Best Premiere Viewings of October 2026

(The October list is unranked, sorted in chrono-alphabetical order.)

1. Gilda (Charles Vidor, 1946)

In the titular role that can be viewed as the glamorous embodiment of queer desire, Rita Hayworth sparkles even brighter than Jean Louis’ beautiful, tailored-to-a-T gowns, effortlessly outshining not only her partners, but the film itself – a dazzling blend of silky noir and classy romantic melodrama. The central love triangle between Gilda, her ex-lover Johnny Farrell (Glenn Ford), and the current husband, Ballin Mundson (George Macready) may actually be all about the yearning of the two men for each other, with plenty of verbal and visual hints to support the assumption.

From Johnny’s inaugural monologue in which he admits that he ‘knows the American sailors’ and the very first, cruising-like encounter with Ballin, to pretty much every scene in which Gilda ‘separates’ them while burning like a living flame of passion, the story simmers with gay innuendo; its happy end – atypical for the genre – standing in for Johnny’s acceptance of his homosexuality, and freedom from the possessive partner. But, whether you perceive it in that way or not, it is virtually impossible not to fall for the great many of the feature’s qualities – the flamboyant hair-flip introduction of Hayworth, Goosson & Polglase’s most elegant art direction, Rudolph Maté’s eloquent B&W cinematography, and delightful comic relief, largely by the courtesy of Steven Geray’s supporting character, just to name a few.

2. North by Northwest (Alfred Hitchcock, 1959)

A perfect compromise between art and entertainment, North by Northwest feels like watching a history of (playful) spy thrillers (and some romantic comedies) that would follow in its footsteps, none of which has all of its qualities – a stellar cast portraying colorful characters, a mischievously brilliant screenplay brimming with double entendres, and an effortless cultivation of suspense that sees its master at the top of the game, with his frequent collaborators – cinematographer Robert Burks, production designer Robert F. Boyle, editor George Tomasini and composer Bernard Herrmann – all acting as an irreplaceable right-hand man.

3. Beat Girl (Edmond T. Gréville, 1960)

I could’ve sworn that Gillian Hills was in her early 20s when the film was made, but I would’ve been very wrong, because she was actually only 16, just like her rebellious heroine, Jennifer (hence the obvious body double in a couple of scenes). Hanging out with cool ‘cats’ and ‘chicks’ in a suitably named ‘Off Beat Café’, she is an impulsive art-school drop-out who brushes-off any attempt of her architect father (David Farrar of Black Narcissus fame) and young French stepmother (Noëlle Adam) to keep her ‘square’. However, her angst-fueled search for identity comes with peril – embodied by a suave strip-joint owner played by the great Christopher Lee – especially when she starts digging dirt from her new mommy’s not-so-shiny past. It all comes in a pulpy or rather, subtly sleazy yet beautifully photographed teensploitation package that sees slim Oliver Reed in one of his early credited roles jiving along Hills to John Barry and His Orchestra’s catchy theme that blends jazz, twist and rock’n’roll to dance floor-inviting effect. You may also recognize his ethereal co-star Shirley Anne Field from Joseph Losey’s superb genre-blender The Damned that would come out in 1962. Not the ‘most’ of features, even within the domain of cultural and generational clash, but it is a fun and sassy one.

4. Les Perses / The Persians (Jean Prat, 1961)

“Even in our deepest of sorrows, every day offers us a little joy. Let it enter your hearts. For death forever repeals the value of riches.”

Based on the only surviving part of Aeschylus’ trilogy of tragedies, The Persians recounts the aftermath of Xerxes’ defeat in the naval battle at Salamis (480 BC), from the losers’ perspective provided by the elders of Susa, and the Queen Mother Atossa. The son of Darius the Great (whose ghost is invoked later in the story), Xerxes is initially celebrated as ‘the dragon with the fiery gaze’ and ‘the son of the golden rain’, only to be called ‘the madman’, ‘the wretch’ and ‘the most impetuous’ of sons, once the news of his failed invasion of Athens reaches the court.

The collective sorrow for many human losses, regardless of nationality, and the spiritual decline caused by the ruler’s hubris and destructive ambition are addressed and explored – in their timelessness – through the prism of ancient times evoked through the stylized setting and costumes inspired by bas-reliefs of Persepolis. Jean Prat directs with a stark, unflinching formal rigor, and an incredible sense of mise en scène, guiding his actors as if he were a hypnotist; their trance-like histrionics wholly attuned to the solemn atmosphere further emphasized by Jacques Lemare’s striking B&W cinematography and Jean Prodromidès’ sublimely dramatic score comparable to Orff and Stravinsky. Working within the limits of TV production, Prat & Co. achieve some quite impressive results.

5. Sult / Hunger (Henning Carlsen, 1966)

There is nothing attractive about poverty, nor romantic about a starving artist (writer, in this particular case), and yet, Hunger is one of the most beautifully shot films, simultaneously making you utterly impressed by its stark B&W imagery, and very uncomfortable, as if you’re experiencing the protagonist’s misery firsthand. Adding to the uneasiness – in equal measures visceral, cerebral and lyrical – is Per Oscarsson’s slim, heavily weathered appearance, his super-weird body language, and superlative, bitterly humorous line delivery that altogether bring to downtrodden life a character, Pontus, swaying on the brink of existence, yet managing to maintain his humanity and (the last remnants of) dignity. Too proud to admit that he is in a desperate need of help, Pontus often wears a courteous smile, renouncing his last dime in favor of the more disadvantaged, as he roams the streets of Victorian Christiania (now, Oslo), his trajectory taking the shape of a spiral, one that leads straight down to madness. Given the extremely generous amount of screen time, he has a strong hold on the viewer who feels as if trapped in a Dostoevskian limbo that borders with a Kafkaesque maze of the absurd, although it is not bureaucracy but one’s own doing that sets the nightmare in motion...

(The film is based on the eponymous novel by the controversial Norwegian Nobelist Knut Hamsun.)

6. Nippon yôkaiden – Satori / A Japanese Demon (Yōichi Higashi, 1973)

An aquarium employee, Aya Komakura (Mako Midori), believes that her boyfriend died by the hand of a mind-reading demon, Satori (Hatsuo Yamaya), but she is not the only one seeing him. Her initially sceptic psychiatrist (Kei Satō of Onibaba and Kwaidan fame), and new love interest, enigmatic vagabond Taro (Jirō Kawarazaki), also come into contact with the entity. However, writer/director Yōichi Higashi doesn’t seem to be interested in the horror potential his summoning brings, opting instead for some sort of a psycho-drama rooted in magical realism, reflecting on human condition within the soci(et)al context of the time.

