqYCoSdmuZhWFnfB5Z7urU07hpLtCda3O6ZLs8or_Ab5Cys35iFjjl9i4GSJp9oD4b0jZrCJ5Lrzno6j8/s1000/07%20Talk%20to%20Me.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="563" data-original-width="1000" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjybM13uAFcBZeNnietrOCb9_6YYx8aeMR06d-SZSnHqnYeVKjaOv01qBLcsnOSEsRAydNp0-5kLCSvD648GRue5XJBiFiTUPEAQSZ-oURJRAJqYCoSdmuZhWFnfB5Z7urU07hpLtCda3O6ZLs8or_Ab5Cys35iFjjl9i4GSJp9oD4b0jZrCJ5Lrzno6j8/w400-h225/07%20Talk%20to%20Me.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><div style="text-align: center;"><i>“To all the parents with sleepless nights,</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Tie your kids home to their beds,</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>clean their heads...”</i></div><div style="text-align: center;">(The Cranberries / Salvation)</div><div><br /></div><div>A strong feature debut for Philippou brothers, <i>‘Talk to Me’</i> is a highly effective amalgam of a depressing (or rather, distressing?) coming-of-age story, wicked satire of Generation Z ‘culture’, and doom-laden allegory of addiction, neatly packed as an intense horror flick – visceral, creepy and tinted with black humor. Though its protagonists are far from being sympathetic, they are all portrayed with verve rarely seen in recent genre offerings, making for believable counterparts of common sense-lacking TikTok users. And being YouTubers, the Philippous demonstrate absolute understanding of these young people, so they employ their dumbassery to the film’s advantage, and despite supernatural elements, capture the frightening zeitgeist of our times in a way that couldn’t be more realistic. On top of that, they deliver a good deal of memorable scenes, the most nightmarish being a short, yet oppressively orgiastic vision of hell.</div></div><p></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>8. Bye, Bye Love (Isao Fujisawa, 1974)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpTlBrZyoWLOWaFpH14RvukxL5GcJ-_Pd1laCytY8ZWACKzlVsTKavdLFweoFF6NkTBzK8Uf5vZIXlYqup17F9hJhRr0ZJKa9mmJCQMPsNSp1gb7hMkYcc4CGKSHGN8IZs6cn7Of3xlg9GZojkzKM1JsSQcEoaWpEuRGV79HbSK8dW7d6Kcr6dWSJKBqc/s1000/08%20Bye,%20Bye%20Love.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="680" data-original-width="1000" height="272" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpTlBrZyoWLOWaFpH14RvukxL5GcJ-_Pd1laCytY8ZWACKzlVsTKavdLFweoFF6NkTBzK8Uf5vZIXlYqup17F9hJhRr0ZJKa9mmJCQMPsNSp1gb7hMkYcc4CGKSHGN8IZs6cn7Of3xlg9GZojkzKM1JsSQcEoaWpEuRGV79HbSK8dW7d6Kcr6dWSJKBqc/w400-h272/08%20Bye,%20Bye%20Love.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></b></div><br />Boy meets girl who turns out to be a boy in Isao Fujisawa’s only feature, rediscovered in 2018, four decades after striking a chord with the free love generation. Inspired by Nouvelle Vague and the New Hollywood, it plays out like a road movie with an antiestablishment, zero-fucks-given attitude written all over it. Splashed with primary colors, and imbued with poetics of political revolt, gender fluidity, sexual confusion, antisocial wandering and nihilist romanticism, it feels like an anarchist’s lullaby, at once crude and sensual, just like its Bonnie and Clyde-like antiheroes, Utamaro and Giko. Speaking of whom, they are portrayed with sparkling immediacy by non-professionals Ren Tamura and Miyabi Ichijō, and taken on a meandering adventure by Fujisawa’s affection for the cinema of freewheeling sensibility.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>9. Lucie perd son cheval / Lucie Loses Her Horse (Claude Schmitz, 2021)<br /></i></b><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1t6eXQ9FwpdpBhhYYwn2TAUoyI8kaGJ7aePN136RGEg_JR_Wo6bxrpkIzvTN3_4rfZeOGaML9LbQrNSMyfL1jcAfGZb9w3a3dwDPhjdMR1HGgxoRJXdQobbsB6GtuRyZW57RkBLrmNtFdawzpCv6pOrkZdJ8ytfimMdEELjxa3m2l00JvUFU4YbnS8Cs/s1000/09%20Lucie%20perd%20son%20cheval.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="1000" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1t6eXQ9FwpdpBhhYYwn2TAUoyI8kaGJ7aePN136RGEg_JR_Wo6bxrpkIzvTN3_4rfZeOGaML9LbQrNSMyfL1jcAfGZb9w3a3dwDPhjdMR1HGgxoRJXdQobbsB6GtuRyZW57RkBLrmNtFdawzpCv6pOrkZdJ8ytfimMdEELjxa3m2l00JvUFU4YbnS8Cs/w400-h300/09%20Lucie%20perd%20son%20cheval.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><div style="text-align: justify;">Angela Schanelec in her <i>‘Der traumhafte weg</i>’ element meets Eugène Green (or rather, Julian Radlmaier?) with a neon-drenched hint of David Lynch in a peculiar meta-narrative revolving around actress Lucy Debay whom you may have seen externalizing her inner wolf in Little Red Riding Hood-inspired revenge thriller <i>‘Hunted’</i>. She portrays herself or at least an alter-ego version of herself who’s torn between the private and professional life, film and theatre, repeatedly whispering <i>‘don’t lose the track of things’</i> as a mantra. We meet her enjoying summer-day activities with her daughter Nao and grandmother Geneviève (both playing themselves) before she finds herself wandering the windswept hills of medieval yore, in search of her horse. Subsequently, she’s joined by two friendly female knights also left by their animal companions, and together they relish precious small moments, until they wake up during chaotic preparations for a stage production of <i>‘King Lear’</i>...</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div><br /></div><div>The sudden changes of place and time convey a sense of disorientation, thus putting the viewer not only in the heroine’s armor, but also in other characters’ shoes, given that they all appear to be wandering around, dazed and confused. The cast is minimal, yet superbly naturalistic during a <i>‘slow, dreamlike descent into a theatrical wonderland laced with absurdist humour and deadpan drollery’</i> (Allan Hunter, <a href="https://www.screendaily.com/reviews/lucie-loses-her-horse-fidmarseille-review/5172521.article">Screen Daily</a>), as Schmitz reflects on his own post-Covid experience, without ever reminding you of a lockdown. It does take some time to attune to the film’s tricky formal traits and shenanigans – in fact, the ‘accommodation’ is never complete, but the puzzling experience of sinking into an artist’s limbo – at once unaffected and completely soaked in artifice – is strangely intoxicating. Framed in Academy ratio, often static tableaux vivants of ‘<i>Lucie...’</i> are alluring in their down-to-earth simplicity, capturing the human condition in a way that suggests some serious speed decrease.</div></div><p></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>10. Radúz a Mahulena / Raduz and Mahulena (Petr Weigl, 1970)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7tmX-s2KLo-BAHrKb9yO14TeIjf0foOMrm4Pk-og5uVGOy_VTX9IMBKbVPRGjXaRkyUlL2CggoIOqU-ovmR1ibKTHSu7TnnnRJEMqPU9sOtVH15NCGBEFf6YaBvFIJ8ohxNpkaAPcgKhbeGbsRIy478VNjHhpwp3-8ZpUZK7I_9Vpn3PvL4T-1IWhyphenhyphen7U/s1000/10%20Raduz%20and%20Mahulena.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="729" data-original-width="1000" height="291" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7tmX-s2KLo-BAHrKb9yO14TeIjf0foOMrm4Pk-og5uVGOy_VTX9IMBKbVPRGjXaRkyUlL2CggoIOqU-ovmR1ibKTHSu7TnnnRJEMqPU9sOtVH15NCGBEFf6YaBvFIJ8ohxNpkaAPcgKhbeGbsRIy478VNjHhpwp3-8ZpUZK7I_9Vpn3PvL4T-1IWhyphenhyphen7U/w400-h291/10%20Raduz%20and%20Mahulena.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></b></div><br />Heavy on symphonic score (Josef Suk) and symbolism – in poetic dialogue, lavish colors, natural elements, and the killing of the sacred deer, Petr Weigl’s adaptation of Julius Zeyer’s dramatic poem is a rapturous fairy tale whose formal artifice (read: hyper-theatricality) and subtle eroticism enhance its dreamlike and myth-like qualities. Ascetic in its set design, the film makes great use of fields, forests and medieval ruins, anticipating Lech Majewski’s <i>‘Rycerz’</i> (1980), whereas the fluttering garments bring to mind the Sapphic horror-fantasies of the 70’s French cinema, such as <i>‘Morgane et ses nymphes’</i> (1971). Somehow, even the bare-chested knights in black leather pants fit in, and they seem to be the norm in both feuding kingdoms of Maguria and Tatra, about to be united by virtue of the fate-and-sorcery-defying romance between the titular characters. Superbly portraying Raduz and Mahulena are, respectively, prolific Czech actor Jan Tríska, and Magda Vásáryová of <i>‘Marketa Lazarová’</i> fame.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>11. Il bell’Antonio / Handsome Antonio (Mauro Bolognini, 1960)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjSyxxOWOqorRv6b0QvRV6LWLQh3yhsBviYeE6q4SCfmZUiJc0WMzfPX8B5yeOo9-BOFwMPvC5fuTqkV2Af5SGfBW9A1EmgcRKQZkQqBrST5sckGl1uevyZiRwZ3cFWRt8fPiG7nD_ajSGgEWL8CBHjigCyL_66Vdv-F6rCaHNIZ3SJZJ4xRhhE_KmC0g/s1000/11%20Il%20bell%E2%80%99Antonio.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="731" data-original-width="1000" height="293" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjSyxxOWOqorRv6b0QvRV6LWLQh3yhsBviYeE6q4SCfmZUiJc0WMzfPX8B5yeOo9-BOFwMPvC5fuTqkV2Af5SGfBW9A1EmgcRKQZkQqBrST5sckGl1uevyZiRwZ3cFWRt8fPiG7nD_ajSGgEWL8CBHjigCyL_66Vdv-F6rCaHNIZ3SJZJ4xRhhE_KmC0g/w400-h293/11%20Il%20bell%E2%80%99Antonio.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></b></div><br />The line between comedy and melodrama often gets blurred in Bolognini’s satire of patriarchy, church, toxic masculinity and rich bourgeoisie co-written by Pier Paolo Pasolini and Gino Visentini, after the novel of the same name by Vitaliano Brancati (Journey to Italy). Erectile dysfunction of the titular hero (portrayed with a dignified demeanor and romantic melancholy by Marcello Mastrioanni) becomes not only a marriage issue, but the talk of his hometown (Catania, Sicily), revealing the hypocrisies and double standards of the society scornful towards the vulnerable. The sanctity of matrimony and genuine love are twisted and turned into the subjects of ridicule by the very ones who ought to preach it, with the phallic potency crowned as the Lord of sustainability, which lends the authors a lot of space for the exploration of empathy... or the lack thereof, all through the keen eyes of cinematographer Armando Nannuzzi.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>12. Furut / Strings (Sourish Dey, 2023)<br /></i></b><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm-DrcpqV3MFH6CFBOQSVuA3PxyK8VWzrnarQNZ5uTG_42IJz6Joj0oinqD5GfvAdZG9mYcJ4AyJWkRAXgxPOw4HwcgSi7h6cXwrPfJC5dh45tQwzqX-d8nLIgrElWcF62ckmhN1ZijhWGgvCZ1nOnj7WVDZJkzga0SABgPuzm0u4bT-YF7eDQgJ4nxOQ/s1000/12%20Furut.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="419" data-original-width="1000" height="168" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm-DrcpqV3MFH6CFBOQSVuA3PxyK8VWzrnarQNZ5uTG_42IJz6Joj0oinqD5GfvAdZG9mYcJ4AyJWkRAXgxPOw4HwcgSi7h6cXwrPfJC5dh45tQwzqX-d8nLIgrElWcF62ckmhN1ZijhWGgvCZ1nOnj7WVDZJkzga0SABgPuzm0u4bT-YF7eDQgJ4nxOQ/w400-h168/12%20Furut.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><div style="text-align: justify;">Resistance against the humiliating hierarchies of the society that treats millions of humans as mere products is effectively, if not always artfully, transformed into another formally challenging ‘cinexperiment’ from Sourish Dey whose absurdist drama <i>‘Tiger’</i> was one of this writer’s 2022 favorites. Set inside a nightmarish reflection of our own world, <i>‘Strings’</i> eschews traditional storytelling in favor of visually arresting, symbol-driven vignettes that see the characters hopelessly employing their dreams and desires in an endless struggle with oppressive structures and the representatives thereof. Although born in a cage, these ‘birds’ don’t think of flying as an illness, but their attempts to fly away are continually thwarted (and ridiculed) by those in power, leaving them writhing in their own wishful thinking. Clearly recognizable in the feature’s feverish ‘patterns’, the repetitive nature of everyday life is of no help either, with the embodiment of time posing as a reminder of ineluctability. Dey’s pessimistic vision which gives off some Vipin Vijay, Qaushiq Mukherjee (aka Q) and even Isao Yamada vibes is beautifully lensed by Rajib Sengupta who occasionally takes blurry cues from Christopher Doyle.</div><p></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>13. Capra cu trei iezi / The Goat and Her Three Kids (Victor Canache, 2022)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXmirjCaDZVNJOxma47cEGU8avK_mdYeMRyVkpNox7ow76ytxnnhMxNu9vUw9j36KbySkUUPLEJMgL5miFvaWHnZQVUkhO707WuOjC9ns-bdBaI8OLf8PK_hJYGSOTLbps8FLtPIkXs6SeStHWOzfuPw015KGF7QmRyHYQQFbrxZ9fx5OLSWul62wt1OY/s1000/13%20Capra%20cu%20trei%20iezi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="419" data-original-width="1000" height="168" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXmirjCaDZVNJOxma47cEGU8avK_mdYeMRyVkpNox7ow76ytxnnhMxNu9vUw9j36KbySkUUPLEJMgL5miFvaWHnZQVUkhO707WuOjC9ns-bdBaI8OLf8PK_hJYGSOTLbps8FLtPIkXs6SeStHWOzfuPw015KGF7QmRyHYQQFbrxZ9fx5OLSWul62wt1OY/w400-h168/13%20Capra%20cu%20trei%20iezi.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></b></div><br />Based on the famous Ion Creangă’s fable comparable to the darkest of the Grimm Brothers’ fairy tales, <i>‘The Goat and Her Three Kids’</i> works quite smoothly as a blend of folk and home invasion horror leading to the revenge denouement, with human characters standing in for the anthropomorphic ones. Staying true to the (19th century) source material – a cautionary note on motherhood, (dis)obedient children and unscrupulous men, it appears even more terrifying, not only in what it shows, but also in what it suggests. Although both the protagonists and a villain remain archetypal, the nuanced performances, especially from seasoned actors Maia Morgenstern (mother) and Marius Bodochi (big, bad wolf), make them believable. Add to that a dense atmosphere of a remote forest setting, authentic production and costume design, moody cinematography and haunting score, and you have yourself a promising feature debut. Primarily working in front of the camera, Victor Canache directs the film with a steady hand, and makes the most of the economic running time, minimal cast and beautiful location.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>14. I lunghi capelli della morte / The Long Hair of Death (Antonio Margheriti, 1964)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbpNorMzZE_g-IG9Cf2hqz3QSReU4xCpvj4Xo2qEy8DJkIbJk5pYc7CO2AbmG_gcA-fuiS6gzS-kcZNdUPK92bwJl_FHmk2d_B6Sd38K9gTP0GNs-tlP9trRVjxrPFOOIlJEao3d8Rgnj8U8uOYofZZ05fEn_AqDGbxc5P7vWu-C31gaPgYX360c1Z1uI/s1000/14%20I%20lunghi%20capelli%20della%20morte.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="538" data-original-width="1000" height="215" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbpNorMzZE_g-IG9Cf2hqz3QSReU4xCpvj4Xo2qEy8DJkIbJk5pYc7CO2AbmG_gcA-fuiS6gzS-kcZNdUPK92bwJl_FHmk2d_B6Sd38K9gTP0GNs-tlP9trRVjxrPFOOIlJEao3d8Rgnj8U8uOYofZZ05fEn_AqDGbxc5P7vWu-C31gaPgYX360c1Z1uI/w400-h215/14%20I%20lunghi%20capelli%20della%20morte.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></b></div><br />Released in the same year as <i>‘Castle of Blood’</i> (originally, <i>Danza Macabra</i>) also helmed by Margheriti, <i>‘The Long Hair of Death’</i> is an enjoyable, densely atmospheric gothic horror inspired by Mario Bava’s <i>‘Black Sunday’</i>, with Barbara Steele’s strong screen presence challenged by that of Halina Zalewska, and Riccardo Pallottini’s gorgeous B&W cinematography keeping your eyes glued to the screen, in spite of the flawed narrative. <br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>15. Das Phantom von Soho / The Phantom of Soho (Franz Josef Gottlieb, 1964)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif5ZoW2s_pGLZ0CCU1Ui1ns86jOTtpXdbcs4XThno7grH3YK5ldsKOfk7CSTROXMVKNVDSt1QBy6gbZv_00405xL_grqtXgD7YsD4clGVSrkFeQTPjvSRiZcKwmnTPunmel424wqHkui28WUVYFsFyy3KvgmFzgof9OH7Bhp62yW4o-cLsVYs4JDjlcPA/s1000/15%20Das%20Phantom%20von%20Soho.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="424" data-original-width="1000" height="170" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif5ZoW2s_pGLZ0CCU1Ui1ns86jOTtpXdbcs4XThno7grH3YK5ldsKOfk7CSTROXMVKNVDSt1QBy6gbZv_00405xL_grqtXgD7YsD4clGVSrkFeQTPjvSRiZcKwmnTPunmel424wqHkui28WUVYFsFyy3KvgmFzgof9OH7Bhp62yW4o-cLsVYs4JDjlcPA/w400-h170/15%20Das%20Phantom%20von%20Soho.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></b></div><br />A missing link between neo-noir and giallo, <i>‘The Phantom of Soho’</i> is one of numerous ‘krimi’ adaptations of Bryan Edgar Wallace’s novels, boasting some brilliant camerawork by Richard Angst, and tight editing by Walter Wiscchniewsky, with Martin Bötcher's sultry jazz score perfectly matched to the striptease club milieu. Violence is pretty tame when compared to the Italian murder mysteries, so no blood is shown in any of the stabbings, and killer’s glittering gloves don’t look as threatening as the leather ones, but the film is a solid chunk of pulp cinema nevertheless.</div><p></p>Nikola Gocićhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10802422474421337350noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3195252471961511941.post-90345747365730524702023-09-15T22:12:00.001+02:002023-09-15T22:12:22.994+02:00A Selection of Recent Artworks (XVIII)<p style="text-align: justify;">With a total of 700 pieces, <i>Bianco/Nero</i> solidifies its place of my most voluminous project (in fact, it did that at 100 collages, I just went a bit overboard with challenging myself), posing as a vehicle for the transmutation of despair, a reflection and refraction of the innermost workings, a multitude of realities within a stubbornly pursued dream, a visual manifesto of concrete rules and ethereal transgressions. It bridges an illusory gap between the past and the future, rejecting the present for a surreal coexistence of all-time and no-time, as it feeds on unadulterated obsession, transcending its creator...<br /></p><div style="text-align: center;">Discover more collages @ <a href="https://www.facebook.com/NGbooArt/"><i>NICOLLAGE</i></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhyRh_l6JnzGfyv--yOn7UOHWJKZBIxZZTx8_pf89qi-ZpxPjuS9n26NOMuyfkWBnTPsWL4eBiD3oIL-mW9FbmfQlgndHkUVX39SNE_L7tj-BwYhYZNDt5KFm4sfzzEFisaV8sZ_ZY35yMhnXli0cPz0eJdKjZAyeauvGa79n9G5TjXWKSPkefgxHyw3iQ" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="750" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhyRh_l6JnzGfyv--yOn7UOHWJKZBIxZZTx8_pf89qi-ZpxPjuS9n26NOMuyfkWBnTPsWL4eBiD3oIL-mW9FbmfQlgndHkUVX39SNE_L7tj-BwYhYZNDt5KFm4sfzzEFisaV8sZ_ZY35yMhnXli0cPz0eJdKjZAyeauvGa79n9G5TjXWKSPkefgxHyw3iQ=w480-h640" width="480" /></a><br /><i>Icaro, il Filosofo / Icarus, the Philosopher</i></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgha2BESPfBXHpvot9uq2fj3sFxT6P7VA1QPWhLImVhfe0H2usfM5CTjlFHUtsJwkk8gY95A6bzIqJNunmCZldtkDvFE7R20TdR62S1pc8wnZP5ILPFseIQ_rXuUoipw0V8Zzh4i7G5V6gSJmaQVmZKxiDev145Xlqe6WJ_NoUx4EAR64EAhVCpkugIJqU" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="750" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgha2BESPfBXHpvot9uq2fj3sFxT6P7VA1QPWhLImVhfe0H2usfM5CTjlFHUtsJwkk8gY95A6bzIqJNunmCZldtkDvFE7R20TdR62S1pc8wnZP5ILPFseIQ_rXuUoipw0V8Zzh4i7G5V6gSJmaQVmZKxiDev145Xlqe6WJ_NoUx4EAR64EAhVCpkugIJqU=w480-h640" width="480" /></a><br /><i>Il Cavaliere dell'Inversione / The Knight of Inversion</i></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhAswoio4krJllymI7wLUHkKjeXRYCcR_YGLeMp4wyU6Qv3pPDqKHGuXJfM_J-wwxc1xFCwoomkwXNfYbqtYTdx6sBvUMG9w8GsYrPAMfjz453fx0-tCLcBKk91zhGLFnHTx8bE8HlvTOT0S2LehHk6zQcx2x6DqOYy4wgVtRvQhklJ0N6POWdAaTxWEAc" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="750" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhAswoio4krJllymI7wLUHkKjeXRYCcR_YGLeMp4wyU6Qv3pPDqKHGuXJfM_J-wwxc1xFCwoomkwXNfYbqtYTdx6sBvUMG9w8GsYrPAMfjz453fx0-tCLcBKk91zhGLFnHTx8bE8HlvTOT0S2LehHk6zQcx2x6DqOYy4wgVtRvQhklJ0N6POWdAaTxWEAc=w480-h640" width="480" /></a><br /><i>Preparativi per la Fine / Preparations for the End</i></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhgK2Kd5b0f6V6pmO3-hen9O0vrGMJJ029VNmT8P25p6C53dbjZI2JIXHaKrLAZTbRm1rCecM3yf2bbzAlenfa_iNank5P-E0gSdnMQ4_JwfbNayZUuPc9cewkfDFd8xMY_l7677vyddbbZukPu0b6fKqKkGQFPcowdzXOKR5_pjsZC2-_Sg83IdHhHBkQ" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="750" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhgK2Kd5b0f6V6pmO3-hen9O0vrGMJJ029VNmT8P25p6C53dbjZI2JIXHaKrLAZTbRm1rCecM3yf2bbzAlenfa_iNank5P-E0gSdnMQ4_JwfbNayZUuPc9cewkfDFd8xMY_l7677vyddbbZukPu0b6fKqKkGQFPcowdzXOKR5_pjsZC2-_Sg83IdHhHBkQ=w480-h640" width="480" /></a><br /><i>Melodramma Infernale / Infernal Melodrama</i></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgJfXRZw6VjVn8DFCxETlLH4OsgXLbseNtI7Ipi1xPHtTJwcVnG-xh2BifcuM9pML3r5V2v6HO6dj3-DI_4Gz0a7oT7GzjiJkNA7ckbb8DtypSLN9ydwIAdRokfjftjr5z7Ni2pwBpqlatkHyiNJQzjaLZVytMcry9021H3HCHvJfpZsjWc3tiTPgZKGOY" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="750" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgJfXRZw6VjVn8DFCxETlLH4OsgXLbseNtI7Ipi1xPHtTJwcVnG-xh2BifcuM9pML3r5V2v6HO6dj3-DI_4Gz0a7oT7GzjiJkNA7ckbb8DtypSLN9ydwIAdRokfjftjr5z7Ni2pwBpqlatkHyiNJQzjaLZVytMcry9021H3HCHvJfpZsjWc3tiTPgZKGOY=w480-h640" width="480" /></a><br /><i>Pifferaia / Piper</i></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjL-__gjvbjrJafMXHawQyLyJ_cyIjlYFrRi8r2JuRiZjcI9_-OGcIgq8_MOJ6fpvtE9kPIVPAsg8ovBvhHhBdr2m7rnB4enEaBcNQrQGTzh4lQz3SeSD-XG7selSCLUlBzq89Wgs_maSkmq5vNCGPkBZ_BzTG_kB1oPId1WLWXHPPi76jlDZGbM0TYNfI" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="750" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjL-__gjvbjrJafMXHawQyLyJ_cyIjlYFrRi8r2JuRiZjcI9_-OGcIgq8_MOJ6fpvtE9kPIVPAsg8ovBvhHhBdr2m7rnB4enEaBcNQrQGTzh4lQz3SeSD-XG7selSCLUlBzq89Wgs_maSkmq5vNCGPkBZ_BzTG_kB1oPId1WLWXHPPi76jlDZGbM0TYNfI=w480-h640" width="480" /></a><br /><i>Una Simulazione del Volo della Musa / A Simulation of the Muse's Flight</i></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg4qTQR84qZ5izW9ak57KKoeMb9EXpqC5KvEhwI-GPfCqFlJrn6uk_lD9-EY4XarqJXU5x-0z_Eei6_MzUYFBzGgp2w_YXdaUvgZIKH7NJ-n48dgqcWLdJN1r7kP6X794xiw1KuNC9r_FwlqgpCtYGSlOXd_WL3Pdcb82P-0-3slzC8lXPxBwYPhw93xik" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="750" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg4qTQR84qZ5izW9ak57KKoeMb9EXpqC5KvEhwI-GPfCqFlJrn6uk_lD9-EY4XarqJXU5x-0z_Eei6_MzUYFBzGgp2w_YXdaUvgZIKH7NJ-n48dgqcWLdJN1r7kP6X794xiw1KuNC9r_FwlqgpCtYGSlOXd_WL3Pdcb82P-0-3slzC8lXPxBwYPhw93xik=w480-h640" width="480" /></a><br /><i>Biglietto di Sola Andata per Marte / One-way Ticket to Mars</i></div><p></p>Nikola Gocićhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10802422474421337350noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3195252471961511941.post-83816437429666292012023-09-08T13:16:00.000+02:002023-09-08T13:16:04.346+02:00A Selection of Recent Artworks (XVII)<div style="text-align: center;">From the latest revival of my voluminous <i>Bianco/Nero</i> series planned to be expanded to 700 pieces.<br />See more @ <a href="https://www.facebook.com/NGbooArt/">NICOLLAGE</a>.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg-Gvv1ix6pZdH7_AK4SIRSYBysfoL_snGExihRqldx3JieqBU5N3YkaPZckFvKGWXgMEfsq4mCHfwNjWB27RxG5tDp8-Lbd_n9tJcC9VOqsRxbqE_ORIUdf-llToZ9BS1EZX7Q-Ex6SFO3gN3Qj5DPwUQG5yiEyCXpXjptqXlRQlDe5dA3FJlh_WrRq3M" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="750" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg-Gvv1ix6pZdH7_AK4SIRSYBysfoL_snGExihRqldx3JieqBU5N3YkaPZckFvKGWXgMEfsq4mCHfwNjWB27RxG5tDp8-Lbd_n9tJcC9VOqsRxbqE_ORIUdf-llToZ9BS1EZX7Q-Ex6SFO3gN3Qj5DPwUQG5yiEyCXpXjptqXlRQlDe5dA3FJlh_WrRq3M=w480-h640" width="480" /></a><br /><i>Sulla Schiena del Drago / On the Dragon's Back</i></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgXbDyTUpQbONCqRw-jN7e1G1DvJmqMAI2UKiSubiMNTF-USGGSNJ7xTwb2d7WvKVTMXZvKcb7wtbxUityzpGyLehBqQG3YX_tHomqHYu5CIpAcPDGX7bcr7HeWQG_i-BDhVy_uXlL2wq-p3vpQkZOxnW_kG8Z7vTdnmqXyRCW7gAK8M4FMn4v9wrQZQuc" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="750" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgXbDyTUpQbONCqRw-jN7e1G1DvJmqMAI2UKiSubiMNTF-USGGSNJ7xTwb2d7WvKVTMXZvKcb7wtbxUityzpGyLehBqQG3YX_tHomqHYu5CIpAcPDGX7bcr7HeWQG_i-BDhVy_uXlL2wq-p3vpQkZOxnW_kG8Z7vTdnmqXyRCW7gAK8M4FMn4v9wrQZQuc=w480-h640" width="480" /></a><br /><i>Dissonnia / Dyssomnia</i></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjOuCxwVJVrdmkE8h3xaa4uLMYeAQxyWWhkR0oYdvX3o_bA52XhhaCbllugKeElN--e-awauZ-NHZ3nMgGxY96m188irquTbHlehPOiO9P_0Ab0Ql_MKZQ3kF8Rrq9V1Ar4W4rlTq-3aKqrjk9igsNH5YSMutqcn7sgaT0Zw5tCF-Q8fyLRvOrYwmHg4EY" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="750" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjOuCxwVJVrdmkE8h3xaa4uLMYeAQxyWWhkR0oYdvX3o_bA52XhhaCbllugKeElN--e-awauZ-NHZ3nMgGxY96m188irquTbHlehPOiO9P_0Ab0Ql_MKZQ3kF8Rrq9V1Ar4W4rlTq-3aKqrjk9igsNH5YSMutqcn7sgaT0Zw5tCF-Q8fyLRvOrYwmHg4EY=w480-h640" width="480" /></a><br /><i>Forma Pura / Pure Form</i></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj8ZDq0tX96Ua6L8he2jXBzlbCBnapVyFv3r4EeAwA7_PSUHK8age-0h7A3_n_RLxi-yGpegNcgyRyA_NVMFNLTV0FrfOtpsG85pMVOGdqJUQr6IS1YPxVhZQuyCT67__7GwWq2JG-KoHZY4shMeNvmhgrpN3_QI8ifLNYiMUuzBQiO-S24-KFyFIx4GBk" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="750" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj8ZDq0tX96Ua6L8he2jXBzlbCBnapVyFv3r4EeAwA7_PSUHK8age-0h7A3_n_RLxi-yGpegNcgyRyA_NVMFNLTV0FrfOtpsG85pMVOGdqJUQr6IS1YPxVhZQuyCT67__7GwWq2JG-KoHZY4shMeNvmhgrpN3_QI8ifLNYiMUuzBQiO-S24-KFyFIx4GBk=w480-h640" width="480" /></a><br /><i>Questo non Farà Male / This Won't Hurt</i></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgVYuDCo4VyOIg9SPClnMheocHAfVx3Aab36q9tS5BpVqZHnhWAZApLrHjKTTLol7SxAFS_9vIAJFdL016RuB1k9aAA8Adous13gIrKazzwmn9rvtCQvnkcb2OqGaj8I_D9pfpSaR9Kv0Vef5000n_YrfFmr8g_fcaQRQAJHm1XRkT6c5E065p8vLuemFs" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="750" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgVYuDCo4VyOIg9SPClnMheocHAfVx3Aab36q9tS5BpVqZHnhWAZApLrHjKTTLol7SxAFS_9vIAJFdL016RuB1k9aAA8Adous13gIrKazzwmn9rvtCQvnkcb2OqGaj8I_D9pfpSaR9Kv0Vef5000n_YrfFmr8g_fcaQRQAJHm1XRkT6c5E065p8vLuemFs=w480-h640" width="480" /></a><br /><i>La Revisione delle Nuvole / Clouds Overhaul</i></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgE0H5GseOKGaEaV8toxX2edLpsBr5DJj3mKyZTpaUP0pfXzkRB-Ve22TCm9ZWxe3YOq_0dY_8Yrjw3_QydSYopwf4IPQqiN61Ar9eWnr2lWqMTNeT-CqO6ibxmMzA4agiHmOJdwrBbUSIHe3kqfODlCg8nnTNsHhacclO8IyrvtiFeZtsHyXGEv-Ro7v8" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="750" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgE0H5GseOKGaEaV8toxX2edLpsBr5DJj3mKyZTpaUP0pfXzkRB-Ve22TCm9ZWxe3YOq_0dY_8Yrjw3_QydSYopwf4IPQqiN61Ar9eWnr2lWqMTNeT-CqO6ibxmMzA4agiHmOJdwrBbUSIHe3kqfODlCg8nnTNsHhacclO8IyrvtiFeZtsHyXGEv-Ro7v8=w480-h640" width="480" /></a><br /><i>Curiosità (Senza Gatto) / Curiosity (Sans Cat)</i></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhNh_L4cVeVfQ-E54sQq-zaTvRV6p6TjQCEwp9inZL-1IRRyqROkcz0xFF7-Gko1HKVA-B9q-f8vWPkajrPCi5Od0KZybYotJ2p3Kyn5ry2fU8v5ULzGHKb6sx04NAvGqJOGsT_Q2IjxTqkoeJ7AqdD-plyf-HI2QmnkGxlv-9nkXyZ3t5kskykv5Ty3Vs" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="750" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhNh_L4cVeVfQ-E54sQq-zaTvRV6p6TjQCEwp9inZL-1IRRyqROkcz0xFF7-Gko1HKVA-B9q-f8vWPkajrPCi5Od0KZybYotJ2p3Kyn5ry2fU8v5ULzGHKb6sx04NAvGqJOGsT_Q2IjxTqkoeJ7AqdD-plyf-HI2QmnkGxlv-9nkXyZ3t5kskykv5Ty3Vs=w480-h640" width="480" /></a><br /><i>Tre Segreti dello Sciamano / Three Secrets of the Shaman</i></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhE0k8gPn9-wibWLp7wBieNjxrphKHXI0hSHE58b3Cflf9xZA4RwVCuuXylJ38bywBLk3ipf-mMRIrtm0HzhSw-e2q5S9jlzv8lN3wwi3lOqHTpOhBXtbaRWO9Y9cSebRNLIFex7eQ7dlNaQGhOJV8kQH3tvyVD1JugOM2CBuXbU_z4giUriFRDWDBp16w" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="750" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhE0k8gPn9-wibWLp7wBieNjxrphKHXI0hSHE58b3Cflf9xZA4RwVCuuXylJ38bywBLk3ipf-mMRIrtm0HzhSw-e2q5S9jlzv8lN3wwi3lOqHTpOhBXtbaRWO9Y9cSebRNLIFex7eQ7dlNaQGhOJV8kQH3tvyVD1JugOM2CBuXbU_z4giUriFRDWDBp16w=w480-h640" width="480" /></a><br /><i>Farfalle / Butterflies</i></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjcgfpJ0AOm2h9D2bOOp-HDHZJeqlYvB8FxqP2OU6_VbV89B_2aqzEJeK2xavPzhQ3a5H1VpseLqmgXRuxJZBKMt50G94kgpRxs-5L-G5_uJJdA_rJa5UEJPk4Ho4FZOhb4YLyk3lYk5WxQSELRw3rr6pXDh4mYNKZZvaGdmBW8ShJVZKHY53Zza4IdF6Q" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="750" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjcgfpJ0AOm2h9D2bOOp-HDHZJeqlYvB8FxqP2OU6_VbV89B_2aqzEJeK2xavPzhQ3a5H1VpseLqmgXRuxJZBKMt50G94kgpRxs-5L-G5_uJJdA_rJa5UEJPk4Ho4FZOhb4YLyk3lYk5WxQSELRw3rr6pXDh4mYNKZZvaGdmBW8ShJVZKHY53Zza4IdF6Q=w480-h640" width="480" /></a><br /><i>Nuova Realtà / New Reality</i><br />inspired by a shot from <i>Angel's Egg</i> (Mamoru Oshii, 1985)</div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgxqJdbkroWeXPyZC9I4xRpx-Qgrp8c3iXDdVd1iAKV2jUgsS23WoL4h5FMz9Lk_lTHZ9QRc9NQwNQjt6RBB7gt0lF73O5SB0HxmUTSsBxcL781yBkIrtg0-NY9U34etqplCpO_E_s6375CkUg7pFpYn1kqypujZmMFITb_M5E__TCJuCO1ELD_kCeu34s" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="750" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgxqJdbkroWeXPyZC9I4xRpx-Qgrp8c3iXDdVd1iAKV2jUgsS23WoL4h5FMz9Lk_lTHZ9QRc9NQwNQjt6RBB7gt0lF73O5SB0HxmUTSsBxcL781yBkIrtg0-NY9U34etqplCpO_E_s6375CkUg7pFpYn1kqypujZmMFITb_M5E__TCJuCO1ELD_kCeu34s=w480-h640" width="480" /></a><br /><i>Chi ha Ucciso i Conigli? / Who Killed the Rabbits?</i><br />inspired by a shot from <i>Twin Peaks: Fire Walk With Me</i> (David Lynch, 1992)</div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEizgnjmvBoWesbBLFZ2t-yAZ-4codQPDMRKpxveqo-SosSVjrknauboLGcx78D2jzOseKNXUqbmy_cKOkZaU8j7QHLhU4TLV-y2YM-p_vbYKMFpf8qkrOg9Ef_-CoXrW_feKwI3fKIsWzaYk5iyqCgHSwgB8sRo7qZix8SLDBwFgwkxiRA10mq_lHS8nJw" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="750" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEizgnjmvBoWesbBLFZ2t-yAZ-4codQPDMRKpxveqo-SosSVjrknauboLGcx78D2jzOseKNXUqbmy_cKOkZaU8j7QHLhU4TLV-y2YM-p_vbYKMFpf8qkrOg9Ef_-CoXrW_feKwI3fKIsWzaYk5iyqCgHSwgB8sRo7qZix8SLDBwFgwkxiRA10mq_lHS8nJw=w480-h640" width="480" /></a><br /><i>Raccolta dell'Acqua Piovana / Collecting Rainwater</i></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhcdVzQXB2PHalbkxEJKmU-ddXOd4sP6Q9H1kXD3k0QZ9lyiEcB7q9C_pum5ZTcmTHM_eR7kZ-rsx_C1KiXCM9V7tELo2jaS0-1PkW4gMFPDrwDbFi6NGiMc7dUCHUbeYE4aQ92NMKh65yqBedEMQz0aGE7JQQhIww-oBQd8VIzvfMFKg5FBbfYmolvyhU" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="750" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhcdVzQXB2PHalbkxEJKmU-ddXOd4sP6Q9H1kXD3k0QZ9lyiEcB7q9C_pum5ZTcmTHM_eR7kZ-rsx_C1KiXCM9V7tELo2jaS0-1PkW4gMFPDrwDbFi6NGiMc7dUCHUbeYE4aQ92NMKh65yqBedEMQz0aGE7JQQhIww-oBQd8VIzvfMFKg5FBbfYmolvyhU=w480-h640" width="480" /></a></div><i>Frammenti / Fragments</i></div>Nikola Gocićhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10802422474421337350noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3195252471961511941.post-1133123259936605852023-09-01T10:37:00.002+02:002023-09-01T10:37:48.615+02:00Best Premiere Viewings of August 2023<p></p><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>1. El extraño caso del doctor Fausto / The Strange Case of Doctor Faust (Gonzalo Suárez, 1969)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhNPpZ-U2LOwTiAkXpVJk15I6fT-LzCMXs30F8_4rQGXR0Crb9zl2aWZKLebV278yxKurJUvJjfaCOTXHJtQMN5tV3arbNBryrawoOHT2kMqnGb6K80PVpAWdFvaJDoNKEA14S1YorFNkac0tY4Si98CKnC8dkL-iTzcUGEPqhmwfmCWi5t8_vXrdtlXw/s800/01%20El%20extra%C3%B1o%20caso%20del%20doctor%20Fausto.