Feb 29, 2024

Best Premiere Viewings of February 2024

1. Bride of Frankenstein (James Whale, 1935)


While ‘excavating’ for lesser-known pieces of cinema, I’ve often overlooked a number of must-see flicks, but as they say – better late, than never. When it comes to Whale’s masterful, ahead-of-its-time sequel to the most acclaimed adaptation of Mary Shelley’s novel, it is easy to see (and more importantly, feel!) why it has fascinated both audience and film scholars for decades. Its lavish studio sets, expressionist lighting, and eye-popping cinematography lend iconic vibe to great many shots, with the ‘monster’ turned into the feature’s tragic hero / emotional core shining high above very human evil (partly embodied by Ernest Thesinger’s Mephistophelian doctor Pretorius). Karloff breathes soul into Frankenstein’s creation through the nuanced performance largely dependent on grunts, facial mimicry and limited wording, making you root for him, as the clever screenplay inspires diverse readings...

2. Poor Things (Yorgos Lanthimos, 2023)


Even at his most accessible, Lanthimos is weird as fu*k... pardon, ‘furious jumping’. A bizarrely constructed vehicle for Emma Stone’s bold, uninhibited performance, ‘Poor Things’ is a delightful blend of audacious sex comedy and sumptuous steampunk fantasy, striking the right balance between a raunchy crowd-pleaser and thought-out arthouse treat. Brimming with quotable, oft-irreverently / provokingly funny lines magically matched to whimsical, invasively tempting cacophonies by Jerskin Fendrix, this prurient beast of a feature eschews politeness in favor of cinematic excess, in equal measures overwhelming and engaging. Its costume (Holly Waddington) and set design (Shona Heath & James Price) bring forth an alternative, cotton-candied version of Victorian period straight out of a deranged fairy tale told from the distorted (fish-eye) perspective of its heroine, Bella. Stunningly framed by DoP Robbie Ryan, her emancipatory (r)evolution begins with an accidental discovery of ‘keeping oneself happy’ through a genital stimulation, and culminates in fluent French, social mindedness, the discovery of cynicism, and the pursuit of a medical career, as Lanthimos and screenwriter Tony McNamara play jokes on all men who want to control her.

3. The Zone of Interest (Jonathan Glazer, 2023)


Kubrickian perfectionism meets the formal austerity of Haneke in a petrifying portrait of normality that is anything but normal, and of evil so immense that it staggers the mind, as it instills discomfort in your very viscera. That evil is not banal, as some reviewers have branded it, but rather horrifically and grandiosely absurd in its meticulously planned monstrosity / calculated absence of compassion. The atrocities it brings forth remain unseen – literally, behind the tall, concrete wall that separates the garden of earthly delights from hell, but they are strongly and insidiously felt in every fiber of your being, if your being hasn’t been robbed of humanity... Glazer’s vision – founded in history’s tendency to repeat itself – is unfaltering; his tautly unsentimental direction finely attuned to Mica Levi’s solemnly moaning score, Johnnie Burn’s eerily haunting sound design, and Lukasz Zal’s stunningly oppressive framing of ugliness that ferments under the pretty surface.

4. Banel e Adama / Banel & Adama (Ramata-Toulaye Sy, 2023)


An aesthetically triumphant debut for Senegalese filmmaker Ramata-Toulaye Sy, ‘Banel and Adama’ exists in a liminal zone between the reality and a fairy tale, as it deals with the conflict of collective superstition set in the stone of reactionary customs, and individual open-mindedness embodied by a headstrong woman. Mythically archetypal in its nature, with raw energies of non-professional actors igniting the emotional core, this simple, yet highly poetic drama also reflects on climate changes, and the power(lessness) of love in the face of nature’s harshness. The drought-stricken village whose sandy monotony is broken by colorful drapes and costumes provides a borderline surreal mise en scène expertly framed by DP Amine Berrada, and gently veiled in a delicate aural tapestry by composer Bachar Khalifé. 

5. La fille aux yeux d'or / The Girl with the Golden Eyes (Jean-Gabriel Albicocco, 1961)


In Jean-Gabriel Albicocco’s entrancing debut that appears as mature as a peculiar mixture of Antonioni and Resnais with the hints of Cocteau and Franju, love is in equal measures folie and melancholy; as bizarre as pigeons suddenly appearing and flying around the bedroom, and as clichéd as raindrops sliding down the window-glass. It feels like a slap in the face, as well as like a snow of feathers from a torn pillow; it makes one inebriated, and the other mysterious, while both fall victims of obsession. But, above all, it brings forth a super-reality (or rather, surreality?) in which lovers and the viewer get lost, until it starts disintegrating once the third player joins the whimsical romance.

A modernization of Honoré de Balzac’s 1835 novella of the same name, ‘The Girl with the Golden Eyes’ is one of the most gorgeously photographed films, by virtue of the director’s cinematographer father Quinto Albicocco. Its elegant, shadowy film-noir looks subtly complemented by wistful acoustic guitar of Spanish virtuoso Narciso Yepes establish a dense, dreamlike atmosphere so seductive and immersive that you often find the dialogue transformed into cryptic, irrational codes under the weight of the mesmerizing images. The admirable stylistic artifice is further elevated by the leading trio of Marie Laforêt, Paul Guers and Françoise Prévost whose performances are perfectly attuned to the poetic sensibility of their characters.

6. Plein soleil / Purple Noon (René Clément, 1960)


Filmed as an invitation to a summer holiday in Italy (if only time travel were possible, to experience it in the 60’s), ‘Purple Noon’ is a loose adaptation of Patricia Highsmith’s 1955 novel ‘The Talented Mr. Ripley’. I haven’t read the book, and I’d have to re-watch the 1999 film to make comparisons, but Clément’s version – a stark character study – appears tailor-made for Alain Delon, as everything and everyone gravitate towards him, or rather, the dangerous, yet fascinating antihero that he portrays. Largely reliant on the actor’s natural charisma and glassy, penetrating gaze, his performance is the very definition of magnetism, making the viewer root for this bad, devilishly clever boy, and thus challenging one’s own moral code. As compelling as Delon’s Tom Ripley is Clément’s assured direction, so neatly synergized with Nino Rota’s authentic score, seductive Mediterranean locations, and Henri Decaë’s handsome cinematography, elevating a crime story.

