1. Feng yue / Temptress Moon (Kaige Chen, 1996)
A film of both disciplined and dashing direction, finely chiseled performances, delicate sensuality, opium-high melodramatics, and awe-inspiring visuality, its opulent set and costume designs stunningly captured in noirish cinematography by unmistakable Christopher Doyle, Temptress Moon is an intoxicating (or rather, toxic) romance that pulls the viewer in a cleft between reactionary forces of tradition, and many temptations of modernity, portraying the battle of the sexes in a fashion so poetic that even the withered roses take your breath away moments before they’re replaced by the fresh ones.
2. Corazón azul / Blue Heart (Miguel Coyula, 2021)
“I am not going to say anything new. You all know how corrupt this government is... You all know that there are dictatorships where they engage in actual murder and you also know that in this one psychological death predominates. You know everything and you tolerate it. That’s why you are also guilty. Small minded beings who sacrifice their integrity for a comfortable and mediocre life...”
Shot and re-shot over the course of ten years, Blue Heart is not only a labor of love, but also a testimony to its authors’ continual resistance against multiple threats by the Cuban security agents. A powerful example of guerrilla filmmaking, it is a formally challenging, politically charged experiment that poses as an often direct attack on dictatorial ideologies, so it comes as no surprise it has stirred some controversy in countries such as Belarus. Set in an alternate reality where Fidel Castro turned to genetic engineering to create New Man for the sake of socialist utopia, the heavily fragmented story is presented in a mind-and-genre-bending blend of various formats, from found footage referencing Soviet cinema to fictitious anime to talking-head documentary to artistic pornography to newsreel montages. Speaking of the latter, the writer / director / cinematographer / VFX artist / animator / composer / producer Miguel Coyula demonstrates impressive editorial skills, delivering a cinematic equivalent of a tightly controlled fever dream which brims with beautifully framed imagery largely captured on cloudy days and thus, underscoring the all-pervading dread. His ‘partner in crime’, actress Lynn Cruz, plays one of the key roles in a manner that thickens the air of mystery surrounding the goings-on, as well as the cipher-like characters.
Available @ Vimeo on Demand
3. Yumenoshima Shōjo / Dream Island Girl (Shōichirō Sasaki, 1974)
A mood piece of hypnotizing, soul-healing quietude, Dream Island Girl exists somewhere between a secret and a reverie, in the haze of half-remembered memories of soft yet raw, proto-Jarmanesque textures, and poetic inwardness that anticipates the works of filmmakers such as Isao Yamada and Shunji Iwai. Largely told in flashbacks that often tear the boundaries between the dreamed and real, with dialogues significantly toned down in favor of lyrically composed images, it so wonderfully captures the melancholy of yearning, (im)possibility of love, intricacies of life, and vulnerability of the titular heroine (Sachiyo Nakao, then a high school senior, charmingly reserved in her debut), who seems to be lost in / shackled by a patriarchal society. Directed with a freewheeling ease, and shot with a keen if somewhat gazey eye, a plethora of wistful close-ups amplifying the emotional brooding, this experimental, stream-of-consciousness drama far surpasses its made-for-TV format, making for a shiny gem from the obscure side of Japanese cinema. 
4. Mina ni ko are / Best Wishes to All (Yūta Shimotsu, 2022)
Even before the cards of Yūta Shimotsu’s (promising) feature debut are laid on the table, ‘Are you happy?’ sounds like one of the most ominous questions your own grandmother may ask you. Dealing with the price of happiness, generational decay, the dichotomy of selfishness vs. selflessness, and (the lack of) empathy in a dehumanizing society, Best Wishes to All transforms the family home and its pastoral surroundings into a setting for a nightmare of false normalcy that seems impossible to awaken from. Laced with cynically dark humor, and soaked in ‘something feels off’ atmosphere right from the get go, the film serves as a constant reminder of how twisted reality tends to be, especially when you’re striving for kindness, like the unnamed protagonist sympathetically portrayed by lovely Kotone Furukawa. There’s no place for the meek here, and the bleak prospects are accentuated by Yuma Koda’s unnerving string score, and Ryuto Iwabuchi’s austere cinematography somewhat reminiscent of Kiyoshi Kurosawa’s works, not to mention the freaky bits of utter irrationality that amplify the psychological tension.