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="491" data-original-width="800" height="245" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhNPpZ-U2LOwTiAkXpVJk15I6fT-LzCMXs30F8_4rQGXR0Crb9zl2aWZKLebV278yxKurJUvJjfaCOTXHJtQMN5tV3arbNBryrawoOHT2kMqnGb6K80PVpAWdFvaJDoNKEA14S1YorFNkac0tY4Si98CKnC8dkL-iTzcUGEPqhmwfmCWi5t8_vXrdtlXw/w400-h245/01%20El%20extra%C3%B1o%20caso%20del%20doctor%20Fausto.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></b></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">An overdose of distilled cine-madness of Zwartjes, Jodorowsky, or Clémenti-like kind, <i>‘The Strange Case of Doctor Faust’</i> is one of the most unorthodox, and not to mention inspiring (mis)treatments of Goethe’s play. Narrated through the fourth wall by Mephistopheles himself, from a spaceship owned by <i>‘nameless beings from an unidentified place in the universe’</i>, it sees Faust interrupted by a telepathic embodiment of Sphynx, and introduces us to his son Euphorion – from a marriage with Helen of Troy – who grows into an Icarus-inspired acrobat. But, recounting a story would be rather pointless, as it (smoothly!) operates like a delirious dream conveyed through the exhilarating use of distorted camera angles, bizarre montages, and cacophonous musical delights. Suárez – at what is certainly his most experimental – directs with gleeful irreverence, great energy, and childlike playfulness informed by bold disregard of conventions, creating a seductive, one-of-a-kind piece that you either unconditionally love (like this writer) or hate so much that you immediately want to unfriend whoever recommended it to you.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>2. L’envol / Scarlet (Pietro Marcello, 2022)<br /></i></b><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWBQG0gd0v-XdiqN3jv9MJ1WoVOjJzvm1iB9k-93F9b6A-dtjlSOO2h5w07quvkAlrg9Zlk1s14UTZSTMkFsNOzJsAS83JHWEjsc7o6eO8tJCAexBDUl9KPMCgmHfBdHPSyMLEJmUsMRHC4NLA1mYxKjKWV3L10KtXnXYKZ7TpZ_AOujYPRxWpZ9DWad8/s800/02%20L%E2%80%99envol.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="526" data-original-width="800" height="263" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWBQG0gd0v-XdiqN3jv9MJ1WoVOjJzvm1iB9k-93F9b6A-dtjlSOO2h5w07quvkAlrg9Zlk1s14UTZSTMkFsNOzJsAS83JHWEjsc7o6eO8tJCAexBDUl9KPMCgmHfBdHPSyMLEJmUsMRHC4NLA1mYxKjKWV3L10KtXnXYKZ7TpZ_AOujYPRxWpZ9DWad8/w400-h263/02%20L%E2%80%99envol.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><div style="text-align: justify;">Once again, Pietro Marcello delivers a wondrous piece of cinema that is lost and beautiful (a reference to his 2015 docu-fantasy-drama <i>‘Bella e perduta’</i>, for the uninitiated) – lost in time, as it appears like a precious artifact from the 20th century, and beautiful not only on the utterly charming surface, but also at its big, unprejudiced heart. A loose adaptation of Alexander Grin’s 1923 novel <i>‘Scarlet Sails’</i>, the film – in spite of its simplicity – poses a challenge when it comes to the classification, gently meandering between a period coming-of-age drama and a whimsical fairy tale, a socially conscious ode to craftsmanship and a rapturous poem of love, platonic, familial and romantic.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div><br /></div><div>Set between the two World Wars, <i>‘Scarlet’</i> belongs to neither the past, nor the future, appropriating the outsider attitude of its protagonists who live modestly, yet complacently, ever-strengthening their libertarian spirit, and bonds of togetherness, guided by intuition and creative impulses. Revolving around an idealized father-daughter relationship, it portrays peculiarities of life in broad, yet sensitive strokes filled with dreams, longing and nostalgia. Its delightful 35mm cinematography lends it a soft, almost palpable texture, as well as an exquisitely painterly quality, further enhanced by seamlessly interwoven archive footage which is given a hand-tinted-like overhaul. The harmonious symbiosis of visuals and narrative evokes the delicate lyricism of Franco Piavoli, with Gabriel Yared’s emotional score bringing to mind the yearning romanticism of Jacques Demy, particularly during the musical acts of the amiable heroine, Juliette (an unaffected performance from newcomer Juliette Jouan).<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>3. Un lac / A Lake (Philippe Grandrieux, 2008)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRWTqzRFU6GdGUGHhNOeE7QEfSov1ZpDQa__Cu3WdqufCOPh1TR7OLbBEbsotiSGAHNeCXIIDSuynXJzU3p88uH9KD6QYTADa1nuASzBQjMqSZP7V0N4ryTJXy5q51kFzC-Lxs1jzqqBnAVYzaOj6aXooZz1452krSqzYPKi1yHuanVxuYTYwjMICoNQI/s800/03%20Un%20lac.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="800" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRWTqzRFU6GdGUGHhNOeE7QEfSov1ZpDQa__Cu3WdqufCOPh1TR7OLbBEbsotiSGAHNeCXIIDSuynXJzU3p88uH9KD6QYTADa1nuASzBQjMqSZP7V0N4ryTJXy5q51kFzC-Lxs1jzqqBnAVYzaOj6aXooZz1452krSqzYPKi1yHuanVxuYTYwjMICoNQI/w400-h225/03%20Un%20lac.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></b></div><br />Eighty minutes of sublime intensity. In mesmerizing chiaroscuro closeups. In breathtaking totals reflecting the environment’s hostility. In mystery surrounding the characters and their spatio-temporal setting. In every touch they share, and prolonged silences that shroud them. In the dense, doomy atmosphere oozing from the screen, and plunging you into a void of cinema. In soft focuses that put you in a hypnagogic state. In the tremulous camerawork, the breathy soundscape, and the micro-acting of a small, yet devoted cast...</div></div><p></p><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>4. Moon Garden (Ryan Stevens Harris, 2022)<br /></i></b><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAGKoDrMwEgMjJsd9_Mrv5rzHeKOlf5o3ZKkdHHppoedz-gN0pSsxtESmNZjqUSszOACs1bnLDORkMjMNFdt6O-iVotcw_j9weNhk_3YsFnUirrxyP30WzVkafvoTuuYdsUE-BUD7kT0iYQIMCippaeyJjY5mU6pjLvRCXVWMU3tfvA58krtdDklxGy9s/s800/04%20Moon%20Garden.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="333" data-original-width="800" height="166" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAGKoDrMwEgMjJsd9_Mrv5rzHeKOlf5o3ZKkdHHppoedz-gN0pSsxtESmNZjqUSszOACs1bnLDORkMjMNFdt6O-iVotcw_j9weNhk_3YsFnUirrxyP30WzVkafvoTuuYdsUE-BUD7kT0iYQIMCippaeyJjY5mU6pjLvRCXVWMU3tfvA58krtdDklxGy9s/w400-h166/04%20Moon%20Garden.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><div style="text-align: justify;">In his sophomore feature, Ryan Stevens Harris casts his own daughter as a comatose girl struggling to regain consciousness after a freak accident at home. Her name is Haven Lee and she is heavenly as the five year old heroine Emma stuck in a nightmare intertwined with past events that help her find her way back to reality. A simple tale is rendered with an astounding amount of creativity that puts the viewer in Emma’s tiny shoes, chiming in with her limited perspective, and wide-eyed curiosity. And those eyes – so innocent and sincere!</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div><br /></div><div><i>‘Moon Garden’</i> is a dark fantasy with horror undercurrents, so there has to be a monster. That role is filled by Morgana Ignis under a heavy mask, as a void-faced boogeyman Teeth that appears like the Pale Man’s equally grotesque cousin who escaped from the hell of Phil Tippett’s masterpiece <i>‘Mad God’</i>. Speaking of inspiration sources, <i>‘Alice in Wonderland’</i> is the first one that comes to mind, but think Švankmajer’s stop-motion version by way of David Lynch and Dave McKean (Mirrormask). The industrial dreamscape where Emma’s eerie adventure begins may be taking cues from Wes Craven’s seminal shocker <i>‘A Nightmare on the Elm Street’</i>, whereby lighting often suggests Bava and Argento. Steampunk elements, such as a tear-collecting machine, evoke Caro & Jeunet’s <i>‘The City of Lost Children’</i>, with the precious memories of time spent with mom and dad channeling Terrence Malick’s poetic sensibility. Some parallels can also be drawn with Neil Jordan’s <i>‘The Company of Wolves’</i>, and there’s even that frequently quoted <i>‘Alien 3’</i> shot, but make no mistake – <i>‘Moon Garden’</i> is not just a sum of its influences. Harris rises high above mere mimicry, delivering a film that is both visually and aurally dazzling, emotionally resonant, and tailor-made for the central performance that puts Haven Lee on the map of the finest child actors in the history of cinema.</div></div><p></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>5. Müanyag égbolt / White Plastic Sky (Sarolta Szabó & Tibor Bánóczki, 2023)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-JMLdccx8gRw9AetYZI33Xne_oF77LDiqdaDRU-cqxgs6A9WNisBPIRIH_WtA6Wh4DFd3I6sNU6p_hoTFx1W93omxP6E-EpVCgO3oEZ1HdTT8r6b-1DI5-BzqyDgwK3BUgBijPzp5FIyzWNrhENDk1mCCoKb8HBYSKjIIeinr00bYYmBf5YnLgnEG8dk/s800/05%20White%20Plastic%20Sky.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="335" data-original-width="800" height="168" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-JMLdccx8gRw9AetYZI33Xne_oF77LDiqdaDRU-cqxgs6A9WNisBPIRIH_WtA6Wh4DFd3I6sNU6p_hoTFx1W93omxP6E-EpVCgO3oEZ1HdTT8r6b-1DI5-BzqyDgwK3BUgBijPzp5FIyzWNrhENDk1mCCoKb8HBYSKjIIeinr00bYYmBf5YnLgnEG8dk/w400-h168/05%20White%20Plastic%20Sky.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></b></div><br />Being a sucker for both post-apocalyptic fiction and rotoscoped animation, I am utterly impressed by the first collaborative feature from Sarolta Szabó and Tibor Bánóczki. Set 100 years in the future, <i>‘White Plastic Sky’</i> explores the burning issue of ecological sustainability, proposing a society that sees humans turned into trees once they reach 50. Opening in domed Budapest where holographic flora adorns a memorial park, its melancholy-fueled story moves on to the high-security ‘Plantation’ which introduces the viewer with the process of euthanizing transmutation, and later on, across the eroded wasteland and ghost towns remaining in the aftermath of a high-level devastation. In a manner that is in equal measures thought-provoking and de-sentimentalized despite a ‘parents who lost a child’ cliché attached to the film’s emotional core, it chronicles a return to a place that may become Eden with no humans to exploit it senselessly, shining over and again in the world-building department. A seamless blend of traditional and modern techniques – reportedly, 8 years in production – results in beautiful, immersive visuals of hyper-stylized realism, with sober pacing allowing us to feel all the textures, and an unobtrusively wistful score elevating the watching experience. <br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>6. Baron Prášil / The Fabulous Baron Munchausen (Karel Zeman, 1962)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQRJY6kWBsh6Dh9PBcA5nZLbc7TYBMvoxsE6AyKptrftsNAjc6Gmt2zMLkUka70L_5Ar8E21ywvZnN_I5E_nlYyxkx0dmZMqXNqAcCcWkzT8SSf95GC8tuXICYRpZS5BpTDfzLlBDL8g0sb3qE7Fac3M3wfWQ2hLPFQhhFgRd0t2bbtre1cDYMrMZhKVs/s800/06%20Baron%20Pr%C3%A1%C5%A1il.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="584" data-original-width="800" height="293" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQRJY6kWBsh6Dh9PBcA5nZLbc7TYBMvoxsE6AyKptrftsNAjc6Gmt2zMLkUka70L_5Ar8E21ywvZnN_I5E_nlYyxkx0dmZMqXNqAcCcWkzT8SSf95GC8tuXICYRpZS5BpTDfzLlBDL8g0sb3qE7Fac3M3wfWQ2hLPFQhhFgRd0t2bbtre1cDYMrMZhKVs/w400-h293/06%20Baron%20Pr%C3%A1%C5%A1il.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></b></div><br />You can never go wrong with Karel Zeman – one of the greatest cine-mages of the last century, especially if you’re into Jules Verne’s writing, Gustave Doré’s artwork, and/or Georges Méliès’s innovations in the field of film. A lavish ode to the highest form of imagination, the fanciful adventure that is <i>‘The Fabulous Baron Muchausen’</i> is larger than both life and death, flying you all the way to the Moon where Cyrano de Bergerac resides, and taking you on a dive into the ocean depths, amongst the mermaids and four-legged seahorses. Its intricate amalgam of live-action and animation, with actors in lavish costumes parading against deliberately unrealistic matte paintings, and across engraving-like sets, is the stuff that dreams are made of, constantly keeping you in the state of wide-eyed wonder. And the lies served by Zeman’s hero, a benign romancer, ring truer than those of ‘dangerous fantasists’ in our post-truth times...<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>7. Peščeni grad / A Sand Castle (Boštjan Hladnik, 1962)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYWcAqNbmTMqoRSmGf8nRL3vrQT4iSvT-KsvFaeWhOJ1HQT4cq1LhnGwmE9ah01l8pXQKRzD4rjfw2XBLBURpsIsMKw5xpUa_94z-1jdGJK8h6HoGMLBVDGhw2xlA8RO8ORjTpF7goaxjrnbkHhuUUpvztRh-xaDyvrrcFcHx36ZNJc66FCdgpQJ2tNiE/s800/07%20Pe%C5%A1%C4%8Deni%20grad.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="573" data-original-width="800" height="286" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYWcAqNbmTMqoRSmGf8nRL3vrQT4iSvT-KsvFaeWhOJ1HQT4cq1LhnGwmE9ah01l8pXQKRzD4rjfw2XBLBURpsIsMKw5xpUa_94z-1jdGJK8h6HoGMLBVDGhw2xlA8RO8ORjTpF7goaxjrnbkHhuUUpvztRh-xaDyvrrcFcHx36ZNJc66FCdgpQJ2tNiE/w400-h286/07%20Pe%C5%A1%C4%8Deni%20grad.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></b></div><br />Made under the strong influence of French New Wave and other modernist tendencies of the time, ‘A Sand Castle’ operates as a sunny ode to joy (of youth and freedom), but hiding behind its smiling mask, and often rearing their ugly heads are fear, anxiety and disenchantment. (Nevertheless, the bleak epilogue still comes across as a slap in the face.) The aura of carefreeness emanating from simple pleasures on an aimless off-road adventure gets mixed with an air of bitter melancholy or rather, premonitory signs not only of a protagonist trio’s personal collapse, but also of the society’s decline in the following decades. Normalcy and happiness embodied by Milena Dravić’s troubled character both fall under the category of illusion, one that crumbles as soon as real life kicks in. But, this mirage is beautiful and energizing while it lasts, its transience bewitchingly captured by the eternity of cinema.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><i><b>8. Dani / Days (Aleksandar Petrović, 1963)<br /><br /></b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip8SEMwvt30eRvCWUtvUbzgbrhuM1inA6dHx7dHVX9-YzhLxfatJEZyVGlE8lsxNERdUTWtBOmDTABhRVd3xGi9TLygh9L4PKDAhWwtIh7ib9PFAlqvVZE-_x1MTmjuZ8XLUa9iSHosV3rBw2HD26CxCFWNBr98N0ImK0BvEJ6y8llhLfVbL5uM-J8vPk/s800/08%20Dani.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="800" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip8SEMwvt30eRvCWUtvUbzgbrhuM1inA6dHx7dHVX9-YzhLxfatJEZyVGlE8lsxNERdUTWtBOmDTABhRVd3xGi9TLygh9L4PKDAhWwtIh7ib9PFAlqvVZE-_x1MTmjuZ8XLUa9iSHosV3rBw2HD26CxCFWNBr98N0ImK0BvEJ6y8llhLfVbL5uM-J8vPk/w400-h225/08%20Dani.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></i></div><br />At his most Antonioni-esque, Aleksandar Petrović – best known for <i>‘I Even Met Happy Gypsies’</i> (1967) – weaves a tone poem of big city loneliness, and the magic of human contact, both transient and transcendent. In psychologically penetrating close-ups, he captures the emptiness that has been consuming the two leading characters, Nina (Olga Vujadinović) and Dragan (Ljubiša Samardžić), and saves them – if only for a day – from their own, disoriented selves. Through the masterfully composed bird-views of crowded marketplace and streets (many kudos to DoP Aleksandar Petković), he emphasizes the alienating, labyrinthine nature of the (modern) world that surrounds them, and allows them a cathartic release of emotional tension in a few scenes, the most memorable being the one towards the end, of driving across an empty airfield, and yelling from the top of their lungs. Their escape from the everyday routine – starting with a chance meeting – may be short, but it provides a new (and anti-conformist) outlook at both life and art. <br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>9. Kapi, vode, ratnici / Raindropas, Waters, Warriors</i></b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>(Živojin Pavlović, Marko Babac & Vojislav ‘Kokan’ Rakonjac, 1962)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO-NUFlwyg7Qz-pP0YHBHhpQwxkw_m3LCET1_P9c7EB9KcKSG-ePlmHrcZBGdmQxq9ZHuygiZOcC1xB4VBakQcZmSpkRYiOsYtzemA-RTBMdqm7HhI0vZ1CA0ODiCnnRh8oYdOWGP1PhitK6auE6jqKK006VKObUR2IsHVg7WTd31jqIqIqq5MSvUCX5M/s800/09%20Kapi,%20vode,%20ratnici.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="800" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO-NUFlwyg7Qz-pP0YHBHhpQwxkw_m3LCET1_P9c7EB9KcKSG-ePlmHrcZBGdmQxq9ZHuygiZOcC1xB4VBakQcZmSpkRYiOsYtzemA-RTBMdqm7HhI0vZ1CA0ODiCnnRh8oYdOWGP1PhitK6auE6jqKK006VKObUR2IsHVg7WTd31jqIqIqq5MSvUCX5M/w400-h225/09%20Kapi,%20vode,%20ratnici.png" width="400" /></a></div></b></div><br />The influence of La Nouvelle Vague is strongly felt in one of the pioneering works of Yugoslav Black Wave – a formally balanced omnibus synergized by the theme of death, and beautiful B&W cinematography by Aleksandar Petković. It opens on a borderline-surreal note, with a word-free segment <i>‘Live Waters’</i> (Živojin Pavlović), set in a poor, muddy settlement by the river, while focusing on a young girl who lives there, and a stranger running away from the police. The pervading silence is disturbed only by ambient noise, shouting children in paper masks (who give off some serious <i>‘Lord of the Flies’</i> vibes), and towards the end, dramatic score and gunshots which destroy a warm, yet short-lived connection between the two characters. A truly fascinating experiment wholly dependent on the actors’ body language, and the eloquence of superbly edited imagery. Marko Babac’s <i>‘Small Square’</i> – a clever allegory on the effects of propaganda – comes across as the most accessible in the ‘triptych’, depicting a clash between optimist and pessimist perspectives in the confines of a hospital room. Marked by the brilliant use of (claustrophobic) close-ups, it is also memorable for its dark sense of humor demonstrated in a scene of deliberate incongruence between visuals and music. The last, but not least is Kokan Rakonjac’s <i>‘Raindrops’</i> – a Godardian take on a dying romance between an alcoholic and his girlfriend, featuring a painting by great Ljuba Popović in the antihero’s apartment. Olga Vujadinović is as charming as Jean Seberg in <i>‘À Bout De Souffle’</i> or Ana Karina in <i>‘Vivre sa vie’</i>, and the jazzy, oh-so-60’s atmosphere easily finds its way into a cinephile’s heart.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>10. Vital (Shin’ya Tsukamoto, 2004)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwVSUjDTU68MjVadfFXngYc7t99foIKucV5MifWb9Moe8_YU086TIFos-FRXDE5SghjwKvdCC3fmA1v4kpdR1QkUwKKaA1fwkcIDdn4CkcdtWuewGMC-SBFHApdkGtWOnhqxB8YOCwz_kxDDW4zBLTshalL4Ar8uKFrVc30ulOtzfKXcWNY0c3w5Y7e7w/s800/10%20Vital.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="431" data-original-width="800" height="215" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwVSUjDTU68MjVadfFXngYc7t99foIKucV5MifWb9Moe8_YU086TIFos-FRXDE5SghjwKvdCC3fmA1v4kpdR1QkUwKKaA1fwkcIDdn4CkcdtWuewGMC-SBFHApdkGtWOnhqxB8YOCwz_kxDDW4zBLTshalL4Ar8uKFrVc30ulOtzfKXcWNY0c3w5Y7e7w/w400-h215/10%20Vital.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></b></div><br />Shin’ya Tsukamoto trades the frenetic energy of his most famous works for the meditative calm in brooding psychological drama <i>‘Vital’</i> that sees a young amnesiac, Hiroshi (portrayed with melancholic detachment by Tadanobu Asano), facing the loss of his (death-obsessed) girlfriend, Ryōko (the sole acting credit for dancer Nami Tsukamoto). The fragmented and deliberately paced story of grieving and regaining memories takes a subtly morbid twist with another woman, enigmatic Ikumi, and anatomy classes in a medical school, yet the elements of body horror for which the author is recognized remain but an echo muffled by bleakly poetic reveries. For that reason, the most avid fans of the <i>‘Tetsuo’</i> trilogy may be caught completely off guard by this peculiar piece of cinema which cuts deep into one’s psyche, rather than flesh, as it blurs the boundaries between the real and imagined. Although there are a few sequences of hectic montages, ‘Vital’ is dominated by a funereal mood – the courtesy of haunting soundscapes and austerely composed visuals, landing a strong emotional punch in its denouement.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>11. Barbie (Greta Gerwig, 2023)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvZG3UgPhx1uanPQQp6-dZvBD19FkBx2gSz5RmtPiuDK_ACe0ciabv2JWpUuYgQ8RZtFe5KXTpisMLxkzzjPMDKRD4kIvxWVSCV_dOyi8CpPQx9AFaGTURo2w1wz340N8487ZpJoRTOBuJSmF6Vvnln-2iz4Ow25Ji_9ZCgRzxwcu39nfiCs_GnVCHzds/s800/11%20Barbie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="800" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvZG3UgPhx1uanPQQp6-dZvBD19FkBx2gSz5RmtPiuDK_ACe0ciabv2JWpUuYgQ8RZtFe5KXTpisMLxkzzjPMDKRD4kIvxWVSCV_dOyi8CpPQx9AFaGTURo2w1wz340N8487ZpJoRTOBuJSmF6Vvnln-2iz4Ow25Ji_9ZCgRzxwcu39nfiCs_GnVCHzds/w400-h225/11%20Barbie.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></b></div><br /><div><i>‘Barbie’</i> is a film that shouldn’t work, and yet it does – so admirably! Elaborate in its simplicity, and quite clever behind its silly facade, it examines a number of topics, from feminism and self-actualization to love, death and existential crisis, in a package that is blatantly sincere, thoroughly entertaining, laugh-out-loud funny and dazzlingly beautiful. It wears its numerous and incongruous influences on its sleeve, proudly and fabulously, reflecting on real and imaginary worlds of our creation, in a fashion that is equally satirical and escapist, decidedly on-the-nose, yet strangely sophisticated, and brimming with glittery self-irony. Gerwig’s direction couldn’t be more playful and the casting choice of Margot Robbie couldn’t be more on point, with both of these women’s hearts in the right place.</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">(This mini-review was not sponsored or endorsed by Mattel.)</div><div><br /></div><b><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>12. Die Nackte und der Satan / The Head (Victor Trivas, 1959)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV31Z_s9c6_twnRcrRk0bqibSIxITPAy1qgApneHD9I4OhvIVB9PCIXmV_SBE7S7O7lFXsRzVaU9SL7il1Etm3LFpP9hVocowVvdzNpFmbEgsI_w351SHL88nHGgQthdxWJiW0LWpyIZWQfDzqDuC5zgWvAcUwKqFThrLwBRKBpjigbDz7-xiQ5GOSIaQ/s800/12%20Die%20Nackte%20und%20der%20Satan.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV31Z_s9c6_twnRcrRk0bqibSIxITPAy1qgApneHD9I4OhvIVB9PCIXmV_SBE7S7O7lFXsRzVaU9SL7il1Etm3LFpP9hVocowVvdzNpFmbEgsI_w351SHL88nHGgQthdxWJiW0LWpyIZWQfDzqDuC5zgWvAcUwKqFThrLwBRKBpjigbDz7-xiQ5GOSIaQ/w400-h300/12%20Die%20Nackte%20und%20der%20Satan.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></b></div></b><br />Anticipating <i>‘The Brain That Wouldn’t Die’</i> with several of key plot devices, <i>‘The Head’</i> shares one of its production designers, Hermann Warm, with the quintessential piece of silent horror cinema, <i>‘The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari’</i>, cinematographer Georg Krause with Kubrick’s <i>‘The Paths of Glory’</i>, and sees veteran Swiss-French actor Michel Simon (<i>L’Atalante</i>) as the (unfortunate) head from the English version of the title. That is quite a pedigree for a B-movie based on a silly premise treated mostly with a straight face, and directed by an Academy Award nominee who collaborated with Orson Welles! Anyhow, the film looks beautiful, with its Bauhaus-esque functionality filtered through the prism of German expressionism, which lends it a dense neo-noir atmosphere complemented by a compelling jazz score, in turns mysterious and swinging. An extra dose of mystery is provided by its villain, Dr. Ood, portrayed by steely-eyed Horst Frank whose magnetic performance ranges from subtly creepy to a raving madman predating the ‘Cage rage’.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>13. Trotocalles / Streetwalker (Matilde Landeta, 1951)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijLioOWLCeiJz5tpiNFj3CjPRUfvfpcIwqJR4GyTBzvLYdD8KDcK_t-93Ky3n-8e4detIisIGrR57ZRLea4uVowZHd3gd5T3lZC1JT6zKEf96G-Fdw__rar_kX0KP6mWi7yIhIdx_8Kttqjd090zTtaT3Tp4JQortwNcS0zEoJgdR6YUo2mML4T3hVUGY/s800/13%20Trotocalles.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="601" data-original-width="800" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijLioOWLCeiJz5tpiNFj3CjPRUfvfpcIwqJR4GyTBzvLYdD8KDcK_t-93Ky3n-8e4detIisIGrR57ZRLea4uVowZHd3gd5T3lZC1JT6zKEf96G-Fdw__rar_kX0KP6mWi7yIhIdx_8Kttqjd090zTtaT3Tp4JQortwNcS0zEoJgdR6YUo2mML4T3hVUGY/w400-h300/13%20Trotocalles.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></b></div><br />A cautionary tale from one of the first Mexican women who successfully fought their way to the director’s chair, <i>‘Streetwalker’</i> is an elegantly crafted melodrama anchored in Landeta’s artfully composed helming, the powerhouse central performance from Miroslava (who would tragically end her own life in 1955), with a perfect counterbalance in Elda Peralta’s Maria/Azalea, and captivating, film noir-influenced cinematography by Rosalío Solano. <br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>14. Brigitte Bardot cudowna / Brigitte Bardot Forever (Lech Majewski, 2021)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglwFeNbjWyVaRDT9I5c21L4WriIj9X7X9YVUA6iHoRMvb0P7XFZizVvI7rZtNVCHd_jK5dKuagesyJYbVITMyAHPzQV1NPjdbFRXDcejIvO_bIGBJvBTQAHixpRkIpM8nMX_noEE2mDg6IjG8ubmRIlNtEoQxxBDbKb-vxvqWl97cKM8vGq_1IerGfFac/s800/14%20Brigitte%20Bardot%20cudowna.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="431" data-original-width="800" height="215" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglwFeNbjWyVaRDT9I5c21L4WriIj9X7X9YVUA6iHoRMvb0P7XFZizVvI7rZtNVCHd_jK5dKuagesyJYbVITMyAHPzQV1NPjdbFRXDcejIvO_bIGBJvBTQAHixpRkIpM8nMX_noEE2mDg6IjG8ubmRIlNtEoQxxBDbKb-vxvqWl97cKM8vGq_1IerGfFac/w400-h215/14%20Brigitte%20Bardot%20cudowna.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></b></div><br />Reminiscing his childhood and adolescence in Poland behind the Iron Curtain, Lech Majewski adapts his novel <i>‘Pilgrimage to the Tomb of Brigitte Bardot the Wonderful’</i> into an increasingly surreal drama that sees his alter ego, Adam, on a quest for truth about his pilot father. While watching Godard’s <i>‘Contempt’</i> in the cinema, the boy is teleported into Brigitte Bardot’s dressing room which opens the doorway into a world where Cézanne and Tagore coexist with The Beetles, Liz Taylor (as Cleopatra), Raquel Welch (in iconic fur bikini) and Roger Moore’s Simon Templar. Adam’s reveries – which, inter alia, include Ms. Bardot using a magic wand to turn her interviewer into a pig – are brought to vivid life through excellent production design and handsome cinematography, though comparisons with Majewski’s earlier works make his latest offering less appealing. Nevertheless, <i>‘Brigitte Bardot Forever’</i> provides an enjoyable viewing experience blanketed in warmth and nostalgia, with Kacper Olszewski – looking at least five years younger than he actually is – delivering a sympathetic performance in the central role. Now I wonder if my impression would’ve been the same, if the subtitles had been available...</div><p></p>Nikola Gocićhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10802422474421337350noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3195252471961511941.post-19869221379843035942023-08-01T11:30:00.000+02:002023-08-01T11:30:48.674+02:00Best Premiere Viewings of July 2023<p></p><div style="text-align: center;"><i><b>1. Anmonaito no sasayaki wo kiita / I’ve Heard the Ammonite Murmur (Isao Yamada, 1992)<br /><br /></b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBL80TFwdNNiYNd-S-Of_fqsgCNHGiPmOZYI7dKCZA3L3rb7RrQv8I0bqxNOziPWxFnCkmAOgnirWyNma_GsOLcJJM0uzkf1kZllumMb1u02O8PVkNZ1XVhPCNa_k7FMo4Q96LS2w1jM1WlH9Cmlq04jwrG4LpnieMxXDlBSkr49WPRY4P10KVFpkfqBQ/s1000/01%20Anmonaito%20no%20sasayaki%20wo%20kiita.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="541" data-original-width="1000" height="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBL80TFwdNNiYNd-S-Of_fqsgCNHGiPmOZYI7dKCZA3L3rb7RrQv8I0bqxNOziPWxFnCkmAOgnirWyNma_GsOLcJJM0uzkf1kZllumMb1u02O8PVkNZ1XVhPCNa_k7FMo4Q96LS2w1jM1WlH9Cmlq04jwrG4LpnieMxXDlBSkr49WPRY4P10KVFpkfqBQ/w400-h216/01%20Anmonaito%20no%20sasayaki%20wo%20kiita.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></i></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>“The angle of the amethyst crystal lattice has some peculiar characteristics, doesn’t it? Dreams melt away in such circumstances.”</i></div><p></p><p style="text-align: justify;">Inspired by the relationship between novelist and poet Kenji Miyazawa (1896-1933) and his younger sister, Toshi, <i>‘I’ve Heard the Ammonite Murmur’</i> is an enchanting mood piece / experimental drama unfolding almost dialogue-free in a surreal interzone between memories and dreams where the past, the present and the future co-exist and overlap. Its sublimely lyrical (non)narrative is anchored in stunningly composed imagery which effortlessly evokes the spirit of Shūji Terayama (1935-1983) with whom the author collaborated as a member of the artistic crew in both theatre and cinema. Reaching all the way to the viewer’s subconscious or rather unconscious self, Yamada’s feature debut opens a doorway towards a universe of quietude that welcomes you with the gentlest of embraces, and suspends you in time, with each precious moment spent there bearing a quintessence of eternity...</p><p></p><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>2. Utopia (Sohrab Shahid Saless, 1983)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh--ru4C8bnzUL65sSJOL8XszJPggGv9db2Ir1kHJZGX1Yv1_COXMMmDBWPjv2BTt6WlIlepHJ-ZCXuTDoYoRFUU094mMUbkTZ9zBArjK6YREqNBmjArW74jnfxpYBhI1DpMM1XB4Bc5qPofIBGk_DX-xr8VrRTmnkV0DKeCrTbsfbIVFEKhjX5NoNI26Q/s1000/02%20Utopia.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="565" data-original-width="1000" height="226" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh--ru4C8bnzUL65sSJOL8XszJPggGv9db2Ir1kHJZGX1Yv1_COXMMmDBWPjv2BTt6WlIlepHJ-ZCXuTDoYoRFUU094mMUbkTZ9zBArjK6YREqNBmjArW74jnfxpYBhI1DpMM1XB4Bc5qPofIBGk_DX-xr8VrRTmnkV0DKeCrTbsfbIVFEKhjX5NoNI26Q/w400-h226/02%20Utopia.