7. Le orme / Footprints on the Moon (Luigi Bazzoni, 1975)


Befittingly named Alice, an Italian translator – portrayed with utmost dedication and gripping intensity by Florida Bolkan – falls into the rabbit hole of her own deteriorating sanity. Plagued by a B&W nightmare in which an astronaut is left on the Moon under the command of Dr. Blackmann (an imposing cameo of Klaus Kinski), and suffering a memory loss of the past three days, she travels to the (fictitious) town of Garma (pictured in a torn postcard), in hope of figuring out what the hell has happened to her. Some of the locals there, including a red-haired horror-regular Nicoletta Elmi, believe she is a woman called Nicole, and seem to know more about her than she is willing to accept. The struggle between her conscious and unconscious mind, as well as the clash between her and others’ perceptions of not only her identity, but reality as well are distinctly mirrored in beautifully captured and strongly felt spaces, initially defined by rigid geometries of modern interiors and exteriors, and then increasingly ‘softened’ through curvier lines of Islamic architecture (Garma is represented by Turkish locations), natural environment (beach and forest), and stained glasses in the style of Art Nouveau. Luigi Bazzoni’s unhurried direction, Vittorio Storaro’s breathtaking framing, and Nicola Piovani’s haunting melodies create a dense, entrancing, at times stifling atmosphere that put you in the paranoid heroine’s shoes, and leave you with a bitter, yet satisfying aftertaste. ‘Footprints on the Moon’ may not be a masterful psychological drama, but it is a noteworthy fusion of substance and style; an obscure anomaly from the period largely remembered by black leather gloves and brightly colored blood.

8. Glitterbug (Derek Jarman, 1994)


A punk patchwork of Super 8 ‘sketches’ captured in the period of almost two decades, Derek Jarman’s swan song is a cornucopia of filmmaking techniques; a poignant, if distorted self-portrait that transcends its essayistic form, erasing the boundaries between the private life and cinema. Featuring many of the director’s friends, from William S. Burroughs to Tilda Swinton, ‘Glitterbug’ is a sparkling, wordless stream of grainy imagery that flows whimsically across an infinite, melancholic soundscape composed by Brian Eno, evoking the sublime feeling of sadness, at once crippling, romantic and liberating. It is the angelic conversation of the creator and creation, in the shadow of the Sun that acts like the tempest...

9. All of Us Strangers (Andrew Haigh, 2023)


A deeply moving story of loss, grief, love and loneliness, ‘All of Us Strangers’ is firmly anchored in stellar performances and convincing chemistry of the leading duo, Andrew Scott and Paul Mescal, spellbinding you with its delicate emotional textures bathed in warm lighting of Jamey Ramsay’s dreamy cinematography, and interwoven with soft aural threads of Emilie Levienaise-Farrouch’s melancholic score. The thick aura of nostalgia that envelopes the gently-paced proceedings materializes from the 80’s pop tunes which magically awaken the ghosts from the pasts for one last goodbye. If approached with a pure, sincere heart, this queer fairy tale provides a rewarding experience.

10. Pequeños milagros / Little Miracles (Eliseo Subiela, 1997)

“I have no philosophy, I have senses...
If I speak of Nature it’s not because I know what it is
But because I love it, and for that very reason,
Because those who love never know what they love
Or why they love, or what love is.

To love is eternal innocence,
And the only innocence is not to think...”

― Fernando Pessoa, The Keeper of Sheep II


The sweetest and most humane of four Subiela’s films that I’ve seen, ‘Little Miracles’ is a sensitive ode to (demure) adults who never lost their inner child. Directed with a keen sense of wonder, no trace of irony, and great sympathy for the characters, it follows a couple of lonely, lovely souls – a young supermarket cashier, Rosalía (Julieta Ortega, embodying innocence), who believes to be a fairy, and volunteers as a reader for the blind, and a nerdy scientist, Santiago (Antonio Birabent at his most introvert) who lives with his basset hound Lola, and works in the Institute for Radio-Astronomy, searching for extraterrestrial intelligence. Connected only through a web-camera installed at a bus-station in what can be labeled as ‘a subversion of voyeurism through romantic yearning’, the two go about their lives as the viewer roots for their encounter, basking in the warmth of Daniel Rodríguez Maseda’s cozy cinematography, poetic quotes from Fernando Pessoa, and euphonious score by Alex Khaskin and Osvaldo Montes. Magic does exist.

11. Reflections in a Golden Eye (John Huston, 1967)


Beautifully framed in gilded widescreen, while swarming with suggestive lines, and overt symbolism, John Huston’s naughty melodrama eschews subtlety in favor of a stark, daring exploration of repressed desires – homosexual in the case of Marlon Brando’s character, major Weldon Penderton, and heterosexual for a reticent soldier, L.G. Williams, in a stoic, virtually dialogue-free portrayal by Robert Forster. Entangled in a sticky web of simmering emotions, Weldon lusts for private (parts of) Williams who embarks on nocturnal adventures that involve sniffing the lingerie of Mrs. Penderton (Elizabeth Taylor, camping things up) who enjoys riding her white stallion and ‘picking blueberries’ along with her next-door neighbor, Colonel Morris Langdon (Brian Keith). Mrs. Langdon (Julie Harris) suffers from deep, nipple-cutting depression after losing a child, and finds comfort in her gay Pinoy manservant, Anacleto (Zorro David), much to the annoyance of her cheating husband. Such a set-up can only lead to tragedy portended by a quote from Carson McCullers whose 1941 novel of the same name is adapted by first-time writers Gladys Hill and Chapman Mortimer, to be subjected to firmly held directorial reins or rather, horsewhip. In someone else’s hands, ‘Reflections in a Golden Eye’ would’ve easily slipped out of control, but Huston nails just the right tone in the depiction of painful yearning, voyeurism, sadism, but above all, his main protagonist’s fallout, with Brando’s superbly committed performance lending gravitas to the gold-cold proceedings.

12. Le règne animal / The Animal Kingdom (Thomas Cailley, 2023)


The beauty of the beast and the ugliness of discrimination. A genre-bending examination of otherness and our relation to it, refracted through dichotomies – parent/child, society/individual, acceptance/rejection, cruelty/compassion. Coming-of-age drama whose fantastical premise is treated with the utmost realism, and tonal shifts handled with great skill. Cailley elicits extraordinary performances from his cast, with 22-yo Paul Kircher standing out in his full-fledged portrayal of a conflicted teenager whose transition to adulthood is made extra difficult through a lupine twist. The protagonist and other mutants of ‘The Animal Kingdom’ may bring to mind films such as ‘Nightbreed’ and/or ‘X-Men’, but what we have here is... well, a different animal, flawed, yet lovable.