An all-around oddity, A Japanese Demon rests on excellent performances, particularly from Mako Midori (Blind Beast) whose confused face against the white wall partly covered in soft shadows makes for a potent establishing shot. In fact, every single closeup of her eccentric heroine Aya is a pleasure to look at, often by virtue of her big, expressive eyes, transfixed in a silent, mystifying stare. Her chemistry with Kawarazaki is sweet, strange and sultry, with their dynamics acting as an emotional core of a loosely structured narrative set in both urban and rural Japan, shot with an expert eye by Masaki Tamura.

7. Nuit d’or / Golden Night (Serge Moati, 1976)

In a twisted reality of Nuit d’or – titled after an underground casino owned by a mysterious man of the same nickname (Maurice Ronet) – Klaus Kinski’s gambler and murderer antagonist Michel Fournier comes back to life after being disposed of and cremated by his own family. And no, he is not a nightmare demon as Freddy Krueger would be starting with 1984, even though Kinski’s face and controversies surrounding his persona emanate pure evil, making him a perfect fit for a deplorable villain. However, Michel’s revenge is of a surprisingly tame kind, vexing his ‘close ones’ with creepy handmade dolls, until he kidnaps his own daughter, Catherine (Valérie Pascale) – born in the affair with his brother’s wife, Véronique (Marie Dubois) – and a religious cult gets involved. 

The dynamics with the next of his kin are largely (and thankfully!) depicted as a mischievous game, despite his occasional outbursts of anger, and the subtlest of abuse insinuations, yet the film is imbued with a strong sense of foreboding, and a disquieting feeling, further amplified by all-pervading ‘offness’. One can say that the story unfolds or rather bends according to the fever dream logic, or the laws of magic realism, with most of the characters acting like semi-hypnotized marionettes whose strings are pulled by an unknown puppeteer from the deep shadows. A dense atmosphere of sinister, conspiratorial quietude is underscored by moody, often hardly detectable humming, with production designer Georges Lévy and cinematographer André Neau providing some exquisite imagery, serving as the only firm anchor to the feature’s vagueness.

8. Iphigenia (Michael Cacoyannis, 1977)

A masterful if harrowing anti-war (and anti-patriarchal) parable firmly anchored in three exquisite central performances – Tatiana Papamoachou’s heart-aching embodiment of innocence eventually transformed into honorable resignation; domineering, scene-stealing histrionics of the great Irene Papas as Clytemnestra, and Kostas Kazakis’ sweat-drenched portrayal of an agonizing father and king Agamemnon. Through the supporting character of Odysseus, Cacoyannis criticizes opportunism and demagogy, depicting soldiers as a brainwashed and bloodthirsty mob that makes you want to scream: “Death to warmongers!” On top of that, the film possesses a strong ‘ancient times’ aura by virtue of shooting locations and costumes, all gorgeously captured in their dusty glory on 35mm, and accompanied by a starkly elegiac score from Mikis Theodorakis.

9. Henry & June (Philip Kaufman, 1990)

“Everybody says sex is obscene, but the only true obscenity is war.” 

Adapted by Philip and Rose Kaufman from the autobiographical writings by Anaïs Nin, Henry & June is a fascinating throwback to Paris of the Great Depression era, revolving around Nin’s transformation through her steamy relationship with American novelist Henry Miller and his wife June. Unfamiliar with either of the artists’ bios and works, I approached the film free of any preconceived expectations, and found myself utterly enchanted by virtually every single of its aspects, from the establishing shot of the leading star Maria de Medeiros’ big & deep eyes, to non-exploitative channeling of erotic energies, to Uma Thurman’s take on June that initially sees her as a noir-inspired femme fatale only to become a delightfully campy drama queen.

Also superb are Fred Ward as Miller, and Richard E. Grant as Nin’s husband Hugo, but the major star here is the gorgeous cinematography by Philippe Rousselot whose camera is in love not only with the cast, but also with the authentic costume and production designs of predominantly earthy tones by Yvonne Sassinot de Nesle and Guy-Claude François, respectively. The great many of Rousselot’s frames wouldn’t feel out of place in a fine art gallery, especially if accompanied by Mark Adler’s exquisite selection of period pieces that evoke the bohemian lifestyle of the characters, all the while establishing a smoky and sultry atmosphere. On top of that, the Kaufmans inject subtle bits humor, some of which through the witty editing choices, with ‘bun in the oven’ given a whole new meaning at one point...

10. Joshua Tree, 1951: A Portrait of James Dean (Matthew Mishory, 2012)

Drawing a parallel between the French poet Arthur Rimbaud (portrayed by Christopher Higgins in a highly stylized prologue) and the ‘rebel without a cause’ (a coolly understated performance from James Preston), Matthew Mishory delivers a dreamy (and often quite steamy!) speculation on the tragic icon’s queer side of private life. Through Dean’s relationships with various men, some of whom are fictionalized versions of his close friends and collaborators, the writer/director illustrates the enigma surrounding the actor, refracting it through the prism of gay gaze and ‘collective cinematic memory’, in his own words, all the while rejecting the form and structure of a conventional biopic. His sultry vision is beautifully captured on 35mm in elegant, high-contrast B&W, with a few color sequences on 16mm providing a hefty dose of tactility, also operating as emotional anchors, and reflections of both Dean’s and his mysterious roommate’s longing. And though certain scenes give off the awkward ‘perfume ad’ vibes, there’s no denying that the imagery stands out as the feature’s greatest forte...

11. Жена Чайковского / Tchaikovsky’s Wife (Kirill Serebrennikov, 2022)

In Kirill Serebrennikov’s nuanced, solemnly delirious character study of Antonina Miliukova (a hauntingly devout performance from Alyona Mikhaylova), hell is a marriage between a pious woman and a gay man. Arranged to silence the rumors of the composer’s sexuality – still regarded a taboo subject in certain Russian circles – it sees the obsessed wife slowly driven to madness, with subtle surreal touches providing welcome light to a funereal atmosphere of her harrowing melodrama. The 19th century Russia is shrouded in dark and desaturated colors of Vladislav Opelyants’ austere yet painterly cinematography that gives Robert Eggers a good run for his Nosferatu money, whereby a Papaioannou-esque (read: dick-infested) part of the long take finale anticipates Barry Keoghan’s nude dance in Saltburn. Elevating the epilogue is a gloomily delightful art-pop song Oh, how black the sky is (originally, О, как небо чёрно) by experimental band Shortparis.

12. Gui cai zhi dao / Dead Talents Society (John Hsu, 2024)

It is not easy being a ghostress, particularly a rookie (i.e. unlicensed) one, in a ‘ghost eat ghost’ world of the afterlife... which is so vibrant that one can easily mistake it for life. Depicted from the spooks’ perspective, death seems like a never-ending stream of talk-shows, talent auditions, live broadcasts of scare tactics, and of course, good old hauntings of streets, public toilets, hotel rooms and internet videos. Occasional breaks from all this razzmatazz provide some rare moments for the (un)dead characters to hang out or contemplate on their past, and the possibilities of the future amongst their own kin.

