1. In die Sonne schauen / Sound of Falling (Mascha Schilinski, 2025)
“How long can you act happy without anyone noticing?”
Endowed with a poetic fullness that evokes the 20th century lyrical cinema, Mascha Schilinski’s sophomore feature sees intergenerational trauma transmuted into a psychosexual mystery, in equal measures enchanting and melancholic. Appearing as if borrowed from the home video archives of a family ghost – maybe from the past, maybe from the future – it follows four generations of women in a fragmented narrative of intuitive structure, ostensibly fragile, yet reinforced by the characters’ willingness to liberate themselves at any cost. A significant part of the ancestors’ weight they all carry on their shoulders is lifted by the lightness of the director’s touch, and then concealed within the ‘temporal gaps’, so that the accumulation of fears, depression, suicidal ideation, and (sexual) frustration doesn’t overwhelm the viewer. Schilinski’s sense of suggestion is both subtle and strong, her eye for composition as refined as the framing of her right-hand man, DP Fabian Gamper, and the use of sound, particularly of the dark, brooding drones, nothing short of masterful.
2. Evdokia (Alexis Damianos, 1971)
One of the angriest romances to scorch the screen, Evdokia also operates as a reflection of a tumultuous period in Greek history – the military junta that ruled from 1967 to 1974. A political melodrama, if you will, and a pretty temperamental one at that, it takes the viewer on a rollercoaster of hyperbolized emotions. The titular protagonist is a young prostitute (Maria Vassiliou, a true force of nature) whose short affair with a sergeant, Yorgos (Giorgos Koutouzis, acting as a counterbalance to Vassiliou’s fierce performance), leads to the unlikely marriage; her profession, their inner conflicts, and societal (petit bourgeoisie) pressures putting their love to the test.
Oh, and what a test it is! They scratch then embrace each other, swing above the cliff and wrestle in the sand, not to mention that desperate act of mirror munching turned into a bloody crown of burning passion. “You made me see stars!” – she says with a smile at one point, moments after he slaps her so hard she falls to the ground. Yes, it is all as mad, irrational and messy as it sounds, with actor turned filmmaker Alexis Damianos (presumably) taking cues from the great Papatakis and – in terms of a desolate setting – early Pasolini, his rebellious, anti-right-wing sentiment permeating the proceedings. Considering the circumstance under which the feature was made, it is incredible how strong the sense of freedom is in his borderline anarchic direction, as well as in a homoerotic tension of soldiers’ exercises anticipating Claire Denis’s Beau Travail. Another striking aspect of the film is the use of visuals – attuned to the fiery heroine’s own ‘shaggy’ appearance – to convey ‘us against the world’ nature of the characters’ relationship, and their unpredictable mood swings. A sourly succulent cherry on top is the ‘table in teeth’ reprise of the iconic Zeibekiko dance that marks the first ten minutes.
3. Dead Lover (Grace Glowicki, 2026)
Grace Glowicki and her real-life partner Ben Petrie of Honey Bunch fame join forces with two actresses from their community theater, playing multiple roles in one of the most bonkers (and hence, acquired taste) experiments in recent memory. Taking cues – some admitted, others presumed – from Gothic Romanticism, German Expressionism, Mel Brooks, Guy Maddin, John Waters, and Bertrand Mandico, Glowicki directs a deliciously campy, unapologetically cartoonish, and ridiculously entertaining piece of gender-fluid cinema gloriously captured on 16mm by Rhayne Vermette (Ste. Anne).
The story of ‘Dead Lover’ owes a lot to Mary Shelley’s novel Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus, but its wild, over-the-top, DIY style – which, btw, screams ‘high cult potential’ – is oh so post-modern in its unchecked playfulness, and deconstruction of... well, pretty much everything. Creative liberties taken here are nothing short of awe-inspiring, as every obvious budgetary constraint is turned into the film’s strength, whether to emphasize the intentional artifice, or enhance the humorous effect.