13. Brzezina / The Birch Wood (Andrzej Wajda, 1970)


The film is Polish, but the colors of Zygmunt Samosiuk’s spellbinding cinematography speak a variety of languages, so the intense palette – a reflection of seasonal changes – alone is the reason enough to spend 90 minutes with it. An ode to life sung from the perspective of a tuberculosis-stricken musician, Stanislaw (Olgierd Łukaszewicz), and continually interrupted by the mournful sulking of his older brother, Boleslaw (Daniel Olbrychski), ‘The Birch Wood’ washes over the viewer like a fever dream of repressed emotions and incestuous desires. Oscillating between Stanisław’s lustful optimism and Bolesław’s fierce irritability, all the while squeezed between the two wars, this heightened, somewhat mannered drama strikes you as both deeply melancholic and broodingly joyful, fortified by ardent central performances.

14. Jigokumon / Gate of Hell (Teinosuke Kinugasa, 1953)


The first color film for the Daiei Film studio, ‘Gate of Hell’ appears like a Japanese art scroll brought to life and then gently injected with the concentrated solution of George Barnard’s ‘Harmonious Arrangement of Pigments’, transfixing the viewer’s gaze with the spellbinding costume design alone. But make no mistake, the 12th century tale presented here is not a ‘jidaigeki’ spectacle, but rather a sternly solemn meditation on destructive obsession, unrequited passion, and the nature of honor. Its serene or rather, extremely disciplined surface conceals a torrent of conflicting emotions threatening to break the shackles of intense formality, yet the mask of quietude never cracks, primarily by virtue of Kinugasa’s unhurried, methodical direction, and mannered, dignified performances from his cast, especially by Machiko Kyō of ‘Rashomon’ fame.

15. Spider Baby, or the Maddest Story Ever Told (Jack Hill, 1967)


One of the most enjoyable pieces of camp cinema I’ve ever seen, ‘Spider Baby’ delivers a splendidly twisted blend of humor and horror, with its setting – a creaky, shadow-infested mansion of ‘impossible’ architecture – creating a ton of spooky atmosphere, and the trio of Jill Banner, Beverly Washburn and Sid Haig giving mischievously stellar takes on demented siblings at the core of the story. At once cartoonish and disturbing, the film is elevated to a whole new level by virtue of Lon Chaney Jr.’s emotive performance in the role of Bruno – a chauffeur turned guardian of family secrets, and it even dares to veer into a sexploitation territory, the courtesy of Carol Ohmart (House on Haunted Hill) in black lingerie that anticipates Victoria’s Secret. It gives the impression that both the cast and behind-the-camera crew had a whale of time shooting it, limited by the shoestring budget, but liberated by their combined creative energies.

Honorable mention (short):

Last Spring (François Reichenbach, 1954)


A cinematically eloquent portrait of longing, as well as a historically significant piece of queer cinema, ‘Last Spring’ is a mighty fine example of visual storytelling, greatly influenced by Jean Cocteau, particularly in the dream sequence that comprises the second half of the film, with James Dean’s movie persona inspiring the appearance of two lovers (played by non-professional actors, no doubt). Tamer than its colorful, boldly homoerotic counterpart ‘Nus masculins’ (produced in the same year), this romantic drama eschews dialogue in favor of inventive camerawork (intimate close-ups, suggestive low angles, melancholy-infused long shots, oneiric superimpositions, etc), anticipating the free-wheeling tendencies of the New Wave.

Feb 1, 2024

Best Premiere Viewings of January 2024

1. O fovos / The Fear (Kostas Manoussakis, 1966)


A stunning closure of a regrettably short filmography (Kostas Manoussakis made only three features), ‘The Fear’ is a stark, psychologically uneasy portrayal of sexual frustration and patriarchal pathogeny. Set against the pastoral Greek countryside, to a superb, unnervingly pulsating score by Yannis Markopoulos, it tells a grim story of a heinous crime and its aftermath, plunging the viewer into the twisted mind of a villain – the son of a wealthy farmer – portrayed with chilling austerity by Anestis Vlahos. Both the build up to his appalling act (rape & murder), and the ensuing downfall of the family turned accomplices are gripping in equal measures by virtue of Nikos Gardelis’s gorgeous, high-contrast B&W cinematography, with Giorgos Tsaoulis’s dramatic editing heightening the tension. The film’s most memorable highlights are dialogue-free sequences, such as the ‘staring clash’ between Vlahos and Elena Nathanail (who plays the perpetrator’s half-sister, Anna) in the wheatfield, and the very epilogue – a dizzying dance montage fraught with symbolism.

2. Nar-o-nay / Pomegranate and Cane (Saeed Ebrahimifar, 1989)

“... And a shadow of my father’s hand was in the cupboard.”


Permeated by a bittersweet scent of nostalgia, and gently illuminated by elements of magic realism, Saeed Ebrahimifar’s debut is one of those films that make you deeply fall in love with cinema once again. A silky tapestry of one stranger’s memories as experienced through the imagination of a photographer protagonist, this tone poem of life and ennobling nature of art reaches the very depths of one’s soul, bringing to mind the likes of Mani Kaul and Sergei Parajanov. Its potent and sublime lyricism emerges from the knowing use of elegantly framed imagery in an oneiric fusion with poignant silences, sparse dialogues, introspective voice-over, and melancholic score of largely traditional melodies. That highly memorable tracking shot through the hospital corridor which takes us from the (bleak) present to the (romaticized) past gives the impression of a master, and not a beginner behind the camera.

3. Chłopi / The Peasants (DK Welchman & Hugh Welchman, 2023)


The directorial duo behind ‘Loving Vincent’ makes a triumphant return with an adaptation of Władysław S. Reymont’s Nobel prize-winning novel of the same name. Once again, their team pushes the boundaries of rotoscope animation, delivering a film in which literally every frame is an oil painting. When viewed on the big screen, it creates an overwhelming experience of poignant beauty, regardless of your attitude towards the art of realism. Nothing short of breathtaking, ‘The Peasants’ represents a combined effort of more than one hundred painters from Poland, Lithuania, Ukraine and Serbia, with their painstaking brush strokes stirring a symphony of emotions. Wonderfully complemented by Lukasz Rostkowski’s evocative score inspired by traditional music, the deeply immersive visuals also serve as an ‘absorbent’ for the ugliness of human nature that is reflected in the characters’ hypocrisies and actions. Orbiting around an independent-thinking heroine, Jagna (Kamila Urzędowska whose magnetic presence is only matched by her acting talent), the villagers are portrayed as a colorful, if eventually appalling bunch, their herd mentality – a seemingly incurable malady even in this day and age – subjected to the Welchmans’ critical blade.