Marking a sophomore feature for its co-writer/director John Hsu, Dead Talents Society is a riotous horror-comedy (more comedy than horror, to be precise) from Taiwan, and its sparkly & campy supernatural story ranges from absurd (as in an odd giraffe leitmotif) to laugh-out-loud hilarious to genuinely moving. Its two-hour running time may be a turnoff for the viewers not very fond of the genre, but it is so beautifully made and entertaining that your mood is bound to be lifted, and the film’s flaws forgiven. Between gags and lines, it has something to say about grief, identity and letting go, as well as about certain aspects of modern society, including fame and celebrity culture.

13. ChaO (Yasuhiro Aoki, 2025)

A dead ringer for a Masaaki Yuasa’s anime, Yasuhiro Aoki’s feature debut is a gorgeously animated eco-fantasy whose utopianist heart beats in the rhythms of acceptance, interspecies coexistence, and of course, love. Based on a screenplay by Hanasaki Kino (Children of the Sea), it plays out like a futuristic version of The Little Mermaid, deconstructed into a manic mix of vibrant colors, eccentric characters, absurd humor, and experimental design. The latter comes as no surprise considering that it bears the signature of the hyper-creative artists working under the banner of Studio 4°C that brought us the acclaimed classic Memories, as well as a number of offbeat pieces such as Mind Game, Tekkonkinkreet and Mutafukaz.

Uplifting and sincere in its portrayal of a bizarre marriage against the backdrop of nature’s sustainability vs. technological advancement, ChaO epitomizes the power of wild imagination, and transforms the vast field of the medium (im)possibilities into a busy playground. Its high-octane energy is nothing short of infectious, whereby the level of details in a plethora of maximalist frames has the effect of a dopamine injection.

14. Estrany riu / Strange River (Jaume Claret Muxart, 2025)

A film of candid emotions, unadulterated sensuality, and delicate lyricism, Strange River explores queer desire from the perspective of one 16-yo Dídac, portrayed with natural and innocent charm by newcomer Jan Monter. While cycling along the Danube with his family – full of understanding for his (homo)sexuality – he encounters a mysterious boy, Alexander (Francesco Wenz), whose true identity is kept ambiguous from the first appearance to the last disappearance, both tied to the river. Is he a water spirit, an embodiment of adolescent longing, or a projection of Dídac’s transition from boyhood to manhood?

Whatever the answer may be, there is an endearing, borderline sublime connection of the two youths, subtly conveyed through meaningful silences, soulful glances, gentle smiles, and soft kisses. It is in those moments – marking the last and dreamiest third of splendid micro-acting – that Muxart’s feature debut works best, exposing the young author’s keen poetic sensibility, comparable to the likes of Franco Piavoli, or Christian Petzold at his most enigmatic. Further elevating his vision – very likely emerging from a deeply personal experience – is DoP Pablo Paloma’s boxy framing on 16mm film which accentuates the pervading sense of nostalgia, and the malleable nature of memories. Also emphasized by analog textures is the lushness of the German countryside setting, provided with warm tactility and idyllic abandon that blurs the boundaries between Dídac’s reality and imagination...

15. Tabasco (Andrius Žemaitis, 2025)

Read the review HERE.

16. Vgainoun mesa ap’ ti Margo / They Came Out of Margo (Alexander Voulgaris, 2025)

“Are we just the thoughts of other people?”

The answers to this and other questions, posed between the lines, remain stubbornly elusive throughout an experimental (metafictional?) blend of psychological drama and musical flirting with horror, and making the Greek Weird Wave come across as even weirder. Like a tapestry weaved of delicate emotions and crippling fears, the film unfolds in an intimately claustrophobic atmosphere of a birthday party, its central figure being a 40-yo songwriter Margo, who traded popularity for self-imposed seclusion, along with her partner Rhea.

Likely suffering from depression and/or anxiety, the titular heroine exists in a self-professed ‘denial of the end’ – a mental limbo which sees the phantoms of her subconscious coming to life, as if in an ancient curse that mysteriously killed her older sister Margaret. However, Alexander Voulgaris aka The Boy – credited as writer, director, editor and composer (of a dissonantly dreamy score!) – is not interested in the plot, rather focusing on ‘vibes’, ‘moods’, and ‘rhythms’, with his cast performing as if participating in some sort of a therapeutic ritual. Shooting on 35mm and Super 16 (many kudos to DoP Simos Sarketzis), and fetishizing the ‘frame drop effect’ that further distorts Margo’s reality (into a delirious music video), he delivers an odd chunk of cinema that seeks to capture the finest nuances of the artist’s wounded soul, unafraid of stumbling on its way.

17. Gekijoban Mononoke Dai-San-Sho: Hebigami / Mononoke the Movie: Chapter III – The Curse of the Serpent (Kenji Nakamura & Tomoaki Koshida, 2026)

The final installment in the Mononoke trilogy sees the unique, maximalist style of the series reaching its peak, even though the previous two films made it seem like an impossible task. Once again, our mysterious medicine seller hero returns to Ōoku, where the grudges from the past – feeding on twisted human passions – bring forth his most formidable opponent. Edo of the phantasmagorical past depicted here looks straight out of a series of avant-garde ukyo-e coming to unrestrained life, with the absolutely insane level of details and some of the most unimaginable combinations of colors keeping your eyes wide open and glued to the screen. To call the imagery kaleidoscopic would be an understatement, unless the kaleidoscope in question belongs to some wild, inebriated, psychedelics-abusing deity gone on a reality-bending rampage, which is so stunningly conveyed through the snappy (or rather, frantic!) editing of a state-of-the-art blend of 2D and 3D animation set to a pounding, decidedly modern score. On top of that, the seiyū cast are at the top of their game, vocalizing their characters’ inflammable emotions with a fervor that occasionally evokes the sheer theatricality of Kabuki.

18. Hope (Hong-jin Na, 2026)

In Hope Harbor, a small village near the Korean Demilitarized Zone, the investigation of a mutilated cow turns into a bloody and destructive fight for survival, with confused, panicked denizens facing a monstrous threat. And that’s pretty much the spoiler-free plot of the latest feature from Hong-jin Na (The Chaser, The Wailing) who easily beats a recent alien-themed Hollywood flick by a veteran filmmaker, delivering a wild, almost three-hour-long roller-coaster ride. During its first hour, Hope is a masterclass in high-octane action splashed with gore, and peppered with wry and/or dark humor that is injected with some crude sauce during a welcome break, after which we are treated to more breathtakingly directed foot, car and horse chases with CGI creatures. Speaking of which, the VFX are the film’s weakest point, with the computer animation often sticking out like a sore thumb, and yet rarely if ever hampering the energy of Na and his dedicated team, well-conditioned actors in particular, their characters behaving as irrational as any small place person would in such an insane situation. Well-seasoned film buffs are likely to recognize cues taken from a wide variety of sci-fi, horror and action offerings from the West, but there is not a single one of those that can match the weirdo thrills and quirks of Hope.