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></b></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">Penned with a strong anti-capitalist sentiment, directed with a clockwork precision, and photographed with a rigorous sense of mise en scène that evokes Fassbinder, <i>‘Utopia’</i> is nothing short of a devastating, highly distressing masterpiece further elevated by admirable central performances from Imke Barnstedt, Gundula Petrovska, Gabriele Fischer, Johanna Sophia and Birgit Anders who portray prostitutes working under a fascist, misogynistic pimp, Heinz (Manfred Zapatka, absolutely terrifying in his role). The oppressiveness of the film’s atmosphere – as tangibly nightmarish as it gets – is emphasized by the elegant, yet claustrophobic setting that is an apartment adapted into an exclusive brothel, a prison of tortured souls...</div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>3. Khane-ye doust kodjast? / Where Is the Friend's House? (Abbas Kiarostami, 1987)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyVTVtUrtzsqccXXid3Tsq255oWKs3_sLtefEDQPFfHGp8-9py5s9RtSq0biOTe8rmqvyhhkM9x6zVGc8G2xt2KNDJcSp_ljmNyfMOP8LQcLSdd0UIxUsP6Vo_BW4-NXC7Hn2jgM1RgmL2XK6D5djY5pAGscKp2wZiqRZPTIoo3nIVZ8XILe70Zqh481I/s1000/03%20Where%20Is%20the%20Friend's%20House.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="1000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyVTVtUrtzsqccXXid3Tsq255oWKs3_sLtefEDQPFfHGp8-9py5s9RtSq0biOTe8rmqvyhhkM9x6zVGc8G2xt2KNDJcSp_ljmNyfMOP8LQcLSdd0UIxUsP6Vo_BW4-NXC7Hn2jgM1RgmL2XK6D5djY5pAGscKp2wZiqRZPTIoo3nIVZ8XILe70Zqh481I/w400-h240/03%20Where%20Is%20the%20Friend's%20House.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></b></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">Directing a simple, yet meaningful and deeply humane coming-of-age odyssey with an admirable ease, in a rural setting that couldn't be more authentic, Kiarostami captures one of the purest performances by a child actor whose facial expression feels like a reflection of innocence, kindness, confusion, dilemmas and wide-eyed curiosity contained within the boy's universe...<br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>4. <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Hgglg94QBI4">Leda (Samuel Tressler IV, 2021)</a><br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGVQW4_UCtvh_oUljDAi5UTdUgtoBvDRQXdUmfzMzeuAP8bOmkgd8Np6womgTxvpbCNxP5B6Sxz9S8pwtDSUykDu4wjI8zOfZTKWw8lNdv_OH9nmJILV-F1kvRt9JF1U3NE6P1ku_5bkMIIXYAYJRg03GzJdy0HXJN6qRN3znkR-RX7ymvdsjhH_OKzBI/s1000/04%20Leda.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="419" data-original-width="1000" height="168" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGVQW4_UCtvh_oUljDAi5UTdUgtoBvDRQXdUmfzMzeuAP8bOmkgd8Np6womgTxvpbCNxP5B6Sxz9S8pwtDSUykDu4wjI8zOfZTKWw8lNdv_OH9nmJILV-F1kvRt9JF1U3NE6P1ku_5bkMIIXYAYJRg03GzJdy0HXJN6qRN3znkR-RX7ymvdsjhH_OKzBI/w400-h168/04%20Leda.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></b></div><br />Not a single word is spoken in Samuel Tressler’s bold, dazzlingly beautiful feature debut which transmutes the Leda myth into an ethereally uncanny nightmare, part surrealistic period piece and part highly poeticized gothic psychodrama. Decidedly elliptical in its storytelling or rather ‘storyshowing’, this superb indie flick comes across as a cryptic, sensorial mood piece delicately touching upon a childhood trauma, rape, madness, loneliness and pregnancy. Densely atmospheric, in equal measures ominous and soothing, it unfolds in a deliberate pace towards a subtly visceral epilogue that further amplifies the all-pervasive ambiguity. Tressler and his co-writer Wesley Pastorfield keep pulling the rug from under the viewer’s feet, and each time they do so, you find yourself falling deeper into the rabbit hole of Leda’s dreams, memories and hallucinations. All the while, cinematographer Nick Midwig lulls you into a dreamlike state with eloquent B&W imagery immersed in a hauntingly minimalist score by Andre Barros and Björn Magnusson.</div><p></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><div>Highly recommended for the fans of <i>‘Meshes of the Afternoon’</i> (1943), <i>‘Angel’s Egg’</i> (1985), <i>‘Under the Skin’</i> (2013) and <i>‘November’</i> (2017).</div></div><p></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>5. Erosu purasu gyakusatsu / Eros + Massacre (Yoshishige Yoshida, 1969)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_lreqgDGvChgK4T7duOlQ9avc6WN_iGZz3ApywvO58TIM_qQ-XSqkPEhERNbHEpxagqrfdVutGLcP1tFcpvRIVBmcgd3GkRLi24L5S6e2u5l1aw467526tsECdeoF8drvtRNh8g_dBYt-c-RIefc1jLlclIEQ1SUp2OqOFRqMH2irARLynXYRLjCkGVA/s1000/05%20Eros%20+%20Massacre.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="426" data-original-width="1000" height="170" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_lreqgDGvChgK4T7duOlQ9avc6WN_iGZz3ApywvO58TIM_qQ-XSqkPEhERNbHEpxagqrfdVutGLcP1tFcpvRIVBmcgd3GkRLi24L5S6e2u5l1aw467526tsECdeoF8drvtRNh8g_dBYt-c-RIefc1jLlclIEQ1SUp2OqOFRqMH2irARLynXYRLjCkGVA/w400-h170/05%20Eros%20+%20Massacre.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></b></div><br />In real life, no human has escaped death; in cinema, no character has been liberated from the frame. Yoshida emphasizes these inevitabilities, particularly the latter, by imprisoning his protagonists within windows and doors, trapping them inside mirrors, and hiding them behind sliding panels, shooting them through branches, and drowning them in bright light or in the void of darkness, always looking for a new, usually twisted angle. Frequently, he obstructs their bodies and/or subjects them to negative spaces, as if mocking their attempts to attain freedom, paradoxically lending them eternity by virtue of geometrically rigorous compositions. His formal radicalism and the story – a poeticized biography of Japanese anarchist Ōsugi Sakae (1885-1923) paralleled by the (superficial?) modern-day examination of his theories – seem to co-exist in a dysfunctional marriage, and yet they feel like a perfect match. The audience is left to their own devices in figuring out the way through Yoshida’s labyrinth where every word should be taken with a pinch of salt, and every image could be accepted as sublime...<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>6. Siembra (Ángela Maria Osorio Rojas & Santiago Lozano Álvarez, 2015)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBcWMyEtIVJRSNp0T-uo0cf19wStM7E3p31ICVrJaTBHnZYPTVezfGijokKsGUJ1sg7gMQ_nL_jXl3Flpakg86SxvLBInvx1M9cxAo499ZQRl3BhTlQRfU69YYCnl_3U9GmTnLbZAj8gAq2qWJCHsrsl2ZsJLrYDphupiNsV55ML-5uHh2kAcgBD1foxI/s1000/06%20Siembra.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="1000" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBcWMyEtIVJRSNp0T-uo0cf19wStM7E3p31ICVrJaTBHnZYPTVezfGijokKsGUJ1sg7gMQ_nL_jXl3Flpakg86SxvLBInvx1M9cxAo499ZQRl3BhTlQRfU69YYCnl_3U9GmTnLbZAj8gAq2qWJCHsrsl2ZsJLrYDphupiNsV55ML-5uHh2kAcgBD1foxI/w400-h300/06%20Siembra.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></b></div><br />A fiction debut for documentarians Ángela Maria Osorio Rojas & Santiago Lozano Álvarez, <i>‘Siembra’</i> is a powerful social drama set in Afro-Colombian community, and dealing with forced migration, loss and grief. Beautifully shot in silvery black and white which emphasizes the all-pervading sense of nostalgia, the film marries the veracity of grim realism (not unlike that of the Yugoslav Black Wave) to pure, heart-wrenching poetry (influenced by Pedro Costa?), as it chronicles the sorrowful story of an aged farmer, Turco. Expelled from his land at Pacific coast into a life of poverty in the city of Cali, and losing his hotheaded, street-dancer son, Yosner, to a bullet, this wretched soul (portrayed with stoic poignancy by folk musician Diego Balanta) wanders the limbo of despair in search for the last glimmer of hope. Dignified in his mourning, Turco sheds no tears until the cathartic conclusion – one of many highly expressive close-ups – that sees him singing a moving elegy for Yosner. Speaking of songs, music plays an important role for people of <i>‘Siembra’</i>, both in their festivities and final farewells, elevating the conspicuous humane aspect of the directorial duo’s taut screenplay. Rojas & Álvarez make the most of the economic 80-minute running time to plunge us into the bleak world of their protagonists (largely played by non-professionals), convey the mood and emotions by virtue of visuals rather than dialogue, and utilize some genre-bending and smooth tonal shifts to great effect. <br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>7. Saules aveugles, femme endormie / Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman (Pierre Földes, 2022)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9n-mbX_eMbPbp0Dj8q9m0BaNysAauS1S6WGy_pkcorOHVrYPwED-0KatiuhFFxvE4twrLFF3ACsqNw0bwKkVflECKsmAA_GXbOL-Y9XZ9L8T1BJWf1cuwIqvPz389XQ8JsMMnFEzLO2gcvPbsFV_N3qAnJZr5oYJs6LDWy9bOEMNTOctjEnNToaWSHSk/s1000/07%20Blind%20Willow,%20Sleeping%20Woman.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="539" data-original-width="1000" height="215" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9n-mbX_eMbPbp0Dj8q9m0BaNysAauS1S6WGy_pkcorOHVrYPwED-0KatiuhFFxvE4twrLFF3ACsqNw0bwKkVflECKsmAA_GXbOL-Y9XZ9L8T1BJWf1cuwIqvPz389XQ8JsMMnFEzLO2gcvPbsFV_N3qAnJZr5oYJs6LDWy9bOEMNTOctjEnNToaWSHSk/w400-h215/07%20Blind%20Willow,%20Sleeping%20Woman.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></b></div><br />I am not familiar with Haruki Murakami’s short stories the film is based upon (I’ve only read <i>‘Dance Dance Dance’</i> several years ago), but I will surely be keeping my eye on composer turned filmmaker Pierre Földes. Addressing the stresses of everyday life and attempts of ordinary people to find its meaning (if any), <i>‘Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman’</i> is a finely nuanced amalgam of light philosophical musings and quirky flights of fancy. Magic realist at its core, it introduces an anthropomorphic, Nietzsche-and-Hemingway-quoting frog as one of the guides in interconnected existential crises of three people stuck in their dead-end job, marriage or solitude. At once detached and compassionate, this fantasy-drama flows like a slightly disorienting dream in which almost each encounter gives off a Schrodinger’s cat vibe, and the cat has both the first and last name – Noboru Watanabe. The employed technique of animation similar to rotoscoping goes well with the liminal realities of the narrative, with Földes’s piano-heavy score conveying the brooding, yet comforting feeling of chronic melancholy.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>8. The Naked Kiss (Samuel Fuller, 1964)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0JRj5rkWYpxKY9ssy6XCgxVEnsqR5LvLE03WBfWK_FU7P3oVlwXfS7zCiC2Xcm2JTjblyremITRRLg7yi-zi9-NbjNNLNuWlCJlGa2e4YFiNyxswE7e7u4xwq8UHe2AeM0KcxRq_8AMfIYFoSf8gN7GgjJdSRn1lhb_3VoW7gzHrV99OkMkJophYrjGI/s1000/08%20The%20Naked%20Kiss.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="563" data-original-width="1000" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0JRj5rkWYpxKY9ssy6XCgxVEnsqR5LvLE03WBfWK_FU7P3oVlwXfS7zCiC2Xcm2JTjblyremITRRLg7yi-zi9-NbjNNLNuWlCJlGa2e4YFiNyxswE7e7u4xwq8UHe2AeM0KcxRq_8AMfIYFoSf8gN7GgjJdSRn1lhb_3VoW7gzHrV99OkMkJophYrjGI/w400-h225/08%20The%20Naked%20Kiss.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></b></div><br />The slick performance from Constance Towers, beautiful cinematography by Stanley Cortez (<i>Night of the Hunter</i>), and Samuel Fuller’s no-nonsense direction pose as driving forces of what is arguably one of the most slyly feminist 60’s B-movies with a sharp auteur edge. It is almost everything that you expect from a film which opens with a bald prostitute beating her pimp with a handbag, only to unveil all of the provincial hypocrisies later on...<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>9. Легенда о ледяном сердце (Эльдар Шенгелая & Алексей Сахаров, 1958) /</i></b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>The Legend of the Icy Heart (Eldar Shengelaia & Aleksey Sakharov, 1958)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwDbN2gH9ADs3YHW_3jS49srXoWKSnVkJnjTpr_Z5_PoYL9A5uqSupWDKkaoLNT1P1HGsv84bXjgvd3Pqmku8IGGWTiHQYTNrYzaY1IH3NYRxzv5llcDCMPAKAf78Cr1dnqgR21W2NLAH01mRVRGKBjZ-iirCSvINVYNeOZP76iwxKwWPkE84E7H0299Y/s1000/09%20The%20Legend%20of%20the%20Icy%20Heart.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="1000" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwDbN2gH9ADs3YHW_3jS49srXoWKSnVkJnjTpr_Z5_PoYL9A5uqSupWDKkaoLNT1P1HGsv84bXjgvd3Pqmku8IGGWTiHQYTNrYzaY1IH3NYRxzv5llcDCMPAKAf78Cr1dnqgR21W2NLAH01mRVRGKBjZ-iirCSvINVYNeOZP76iwxKwWPkE84E7H0299Y/w400-h300/09%20The%20Legend%20of%20the%20Icy%20Heart.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></b></div><br />A feature debut for both Shengelaia and Sakharov, <i>‘The Legend of the Icy Heart’</i> is inspired by a Kirghiz folk tale and Wilhelm Hauff’s 1827 fairy tale <i>‘Das kalte Herz’</i>. Set in what was the present back then, it tells a love story of a beautiful opera singer, Aynakan, and a young shovel operator, Meerkan, kept apart by an evil theatre director, Kambar, and guided by an ashik narrator whose character introduces the elements of metacinema. Quite impressive in terms of production design, art direction, cinematography and music, this charming modern fantasy brings to mind Powell and Pressburger’s works from the late 40’s, with some of the lighting schemes anticipating the 60’s Bava. The directorial duo elicit superb performances from the cast, helming with lighthearted touch and awaking the inner child in this viewer who understands but a few words of Russian, yet needs no subtitles to enjoy the beauty at display. <br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>10. Thérèse Desqueyroux (Georges Franju, 1962)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX6B8jHf_5bJwWIA8pv3ULce7f6__riMxLbE6kFU6-DJuozxCJ7iq3idjqgWpj1TN_0ePez57n4nmNlKXuDApOQgLsJK0-8leOtIAMvRoE8JQlRUY3QugdCNXqh5xjLbtyFkyHT2zN_OPW8L5l66wOBtsHNM-5Dv8b3tx1ROKXVf-rCKkJDleFKkRrj20/s1000/10%20Th%C3%A9r%C3%A8se%20Desqueyroux.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="602" data-original-width="1000" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX6B8jHf_5bJwWIA8pv3ULce7f6__riMxLbE6kFU6-DJuozxCJ7iq3idjqgWpj1TN_0ePez57n4nmNlKXuDApOQgLsJK0-8leOtIAMvRoE8JQlRUY3QugdCNXqh5xjLbtyFkyHT2zN_OPW8L5l66wOBtsHNM-5Dv8b3tx1ROKXVf-rCKkJDleFKkRrj20/w400-h241/10%20Th%C3%A9r%C3%A8se%20Desqueyroux.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></b></div><br />Unfolding at a leisurely pace which underlines its bleakness, <i>‘Thérèse Desqueyroux’</i> is a brooding character study of a despairing woman portrayed with a remarkable subtlety, mystery and sympathy by Emmanuelle Riva. The magnetic central performance is beautifully matched by Franju’s tactful, disciplined direction, and the expressive B&W cinematography (Raymond Heil & Christian Matras) that is particularly befitting of the depressing second act. A haunting psychological drama with a feminist edge.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>11. Obaltan / Aimless Bullet (Yu Hyun-mok, 1961)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg5LXRiWPTUrkYarmgI7P6dr0Wn5WU09D9zoFe-JIcEgbxde_zhYNBWXP9p4cmI1TXLNj4IINiKvsdQ_pwPnuLbIPZlWLk6p3PGDBsuY7dcTpjhh8RtXYcrdxvpl0Ua_ZKvWBNf2gDuBFKKG5tlabJdStujSKEcLYVLwa--0OCbnJEQdWLhDH3SEA-0MQ/s1000/11%20Obaltan.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="756" data-original-width="1000" height="303" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg5LXRiWPTUrkYarmgI7P6dr0Wn5WU09D9zoFe-JIcEgbxde_zhYNBWXP9p4cmI1TXLNj4IINiKvsdQ_pwPnuLbIPZlWLk6p3PGDBsuY7dcTpjhh8RtXYcrdxvpl0Ua_ZKvWBNf2gDuBFKKG5tlabJdStujSKEcLYVLwa--0OCbnJEQdWLhDH3SEA-0MQ/w400-h303/11%20Obaltan.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></b></div><br />A cinematic equivalent of desperation, <i>‘Aimless Bullet’</i> is an unsparing portrayal of grim reality in post-war South Korea. Taking cues from neorealism and film noir, its author makes sure the viewer deeply feels the oppressiveness of pitch-black shadows, and the coldness of walls in existential prison, impossible to escape from. Extremely powerful, and not recommended for people suffering depression and anxiety.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>12. <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NmRK20yxMp4">Alchemy of the Spirit (Steve Balderson, 2022)</a><br /></i></b><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho5QMqPAX2678wc2GqcdKNVspdjI52aKr6heJHfcdZUPsCTKsl5cwH175tLbw9R3noM-N5o5LXS87hOdIxz7lNg9jY_QG7ZBl_JbJESWerKzQUcQ2eUskOgZvoWdwNgwWSz9zkaKFswMLGV4rNGo4MLwhwY4QkYphGUpa9EX33cYpkOXEmEibjawi9PSI/s1000/12%20Alchemy%20of%20the%20Spirit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="425" data-original-width="1000" height="170" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho5QMqPAX2678wc2GqcdKNVspdjI52aKr6heJHfcdZUPsCTKsl5cwH175tLbw9R3noM-N5o5LXS87hOdIxz7lNg9jY_QG7ZBl_JbJESWerKzQUcQ2eUskOgZvoWdwNgwWSz9zkaKFswMLGV4rNGo4MLwhwY4QkYphGUpa9EX33cYpkOXEmEibjawi9PSI/w400-h170/12%20Alchemy%20of%20the%20Spirit.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><div style="text-align: center;"><i>“Inside the unknown, you’re alive, really alive. It’s the most beautiful place to be.”</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div><br /></div><div>Soft shades of Pygmalion and Orpheus myths permeate a largely non-verbal story of a grieving artist, Oliver Black (Xander Berkely of <i>‘Candyman’</i> fame), whose gradually liquefying reality is gorgeously captured in dreamy, illuminated cinematography (Hanuman Brown-Eagle) of hyper-saturated colors, and misty, ethereal score (Heather Schmidt) of whispery piano, sobbing strings and euphonious chants. Treated with gentleness and poise, the themes of loss and the healing power of art make way for a tone poem-like reflection on both life and the great beyond, challenging our perception of the physical universe, and inviting us to peak into a subliminal dimension. At times, Balderson (<i>Firecracker</i>, 2005) teases the possibility of metaphysical horror, and provides some goosebump-inducing moments, yet his film remains within the constraints of a chamber psychological drama subtly seasoned with humor – the courtesy of John Waters’s regular Mink Stole in the supporting role of an art dealer, Alex. <i>‘Alchemy of the Spirit’</i> does stumble here and there, but its honest heart and transcendental qualities far outweigh its flaws.</div></div><p></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>13. <a href="https://watch.plex.tv/movie/crucify">Crucify (J. Arcane & Paul Erskine, 2020)</a><br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_lGa0pxBweqIBD3Zvpishi0V7J2KEqwaMKB3EqYj-2Jvyrtsh5tKfHNHJmRfr_S6SBNz2b8HMG0e4HddjG07EqEJs7cYsU2dwz7Z6JPDxcu_WajcB8LKDMLjAdt0eRZcG4PuFaqbnUaA8r_AFouQjRKmAWLn1wYiVFxLNrVYaEukcFWIIVPJ0A_pyHx8/s1000/13%20Crucify.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="563" data-original-width="1000" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_lGa0pxBweqIBD3Zvpishi0V7J2KEqwaMKB3EqYj-2Jvyrtsh5tKfHNHJmRfr_S6SBNz2b8HMG0e4HddjG07EqEJs7cYsU2dwz7Z6JPDxcu_WajcB8LKDMLjAdt0eRZcG4PuFaqbnUaA8r_AFouQjRKmAWLn1wYiVFxLNrVYaEukcFWIIVPJ0A_pyHx8/w400-h225/13%20Crucify.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></b></div><br />If you’re looking for a decidedly incoherent film that feels like a possessed fever-dream sequence drenched in colorful neon-lights all the way to its very cores, both demonic and angelic one, then you will have a trippy field day with Arcane and Erskine’s feature debut. Employing hyper-stylized visuals (think N.W. Refn by way of Cattet and Forzani’s fetishism), and haunting soundscapes of heavy breathing, whispery voices, echoing screams, darkly ethereal tunes and foreboding drones, <i>‘Crucify’</i> locks you deep inside a subconscious mind of a haunted house and throws the key out of the window... <br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>(Short) honorable mention: </i></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZP3ceoNdZug"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Haruko no Bouken / Haruko’s Adventure </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 700;">(Keita Kurosaka, 1990)</span></a><br /><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqMXmRhYGOqsMfs5fxLxOSdknGRqApAh8wij1SXiLUeoiWYi6shIxwFiUdLBnoCoyzCGHQOF3efnDg7TgVU_1ozIJWjHcvsum6kH0G6VWlSzrJ8joARKHVkLA1n-e1AYvxu17c1uxZsCNbeR7IH3Sq-BkFkPUBcdBizPZ93EpJK0cmUq5Zr2zBkoPmb6Y/s1000/Short%20-%20Haruko's%20Adventure.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="764" data-original-width="1000" height="305" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqMXmRhYGOqsMfs5fxLxOSdknGRqApAh8wij1SXiLUeoiWYi6shIxwFiUdLBnoCoyzCGHQOF3efnDg7TgVU_1ozIJWjHcvsum6kH0G6VWlSzrJ8joARKHVkLA1n-e1AYvxu17c1uxZsCNbeR7IH3Sq-BkFkPUBcdBizPZ93EpJK0cmUq5Zr2zBkoPmb6Y/w400-h305/Short%20-%20Haruko's%20Adventure.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">A perfect appetizer for the likes of Shin’ya Tsukamoto’s <i>‘Tetsuo: The Iron Man’</i> (1989) and Shozin Fukui’s <i>‘Rubber’s Lover’</i> (1996), this 14-minute short looks, feels and unfolds like a surrealistic nightmare in which body horror applies not only to human flesh, but to inorganic matter as well. Created in what appears to be stop-motion technique, with each (originally, live-action) frame rendered in gritty, photocopy-like B&W, <i>‘Haruko’s Adventure’</i> is decidedly weird, wondrously unnerving and at times wryly humorous in its raw poeticism and absurdist ambiguity.</div></div></div><p></p>Nikola Gocićhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10802422474421337350noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3195252471961511941.post-19106915912515185982023-07-01T12:23:00.000+02:002023-07-01T12:23:10.828+02:00Best Premiere Viewings of June 2023<p></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>1. New Religion (Keishi Kondo, 2022)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIQ7FswoQtA_2-mEr116aZb02lhtjQ8THI0HqHmw0kYxL8VGoPhQ5Vqhyo0NlRJ9WwuKwZSDOAn2ZgLWwn1e3c1odNVDnVkT4fXDX_7ytpXYTDYGxJBuqDFiVjQ9-5WDZ2IpwRTOFaK6nurCuvsobLXk9ahoI7QtHCGDEOcnPqlllepyTcWhEyj1MIHZo/s1000/01%20New%20Religion.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="421" data-original-width="1000" height="169" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIQ7FswoQtA_2-mEr116aZb02lhtjQ8THI0HqHmw0kYxL8VGoPhQ5Vqhyo0NlRJ9WwuKwZSDOAn2ZgLWwn1e3c1odNVDnVkT4fXDX_7ytpXYTDYGxJBuqDFiVjQ9-5WDZ2IpwRTOFaK6nurCuvsobLXk9ahoI7QtHCGDEOcnPqlllepyTcWhEyj1MIHZo/w400-h169/01%20New%20Religion.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></b></div><br />Utterly hypnotizing in its portrayal of grieving process and its transformative potentials, Keishi Kondo’s crowdfunded feature debut comes across as an impressive calling card not only for its author, but also for a bunch of newcomers in his team, from the entire cast to cinematographer Sho Mishina. (According to IMDb, only colorist Dmitry Kuznetsov and co-editor Aleksandar Milenković have several short films under their belts.) Right from the experimental prologue soaked in deep reds (later turned into a leitmotif) and brooding drones (that dominate the haunting score), <i>‘New Religion’</i> pulls the viewer into its disjointed reality – one akin to a dream in which a dreamer is dreamed... perhaps by a moth.</div><p></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><div>Kondo could be quoting a couple of lines from Cronenberg’s defining body horror <i>‘The Fly’</i>, yet his keen sensibility is much closer to that of Kiyoshi Kurosawa’s brand of ‘slow terror’, as well as to David Lynch’s penchant for the unknowable, cryptic symbolism and bizarre characters... such as a presumably non-human photographer who speaks through an electrolarynx. Both his direction and editing are assured and precise, as he employs meticulously composed imagery, and uncannily immersive sound design to create a dense and heavy atmosphere of bleak melancholy, understated eeriness and deliberate disorientation. Lingering below the ostensibly desensitized surface of his puzzling psychological drama is a creeping sense of madness and dread in the face of a child loss, with the elliptical story unfolding from the unreliable perspective of a heroine, Miyabi (Kaho Seto, admirable at micro-acting). The horror underpinnings may prove too subtle for the hardcore genre aficionados, and the ever-present irrationality will significantly limit the audience, but if you’re looking for something refreshingly off-the-wall, just let <i>‘New Religion’</i> convert you... </div></div><p></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><i><b>2. Kerr (Tayfun Pirselimoglu, 2021)<br /><br /></b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWVMae4SDjOeDTHtGwUqysfH8l3D1JEt1UykMdicirDn5z_JyGLLaY__bmvQsXvSMr-av98z4ceRsgWUjuyumfjqF95PUR0l1NzoxGdMRmUIGcuXL-rw1Nmx85dUWSUsA-3V3COXFvzkCOxd73-BSX03mo6wqpL_zpzBTtNuWUuT3GJcFYpuvyZa2KEh4/s1000/02%20Kerr.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="419" data-original-width="1000" height="168" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWVMae4SDjOeDTHtGwUqysfH8l3D1JEt1UykMdicirDn5z_JyGLLaY__bmvQsXvSMr-av98z4ceRsgWUjuyumfjqF95PUR0l1NzoxGdMRmUIGcuXL-rw1Nmx85dUWSUsA-3V3COXFvzkCOxd73-BSX03mo6wqpL_zpzBTtNuWUuT3GJcFYpuvyZa2KEh4/w400-h168/02%20Kerr.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></i></div><br />The echoes of COVID-19 isolation hang on decrepit walls of a small, purgatorial town in Pirselimoglu’s absurdist dramedy that sees its clueless, hapless hero (superbly cast Erdem Şenocak) lost in a Kafkaesque nightmare – as metaphysically inescapable as it gets. Injected with measured doses of wry, deadpan humor, <i>‘Kerr’</i> gives no answers to a lot of its questions, putting the viewer in the protagonist’s shoes that go with a dark coat of bewilderment. On the other hand, the embodiment of mystery wears a yellow coat surrounded by a ‘double agent’ aura, and even though her screen time is limited, she heads a weird bunch that wouldn’t be out of place in a David Lynch’s psychological thriller. The same could also be said for a jazzy theme that pays a loving homage to the genius of Angelo Badalamenti, as well as for a dimly lit nightclub, its backstage hidden behind a red curtain. Ever-growing despair is emphasized by the wintry weather, as the loudspeaker announcements warn of rabid dogs prowling the streets, and seemingly bottomless holes appear all around, out of nowhere, sucking in most of the possible meanings. There’s also a murderer on the loose, yet neither the police, nor the people seem to give a damn, their provincial mentality paralyzing Şenocak’s unnamed character. Deliberate pacing intensifies the cold, thick atmosphere of detachment, and the quiet denouement comes across as another ellipsis in this beautifully framed mindfuck of a film.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>3. Toldi – A Mozifilm / Toldi – Movie (Marcell Jankovics & Lajos Csákovics, 2022)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDYddxPl2h00Zw6D1TqBXDcTLhcQT1Adl2mAsyf1laHT0mvCwGPt5YahFYGJBRTtAMJ_gz5m6U8TJjzX9nlYWaNLOI2fp0WIIeZNrXYOPOpVA_OMIsdczPcWYBHq-8LGt31c1J7SkqyAnvBupBGYmoR05ltEMco77UEQG0UwNImwTXX_zbMob-2F1X1Ko/s1000/03%20Toldi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="563" data-original-width="1000" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDYddxPl2h00Zw6D1TqBXDcTLhcQT1Adl2mAsyf1laHT0mvCwGPt5YahFYGJBRTtAMJ_gz5m6U8TJjzX9nlYWaNLOI2fp0WIIeZNrXYOPOpVA_OMIsdczPcWYBHq-8LGt31c1J7SkqyAnvBupBGYmoR05ltEMco77UEQG0UwNImwTXX_zbMob-2F1X1Ko/w400-h225/03%20Toldi.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></b></div><br />Marcel Jankovics (1941-2021) didn’t live to see the feature film version of his 2021 TV series <i>‘Toldi’</i>, but Lajos Csákovics did a fine job in channeling the visionary brilliance of the late fellow animator. Based on the first part of the epic poem trilogy by Hungarian literate János Arany (1817-1882), and narrated by the ghost of the poet himself (as seen in the sketch portrait by his friend Sándor Petőfi), the film chronicles early exploits of legendary medieval hero Miklós Toldi (cca 1320-1390). He is depicted as a strapping, impulsive young lad whose blonde hair lights up every time strong emotions overwhelm him, turning him into a <i>‘Son of the White Mare’</i> look-alike, though a comparison with a super-powered anime character wouldn’t be out of place either. However, the animation style is closer to Dreamworks classics, with certain parts, such as flashbacks, created in the vein of the Codex Manesse illustrations, at once conveying the period setting and adding an extra oomph to already stunning, highly expressive visuals. Beautifully complemented by György Selmeczi’s energizing score, as well as by superb, versatile voice-over from Tamás Széles only, the imagery of Jankovics’ swan song stimulates one’s imagination and awakens the inner child, no matter how heavily it sleeps.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>4. Gohiki no shinshi / Cash Calls Hell (Hideo Gosha, 1966)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8VNcTK4PNrIKzUnzTv5rn7wb6DdTED0UQohD3dZyhvHDY0QH266ARSMJZXGTtRutA8t7e46FULLDFNR5wUm-68c7MeVLIk1v9T-a4AcCwKse6NEWwwwGVoN21x2cCRlVXbGz_iWnRtnjNjrrYXNbENvGTQdRHwyVqDhXoPq1yTNNP4Y6ehfFKNa_hKBk/s1000/04%20Cash%20Calls%20Hell.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="419" data-original-width="1000" height="168" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8VNcTK4PNrIKzUnzTv5rn7wb6DdTED0UQohD3dZyhvHDY0QH266ARSMJZXGTtRutA8t7e46FULLDFNR5wUm-68c7MeVLIk1v9T-a4AcCwKse6NEWwwwGVoN21x2cCRlVXbGz_iWnRtnjNjrrYXNbENvGTQdRHwyVqDhXoPq1yTNNP4Y6ehfFKNa_hKBk/w400-h168/04%20Cash%20Calls%20Hell.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></b></div><br />My first encounter with the work of Hideo Gosha – a noir-anomaly in the chanbara-dominated phase of his career – leaves a strong impression, primarily thanks to the artful framing by cinematographer Tadashi Sakai, and highly memorable set pieces that make great use of locations, from back alleys to industrial sites such as a water purification station. Equally engaging is Masaru Satō’s groovy ‘crime jazz’ score that impregnates drama with a sense of melancholy, and emphasizes both the secrecy and smuttiness of the night when the action usually kicks off. On top of that, Tatsuya Nakadai brings charm and finesse to the role of an antihero, Oida, seeking absolution, and transforming into a savior throughout a story of karmic justice. <br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>5. Under the Skin (Carine Adler, 1997)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg98J0VV0asErCuDspJqQDfmQedLBEi-oriC_uNiO220m-3HARXiXqDlrqWp_CDhMuJL8O0rwwpQOIoTteEj7wAOhpWk1wPWtPm4EIApQCK6ni6l_UW8-wWi9f9ff58MuJQFIdg_B8SmJR6SeCYWVMkPjTavKYKbXsacrj9dZnKYvIH9D_2HKEgqIksRnY/s1000/05%20Under%20the%20Skin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="658" data-original-width="1000" height="264" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg98J0VV0asErCuDspJqQDfmQedLBEi-oriC_uNiO220m-3HARXiXqDlrqWp_CDhMuJL8O0rwwpQOIoTteEj7wAOhpWk1wPWtPm4EIApQCK6ni6l_UW8-wWi9f9ff58MuJQFIdg_B8SmJR6SeCYWVMkPjTavKYKbXsacrj9dZnKYvIH9D_2HKEgqIksRnY/w400-h264/05%20Under%20the%20Skin.