1. Слънцето и сянката (Рангел Вълчанов, 1962) / The Sun and the Shadow (Rangel Vulchanov, 1962)
“But the noise can’t drown out the silence. It’s stronger, don’t you feel it?”
If you think that feel-good/light-hearted films cannot be poetic and/or poignant, let alone involve a few experimental montages one of which reflects the fear of nuclear devastation (preceding the dream sequence from T2: Judgment Day!), you most probably haven’t experienced the magic of ‘The Sun and the Shadow’. Rangel Vulchanov’s masterfully crafted, über-romantic dramedy stars Anna Prucnal and Georgi Naumov who make for one of the loveliest and sexiest couples to ever grace the screen with their charming, not to mention eye-candy presence. The chance meeting between their unnamed characters during a summer holiday develops into a friendship, then love affair, their smiles lifting the viewer’s spirit, and gently tucking it in a shiny aura. But, where there is light, there are also shadows, as suggested by the title, yet the darkness in their thoughts – expressed through both stylized dialogue and off-camera voice-overs – gets easily dispersed by virtue of the beach environment, half-naked bodies and, most importantly, the youngsters’ burning lust for life and freedom! Matching the central duo’s beauty which is not only skin-deep is Dimo Kolarov’s gorgeous B&W cinematography accompanied by Simeon Pironkov’s colorful soundtrack, with the message of togetherness and peace by the end defying the authoritarian regime of the time.
2. Nazar (Mani Kaul, 1990)
My third encounter with Mani Kaul (Uski Roti, Duvidha) is a singular, hard-to-describe experience. ‘Nazar’ – based on short story ‘A Gentle Creature’ by Dostoevsky – is a sublime poem, its tender verses written with utmost devotion. It could also be perceived as a musical composition, its hypnotizing rhythms establishing a peculiar mood of being present and absent at once. A fine selection of moments, each scene corresponding with one in a dreamlike standstill, the film eschews drama in favor of stream-of-consciousness wanderings, lines broken into numb, unfinished thoughts. Actors, including Kaul’s daughter Shambhavi, are directed in a hyper-stylized manner, as Piyush Shah’s lingering camera, and minimalist score by Vikram Joglekar and D. Wood further elevate the absorbing atmosphere...
3. Xích lô / Cyclo (Anh Hung Tran, 1995)
The poetry of poverty and crime. Raw. Dirty. Gritty. Unsparing. Increasingly elliptical. Borderline surreal in its hyper-realism. Soaked in sweat and melancholy; at once sensual and visceral. Its beauty is harrowing and mentally exhausting, yet incredibly sublime, reaching for the very core of your being. A brooding portrait of urban misery, painted in silent cries, its living colors slithering across the canvas. Only a handful of lyrical moments lift the heavy curtains of despair... Anh Hung Tran directs with sympathy for his fallen heroes – played by both pros and non-professionals – but even he is powerless against their unenviable reality, and the allure of evil which permeates it. And so, he joins them in their meandering through the Ho Chi Minh underbelly, because together they may reach a semblance of hope...
4. The Return (Uberto Pasolini, 2024)
Directed with epic modesty, assured elegance, and sepulchral mood of a Greek tragedy, ‘The Return’ is first and foremost an absorbing masterclass in acting given by its two leading stars, Juliette Binoche as Penelope and Ralph Fiennes as Odysseus. A brooding, deliberately paced meditation on loss, trauma, heroism, persistence, violence, transience, and the human condition in difficult times, the film brilliantly captures the bleakness of post-war despair by virtue of Marius Panduru’s austerely beautiful cinematography, and Rachel Portman’s discreet, elegiac score. Carefully building it to a visceral climax, all the while eschewing the mythical in favor of the psychological, Pasolini and his co-writers emphasize the timelessness of the story, and make it resonate on a subconscious level.
5. Juliette ou La clef des songes / Juliette, or Key of Dreams (Marcel Carné, 1951)
Under a fascinating guise of a hopelessly romantic fairy tale that gives off some strong H.C. Andersen vibes in the heartbreaking coda, Marcel Carné addresses the tricky allure of escapism, as well as a number of socio-political issues, painting an unflattering portrait of post-war France and its people. Through the central theme of forgetfulness and its impact on history, he lends the film timelessness and universal resonance, reflecting on the importance of truth, no matter how ugly or painful it is. Supported by a brilliant technical team, with cinematographer Henri Alekan (of ‘La Belle et la Bête’ fame!) setting his camera in dream mode, Carné takes the viewer on a highly memorable cinematic journey.