19. La bola negra / The Black Ball (Javier Ambrossi & Javier Calvo, 2026)

“Only mystery keeps us alive.”

A serious contender for the pantheon of the 21st century classics, the sophomore feature from the creative (and ex-romantic) couple known as ‘Los Javis’ is a melodrama of epic scope, assured direction, and intense sensitivity. Anti-war and anti-fascist at its glowing core, it intertwines three narrative threads into an ardent tribute to Federico García Lorca and his lover Rafael Rodríguez Rapún, or rather, all gay men whose lives were forcefully ended; drawing inspiration from the poet’s unfinished play, and gracing it with a poetically and poignantly snowy epilogue. 

Boasting stellar performances from the entire cast, it marks the promising debut for musician turned actor Guitarricadelafuente in one of the leading roles, and sees Penélope Cruz in a bravura cameo as a ‘cupletista’ (cabaret singer & sex worker) delivering one of the key lines. However, the film’s main forte is Gris(elda) Jordana’s striking cinematography and elegant camerawork that capture not only the lushness of production design by Roger Bellés’, but also the many nuances in both mental and emotional states of the characters, as well as the mood of each scene, further enhanced by Raül Refree’s riveting and resonant score.

20. Never After Dark (Dave Boyle, 2026)

Hidden behind a prosaic title and run-of-the-mill ‘ghost hunting’ premise is a pretty solid J-horror evocative of the heyday of the genre, its dense atmosphere and unhurried pace already earning it comparisons to the work of Kiyoshi Kurosawa... which may be a bit far-fetched, especially when taken into consideration is its explanatory final twist that is usually a must for the (mainstream) American filmmakers. Speaking of whom, Dave Boyle – in his first attempt to send some chills down the viewer’s spine – seems to be at home in Japan, demonstrating great respect for the country’s culture, and sparking strong chemistry with his minimal cast; the standout being Moeka Hoshi in the lead, as a delightfully quirky traveling medium, Airi. 

The setting – a vintage B&B surrounded by a thick forest – is a character in its own right, and not to mention that all of its classical beauty is captured to the last detail (and mirror reflection!) by Patrick Ouziel’s expert cinematography, with Jonathan Snipes’ offbeat score often complementing it in a manner that’s as unexpected as Airi’s inebriated dancing to an experimental retro-pop tune Silhouette sung by Nigerian-American pianist, improviser and hymnologist Sharon Udoh. That particular scene – not just randomly dropped in, mind you – leaves such a sweet aftertaste that the paradoxical (or rather, preposterous?) reveal in the finale feels less disappointing, though what we have here is a fine example of a ‘journey more important than the destination’.

21. Street Fighter (Kitao Sakurai, 2026)

The third live-action feature based on Capcom’s long-running franchise, and the third video game adaptation that I immensely enjoyed this year, ‘Street Fighter’ is big, loud and proud of its rampant silliness, and vivid cartoonishness. Taking cues from the fighting tournament-based B-movies of the late 80’s and early 90’s, it fully embraces pulp and camp, and delivers two breezy hours of almost non-stop action. Surprisingly, it also embraces bromantic / homoerotic subtext of buddy comedies from the same period, as if striving to ‘outgay’ flicks such as Tango & Cash and Showdown in Little Tokyo, whether it be the lines imbued with queer innuendo, or the use of bisexual, neon-drenched lighting.

With its focus pulled on best friends and rivals Ryu (Andrew Koji) and Ken (Noah Centineo), unlike the trashy 1994 vehicle for Jean Claude Van Damme, the film mixes both canonical and non-canonical elements into a good ol’ ‘beat the psycho dictator and don’t allow your anger to consume you’ story. Of course, as relatable and close to reality as it sounds, it is but an excuse for the easter eggs-filled showcase of trademark moves by the characters deeply rooted in stereotypes, and existing in some parallel universe 1993 when Black Hole Sun by Soundgarden and Come Out and Play by Offspring were released a year earlier, and What’s Up? by 4 Non Blondes could be played on walkman in flashbacks set in 1987.

Speaking of which, Sakurai follows in Tarantino’s footsteps and spices up the proceedings with wonderful 2D animated sequences – the courtesy of Titmouse studio – that provide insight into Ryu and Ken’s shared past, training under their master Gouken, and going separate ways after he is killed by his brother Akuma, stripped away from his humanity by the so-called ‘Dark Hadou’ power. Evoking the memory of ‘Street Fighter II’ anime from 1994, those portions of the movie betray the team’s fondness of the game series, but the same goes for the most parodic of ‘distortions’ too, from Cody Rhodes’ tongue-in-cheek take on Guile to Jason Momoa’s armpit-scratching Blanka to David Dastmalchian’s eye-rolling channeling of M. Bison’s psychopathy and delusions of grandeur.

22. The End of Oak Street (David Robert Mitchell, 2026)

Proving himself a versatile filmmaker, David Robert Mitchell (It Follows, Under the Silver Lake) pulls off a Spielbergian throwback to the 80s summer blockbusters, totally unexpected yet immensely entertaining and cozily nostalgic if somewhat ‘prickly’. It may not be as wild as a roller-coaster ride that is the South Korean extravaganza Hope, but this Jurassic theme park by way of  a typical American suburbia has enough edge-of-the-seat thrills, moving family dynamics, meaty visual effects, and wicked jokes to keep you engaged for 100 minutes. As pulpy as the prehistoric hell that breaks loose and forces the Platt family to fight a variety of dinos (many kudos to the team of CGI artists!), The End of Oak Street does not pretend to be anything more than a simple ol’ school fun requiring an extra dose of suspension of disbelief, and that’s just fine.

23. The Incomer (Louis Paxton, 2026)

Chekhov’s gun is given a wiggly red dildo makeover in Louis Paxton’s promising feature debut – an often riotous ‘pagan’ comedy that I didn’t know I desperately needed. Set on a remote Scottish island inhabited by seagulls and an eccentric brother and sister duo, The Incomer pits offbeat folkways as the means of coping with a trauma against the impersonal modernization steeped in cold bureaucracy, exploring the human need for true connection and belonging, through the prism of oft-irrational fears, such as the one of change.

The primordial power of storytelling is another prominent theme, addressed as a tool for tearing down the walls we build around ourselves, believing that we’ll be protected from the terrors of the outside world. In a clash between two kinds of ‘safe havens’, one erected by the siblings, and the other by the titular incomer – an awkward government council worker, deadpan humor meets genuine emotion to a heartwarming effect marked by the characters’ self-realization.