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></b></div><br />Not to be confused with Glazer’s acclaimed, 16 years younger sci-fi horror of the same name, Adler’s first and unfortunately only feature is a harrowing character study with an outstanding central performance from Samantha Morton. Portraying an extremely vulnerable if not utterly sympathetic young woman, Iris Kelly, who processes her grief through sexual escapades, Ms. Morton is a force of nature! At once raw, subtle and uninhibited in the soul-tearing role, she finds an anchor in Claire Rushbrook’s gentler, complementing take on Iris’s ostensibly balanced sister Rose. Her heroine’s dirty, bumpy fall down the rabbit hole of sanity has a ‘detached poetry’ vibe about it, emphasized through both the hectic movements of Barry Ackroyd’s camera, and Ewa J. Lind’s ‘jumpy’ editing. The film’s soothing resolution comes across as a welcome relief, mental and emotional alike, baring Adler’s empathy for Iris, even at the cost of thwarting her indomitable spirit...<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><i><b>6. Sambizanga (Sarah Maldoror, 1972)<br /><br /></b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaUGY9aB8dVoAvOFX2MGrZJAKCy2hYi6w3faIPYjnJd7m34-8GfG6CHn6SiR9KN5uFGaS6GAaKZl_1iuv4bWM58IWS0w0dhYkeAKuM7smbQ2B1qoed7uhfodlZuCtqBF-AvIn7CI6DdGUaH4jWZKbdipFNtSgw0a-vKD3SRLjjCq3KEkcIWg5KOs_MWEE/s1000/06%20Sambizanga.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="563" data-original-width="1000" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaUGY9aB8dVoAvOFX2MGrZJAKCy2hYi6w3faIPYjnJd7m34-8GfG6CHn6SiR9KN5uFGaS6GAaKZl_1iuv4bWM58IWS0w0dhYkeAKuM7smbQ2B1qoed7uhfodlZuCtqBF-AvIn7CI6DdGUaH4jWZKbdipFNtSgw0a-vKD3SRLjjCq3KEkcIWg5KOs_MWEE/w400-h225/06%20Sambizanga.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div></i></div><br />Pervaded by a strong anti-colonialist sentiment, and set at the dawn of the Angolan War for Independence, <i>‘Sambizanga</i>’ is the pioneering feature produced by a Lusophone African country. Its female perspective provides insight into behind-the-scenes of the struggle, highlighting the solidarity between women, as well as the boldness and practicality of their actions. Unaware of her husband’s involvement with the revolution, the wife of a political prisoner comes face-to-face with the government officials or rather, the Kafkaesque bureaucracy, all the while male dissidents operate in secrecy, gathering info to find out who of their brethren has been arrested. Non-professionals – many of whom were members of the resistance movements – lend a documentary-like authenticity to the proceedings, with bright-red blood effects not unlike that of the giallo cinema reminding us that we’re watching a piece of fiction. Maldoror demonstrates keen understanding of the rise against oppression, and directs her social(ist) drama from the standpoint of a righteous poet, using local flavors of the music, and palpable textures of 16mm cinematography to set the atmosphere of freedom at hand, and portray the emotional landscape of a country and its people.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>7. Sebastiane (Derek Jarman & Paul Humfress, 1976)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiUVQYOD-BIKI3UbmcjXuYTaO3YytFj9y9zkjkBU4Qtc0kkMMj3G1cpes3d6Rrf5U5Nws_o6xYSvjUFx8eKapbkG2iiu3-74d0EH-i8zMdRAjQGd-aHwTuob0gMOQZpvfet4NuiJf4PT7upl_fSEF6UvmOWMMS_aHno2JPprqFuIzlTs49N94s-tC9FYE/s1000/07%20Sebastiane.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="563" data-original-width="1000" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiUVQYOD-BIKI3UbmcjXuYTaO3YytFj9y9zkjkBU4Qtc0kkMMj3G1cpes3d6Rrf5U5Nws_o6xYSvjUFx8eKapbkG2iiu3-74d0EH-i8zMdRAjQGd-aHwTuob0gMOQZpvfet4NuiJf4PT7upl_fSEF6UvmOWMMS_aHno2JPprqFuIzlTs49N94s-tC9FYE/w400-h225/07%20Sebastiane.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></b></div><br />One of the boldest and most provocative feature debuts, <i>‘Sebastiane’</i> revels in amping up homoeroticism that is obvious in most, if not all of classic art representations of St. Sebastian’s martyrdom; its soul residing within the ecstatic, liberating act of subversion. Opening with an extravagant scene of orgiastic celebration comparable to the likes of Bene, Russell and Fellini in its lurid, anachronistic stylization, the film takes an ascetic, naturalistic turn after creating a (glory) hole in the fourth wall, and comes across as a Pasolini’s wet dream. Imbued with deep devotion, this Latin-spoken apotheosis of male body and gay desire blurs the line between spirituality and soft-core pornography, emerging more consecrated than the great majority of cine-hagiographies.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><b>8. Kärlek 65 / Love 65 (Bo Widerberg, 1965)<br /></b></i><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2KYGrRD557cQyArfbzeNIuylY_DTCN4Ckce09DjAuyXN7DpqkQ0v_rKOijF07w9xeN_3oQyo0J6O7FW5qZycdb_A1Ef_gEbER8iz99mkBCdTGjVfH75E8ylq2DtaL0OMq6Y54KK0D_nAoMDJIammhGlJ6b9q-3ldhCTXrjwT8tSCZGmgcCGze9kq7ROo/s1000/08%20Karlek%2065.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="563" data-original-width="1000" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2KYGrRD557cQyArfbzeNIuylY_DTCN4Ckce09DjAuyXN7DpqkQ0v_rKOijF07w9xeN_3oQyo0J6O7FW5qZycdb_A1Ef_gEbER8iz99mkBCdTGjVfH75E8ylq2DtaL0OMq6Y54KK0D_nAoMDJIammhGlJ6b9q-3ldhCTXrjwT8tSCZGmgcCGze9kq7ROo/w400-h225/08%20Karlek%2065.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><div style="text-align: justify;">Godard meets Antonioni in a reserved drama that refuses to be Bergmanesque, giving off slight <i>‘8 ½’</i> vibes, and anticipating New Hollywood naturalism at certain points in the story of a film director suffering creative block and facing a marriage crisis. Most of the characters are named after the (superb!) cast, with a few kite-lifting scenes channeling their desire to break away from the hold of cinema, or is it reality they’re all trying to escape? </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div><br /></div><div>Thematizing love, lies and lust for life, Widerberg goes as far as to involve his own daughter Nina – one of the sweetest child actors ever captured on the big screen – to conjure up the mystery of his personal inner workings, and edits it into a fragmented self-portrait with proto-remodernist details. It may appear cold, but it is visually entrancing, with three cinematographers operating as one, and framing the (broken) state of things in starkly beautiful B&W.</div></div><p></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>9. Akame shijuya taki shinju misui / Akame 48 Waterfalls (Genjiro Arato, 2003)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNTd62R1Q_ssxDp-36P2bhy5zVit8VnQlCpYq3AMhTCyI0VJhUYjrRF9d2hD1dA2viaaP60vmbwDwRZ6jNePYhrdbyCrjl1JkJLDqyjxxAboeOQopfJEYjIuC4hluMbDApKi9FbfabsywoeSJqwWBZv35HM5fmmMb2knKvW_29cWn_WwO58f7hmmQgtPg/s1000/09%20Akame%2048%20Waterfalls.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="426" data-original-width="1000" height="170" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNTd62R1Q_ssxDp-36P2bhy5zVit8VnQlCpYq3AMhTCyI0VJhUYjrRF9d2hD1dA2viaaP60vmbwDwRZ6jNePYhrdbyCrjl1JkJLDqyjxxAboeOQopfJEYjIuC4hluMbDApKi9FbfabsywoeSJqwWBZv35HM5fmmMb2knKvW_29cWn_WwO58f7hmmQgtPg/w400-h170/09%20Akame%2048%20Waterfalls.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></b></div><br />Consistent in its hermeticism and almost otherworldly in its eccentricity, <i>‘Akame 48 Waterfalls’</i> felt like an arduous journey through a cinematic limbo towards a goal (enlightenment?) that can’t be put into words. It may be the cultural and spiritual differences, but this arthouse drama – the second of three features helmed by the producer of Seijun Suzuki’s <i>‘Taishō Trilogy’</i> – left me completely defenseless and mystified, stuck in a cognitive or rather, soul-searching haze...<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>10. Les félins / Joy House (René Clément, 1964)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBiEx4q6oI1ht6kbWll8IOwf-nIJdWbm7mVUXIE8JzI5Ze6YLK4ZE6Ur2uUs8zXHfqqVe8gAFrRbDyrgDWde5MJqeN2doYrcAOSlQPSbAtC4UuM_4Zd3KlHkc5Hnaqc_mxLx-vTnEj57VOaaxC7MaRz8VSuTSFiXUXOYz9eqJS5yvr7N-5-Zm0m12aNP8/s1000/10%20Les%20felins.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="563" data-original-width="1000" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBiEx4q6oI1ht6kbWll8IOwf-nIJdWbm7mVUXIE8JzI5Ze6YLK4ZE6Ur2uUs8zXHfqqVe8gAFrRbDyrgDWde5MJqeN2doYrcAOSlQPSbAtC4UuM_4Zd3KlHkc5Hnaqc_mxLx-vTnEj57VOaaxC7MaRz8VSuTSFiXUXOYz9eqJS5yvr7N-5-Zm0m12aNP8/w400-h225/10%20Les%20felins.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></b></div><br />Alain Delon, Lola Albright and Jane Fonda star in a pulpy thriller set in French riviera, with an old mansion built in Neo-Gothic style treated as a hub of fishy goings on, as well as a character in its own right. A petty gigolo on the run, a bereaved widow and her flirty young cousin get entangled in a love triangle without any actual love involved, each one of them driven by their own agendas. Not to be taken seriously, ‘Joy House’ is one of those tongue-in-cheek flicks that effortlessly bridge the gap between art and entertainment, and turn out to be a perfect viewing choice for a hot summer evening, seducing you with the great synergy of its attractive cast, groovy jazz score and slick B&W visuals. <br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>11. Et Dieu… créa la femme / ... And God Created Woman (Roger Vadim, 1956)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr3eb3_7ybtSUCHrQpQnmDCTx8Cp8XRbyj8S6LIq0Shvosd-I5IVUZXmtc3ZXOL45PZpk1ngavcYEGEU3yhEMCp-Wh_rFEQI-B2ahvTP927Fl0Q60ZZXpzQUH8L3lizGraW_aMEpZKCqD5Om5YUpFcXbWBRsgWpMKfpjpmGw-1SmQFgR1fvHpUjKDcATM/s1000/11%20...%20And%20God%20Created%20Woman.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="563" data-original-width="1000" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr3eb3_7ybtSUCHrQpQnmDCTx8Cp8XRbyj8S6LIq0Shvosd-I5IVUZXmtc3ZXOL45PZpk1ngavcYEGEU3yhEMCp-Wh_rFEQI-B2ahvTP927Fl0Q60ZZXpzQUH8L3lizGraW_aMEpZKCqD5Om5YUpFcXbWBRsgWpMKfpjpmGw-1SmQFgR1fvHpUjKDcATM/w400-h225/11%20...%20And%20God%20Created%20Woman.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></b></div><br />Sexual revolution starts a decade earlier in Roger Vadim’s radiant directorial debut – a breezy pre-New Wave drama – that makes it easy to imagine Brigitte Bardot as Liberty in some erotic, pop-art-esque re-imagination of Delacroix’s famous painting. She is the embodiment of seductiveness in the role of a free-spirited hussy, Juliete, with three Romeos played by Jean-Louis Trintignant, Christian Marquand and Curd Jürgens (all of them superb, yet under the influence of Ms. Bardot’s magnetism) vying for her affection. In a way, the film anticipates the camp glory of <i>‘Barbarella’</i>, finding perfect matches for its star’s sex appeal in St. Tropez summer setting – a fascinating character in its own right, as well as in Paul Misraki’s energizing score, and bold colors of Armand Thirard’s handsome cinematography. <br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>12. Golgo 13 (Jun’ya Satō, 1973)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQZeoYxUVbwJdiCAA8w_RzRY1p1XypwBKDmnEgxBnx_ONqNwXcJwxFASEgrkWitMeR2jKWAvCCa8-yvFurySBN_8xbmRbbw8ozTbfiWLSgPBC_Td5tZLCpxGzR_M0MZH_bd0EqCIxKH8QN09LHN9TFqaHnxItNkclSBKs4Iw7ulj9cvZxSWRLmWElC9NI/s1000/12%20Golgo%2013.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="418" data-original-width="1000" height="168" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQZeoYxUVbwJdiCAA8w_RzRY1p1XypwBKDmnEgxBnx_ONqNwXcJwxFASEgrkWitMeR2jKWAvCCa8-yvFurySBN_8xbmRbbw8ozTbfiWLSgPBC_Td5tZLCpxGzR_M0MZH_bd0EqCIxKH8QN09LHN9TFqaHnxItNkclSBKs4Iw7ulj9cvZxSWRLmWElC9NI/w400-h168/12%20Golgo%2013.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></b></div><br />Ken Takakura epitomizes sheer coolness as a mysterious and reticent assassin Golgo 13 in the eponymous 1973 Iranian-Japanese co-production that makes brilliant use of locations, from Tehran of the time to ancient ruins of Isfahan, suffering slight pacing issues...</div><p></p>Nikola Gocićhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10802422474421337350noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3195252471961511941.post-49759304284264548392023-06-09T10:19:00.000+02:002023-06-09T10:19:02.947+02:00A Selection of Recent Artworks (XVI)<p></p><div style="text-align: center;"> Some recent pieces of the extensive <i><a href="https://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.644022696180469&type=3">Bianco/Nero</a></i> series...<br /><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEicD5JMzHeXtgxPlPLPPG9KsN6vbMLJJRS8F7okJ3qCjHZQegKDK7rsKORd-Z9l2RKdKmgFKIxXE-U7Br9ta6uU4DSBBWJZuWet7I1pCJpGNPq4H-2TUwxO7ljrTMVdQiCIKBxMvEv4TeBUSpEkIwY5x36Fde0j6qlOUJucEPWVFAATXci_bdmutzv3" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="750" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEicD5JMzHeXtgxPlPLPPG9KsN6vbMLJJRS8F7okJ3qCjHZQegKDK7rsKORd-Z9l2RKdKmgFKIxXE-U7Br9ta6uU4DSBBWJZuWet7I1pCJpGNPq4H-2TUwxO7ljrTMVdQiCIKBxMvEv4TeBUSpEkIwY5x36Fde0j6qlOUJucEPWVFAATXci_bdmutzv3=w480-h640" width="480" /></a><br /><i>La Viscosità dello Spazio / Вискозност простора / The Viscosity of Space</i></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgArDFon-9tM02qJmX6JtrZejUn1aR1UwWW7eBZOiZZhoZaQwEvFt_9U5egdCvaGMLgsj-uT2n-UrqSyWOfhAZVKvwyPn8jR1us9eiE23zdKOCDSSARECnxXhyJrZ4lEJQr6ycqgUoJPkrY3kZQfZORQcWiJ2M3qem0_lWdNt5PQPAwrSMPvfnOfsVy" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="750" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgArDFon-9tM02qJmX6JtrZejUn1aR1UwWW7eBZOiZZhoZaQwEvFt_9U5egdCvaGMLgsj-uT2n-UrqSyWOfhAZVKvwyPn8jR1us9eiE23zdKOCDSSARECnxXhyJrZ4lEJQr6ycqgUoJPkrY3kZQfZORQcWiJ2M3qem0_lWdNt5PQPAwrSMPvfnOfsVy=w480-h640" width="480" /></a><br /><i>Adattamento della Disperazione / Адаптација очаја / Adaptation of Despair</i></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEidHQBJxErWzIjGdB5ufkh0WPHj1R716l8y7J_CgRS-0hQnDlsSpjqqwNEPG4wBfGVoByXusriuUhPc29BWWJh2CE4ne5ApQpbfmKzre9hEk4hFQia--01C0ivqZ8qJaBMApcYDpOXM3kwRS_tulDbvAARLWmUy7qmpnLLe6C29r_GPu6NygNA97Wvu" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="750" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEidHQBJxErWzIjGdB5ufkh0WPHj1R716l8y7J_CgRS-0hQnDlsSpjqqwNEPG4wBfGVoByXusriuUhPc29BWWJh2CE4ne5ApQpbfmKzre9hEk4hFQia--01C0ivqZ8qJaBMApcYDpOXM3kwRS_tulDbvAARLWmUy7qmpnLLe6C29r_GPu6NygNA97Wvu=w480-h640" width="480" /></a><br /><i>Una Chiamata dall'Altra Parte / Позив са друге стране / A Call from the Other Side</i></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhTJ3hCYiaqw1HGcyYqmonEdXHmGoTEp5bC3_1LvMlhIg-A0HHkIVimFXw5R5lZIyMkL0OZ9Q6kl5YtGaDH23nc9-BO4hA153ezeNWAR4lzGgTQg4wpT7B_IHVVzxFwcJ4Wp8_MXq2CePwckb6I5gxFu5xgKtG6dwQKdldsLFEbY5luAtMivm08gB5R" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="750" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhTJ3hCYiaqw1HGcyYqmonEdXHmGoTEp5bC3_1LvMlhIg-A0HHkIVimFXw5R5lZIyMkL0OZ9Q6kl5YtGaDH23nc9-BO4hA153ezeNWAR4lzGgTQg4wpT7B_IHVVzxFwcJ4Wp8_MXq2CePwckb6I5gxFu5xgKtG6dwQKdldsLFEbY5luAtMivm08gB5R=w480-h640" width="480" /></a><br /><i>Davanti al Meraviglioso Cuore del Nulla / Пред чудесним срцем Ништавила / Before the Wondrous Heart of Nothingness</i></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj2qqk4wMtIUQoLuY4AsweYtMNnRDWr1py2csy28rBtPdoGIMVquD6FbExcIkCyqg3PCCsQT_M3b0BS8nV8egqy3ARqXC5q1OyvTYOcgO48Wi_YAuLYj262I54NuOpcQWiVJF37WtENKIPm2UvyoxiK3OGjcAUXpwq4wKJTR5eUCVAiBqoznwEEaSDo" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="750" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj2qqk4wMtIUQoLuY4AsweYtMNnRDWr1py2csy28rBtPdoGIMVquD6FbExcIkCyqg3PCCsQT_M3b0BS8nV8egqy3ARqXC5q1OyvTYOcgO48Wi_YAuLYj262I54NuOpcQWiVJF37WtENKIPm2UvyoxiK3OGjcAUXpwq4wKJTR5eUCVAiBqoznwEEaSDo=w480-h640" width="480" /></a><br /><i>Alla Ricerca dell'Antidoto / У потрази за противотровом / In Search of the Antidote</i></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgsVSrRhmwWrvCR6vKd2aWKzSE3aMpsHVUfHsLejGPxe8y1vpXfKKo1FaCM53hEOSferOz-2SEJ29Sareum8W1WLTyZ9giN2ok1td2tffLEMWyzZQ3iR2sSeuNwCV_zGVRSR5OUlqFIZkFbIicSnDDVXKT7FY-PLBYRYlQG1aM-h7uiRXQW3jpQDqdf" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="750" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgsVSrRhmwWrvCR6vKd2aWKzSE3aMpsHVUfHsLejGPxe8y1vpXfKKo1FaCM53hEOSferOz-2SEJ29Sareum8W1WLTyZ9giN2ok1td2tffLEMWyzZQ3iR2sSeuNwCV_zGVRSR5OUlqFIZkFbIicSnDDVXKT7FY-PLBYRYlQG1aM-h7uiRXQW3jpQDqdf=w480-h640" width="480" /></a><br /><i>La Trasformazione Chiave / Кључни преображај / The Key Transformation</i></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgoNlm8UJKnhQFE4j531C4BQ4Uv-lXQko3ElkntyOM5k_lfzmq-LI6XH6UebtI2iiJxHqk-MWOQjs7klp40XPzOkizQAOOVHkwFPk1-YSv5h3EXCuPqme0Ce9rx8nvDRnG1vNqdKm5BHXLg7W3QqLjpDnuZIx6khjrW5dGhk-oFBalqvhV1AXEAfMJa" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="750" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgoNlm8UJKnhQFE4j531C4BQ4Uv-lXQko3ElkntyOM5k_lfzmq-LI6XH6UebtI2iiJxHqk-MWOQjs7klp40XPzOkizQAOOVHkwFPk1-YSv5h3EXCuPqme0Ce9rx8nvDRnG1vNqdKm5BHXLg7W3QqLjpDnuZIx6khjrW5dGhk-oFBalqvhV1AXEAfMJa=w480-h640" width="480" /></a><br /><i>La Protesta / Протест / The Protest</i></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhyW-eHMcwMydIx8ilYYPsy2ITzxEg6eW3BMXPkEKB_rllMRrYFqTocuyFyqEzTrKfWzkibIigdGO7GaN4jQrIPgKpLCmOPc1U7w3ozzP2cJOrVp4s-z4XL9xD6N8TYvapmOKg7YSL7mRfO5iLVL2K5AO01va1AKC5CEPiCfaIwM416a6gtKJK7Sqrz" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="750" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhyW-eHMcwMydIx8ilYYPsy2ITzxEg6eW3BMXPkEKB_rllMRrYFqTocuyFyqEzTrKfWzkibIigdGO7GaN4jQrIPgKpLCmOPc1U7w3ozzP2cJOrVp4s-z4XL9xD6N8TYvapmOKg7YSL7mRfO5iLVL2K5AO01va1AKC5CEPiCfaIwM416a6gtKJK7Sqrz=w480-h640" width="480" /></a><br /><i>Estate Sbagliata / Погрешно лето / Wrong Summer</i></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjsZuyOmvQML6e9Qoq0eF7IeTEs6B3u8xNINYNkNNS70iTuNC7EA_8sQkViec3URmtjSpzRpa80SwO0Y2OqkRgI8Q8xiyvyRsC60LDMNl8plpb7-w1ECeSWL40FbgnOIjzW3X8MYijtd8fZSmh_G8k17R6L95CiUlwOGw3I81n_456a2oTey9zvisZe" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="750" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjsZuyOmvQML6e9Qoq0eF7IeTEs6B3u8xNINYNkNNS70iTuNC7EA_8sQkViec3URmtjSpzRpa80SwO0Y2OqkRgI8Q8xiyvyRsC60LDMNl8plpb7-w1ECeSWL40FbgnOIjzW3X8MYijtd8fZSmh_G8k17R6L95CiUlwOGw3I81n_456a2oTey9zvisZe=w480-h640" width="480" /></a><br /><i>Ostacoli / Препреке / Obstacles</i></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEilIBmRQSPcP9Ngi7KYezIpXy93lOVGRlBGpjeojaF2SS50GykplOXUqrAcF-JNZSjxGdxuzX05D_0h8DKfFtjGSSrZCPPSJPZeo82O8YeRzGfSaKAywAso40eAJ2vd3_suLFsf94S4bV6SCs35SZrzHP4SL52QrdcoWL-H1h_NgDnXChwFq6dDYFfA" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="750" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEilIBmRQSPcP9Ngi7KYezIpXy93lOVGRlBGpjeojaF2SS50GykplOXUqrAcF-JNZSjxGdxuzX05D_0h8DKfFtjGSSrZCPPSJPZeo82O8YeRzGfSaKAywAso40eAJ2vd3_suLFsf94S4bV6SCs35SZrzHP4SL52QrdcoWL-H1h_NgDnXChwFq6dDYFfA=w480-h640" width="480" /></a><br /><i>Come un Sorriso / Као осмех / Like a Smile</i></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgjdPUkH42MKFjm0fZP8d_5DWN9q44n0w_fTepRCnfimw9-Ht2cFvm1TR5EyZI597N9FsVnw9_ST5egf5J9ht4jiH9DbpGKIwptZAq9MObV3Xy6TbO4brb74pwTxlhtVog-3Zj35Ure2Y5-tWkZ4yEiLNdBejnUQyZJ1Bg_iv7pc1VrVk2FPqfFVrrZ" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="750" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgjdPUkH42MKFjm0fZP8d_5DWN9q44n0w_fTepRCnfimw9-Ht2cFvm1TR5EyZI597N9FsVnw9_ST5egf5J9ht4jiH9DbpGKIwptZAq9MObV3Xy6TbO4brb74pwTxlhtVog-3Zj35Ure2Y5-tWkZ4yEiLNdBejnUQyZJ1Bg_iv7pc1VrVk2FPqfFVrrZ=w480-h640" width="480" /></a><br /><i>La Libertà 3.2 / Слобода 3.2 / Liberty 3.2</i></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEilXmbx0dZ7tzHM9pw0nOopa2OaJ1J0wB0gO50ra7dvyIj79qTIYwfyA995f8J1P7CyEe0uDjdmCH0jb3tFRUBd0HVFdKXBdzXTlB2QAqLHJkMzaYCPsnFeT-6PJslbOLWs6bDELxQx25tcTLSBhIaCRU5tejrSzhrzf_c4lGVJFYH-uhqzfx69OZHI" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="750" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEilXmbx0dZ7tzHM9pw0nOopa2OaJ1J0wB0gO50ra7dvyIj79qTIYwfyA995f8J1P7CyEe0uDjdmCH0jb3tFRUBd0HVFdKXBdzXTlB2QAqLHJkMzaYCPsnFeT-6PJslbOLWs6bDELxQx25tcTLSBhIaCRU5tejrSzhrzf_c4lGVJFYH-uhqzfx69OZHI=w480-h640" width="480" /></a><br /><i>Estrema Vulnerabilità / Екстремна рањивост / Extreme Vulnerability</i></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjAHfYh1Fn7vYEWVwhrgC8unaNPlRTcTW8hk4542iMkE4Bud7d77vtAo-_IX8kOXxe8JzxzAHFf7V1RsSboT1uPmHmIseKWnsku1HcH4qn0WPHZ_jMMkSUdBF78R5YyVQfS5R9I_cmiubnslfFOn9LaW2wCx-ywEobus1PMzGVPX50OdfvPtEjaB78d" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="750" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjAHfYh1Fn7vYEWVwhrgC8unaNPlRTcTW8hk4542iMkE4Bud7d77vtAo-_IX8kOXxe8JzxzAHFf7V1RsSboT1uPmHmIseKWnsku1HcH4qn0WPHZ_jMMkSUdBF78R5YyVQfS5R9I_cmiubnslfFOn9LaW2wCx-ywEobus1PMzGVPX50OdfvPtEjaB78d=w480-h640" width="480" /></a><br /><i>Paralleli / Паралеле / Parallels</i></div><p></p>Nikola Gocićhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10802422474421337350noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3195252471961511941.post-17934329910371520432023-06-01T10:56:00.002+02:002023-06-01T11:03:51.400+02:00Best Premiere Viewings of May 2023<p style="text-align: justify;"></p><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>1. La Notte / The Night (Michelangelo Antonioni, 1961)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyxllPrYCEEafIRItAfkErrM0Evo150rUjKoiN7mwft33mMp3NLLh-Bemp7ZwBtVzkQ6pkiD9LN-wVRJrEh8dVSbGedmWVFRsdk9zSK-CBdLeNyf9BmssV6_6RjfHtyLJrhPdbc0dt7C-qiuGxhBq-X-YqDgjnXRUqMYHuJjJ1ZNSxs5xdZCM50EsW/s800/01%20La%20Notte.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="431" data-original-width="800" height="215" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyxllPrYCEEafIRItAfkErrM0Evo150rUjKoiN7mwft33mMp3NLLh-Bemp7ZwBtVzkQ6pkiD9LN-wVRJrEh8dVSbGedmWVFRsdk9zSK-CBdLeNyf9BmssV6_6RjfHtyLJrhPdbc0dt7C-qiuGxhBq-X-YqDgjnXRUqMYHuJjJ1ZNSxs5xdZCM50EsW/w400-h215/01%20La%20Notte.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></b></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">Unlike a writer protagonist of <i>‘The Night’</i>, I still have both inspiration and memories (or at least, I think that I do), and yet, I could relate to his (fleeting? somnambulist?) state of mind, as well as to despair felt by his wife. In fact, I found myself being one with the film and the dense aura of melancholy that permeates it, as if having both lucid and elusive dream in which everything appears more palpable and labyrinthine than reality. It’s quite a challenge to find the right words to describe the experience of watching it, but I will give it a try by saying that I was aware of the spirit of cinema’s presence in the room, holding me in its firm embrace... Or maybe that was ‘only’ the grand, dignified, overwhelming beauty of blocking, lighting, framing and jazz vibes in perfect sync with my inner workings? </div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>2. Suzume no Tojimari / Suzume (Makoto Shinkai, 2022)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim2paipzuguXcrQBogfEZSVEyr_78Vgsx-xdTBzrS9PIvxPB8cIXXnXEV7N55Z4th5s-q_y_FFgfZiYWp3RRI_6y5Ptn3H2jW7IAhxoYpyQlTMVDWUPqnWUyFg90tIdvVmiOrzd2o2-CAmsVpcNcN1ewEoUoCWYVb7X-I_4uGzExAGIyRUp1O5II0r/s800/02%20Suzume.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="335" data-original-width="800" height="168" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim2paipzuguXcrQBogfEZSVEyr_78Vgsx-xdTBzrS9PIvxPB8cIXXnXEV7N55Z4th5s-q_y_FFgfZiYWp3RRI_6y5Ptn3H2jW7IAhxoYpyQlTMVDWUPqnWUyFg90tIdvVmiOrzd2o2-CAmsVpcNcN1ewEoUoCWYVb7X-I_4uGzExAGIyRUp1O5II0r/w400-h168/02%20Suzume.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></b></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">Growing along with its young heroine, the latest offering from Makoto Shinkai – a household name in the world of japanimation – portrays grieving process and nostalgia for the faithful departed in an equally poignant and clever fashion, with a quirky sense of humor keeping sentimentality at bay. Oh, and the animation is positively dazzling!</div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>3. Moment to Moment (Mervyn LeRoy, 1966)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6O5GtonJKZepeG52-Mu35H90AH6KyPhhijV6BB0NtLZ-w9rc4HCZPKtNsL3dKTckq1SQqBkrd1eVExfNsKNg1STEQKdS2q3lbYHlq1AAk7XuEkTVhQT1hNOJ0SsKn0sr09SZMvvUPf60Bzhw_SdJimQbo4wd08owpl9eARZ2n9tQO6Gsl9za7PCuy/s800/03%20Moment%20to%20Moment.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="433" data-original-width="800" height="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6O5GtonJKZepeG52-Mu35H90AH6KyPhhijV6BB0NtLZ-w9rc4HCZPKtNsL3dKTckq1SQqBkrd1eVExfNsKNg1STEQKdS2q3lbYHlq1AAk7XuEkTVhQT1hNOJ0SsKn0sr09SZMvvUPf60Bzhw_SdJimQbo4wd08owpl9eARZ2n9tQO6Gsl9za7PCuy/w400-h216/03%20Moment%20to%20Moment.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></b></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">The uplifting spirit of the French Riviera in the 60’s couldn’t be more inviting in Mervin LeRoy’s final film – a stark blend of heightened romantic melodrama and somewhat farcical Hitchcockian thriller – that sees Jean Seberg and Sean Garrison as an adulterous wife, Kay, and young navy officer, Mark, falling for each other while touring around Nice. Yes, it is all but a cinematic illusion, as glaringly obvious rear projections often remind us, but what an utterly magical illusion it is! Brimming with earthy, at times bright colors, tactile textures and even immersive scents carried on the soft wings of Henry Mancini’s suave, tender score, it makes you wish it were possible to travel back to the period and attempt to re-create those very same moments. Not even the gusts of mistral can spoil the mood! Seberg is nothing short of radiant in her take on desirous Kay, with elegant YSL’s costumes accentuating her natural magnetism, and Garrison’s distinctive baritone adds volumes to his charm, whether he’s speaking smoothly or bursting with a hurt lover’s pride. Stealing a few scenes in supporting roles are Honor Blackman as Kay’s hedonist neighbor, Daphne, and Grégoire Aslan as a sarcastic inspector, DeFargo. LeRoy’s strong sense of artifice is beautifully matched to Harry Stradling’s taut framing.</div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>4. A zsarnok szíve, avagy Boccaccio Magyarországon /<br />The Tyrant’s Heart, or Boccaccio in Hungary (Miklós Jancsó, 1981)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrLbKO-UWF0RrSvYN_L-7p3gf2xUtblGIArTd9oMwSbifTSwC-Uh1Eqyrpr0uylIBWbZOy9UH7t8UauvjR5Bpubxs7tcbl2LYiZKlcfgZFBsREHCBmBO0O9sREvV9cG-DKKOA1lerRa8zJ8pscfZjkolAyP8c9Q01HchwIVLcIGbQfewtALECc_RPf/s800/04%20The%20Tyrant's%20Heart.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="433" data-original-width="800" height="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrLbKO-UWF0RrSvYN_L-7p3gf2xUtblGIArTd9oMwSbifTSwC-Uh1Eqyrpr0uylIBWbZOy9UH7t8UauvjR5Bpubxs7tcbl2LYiZKlcfgZFBsREHCBmBO0O9sREvV9cG-DKKOA1lerRa8zJ8pscfZjkolAyP8c9Q01HchwIVLcIGbQfewtALECc_RPf/w400-h216/04%20The%20Tyrant's%20Heart.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></b></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">The most stagey (and in a way, claustrophobic) of Jancsó’s productions, <i>‘The Tyrant’s Heart’</i> channels the spirit of Pasolini through Ninetto Davoli’s presence (and naked extras), as well as of Shakespeare, by way of a Hamlet-esque story that sees a young prince involved in the games of power struggle, in 1400’s Hungary. Of course, both the camera and actors’ movements are smoothly and symbiotically choreographed, while being captured in mesmerizing long takes of predominantly earthy colors, with splashes of red in costume design as ‘treachery markers’. Virtually no one is to be trusted, especially when the back-stabbing reaches surreal heights, and the fourth wall gets rammed through, emphasizing the metafilmic nature of the whole proceedings.</div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>5. We Can’t Go Home Again (Nicholas Ray, 1973)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilbOFZxPMQXGY3VMy24a3ys5ufdp0xJszkZXw8I4_aIb6dVrp_30_ssOH_Py7H_tItmeEp7ENYdGsEIzsv7RpaVQWQcoGrSg6Uz7HfJD8yf2boQUDIP5d-uy41iqJk38-rdortiGrOYtcP-WphPXjtTOhtX40PElCSs3j_UGMsDS22VGcDLIJjuPdS/s800/05%20We%20Can%E2%80%99t%20Go%20Home%20Again.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="604" data-original-width="800" height="303" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilbOFZxPMQXGY3VMy24a3ys5ufdp0xJszkZXw8I4_aIb6dVrp_30_ssOH_Py7H_tItmeEp7ENYdGsEIzsv7RpaVQWQcoGrSg6Uz7HfJD8yf2boQUDIP5d-uy41iqJk38-rdortiGrOYtcP-WphPXjtTOhtX40PElCSs3j_UGMsDS22VGcDLIJjuPdS/w400-h303/05%20We%20Can%E2%80%99t%20Go%20Home%20Again.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></b></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">Nicholas Ray and his students form some sort of a filmmaking commune that anticipates the collaborative dynamics of <a href="http://www.experimentalfilmsociety.com/">Experimental Film Society</a>, with their combined efforts operating as a spiritual predecessor to <a href="http://rouzbehrashidi.com/">Rouzbeh Rashidi</a>’s <i>‘Luminous Void: Docudrama’</i>, and certain installments of his <i>‘Homo Sapiens Project’</i>. Way ahead of its time, <i>‘We Can’t Go Home Again’</i> is simultaneously a film and its very absence, emerging from nothingness of chaotic reality and dissipating into the intrinsic (non or omni?) verity of moving images through the anti-illusory confirmation of illusion. As baffling as it sounds, this boldly non-conformist piece of experimental cinema is rebellious with a good cause, resisting continuity as much as the boundaries of the frame, while reframing the personal into the political and vice-versa. Inspired in its anarchism or rather, trip-inducing non-sequiturs that make brilliant use of various shooting formats and a video synthesizer, it tends to put the viewer’s patience to the test, but in return, it provides you with a poignant sense of liberation.</div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>6. The Last Picture Show (Peter Bogdanovich, 1971)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ4j7STBjwWlQLbbzG3VFJW6WaaDxFP6VVLx7DMXkhLP6X8l79Nx6S8MS5HoxKnmQBEcLsG1Ul5yW0FvL7OdHz8Gk4ewSOm-H_C2bINUQToqXHowgWM1QvjUevCJCi030vBA212Ha5FhSkzAYzUYw8TRl3tqs9hJlSOjEMlrib5PmwW4HqVV3HEamu/s800/06%20The%20Last%20Picture%20Show.