Body Issues (Marjorie Conrad, 2023)

“If you’re not afraid of this world, you should be...

... Their inner psychos are coming out.”

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, ‘struggling to establish connection with her body’, as noted in the synopsis? Is she even alive? Considering the lines such as ‘everything outside smells like week-old corpses’ (heard during the very first minute) and ‘I think I died right over there’, Jane may be but a restless spirit; a ghost of a suicide or homicide victim remembering her past life in fragmented soliloquies.

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 ‘inner labyrinth’, 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, Body Issues 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 Inland Empire element).

(The review is based on the private screener provided by the author.)

Best Premiere Viewings of September

1. Totsukuni no Shōjo / The Girl from the Other Side (Yutaro Kubo, 2022)

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 ‘Angel’s Egg’ and Takahata’s magical swan song ‘The Tale of the Princess Kaguya’. 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, ‘The Girl from the Other Side’ 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.

2. La mort trouble / The Unquiet Death (Claude d’Anna & Férid Boughedir, 1970)

At the time of the film’s release, French writer and journalist Louis Chauvet (1906-1981) described it as ‘a cinematographic treatise on insanity and degradation’ 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, ‘The Unquiet Death’ 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.

3. Le collier perdu de la colombe / The Dove’s Lost Necklace (Nacer Khemir, 1991)

A delightful co-production of Tunisia, France and Italy, ‘The Dove’s Lost Necklace’ is the second part in Nacer Khemir’s ‘Desert Trilogy’ 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 ‘Wanderers of the Desert’ (1984), it easily earns comparisons with Pasolini’s ‘Arabian Nights’ (1974) and Parajanov’s mystical artistry, with Mohsen Makhmalbaf’s drama ‘Gabbeh’ (1994) crossing the mind as a perfect companion piece.

4. Genji Monogatari / The Tale of Genji (Gisaburō Sugii, 1987)

“An autumnal farewell needs nothing to make it sadder. And enough of your dismal songs, crickets.”

Written by poet and lady-in-waiting Murasaki Shikibu more than a millennium ago, ‘The Tale of Genji’ 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.

5. Adieu Philippine (Jacques Rozier, 1962)

A spiritual sequel to Rozier's 1958 short ‘Blue Jeans’, ‘Adieu Philippine’ 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.

6. Trompe l’oeil / The Broken Mirror (Claude d’Anna, 1975)

A missing link between ‘Rosemary’s Baby’ and ‘L'hypothèse du tableau volé’, with ‘Judex’ referenced, or ‘Panna a netvor’ anticipated in the highly surrealistic coda, ‘The Broken Mirror’ 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. 

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 ‘Arnolfini Portrait’ 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.

7. Talk to Me (Danny & Michael Philippou, 2023)

“To all the parents with sleepless nights,

Tie your kids home to their beds,

clean their heads...”

(The Cranberries / Salvation)

A strong feature debut for Philippou brothers, ‘Talk to Me’ 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.

8. Bye, Bye Love (Isao Fujisawa, 1974)

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.

9. Lucie perd son cheval / Lucie Loses Her Horse (Claude Schmitz, 2021)

Angela Schanelec in her ‘Der traumhafte weg’ 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 ‘Hunted’. 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 ‘don’t lose the track of things’ 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 ‘King Lear’...

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 ‘slow, dreamlike descent into a theatrical wonderland laced with absurdist humour and deadpan drollery’ (Allan Hunter, Screen Daily), 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 ‘Lucie...’ are alluring in their down-to-earth simplicity, capturing the human condition in a way that suggests some serious speed decrease.

10. Radúz a Mahulena / Raduz and Mahulena (Petr Weigl, 1970)

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 ‘Rycerz’ (1980), whereas the fluttering garments bring to mind the Sapphic horror-fantasies of the 70’s French cinema, such as ‘Morgane et ses nymphes’ (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 ‘Marketa Lazarová’ fame.

11. Il bell’Antonio / Handsome Antonio (Mauro Bolognini, 1960)

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.

12. Furut / Strings (Sourish Dey, 2023)

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 ‘Tiger’ was one of this writer’s 2022 favorites. Set inside a nightmarish reflection of our own world, ‘Strings’ 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.

13. Capra cu trei iezi / The Goat and Her Three Kids (Victor Canache, 2022)

Based on the famous Ion Creangă’s fable comparable to the darkest of the Grimm Brothers’ fairy tales, ‘The Goat and Her Three Kids’ 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.

14. I lunghi capelli della morte / The Long Hair of Death (Antonio Margheriti, 1964)

Released in the same year as ‘Castle of Blood’ (originally, Danza Macabra) also helmed by Margheriti, ‘The Long Hair of Death’ is an enjoyable, densely atmospheric gothic horror inspired by Mario Bava’s ‘Black Sunday’, 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. 

15. Das Phantom von Soho / The Phantom of Soho (Franz Josef Gottlieb, 1964)

A missing link between neo-noir and giallo, ‘The Phantom of Soho’ 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.

A Selection of Recent Artworks (XVIII)

With a total of 700 pieces, Bianco/Nero 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...