4. Il nido del ragno / The Spider Labyrinth (Gianfranco Giagni, 1988)


In his fascinating debut – a beautifully photographed love letter to the masters of Italian horror, Gianfranco Giagni transforms Budapest into a mystical maze, employing the city’s distinct, kaleidoscopic architectural character as a ‘thickening agent’ for the immersively foreboding atmosphere. That alone is reason enough to see this lesser known piece of gothic/occult cinema that brings to mind both Bava and Argento by way of its stylish lighting, and anticipates ‘The Ninth Gate’ through the narrative structure. Justifying its title, ‘The Spider Labyrinth’ weaves a sticky web of intrigue and secrecy around its protagonist Alan Whitmore (the first out of only three screen appearances of Roland Wybenga) – a young professor of oriental languages, and pulls him ever deeper into a surreal nightmare that evokes his childhood phobia. Ancient evil lurks behind every corner or rather, in a courtyard surrounded by ramshackle walls, among the tables and chairs of a posh hotel restaurant, above the spiral staircase, inside a windowless room and in a well-hidden antique shop, with the brilliant production design by art director Stefano Ortolani keeping you glued to the screen. Even the aged stop-motion effects, and creature animatronics in the finale add to the film’s irresistibly esoteric charm, whereby Wybenga and his partner Paola Rinaldi (as one enigmatic Genevieve) elevate its sexiness in a couple of steamy scenes.

5. El lado oscuro del corazón / The Dark Side of the Heart (Eliseo Subiela, 1992)


“Today’s man, as evolved as he thinks he is, hasn’t totally accepted his sexuality as God intended. Most of our problems are caused by people who haven’t had a good fuck. Badly fucked army officers and politicians... The masses are fucked too, but they are unable to find answers to the sexual violence of exploitation.”

The elements of magic realism appear as completely natural in the cinema of a country that gave us Jorge Luis Borges (1899-1986). Knowingly incorporated into a (romantic) story revolving around a young idealist poet, Oliveiro (Darío Grandinetti, superb), here they manifest themselves through wry humor, carnal desires, and gusts of melancholy, oft-elevating the most banal situations into the realm of the sublime. As we follow the disheveled, rebellious, Mario Benedetti-quoting protagonist on his quest for a woman who can fly, not metaphorically, but literally, we see him disposing of one-night stands through a bed trap-door, conversing with Death (Nacha Guevara, at her most goth) who wields job ads instead of scythe, pulling a nine-feet tall statue of... ahem... guess-what through the streets of Buenos Aires, and tearing out his heart for a pragmatic, well-read prostitute, Ana (Sandra Ballesteros, utterly magnetic), the only one who meets his high standards of ecstatic levitation. At turns decidedly ridiculous, poetically salacious, nonchalantly philosophical, and emotionally resonant, ‘The Dark Side of the Heart’ is the film tailor-made for artistic, as well as other weird and passionate souls whose fire melts the shackles of mundanity, and rips open the portals to new realities. In the rare moments of outstaying its welcome, it still manages to keep you involved by virtue of Subiela’s keen sense of style, Hugo Colace’s handsome lensing, and/or enchanting soundtrack by Osvaldo Montes.

6. Dust (Marion Hänsel, 1985)


Jane Birkin’s astute portrayal of Magda – a sexually frustrated spinster going through a mental breakdown – imposes as the major focal point in Marion Hänsel’s adaptation of J. M. Coetzee’s 1977 novel ‘In the Heart of the Country’. Bound by servitude to her domineering father (Trevor Howard), Magda is a tragic heroine whose unreliable narration raises questions about what is real and what is but a figment of her imagination, leaving the viewer emotionally conflicted about her. The claustrophobic tone which Hänsel sets throughout the film, with a small, semi-desert farm setting mirroring the protagonist’s troubled state of mind, intensifies the viewing experience, in equal measures fascinating and harrowing. Not even the warmest hues of Walther van den Ende’s entrancing cinematography can conceal, let alone absorb the dry, overwhelming distress that weighs upon this stark character study, as it slowly creeps into you...

7. Faraon / Pharaoh (Jerzy Kawalerowicz, 1966)


At once alienating and fascinating, Jerzy Kawalerowicz’s vision of ancient Egypt – an adaptation of the 19th century novel of the same name by Bolesław Prus – recounts a timeless tale of power struggle, boasting a state-of-the-art production and costume design in beautifully harmonized shades of sand, gold and bronze, with a decidedly stilted performances lending the film a dense aura of solemn ritual. Cinematically engaging in its carefully measured use of symmetrical composition and God’s eye view, tracking and subjective shots, subtle and overt eroticism, diegetic sounds and operatic chants, ‘Pharaoh’ can be labeled as a ‘Brutalist epic’ whose very scope demands the viewer’s appreciation.

8. The Mystical Rose (Michael Lee, 1976)


Holy penis of Yeshua Ha-Nozri, what did I watch?! A freewheeling hybrid of cut-out animation à la Larry Jordan by way of Terry Gilliam, live-action sequences ranging from a masturbation to a sheep slaughter to a religious procession, and archive footage serving as a witty break from the overload of sexually suggestive imagery (that brings to mind Marcel Mariën’s obscure 1959 short ‘The Imitation of Cinema’), ‘The Mystical Rose’ is a singular piece of (wildly!) experimental cinema which can probably be used in a fertility ritual... if screened backwards. Playfully subversive, ravingly iconoclastic and seductively arrhythmical, it provides you with a non-stop barrage of surrealistic / stream-of-conscious / symbolic visuals that evoke hippy trips of Pierre Clémenti at their most psychedelic, and appear to take cues from the likes of Luis Buñuel, Kenneth Anger and Fernando Arrabal when it comes to transgression tactics. 

9. Eileen (William Oldroyd, 2023)


They don’t make them like they used to... and then, this flick comes along. Set in 60’s Massachusetts, and feeling like a lost, at once offbeat and suave artifact from the past, ‘Eileen’ is a tautly controlled amalgam of an intriguing character study, stylish Hitchcockian thriller and latent lesbian romance, with a dash of delicious pulp spicing up the placidly paced proceedings. Its silent forte lies in the opposed, yet superbly harmonized central performances from Anne Hathaway and Thomasin McKenzie whose (anti?)heroine has such a vivid imagination, that you are left questioning the reliability of the whole story. Behind the quaint veneer of a small town, William Oldroyd conceals some perverse secrets, subverting the American myth of familial love, and delivering a down-to-earth neo-noir of attractively grainy visuals complemented by a cool jazzy score.