6. Sirocco et le royaume des courants d'air / Sirocco and the Kingdom of the Winds (Benoît Chieux, 2023)
Taking cues from ‘Alice in Wonderland’, ‘The Wizard of Oz’, ‘Thumbelina’, 60’s and 70’s psychedelia, Miyazaki’s oeuvre, and perhaps, catty adaptations of Kenji Miyazawa’s writings, Benoît Chieux delivers an instant modern classic for both children and the arthouse crowd, as he lights up the viewer’s imagination. Too clever to pay direct homages, he pulls you effortlessly into a lavish, bittersweet fantasy dedicated to a special sisterly bond, and softly speaking of art as the means of overcoming grief. The quirky designs of his artists team, ranging from a bird-headed prima donna to crocodile-shaped dirigibles to a lighthouse with giant eyes instead of a lamp system, burst with colors, and come to life by virtue of smooth, hand-drawn animation and dedicated voice talents. The picture-book quality of the phantasmagorical wind-swept world under the pillowy clouds finds its ethereal counterpart in Pablo Pico’s dreamy score, providing you with an awe-inspiring experience.
7. Vermiglio (Maura Delpero, 2024)
A filmic equivalent of quietude and restraint, ‘Vermiglio’ appears like a lost artifact from the 20th century, worthy of comparison with the most poetic of classics. Evocative of Franco Piavoli, and to a certain degree, Sonja Wyss’s little known yet fascinating debut ‘Winterstilte’, it takes the viewer back in time to a secluded village in the Italian Alps, treating the mundanity of a multigenerational family with often breathtaking lyricism. Maura Delpero directs with admirable composure and tenderness, her vision – subtly tinted with nostalgia – brought to life through the stunning framing of cinematographer Mikhail Krichman, best known for his collaborations with the acclaimed Russian filmmaker Andrey Zvyagintsev. The austere beauty of his picturesque compositions is only matched by the reserved performances from both professional and non-professional actors, who keep emotions simmering under the surface, and cheap sentimentality at bay...
8. Le monache di Sant’Arcangelo / The Nun and the Devil (Domenico Paolella, 1973)
“The Church would never say no to a chance to increase their wealth.”
Wrongly labeled as horror, ‘The Nun and the Devil’ is one of two nunsploitation films directed by Paolella in 1973, the second one being ‘Story of a Cloistered Nun’. Similarly to its ‘companion piece’, it is allegedly based on the authentic records, and is one of the least sleazy examples of the said subgenre. Set in the 16th century convent of Sant’Arcangelo di Baiano, it chronicles the story of a power struggle, poking at hypocrisy in the ranks of clergy, with the ‘Devil’ in the English version of the title posing as a metaphor (and hiding behind the cardinal’s robe). Its greatest forte lies in Claudio Cinini’s brilliant art direction, with Pasolini’s frequent cinematographer Giuseppe Ruzzolini capturing the lavish set and costume designs with a keen eye. And you know that you are dealing with pure cinema the moment you’re introduced to the younger nuns and novices portrayed by Anne Heywood, Martine Brochard, Claudia Gravy and then 18-yo Ornella Muti, each one more seductive than the next, their faces framed by habits exuding with glamour and/or eroticism.
9. Jonathan (Hans W. Geissendörfer, 1970)
“The only solution is obvious – the total elimination of the vampires.”
A peculiar or rather, bizarre piece of rural gothic, ‘Jonathan’ plays out like a parable of class struggle, with ruling vampire sect freely moving during the day, and terrorizing villagers near the German North Sea coast in the alternate 19th century. The titular hero joins a group of locals and students who plan to rise against the bloodsucking government (which somewhat resembles the current situation in Serbia), and during his quest, we’re introduced to occasional absurd digressions that give off Kafka rather than Stoker vibes. The latter’s writings served as a source of inspiration for director/writer Hans W. Geissendörfer whose unique if flawed offering can be labeled as a missing link between Rollin and Herzog in his ‘Heart of Glass’ or ‘The Enigma of Kaspar Hauser’ element. Unfolding in a deliberate pace, its atmosphere as dampy as it comes, the film is dominated by earthy tones of Robby Müller’s brilliant framing, his camera gliding elegantly on its way to Wenders and Jarmusch collaborations in the following decades.
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