A sparkling chemistry between the leading actors – Gayle Rankin, Grant O’Rourke and Domhnall Gleeson, all giving believable performances – is starkly matched by Paxton’s well-honed comedic timing, fine sense of drama, and great use of location that makes you hear the call of the winds and sea. Also praiseworthy is Patrick Golan’s handsomely austere framing of decidedly quirky proceedings, Sarah Blenkinsop’s exquisite costume designs, and Arthur de Borman & Kezia Eales’ quaint sets.

Best Premiere Viewings of September 2026

1. Le grand Meaulnes / The Wanderer (Jean-Gabriel Albicocco, 1967)

If hopeless romanticism – translated into the language of (surrealist) cinema – could kill, The Wanderer would be one of the deadliest films. Appearing as if conjured in an alchemist’s laboratory two decades later, this period melodrama transforms the reality of rural France into a lucid dream, through the special lenses used by the director’s cinematographer father Quinto Albicocco. And its dreamlike qualities are maximized during the first wandering of a young protagonist, Augustin Meaulnes (the sublime debut for Jean Blaise), in a party sequence that can easily be described as pure magic.

Subjected to ethereal distortions, the hypnotizing imagery invokes the spirit of Jean Cocteau, and anticipates the works of Alexander Sokurov and the Quay Brothers, bringing to mind a whole lot of phantasmagorical features, from Wojciech Has’s The Hourglass Sanatorium (1973) to Juraj Herz’s Beauty and the Beast (1978). Elevating the visuals – beautifully and meaningfully matched to swift editing – is their indissoluble bond with the themes of memories, nostalgia, longing, the loss of childlike innocence, and the unending (and oh so poetic) quest for the unattainable ideal, weighed down by the melancholy of reality.

Recommended as a companion piece: Marianne of My Youth (Julien Duvivier, 1955)

2. Kárhozat / Damnation (Béla Tarr, 1988)

“The fog gets into the corners, into the lungs. It settles in your soul.”

It’s been a long, long while since my first and – up to this point – only encounter with Béla Tarr, through the sublime Werckmeister Harmonies, and all this time, I was (foolishly) afraid that the second one wouldn’t be as inspiring. And yet, I found Damnation – with all of the decay, despair and disenchantment conveyed so candidly and unapologetically – oddly comforting, with my brain waves attuned to its languorous pace, or rather, my spirit clinging to its bleakness.

Speaking of which, virtually everything in this film comes across as moodily melancholic if not absolutely depressing, from the characters’ physiognomies, to the sex scene shrouded in silence, to the night of dancing soaked in torrential rain, alcohol and shared (?) loneliness. Disillusionment, disorientation, doomed desires, and exhaustive disintegration are captured with an unflinching formal rigor – broodingly poetic monologues, the decrepit post-industrial landscape, starkly beautiful B&W cinematography, and the mournful wailing of accordion (as well as the other instruments) converge to establish a dense atmosphere of fatal inevitability...

3. А бяхме млади / We Were Young (Binka Zhelyazkova, 1961)

The sophomore feature from the first Bulgarian woman filmmaker, We Were Young is nothing short of a stunner. A missing link between The Cranes Are Flying and Ashes and Diamonds – a couple of highly acclaimed classics set during WWII, it revolves around a guerrilla group of young communists, with the focus being pulled on a sweet, innocent romance between Veska (Rumyana Karabelova) and Dimo (Dimitar Buynozov). Gorgeously shot with a master’s eye (kudos to Vasil Holiolchev) in expressive B&W, and directed with a delicately poetic touch and brilliant sense of mise en scène, it is a poignant yet strangely optimistic piece of anti-fascist cinema, exploring the themes of love vs. (political) sacrifice, youthful idealism vs. harsh reality, and the importance of camaraderie in the face of the oppressor (assisted by the traitors). Memorable for its use of the flashlight’s inspection beams as a leitmotif with high symbolic value, the film flows smoothly in a fine balance of inspired visual style and modernist storytelling.

4. Fedra (Manuel Mur Oti, 1956)

When a Greek tragedy (or precisely, a Roman one based on a Greek myth) meets Spanish Mediterranean temperament, sparks are bound to fly in all directions. A story of destructive obsession and untamable passion, Fedra sees absolutely magnetic Emma Penella as a wild village girl, Estrella, whom all the men lust after and the women hate. Falling for her is a widowed captain, Don Juan (Enrique Diosdado), but her heart beats or rather, loins burn for young horseman Fernando (Vicente Parra), who turns out to be Don Juan’s son... and most probably gay. The ‘nuclear love triangle’ is formed and nothing will prevent it from exploding, especially when the rumors start to spread, and hurt feelings are paired with miscommunication.

Unlike his characters, Mur Oti knows exactly what he is doing and how he wants it done – assisted by stunning B&W imagery from cinematographer Manuel Berenguer, and sweeping score from composer Guillermo Cases, he delivers a melodrama so intense, that every emotion, conflict and erotically charged advance feels like the crashing of waves against the rocks.

5. Алые паруса / Scarlet Sails (Aleksandr Ptushko, 1961)

Based on Aleksandr Grin’s 1923 eponymous novel – recently (and lovingly) adapted by Pietro Marcello into L’envol (2022) – Ptushko’s least fantastical fairy tale is tailor-made for dreamers, and others who haven’t lost their inner child. Pervaded by a gentle yet strong sense of wide-eyed curiosity, it is soothingly humanist at its big heart, exploring the themes of hopeful individualism vs. cynical community, openness vs. isolation, the power of imagination, the rejection of privileges, and the creation of ‘miracles’ with one’s own hands. It may be too innocent or rather, naive for its own good, but its purity – eventually embodied by Anastasiya Vertinskaya in her zestful debut – is so irresistible, that you can’t help embracing it warmly. Ptushko directs with the wisdom of an experienced storyteller attentively listened by the audience gathered around the fire, his vision beautifully translated into painterly images and sweeping orchestrations.

6. Resident Evil (Zach Cregger, 2026)

After six action-oriented vehicles for the worship of Milla Jovovich, four CG animated features, and a trashy low-budget take Welcome to Raccoon City (yes, I’ve seen them all), Capcom’s long-running game series gets yet another cine-adaptation – on its 30th anniversary – in a surprisingly effective ‘black comedy’ key. Third time in the horror genre is definitely a charm for Zach Cregger (Barbarian, Weapons) who seems to be at the top of his game in a tone-consistent blending of body-altering biopunk and often hilarious dark humor. His right-hand man in front of the camera is Austin Abrams portraying Bryan – one of the most hapless and clumsiest couriers in the world – with a big heart, heightened vulnerability and ‘loser everyman’ charm turned irresistible, effortlessly earning the viewer’s rooting interest.