5.1. Antes, o Verão / Before, the Summer (Gerson Tavares, 1968)
A fragmented, flashback-punctuated story of the upper middle class disintegration, Before, the Summer feels like a cross between a piece of La Nouvelle Vague cinema, neo-noir, and Antonioni-esque meditation, charged with sexual tension. Revolving around a successful middle-aged man, Dr. Luiz (Jardel Filho), who conceals his insecurities behind the alpha male disguise (and gets his share of objectification), the film is set in and around a Cabo Frio summer house which poses as the extension of the protagonist’s personality. The glance-exchanging episode with his two teenage sons’ older friend, Roberto, and the mysterious hit-and-run in the vicinity of the resort portend the crumbling of Luiz’s marriage, and his own integrity, metaphorized through the ‘invasion’ of salt, sand and wind on his cozy (or rather, showy) cottage. The second of only two features Tavares helmed, this existential drama sees stellar performances from both professional actors and first-timers matched to assured direction, with the exquisite blocking and framing – laced with sensual, jazzy music – betraying the author’s background as a painter.
5.2. Amor e Desamor / With Love and Without (Gerson Tavares, 1966)
“I’m not sure whether I’m running from life or if life’s running from me.”
Existential melancholy and disillusionment seem to populate virtually every frame of Gerson Tavares’ debut feature – a chamber drama at once intimate and alienating, cold as modern edifices of Brasilia, yet deeply personal, and on a subconscious level, affecting. Focused on an architect and former university professor, Alberto (Leonardo Villar) – quite likely, the author’s alter ego, the film is set over the course of one night of whiskey, cigarettes, weighty discussions and (meaningless) sex, examining the (im)possibility of a genuine relationship. Only two more characters appear – a flirty freethinker, Norma (Leina Krespi), and somewhat shy, prudent Selma (Betty Faria), the latter of whom occupies Alberto’s memories in a series of flashbacks skillfully interwoven into the narrative, along with a cinematically engaging and psychologically revealing dream sequence. The minimalist cast delivers superlative performances, with the slightest of their gestures beautifully captured in stark, high-contrast B&W by cinematographer Hélio Silva whose imagery is elevated by Rogerio Duprat’s experimental score of elegant, oneiric dissonances.
6. Icare / Icarus (Carlo Vogele, 2022)
A co-production of Luxembourg, France and Belgium, Carlo Vogele’s feature debut is a lovingly crafted re-telling of Icarus and Minotaur myths, refracted through the prism of the friendship (or dare I say, bromance) between the boy who flew too close to the Sun and Asterion, the kind-hearted ‘monster’ who was abused by his royal step-father blinded by the thirst for revenge. Briskly paced, and featuring beautiful artwork – a stylized blend of 2D and 3D animation complemented by charming voicework and enchanting score, the 70-minute film brings a bittersweet, larger-than-life-or-any-kingdom tale of embracing otherness, staying true to oneself, and saving the last embers of humanity, even if it means defying the authority.
(BTW, Vogele and his artists team don’t shy away from undressing Ariadne and Theseus.)
7. O Menino e o Vento / The Boy and the Wind (Carlos Hugo Christensen, 1967)
A missing piece between Rashomon and Call Me by Your Name, with the elements of magic realism, noir, and Italian modernism permeating the proceedings, The Boy and the Wind is a peculiar queer drama, one with a poetic soul that may not be evident right from the get-go. Its emotional core – a gentle tale of the bromance between a young engineer and an adolescent boy who share the passion for the winds – gets fully revealed in the second half, through a flashback posing as the protagonist’s testimony during a somewhat Kafkaesque trial. Ênio Gonçalves (in a TV-to-big screen transfer) and Luiz Fernando Ianelli (unaffected in his debut) both bring subtlety and intuitive intelligence to their leading roles, as Antônio Gonçalves’ camera captures their handsome faces with great affection. The epilogue is, simply put, wonderful.
8. Das kalte Herz / Heart of Stone (Paul Verhoeven, 1950)
A Faustian fairy tale with a socialist moral, Heart of Stone is a loving adaptation of the eponymous story that was first published in 1826. Starring Lutz Moik as a young man who sells his heart to become filthy rich, and Hanna Rucker as his innocent sweetheart, this Agfacolor flick is a delight to look at, partly due to its pretty leads, but largely by virtue of the superb art direction. Even though some of its practical effects hasn’t aged well, the magic hasn’t been lost – it still manages to reach the viewer’s inner child, keeping it in a state of wide-eyed curiosity. There’s a lot for film buffs to appreciate here as well, such as a long tracking shot at the fair, or simple camera tricks that solidify the cinematic illusion. (And of course, its director is not the Paul Verhoeven we all know.)