10. Le Cœur battant  / The French Game (Jacques Doniol-Valcroze, 1960)


Call me old-fashioned, overly nostalgic or just plain silly, but I find it utterly charming when actors in old movies talk on rotary telephones, making the use of mobiles in modern cinema appear borderline vulgar. And when you have Françoise Brion and Jean-Louis Trintignant in their prime holding handsets, the sight comes across as more electrifying than usual. With sparkling chemistry, sheer elegance and great charisma, the duo portray gallerist assistant Dominique and abstract painter François in a sweet romantic dramedy of subtle humor and breezy atmosphere that elevate even the most uneventful portions of the story. Two sides of a love triangle, they play quirky little games during a holiday spent in a seaside resort, which allows DoP Christian Matras to treat us to some beautiful shots of a couple on a (magically) vacant beach. That doesn’t mean the imagery captured in a hotel and narrow streets around it is any less attractive – on the contrary, his camera transmutes the most banal of scenes into visual poetry so seductive that you’re rarely bothered by how saccharine Michel Legrand’s score sounds...

11. Door (Banmei Takahashi, 1988)


A Japanese answer to giallo and home invasion flicks, ‘Door’ plays out like a reserved, yet pretty unnerving psychological thriller for the first hour, only to go off the rails in the most viscerally rewarding way possible during the final third. Takahashi (whose pinku background is barely hinted at) puts his heroine, a paranoid (and often lonely) homekeeper, Yasuko, on equal footing with her stalker, a door-to-door salesman turned psycho, making their intense, cinematically unhinged clash a (queasy) delight to behold, and eliciting superb performances from the leading duo. The imposing formal austerity of the build-up is gradually ‘loosened’, with wry humor and unexpected stylistic flourishes seeping in through a hole chainsawed in the bathroom door, and the eye of Yasushi Sasakibara’s camera beautifully capturing the dominating greens of Yasuko’s meticulously furnished apartment.

12. Lone Star (John Sayles, 1996)


Veteran Kris Kristofferson portrays one of the slimiest Texan sheriffs in flashbacks of a cleverly written, austerely directed and tightly edited drama advocating an anti-racist attitude, and featuring smooth-as-silk in-camera transitions between the scenes of the present and the past. Also praiseworthy for their unaffected performances are the rest of the cast, from Elizabeth Peña to Chris Cooper to Frances McDormand in her bravura cameo role, all with a well-defined place in a story rich with subplots and hidden truths. Best viewed with fresh eyes, ‘Lone Star’ can be labeled as an examination of the sense of justice and its complexities, as well as an ode to the legends we weave to protect ourselves or the people we hold dear. 

13. Luminous Procuress (Steven Arnold, 1971)


Cross-dressing glee of Jack Smith’s ‘Flaming Creatures’, diluted solution of Kenneth Anger’s magick, and uninhibited flamboyance of Fellini’s ‘Satyricon’ are mixed, shaken and stirred in Steven Arnold’s first and only feature that elevated him to the rank of Salvador Dalí’s protégé. Coming across as a cacophonous ode to pansexuality, ‘Luminous Procuress’ is a phantasmagorical document of a saucy, LSD-infused burlesque by San Francisco-based theater troupe ‘The Cockettes’. Led by drag performer Pandora in the role of the titular character, the members of the group appear – often undressed or semi-nude, and sporting face paint – in a series of peepshow-like vignettes observed by a couple of friends in what can be described as a rite of passage through the mirror of gender fluidity. Apart from a hardcore sex scene (involving a straight couple), the proceedings largely play out like a queer farce, not without its flaws, but earning extra points by virtue of its sheer, perverse audacity. The hyper-colorful visuals brimming with outrageous hairdos, glittery makeup, and stupendous costumes inspired by diverse cultures are soaked in effervescent noises of Warner Jepson’s radical synth score and multilingual mumbling that, reportedly, replaces the poor sound recorded on the set (Arnold’s warehouse home).

14. Hung cheuk wong ji / Peacock King (Ngai Choi Lam & Biao Yuen, 1988)


A live-action adaptation of Makoto Ogino’s manga of the same name (serialized between 1985 and 1989), ‘Peacock King’ is a bombastic amalgam of wuxia action, high fantasy, horror and comedy in which twin monks, Peacock and Lucky Fruit (in English translation), are tasked with stopping the apocalyptic revival of Devil King. On their perilous quest from Tokyo to Hong Kong to Tibet, they will have to pass a handful of challenges posed by Raga Witch who looks like a singer of an 80’s hair metal band until she transforms into a gnarly, vagina-faced monster straight out of a ‘Giger meets Harryhausen in Wicked City’ nightmare. That and a couple of possessed dinosaur models in a department store are not exactly typical Buddhist exorcist affairs, but as long as the set-pieces are the tongue-in-cheek peak of B-moviemaking, bring it on! Ngai Choi Lam – best known for the cult action splatter ‘Story of Ricky’ – directs this extravaganza with briskness and flair, assisted by one of the stars, Biao Yuen, who peacocks in his role with a self-confident grin. Fine-tuning the leading duo is Hiroshi Mikami whose composed character take things more seriously, which is why his performance lends some stoic elegance to the flamboyant proceedings. If you’re looking for a deliciously cheesy companion piece to ‘Big Trouble in Little China’ or ‘The Golden Child’, you will certainly it here.

Jan 14, 2024

P-p-p-prljava pesma

Niko kao nitkov
reč u tri poteza
prvi je laž
i drugi je laž
a treći je opstrukcija
p-p-p-piše li olovka
ili je na pola nosa
i na pola koplja
na pola preseci
p-p-p-ponovo mi reci
čisto je i bistro
samo u mutnom
mutni mute
i skrivaju pod skute
decu i mamute
mutante i mrmote
p-p-p-popovi se gube
u blatu do kolena
mržnja od mila
mržnja odvajkada

kolaž: Metalitet Krda, ili Voznesenje Gluposti
(Nicollage, novembar, 2021)

Dec 31, 2023

Best Premiere Viewings of 2023 (New Cinema Edition)

When compiling my annual lists, one usually encompasses the personal 20th century premieres, whereas the other includes films released from 2001 onward. This year, however, I decided to make my job much easier by pulling focus on 2021-2023 features, and excluding blockbusters in favor of experimental, arthouse and genre offerings, as well as of animation that is so often unjustly overlooked. I will take this opportunity to wish all my friends and followers a year of numerous socio-political improvements, good health and bold cinema!