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="433" data-original-width="800" height="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ4j7STBjwWlQLbbzG3VFJW6WaaDxFP6VVLx7DMXkhLP6X8l79Nx6S8MS5HoxKnmQBEcLsG1Ul5yW0FvL7OdHz8Gk4ewSOm-H_C2bINUQToqXHowgWM1QvjUevCJCi030vBA212Ha5FhSkzAYzUYw8TRl3tqs9hJlSOjEMlrib5PmwW4HqVV3HEamu/w400-h216/06%20The%20Last%20Picture%20Show.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></b></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">There are films that feel like emotional rollercoasters, and then, there are films that come across as cinematic equivalents of long, pensive walks during a gray, lonely autumnal day, with the simplest of sights suddenly revealing its otherwise unnoticeable beauty. <i>‘The Last Picture Show’</i> is one of the latter kind – synonymous with bittersweetness that accompanies the coming of age; often melancholic or plain sorrowful without ever turning pathetic. And it’s absolutely captivating to look at, whether its black and white pictures move to the vinyl sounds, or grab your attention in complete silence, all the while setting the atmosphere of seemingly endless longing, as well as capturing the ‘charms’ of a small town in 50’s Texas...</div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>7. AmnesiA (Martin Koolhoven, 2001)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu9iw_yvpfQaY-pzjsXkR0qRNxX7ZTe9zuLV_BACP-KcPNq-rjgPr1p8VrCYMpcGeLgNTrBWJugIAkx7WsglKYxBLxNiSN_EiO_J6HSjIXOy5WgoiTzUihLn8GhZPGIm-MLIqCgF0KY2TSWzo6jA5K0qjuJGzlohPtCP-VO92Gufr50miICXcUQ2Oh/s800/07%20AmnesiA.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="800" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu9iw_yvpfQaY-pzjsXkR0qRNxX7ZTe9zuLV_BACP-KcPNq-rjgPr1p8VrCYMpcGeLgNTrBWJugIAkx7WsglKYxBLxNiSN_EiO_J6HSjIXOy5WgoiTzUihLn8GhZPGIm-MLIqCgF0KY2TSWzo6jA5K0qjuJGzlohPtCP-VO92Gufr50miICXcUQ2Oh/w400-h240/07%20AmnesiA.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></b></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">Fedja van Huêt (whose 20-year older version you probably didn’t forget, if you watched last year’s chiller <i>Speak No Evil</i>) assuredly takes on a dual role of twin brothers Alex and Aram in an idiosyncratic, slow-burning psychological drama that often betrays the influence of David Lynch at his most humorously absurd. Imbued with mystery presumably embodied by Carice van Houten (utterly magnetic as a sad-faced, out-of-nowhere girlfriend, Sandra), and giving off distorted neo-noir vibes, <i>‘AmnesiA’</i> goes from slightly off-the-wall to super-weird in its reflection on sibling rivalry, and inability to cope with a shared childhood trauma. Farcically surreal and syntactically twisted, the film is partly anchored in a bold color-and-texture palette of Floris Vos’s remarkable production design beautifully captured by Menno Westendorp’s camera, and turned into protagonists’ bewildering mindscape through the brooding drones of Fons Merkies. The immersively uncanny mood is anticipated by the very first shot – an imposing darkroom close-up of Alex, with a barely audible humming intensifying fiery reds.</div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>8. Looking for Langston (Isaac Julien, 1989)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm15LGwdCXgsfi_3ZJVkf3XarF7tiPmIAW3WMC7F8M0H6r78KNmaw0tBDFLEXQoyWcz1-kTmGybzFRBwon5K3UjKD1ci4vwlGW23lOJY3B8MmfNoHilHW08bOE27FAyZZv_30xW3sLwbsNaeQqeLZgjKgu5dkO_iiD2curYrKk6nTdQzWeZDtuapnB/s800/08%20Looking%20for%20Langston.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="800" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm15LGwdCXgsfi_3ZJVkf3XarF7tiPmIAW3WMC7F8M0H6r78KNmaw0tBDFLEXQoyWcz1-kTmGybzFRBwon5K3UjKD1ci4vwlGW23lOJY3B8MmfNoHilHW08bOE27FAyZZv_30xW3sLwbsNaeQqeLZgjKgu5dkO_iiD2curYrKk6nTdQzWeZDtuapnB/w400-h225/08%20Looking%20for%20Langston.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div></b></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Oppression</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>by Langston Hughes</i></div><p></p><p style="text-align: justify;"></p><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Now dreams</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Are not available</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>To the dreamers,</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Nor songs</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>To the singers.</i></div><p></p><p style="text-align: justify;"></p><div style="text-align: center;"><i>In some lands</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Dark night</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>And cold steel</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Prevail</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>But the dream</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Will come back,</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>And the song</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Break</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Its jail.</i></div><p></p><p style="text-align: justify;">Neither a documentary, nor a biopic, <i>‘Looking for Langston’</i> is a <i>‘meditation on Langston Hughes (1902-1967) and the Harlem Rennaisance’</i>, as clearly noted in one of the opening title-cards. Set to the verses from poems of Langston’s contemporaries Bruce Nugent (1906-1987) and James Baldwin (1924-1987), as well as of gay activist Essex Hemphill (1957-1995), this medium-length film amalgamates (to great effect!) archive footage, Robert Mapplethorpe’s photographs and dreamlike vignettes that pull focus on the poet’s closeted homosexuality. Smoky B&W visuals gently draped in soulful jazz notes with an anachronistic ‘house twist’ in the epilogue, beautifully capture the elegance of a posh nightclub, the subtle eroticism of bedroom scenes, and the mysterious allure of the night. Like the most skillful of sculptors, director/writer Isaac Julien and cinematographer Nina Kellgren seek for the hidden (lyrical?) qualities of the male faces and bodies, finding their truth in 16mm grain and expressive lighting. </p><p style="text-align: justify;"></p><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>9. Flic Story (Jacques Deray, 1975)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaYy_yiFlY6e4SSVNDCion5JfuE_FahEY-AeKXIF57oUs1DqamQliPVPuwtHUKcg7warMwaWTrD2G5ZrTeLBT9iQWifrfZz_ODkWR2WIznM_ohqKrCCLOrNOay-DkQ1kM24GseBd-kC6KqhE1klissAxFIs8JawzmKORV5OcAbr0E342zTepojoEXQ/s800/09%20Flic%20Story.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="482" data-original-width="800" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaYy_yiFlY6e4SSVNDCion5JfuE_FahEY-AeKXIF57oUs1DqamQliPVPuwtHUKcg7warMwaWTrD2G5ZrTeLBT9iQWifrfZz_ODkWR2WIznM_ohqKrCCLOrNOay-DkQ1kM24GseBd-kC6KqhE1klissAxFIs8JawzmKORV5OcAbr0E342zTepojoEXQ/w400-h241/09%20Flic%20Story.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></b></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">There’s a cool sense of effortlessness pervading the entirety of Jacques Deray’s cop vs. gangster flick, from Delon and Trintignant’s tone-perfect performances to Théobald Meurisse’s austerely stylized production design that revives the post-WWII period in all the shades of autumnal gloom. Based on a real-life case as chronicled in the autobiography of police detective Roger Borniche, <i>‘Flic Story’</i> elevates the simplicity of its neo-noir-ish narrative by virtue of combined technical prowess and aesthetic elegance.</div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>10. Hanka (Slavko Vorkapić, 1955)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI_apI8uvngv8oRPWl09tXjW8W0wb8c2B4wWhTOKfX7tvS1nvxYSKNdi2aPVKW3crtCI3yrxF89p7PNrFBPQ1Sl_9ltugT8RtVg3kq6iub9z0XLuOxX73YUfXAPXIl9nJ57nY9Ts4Vb1nHPEguCN3ihXB2nh-uQposcoe3Dy5V3Db7P8MhU5ET6kmx/s800/10%20Hanka.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="800" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI_apI8uvngv8oRPWl09tXjW8W0wb8c2B4wWhTOKfX7tvS1nvxYSKNdi2aPVKW3crtCI3yrxF89p7PNrFBPQ1Sl_9ltugT8RtVg3kq6iub9z0XLuOxX73YUfXAPXIl9nJ57nY9Ts4Vb1nHPEguCN3ihXB2nh-uQposcoe3Dy5V3Db7P8MhU5ET6kmx/w400-h225/10%20Hanka.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></b></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">Vera Gregović is absolutely ravishing in the titular role of the final offering from Slavko Vorkapić who’s widely recognized for <i>‘The Furies’</i> intro of 1934 flick <i>‘Crime Without Passion’</i>. Imbuing her character with keen fervor of a non-professional, she portrays a proud, desirable young woman in a tragic story of love, hate and revenge among the Romani people in Bosnia under Austro-Hungarian rule. Based on true events chronicled by writer Isak Samokovlija, <i>‘Hanka’</i> often comes across as a cinematic equivalent of ‘sevdalinka’ that bridges the gap between the authentic local flavors and classic Hollywood-esque glamour, with superb Jovan Milićević (as a charcoal maker, Sejdo) standing for an archetypal macho (anti)hero, and Mira Stupica stealing a few scenes as a femme fatale, Ajkuna. The film’s undeniable charm owes a lot to handsome B&W cinematography by Milenko Stojanović (who debuted on the cult fantasy <i>‘The Magic Sword’</i> from 1950), as well as to unobtrusively melodramatic score by Ilija Marinković.</div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><i><b>11. Dungeons & Dragons: Honor Among Thieves (John Francis Daley & Jonathan Goldstein, 2023)<br /><br /></b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN4FrpRQ44I-Bhd9a-HVVmYb_Cy3Wih48RyXCVXLfUFTJ_hug-5oIcvHQklSc_g2djJqw7p6a2WO5JNrdp5hDM1cSuj5xTCKghSVUKNBFif-Vj89zm5L_BbkM_IV3DxHQdYhzzer3t9dtliTeOdUmEyztNmlxyb2Pk7VmyuI394Q0STiJuZxkIyKBD/s800/11%20Dungeons%20&%20Dragons%20-%20Honor%20Among%20Thieves.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="333" data-original-width="800" height="166" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN4FrpRQ44I-Bhd9a-HVVmYb_Cy3Wih48RyXCVXLfUFTJ_hug-5oIcvHQklSc_g2djJqw7p6a2WO5JNrdp5hDM1cSuj5xTCKghSVUKNBFif-Vj89zm5L_BbkM_IV3DxHQdYhzzer3t9dtliTeOdUmEyztNmlxyb2Pk7VmyuI394Q0STiJuZxkIyKBD/w400-h166/11%20Dungeons%20&%20Dragons%20-%20Honor%20Among%20Thieves.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></i></div><i><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>(read my short review <a href="http://ngbooart.blogspot.com/2023/05/dungeons-dragons-honor-among-thieves.html"><b>HERE</b></a>)</i></div></i><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>12. Kenpei to yūrei / Ghost in the Regiment (Nobuo Nakagawa, 1958)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQVhPWEQ3m-RWjjDpFMIKnJHJf0on5O2feBXW0p5mbfDbnWMcubKxLRKtvWkVmuHu1lRE6mS7KhKUnOKyk5r-gCABQyMXATP3yThwfRaWQNfG5pU9IuWavkObTLI6OVLqIZVTbIvw0-K5H-lBUToY_y2dur1igRblTRwxWmEvSBp5sjAtHstmpnpVd/s800/12%20Kenpei%20to%20y%C5%ABrei.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="328" data-original-width="800" height="164" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQVhPWEQ3m-RWjjDpFMIKnJHJf0on5O2feBXW0p5mbfDbnWMcubKxLRKtvWkVmuHu1lRE6mS7KhKUnOKyk5r-gCABQyMXATP3yThwfRaWQNfG5pU9IuWavkObTLI6OVLqIZVTbIvw0-K5H-lBUToY_y2dur1igRblTRwxWmEvSBp5sjAtHstmpnpVd/w400-h164/12%20Kenpei%20to%20y%C5%ABrei.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></b></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">Guilty conscience of the main antagonist, Lieutenant Namishima (portrayed with a serpentine malignity by Shigeru Amachi), manifests itself through some disturbing visions, though labeling the film as horror seems a bit far-fetched to me. A better way to categorize it would be a blend of psychological drama and spy-noir set during the WWII, and subtly imbued with the elements of the aforementioned genre. A stark examination of human evil, <i>‘Ghost in the Regiment’</i> anticipates Nakagawa’s 1960 cult classic <i>‘Jigoku’</i> (<i>Sinners of Hell</i>), and finds its anchor in Tadashi Nishimoto’s highly expressive cinematography, illustrating the brilliant use of lighting/shadows and diverse camera angles.</div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>13. Goto, l'île d'amour / Goto, the Island of Love (Walerian Borowczyk, 1969)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPkn4qzniw0PM45ZnWJyvfbtSXPTxRv1XJp9hNjq5BxKVTBTCKp5HXATxpLxbP-KAi8JyH5s9xhGMItcz_u3k6F116neYMmfxCC8xREqczS_0k5wi3ao_E9cMXmpuCHtjyHSN5D7cz9FXPGpiZG887nQKT71PZE651X1QKqAcTpDtEmT8_ddJQ7unF/s800/13%20Goto,%20l'%C3%AEle%20d'amour.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="534" data-original-width="800" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPkn4qzniw0PM45ZnWJyvfbtSXPTxRv1XJp9hNjq5BxKVTBTCKp5HXATxpLxbP-KAi8JyH5s9xhGMItcz_u3k6F116neYMmfxCC8xREqczS_0k5wi3ao_E9cMXmpuCHtjyHSN5D7cz9FXPGpiZG887nQKT71PZE651X1QKqAcTpDtEmT8_ddJQ7unF/w400-h268/13%20Goto,%20l'%C3%AEle%20d'amour.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></b></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">On Goto, everyone’s name starts with ‘G’, only the history of the island itself is taught in schools, and even the pettiest of crimes are punishable by death. But, there’s a catch – the convicts engage in public duels the winners of which are pardoned by the queen. One such lucky bastard is a cunning simpleton thief, Grozo, who falls for the despotic ruler’s beautiful wife, and decides to rise up the ranks by the dirtiest of means, in order to eventually conquer her. (Something like this is actually possible, and often encouraged in a certain Banana Republic.) His story – one of politico-allegorical qualities, and peppered with absurd ideas along the lines of Jarry’s <i>‘Ubu Roi’</i> and Kafka – is easy, yet unpleasant to follow, with steely grays of meticulously framed visuals emphasizing the desperation that keeps the reactionary society of Goto in shackles. There’s no escape which the queen Glossia – in an adulterous love affair with lieutenant and riding instructor Gono – will learn the hardest of ways, and the sense of perennial imprisonment is conveyed through the set designs depicting the advanced state of decrepitude. Borowczyk’s past in the world of animation is reflected in many scenes arranged as two-dimensional drawings, with actors moving almost like cut-outs, thus enhancing the surreal artifice of this bizarre, idiosyncratic feature debut.</div><div style="text-align: right;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>14. É Noite na América / It Is Night in America (Ana Vaz, 2022)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiEmorW_yg-wxPA1BQTwGpL-6fBEH4k7N40Vuo8yCDRSOgfmQJyuaBqYhTD9576uuBp26bIeQgqGuaVy5rlBmxQOiL5cmQws_bZcBqlvHr5f7pSPp-FtIGR-CAUsxdsvsAIzdNEppu_zZ4Ie3rQF-zzHtubrus30MGCxJ4OItlq_qtaOE3TimOKXAq/s800/14%20%C3%89%20Noite%20na%20Am%C3%A9rica.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="453" data-original-width="800" height="226" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiEmorW_yg-wxPA1BQTwGpL-6fBEH4k7N40Vuo8yCDRSOgfmQJyuaBqYhTD9576uuBp26bIeQgqGuaVy5rlBmxQOiL5cmQws_bZcBqlvHr5f7pSPp-FtIGR-CAUsxdsvsAIzdNEppu_zZ4Ie3rQF-zzHtubrus30MGCxJ4OItlq_qtaOE3TimOKXAq/w400-h226/14%20%C3%89%20Noite%20na%20Am%C3%A9rica.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></b></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">I’ve never labeled any film as depressingly soothing, but there’s a first time for everything, as the saying goes. And Ana Vaz’s inconspicuous feature debut feels that way. A peculiar mélange of slow-burning tone poem and eco-documentary that favors animal over human perspective, <i>‘It Is Night in America’</i> captures the muffled cry of nature on expired 16mm dipped in brooding drones, ominous groans and elegiac brass arrangements. As the camera lingers over beasts on the verge of extinction, it is impossible to remain indifferent to the sadness reflected in their eyes, with an ever-expanding metropolis dissolving hope by means of its cold lights. There’s an ominous, almost pre-apocalyptic vibe to the whole proceedings that turns the viewing experience discomforting, a welcome relief arriving in the ethereal waterfall epilogue that evokes the opening of Scott Barley’s highly acclaimed mood piece <i>‘Sleep Has Her House’</i>.</div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>15. Renfield (Chris MacKay, 2023)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1hHjD6bpFMRj4sDhf9CSUYPBCrdfZFKqZSsraigm1IYLEYJ4F7NRQEgLUI-R4vRX8hIlt1qPHKJGdvduAvLjg4t3DoE7jCojZXZV3t0g6r6kfTEJljvQUwwTxJkVguhnfr-kt3ZH9qPuuHe0wZ77f12XDc8FIEkP8RvzKECcOFvIybPmCG7XUej68/s800/15%20Renfield.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="333" data-original-width="800" height="166" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1hHjD6bpFMRj4sDhf9CSUYPBCrdfZFKqZSsraigm1IYLEYJ4F7NRQEgLUI-R4vRX8hIlt1qPHKJGdvduAvLjg4t3DoE7jCojZXZV3t0g6r6kfTEJljvQUwwTxJkVguhnfr-kt3ZH9qPuuHe0wZ77f12XDc8FIEkP8RvzKECcOFvIybPmCG7XUej68/w400-h166/15%20Renfield.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></b></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">A strong contender for the pulpiest (and funniest) film of the year, <i>‘Renfield’</i> sees co-writers of <i>‘Invincible’</i> animated series deconstructing the Dracula myth from his familiar’s perspective, and filtered through the superhero prism, all the while mocking at the new age psychotherapy. Their comedic timing is on point, and MacKay’s direction is briskly paced, supported by a dazzlingly colorful production design that underscores the cartoonishness of splatter violence. (I could swear someone from the team is a huge Mortal Kombat fan.) There’s a sparkling chemistry between the whole cast, particularly when it comes to the powerhouse leading duo of Nic(h)olases and seriously awkward Awkwafina, with Cage chewing or rather, sucking just enough of the scenery without choking on a caricature. Enhancing the film’s gonzo vibes are some weird picks for the soundtrack, as well as a loving homage paid to classic Dracula flicks. </div><p></p>Nikola Gocićhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10802422474421337350noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3195252471961511941.post-26466048015728795202023-05-14T20:45:00.004+02:002023-05-14T20:45:34.738+02:00Dungeons & Dragons: Honor Among Thieves (John Francis Daley & Jonathan Goldstein, 2023)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi6whepRUXAzOhue5NdbesS5JuaZVqiKAoVjogRj_oUgxt4Hg9pYegN41V5snzy4LWLfgpZsFHz62DcpyjLKssZCrvZA9dg5VpxKfFOeQQLvoRb0qvwiWf8-Q4xlc5RpNqLaPwelOkjXd93TJBCQp41MN3lcDQA1Dogvp5Zprsdv534hqRqM5PJsSG/s2400/D&D1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="2400" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi6whepRUXAzOhue5NdbesS5JuaZVqiKAoVjogRj_oUgxt4Hg9pYegN41V5snzy4LWLfgpZsFHz62DcpyjLKssZCrvZA9dg5VpxKfFOeQQLvoRb0qvwiWf8-Q4xlc5RpNqLaPwelOkjXd93TJBCQp41MN3lcDQA1Dogvp5Zprsdv534hqRqM5PJsSG/w640-h266/D&D1.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p style="text-align: justify;">I’ve been feeling extremely down lately, and then, this film came along and just like that, it shone a ray of light on my gloomy Sunday! Even though I’ve only been familiar with a couple of Capcom’s <i>‘Dungeons & Dragons’</i>-themed beat ‘em ups, and have never played the tabletop ‘alpha’ that influenced many RPGs, I was almost instantly pulled into the world of Daley and Goldstein’s high fantasy. (Oh yeah, I also did watch that notorious 2000 movie, but I can’t remember much of it.) </p><p style="text-align: justify;">The band of unlikely heroes that guide the viewer through their larger-than-life adventure makes for the very heart of the story that may be formulaic, but it is damn exciting! Laced with a neat blend of great humor and unexpected poignancy, it brims with hazardous challenges, from a morbidly obese dragon to a trap-infested maze to a powerful sorceress. (Speaking of whom, her clan of mages that can turn humans into zombies actually reminded me of the scummy political ‘sect’ that rules my country, but I’m being awfully nice here, the real monsters are more insidious.) And the pacing is mostly brisk!</p><p style="text-align: justify;">All members of the ensemble cast seem to enjoy their roles, and each one of them is allowed a place under the spotlight, and as far as I’m concerned, they do a fine job in earning the sympathies. When it comes to the youngest of protagonists – a shapeshifter (or rather, Wild Shape) Doric portrayed by lovely Sophia Lillis, it is CGI that complements the character, providing you with one exceptionally memorable scene featuring a beautiful fictitious beast called Owlbear. The production design is top-notch, with generous amounts of eye-candy served in the form of dwarf villages, Gothic edifices and caves overflowing with lava, inter alia, their epicness elevated by an evocative score imbued with folksy notes.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOnbON3FYx_Um4mGDVRQYcU9dpgEGtCD4r0Yw_QXpzIvU-D1neN3BKmW9_7aFgYsmmIGdgJbRkNUnq4ZQabv3StyqkhO3UkQePvk2UVecuI3ItZsqQZ-ir7KkOWSUYDpwgxxh_c1hund6riwwuNKq4Ih3hQFtMb3CnQqQpKnLE6nr2V3x9nRHAHfce/s2400/D&D2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="2400" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOnbON3FYx_Um4mGDVRQYcU9dpgEGtCD4r0Yw_QXpzIvU-D1neN3BKmW9_7aFgYsmmIGdgJbRkNUnq4ZQabv3StyqkhO3UkQePvk2UVecuI3ItZsqQZ-ir7KkOWSUYDpwgxxh_c1hund6riwwuNKq4Ih3hQFtMb3CnQqQpKnLE6nr2V3x9nRHAHfce/w640-h266/D&D2.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>Nikola Gocićhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10802422474421337350noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3195252471961511941.post-72176531413647665192023-05-01T14:56:00.005+02:002023-05-01T14:56:47.966+02:00Best Premiere Viewings of April 2023<p style="text-align: justify;"></p><div style="text-align: center;"><i><b>FEATURES</b></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;"><i><b>1. Shadow of a Doubt (Alfred Hitchcock, 1943)</b></i></div><i><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-weight: 700;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1DmCuhI3XgJ-wyE-RbVtQZP6YfhhpjQpRF5LKQJlabKnkgXDItzfYw7RRcEb775JYMDeWZ3Zi4Q9EckHdBWiMZoEbGKIpCBWIOPoQPxBDwg5UqoL5YSfoUqiSVB9e-_-7Bso0psrWONZMYZQFTmFYb7mPtIHFFa9jez3PihLrXT5xWu-U4q7koHrS/s1000/01%20Shadow%20of%20a%20Doubt.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="751" data-original-width="1000" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1DmCuhI3XgJ-wyE-RbVtQZP6YfhhpjQpRF5LKQJlabKnkgXDItzfYw7RRcEb775JYMDeWZ3Zi4Q9EckHdBWiMZoEbGKIpCBWIOPoQPxBDwg5UqoL5YSfoUqiSVB9e-_-7Bso0psrWONZMYZQFTmFYb7mPtIHFFa9jez3PihLrXT5xWu-U4q7koHrS/w400-h300/01%20Shadow%20of%20a%20Doubt.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></i></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">From the emerald ring to strong incestuous undertones (pretty bold for the time, if I may add), it’s easy to see <i>‘Shadow of a Doubt’</i> as one of major influences on <i>‘Twin Peaks’</i>, and it’s no secret that Lynch has taken many cues from Hitchcock. What makes this superb thriller still engaging eight decades later is the masterly built suspense, particularly in its second half, with the psychological tension between a heroine, Charlie, and her namesake uncle antagonist (stellar performances from Teresa Wright and Joseph Cotten, respectively) oozing from the screen.</div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>2. Le mur / The Wall (Serge Roullet, 1967)</i></b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 700;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkRuElXtUZlhIY-dGGk3OLiAwgLrPZjLD0Z2VsyPe9kBayPdUfBBnKV0SM7i26aOf8vSuRrekTXiq-G11KaTLEiCxHqh5IpldvKknNCIHlRxbWMJIf-Nho2IKTzjl3mcqyA6J-fr7SOp4gDrhtgal6u1pW5xrzZOOPmC0Huj5BjWe5coh4VmxbSIlp/s1000/02%20Le%20mur.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="563" data-original-width="1000" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkRuElXtUZlhIY-dGGk3OLiAwgLrPZjLD0Z2VsyPe9kBayPdUfBBnKV0SM7i26aOf8vSuRrekTXiq-G11KaTLEiCxHqh5IpldvKknNCIHlRxbWMJIf-Nho2IKTzjl3mcqyA6J-fr7SOp4gDrhtgal6u1pW5xrzZOOPmC0Huj5BjWe5coh4VmxbSIlp/w400-h225/02%20Le%20mur.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></div><br />One cell. Three men. Sentenced to death. Time: the Spanish Civil War. <p></p><p style="text-align: justify;">Co-written by director Serge Roullet and playwright/philosopher Jean-Paul Sartre, <i>‘The Wall’</i> comes across as a sullen and solemn meditation on the absurdity of existence, or rather on humans’ torturous inability to accept their own imminent end, and grasp what comes afterwards, for those who remain. The film’s many silences, some of which act as pitch-black voids for the answers, fall as heavy as dirt and rocks tossed on the coffin, their funereal attributes emphasized by the tomb-like coldness of the prison, as well as by the gravely beautiful B&W cinematography. Highly evocative of Bresson, especially of <i>‘Procès de Jeanne d'Arc’</i>, in its narrative economy, camera’s languorous movements, and desensitized performances from the largely non-professional cast, this harrowing drama is not an easy watch, but it is a powerful piece of art cinema.</p><p style="text-align: justify;"></p><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>3. Fiul Stelelor / The Son of the Stars (Calin Cazan, Dan Chisovski & Mircea Toia, 1985)</i></b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 700;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoG5kT2ILrJSMweSL5mxZiXB30OlZAg6c1_IIy5QUujeNuecK84uwJuo5lTaDvaJjQmLMqvoOj0KqfEqCjKBy4uRT8RiFEOExemzIHC7wmL-agl8V8OlPNwmt7CsWybzbJzKSZgacUq9nyJlkwyQLx9of1yZWyw76RyC7XgQJNt16gShWUiJFMTFTb/s1000/03%20Fiul%20Stelelor.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="752" data-original-width="1000" height="301" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoG5kT2ILrJSMweSL5mxZiXB30OlZAg6c1_IIy5QUujeNuecK84uwJuo5lTaDvaJjQmLMqvoOj0KqfEqCjKBy4uRT8RiFEOExemzIHC7wmL-agl8V8OlPNwmt7CsWybzbJzKSZgacUq9nyJlkwyQLx9of1yZWyw76RyC7XgQJNt16gShWUiJFMTFTb/w400-h301/03%20Fiul%20Stelelor.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 700;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;">(read my mini-review <a href="http://ngbooart.blogspot.com/2023/04/fiul-stelelor-son-of-stars-calin-cazan.html" style="font-style: italic;">HERE</a>)</div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>4. Veneno para las hadas / Poison for the Fairies (Carlos Enrique Taboada, 1986)</i></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 700;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw7onTLzwxpm34xG3Y68eiZnj7n98ayzMRwI3IaaFjS2oubq3Y6DcbNVF33SVvbGXacH9x59YwIXhW3H5XlcKR4pq5J5DhdrTF0rY5mslxThbsibkuU8t-16_N2XpDrvuRxGwBdx-2JSr1glZ8mOq3NC5BjT5c1uyiQBwYGQaS3KZSF1MDfwcMgBdC/s1000/04%20Veneno%20para%20las%20hadas.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="737" data-original-width="1000" height="295" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw7onTLzwxpm34xG3Y68eiZnj7n98ayzMRwI3IaaFjS2oubq3Y6DcbNVF33SVvbGXacH9x59YwIXhW3H5XlcKR4pq5J5DhdrTF0rY5mslxThbsibkuU8t-16_N2XpDrvuRxGwBdx-2JSr1glZ8mOq3NC5BjT5c1uyiQBwYGQaS3KZSF1MDfwcMgBdC/w400-h295/04%20Veneno%20para%20las%20hadas.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">Ana Patricia Rojo (only 12 at the time of the film’s release) brilliantly portrays one of the most dominant and manipulative pubescent girls of cinema, Verónica, with Elsa María Gutiérrez in her first and only screen role making for her perfect partner, as a submissive and oh-so-naive Flavia, in a wicked modern fairy tale that grows increasingly unsettling, like a children’s movie subverted through the prism of (unconventional) horror. What makes their strained, toxic ‘friendship’ – speeding on a highway to the Loss of Innocence city – quite discomforting to watch is the perspective of a minor that Taboada opts for to tell the story, shooting the film from the angles that conceal adults’ faces, with a few ‘reveals’ reserved for traumas and nightmares. (This may be seen as a gimmick by some viewers, yet it works like a charm, with Guadalupe García’s crisp cinematography giving off a picture-book vibe). Twisted dynamics between the two main characters reflect the themes of jealousy, class tension, superstition vs. reason, and the power of suggestion reaching alarming heights when the fantasy it conjures becomes reality fueled by fear and despair...</div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>5. L’Alliance / The Wedding Ring (Christian de Chalonge, 1970)</i></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 700;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlzAympSdoP64v8FQchWgncHPS4BiPywVB4GVM4w4FYlh4l7LaC-h8WFysH3R023C4RYtWfuhvocrZO3wAwtBcLEz_H69-RnruUDHBOiVlWIazQC8Pjmo2xIffcukUkFdzwvyuOJvWO0AncUVcPpDQQR0cJBVkE0Q1mVjmHxJqjtPyQ71aCpUp8EyI/s1000/05%20L%E2%80%99Alliance.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="578" data-original-width="1000" height="231" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlzAympSdoP64v8FQchWgncHPS4BiPywVB4GVM4w4FYlh4l7LaC-h8WFysH3R023C4RYtWfuhvocrZO3wAwtBcLEz_H69-RnruUDHBOiVlWIazQC8Pjmo2xIffcukUkFdzwvyuOJvWO0AncUVcPpDQQR0cJBVkE0Q1mVjmHxJqjtPyQ71aCpUp8EyI/w400-h231/05%20L%E2%80%99Alliance.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">Based on a story by Jean-Claude Carrière who also co-stars with Anna Karina, <i>‘The Wedding Ring’</i> is a sly, slow-burning, subtly surreal study of paranoia that re/deconstructs the Adam and Eve myth and, in a certain way, anticipates Victor Pelevin’s novel <i>‘The Life of Insects’</i>. Imbued with both wry humor and the sense of impending doom, it provides you with a bizarre ‘eyegasmic’ experience by virtue of its autumnal palette of ripe yellow-oranges, leaden grays and earthy tones occasionally (and beautifully!) complemented by velvety shades of blue. The increasingly foreboding presence of mostly exotic animals – the male protagonist’s ‘patients’ – brings forth a soundscape of squeaks, squeals and screeches made even more disquieting by sparingly employed cacophonies of gloom from Gilbert Amy. The film’s elusive, anti-Eden mood is further enhanced by Carrière’s deadpan professionalism, and impenetrable secrecy surrounding Karina’s character.</div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>6. Romeo Is Bleeding (Peter Medak, 1993)</i></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 700;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIhedefyC2OV0W608mo99wLlBqB-aUNW5LQOTS-We9Caz4a_gMTC4hDR_OjAIJ6fBm0U6f3TAt9GOgxwGzq9GELMZ4dvskZ9v9XpCDP_CFU597kuLVGHxXFAphOQPY00UPVAQwNRLDM_oj6ymyNtcxm3wPg_pJi1-oa_FYGruGWMFZSNjFvXvjGvs_/s1000/06%20Romeo%20Is%20Bleeding.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="541" data-original-width="1000" height="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIhedefyC2OV0W608mo99wLlBqB-aUNW5LQOTS-We9Caz4a_gMTC4hDR_OjAIJ6fBm0U6f3TAt9GOgxwGzq9GELMZ4dvskZ9v9XpCDP_CFU597kuLVGHxXFAphOQPY00UPVAQwNRLDM_oj6ymyNtcxm3wPg_pJi1-oa_FYGruGWMFZSNjFvXvjGvs_/w400-h216/06%20Romeo%20Is%20Bleeding.