Discover more collages @ NICOLLAGE

Icaro, il Filosofo / Icarus, the Philosopher

Il Cavaliere dell'Inversione / The Knight of Inversion

Preparativi per la Fine / Preparations for the End

Melodramma Infernale / Infernal Melodrama

Pifferaia / Piper

Una Simulazione del Volo della Musa / A Simulation of the Muse's Flight

Biglietto di Sola Andata per Marte / One-way Ticket to Mars

A Selection of Recent Artworks (XVII)

From the latest revival of my voluminous Bianco/Nero series planned to be expanded to 700 pieces.
See more @ NICOLLAGE.

Sulla Schiena del Drago / On the Dragon's Back

Dissonnia / Dyssomnia

Forma Pura / Pure Form

Questo non Farà Male / This Won't Hurt

La Revisione delle Nuvole / Clouds Overhaul

Curiosità (Senza Gatto) / Curiosity (Sans Cat)

Tre Segreti dello Sciamano / Three Secrets of the Shaman

Farfalle / Butterflies

Nuova Realtà / New Reality
inspired by a shot from Angel's Egg (Mamoru Oshii, 1985)

Chi ha Ucciso i Conigli? / Who Killed the Rabbits?
inspired by a shot from Twin Peaks: Fire Walk With Me (David Lynch, 1992)

Raccolta dell'Acqua Piovana / Collecting Rainwater

Frammenti / Fragments

Best Premiere Viewings of August 2023

1. El extraño caso del doctor Fausto / The Strange Case of Doctor Faust (Gonzalo Suárez, 1969)

An overdose of distilled cine-madness of Zwartjes, Jodorowsky, or Clémenti-like kind, ‘The Strange Case of Doctor Faust’ 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 ‘nameless beings from an unidentified place in the universe’, 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.

2. L’envol / Scarlet (Pietro Marcello, 2022)

Once again, Pietro Marcello delivers a wondrous piece of cinema that is lost and beautiful (a reference to his 2015 docu-fantasy-drama ‘Bella e perduta’, 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 ‘Scarlet Sails’, 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.

Set between the two World Wars, ‘Scarlet’ 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).

3. Un lac / A Lake (Philippe Grandrieux, 2008)

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...

4. Moon Garden (Ryan Stevens Harris, 2022)

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!

‘Moon Garden’ 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 ‘Mad God’. Speaking of inspiration sources, ‘Alice in Wonderland’ 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 ‘A Nightmare on the Elm Street’, whereby lighting often suggests Bava and Argento. Steampunk elements, such as a tear-collecting machine, evoke Caro & Jeunet’s ‘The City of Lost Children’, 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 ‘The Company of Wolves’, and there’s even that frequently quoted ‘Alien 3’ shot, but make no mistake – ‘Moon Garden’ 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.

5. Müanyag égbolt / White Plastic Sky (Sarolta Szabó & Tibor Bánóczki, 2023)

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, ‘White Plastic Sky’ 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. 

6. Baron Prášil / The Fabulous Baron Munchausen (Karel Zeman, 1962)

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 ‘The Fabulous Baron Muchausen’ 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...

7. Peščeni grad / A Sand Castle (Boštjan Hladnik, 1962)

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.

8. Dani / Days (Aleksandar Petrović, 1963)

At his most Antonioni-esque, Aleksandar Petrović – best known for ‘I Even Met Happy Gypsies’ (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. 

9. Kapi, vode, ratnici / Raindropas, Waters, Warriors

(Živojin Pavlović, Marko Babac & Vojislav ‘Kokan’ Rakonjac, 1962)

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 ‘Live Waters’ (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 ‘Lord of the Flies’ 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 ‘Small Square’ – 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 ‘Raindrops’ – 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 ‘À Bout De Souffle’ or Ana Karina in ‘Vivre sa vie’, and the jazzy, oh-so-60’s atmosphere easily finds its way into a cinephile’s heart.

10. Vital (Shin’ya Tsukamoto, 2004)

Shin’ya Tsukamoto trades the frenetic energy of his most famous works for the meditative calm in brooding psychological drama ‘Vital’ 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 ‘Tetsuo’ 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.

11. Barbie (Greta Gerwig, 2023)

‘Barbie’ 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.

(This mini-review was not sponsored or endorsed by Mattel.)

12. Die Nackte und der Satan / The Head (Victor Trivas, 1959)

Anticipating ‘The Brain That Wouldn’t Die’ with several of key plot devices, ‘The Head’ shares one of its production designers, Hermann Warm, with the quintessential piece of silent horror cinema, ‘The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari’, cinematographer Georg Krause with Kubrick’s ‘The Paths of Glory’, and sees veteran Swiss-French actor Michel Simon (L’Atalante) 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’.

13. Trotocalles / Streetwalker (Matilde Landeta, 1951)

A cautionary tale from one of the first Mexican women who successfully fought their way to the director’s chair, ‘Streetwalker’ 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.  

14. Brigitte Bardot cudowna / Brigitte Bardot Forever (Lech Majewski, 2021)

Reminiscing his childhood and adolescence in Poland behind the Iron Curtain, Lech Majewski adapts his novel ‘Pilgrimage to the Tomb of Brigitte Bardot the Wonderful’ into an increasingly surreal drama that sees his alter ego, Adam, on a quest for truth about his pilot father. While watching Godard’s ‘Contempt’ 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, ‘Brigitte Bardot Forever’ 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...