1. Elpis (Rouzbeh Rashidi, 2023)


“Achingly lyrical and lushly ethereal, this film compellingly synergizes the soul of cinema, the soul of the artist, and the soul of Mother Nature into the transcendental awareness of the (motion) picture and its sanctity, inspiring us to resist our insignificance in the grand scheme of things, and keep reaching for the farthest recesses of our inner universe...”

Read the full review @ EFSPublications

2. Les chambres rouges / Red Rooms (Pascal Plante, 2023)


If I were asked to describe ‘Red Rooms’ in a single word, I would probably opt for ‘anti-sensationalist’, which also perfectly suits the author’s measured approach to the razor-sharp dissection of modern society, or rather, its evils, collective and individual alike, as well as to the stark, mystery-imbued study of a character fascinated by a heinous crime. Firmly anchored in the central, utterly magnetic performance from Juliette Gariépy whose micro-acting skills give Mads Mikkelsen a good run for his money, this stellar, thought-provoking, impressively cold, steely unnerving and formally ingenious psycho-drama/thriller needs no Hollywood-style ‘fireworks’ to keep you glued to screen. Right from the get-go set in a featureless, yet instantly captivating courtroom, it snatches your attention by virtue of extraordinary camerawork, especially the expert use of long takes, at once immersive and chillingly uncanny sound design, elaborate music score which elevates the bleakness of the atmosphere, and above all, incredibly pedantic direction marked by eerie, Haneke-like austerity, and to a certain degree, methodical mannerism of late Schrader. Beneath its ‘frigid’ surface of brilliantly played understatements, simmers a well of intense emotions, lending a refined patina to the proceedings...

3. Koński ogon / The Horse Tail (Justyna Łuczaj, 2023)


In a modern re-imagination of the Oedipus myth, first-time director Justyna Łuczaj discovers sublime beauty amidst mud, garbage and intricate relationships stained with traumas and erotic tension. Setting her (superb!) debut in an unwelcoming middle-of-nowhere – various decrepit locales in Poland and Slovakia – surrounded by a lush forest, she confidently builds a weird, borderline post-apocalyptic world, far removed from regal Thebe. Her hero is a young, orphaned outcast, Maj (a bold big-screen inauguration for magnetic Remigiusz Pocica), raised by a peculiar ‘daddy’ figure, Hans (uninhibited Przemysław Bluszcz, giving off some Udo Kier vibes), the boy’s estranged mother is an elderly sex-worker, Diana (the phantasmal presence of Ryta Kurak), and king Laius’s reflection is a deranged policeman, Max (Wojciech Bialas, imposing as a vile embodiment of toxic masculinity / authority).

They all yearn for love, each one in their own (degenerate?) way, and incessantly fail to achieve it, although Maj is allowed a few moments of tenderness with his (yet unknown to him) half-sister Dagmara (Anouchka Kolbuch) whose character shines a short-living light of hope and innocence on her sibling’s bleak struggle. Dark hairs (of the titular horse tail?) float down the river, as a warning of impending doom, all the while the toothless narrator (Tomasz Mularski) – a deliberate vulgarization of Greek chorus – adds a few more pinches of filth into a fragmented, provocative and to a certain point puzzling narrative. Łuczaj demonstrates uncompromising resolve in her formally challenging, subtly transgressive portrayal of lost, lonely, loveless souls, eliciting immediate performances from a largely non-professional cast, and transforming the obscure reality of her protagonists into an emotionally raw ‘unreality’, simultaneously surreal, twisted, repellent and fascinating. 

4. Сказка (Александр Сокуров, 2022) / Fairytale (Alexander Sokurov, 2022)


In the artists’ purgatory, Dante meets Beckett by way of Goya and Doré, their souls converge into a sly entity that possesses Sokurov’s dreams, and as a result of this esoteric act, he delivers a fascinating piece of experimental animation. Cleverly utilizing a combo of deepfake technology and archive footage, the Russian master brings four historical figures in their multiple versions to (after)life, and pokes some serious fun at them against the backdrop of foggy limbo where they’re stuck believing they deserve to enter paradise. The plot sounds like the beginning of a political joke that involves Stalin, Churchill, Mussolini and Hitler, with cameos by Jesus and Napoleon, and indeed, one can’t help but laugh at those egotistical, imperialistic mugs bickering about various topics, from their clothes and hygiene to religion and ideological isms. However, sardonically titled ‘Fairytale’ isn’t just an absurdist collection of darkly humorous quips – it is a powerful, provocative artistic experience that often remind us of history’s inconvenient tendency to repeat itself:

“Don’t lament, my brother. All will be forgotten, we’ll start anew... The best it yet to come... Soon, soon...”

5. 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.

6. 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.

7. Megalomaniac (Karim Ouelhaj, 2022)


At once repulsive and spellbinding, naturalistically dirty and nightmarishly surrealistic, ‘Megalomaniac’ is a relentlessly grim, thoroughly unsettling and viscerally thought-provoking exercise in evil of the human kind, blurring the line between the perp and the victim, reality and fiction. Directed with an assured hand and keen sense of ambiguity which permeates the story (based on a real-life serial killer in 90’s Belgium), it depicts the violence at its most disgusting, venomous and hard-hitting, as it sets a new milestone in the horror genre. Boasting a stylized, darkly arresting cinematography (François Schmitt) and haunting, insidiously evocative score (Simon Fransquet & Gary Moonboots), the film is also praiseworthy for superb performances by the entire cast, particularly from Eline Schumacher, awe-inspiring and subtly unhinged in the role of a mentally unbalanced Martha. A severely underrated flick!

8. 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).

9. Leda (Samuel Tressler IV, 2021)

Not a single word is spoken in Samuel Tressler’s bold, dazzlingly beautiful feature debut which transmutes the Leda myth into an ethereally uncanny nightmare, part surrealistic period piece and part highly poeticized gothic psychodrama. Decidedly elliptical in its storytelling or rather ‘storyshowing’, this superb indie flick comes across as a cryptic, sensorial mood piece delicately touching upon a childhood trauma, rape, madness, loneliness and pregnancy. Densely atmospheric, in equal measures ominous and soothing, it unfolds in a deliberate pace towards a subtly visceral epilogue that further amplifies the all-pervasive ambiguity. Tressler and his co-writer Wesley Pastorfield keep pulling the rug from under the viewer’s feet, and each time they do so, you find yourself falling deeper into the rabbit hole of Leda’s dreams, memories and hallucinations. All the while, cinematographer Nick Midwig lulls you into a dreamlike state with eloquent B&W imagery immersed in a hauntingly minimalist score by Andre Barros and Björn Magnusson.