4. La valle dei sorisi / The Holy Boy (Paolo Strippoli, 2025)
The line between a blessing and a curse is completely erased in Paolo Strippoli’s third feature – a coming-of-age (and-almost-out) horror that weaves the themes of guilt, personal and collective traumas, religion and repression, collective effervescence and mass hysteria, warning of the dire consequences of both suppressing and absorbing pain. Set in a remote village of Remis dubbed ‘the valley of smiles’ (which is also the literal translation of the original title), the unsettlingly serene psychological drama unfolds at a deliberate pace, the simmering dread gradually seeping through the cracks of what appears to be a tautly controlled reality, and leading to an explosive (or rather, implosive?) denouement of skillfully choreographed set pieces.
At the center of the intriguing, mystical story is a demure 15-yo boy, Matteo (a brilliantly unaffacted debut from Giulio Feltri), whose paranormal ability to heal with a simple hug creates an addiction on happiness among the villagers, and makes him revered as a local messiah. (Many are unaware, though, that their angel also possesses the power of mind control.) The arrival of a substitute PE teacher, Sergio (Michele Riondino, excellent), stirs the ‘luminous’ status quo, his depression (due to a tragic loss) marking him a demon in need of exorcizing, with Matteo soon turning into his surrogate son, and thus only serving the selfish needs of yet another human...
Evoking ‘Carrie’ and ‘name any tight-knit community horror with pagan vibes’, ‘The Holy Boy’ is a heady, relatable and relevant concoction with a lot of flavors to savor, the main one being a dagger thrust into the heart of toxic positivity, which has been spreading like a plague, especially by the so-called influencers. It may not provide Strippoli with an instant admission into the Pantheon of Italian masters of the genre, but it is a remarkable effort, anchored in assured direction, well-honed performances, austerely beautiful visuals, and unnervingly befitting score.
5. Сто дней до приказа / 100 Days Before the Command (Hussein Erkenov, 1991)
Released at the dusk of Soviet Union, the feature debut from Uzbek filmmaker Hussein Erkenov is a bleakly poetic mood piece, its deliberate pace commanding the seductively oneiric atmosphere, boldly imbued with subtextual and, more often, purely textual homoeroticism. Penetrating the subconscious minds of both the viewer and its leading characters – army rookies bullied by their superiors – the film shifts its focus from the conventional narrative to the unorthodox portrayal of inner workings, with dialogue reduced to minimum. In doing so, it completely eradicates the boundaries between the protagonists’ dreams and realities, employing – in a highly subversive act – a Red Army training camp as a microcosm of the oppressive, not to mention violently homophobic state, with the ‘golden shower’ humiliation turned into a powerful metaphor, and the only female character embodying death. Simultaneously, it evokes Tarkovsky (in long, contemplative takes) and Pasolini (through many uninhibited non-professionals), standing firmly as a rebellious anomaly of the Russian-spoken cinema.
6. Masters of the Universe (Travis Knight, 2026)
My favorite childhood characters get more than a satisfying rehaul in the third feature from Travis Knight (Kubo and the Two Strings) who must’ve watched the Filmation cartoon back in the days, or he’s just pretty good at faking fanhood. Filled with nods to the original series, as well as to the 1987 live-action adaptation with Dolph Lundgren (making a gym cameo), Masters of the Universe is best viewed as a camp spectacle, high on pulpy fantasy with dazzling special effects, self-consciously corny (meta) humor, and unapologetic gay innuendo. (“Give ‘em head, Ram-Man!” – yells a good guy named Fisto in the heat of the battle at one point.)
Unlike his source material self, the muscular hero rarely pulls his punches, meaning that the drama queen-like archvillain, Skeletor, eventually turns into a training dummy to whom He-Man shows no mercy. So yes, that piece of canon is broken, along with the secret transformation of Prince Adam, who spends some time on Earth, desperately trying to come back home, all the while being deemed as a nutcase who believes to originate from another planet. The baddies appear much more threatening than they did in the 1980s, which should come as no surprise, given that the real life scum has also grown increasingly evil during the last four decades, and yet, there’s still some of that sense of innocence left at the heart of the proceedings... or it could just be nostalgia (and fluffy green tiger) speaking. Amplifying enjoyment is Daniel Pemberton’s epic score, some witty soundtrack picks, and Brian May’s guitar solo on the zestful theme song Eternia.