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">At once a hard-boiled neo-noir and a camp-infused near-parody of the genre, <i>‘Romeo Is Bleeding’</i> is a richly woven tapestry of morally conflicted anti-heroism (Gary Oldman’s stellar, increasingly melodramatic take on the crooked cop stereotype), a feverish femme fatale delirium (Lena Olin at her most obscenely elegant and slyly domineering), Dariusz Wolski’s classy lensing that intensifies the sense of impending doom often coupled with the sexual and/or psychological tension, and Mark Isham’s smoky, melancholic jazz perfectly compatible with both the story’s seedy milieu and the protagonist’s macho-romanticism. What makes the impression even stronger are remarkable supporting performances from Michael Wincott, his gravelly voice unmistakably disquieting, Roy Scheider, intimidating as a crime boss with a cold gaze, and Juliette Lewis whose character of a hussy lover remains memorable, in spite of being underused.</div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>7. Zero Patience (John Greyson, 1993)</i></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 700;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAInNjRsKkyJ2519SMcSKrTZsBj7vx82DqyjgFNU1qq53JVbeD9XYOIeoFfaVLfSvtKulwkbDd24rNuq08eSsRhlqVqcpbMnJ7rNgRkLjjdu79DjlLf-TiDqSzwr5xG6Q0YQwoB1MDwWwHkvfb9CKpNKoMd_QmLSZyVHk1C1OnP6VpzciNtiKxfzP_/s1000/07%20Zero%20Patience.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="555" data-original-width="1000" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAInNjRsKkyJ2519SMcSKrTZsBj7vx82DqyjgFNU1qq53JVbeD9XYOIeoFfaVLfSvtKulwkbDd24rNuq08eSsRhlqVqcpbMnJ7rNgRkLjjdu79DjlLf-TiDqSzwr5xG6Q0YQwoB1MDwWwHkvfb9CKpNKoMd_QmLSZyVHk1C1OnP6VpzciNtiKxfzP_/w400-h223/07%20Zero%20Patience.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">Synonymous with unhinged weirdness, <i>‘Zero Patience’</i> subverts the discriminatory urban legend of HIV ‘patient 0’ Gaëtan Dugas (1952-1984) into a campy, audacious musical comedy that has garnered polarizing opinions during three decades of its existence. Fighting sensationalism with sensationalism, film pokes fun at mass hysteria caused by the abuse of information by both tabloids and mainstream media (on a dangerous rise in recent years), and thus provides a healthy dose of thought-provoking entertainment. On top of that, director/writer John Greyson injects his story with spicy elements of exuberant phantasmagoria, bringing to modern life Victorian adventurer and sexologist Sir Richard Francis Burton (1821-1890), and materializing the ghost of ‘Zero’ guided by the desire to clear his name (paradoxically, never mentioned). As the former is the only one who can see the latter, it is only a matter of time before the two men get up close and personal, with catchy pop numbers along the lines of Duran Duran and Pet Shop Boys operating as a connecting tissue. Taking the stage, among others, are a bathhouse trio whose performance in the shower evokes the absurd humor of Monty Python sketches, a butthole duet accompanied by nude aerobics, and a drag-personification of HIV falsetto-ing <i>‘Scheherezade’</i> from under the microscope. Yes, it’s queer cinema at its most whimsical.</div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;"><i><b>8. De cierta manera / One Way or Another (Sara Gómez, 1977)</b></i></div><i><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: 700;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQCDfdv9FxKqpGvaH71OqekN6eRMGPRdiL8er9KCKF7mkhu0xhN-6zvyJoU3MXb50M6feIFUnV-JAeEz6yOUXljjbL-Yo1k1rzyeDa8HORjsrJFMGYLYub9sMwxVJfn4Bj1r7M-OldBidCIsCaQqziPS16oxZ52J_42ooY__jbcJ1qTlhFRIv7f04G/s1500/08%20De%20cierta%20manera.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1500" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQCDfdv9FxKqpGvaH71OqekN6eRMGPRdiL8er9KCKF7mkhu0xhN-6zvyJoU3MXb50M6feIFUnV-JAeEz6yOUXljjbL-Yo1k1rzyeDa8HORjsrJFMGYLYub9sMwxVJfn4Bj1r7M-OldBidCIsCaQqziPS16oxZ52J_42ooY__jbcJ1qTlhFRIv7f04G/w400-h240/08%20De%20cierta%20manera.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></i></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">The first Cuban offering directed by a woman marks the feature debut from Sara Gómez who died at only 31, right after the shooting was completed. Edited by her colleagues and released three years after hear death, <i>‘One Way or Another’</i> is a fascinating account on post-revolutionary Cuba, focusing on a growing romance between an independent schoolmistress, Yolanda, and a macho factory worker, Mario, against the backdrop of (still marginalized) Afro-Cuban community. An experimental symbiosis of anthropological documentary, neorealist drama with a feminist edge, and keen examination of the communist propaganda, it insightfully captures a tumultuous chapter in history, with all of its cultural and socio-political specificities viewed from the perspective of rapid changes... or the illusion thereof. Gómez takes a matter-of-fact-like approach in her direction, and treats the camera as an objective observer, so even the fictionalized parts of her film give off ‘cinéma vérité’ vibes, as the largely non-professional cast coalesce into the stream of daily life.</div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>9. Still Breathing (James F. Robinson, 1997)</i></b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 700;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfP7VwPjgm5MmYKBPYtSPBTbyXnpTSHJVfpiGEUr-L4P4uircI5EDV-AhQpfKyQo2akZDuZwmjZ6BYq0FgiXkPURYNzqemuSv3sYMOn3Viszlcx6vo8ud43n1BkuQl8P4bTMGdCVK57yPN7FRTCCyTLmJqAYuvTnGCImK338ax5ytmkVexEEQ_DXXs/s1000/09%20Still%20Breathing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="533" data-original-width="1000" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfP7VwPjgm5MmYKBPYtSPBTbyXnpTSHJVfpiGEUr-L4P4uircI5EDV-AhQpfKyQo2akZDuZwmjZ6BYq0FgiXkPURYNzqemuSv3sYMOn3Viszlcx6vo8ud43n1BkuQl8P4bTMGdCVK57yPN7FRTCCyTLmJqAYuvTnGCImK338ax5ytmkVexEEQ_DXXs/w400-h214/09%20Still%20Breathing.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">Behind a corny poster hides a delightfully quirky romantic dramedy that marks director/writer/producer James F. Robinson’s first and sadly only fiction feature. Like the vast majority of similar offerings, it comes across as a beautiful, typically filmic lie that you just can’t help but cherish, as it self-consciously jokes about itself being a real life. A great part of the film’s off-kilter charm can be credited to the leading duo – Joanna Going’s tastefully sensual, subtly campy take on a wannabe-cynical L.A. con artist, Rosalyn, and Brendan Fraser’s disarmingly candid portrayal of a psychic, soft-spoken Texan marionettist, Fletcher, who expresses his creativity through collages, stone stacking and playing Verdi in a trumpet-euphonium duo with his eccentric grandmother (Celeste Holm, utterly endearing in her supporting role). Rather then being star-crossed lovers, these two meet in (black and white) dreams as their boy and girl selves, with the innocence of their fated affair lending color to the proceedings, even during the scenes of simmering eroticism, such as the one of Rococo paintings projected on Rosalyn’s body. The peculiar chemistry between the stars makes the suspension of disbelief easier, as their characters’ fairy tale blooms to a soundtrack as diversified as a 90’s mix-tape of a sentimental jazz enthusiast. </div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>10. 2 ou 3 choses que je sais d’elle / 2 or 3 Things I Know About Her (Jean-Luc Godard, 1967)</i></b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 700;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFLGUtv32kmzWvk15qrDzizO0aICTwCPAtAI6D2G8OG8a0OrDxmnx57tbXQlj6TQ7uxP8c2-qiQxyMXDsuwWjYuOIcgjKBSZpGdY21y6o3pud9oKtfaxJ1rrZTBHWGsVAEAD2m-07xZpuUJOHXHALpTeCNgNh2aDUZ4mzhERcZpdygrYlQFyoLlKOS/s1000/10%202%20ou%203%20choses%20que%20je%20sais%20d%E2%80%99elle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="563" data-original-width="1000" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFLGUtv32kmzWvk15qrDzizO0aICTwCPAtAI6D2G8OG8a0OrDxmnx57tbXQlj6TQ7uxP8c2-qiQxyMXDsuwWjYuOIcgjKBSZpGdY21y6o3pud9oKtfaxJ1rrZTBHWGsVAEAD2m-07xZpuUJOHXHALpTeCNgNh2aDUZ4mzhERcZpdygrYlQFyoLlKOS/w400-h225/10%202%20ou%203%20choses%20que%20je%20sais%20d%E2%80%99elle.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>“Today, when revolutions are impossible and bloody wars loom, when capitalism is unsure of its rights and the working class is in retreat, when the lightning progress of science makes future centuries hauntingly present, when the future is more present than the present, when distant galaxies are at my doorstep.”</i></div><p></p><p style="text-align: justify;">At his most socialist / anti-consumerist, Jean-Luc Godard speaks truths and eerily accurate predictions in a whisperry voice, bringing about the birth of a whole universe in a cup of coffee. The city of lights acts like a microcosm of the prostituting society, as primary colors train the viewer’s eye to hunt for details, for neither god nor devil are in them, but the remnants of humanity (gradually losing to indifference). The boundaries between politics and poetics, personal and common are torn, leaving you defenseless against an intentionally dry, genre-defying piece of cinema, in equal measures Pop Art and Brutalist.</p><p style="text-align: justify;"></p><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>11. The Sleeping Tiger (Joseph Losey, 1954)</i></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 700;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIYT2smNcH6_m_Sge7i4HhOmVQO34d4fznK0XdX8VYra_7KleqxC4Igw5blUtE-wxMqAq8dxTfA5ejP2shnTzRP97zUSMoTWU-biNosr04GeM8I4O_YgwSlOXmGKygicVekLPtP49d6wXWYtKrws9tqJKnyUlYC2PIT5SqPXENuRtAZ1b4oL5bO2ql/s1000/11%20The%20Sleeping%20Tiger.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="1000" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIYT2smNcH6_m_Sge7i4HhOmVQO34d4fznK0XdX8VYra_7KleqxC4Igw5blUtE-wxMqAq8dxTfA5ejP2shnTzRP97zUSMoTWU-biNosr04GeM8I4O_YgwSlOXmGKygicVekLPtP49d6wXWYtKrws9tqJKnyUlYC2PIT5SqPXENuRtAZ1b4oL5bO2ql/w400-h300/11%20The%20Sleeping%20Tiger.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">Marking Joseph Losey’s first British film and the beginning of his (great!) collaboration with Dirk Bogarde, <i>‘The Sleeping Tiger’</i> is a pretty neat blend of melodrama and thriller that goes slightly off the rails (and into the viewer’s face) towards the end, but most of the time poses as a nuanced character study of a ‘bad apple’. Malcolm Arnold’s sweeping score and Harry Waxman’s handsome lensing both work like a charm, with the aforementioned actor’s performance being the film’s most valuable asset.</div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>12. Rosen für Bettina / Ballerina (Georg Wilhelm Pabst, 1956)</i></b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 700;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7y0XF0OARrUyqQ5h5ElNTvF7FgjGdcVCLXq6FYfj3UPTSb6QLEn5c-aQUH1rnFwKcqpMUMzKApKDIM5swOyuTh-vVYj-U8c1a060iQa5FyxkAf8IpV9_5YpqFGboSpwjPTItOieHYzp3St4QRk1JraKmVznjoM_Bu9sE6wVfeQ7eJm8TrWnCYCEvm/s1000/12%20Rosen%20f%C3%BCr%20Bettina.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="1000" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7y0XF0OARrUyqQ5h5ElNTvF7FgjGdcVCLXq6FYfj3UPTSb6QLEn5c-aQUH1rnFwKcqpMUMzKApKDIM5swOyuTh-vVYj-U8c1a060iQa5FyxkAf8IpV9_5YpqFGboSpwjPTItOieHYzp3St4QRk1JraKmVznjoM_Bu9sE6wVfeQ7eJm8TrWnCYCEvm/w400-h300/12%20Rosen%20f%C3%BCr%20Bettina.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">Elisabeth Müller radiates timeless elegance as the titular ballerina, Bettina Sanden, who is diagnosed with polio just before the rehearsals for the production of Boléro are about to start, in the second to last film by Austrian filmmaker Georg Wilhelm Pabst. A classic melodrama that may appear a bit reactionary nowadays finds its anchor in composed direction, beautifully noirish cinematography, and inspired portrayal of human perseverance. </div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>13. The Bedroom Window (Curtis Hanson, 1987)</i></b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 700;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUx3m_IFEJGO7YMQ24nHGe4qGuzYZJPcGufCC3ozRJQ66ck2b5Aq2SO81jMJzcLae9KvVu-NpbvPX4mSBf6xgQXZo2hSMUSqOwxEGRu4wSrUy35Wc8GiTChy29H73_-xZxISGTJIhklpnbEvp98lX55Cx2fwFNGp5xMXIzC-lxgK4Gc5_Ek0DkwmgM/s1000/13%20The%20Bedroom%20Window.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="563" data-original-width="1000" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUx3m_IFEJGO7YMQ24nHGe4qGuzYZJPcGufCC3ozRJQ66ck2b5Aq2SO81jMJzcLae9KvVu-NpbvPX4mSBf6xgQXZo2hSMUSqOwxEGRu4wSrUy35Wc8GiTChy29H73_-xZxISGTJIhklpnbEvp98lX55Cx2fwFNGp5xMXIzC-lxgK4Gc5_Ek0DkwmgM/w400-h225/13%20The%20Bedroom%20Window.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>‘The Bedrom Window’</i> may not be <i>‘Rear Window’</i>, but there’s more than enough itching suspense in this pulpy neo-noir thriller, particularly during its final act, to earn it the ‘Hitchcockian’ label. The unlikely cast of Isabelle Huppert (nonchalantly injecting the film with femme fatale iciness), Steve Guttenberg (of <i>‘Police Academy’</i> fame, bringing boyish charm to his reckless hero) and Elizabeth McGovern (transforming from a vulnerable victim into a determined avenger) works weirdly well, with a bit of sex appeal attached to each of their roles. And Brad Greenquist with his eerily piercing blue eyes is perfectly cast as the psycho perpetrator of the intricate tale adapted from the novel <i>‘The Witnesses’</i> by Anne Holden. Also memorable are Ron Foreman’s neat production design, with the unexpected image of E.A. Poe delineated in neon as a nightclub decoration, and the charmingly understated cinematography by Gilbert Taylor (<i>Dr. Strangelove</i>, <i>Repulsion</i>, <i>Frenzy</i>, <i>The Omen</i>).</div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;"><i><b>14. Světlonoc / Nightsiren (Tereza Nvotová, 2022)</b></i></div><i><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-weight: 700;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKd89sp6R2UgaWA0J8wM1F6cSXs3TnnnFQefRB-2ZPIsM3Bb_xlUCOaYNrKKa6tO5Pa9P4orA0QCLXvLkmPHbUxZetCuaITG9LHy0sdo_1jDaNb2x_3cs2AxVvW6-yjQFj5elKl1wgDjqf7RdbkAKmfrnV7yHQ4drxdJAcUVXLgl7iW2yOT_VLDntr/s1000/14%20Sv%C4%9Btlonoc.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="419" data-original-width="1000" height="168" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKd89sp6R2UgaWA0J8wM1F6cSXs3TnnnFQefRB-2ZPIsM3Bb_xlUCOaYNrKKa6tO5Pa9P4orA0QCLXvLkmPHbUxZetCuaITG9LHy0sdo_1jDaNb2x_3cs2AxVvW6-yjQFj5elKl1wgDjqf7RdbkAKmfrnV7yHQ4drxdJAcUVXLgl7iW2yOT_VLDntr/w400-h168/14%20Sv%C4%9Btlonoc.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></i></div><i><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>“The Sun can burn you, but the Moon is different... It’s like a caress.”</i></div></i><p></p><p style="text-align: justify;">In Tereza Nvotová’s sophomore fiction feature, biting social commentary on superstition, prejudice and the position of women in a traditional community outlines the tale of a girl, Šarlota, haunted by the ghosts of the past. The setting is modern, yet the belief in witches still lives, and brings forth tension in a remote mountain village surrounded by the fog of god-fearing, patriarchal-minded hypocrisy. A sense of foreboding is present right from the get-go, and it grows stronger with each Šarlota’s step, especially after she becomes close to a mysterious herbalist, Mira, both of them rejecting some of the locals’ advances. The (magnetic!) duo may be falsely accused of witchcraft, but they do cast a spell on the viewer by virtue of finely tuned performances from Natalia Germani and Eva Mores (a superb big-screen debut!), as Nvotová balances between drama and folk horror, leaving something to be desired in her mostly restrained treatment of the latter genre. Elevating the director’s efforts in her examination of real evils against the hints of supernatural is the beautiful forest where much of the action takes place, especially in the second half that rewards our patience – required for a slow build-up – with a highly memorable sequence of rave-like sabbath.</p><p style="text-align: justify;"></p><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>15. Thanh Sói / Furies (Veronica Ngo, 2022)</i></b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 700;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY7AgXBYR2-mekXBZpHuG5nbSVWXtmVtRfhB7h4yixJplIbsHAnJYIS7oNbNTjQsZFwJIZQ5ifitnk7wuoceh0QZ6ERmvI655njJj6fnul5eTnMa0b8xGg1HyRCs7ci873Q1KOhcdZUq6V3GDa4uLdgE1h3eKraVaB4XFXfSHkSjGnH2sDWFd7vIpr/s1000/15%20Thanh%20S%C3%B3i.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="419" data-original-width="1000" height="168" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY7AgXBYR2-mekXBZpHuG5nbSVWXtmVtRfhB7h4yixJplIbsHAnJYIS7oNbNTjQsZFwJIZQ5ifitnk7wuoceh0QZ6ERmvI655njJj6fnul5eTnMa0b8xGg1HyRCs7ci873Q1KOhcdZUq6V3GDa4uLdgE1h3eKraVaB4XFXfSHkSjGnH2sDWFd7vIpr/w400-h168/15%20Thanh%20S%C3%B3i.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">Veronica Ngo and the trio of badass heroines she commands both behind and in front of the camera pull no punches in the first Netflix original from Vietnam – a prequel to Le-Van Kiet’s solid 2019 flick <i>‘Furie’</i> (<i>Hai Phuong</i>). Directing with verve and intensity, she delivers a stylishly pulptastic mix of drama, revenge thriller and action laced with feminist ferocity, and set in the underbelly of Saigon awashed in garish colors and dazzling neon lights that evoke Ninagawa and Refn. Although her wig and CG effects tend to be a bit jarring, the aftertaste of adrenaline-fueled fighting sequences and that one motorcycle chase involving some more kicking and clashing of cold weapons make you turn a blind eye to the film’s flaws.</div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>16. Sri Asih (Upi Avianto, 2022)</i></b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 700;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPeJdMguswO6DCIqLhpMKHibpvFw9WG9_b7JFWvYIFHN4BRokyx4aNG2fNexMVo1F9OMuqwI3ZHSyVlHhED-fDKaiKdqswPz8rXOgQBeF3cz60uy3Y4Ln3CBIclCVLUwhYYV3T6XomZ06knH3ohipLegPgRrTNoE9xCR3rFmPLIRnUIHwU77rkOV3v/s1920/16%20Sri%20Asih.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="804" data-original-width="1920" height="168" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPeJdMguswO6DCIqLhpMKHibpvFw9WG9_b7JFWvYIFHN4BRokyx4aNG2fNexMVo1F9OMuqwI3ZHSyVlHhED-fDKaiKdqswPz8rXOgQBeF3cz60uy3Y4Ln3CBIclCVLUwhYYV3T6XomZ06knH3ohipLegPgRrTNoE9xCR3rFmPLIRnUIHwU77rkOV3v/w400-h168/16%20Sri%20Asih.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">Is it possible to make a solid superhero flick on a budget tighter than what the team of Donner’s <i>‘Superman’</i> (released 45 years ago!) lost solely on flying tests? According to Upi Avianto, the answer is ‘yes’. Based on the characters appearing in the comics released by Indonesian entertainment company Bumilangit, <i>‘Sri Asih’</i> brings the origin story of the titular heroine – an orphaned girl, Alana, trained as a MMA fighter by her adoptive mother, to incarnate the goddess of all good in life, when the time comes. She can be described as a mix of Wonder Woman, Cole from the latest <i>‘Mortal Kombat’</i> flick, and Rose from <i>‘Street Fighter’</i> series, given that she uses a scarf as a weapon. Opposing her is a group of ‘businessmen’ involved in gentrification plans, and tightly knit with the corrupted police (not to mention dark supernatural forces), so one can say that the narrative is laced with some biting socio-political commentary. Its ‘by the Marvel-and-DC numbers’ traits are elevated by local flavors, such as the ritual surrounding the ‘harnessing’ of Alana’s powers, making <i>‘Sri Asih’</i> a worthy follow-up to Joko Anwar’s <i>‘Gundala’</i> (2019) – the first feature of Bumilangit Cinematic Universe. Also, there’s a satisfying sense of poetic justice in seeing a girl beat the crap out of a privileged misogynist whose famous daddy bribes him out of any trouble, especially when you’re familiar with a real-life case of hit-and-run in which the son of a sycophant TV-station owner destroyed an innocent life, and was punished with an ankle-bracelet house arrest...</div><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"><i><b>MEDIUM-LENGTH + SHORTS</b></i></p><p style="text-align: justify;"></p><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>1. Le rideau cramoisi / The Crimson Curtain (Alexandre Astruc, 1953)</i></b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 700;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS9ktQpMNm1sMG0GDe0RiRGM9jKN0eARwIuBzJ9zmhG5jVHc8g37OgLB4HP2GpVliShwKolq_-7YJyWMPRhXxM1TYvZ8R0Cfpqth3SqaK_0zsmdbOykx7a-H6u6Webw49lsK_bl-KrXELT0CsPB4xlGlHTmeV-RUs6-VdmUqNaXVfpiG9u5VDRppeL/s1000/S1%20Le%20rideau%20cramoisi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="758" data-original-width="1000" height="304" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS9ktQpMNm1sMG0GDe0RiRGM9jKN0eARwIuBzJ9zmhG5jVHc8g37OgLB4HP2GpVliShwKolq_-7YJyWMPRhXxM1TYvZ8R0Cfpqth3SqaK_0zsmdbOykx7a-H6u6Webw49lsK_bl-KrXELT0CsPB4xlGlHTmeV-RUs6-VdmUqNaXVfpiG9u5VDRppeL/w400-h304/S1%20Le%20rideau%20cramoisi.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">Directed by French critic Alexandre Astruc revered for his ‘caméra-stylo’ contribution to the auteur theory, <i>‘The Crimson Curtain’</i> takes a simple premise of forbidden romance and gently filters it through the prism of gothic horror, its elegantly lavish costume + production design (Mayo), and highly expressive black and white cinematography (Eugen Schüfftan) stealing your breath away with their awe-inspiring beauty. Though a protagonist’s voice-over narration slightly stains the purity of visual / dialogue-free storytelling, this mid-length piece of cinema – a brooding chamber drama with a tragic denouement – deeply impresses time and again, awaking a sense of wonder with nothing but a touch under the table, and evoking Poe’s apparitions by means of Anouk Aimée’s ethereal, otherworldly presence in her big-screen debut.</div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;"><i><b>2. <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PlQM3JHcNM4">Introspection</a> (Sara Kathryn Arledge, 1941-1946)</b></i></div><i><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-weight: 700;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIt45X9XOTbUX2E2YA9iXqDfDXNb49Fy9UL0hyeKUYLrPuGWisbSc0JJx0DFDqGe5Pwfsml3PLKdoCxbvMvs1RdiQ8b3pCORMbU0f6NOJuOxTA92uqsvI4Pb3pfJT6wDtgZpUXWYztRRwwcOfKrMbuyJgG3Zb-uFs0WV21-fK5FyEtJW-KMTEPrWA1/s1000/S2%20Introspection.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="757" data-original-width="1000" height="303" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIt45X9XOTbUX2E2YA9iXqDfDXNb49Fy9UL0hyeKUYLrPuGWisbSc0JJx0DFDqGe5Pwfsml3PLKdoCxbvMvs1RdiQ8b3pCORMbU0f6NOJuOxTA92uqsvI4Pb3pfJT6wDtgZpUXWYztRRwwcOfKrMbuyJgG3Zb-uFs0WV21-fK5FyEtJW-KMTEPrWA1/w400-h303/S2%20Introspection.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></i></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">Modern dance interpreted in the language of avant-garde cinema to the music of Franz Schubert. A dream-stream of colors, movements and overlays.</div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>3. <a href="https://rarefilmm.com/2023/04/the-chocolate-acrobat-1995/">The Chocolate Acrobat</a> (Tessa Sheridan, 1995)</i></b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 700;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTe9JAiMgpqjeEjzuWv9oZ7TE5WvrPxt2JpQRZd6jikwSW49vLcPM_GkmJGqlczSYmKyKN6Vz6mzyjef8Vt2GIbIyAPcTv6uDSN0rwj5Fql6Cg3fcYvHeP15glg01OUAoMt5T00nPAiMURFUe2N8fUXl61rogGhXot6C97TuY1PZwotZaXRFpgw0n8/s1000/S3%20The%20Chocolate%20Acrobat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="1000" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTe9JAiMgpqjeEjzuWv9oZ7TE5WvrPxt2JpQRZd6jikwSW49vLcPM_GkmJGqlczSYmKyKN6Vz6mzyjef8Vt2GIbIyAPcTv6uDSN0rwj5Fql6Cg3fcYvHeP15glg01OUAoMt5T00nPAiMURFUe2N8fUXl61rogGhXot6C97TuY1PZwotZaXRFpgw0n8/w400-h300/S3%20The%20Chocolate%20Acrobat.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">If you like your films poetic, dreamy, opaque, darkly romantic, deliberately paced, and gorgeously shot in high-contrast B&W, then Tessa Sheridan’s 37-minute debut will surely mesmerize you. </div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>4. Dream Work (Peter Tscherkassky, 2001)</i></b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: 700;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJjaxBdLNlx36UEM9u9LzNfGuZlTwEiAV8VNVuRapjGNYTUX5qZJRT1t9316dy70J7Ggy4S1pWPUqoUCEVlSI-z2tH1GDfOZZZpI_aObbRCiZetx0607AgaMpi-JzIeQF_PRK1Cu-sIA4Qh3ctXGCYkWWkzQneXouxjTudRcE1260MNnrSs0g09DWn/s1000/S4%20Dreamwork.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="563" data-original-width="1000" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJjaxBdLNlx36UEM9u9LzNfGuZlTwEiAV8VNVuRapjGNYTUX5qZJRT1t9316dy70J7Ggy4S1pWPUqoUCEVlSI-z2tH1GDfOZZZpI_aObbRCiZetx0607AgaMpi-JzIeQF_PRK1Cu-sIA4Qh3ctXGCYkWWkzQneXouxjTudRcE1260MNnrSs0g09DWn/w400-h225/S4%20Dreamwork.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></div><p></p>Nikola Gocićhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10802422474421337350noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3195252471961511941.post-18574868979516761722023-04-24T11:16:00.003+02:002023-04-24T11:16:24.307+02:00Il Futuro / The Future (Alicia Scherson, 2013)<p style="text-align: justify;"></p><div style="text-align: center;">***(*) our of 10</div><br /><a href="https://mubi.com/films/the-future-2013">MUBI</a>’s take on <i>‘The Future’</i> is a fine example of false advertising, and it goes like this:<p></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><i>“A surreal, freewheeling adaptation of Roberto Bolaño’s novel A Little Lumpen Novelita, this remarkable film from Chilean director Alicia Scherson leaps between genres – from noir to 50’s sci-fi pastiche. Told through a series of flashbacks, The Future is a thrillingly postmodern, magic-realist enigma.”</i></p><p style="text-align: justify;">Even though I’m not familiar with the source material, I’ve seen enough ‘surreal’ and ‘magic-realist’ pieces of cinema to know that a mysterious (or rather, meta-gimmicky) light seen by two protagonists can hardly be considered a reason for such labels. The only thing remarkable about Scherson’s film is how unremarkable most of its aspects are, from her bland direction and uninvolving screenplay, to weathered Rutger Hauer on autopilot in a supporting role of a blind ex-bodybuilder / actor who falls for an adolescent girl played with a cold, if uninhibited nonchalance by 30-yo Manuela Martinelli. That leaping through genres is much closer to aimless meandering, with noir-ish vibes only present in parts that feel as if belonging to another film, and 50’s sci-fi pastiche being... what exactly? The aforementioned light, or the excerpts from <i>‘Maciste’</i> fantasy features seen on a TV? As ‘thrillingly postmodern’ as a dead horse flogged by a celery stalk, ‘The Future’ is barely redeemed by its decent visuals, with some stylish imagery popping-up in the second half, as well as by the weirdly evocative score.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">However, if you want a different opinion to make you waste 90 minutes of your time, here’s the last line from Andrew McArthur’s article for <a href="https://thepeoplesmovies.com/2013/06/eiff-2013-il-futuro-the-future-review/">The People’s Movies</a> website:</p><p style="text-align: justify;"><i>“Scherson has crafted a fascinating slice of gothic noir that proves to be both sublimely acted and directed. Il Futuro is packed with suspense, heart and nostalgia – resulting in an outstandingly original combination.”<br /><br /></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhRfnWDjNtc3E0tVDhlo-L43dUsP6lMku6VWopObFRpvRp1weADG6GiOJKsH7SNbe_ki1itAHkXv6RLpHkfxqKwbXQFlsDgE_dteFlaz_yTaFjyapqqRB2onMXYA3k4iDxpAvu9WDdbQ7aQ8aouZIJp5ni3rJUlpXiFfG_UVut-QTJoKqdlZffiQDwD" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="867" data-original-width="1600" height="346" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhRfnWDjNtc3E0tVDhlo-L43dUsP6lMku6VWopObFRpvRp1weADG6GiOJKsH7SNbe_ki1itAHkXv6RLpHkfxqKwbXQFlsDgE_dteFlaz_yTaFjyapqqRB2onMXYA3k4iDxpAvu9WDdbQ7aQ8aouZIJp5ni3rJUlpXiFfG_UVut-QTJoKqdlZffiQDwD=w640-h346" width="640" /></a></i></div><p></p>Nikola Gocićhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10802422474421337350noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3195252471961511941.post-62728711028812313612023-04-09T12:18:00.004+02:002023-04-09T12:18:59.616+02:00Fiul Stelelor / The Son of the Stars (Calin Cazan, Dan Chisovski & Mircea Toia, 1985)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-g94-z8BOHh9MdSEjoKmhXsTcqXwjz9CrsWX1I-PiO8i1IjCQVM1WKUZAcHLd33kaoBOg1HIyaNhyGVkSYUaojv2MfyX_GpopRo-EV4VrIkQPdUFkIbfWABa95Vy1VWnug_lchIy91K7ZboqqlbY_xpux8Igglzh8simA1CYPxKI09o2ARpS7bueS/s1532/Stills1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1152" data-original-width="1532" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-g94-z8BOHh9MdSEjoKmhXsTcqXwjz9CrsWX1I-PiO8i1IjCQVM1WKUZAcHLd33kaoBOg1HIyaNhyGVkSYUaojv2MfyX_GpopRo-EV4VrIkQPdUFkIbfWABa95Vy1VWnug_lchIy91K7ZboqqlbY_xpux8Igglzh8simA1CYPxKI09o2ARpS7bueS/w640-h482/Stills1.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p style="text-align: justify;">Being a child of the 80’s and a total sucker for rotoscoped films (vintage ones, not the Linklater kind), I was completely enchanted by <i>‘The Son of the Stars’</i> recently restored by Deaf Crocodile and released on Blu-ray by Vinegar Syndrome, as a follow-up to Cazan and Toia’s first collaboration <i>‘Delta Space Mission’</i> (1984) (written about in <a href="https://ngbooart.blogspot.com/2022/05/best-premiere-viewings-of-april-2k22.html"><i>THIS ARTICLE</i></a>). A wildly weird mix of science-fiction and fantasy found in plenty of Saturday morning cartoons of the time, particularly from Filmation workshop (<i>Flash Gordon</i>, <i>He-Man and the Masters of the Universe</i>, <i>Bravestarr</i>), the film opens like <i>‘Tarzan’</i> of the very distant future (in the year of 6470!), only to turn into an existential space opera that involves everything but the kitchen sink from learning telepathic communication to facing a mysterious entity that controls time, and evokes Lovecraftian lore in one of its manifestations. </p><p style="text-align: justify;">I can’t tell which Western films were available in Romania behind the Iron Curtain, but I can’t shake off the feeling that the creative team of this low-budget gem did come across René Laloux’s <i>‘The Masters of Time’</i> (1982), as well as with some of Ralph Bakshi’s features. They could’ve also been influenced by Vladimir Tarasov’s shorts of the late 70’s, considering that both visuals – quite charming in their ‘wobbliness’ – and synth-and-bleep-heavy soundscapes can often be labeled as psychedelic, despite the gloomy color palette of murky greens, grayish blues, and muddy oranges. The bizarre universe that the viewer is taken to reveals the exotic jungles of Doreea where a young hero, Dan, is raised by pear-shaped critters, an industrial wasteland guarded by a knight who wouldn’t be out of place in <i>‘Star Wars’</i>, and a rocky planet whose caves serve as communication channels to different worlds, and where ‘matter is in constant transformation’. Speaking of which, Dan’s coming-of-age-and-savior that parallels his intergalactic adventure assumes the shape-shifting traits of imaginative designs, with spatio-temporal distortions and vacuum-defying conflicts posing as signs of the story’s unexpected turns.