Behind the camera, Cregger is greatly assisted by DoP Dariusz Wolski (The Crow, Dark City, Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street) who captures Brian’s ‘infected’ misadventure from a variety of angles, including POV shots as one of the numerous nods to the gamers well-familiar with the source material. Thickening the wintry atmosphere and amplifying edge-of-the-seat suspense (which increases as things go from bad to absolute worst for poor Bryan) is not only an ominous ambient score by brothers Hays and Ryan Holladay, but also a very apt use of silence and diegetic noises. All in all, the latest (but probably not the last) Resident Evil is a self-contained crowd-pleaser that provides an energizing big-screen experience, especially if you approach it with lowered expectations like this writer who’s not a big fan of Weapons did.

7. Lilies Not for Me (Will Seefried, 2024)

Based on archival research of the early 20th century practices purported to ‘cure’ homosexuality, Lilies Not for Me is a poignant if harrowing drama revolving around a young gay novelist, Owen (Fionn O’Shea in a heartachingly sincere performance), committed to a ‘conversion’ clinic. In a series of awkward ‘therapeutic dates’ with a nurse, Dorothy (Erin Kellyman, portraying her role with profound compassion), we learn of his past relationship which disintegrated after his partner subjected himself to a risky surgical procedure... 

The flashbacks of Owen’s life before the confinement in a cold and sterile institution operate as a ‘pastoral’ counterbalance, given that they are set in a remote country house and its lavish surroundings. However, as the story unfolds, even those portions grow darker, with the film approaching the psycho-thriller territory, its tonal shifts handled with utmost subtlety. Demonstrating confidence, composure and maturity beyond his experience, writer/director Will Seefried elicits genuine emotional response from the viewer, and delivers an admirable feature debut that feels refreshingly ‘classical’, even in the tree sex scene. Assisted by Theodosia Roussos’ hauntingly elegiac score, Birrie le Roux’s authentic (on location) production design, Grace Snell’s period-accurate costumes, and Cory Fraiman-Lott’s beautiful framing, he comes up with a powerful portrait of inextinguishable passion and queer resilience in the (ugly) face of institutionalized homophobia. 

8. Une histoire d’âme / A Spiritual Matter (Bénédicte Acolas, 2015)

“All you need to make a movie is a girl and a gun”, said Godard, but in her only directorial effort, Bénédicte Acolas proves that when a girl is Sophie Marceau, a gun becomes superfluous. There are other props to be found here of course, but it is Marceau’s utterly mesmerizing performance that matters the most, carrying an  intriguing psychological monodrama. Based on Bergman’s play originally titled En Själslig Angelägenhet (lit. A Matter of Soul), the film pulls the viewer into a troubled (likely insane) woman’s memories, dreams and hallucinations, with reality put to a severe test. Almost empty rooms of a seemingly inescapable house pose as compartments and extensions of our unreliable narrator’s mind, with her, Viktoria, playing various versions of herself, accompanied by the ghosts of the past and other imaginary partners. The claustrophobic character study is transcended by the subtle surrealist touches, some of which evoke David Lynch, whereas Marceau’s measured theatricality brings to mind the work of Antouanetta Angelidi. Viktoria’s introspection – framed with a keen eye by Gilles Porte – leaves a lot of space for the viewer’s own self-examination, and potential identification with lines such as: “My problem is I was born an artist... I live in a vacuum which I fill with my dreams and fantasies.”

9. Pillow Talk (Michael Gordon, 1959)

Quite possibly one of the most delightful rom-coms ever made, Pillow Talk boasts sharp comedic timing, a  heightened sense of style with a special emphasis on colors, and sizzling, energizing chemistry between its leads, Doris Day and Rock Hudson, who portray an interior designer and a composer playboy sharing a party phone line. The first of three features to star the duo supported by Tony Randall as a ‘third wheel’ character, this vibrant piece of unapologetically escapist entertainment served as the main source of inspiration for Peyton Reed’s down-to-a-tee pastiche Down with Love. And if someone asks how did I end up watching it, the answer is – by accidentally stumbling across a fabulous split-screen shot of a sexy bathtub conversation.

10. Un beau monstre / Love Me Strangely (Sergio Gobbi, 1971)

Based on the eponymous novel by Swiss writer Dominique Fabre, Un beau monstre is a twisted psycho-drama in which ‘psycho’ or rather, ‘a beautiful monster’, which is the literal translation of the French title, is played with eerily seductive detachment by Helmut Berger. Partnered by ravishing Virna Lisi who channels unguarded vulnerability in the role of his victimized wife, he is the prime subject of a nuanced character study addressing the power dynamics of a relationship, trappings of obsession oft-mistaken for love, and moral ambiguities stuck in the web of mental manipulation.

Reminding us that physical beauty is only skin deep, the film operates as a starkly stylized portrait of cruelty – the sadism of gaslighting, to be precise, at once oddly irresistible and unsettling, but always decidedly anti-romantic, even in the moments of ostensible happiness. Unfolding at unhurried pace, it gives off some slight giallo vibes, especially if viewed through the psychosexual prism, but with black gloves and cold weapons substituted by brightly colored eyes, and blood-letting eschewed in favor of penetrating stares. What makes the film a fascinating watch is Pierre Guffroy’s unmistakable art direction – the off-kilter harmony between the costume and production design, the absolute highlight being the couple’s bizarrely furnished apartment with disorienting decoration, all handsomely framed by Daniel Diot.

11. En el caminho / On the Road (David Pablos, 2025)

Victor Prieto Simental makes a bold, uninhibited debut as Veneno, a young male prostitute on the run from the ‘shadows’ of his recent past who falls for a taciturn truck driver, Muñeco (Osvaldo Sanchez, excellent), pulling him into his own mess. As things for the two men go from bad to worse, their homosocial bonding transforms into a passionate romance, with white lines done, and dead bodies left in the wake. A captivating blend of road-movie, queer drama and crime thriller, On the Road posits itself at the intersection of daily life and dirty business, focusing on the marginalized, highly vulnerable individuals in search of affection and safety. Exploring the theme of day-to-day survival within a milieu largely defined by cruelty, the film also touches upon the effects of traumatic experiences, and the ways of meeting emotional needs in a society that is still rigidly constructed around heteronormativity. Pablos directs with a keen sense of pace and style, great understanding and sympathy for the outcasts, warning of the risks of homosexuality within the ‘easy money’ context, all the while evading the trappings of a cautionary tale. 