7. Не стреляйте в пассажира! / Don’t Shoot the Passangers (Hussein Erkenov, 1993)
It is really a shame that some filmmakers remain under the shadow of obscurity, due to the unavailability of their work or – in this particular case – subtitles. According to the synopsis at Kinopoisk, the protagonist of a book within a film is a young journalist, Roman, facing the trials dictated by the writer, during a transition period in Russia, its gloom insightfully captured by DP Vladislav Menshikov. Unemployed, bullied by a trio of petty criminals, burdened by a complicated relationship with his mother, and losing his girlfriend in one of the feature’s most surreal scenes, Roman is a puppet whose strings gradually get entangled in what seems to be an existentialist drama of the Kafkaesque kind, and of off-kilter style that hearkens back to the 1960s. Presumably taking cues from French and Czech New Wave, Erkenov delivers an absurdist (?) piece of cinema that feels relatable, even without understanding the dialogue (I could only catch a phrase or two), especially if you’ve been robbed of the best years of your life by various external factors. The author’s control over the fragmented story seems to be tighter than in his debut, with some poetry lost in the talk, as well as in intensified bitterness which translates to a heavy, borderline nightmarish atmosphere.
8. Days of Heaven (Terrence Malick, 1978)
I would be lying if I claimed that I didn’t struggle a bit to sit through Days of Heaven, particularly during the second half, notwithstanding the gorgeous, painterly cinematography by Néstor Almendros who utilizes natural light to mesmerizing effect. Heavily influenced by the works of Andrew Wyeth, Edward Hopper and Johannes Vermeer, the imagery of Malick’s second feature is its main forte, overshadowing even the gentle, somewhat elegiac score by Enio Morricone. However, the strength of the film’s sensorial poetry isn’t always matched by the power of its emotional impact, so at times, the characters seem to become absorbed by the overwhelming illusion of idyll, and though not completely transformed into decor, the engagement level is weighed down. The naïve perspective of Linda (first-timer Linda Manz) who guides us through the story as the narrator lends the proceedings a touch of childlike purity, which gets progressively soiled by the actions of adults, with their greed, deceit, blind passion and reckless ambition leading to tragedy. All that being said, Days of Heaven is an impressionable piece of cinema; its heightened lyricism, albeit flawed, is undeniable. 
9. La donna del Giorno / The Doll That Took the Town (Francesco Maselli, 1957)
In search for ‘la dolce vita’ in the city of Milan, a struggling model, Liliana (Virna Lisi), fabricates a story of being raped, and her ‘tragedy’ is turned into a public spectacle, as Maselli explores the manipulative power of media, objectification of women, the price of pathological ambition, as well as dangers and delusions surrounding an instant burst into fame. A victim of her own making, the anti-heroine is confronted by Anna Grimaldi (Haya Harareet) – the wife of one of the falsely accused – their individual struggles and mutual dynamics providing some of the best moments in this charming melodrama, with both actresses putting on memorable performances, not to mention their magnetic screen presence. In the supporting role of Liliana’s romantic interest, Antonio Cifariello gives a sympathetic take on a young journalist, Giorgio, who – unlike his experienced colleagues – still treasures his ethical compass. Maselli also touches upon the class struggle, his direction pretty effective, particularly in the collaboration with cinematographer Armando Nannuzzi in his admirable sophomore effort.
10. Mārama (Taratoa Stappard, 2025)
Brimming with moody (Victorian) gothic imagery of deep emeralds, mahogany reds and dark navy blues, Mārama marks a visually impressive calling card for Stappard, first time helming a feature. Imbued with a strong anti-colonialist sentiment, it condemns some of the vilest examples of cultural appropriation, mostly operating like a dark, increasingly unsettling period piece that gradually turns into a revenge flick. Although the potential of its horror undercurrents is not fully realized, the film’s exploration of ancestry, and the critical attitude towards the fetishization of exotic cultures and, worse, people – in this particular case, the Māori – hit all the right notes, even when the narrative grip loosens. Its superb production design (feat. some practical effects), and the harmony between the shadow-infested cinematography and brooding score with tribal interludes are beautifully matched by dedicated performance from Ariana Osborne.