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaKFf5_HiHRLrBPw6HLF0oeYrOC82gh_zP-u7sn-7LxAbSkqXYGdgEqArivGyIOfgT46Ye86jvo73VSDEtatmEkSgxnA2nWE_B4npMIdfgTY5JdLrm-ZMtlJXhNnUDwBo-X_ygMxpyDRgbOx_M2bWRw2ndMkoxGsplFoytu9Lnl6qg7rUEkH3ooAhf/s1532/Stills2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1152" data-original-width="1532" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaKFf5_HiHRLrBPw6HLF0oeYrOC82gh_zP-u7sn-7LxAbSkqXYGdgEqArivGyIOfgT46Ye86jvo73VSDEtatmEkSgxnA2nWE_B4npMIdfgTY5JdLrm-ZMtlJXhNnUDwBo-X_ygMxpyDRgbOx_M2bWRw2ndMkoxGsplFoytu9Lnl6qg7rUEkH3ooAhf/w640-h482/Stills2.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>Nikola Gocićhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10802422474421337350noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3195252471961511941.post-21514055373772940072023-04-01T12:32:00.002+02:002023-04-01T14:38:49.687+02:00Best Premiere Viewings of March 2023<p></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><i><b>1. Сказка (Александр Сокуров, 2022) / Fairytale (Alexander Sokurov, 2022)<br /><br /></b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGlHH3g__ScjU341coxdLtbUlRDT6_2z5PTeCqx5hTL5RhaLRZCKM6Cytop7zQjRi166jq2tpTF8xpDzmw0_j7xPeCsTzC0RdXvbwRS6BozmqCmakv5NyE4dMOZbnxvjK7eTYq-I7k9d4Gk6rkAH9PxijMRbw-VBeXlp0W12mnJ-DzYgVzTFSNOtIy/s900/01%20Skazka.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="682" data-original-width="900" height="303" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGlHH3g__ScjU341coxdLtbUlRDT6_2z5PTeCqx5hTL5RhaLRZCKM6Cytop7zQjRi166jq2tpTF8xpDzmw0_j7xPeCsTzC0RdXvbwRS6BozmqCmakv5NyE4dMOZbnxvjK7eTYq-I7k9d4Gk6rkAH9PxijMRbw-VBeXlp0W12mnJ-DzYgVzTFSNOtIy/w400-h303/01%20Skazka.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></i></div><br />In the artists’ purgatory, Dante meets Beckett by way of Goya and Doré, their souls converge into a sly entity that possesses Sokurov’s dreams, and as a result of this esoteric act, he delivers a fascinating piece of experimental animation. Cleverly utilizing a combo of deepfake technology and archive footage, the Russian master brings four historical figures in their multiple versions to (after)life, and pokes some serious fun at them against the backdrop of foggy limbo where they’re stuck believing they deserve to enter paradise. The plot sounds like the beginning of a political joke that involves Stalin, Churchill, Mussolini and Hitler, with cameos by Jesus and Napoleon, and indeed, one can’t help but laugh at those egotistical, imperialistic mugs bickering about various topics, from their clothes and hygiene to religion and ideological isms. However, sardonically titled <i>‘Fairytale’</i> isn’t just an absurdist collection of darkly humorous quips – it is a powerful, provocative artistic experience that often remind us of history’s inconvenient tendency to repeat itself:<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><i>“Don’t lament, my brother. All will be forgotten, we’ll start anew... The best it yet to come... Soon, soon...</i>”</div></div><p></p><p></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>2. Flesh and Fantasy (Julien Duvivier, 1943)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqgkg_PK-jxJq7T4Ved5UCC5rjdoefeNLEvSXqk4BImYook1mp8BdLN8cJMhYIqe3WkAb5-pNEh-CuJY2Y3D9umBZNGvOeeuoI6yLMiv0vMRD-3WA8Ihw7uPKB-39wtmkCcSDnJf_ZWjSRgewIqiRbi3wVMClw55VjvG63Mn4LbADSSwT-N1p0R4l5/s900/02%20Flesh%20and%20Fantasy.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="656" data-original-width="900" height="291" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqgkg_PK-jxJq7T4Ved5UCC5rjdoefeNLEvSXqk4BImYook1mp8BdLN8cJMhYIqe3WkAb5-pNEh-CuJY2Y3D9umBZNGvOeeuoI6yLMiv0vMRD-3WA8Ihw7uPKB-39wtmkCcSDnJf_ZWjSRgewIqiRbi3wVMClw55VjvG63Mn4LbADSSwT-N1p0R4l5/w400-h291/02%20Flesh%20and%20Fantasy.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></b></div><br />Out of three Duvivier’s films I’ve seen so far, <i>‘Flesh and Fantasy’</i> is the one closest to my heart. A peculiar noir anthology laced with supernatural elements and hopeless romanticism, it weaves dreams, premonitions, and life’s multifaceted intricacies, into short, yet compelling tales built upon the dichotomy of fatalism and self-reliance / superstition and logic. The film’s main forte lies in its startling cinematography by Paul Ivano and Stanley Cortez (who would lend his remarkable talent to <i>‘The Night of the Hunter’</i> 12 years later), and Alexander Tansman’s sweeping, rapturously melodramatic score, their airtight synergy providing plenty of moments of breathtaking or even goosebump-inducing beauty. Also praiseworthy are stellar performances from the entire cast, with Betty Field, Edward G. Robinson and Barbara Stanwyck standing out as scene-stealers, and Duvivier’s meticulous direction paired with keen sense of pacing, tonal shifts and mystery.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>3. Caminhos Magnétykos / Magnetick Pathways (Edgar Pêra, 2018)<br /><br /></i></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrHPTJJecOSOvFJtl4XrcF1MU3kDyxHdCTjVZVB8tSKSkTS9-QFQmoTi3KkwP8X6MnvWwUYQJTxo4dIgUxvbunf_tdFNjTNGrFFfP4KE3HrRnM-tCPFJ5B6HBr_CEwa480gOv9UT6Y_G1Dh2RNfXkLEd3ofFUFGfRI8y3Ys-DJWuWbrxcf6bMplKf-/s900/03%20Magnetick%20Pathways.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="375" data-original-width="900" height="166" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrHPTJJecOSOvFJtl4XrcF1MU3kDyxHdCTjVZVB8tSKSkTS9-QFQmoTi3KkwP8X6MnvWwUYQJTxo4dIgUxvbunf_tdFNjTNGrFFfP4KE3HrRnM-tCPFJ5B6HBr_CEwa480gOv9UT6Y_G1Dh2RNfXkLEd3ofFUFGfRI8y3Ys-DJWuWbrxcf6bMplKf-/w400-h166/03%20Magnetick%20Pathways.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /></b></div>In Portugal turned into a fascist dystopia, Dominique Pinon’s ex-revolutionary character Raymond Vachs faces an intense inner struggle that is eloquently translated into a fierce torrent of hypnotizing dissolves and superimpositions making an entire film a dazzling, uninterrupted hallucinatory sequence. The protagonist’s existential dilemma – soaked in the reality-shattering multitude of conflicting thoughts and feverish rants – finds its liquid reflection in kaleidoscopic imagery boldly edited into a formally challenging phantasmagoria. Additionally greasing his descent into both personal and societal hell is the moody soundtrack dominated by droning electronica that occasionally slips into unexpected interludes of blistering metal, jazzy dissonance, and acoustic guitar compassion. The color palette of Raymond’s tearing of time and space would leave Refn breathless in the run for his money, and the film’s puzzling nature – emphasized by the inclusion of Outer God worshippers and ghosts from the Portuguese real-life past – strives to outweird Lynch’s psychological mind-benders. <i>‘Magnetick Pathways’</i> is the work of a brilliant cine-fetishist who really knows how to treat the most adventurous among the viewers.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>4. Hiroshima Mon Amour (Alain Resnais, 1959)<br /></i></b><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVDc80ioRd5JJJUp4usv_kPzYJC99IrwpTZVw4xc3kqqZRHgt0Qxizt3pBpaNNOYakGecbsspDanJVHshxAbs37V4g1Fs1YLXKWCLIh_43-ZdVSo-kV6HTdkNLb_29yNes_h-klxw6rTwgV1NgPE2nkkgDIfaFnTKSxHyfAwZE_trQfE-DI0O7jcgP/s900/04%20Hiroshima%20Mon%20Amour.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="653" data-original-width="900" height="290" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVDc80ioRd5JJJUp4usv_kPzYJC99IrwpTZVw4xc3kqqZRHgt0Qxizt3pBpaNNOYakGecbsspDanJVHshxAbs37V4g1Fs1YLXKWCLIh_43-ZdVSo-kV6HTdkNLb_29yNes_h-klxw6rTwgV1NgPE2nkkgDIfaFnTKSxHyfAwZE_trQfE-DI0O7jcgP/w400-h290/04%20Hiroshima%20Mon%20Amour.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>“It will begin again. It will be 10,000 degrees on the earth. 10,000 suns, people will say. The asphalt will burn. Chaos will prevail. An entire city will be lifted off the ground, then fall back to earth in ashes. New vegetation rises from the sands...”</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div><br /></div><div>Ringing stronger now than ever, these premonitory words remind us of how terrible a teacher history has been, as they set the oppressively brooding tone of this highly unconventional romantic drama. Easily one of the most assured feature debuts for both the screenwriter, Marguerite Duras, and director, Alain Resnais, <i>‘Hiroshima Mon Amour’</i> plunges the viewer into the unpredictable depths of emotions, leaving you helpless, as if you were a distant observer. Reliant on sombre performances from its leading duo of Emmanuelle Riva and Eiji Okada, or rather their poetic, increasingly bleak dialogue, the film also strives to unlock the secrets of (traumatic) memories, raising a plethora of questions on the psychological mechanism of forgetting and remembering. Anticipated by stunning opening shots of entangled bodies, its narrative convolution makes it a challenging or rather aching watch somewhat alleviated by Sacha Vierny and Michio Takahashi’s stark cinematography, as well as by Georges Delerue and Giovanni Fusco’s solemn score. The atrocities of war and its aftermath engage in a mysterious pas de deux with the devastating beauty of love, as the past buries the present in the gaping maw of time...</div></div><p></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>5. <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MljEYlUYEK0">Geomeuna dange huina baekseong / The People in White</a> (Yong-Kyun Bae, 1995)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiVPHIsgGrSnv3k0xngPENpvevvuas9wtQ7aGIzWF0a6mBSWEf1Ghi_gyV3hFs83kZtBjMBzvF314FD2BQ-wOCiPH-O8MQx8-Khrqt9DW0DLpOEII7xoMFqIuKCQcWXtmE8IiRIvpkbTni3gabVeN2nV8byDvy9XlfVYvM276lczU_O3BY5A5uon7P/s900/05%20Geomeuna%20dange%20huina%20baekseong.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="900" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiVPHIsgGrSnv3k0xngPENpvevvuas9wtQ7aGIzWF0a6mBSWEf1Ghi_gyV3hFs83kZtBjMBzvF314FD2BQ-wOCiPH-O8MQx8-Khrqt9DW0DLpOEII7xoMFqIuKCQcWXtmE8IiRIvpkbTni3gabVeN2nV8byDvy9XlfVYvM276lczU_O3BY5A5uon7P/w400-h266/05%20Geomeuna%20dange%20huina%20baekseong.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></b></div><br />In the second of two films he created prior to retreating into a life of seclusion, Yong-Kyun Bae adopts the language of slow cinema to build a bleak world of loss and longing, dead silences and lost souls, fractured memories and neverending night(s). <i>‘The People in White’</i> is an oneiric, deeply meditative drama about the ghosts of the past so traumatic that the future becomes a certain impossibility. Unfolding at a languorously mesmerizing pace, it feels like one of those heavy, harrowing dreams that tend to make you believe that you actually experienced them. And it’s heart-achingly beautiful, with all of its derelict and industrial locations reigned by the darkest of shadows engulfing the protagonists burdened with melancholy...<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><i><b>6. La navire Night (Marguerite Duras, 1979)<br /><br /></b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhveWkjSItXTguety9XEBfiEOWOOJTC96f2QP0EDUa48RBTy6Le1gQG277-UyYxDAvT-gy1Ob1Ek-T-dHpCxxZ9Z7_4bQMGhI9A4Q6-2llGbhkyPNnoeQYyv8zH5MBkukCxhDIf0CJ91JK6qwHHaER3CXMlxFD6ER50Fvn5kRJ_Vf1C3LVjsYbSmaf4/s900/06%20La%20navire%20Night.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="540" data-original-width="900" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhveWkjSItXTguety9XEBfiEOWOOJTC96f2QP0EDUa48RBTy6Le1gQG277-UyYxDAvT-gy1Ob1Ek-T-dHpCxxZ9Z7_4bQMGhI9A4Q6-2llGbhkyPNnoeQYyv8zH5MBkukCxhDIf0CJ91JK6qwHHaER3CXMlxFD6ER50Fvn5kRJ_Vf1C3LVjsYbSmaf4/w400-h240/06%20La%20navire%20Night.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></i></div><br />As the camera smoothly glides like a ship across the most silent of seas, there are at least four layers to peel here. One is a story of doomed romance – a sorrowful phantom of de-sentimentalized words. The other is a gloomy ode to the city of light and its ghosts risen – unseen – from their Père Lachaise graves. Then, there is a literal document of the film’s own making – a poeticized, hypnotizing, illusion-shattering behind-the-scenes. And finally, we find an imaginary / unfinished piece of cinema, at once denied and re-confirmed, emerging from the disparity between off-screen voices and crestfallen images. We are kept at a distance, an insurmountable one, and yet we feel close to this strange entity, dead before it was born.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>7. To Live and Die in L.A. (William Friedkin, 1985)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK2fnSXrMBnn65Ift1Bz-JWpRpyuwLZ3qaozK7fcLz4CXX3Ktmc43KEbvRfd_kZ34zahqnvKpK817oSVwqAvQvHrEm2w8Zc8wrUKzA-cAyuajGrJos7VQGll2nytk4BZhc6wIviu9GwsvqYfyki1uanJLbeEvw3AUz94903QnsOmaBP9ZRvcQ_1_jG/s900/07%20To%20Live%20and%20Die%20in%20L.A..jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="485" data-original-width="900" height="215" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK2fnSXrMBnn65Ift1Bz-JWpRpyuwLZ3qaozK7fcLz4CXX3Ktmc43KEbvRfd_kZ34zahqnvKpK817oSVwqAvQvHrEm2w8Zc8wrUKzA-cAyuajGrJos7VQGll2nytk4BZhc6wIviu9GwsvqYfyki1uanJLbeEvw3AUz94903QnsOmaBP9ZRvcQ_1_jG/w400-h215/07%20To%20Live%20and%20Die%20in%20L.A..jpg" width="400" /></a></div></b></div><br />A dancer’s painted face which can be glimpsed during the opening sequence acts like a bad omen, its cold expression of indifference setting up the film’s nihilist tone. Add a cynical (anti)hero guided by the thirst for revenge to the pulpy story revolving around the counterfeiting biz, and you have yourself one of the best and grittiest neo-noir actioners of the 80’s. Propelled by Wang Chung’s avid, electrifying score and stylishly lensed by Wenders’s and Jarmusch’s frequent collaborator Robby Müller, <i>‘To Live and Die in L.A.’</i> boasts a slick, kinetic direction from Friedkin, and well-rounded performances from the entire cast, its strongest asset being the bold transformation of ‘sleaze’ into an admirable piece of art, as well as the apnea-inducing chase sequence that many critics have already raved about.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>8. Thunderbolt and Lightfoot (Michael Cimino, 1974)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0-VUakICgQWbZkng2l86hqf5Nf70jSVThOFsfh9ZYWAaa_Iut-tI3C9v8s-Z6v_6k-IYNJVUrng7sPu1_rN7XBrGktrO0zOEMm8lkHfsMMDe38nFY0v5VL7LY0TD3MleAIE8wu16et52ucL0TM1HLKOx-ktGUXc45MkSIf0DhFG9dl5quXAulUlEx/s900/08%20Thunderbolt%20and%20Lightfoot.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="382" data-original-width="900" height="170" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0-VUakICgQWbZkng2l86hqf5Nf70jSVThOFsfh9ZYWAaa_Iut-tI3C9v8s-Z6v_6k-IYNJVUrng7sPu1_rN7XBrGktrO0zOEMm8lkHfsMMDe38nFY0v5VL7LY0TD3MleAIE8wu16et52ucL0TM1HLKOx-ktGUXc45MkSIf0DhFG9dl5quXAulUlEx/w400-h170/08%20Thunderbolt%20and%20Lightfoot.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></b></div><br />Sometimes, it takes a single shot accidentally caught after switching a TV channel to fall for a movie, track it down and watch it. This time around, it’s Cimino’s admirable feature debut – a buddy-road-heist-flick in which tonal shifts occur so smoothly that you can’t help but go with the flow and see where it takes you. The stars of the show, Clint Eastwood and Jeff Bridges, give stellar performances, and spark some genuine pal or even brotherly chemistry right from the very first exchange of wits, with Frank Stanley capturing the spirit of Americana in beautiful widescreen. Although our (anti)heroes live by night, not caring much about the consequences of their deeds, you keep rooting for them charming bastards, and finding unexpected moments of poignancy between all the jokes, robberies, car chases and Lightfoot’s hunger for sex.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>9. Hyakumannen chikyū no tabi: Bandā bukku / One Million-Year Trip: Bander Book (Osamu Tezuka, 1978)<br /></i></b><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKEl7Q-sREPXkba8FffZEZZXJMGilPW9ivANynB3IwKi7wCnBx-JcytdLGLX9Ag1ukkNwnBjiB9f83YSiQRO61U6XlyI5RTSUxYrVDX1deeMK9NrdPSl4UL-b5-WQYRCuXKzHN0EiZe4lANQOPqI3GUa3OceXtoQmEX7ATNZ7TPh0QfcRAiFdxqmTK/s900/09%20Hyakumannen%20chiky%C5%AB%20no%20tabi%20-%20Band%C4%81%20bukku.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="678" data-original-width="900" height="301" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKEl7Q-sREPXkba8FffZEZZXJMGilPW9ivANynB3IwKi7wCnBx-JcytdLGLX9Ag1ukkNwnBjiB9f83YSiQRO61U6XlyI5RTSUxYrVDX1deeMK9NrdPSl4UL-b5-WQYRCuXKzHN0EiZe4lANQOPqI3GUa3OceXtoQmEX7ATNZ7TPh0QfcRAiFdxqmTK/w400-h301/09%20Hyakumannen%20chiky%C5%AB%20no%20tabi%20-%20Band%C4%81%20bukku.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><div style="text-align: justify;">Giving weirdness a whole new meaning, this long-forgotten animated TV special – first of its feature-length kind in Japan – anticipates great many Saturday-morning cartoons of the 80’s with its freewheeling melding of genres. A space opera at its core, it follows an intergalactic adventure of a 17-yo boy, Bander, whose peaceful life on a planet of shape-shifters is interrupted by the sudden arrival of invaders from Earth, led by none other than one of Tezuka’s most famous creations, Dr. Black Jack, turned into a pirate.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div><br /></div><div>The hero’s journey is brimful of references, ranging from Ancient Greece and Max Fleischer cartoons to 1973 sci-fi western <i>‘Westworld’</i> and Alfred Hitchcock’s <i>‘The Birds’</i> to <i>‘The Exorcist’</i> and Hammer horror movies to M.C. Escher’s art and Disney flicks to the Panspermia hypothesis and Orwellian dystopia! As the viewer is introduced to the plethora of alien creatures some of whom defy description, Bander faces a humanoid robot, count Dracula who keeps biting his tongue, a Cyclops riding a Pterodactyl-like dragon, a nunchaku-wielding Neanderthal (during a time-traveling sequence), and an evil super-computer that serves autocratic forces. Surprisingly, the melting pot of a story is pretty easy to follow, and it doesn’t feel like a mere patchwork of incongruous influences and homages – it is a wildly imaginative exploration of the destructive side of human nature, as well as an eco-conscious parable featuring a short lesson on evolution according to Darwin. Although the animation hasn’t aged well, the diversified, borderline experimental artwork beautifully accompanied by eclectic soundtrack of epic orchestrations, psychedelic rock, and funky disco provides a gripping, inner child-awakening experience.</div></div><p></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>10. Arracht / Monster (Tom Sullivan, 2019)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDAX8PbNentjbI0UHWTeSa_bWD0vN0khPrhISf_M5Evx-OO_9GprhiwXxAmuBb-T2ONWsTBZyL7fwu8hLOUu8H7rFvmzOd38reN1UAu4HX_HA8qSfsz7oSPlDupHxrCa6_5yKlPtNUnrjEeqK0ybhWljgkAyHltisJsprNdpdJsG6p5G5Gwhc6vmyC/s900/10%20Arracht.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="377" data-original-width="900" height="168" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDAX8PbNentjbI0UHWTeSa_bWD0vN0khPrhISf_M5Evx-OO_9GprhiwXxAmuBb-T2ONWsTBZyL7fwu8hLOUu8H7rFvmzOd38reN1UAu4HX_HA8qSfsz7oSPlDupHxrCa6_5yKlPtNUnrjEeqK0ybhWljgkAyHltisJsprNdpdJsG6p5G5Gwhc6vmyC/w400-h168/10%20Arracht.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></b></div><br />Filmed in Irish Gaelic, and set during the Potato Famine of the mid-1840’s, the feature debut by actor turned filmmaker Tom Sullivan is a bleakly beautiful and subtly directed tone poem about hope, kindness and the perseverance of human spirit in times of moil, despair, treachery and death. Its forte lies in two captivating leading performances by Dónall Ó Héalai, whose haggard physicality mirrors his character’s tragedy, and firsttimer Saise Quinn portraying orphaned Kitty whose angelic looks and innocence rekindle the mournful man’s paternal instincts, and heal his tender heart. Equally striking is Kate McCullough’s cinematography that captures the countryside of Ireland at its most depressing, with rocky shore, withered grass, nearly-black sea and steely, cloudless sky accentuating the protagonists’ misery. Complementing the austere atmosphere is a phantasmal dialogue of the elegiac, evocative score by veterans of Kíla with the imposing soundscape in which the crashing of the waves and the howling of the wind become an uncanny presence.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>11. El Mar / The Sea (Agustí Villaronga, 2000)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguBZ_2Z68dnnr2xYHPlDQfo2R6wxa1KRG6OVaHrWiN0gyt2ZDgco624Qy_xCW69CG-uC_LqgLg0G0F1G1ToNF36huNFTgJyqw8eUT6jlZlxzwPlmsdNoN5bDXwJXT9ak06GG7ymjYEaelx3em7e3NN1m6HyEvOCLS6vT6uvhbirsDmkAYmi84xrqD0/s900/11%20El%20Mar.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="482" data-original-width="900" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguBZ_2Z68dnnr2xYHPlDQfo2R6wxa1KRG6OVaHrWiN0gyt2ZDgco624Qy_xCW69CG-uC_LqgLg0G0F1G1ToNF36huNFTgJyqw8eUT6jlZlxzwPlmsdNoN5bDXwJXT9ak06GG7ymjYEaelx3em7e3NN1m6HyEvOCLS6vT6uvhbirsDmkAYmi84xrqD0/w400-h214/11%20El%20Mar.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></b></div><br />Three friends who suffered a shared childhood trauma reunite in a tuberculosis sanatorium where the ghosts of their past awaken in the atmosphere of omnipresent death and sexual repression. Laced with a myriad of conflicting and/or self-destructing emotions, this ostensibly simple story acts as a psychologically complex character study built around a thorny love triangle, identity issues, and dichotomy of homosexuality and Christianity. Villaronga’s meticulously understated direction and believable performances, particularly from Roger Casamajor and Bruno Bergonzini in their uninhibited big-screen debuts, anchor this darkly poignant drama, its nuances captured in both beautiful cinematography by Jaume Peracaula, and melancholic score by Javier Navarrete.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>12. <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bvN2poGF67I">Ram za sliku moje drage / Frame for the Picture of My Beloved One</a> (Mirza Idrizović, 1968)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJQs8-scZu4GCSR5JA0gwKmrfFzB3ILp96dUm7MIG-xmvaLHgFzWFoU5olSZ5vzEUbYcVVvx5qOkb_z6WV6zmzoEDWCNHpShty2NYY3msPsSOfc_88pOZ2fQHniz4UqBJjm0tiMPEOAHskxGaptyQkEH4vAgVyqKJQ_S2Ems4H1jVv94yH5ku9GGfp/s900/12%20Ram%20za%20sliku%20moje%20drage.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="540" data-original-width="900" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJQs8-scZu4GCSR5JA0gwKmrfFzB3ILp96dUm7MIG-xmvaLHgFzWFoU5olSZ5vzEUbYcVVvx5qOkb_z6WV6zmzoEDWCNHpShty2NYY3msPsSOfc_88pOZ2fQHniz4UqBJjm0tiMPEOAHskxGaptyQkEH4vAgVyqKJQ_S2Ems4H1jVv94yH5ku9GGfp/w400-h240/12%20Ram%20za%20sliku%20moje%20drage.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></b></div><br />Five curious boys are initiated into the world of adults by my namesake Nikola (Zoran Radmilović at his most Belmondo-esque cool) in Mirza Idrizović’s delightful debut which firmly embraces the whims of European modernist cinema and mixes them with local flavors to witty effect, amidst the city suburbia that appears like the ghetto from Pasolini’s <i>‘Accattone’</i>. Making the transition from kid’s play and mischief to talks about sex and first encounter with a prostitute (vampy Dušica Žegarac) as smooth as silk is the synergy of Kornelije Kovač’s jazzy score and Miroljub Dikosavljević’s handsome framing.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>13. Unicorn Wars (Alberto Vázquez, 2022)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWw16d-ezkZjyWcIfkk5nX3GJijLIe2KfZyOxIBlJPAs7m7w_rn3WxSdckUuwtIGrFH0I7HtkM36el3xS1rGrv2134HS1iKNQ8U33pijwlh5LSYpV8qR7a5BIjaYoZRbKiRxCs_HgfBWBTNE4s5PvD_LubEg4tHjIS_Ds3iUvy0aB8ZH1GQAt9827y/s900/13%20Unicorn%20Wars.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="488" data-original-width="900" height="217" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWw16d-ezkZjyWcIfkk5nX3GJijLIe2KfZyOxIBlJPAs7m7w_rn3WxSdckUuwtIGrFH0I7HtkM36el3xS1rGrv2134HS1iKNQ8U33pijwlh5LSYpV8qR7a5BIjaYoZRbKiRxCs_HgfBWBTNE4s5PvD_LubEg4tHjIS_Ds3iUvy0aB8ZH1GQAt9827y/w400-h217/13%20Unicorn%20Wars.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></b></div><br />Inspired – in the author’s own words – by <i>‘Bible’</i>, <i>‘Bambi’</i> and <i>‘Apocalypse Now’</i>, though <i>‘Care Bears’</i> by way of <i>‘Happy Tree Friends’</i> also come to one’s mind, Alberto Vázquez’s sophomore feature operates as a bleak, nihilistic exploration of sibling rivalry, pathological ambition, religious zealotry, authoritarianism, egotism and militarism, making <i>‘Watership Down’</i> look like a Disney flick. Anti-war, anti-fascist and anti-clerical to the bone, this grim fable pulls no punches in its graphic depiction of candy-colored teddy bears engaging in the acts of gory violence, twincest, matricide, cannibalism, and abuse of psychedelic substances extracted from big, juicy rainbow-caterpillars. Brainwashed into the Holy War against unicorns of the Magic Forest, the inherently cuddly creatures are transformed into the instruments of senseless killing, with the last remnants of hope minced and drowned in the puddles of blood. The film’s ‘cute’, Saturday-morning-toon-like aesthetics – boldly subverted (or rather, strongly opposed) by the tale’s content, and complemented by some black humor – offer but a few sighs of relief in a visceral experience comparable to multiple unicorn horn stabs in the stomach. Vázquez’s audacity is nothing short of admirable, and he has gathered a team of talented artists to breathe grotesque life into his oddly, depressingly beautiful vision.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>14. <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kBleGhnxrQE&t=6s">La tecnica e il rito / The Technique and the Rite</a> (Miklós Jancsó, 1972)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVK_2NTXNRdyIsY-Qm8PrZgnm-N1wYk4H-cg-Kx1BPTjNQEGBdbIBNwnv88IartSmZCuK_e-omKXj3ypuWRPLAyrNMsHSusYfwHSFm57Br_P9d49376IRGZ9LRhgRCtYILR13CXvJ66jMHNtYeYkjfGRtQU__bHotXOOORyDAhdke9hAw-OxlHRlTX/s900/14%20La%20tecnica%20e%20il%20rito.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="675" data-original-width="900" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVK_2NTXNRdyIsY-Qm8PrZgnm-N1wYk4H-cg-Kx1BPTjNQEGBdbIBNwnv88IartSmZCuK_e-omKXj3ypuWRPLAyrNMsHSusYfwHSFm57Br_P9d49376IRGZ9LRhgRCtYILR13CXvJ66jMHNtYeYkjfGRtQU__bHotXOOORyDAhdke9hAw-OxlHRlTX/w400-h300/14%20La%20tecnica%20e%20il%20rito.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></b></div><br />History is transmuted into a dream represented as a cinematic ritual in which action is reduced to symbols, and the passing of time is suggested by the camera’s elaborate movements beautifully capturing the ascetic, yet magnificent mise-en-scène. Quite possibly the most peculiar story of Attila the Hun or rather, the analysis of his behavior, as noted in the opening crawl, <i>‘The Technique and the Rite’</i> feels like a test film for Miklós Jancsó’s masterpiece <i>‘Electra, My Love’</i> (1974), with his signature style instantly recognizable in elegant one-takers.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>15. Hon dansade en sommar / One Summer of Happiness (Arne Mattson, 1951)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjotOigu1DyJqCwi2ZAdBkoFE947ofDF9WizX8JbHp-xR6sODCBvjqIsykRnvGigCJnWTyRVrkY832KRIwioG0f3yrobKLotXy7Njq2o-BcFrqjHkZHUHnRKNqSgrHI56W_-9GESk-lkzoBuO99tQCINVXo2KvCO-E7stYBcAGb1y4xHtkRyVOuv5Rb/s900/15%20Hon%20dansade%20en%20sommar.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="660" data-original-width="900" height="294" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjotOigu1DyJqCwi2ZAdBkoFE947ofDF9WizX8JbHp-xR6sODCBvjqIsykRnvGigCJnWTyRVrkY832KRIwioG0f3yrobKLotXy7Njq2o-BcFrqjHkZHUHnRKNqSgrHI56W_-9GESk-lkzoBuO99tQCINVXo2KvCO-E7stYBcAGb1y4xHtkRyVOuv5Rb/w400-h294/15%20Hon%20dansade%20en%20sommar.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></b></div><br />After seeing three films by Arne Mattson, I think it’s safe to claim his work comes across as more accessible than that of his widely recognized compatriot Ingmar Bergman, which by no means diminishes its value. On the surface, <i>‘One Summer of Happiness’</i> is a light romantic / coming-of-age drama with a tragic epilogue (announced in the very opening), and you don’t even have to scratch it too much to notice the clash between the religious conservatism and socialist-minded liberalism painted against the backdrop of urban haughtiness vs. rural straightforwardness. Controversial in its time for one short scene involving the nudity of two young (and handsome) protagonists, Kerstin (Ulla Jacobsson) and Göran (Folke Sundquist), this titillating ode to love is quite tame by today’s standards, its themes still being relevant in many parts of the world. Mattson elicits excellent performances from his entire cast, with John Elfström perfectly embodying hate and faux spirituality in the character of minister, and by virtue of Göran Strindberg’s camera, paints both the beauty and hardships of pastoral life in compelling black and white.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>16. Tokyo Vampire Hotel (Sion Sono, 2017)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE2pv516aNTr4V0rIDMgtiv6Zo5N9qwvpDCaW48MEFMQVYSWZMQJ4XPxOWCktwgkZUSUwNbsX0eyaKhO6gQmkYExWXFwW3SV7syOu9rTtJ5BpXWU6fP4__7jlKnWjSECZb7mLvIp9HEWbDUpLOkFSav9C9m_UaiElOuwVnHm9yRN6Lx3dzJyIIVJmz/s900/16%20Tokyo%20Vampire%20Hotel.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="506" data-original-width="900" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE2pv516aNTr4V0rIDMgtiv6Zo5N9qwvpDCaW48MEFMQVYSWZMQJ4XPxOWCktwgkZUSUwNbsX0eyaKhO6gQmkYExWXFwW3SV7syOu9rTtJ5BpXWU6fP4__7jlKnWjSECZb7mLvIp9HEWbDUpLOkFSav9C9m_UaiElOuwVnHm9yRN6Lx3dzJyIIVJmz/w400-h225/16%20Tokyo%20Vampire%20Hotel.