Highly recommended for the fans of ‘Meshes of the Afternoon’ (1943), ‘Angel’s Egg’ (1985), ‘Under the Skin’ (2013) and ‘November’ (2017).

An interesting piece of trivia: One of the supporting roles is played by Nicolle Marquez who reminded me of Maya Deren in ‘Dawn’ – a delightful 35mm short presented as a part of Reality (Un)Check selection at the third edition of Kinoskop in Yugoslav Film Archive in 2021.

10. New Religion (Keishi Kondo, 2022)

Utterly hypnotizing in its portrayal of grieving process and its transformative potentials, Keishi Kondo’s crowdfunded feature debut comes across as an impressive calling card not only for its author, but also for a bunch of newcomers in his team, from the entire cast to cinematographer Sho Mishina. (According to IMDb, only colorist Dmitry Kuznetsov and co-editor Aleksandar Milenković have several short films under their belts.) Right from the experimental prologue soaked in deep reds (later turned into a leitmotif) and brooding drones (that dominate the haunting score), ‘New Religion’ pulls the viewer into its disjointed reality – one akin to a dream in which a dreamer is dreamed... perhaps by a moth.

Kondo could be quoting a couple of lines from Cronenberg’s defining body horror ‘The Fly’, yet his keen sensibility is much closer to that of Kiyoshi Kurosawa’s brand of ‘slow terror’, as well as to David Lynch’s penchant for the unknowable, cryptic symbolism and bizarre characters... such as a presumably non-human photographer who speaks through an electrolarynx. Both his direction and editing are assured and precise, as he employs meticulously composed imagery, and uncannily immersive sound design to create a dense and heavy atmosphere of bleak melancholy, understated eeriness and deliberate disorientation. Lingering below the ostensibly desensitized surface of his puzzling psychological drama is a creeping sense of madness and dread in the face of a child loss, with the elliptical story unfolding from the unreliable perspective of a heroine, Miyabi (Kaho Seto, admirable at micro-acting). The horror underpinnings may prove too subtle for the hardcore genre aficionados, and the ever-present irrationality will significantly limit the audience, but if you’re looking for something refreshingly off-the-wall, just let ‘New Religion’ convert you... 

11. Le pharaon, le sauvage et la princesse / The Black Pharaoh, the Savage and the Princess (Michel Ocelot, 2022)


If Michel Ocelot did not exist, it would be necessary to invent him. His latest opus – a fairy tale omnibus that celebrates multiculturalism, and mocks autocratic figures – is so enchanting, that I was under its spell the moment it began. Emotionally resonant in their (timeless) simplicity, three stories are presented in a gorgeous animation style that channels the spirits of, respectively, artists of ancient Egypt, the one & only Lotte Reiniger, and masters of arabesque, with the lavish orchestral score elevating the viewing experience. For 80 minutes, I felt like a child listening with wide-eyed attentiveness to the voice of its kind grandfather...

12. Kerr (Tayfun Pirselimoglu, 2021)


The echoes of COVID-19 isolation hang on decrepit walls of a small, purgatorial town in Pirselimoglu’s absurdist dramedy that sees its clueless, hapless hero (superbly cast Erdem Şenocak) lost in a Kafkaesque nightmare – as metaphysically inescapable as it gets. Injected with measured doses of wry, deadpan humor, ‘Kerr’ gives no answers to a lot of its questions, putting the viewer in the protagonist’s shoes that go with a dark coat of bewilderment. On the other hand, the embodiment of mystery wears a yellow coat surrounded by a ‘double agent’ aura, and even though her screen time is limited, she heads a weird bunch that wouldn’t be out of place in a David Lynch’s psychological thriller. The same could also be said for a jazzy theme that pays a loving homage to the genius of Angelo Badalamenti, as well as for a dimly lit nightclub, its backstage hidden behind a red curtain. Ever-growing despair is emphasized by the wintry weather, as the loudspeaker announcements warn of rabid dogs prowling the streets, and seemingly bottomless holes appear all around, out of nowhere, sucking in most of the possible meanings. There’s also a murderer on the loose, yet neither the police, nor the people seem to give a damn, their provincial mentality paralyzing Şenocak’s unnamed character. Deliberate pacing intensifies the cold, thick atmosphere of detachment, and the quiet denouement comes across as another ellipsis in this beautifully framed mindfuck of a film.

13. Mammalia (Sebastian Mihăilescu, 2023)


In Sebastian Mihăilescu’s bold fiction feature debut, the existential absurdity of Roy Andersson is filtered through the prism of the Greek Weird Wave (and the Buharov brothers’ work?) into a surrealistic, double-edged satire of gender norms, as well as of any attempt to soften their rigidity. Entirely composed of long and static takes beautifully shot on 16mm, with the main course of action often pushed into the background or even off-screen, this genre-defying experiment poses a formal challenge alleviated by deadpan humor. Its idiosyncratic tableaux vivants turn banalities of life (and the dangers of dildo-carving cults) on their head, putting the viewer in an awkward position between a nervous chuckle and invigorating befuddlement.

14. 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. 

15. Divinity (Eddie Alcazar, 2023)

A strong contender for the most (insanely!) stylish pulp experiment of the year, Eddie Alcazar’s sophomore feature is a bold, dazzling, overwhelming assault on the viewer’s senses. Stunningly shot on 16mm B&W film, with deep shadows absorbing its flaws all the while emphasizing its esoteric qualities, ‘Divinity’ comes across like an intoxicating concoction of wildly varied influences, from the psychotronic sci-fi of the mid-20th century and Ray Harryhausen’s brand of stop-motion to disturbing body horror of David Cronenberg, fever dream-like surrealism of David Lynch and, unexpectedly, fighting games à la ‘Mortal Kombat’.