9. Əlaqə / Contact (Jahangir Zeynally, 1989)
Nothing says exotic quite like Jhangir Zeynally’s only feature, reportedly the first of its kind in Azerbaijani cinema. Revolving around an unnamed student (Ilqar Hasanov) in search of the affordable accommodation, Contact blends psychological drama/thriller and sci-fi with surrealist, if uneven results, ending on a ‘love letter to Kubrick’ note. Largely set in an apartment on the 20th floor of a building everybody seems to avoid, it falls under the ‘losing grip on reality’ category, with bizarre dreams and vivid, occasionally eschatological hallucinations invading the protagonist’s mind, causing spatio-temporal paradoxes, and raising a number of questions. Is it stress that is taking a serious toll on the young man’s life, or is it an alien entity probing the limits of his self-control by affecting his psyche? Whatever the answer may be, Zeynally manages to capture and stimulate the viewer’s imagination, notwithstanding the over-reliance on inner monologue, and delivers some neatly composed, mystery-infused pictures married to a haunting score.
10. Bring Her Back (Danny & Michael Philippou, 2025)
In the sophomore feature from the Philippou brothers (Talk to Me), grief is possessed by evil under bizarre, ambiguous circumstances that involve a Russian VHS tutorial for a soul transfer (?) ritual. Many questions remain unanswered (because sorrow needs no explanation?), as the things go from nasty to nastier, and no one is spared, a couple of squirm-inducing scenes leaving deep, permanent scars in the viewer’s memory. The characters’ traumas feel palpable, yet – unlike the news regarding the escalation of police brutality in the rotten state of Serbia – they never feed suicidal thoughts, and the black bleakness that permeates the film, with a tendency to get under your skin, isn’t as stressful and hurtful as the current reality. Surprisingly, there are sparse, but welcome moments of poetic beauty to be found amidst the supernatural (and human) threat, making the nightmare slightly more bearable. The Philipous elicit excellent performances from their cast, young Jonah Wren Phillips being the standout on his way to the Pantheon of creepy kids of horror cinema.
11. Else (Thibault Emin, 2024)
Focusing on a couple of jarring opposites and weird chemistry, impulsive Cass (Edith Proust) and prudent Anx (Matthieu Sampeur), Else – Thibault Emin’s promising feature debut – chronicles a bizarre pandemic that takes metamorphosis to a whole new level of merging with one’s own possessions and surroundings, be it a cellphone, sidewalk, apartment walls or satin sheets. Themes of adaptation, evolution, identity (or rather, the loss thereof), oneness, trauma and love are explored through a bold if uneven, fever dream-like mélange of romantic dramedy, Tsukamoto-esque body horror, and surrealistic sci-fi, with psychological elements thrown in for good measure. A somewhat unbridled, experimental narrative with slight pacing issues evokes the lockdown memories as it glides towards the implosively abstract coda, whereby Léo Lefèvre’s excellent camerawork intensifies the sense of claustrophobia, striving to find the beauty in macabre mutations. Garish colors gradually fade into velvety B&W, signifying changes that occur not only to the characters’ flesh, but minds as well, with a possible influence of Eraserhead betrayed in the process... 
12. High Tide (Marco Calvani, 2024)
Marking directorial (feature) debut for its author, High Tide is a pleasant and meticulously crafted, if rather conventional queer drama which chronicles a summer fling turned romance between a Brazilian immigrant, Lourenço (Marco Pigossi, low-key in powering the emotional core), and an Afro-American nurse, Maurice (James Bland, unaffected, and not bland at all). For better or worse, Calvani mostly plays safe, both as the writer and the director, yet he creates a bunch of colorful (albeit stereotypical) side characters, one of them lovingly portrayed by always reliable Marisa Tomei. The sandy beaches of Provincetown where the story is set make for some beautiful long shots, courtesy of cinematographer Oscar Ignacio Jiménez, whose camera also has a knack of capturing the slightest of changes on protagonists’ faces.
13. Ars Amandi / Art of Love (Walerian Borowczyk, 1983)
The meandering or rather, incoherent nature of the narrative – set in ancient Rome, and framed by lessons on love from none other than Ovid (portrayed by veteran actor Massimo Girotti) – makes sense once the time-jumping twist is introduced. However, it is not the story but rather the successive slidings of sensual visions that provide a (titillating) viewing pleasure. Captured in often glimmering light, the gauzy scenes of delicate eroticism (minus a few bizarre and not-quite-necessary, borderline-hardcore intrusions) compensate for the film’s duller parts, shot with equal care, and also permeated by decidedly campy vibes. Art of Love comes off as almost chaste when compared to certain works from Borowczyk’s oeuvre, but it is the very restraint that makes it, in a way, refreshing.
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