12. Powiedz mi, co czujesz / Tell Me What You Feel (Łukasz Ronduda, 2026)

According to John Maybury’s ‘study for a portrait of Francis Bacon’, love is the devil, but Polish filmmaker Łukasz Ronduda proposes a wholly different perspective – love as a form of free psychotherapy; an endless art performance involving tears dealing, role playing, and of course, facing the past traumas. Enter the lives of rich girl Maria (Izabella Dudziak) and poor boy Patryk (Jan Salasinski) who meet at a ‘crying lot’ of sorts, and almost immediately click with each other. At first, it seems that she is the more confident one, especially with his ‘premature finish’ issue taken into consideration, but gradually, we learn of both of their insecurities, and grow our sympathies for the couple. An oddly sweet chemistry between Dudziak and Salasinski, as well as their characters’ personality quirks and imperfections add a lot to the charm of this modern romance that invites the viewer to try to heal some of their own wounds along with the protagonists. In strengthening of the emotional connection, Ronduda relies on Weronika Bilska’s intimate cinematography of vivid colors, and the softness of pop-rock soundtrack (with one surprising metalcore intrusion).

13. Vexanthrone (Jacob Green, 2024)

“I guess you could say I am pretentious, but I don’t believe in that word...”

A bizarre blend of art performance, mockumentary and body horror, Vexanthrone is essentially a one man show, and what a (gross-out) show it is! Written, directed, produced, scored, filmed and edited by first-timer Jacob Green, also starring as an outcast artist, this audacious experiment reflects on the trials of the creative process, blurring the lines between self-destruction and spiritual ascension. Our lone, isolated hero – exiled for an offensive work (hint: clay & excrement) – goes through a personal transformation or rather, mutation, even though he admittedly shuns change, as his inner turmoil externalizes through visceral practical effects.

Bloody blotches, a vulva-shaped palm ulcer, a toothed lump on the back of the hand, and a nasty wound spreading around his (previously penetrated) navel, inter alia, are all depicted in extreme closeups, and often turned into fetish objects, with soft focuses lending them an aura of otherworldly abstractions. Devoured by deep and dark shadows, as a single source of light produces a strong chiaroscuro effect, Green’s slender (and frequently naked) body – initially, charged with homoerotic desire – becomes a canvas at which madness throws its disfiguring colors. Thickening the claustrophobic atmosphere of the surreal ‘inward odyssey’, as well as emphasizing its transcendental nature is the haunting, broodingly mysterious soundscape somewhat evocative of David Lynch.

Likely to garner polarizing reactions, this flawed yet boldly provocative feature debut possesses a significant potential to reach cult following, particularly among the despondent and/or highly vulnerable creative souls.

14. Plagio (Sergio Capogna, 1969)

Set against the backdrop of 1968 leftist protests in Italy (Bologna, to be precise), this little known gem can be described as a spiritual predecessor to Bertolucci’s The Dreamers, although its foggy atmosphere feels much closer to Antonioni’s brilliant psychological drama Red Desert (1964). It revolves around a strange ménage à trois between a couple of student lovers, Angela (Mita Medici) and Massimo (Alain Noury), and a mysterious rich boy, Guido (Ray Lovelock), whom they save from brutal beating. That their disillusioned relationship is bound to end tragically is portended by the pre-credits scene in which we see Angela carrying a bouquet of flowers through the graveyard, accompanied by an elegiac inner monologue.

Pervaded by a thick air of melancholy, and laced with subtle eroticism, including simmering gay undertones, the feature anchors itself in the delicate helming from Sergio Capogna (who created only four films during his half-century-long lifetime), employing subjective sepia-toned sequences as both the narrative and stylistic tools. Greatly assisted by cinematographer Antonio Piazza, he delivers a number of empathically intimate shots of his incredibly attractive leads supported by equally beautiful Cosetta Greco in her penultimate role, and handsome Dino Mele who debuted along with the director Giuseppe Patroni Griffi in The Sea (1962). Plagio is also commendable for its soundtrack – a mélange of classical and rock music that emphasizes the themes of isolation, youthful angst, emotional codependency, and the blistering effect of a childhood trauma. 

15. Москва, любовь моя / Moscow, My Love (Aleksandr Mitta & Kenji Yoshida, 1974)

A Japanese ballerina, Yuriko (Komaki Kurihara), falls for a Russian sculptor, Volodya (Oleg Vidov), during her studies at Bolshoy Theater, and gets a titular role in Giselle. Halfway through, we learn that her mother was a Hiroshima survivor, and at that point, a dark cloud begins to form over the sweet romance. Initially, this co-production between Soviet Union and Japan evokes Kon Ichikawa’s 1971 interracial love story Ai futatabi (minus the cultural clash), only to take a turn from a melancholy-laced melodrama to a tear-jerking tragedy with political undertones.

Advocating anti-nuclear policies, and celebrating art (as a hard, time-consuming work!) not only through its lovely leads, but also through the folk-song-collecting by Yuriko’s other suitor, Tetsuya (Masami Shimojō), Moscow, My Love shrouds the proceedings in deep shadows, prolly as a portent of the fatalist denouement, operating in a sort of a heightened reality, with a certain montage sequence appearing like a tribute to Maya Deren’s 1955 dance fantasy The Very Eye of Night. And despite the monotone voice-over that translates the Japanese-spoken dialogues, Mitta & Yoshida’s collaboration never feels dull, its artifice harmonized to honesty.

16. El amor brujo / Bewitched Love (Francisco Rovira Beleta, 1967)

Flames of passion turn quite literal at one point in Francisco Rovira Beleta’s romantic (and during the first half, psychological) melodrama in which a young blacksmith, Antonio (Antonio Gades), must fight against a naughty ghost of the past to win the heart, or rather, save the tortured soul of beautiful Candelas (La Polaca). Based on the eponymous ballet by the composer Manuel de Falla and the librettist María de la O Lejárraga, Bewitched Love is a classic love triangle story with flamenco edges that intensify already heated emotions. Particularly mesmerizing in nocturnal sequences and Candelas’ nightmares, the feature is expressively shot by Francisco Marín and Gábor Pogány on the authentic Andalusian locations, with Beleta employing both imagery and music – along with the folk mysticism – to capture his heroine’s distressed state of mind.

17. Sweet Sweetback’s Badasssss Song (Melvin Van Peebles, 1971)

All cops are bastards, especially the white supremacist ones, so seeing them fucked up – pardon my French – in various ways can certainly be labeled as a form of poetic justice. And literal fucking is what our hero, Sweetback, has been doing since his early adolescent years, as shown in a controversial, Emperor Tomato Ketchup-evoking opening for which the director/writer/producer/composer/editor/star casts his own son. A raw, boldly experimental chunk of independent cinema, and a pioneering example of the ‘blaxploitation’ subgenre, Sweet Sweetback’s Badasssss Song adapts the film language to African-American slang, turning art into an act of rebellion. Thin on plot, but brimming with free jazz grooviness in a strong conjunction with anarchic imagery – dizzying camerawork, split-screens, soft focuses, superimpositions, solarized sequences, etc, it plunges you into a ‘one man against the unjust law’ nightmare and rarely loosens its grip. Charmingly ‘amateurish’ (in a non-derogatory way!), the feature is, essentially, one long chase sequence that uncovers the rot of American society, taking no prisoners, and in an odd, pulpy, borderline-surreal manner, it works! 