At once quaint and futuristic, it examines our unending search for immortality and tackles the ethical issues thereof, casting a satirical lens on the modern society obsessed with superficial beauty and hedonistic frenzy. Whimsical in its plotting, it invites a mysterious couple of cosmic siblings (Moises Arias and Jason Genao) to Earth, and pits them against a mad scientist with serious daddy issues, Jaxxon (Stephen Dorff), and his appropriately named brother Rip (Micheael O’Hearn), in and around a desert house that – similarly to the movie itself – exists in an unspecified space between the past and the future / twisted geometries of German expressionism and imposing grandeur of Brutalist architecture. The sinister mansion plays a significant role in establishing the sombre and chimeric atmosphere of human decadence, further enhanced by forebodingly hazy electronic soundscapes from DJ Muggs (of Cypress Hill fame) and Dean Hurley (who has previously collaborated with David Lynch and Chrysta Bell).

Unlike Alcazar’s ambitious, but ambiguously messy debut ‘Perfect’ excessively hampered by ad-and-music-video-like aesthetics, ‘Divinity’ actually benefits from its author’s background in commercials, with form and content / carnal and transcendental / articulate and ineffable being in a considerably improved balance. It blurs the boundary that separates the miraculous from the grotesque, and just for fun, subverts some Biblical themes as it pokes fun at New Age pretensions. The cult status is almost certainly guaranteed.

16. Suzume no Tojimari / Suzume (Makoto Shinkai, 2022)


Growing along with its young heroine, the latest offering from Makoto Shinkai – a household name in the world of japanimation – portrays grieving process and nostalgia for the faithful departed in an equally poignant and clever fashion, with a quirky sense of humor keeping sentimentality at bay. Oh, and the animation is positively dazzling!

17. Sweet Dreams (Ena Sendijarević, 2023)


Deserving a place somewhere between Lucrecia Martel’s ‘Zama’ and Yorgos Lanthimos’s ‘The Favorite’, ‘Sweet Dreams’ presents a big leap forward for its author Ena Sendijarević. Directed with more confidence, greater stylistic flair, and keener sense of pacing than her formally strong, yet emotionally numb road-movie debut ‘Take Me Somewhere Nice’, this wry period piece boasts exquisite, appropriately decadent costume (Bernadette Corstens) and production design (Myrte Beltman), with bold colors popping out of the screen by virtue of Emo Weemhoff’s disciplined framing, particularly of interior spaces. By ‘squeezing’ all characters in 4:3 ratio, Sendijarević and Weemhoff strive to abolish the hierarchy of the (subtly caricatured) colonizers and the (delightfully deadpan) colonized in the story set around a sugar plantation in 1900 Indonesia, with the film’s aesthetical lavishness skillfully matched to both its acerbic insightfulness and satirical absurdity.

18. Saules aveugles, femme endormie / Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman (Pierre Földes, 2022)


I am not familiar with Haruki Murakami’s short stories the film is based upon (I’ve only read ‘Dance Dance Dance’ several years ago), but I will surely be keeping my eye on composer turned filmmaker Pierre Földes. Addressing the stresses of everyday life and attempts of ordinary people to find its meaning (if any), ‘Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman’ is a finely nuanced amalgam of light philosophical musings and quirky flights of fancy. Magic realist at its core, it introduces an anthropomorphic, Nietzsche-and-Hemingway-quoting frog as one of the guides in interconnected existential crises of three people stuck in their dead-end job, marriage or solitude. At once detached and compassionate, this fantasy-drama flows like a slightly disorienting dream in which almost each encounter gives off a Schrodinger’s cat vibe, and the cat has both the first and last name – Noboru Watanabe. The employed technique of animation similar to rotoscoping goes well with the liminal realities of the narrative, with Földes’s piano-heavy score conveying the brooding, yet comforting feeling of chronic melancholy.

19. Saltburn (Emerald Fennell, 2023)

Not to be taken too seriously, nor to be dismissed as ‘off the mark’ in its examination of toxic elitism, envy, desire, class conflict, and social privilege, dark, whimsical, psychosexual dramedy ‘Saltburn’ cements Barry Keoghan’s position among the finest actors working today. His devilishly on point and, ultimately, daringly uninhibited or, simply put, ‘cocky’ take on Oliver Quick – a young opportunist as talented as Tom Ripley, and as increasingly insidious as Martin from ‘The Killing of the Sacred Deer’ – constitutes the focal point in the film brimming with provocative eccentricities and slyly inserted cine-references. Supported by the likes of Rosamund Pike (brilliantly campy) and Richard E. Grant (playfully weird), Keoghan effortlessly sparks strong chemistry with his colleagues, particularly when partnered by Jacob Elordi and Archie Madekwe, as his anti-heroic character navigates the turbulent sea of decadent opulence. Speaking of which, Fennell finds superb conspirators of eye-pleasing pleasure in production designer Suzie Davies, supervising art director Caroline Barclay, and cinematographer Linus Sandgren, with some wittily inserted musical numbers amping up the twisted atmosphere.

Also, after that bathtub scene, I’ll never hear the chorus of No Doubt’s ‘Bathwater’ in the same way again...

“... But I still love to wash in your old bathwater
Love to think that you couldn’t love another
I can’t help it, you’re my kind of man...”

20. La bête dans la jungle / The Beast in the Jungle (Patric Chiha, 2023)

Henry James’s 1903 novella ‘The Beast in the Jungle’ (which I haven’t read) reaches the big screen through a couple of (loose) adaptations this year – one is Bertrand Bonello’s (yet to be seen) sci-fi upgrade ‘The Beast’, starring Léa Seydoux and George MacKay, and the other is Patric Chiha’s neo-surrealist drama with Anaïs Demoustier and Tom Mercier as May and John waiting for an unknown event in a nameless nightclub supervised by Béatrice Dalle’s mysterious Physiognomist. Already provoking polarizing reactions, the latter film comes across as an oneiric tone poem, strangely hypnotic in its ambiguous languor set against disco-to-techno rhythms which mark the passing of time from 1979 to 2001, even though the protagonists remain ostensibly unaffected by its tooth. A meditation on lost opportunities, unfulfilled dreams and wasted youth, or in broader terms, love(lessness), life and death, it turns the setting into a sexy and sweaty purgatory of hedonistic rapture, yet it manages to keep the viewer bewitched in the duo’s puzzling, emotionally inert, but intimate orbit, largely by virtue of Demoustier’s and Mercier’s stellar performances. Both the dancefloor intoxication and anticipation of the right moment are beautifully captured by DP Céline Bozon, with warm tones of the 80’s gradually fading into darkness as the 20th century approaches its end. There’s a ‘Last Year at Marienbad’ vibe attached to the proceedings, though it appears as if refracted through the queer prism of Yann Gonzalez.