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></b></div><br />At his most unrestrained (read: gleefully anarchic and merrily misanthropic), Sion Sono delivers a hyper-stylized, batshit crazy, unapologetically outré vampire flick in which two clans of bloodsuckers, Draculas and Corvins, fight over a ‘chosen one’ born on the 9th second past 9:09 a.m. (of September 9, I presume) in 1999. The former appear like an ethno-hippie cult living in a Romanian salt mine and fearing the crucifix, whereas the latter run a Tokyo hotel, Requiem, sustained by a ‘princess’ figure whose vagina is an entrance to (or exit from?) a Dantean inferno crowded with self-harming humans. The edifice interior is designed by Takashi Matsuzuka – fresh off <i>‘Antiporno’</i> – so you can expect the outbursts of bright colors both in rooms and hallways that will be sprayed with gallons of blood once the carnage of <i>‘Why Don’t You Play in Hell?’</i> proportions begins. Yes, everything about <i>‘Tokyo Vampire Hotel’</i> – edited from a six and a half hour long series – is defiantly over-the-top, rarely allowing you a breather to decide who to root for, or try to figure out how the locations on a European soil and Asian island are connected. Add to that a shriveled mater familias whose downfall is plotted by her incestuous children in one of a few betrayals saucing up the story, and you have yourself 140 minutes of wild, anime-like eccentricities, as well as a fine proof that action scenes should always be propelled by metal music.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><i><b>SHORT STAND-OUTS</b></i></div></div><p></p><div style="text-align: center;"><i><b>Christmas on Earth (Barbara Rubin, 1964)<br /><br /></b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh67U5nJ7OsxMEIsgQdqNt4bBYiCKV1vFjt4wFqzONvEUWYnZ10t78_oJLTyPanljQ5lcxJMewQ7Hb0c1BdMtYU0-5OXWL9lk3xv2q2x1OH_vsdIDsJzcsgTQ3F9NneOHivPDK1cBMMfONShs59ozyIS43zvGPxnROaDTz_5bBV42tnqyjIFFKgccIj/s1000/Short1%20-%20Christmas%20on%20Earth.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="751" data-original-width="1000" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh67U5nJ7OsxMEIsgQdqNt4bBYiCKV1vFjt4wFqzONvEUWYnZ10t78_oJLTyPanljQ5lcxJMewQ7Hb0c1BdMtYU0-5OXWL9lk3xv2q2x1OH_vsdIDsJzcsgTQ3F9NneOHivPDK1cBMMfONShs59ozyIS43zvGPxnROaDTz_5bBV42tnqyjIFFKgccIj/w400-h300/Short1%20-%20Christmas%20on%20Earth.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div><br /></div><div>Opening with Velvet Underground’s <i>‘Venus in Furs’</i> and featuring Little Willie John’s <i>‘Fever’</i> on a diverse, psychedelic pop-rock soundtrack that nowadays operates like a groovy time-capsule, Barbara Rubin’s first and only completed film is, hands down, one of the most transgressive debuts, its alternative title betraying the provocative contents. Dreamily shot on a 16mm camera lent by Jonas Mekas, and entirely composed of tinted, frame-within-frame overlays, it beautifully captures the wild spirit of sexual revolution in a series of erotic performances almost ritualistic in their genital celebration. What Rubin (only 17 at the time!) achieves is transcending the carnal nature of her work, with extreme close-ups of both male and female reproductive organs often transformed into abstract backgrounds for the acts of free love.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DpefYPLH67A">Hidari</a> (Masashi Kawamura, 2023)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGdCRRpc9GSzqiI5n0e1BciTHSCG7G1vE1sklLrTd_V-7GrqPfeRIPCZEnvH2JcL3WdQ-iQXq23WStgi8UUZASSy3Bn9regoIFEeepsgcV8m6TAI6hXDKvrHpD6wKDVWNN-Rd6BDhED4i0lidpAHQ3VoUKRAav3NEl4Pnymm1kThXKXECb4XuONS7Q/s1920/Short2%20-%20Hidari.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="816" data-original-width="1920" height="170" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGdCRRpc9GSzqiI5n0e1BciTHSCG7G1vE1sklLrTd_V-7GrqPfeRIPCZEnvH2JcL3WdQ-iQXq23WStgi8UUZASSy3Bn9regoIFEeepsgcV8m6TAI6hXDKvrHpD6wKDVWNN-Rd6BDhED4i0lidpAHQ3VoUKRAav3NEl4Pnymm1kThXKXECb4XuONS7Q/w400-h170/Short2%20-%20Hidari.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></b></div><div><br /></div><div>A proof-of-concept for a feature-length film, <i>‘Hidari’</i> is a mighty impressive piece of stop-motion animation which utilizes beautiful wooden carved puppets – inspired by the work of legendary (possibly fictitious) Edo-era artist Jingorō Hidari – in a spellbinding fighting choreography captured by some expert camerawork. If you’re a fan of Samurai lore, I can guarantee that you will be left wanting more!<br /></div></div></div>Nikola Gocićhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10802422474421337350noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3195252471961511941.post-84724561445317281642023-03-01T10:35:00.000+01:002023-03-01T10:35:26.047+01:00Best Premiere Viewings of February 2023<p style="text-align: center;"><b><i>1. Ilektra / Electra (Michael Cacoyannis, 1962)<br /></i></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjToTqOOFJmlLvXsMehMcFGx9PoLuSM1YVMSlbh60rsQmMLZLiMvxiV8BGnLbzw6b3ijCYtmY8RBlHNGGBCRfcZnlMGOaSCVxf9Bdyku97ELruIaugNaNrS9rQV5pfU_X3Lg0J4LKT7vHIGohWKaEB2yiFHED8BygQUQ3DQM_pdcdkK8ernA-Vm5s62/s800/01%20Electra.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="582" data-original-width="800" height="291" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjToTqOOFJmlLvXsMehMcFGx9PoLuSM1YVMSlbh60rsQmMLZLiMvxiV8BGnLbzw6b3ijCYtmY8RBlHNGGBCRfcZnlMGOaSCVxf9Bdyku97ELruIaugNaNrS9rQV5pfU_X3Lg0J4LKT7vHIGohWKaEB2yiFHED8BygQUQ3DQM_pdcdkK8ernA-Vm5s62/w400-h291/01%20Electra.jpg" width="400" /></a></b></div><p></p><p style="text-align: justify;">If beauty (in the eye of the beholder) could kill, this adaptation of Euripedes’s tragedy would be the death of me. The first five minutes alone are the masterclass in visual storytelling, with Walter Lassally’s eloquent B&W cinematography, and Cacoyannis’s absolute control over the cast’s tiniest expressions and slightest of gestures capturing the tension that leads to Agamemnon’s death in the hands of his wife Clytemnestra and her lover Aegisthus. Intensifying the overwhelming power of imagery is the dramatic score by the legendary Mikis Theodorakis who harkens back to the ancient past through the solemn dialogue between classical and traditional music. The (now largely forgotten) art of blocking is brought to breathtaking perfection, elevating Irene Papas’s noble histrionics in the role of the titular anti-heroine whose pain, sorrow and burning desire for revenge engulf the rugged landscape under the silent sky. <i>‘Electra’</i> is so stunning, it hurts to the point of filling your eyes with tears.</p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><i>2. Ďáblova past / The Devil’s Trap (František Vláčil, 1962)<br /></i></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikx9KMRl24iZ0XWv1DC8eKaxpbdS8ffAW81-_pUKkrIONgTgZ2K5CWnWVmd23rjuGwohoNGPBsfMaxMRvspEka_oalEbKCyPTs3dYfiociJ93gzwFVcDBJJI1_kP483dJZ_71Y9bIC2JdGR2oXmF3_J7NozRrsle3XzMaaWkSY5pVIfH2zSZp7kvnw/s800/02%20Dablova%20past.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="585" data-original-width="800" height="293" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikx9KMRl24iZ0XWv1DC8eKaxpbdS8ffAW81-_pUKkrIONgTgZ2K5CWnWVmd23rjuGwohoNGPBsfMaxMRvspEka_oalEbKCyPTs3dYfiociJ93gzwFVcDBJJI1_kP483dJZ_71Y9bIC2JdGR2oXmF3_J7NozRrsle3XzMaaWkSY5pVIfH2zSZp7kvnw/w400-h293/02%20Dablova%20past.jpg" width="400" /></a></b></div><p></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><i>‘The Devil’s Trap’</i> opens with an awe-inspiring extreme wide shot that juxtaposes a miniscule human figure against an armless crucifix statue ominously towered over the barren landscape, as the spectral vocalization worthy of a gothic horror sneaks under your skin, underlining the transcendental nature of that first image. Following it is a virtually uninterrupted succession of masterfully composed frames that – imbued with meaning, and backed by Zdeněk Liška’s moodily haunting score – capture the invisible, id est the tension between superstition/religion and reason/research embodied, respectively, by the chaplain and the miller who’s rumored to be collaborating with the Devil himself. The entire cast gives strong performances, their movement in the beautiful mise en scène synchronized with the elegantly choreographed camerawork by DP Rudolf Milič. There’s a grim folk/fairy tale-like quality to the story, particularly towards the end, with the supernatural elements remaining hidden or rather, ambiguous, and young love posing as an extra light on the path to the liberation from reactionary ideas...</p><div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>3. Bruges-La-Morte (Ronald Chase, 1978)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkFxA9bHCtM5SycvXspmLlrjVSAubxgWWV6fwRezpBpsAtS-z237LNZtV64iul1qHz2QoZfrQ5IK1EokvPtvpJnNPynBH3h851BpRBjUygHr-whnzLTs_GcjLhYUUpT12XmLTZ5gkIcKX-yiMvOKp7HeTurm-_TaFuXOyr1B7HqwOFRSKqL_0UV2xB/s800/03%20Bruges-La-Morte.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="608" data-original-width="800" height="304" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkFxA9bHCtM5SycvXspmLlrjVSAubxgWWV6fwRezpBpsAtS-z237LNZtV64iul1qHz2QoZfrQ5IK1EokvPtvpJnNPynBH3h851BpRBjUygHr-whnzLTs_GcjLhYUUpT12XmLTZ5gkIcKX-yiMvOKp7HeTurm-_TaFuXOyr1B7HqwOFRSKqL_0UV2xB/w400-h304/03%20Bruges-La-Morte.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">In a delirious and highly POEtic psychological drama delicately laced with gothic horror undertones, Ronald Chase effectively amalgamates the lavish Victorian setting, dreamily mesmerizing camerawork, haunting sound design, eerily ambient score, and progressively disorienting narrative to establish a phantasmal atmosphere so thick that you can cut it with a knife. A darkly romanticized depiction of mourning over the death of a beloved one, <i>‘Bruges-La-Morte’</i> is told from the unreliable perspective of its (anti?) hero whose dance with the ghosts of the past puts a robe of delusions on his reality. Awakening from the nightmare may be just another trick of his faltering mind... <br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Available on the author</i><span style="text-align: justify;">’</span><i>s official Vimeo channel, <b><a href="https://vimeo.com/412529232">HERE</a></b>.</i></div></div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>4. La femme bourreau / A Woman Kills (Jean-Denis Bonan, 1968)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDmO74w0dfUnH7iC0o4r_umKi5Ihq6yguWanbXLLr5Kkak6CW0Dw8eE0G9Pd4fPoLgNFeCV_EfWIqPiRstbkBoJ8RMxPyloVPzpsTfyHWE4UmYL5xgrjFHoO8iKJ9loV5qBBnLof3QBzH5M80ns-hoVIRBXPWdw91hkOaMBb68-3-d4a2teiALmQgr/s800/04%20La%20femme%20bourreau.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDmO74w0dfUnH7iC0o4r_umKi5Ihq6yguWanbXLLr5Kkak6CW0Dw8eE0G9Pd4fPoLgNFeCV_EfWIqPiRstbkBoJ8RMxPyloVPzpsTfyHWE4UmYL5xgrjFHoO8iKJ9loV5qBBnLof3QBzH5M80ns-hoVIRBXPWdw91hkOaMBb68-3-d4a2teiALmQgr/w400-h300/04%20La%20femme%20bourreau.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">If you’re a fan of gialli, Godard, neo-noir, <i>‘Dressed to Kill’</i>, dizzying POV takes, twisted camera angles, cacophonous music scores, disorienting chase sequences, the atmosphere of uneasiness, and biting social commentary thrown in for good measure, it’s about time you check out Jean-Denis Bonan’s feature debut – an obscure New Wave gem that was reportedly lost for 40 years.</div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>5. The Thief of Bagdad (Michael Powell, Ludwig Berger & Tim Whelan, 1940)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiOTaB2aoJcM0Tr6mwVrcEoEJcgmPYuCw630OnuOZTQXgfGlzcXcBdfGECpR0YdJ8e83fIVVeo7CtZQ5MmnoRBvTeo5ZWsyt3FatuQu-Wiga33KrXdyUTfhf2wo002t1As0EfjuOkRljyAbucPJCwps5ZZ2K0FSTl6OwQV7WnZnpjRHtDL6KGIckGk/s800/05%20The%20Thief%20of%20Bagdad.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="596" data-original-width="800" height="297" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiOTaB2aoJcM0Tr6mwVrcEoEJcgmPYuCw630OnuOZTQXgfGlzcXcBdfGECpR0YdJ8e83fIVVeo7CtZQ5MmnoRBvTeo5ZWsyt3FatuQu-Wiga33KrXdyUTfhf2wo002t1As0EfjuOkRljyAbucPJCwps5ZZ2K0FSTl6OwQV7WnZnpjRHtDL6KGIckGk/w400-h297/05%20The%20Thief%20of%20Bagdad.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: justify;">Considering the troubled production which involves the beginning of the WWII, creative disagreements and another three uncredited directors, this version of <i>‘The Thief of Bagdad’</i> feels almost as magical as Raoul Walsh’s 1924 feature starring Douglas Fairbanks. Had I seen it as a kid, its dazzling color palette and fascinating set pieces, such as the battle with a giant spider inside the goddess statue, or the dance of six-handed ‘silver maid’ that probably inspired Ray Harryhausen’s Kali for <i>‘The Golden Voyage of Sinbad’</i> (1974), would’ve certainly shaped one of the most cherished cine-memories of my childhood. And for that reason alone, I just can’t find any major flaws – it is one of the most ravishing (and influential) fantasies ever to hit the silver screen.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>6. Nije bilo uzalud / It Was Not in Vain (Nikola Tanhofer, 1957)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCn3H3a4kjgIKXTNzwZ671kd5uU1A-DU58oPNupk2Jozjdqk3HAeVFUIEJOHUjf_KqTX0vlF0FjQYJ21JnjKIOeUrFQ-l03SA91OLKk1JXseejSdJPO0-5y5kn2vTRt6p1boBWuq81a26UQoWiLDRPMDw0AhSfOHD2VfL1wFDvnszqaRR3s2w50FIO/s800/06%20Nije%20bilo%20uzalud.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="587" data-original-width="800" height="294" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCn3H3a4kjgIKXTNzwZ671kd5uU1A-DU58oPNupk2Jozjdqk3HAeVFUIEJOHUjf_KqTX0vlF0FjQYJ21JnjKIOeUrFQ-l03SA91OLKk1JXseejSdJPO0-5y5kn2vTRt6p1boBWuq81a26UQoWiLDRPMDw0AhSfOHD2VfL1wFDvnszqaRR3s2w50FIO/w400-h294/06%20Nije%20bilo%20uzalud.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The fascinating directorial debut by Nikola Tanhofer (1926-1998) – considered one of the best Croatian filmmakers – blends social drama and rural gothic (with elements of crime thriller) to captivating effect, its story built around the clash between science and superstition. Set in the (fictitious?) village of Krnje in the proximity of Baranja swamps contributing to the eeriness that permeates the film’s dense atmosphere, it sees the practice of an enthusiastic physician, Jure, challenged and often thwarted by provincial mentality and local witch doctor, Čarka, whose herbs and spells are trusted more than his advices and medications. What makes this narrative as relevant as decades ago is the introduction of vaccine as the symbol of progress, and we all know very well that you don’t have to wander into a remote area of Balkan for a chance meeting with an anti-vaxxer. The people’s ignorant resistance on one side and Jure’s passionate dedication to his call on the other create a psychological tension reflected in the hero’s slightly deteriorating mental health, as well as in Slavko Zalar’s expressive lensing, particularly in the great use of deep focuses and noirish lighting, admirably complemented by Milo Cipra’s soaring score that wouldn’t feel out of place in a Hollywood flick of the time. </div></div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>7. Tiere / Animals (Greg Zglinski, 2017)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNMVDIGkWQ_OODvUWLePLDrhUEMZIBwwsg2j_K047gtZZnLqoHRi4vhyjjeNOd-CqZ40KrvLK73NBUzvsuj5v8VQYfmcQWT15wck0OuIlliqV3989bCnowiO0hTXdUcxr6u2-6cM_FwUabg8BBbfaJmk_W7SZ2bCuGcgUgA4XvtsKjX00cvpNmBN0m/s800/07%20Tiere.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="335" data-original-width="800" height="168" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNMVDIGkWQ_OODvUWLePLDrhUEMZIBwwsg2j_K047gtZZnLqoHRi4vhyjjeNOd-CqZ40KrvLK73NBUzvsuj5v8VQYfmcQWT15wck0OuIlliqV3989bCnowiO0hTXdUcxr6u2-6cM_FwUabg8BBbfaJmk_W7SZ2bCuGcgUgA4XvtsKjX00cvpNmBN0m/w400-h168/07%20Tiere.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: justify;">Taking cues from Bergman, Polanski and Lynch, Greg Zglinski delivers a mind-bending psychological drama / thriller that questions identities, realities and even a possibility of alternate dimensions through the prism of a dysfunctional relationship. Structured like an Escher’s artwork of impossible objects, perspectives and geometries, it keeps branching into multiple subplots that parallel and/or collide with each other, as well as pulling the rug from under your feet until you can’t tell what’s imaginary, and from whose point of view the nightmare unfolds. Whatever the solution to the mystery may be (and I have a feeling that only a black talking cat knows the answer), <i>‘Animals’</i> is an intriguing cine-puzzle, sharply directed, framed with a keen eye, and tightly edited, with brooding score complementing the dark and twisty mood.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>8. Yek Etefagh sadeh / A Simple Event (Sohrab Shahid Saless, 1974)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbC7M3L3nl458RqTt7JSs69NYe2I-flptVztwEEjnXWkCx-_8w5tRccpfUATJs5TUxKUpXBoR1RX9Mh6aqLL83AGC9zCcZrluOCIQyCb1DrvpCitvi8B94-U9fvDNYifWBguZWH0QCXNUatHdh-ZtWseZ_C-hW1XXpP6_rwtFP1U8Qn0FEr6ojzIC_/s800/08%20Yek%20Etefagh%20sadeh.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbC7M3L3nl458RqTt7JSs69NYe2I-flptVztwEEjnXWkCx-_8w5tRccpfUATJs5TUxKUpXBoR1RX9Mh6aqLL83AGC9zCcZrluOCIQyCb1DrvpCitvi8B94-U9fvDNYifWBguZWH0QCXNUatHdh-ZtWseZ_C-hW1XXpP6_rwtFP1U8Qn0FEr6ojzIC_/w400-h300/08%20Yek%20Etefagh%20sadeh.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: justify;">Unfolding at a leisurely pace that corresponds with the rhythm of a young protagonist’s everyday routine, <i>‘A Simple Event’</i> portrays a dry slice of a boy’s life in a coastal town on the north of Iran. The film’s narrative minimalism – an unsentimental, matter-of-fact observation of struggling with, or rather accepting of poverty – translates into the thoughtfully framed imagery of raw poetry and austere beauty, channeling the apathy of the universe. The hardened unity of desaturated colors, sparse dialogue, almost complete absence of music, and Bressonian performances from the non-professional cast operates like a pathos-free elegy in which even mourning is a luxury.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>9. Sherekilebi / The Eccentrics (Eldar Shengelaia, 1974)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrsNIiwn61L_gi_KWOlDJt47iWDCSePissVsGuy5pKRNH8xQdmeoVz2pO3i2_Az05R83LkVC3wk7Tcyie1IznfQjnXz8XiqA2w_AjphoJlkfE6xXiVIQsuqhwe34gG0DyvKYnNhX6e4B9SHRuT7JJFGWgDTlfBKXibqiz_dCY84mXAER3GQ-UqFF-5/s800/09%20Sherekilebi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="586" data-original-width="800" height="293" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrsNIiwn61L_gi_KWOlDJt47iWDCSePissVsGuy5pKRNH8xQdmeoVz2pO3i2_Az05R83LkVC3wk7Tcyie1IznfQjnXz8XiqA2w_AjphoJlkfE6xXiVIQsuqhwe34gG0DyvKYnNhX6e4B9SHRuT7JJFGWgDTlfBKXibqiz_dCY84mXAER3GQ-UqFF-5/w400-h293/09%20Sherekilebi.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">On the way to find the means of repaying his recently deceased father’s debts, orphaned Ertaozi ends up in a prison where he meets a quirky, da Vinci look-alike inventor Qristepore, and after breaking free, the duo comes up with a flying contraption. The events leading to their chance meeting, as well as those surrounding the luckiest of escapes and construction of the strange machine are presented in the form of a delightful farce that must be even funnier for viewers familiar with the Georgian culture. Much of the humor stems from the mockery of authorities and officials (the priest, the police, the doctor), so I wouldn’t be surprised if I learned that the film had been banned for many years. What leaves a lasting impression, however, is the surrealist finale in which the aircraft so shaky and ramshackle that it barely stands on the ground actually starts flying, with no use of rear projections or any obvious special effects. Shown from various angles, this beautiful illusion alone is enough to seek out this gem of classic Georgian cinema.</div></div></div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>10. Lulu (Ronald Chase, 1978)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvKb_W7t5zP8ZjO69YXmgGjeKb-Uzg__tSy4p7kU2WcNmh81ozko0PCbkwRrim_wNGY1HDPcnHiT7aIFDYq_sZHGX7RPat9kibvn780kEJsKqeL9d_w2w1i_LY6gUoVlIQdHbK_rWgNd1O0RUHq_1k_WAQqN36XtwhKfOaYlyt6ly_HhLl05xqWKX1/s800/10%20Lulu.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="608" data-original-width="800" height="304" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvKb_W7t5zP8ZjO69YXmgGjeKb-Uzg__tSy4p7kU2WcNmh81ozko0PCbkwRrim_wNGY1HDPcnHiT7aIFDYq_sZHGX7RPat9kibvn780kEJsKqeL9d_w2w1i_LY6gUoVlIQdHbK_rWgNd1O0RUHq_1k_WAQqN36XtwhKfOaYlyt6ly_HhLl05xqWKX1/w400-h304/10%20Lulu.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">(read my short review <i><b><a href="http://ngbooart.blogspot.com/2023/02/lulu-ronald-chase-1978.html">HERE</a></b></i>)<br /><br />Watch it at <i><b><a href="https://vimeo.com/505901362">Vimeo</a></b></i>.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><b>11. Johnny Gunman (Art Ford, 1957)<br /><br /></b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpqDROxA2g1ZH7x8UcPoTZenzNT04e_WHs7tlh8H_m4wj84E9DmVUWfjzFoSc6GbUM5CqCBLDPVrKka7CzMHxy4UwrOrV0lpXsjLoMrlBZRWCQZrJlVsNCX4Wx0syOy4j10GWWzRhc9dezi4zqVCxwYuru4geQANLyFBIilneOBErI8cXx9jM357w6/s800/11%20Johnny%20Gunman.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpqDROxA2g1ZH7x8UcPoTZenzNT04e_WHs7tlh8H_m4wj84E9DmVUWfjzFoSc6GbUM5CqCBLDPVrKka7CzMHxy4UwrOrV0lpXsjLoMrlBZRWCQZrJlVsNCX4Wx0syOy4j10GWWzRhc9dezi4zqVCxwYuru4geQANLyFBIilneOBErI8cXx9jM357w6/w400-h300/11%20Johnny%20Gunman.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">A sole directorial credit of radio station DJ turned filmmaker Art Ford (1921-2006), <i>‘Johnny Gunman’</i> is an indie / low-budget crime drama whose charm derives from its ‘naïveté’ and sincerity which marks not only the author’s writing and direction, but also the two leading performances of Martin Brooks as laid-back gangster Johnny G. and Ann Donaldson as an aspiring writer nicknamed Coffee. The unlikely romance that blossoms between these characters – as delightfully stereotypical as ‘bad boy’ and ‘good girl’ get – is one of the main reasons the reality of the story appears somewhat dreamlike or rather, intrinsically filmic, keeping all the cogs of your ‘suspension of disbelief’ mechanism well-oiled. Part pulp noir, and part cautionary tale, the film isn’t without its share of continuity goofs and other flaws, and yet, it comes across as a compelling labor of love, with some nifty B&W shots of NY nightlife and evocative score that ranges from jazzy to (melo)dramatic supporting Ford’s vision.</div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>12. Neugdaesanyang / Project Wolf Hunting (Hong-sun Kim, 2022)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz6UhbQvjpLU9bR12l-5Pe9luXcfk34DMJEm0dQGnpnrxrksoSoc5HodNmIF68J11nwMCzW2q2oGQfM-PU24xmpbA5b9S6B1cFZEwrVLuiH2obXhxPFWRFLUZyjN1TMHJk_uJEi-B8tnqZTUkOC7_eUYDOOp_zbh_NWKoY12A9zTJPSKgqznzOgK48/s800/12%20Project%20Wolf%20Hunting.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="335" data-original-width="800" height="168" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz6UhbQvjpLU9bR12l-5Pe9luXcfk34DMJEm0dQGnpnrxrksoSoc5HodNmIF68J11nwMCzW2q2oGQfM-PU24xmpbA5b9S6B1cFZEwrVLuiH2obXhxPFWRFLUZyjN1TMHJk_uJEi-B8tnqZTUkOC7_eUYDOOp_zbh_NWKoY12A9zTJPSKgqznzOgK48/w400-h168/12%20Project%20Wolf%20Hunting.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Hong-sun Kim’s previous film – possession horror <i>‘Metamorphosis’</i> – has pretty much faded from my memory, but his latest offering won’t be nearly as easy to forget. A self-consciously pulpy, not to mention excessive combination of action and splatter (with a capital, dark-red S), <i>‘Project Wolf Hunting’</i> takes a ship hijack thriller premise, adds some <i>‘Universal Soldier’</i> elements, and turns it into a blood-soaked survival game that brings to mind Rob Jabbaz’s 2021 shocker <i>‘The Sadness’</i>. Gallons and gallons of vital fluid paint the walls, floors, ceilings and peripherals of a freighter Titan in handsomely framed and dazzlingly color-graded compositions, as limbs are ripped, chests are pummeled and punctured, heads are smashed with a hammer, and knife stabs are followed by anime-style ‘geysers’, even before a Frankensteinian superhuman stowaway awakes from his hibernation. This gleefully nihilist, decidedly animalistic symphony of violence sees a great majority of (psychopathic) characters as nothing but cannon fodder, with a couple of villains you just love to hate stealing the spotlight, and a silent-type hero being saved for the grand finale which leaves room for a sequel... </div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>13. Sharper (Benjamin Caron, 2023)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCYOXWUoIgoPQ-BcKgBseWvFA9xsq-aT2YeRVKfYj4KTRaU4LktlBMZJK--n3sddhISy44kUm_6fIkHuRNynfSSzgD1DoU46OUTqS8weIe66hiSPCbbGYeeT5MFz12XJ_jd_rnwR7nXchqz0n9wasd30xuQQcAAq8rf5k-kxXDUZ88pmGMZEnqTLN1/s800/13%20Sharper.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="335" data-original-width="800" height="168" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCYOXWUoIgoPQ-BcKgBseWvFA9xsq-aT2YeRVKfYj4KTRaU4LktlBMZJK--n3sddhISy44kUm_6fIkHuRNynfSSzgD1DoU46OUTqS8weIe66hiSPCbbGYeeT5MFz12XJ_jd_rnwR7nXchqz0n9wasd30xuQQcAAq8rf5k-kxXDUZ88pmGMZEnqTLN1/w400-h168/13%20Sharper.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i><br /></i></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>“You can’t cheat an honest man, right?”</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Benjamin Caron’s first big-screen outing underscores the deceptive nature of cinema, as well as its reliance on its own history. His (anti)heroes are con artists – brilliant ones at that – and they are portrayed by the cast who knows exactly what they’re doing which is making the viewer believe their dirty little swindling schemes. Written with wit, these characters never reveal their true selves, and honesty is reserved for their ‘victims’ until the final and most predictable of many twists in the story told in non-linear chapters. It is not a revelatory experience that Caron & Co. provide, yet it is a refreshing and entertaining one, elevated by the sleek direction, Charlotte Bruus Christensen’s stylish cinematography and Kevin Thompson’s classy production design. </div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>14. Μια Νύχτα στο Θέατρο / A Night at the Theater (Sotiris Stamatis, 2022)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh4P98xDPM8eKUyjBltA83EF5-W26GFXCo7ry4yHuNPHe0j0z6RXgoksLatHVd1XNqoK1xtCTOrgsrjxr9MmibN-kJKaNLu1nGQAojHC0fFh1tXSaoqYvJ-YO74to-rIusrZWpdSwqqp5dCBBquLNGaFwd9pByJlST02zFM2fRMmZBUaVXwOY19tKS/s800/14%20A%20Night%20at%20the%20Theater.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="604" data-original-width="800" height="303" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh4P98xDPM8eKUyjBltA83EF5-W26GFXCo7ry4yHuNPHe0j0z6RXgoksLatHVd1XNqoK1xtCTOrgsrjxr9MmibN-kJKaNLu1nGQAojHC0fFh1tXSaoqYvJ-YO74to-rIusrZWpdSwqqp5dCBBquLNGaFwd9pByJlST02zFM2fRMmZBUaVXwOY19tKS/w400-h303/14%20A%20Night%20at%20the%20Theater.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Small or rather, minimalist in scope, but ambitious in its playful juggling with the plethora of themes, Sotiris Stamatis’s feature debut comes across as a politically charged arthouse drama heavily relying upon leading (and sole) performances. Thankfully, both Rea Samaropoulou and Andreas Konstantinou are up to the task of pulling you in and keeping your attention on a decidedly meandering, dialogue-propelled narrative, as they portray the characters whose mythologically grandiose names – Athena and Odysseus – anticipate their transformation. Spending a night at a closed theater, as the title clearly indicates, the duo faces a coup d’état crisis in alternative present-day Greece, and simultaneously, their own set of issues that plunges them into a state of confusion – a reflection of chaos raging outside. Their oft-heated conversations on politics, cinema, literature, historical hysteria, and much more betray the author struggling to find his place in the mad world, all the while making the most of the limited setting, with cinematographer Peter Salapatas as his right-hand man. </div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>15. Faces of Anne (Kongdej Jaturanrasamee & Rasiguet Sookkarn, 2022)<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT11q5aa5wthhGIoNRRxHJQxXjNA40UJioDuN3XKNjldLxMB3vq7SKuz4wbjhueBPQ9DVO-njO-vR2mrT3GI5hU06ivuv3wDrvIePAoSM81yaiABIDpe-WoJiKCS5z0NQKoPqaA2HCxLOPaNJEccREzxvnEsBxreQEGNyp8gJAvl-BBRXcZfOAzQAl/s800/15%20Faces%20of%20Anne.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="335" data-original-width="800" height="168" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT11q5aa5wthhGIoNRRxHJQxXjNA40UJioDuN3XKNjldLxMB3vq7SKuz4wbjhueBPQ9DVO-njO-vR2mrT3GI5hU06ivuv3wDrvIePAoSM81yaiABIDpe-WoJiKCS5z0NQKoPqaA2HCxLOPaNJEccREzxvnEsBxreQEGNyp8gJAvl-BBRXcZfOAzQAl/w400-h168/15%20Faces%20of%20Anne.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">One of those ‘the less you know, the more you’ll enjoy’ kind of films, <i>‘Faces of Anne’</i> explores identity crisis (and depression) in a mind-bending blend of psychological thriller and slasher, utilizing an extensive palette of ‘tricks’, from hints provided through the details in production design, to red (meta)herrings, to depictions of the same event from different perspectives, in order to keep you as disoriented as the extremely vulnerable heroine(s) locked in a strange institution where all the inmates’ rooms look (almost) the same. Although it is intended for the ‘young adult’ audience, it will surely reach the older demographic who enjoy stubbornly ambiguous cine-puzzles with vague resolutions. The co-direction of Kongdej Jaturanrasamee & Rasiguet Sookkarn (whose previous offerings I’m not familiar with) is coherent, despite the story’s twisty nature, with cinematographer Boonyanuch Kraithong capturing some dark corners of the subconscious, and editorial duo of Harin Paesongthai and Nisarat Meechok cutting through nightmarish reality of Anne (played by 20 actresses!) with aplomb.</div></div>Nikola Gocićhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10802422474421337350noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3195252471961511941.post-40247371752365387342023-02-28T18:22:00.002+01:002023-02-28T18:22:54.567+01:00Junkyard / Pages 14-20<p style="text-align: center;"> A delirium of reality-dissolving non-sequiturs continues...</p><p style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgseQcZv0xHHvWEnGYuZ9Rb8YBaQzgp0HGo1MwKae7LWaGQNI6kxwJceYw2yO9uUYCbIiEzeBpxxRL1-N6DhgdcQnVjqATQX4tYq07XyH0KxlAn2Nug2FgYecLWVZU3pwYiVPknif1gQWZKJlIQ1Vq6HahKmK51oYksvrsAkjaJlqoxuY39qXasRz7C" style="margin-left: 1em; 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