18. Nož / The Dagger (Živorad ‘Žika’ Mitrović, 1967)

Žika Mitrović must’ve been familiar with the ‘Krimi’ subgenre popular in West Germany of the time, given that his ‘whodunnit’ appears to be cut from the same cloth, minus the masked villain and gothic atmosphere. Following or rather flowing smoothly in a police procedural pattern (kudos to editor Katarina Stojanović), the film dismantles the cult of celebrity created through the media ‘hyperboles’ (read: lies), and operates as a social commentary that hasn’t lost much of its relevance in six decades since its release. (Though nowadays, the forces of law and order are much closer to the criminals.) Its cast features some of the finest Yugoslavian actors joined by musician Zafir Hadžimanov in his first big screen role (as a murdered schlager singer), so the performances shine through in spite of slightly stilted dialogue, with Vera Čukić giving off camp vibes, and Mija Aleksić providing a comic relief. However, the main forte is Branko Ivatović’s crispy clean B&W cinematography beautifully complemented by Miljenko Prohaska’s delicuously jazzy score.

19. Rapa Nui (Kevin Reynolds, 1994)

Squeezed in-between two starring vehicles for Kevin Costner (here, credited as a producer), Rapa Nui sees Jason Scott Lee fresh out of Dragon: The Bruce Lee Story as Noro – a young native of Easter Island in a Romeo and Juliet-like romance within a story of social inequality that is also an ecological parable, and a critique of religious fundamentalism. On top of that, the feature strives to capture the timeless qualities of a legend (well, it is based on one), its main forte being the breathtaking beauty of the authentic location, with handsome, half-naked leads and dozens of extras in equally skimpy tribal costumes making you turn a blind eye to the flaws and clichés of the proceedings. Proposing a hypothesis on the mystery of moai statues, it sacrifices historical accuracy, yet it still feels relevant in its ostensibly simplistic dissection of human nature and its negative effects on the environment. Lending it gravitas are the sweeping score by Stewart Copeland, and Stephen F. Windon’s striking widescreen cinematography.

20. Spiti stous vrahous / House on the Rocks (George Zervoulakos, 1974)

Rocks, goats, tan lines and incest! In the second of only four big screen appearances, Christo Spyropoulos portrays a young man, Alexis, engaged in a steamy affair with his archaeologist stepmother, Eleni (Bente Børsum), on a remote, sparsely populated Greek island. According to the synopsis of his first feature, Love on a Horse, Spyropoulos reprises the role of an incestuous stepson, spending a considerable amount of time shirtless or in his birthsuit, basking in the sun, skinny dipping, and defying his estranged father through Eros. 

Alexis’ cumming-of-age story is paralleled by the awakening of Eleni’s repressed desires magnified by self-imposed isolation, exposing both of their characters’ vulnerabilities, which they seek to burn in the flames of forbidden passion. The fisherman’s daughter also named Eleni (Anda Vartholomeou), and the later arrival of the paternal figure (Andreas Barkoulis) further amplify the psychosexual tension, so some wrong moves are bound to be drawn. Curiously, the taboo relationship doesn’t feel as awkward as one might expect, but rather almost as natural as the idyllic surroundings that give the story strong Arcadian vibes, emphasized by a pagan ritual ‘living on to our times’. Linos Kokotos’ flute-heavy score – intertwined with traditional music and Schlager ballads – adds to the kinky romanticism of the proceedings, beautifully captured in the natural light by Aris Stavrou who would collaborate with the great Nikos Papatakis on his penultimate feature, The Photograph, in 1986.

21. Wetiko (Kerry Mondragon, 2022)

Associated with ‘greed, selfish consumption and a loss of the connection to the community and nature’, Wetiko is a malicious spirit from the folklore of the Algonquin people of Canada. However, In Mondragon’s sophomore feature, it ‘possesses’ a phony gringo shaman, Zake Zezo (Neil Sandilands, brilliant as a silver-tongued manipulator), who appropriates the culture of the Maya minority and exploits their women deep in the thick jungle. Falling into his clutches is a local boy, Aapo (Juan Daniel García Treviño, embodying the viewer’s growing confusion, as an unlikely hero), whose simple task of delivering poisonous toads turns into a bad, hallucinatory trip.

The story of ‘spiritual gentrification’ – spoken in Maya, Spanish, English and Afrikaans, and permeated by an anti-colonialist sentiment – unfolds in an oddly deliberate pace, so some viewers may find their patience severely tested, even though their eyes will be glued to the screen by virtue of the delightfully grainy 16mm visuals providing the ‘lost 70s cult film’ vibes. Cinematographer Carlos Gerardo García captures all nuances of both the reality and ‘fever dream’ bits, even when the latter feels too disjointed for its own good, defying or twisting what little logic there is, whether it is an intentional move or a miscalculated one. Adding to the quirkiness or rather ‘offness’ of it all are the musical choices, such as the ‘Silence Is Golden’ cover by The Tremeloes, although the lyrics ‘Talking is cheap / People follow like sheep / Even though there is nowhere to go’ align with the critique of New Ageism.

22. Tarung: Unforgiven (Razaisyam Rashid, 2026)

If you like your crime-dramas hard-boiled, and fighting sequences gritty and realistic rather than physics-and-human-stamina-defying, with queer-coded relations between friends, frenemies and enemies thrown in the mix, then Tarung: Unforgiven may be just the film you’ve been looking for. A story of a young fighter haunted by guilt and returning into the ring (or rather, underground cage) to help his sick older sister doesn’t break any new ground (breaking is reserved for bones), but Malay filmmaker Razaisyam Rashid delivers a classy B-actioner with decent performances and solid camerawork.

23. Sex-Power (Henry Chapier, 1970)

The obscure fiction debut for Romanian-born French journalist, critic and filmmaker Henry Chapier, Sex-Power stars Alain Noury as a young, unnamed man who travels to California to forget his lost love (Jane Birkin), only to encounter archetypes representing feminine power, all embodied by gorgeous actresses, with an early experimental score from the legendary Vangelis accompanying the bizarre ‘odyssey’. Appearing to be partly improvised and ‘documented’ rather than scripted, this feature is very much a product of its (post-68) time – marked by the death of the hippie counterculture, it is loosely structured as a quest for (personal) freedom, exploring the themes of self-discovery and youthful disillusionment. Blurring the line and refusing to differentiate between the physical reality and the protagonist’s fancy, it unfolds or rather, meanders at a relaxed pace, as it evokes the comforting sense of abandon by virtue of its raw, rhymeless poetry. By the end, in one of its several desert-set scenes, it comes dangerously close to being labeled as a spiritual predecessor to Philippe Garrel’s Inner Scars.