FEATURES
1. Sanatorium Under the Sign of the Hourglass (Stephen & Timothy Quay, 2024)
“So it is, so it happened, unprepared for and uncompleted, at an accidental point in time and space, without a settling of accounts, not arriving at any finish line, as if in the middle of a sentence, without a period or an exclamation point, without judgement... or the wrath of God, the Earth was to meet its end, simply and irrevocably.”
A strong contender for the animated film of the year, the Quay brothers’ first feature in almost twenty years was absolutely worth waiting for. Based on Bruno Schulz’s 1937 novel previously adopted by Wojciech Has in 1973, it looks, sounds, feels and flows like a dream, one conceived by an entity neither living nor dead, existing in a hypnagogic limbo. Elusive, haunting, hypnotic, and in every sense of the word unconventional, it is a distinctive blend of stop-motion animation and live-action vignettes, covered with heavy patina and bathed in gauzy haze. Surrealism at its most phantasmal.
2. Перемена участи / Change of Fate (Kira Muratova, 1987)
A note to self: “Don’t wait seven years to watch another Muratova film.”
Oft-appearing as if possessed by Kafka’s specter in drag hosting a neurotic cabaret, Change of Fate mocks the rich, patriarchy, bureaucracy, and judicial system with infectious glee, its humor ranging from quirky to irreverent to absurd. Dialogues overlap, extras go loony, and certain scenes (in the prologue) are repeated, anticipating a kind of a psycho-trickery at play, with Natalya Leble bringing a peculiar cunning to the central role of a woman, Mariya, accused of murdering her lover. Various eccentricities involving a group of prison entertainers and an exotic dancer abound, as the viewer is left defenseless against the virtually incessant barrages of words, their invisible shells turning into vignettes of beautifully framed shots. It all amounts to a surreal experience, at once overwhelming and energizing.
3. El llanto / The Wailing (Pedro Martín-Calero, 2024)
Not to be confused with the 2016 South Korean horror, The Wailing is not only one of the most promising feature debuts in recent memory, but also one of the finest Hispanophone additions to the genre. Martín-Calero eschews jump scares for psychological intensity, deeply unsettling atmosphere, and characters whom we actually care for, demonstrating a keen sense of mystery, and creating a phantasm that effortlessly finds its way into the Pantheon of the creepiest cinema ghosts. And although he refuses to provide the answers to the questions surrounding the spook, you won’t have a hard time drawing your own conclusions – the entity is embodied by a creepy, corpse-like old man, and the titular wailing comes from a phallic Brutalist high-rise. However, even when you realize the meaning behind this metaphorical evil, you won’t be able to shake off the spine-chilling, hair-raising feeling elicited from you through the effectively timed scares, and if you’re as easily scared as this writer, you’d want to turn on the light as soon as the credits start rolling. Add to that the most delightful casting choices for the three young, uncompromising women in leading roles – Ester Expósito, Malena Villa and Mathilde Ollivier, none of whom is objectified by Constanza Sandoval’s (superb!) camera, haunting vocalizations of Oliver Arson’s skin-crawling score and Victoria Lammers’ tight editing of a non-linear story, and you’ll find yourself wondering what the director has in store next.
4. Nightshift (Robina Rose, 1981)
The pale, expressionless face of the UK punk icon Jordan (of Jarman’s Jubilee fame) speaks volumes of a dead-end job her Portobello Hotel receptionist protagonist endures through routine tasks such as filling out forms, wrapping up pastries, or vacuuming the lounge, all the while humming in tune. It also comes across as a wax mask that conceals its reticent owner’s true self – a mystery that one tries to unlock observing details of her workplace, as well as the people she has minimal interaction with. Various guests, from a band of juvenile punk-rockers to a bourgeois PR lady to a drunkard walking about the hallways wearing only his underpants under a night robe, come and go in a borderline surreal ‘procession’, partly defining the hypnotic rhythms of Robina Rose’s first and only fiction feature. Anchored in Jon Jost’s exquisite 16mm framing that lends it a dreamlike quality emphasized by both the quietude and a music box tune, Nightshift is a most peculiar piece of experimental cinema, disciplined in its form, insightful and even witty in its seemingly uneventful content, strangely involving in its elusiveness. I’d go as far as dubbing it a spiritual or rather, avant-garde predecessor to Jessica Hausner’s Hotel, though it evokes a wide range of associations, from Jane Arden and Chantal Akerman to Isao Yamada and David Lynch. 
5. The Adventures of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert (Stephan Elliott, 1994)
One of the most mood-lifting, life-affirming road-movies that I’ve ever seen, the sophomore effort from Aussie filmmaker Stephan Elliott approaches the drag subculture with utmost affection, presenting an open-minded lesson in tolerance as a finely honed blend of comedy and drama, wrapped in sequins and tinsels. Coalescing with effervescent chemistry are the incredibly bold central performances from veteran Terence Stamp, Hugo Weaving and Guy Pearce, the latter of whom often steals the spotlight in the role of a highly spirited queen, Felicia. And elevating their screen presence to a whole new level of sass are the outrageous costumes by Lizzy Gardiner and Tim Chappel, especially memorable in a couple of Felicia’s show offs on the rooftop of Priscilla (that’s their bus) cruising across the Outback deserts. (Many kudos to debuting DoP Brian J. Breheny for capturing some truly iconic moments in all of their fabulousness!) The ‘joie de vivre’ vibe which permeates a simple, yet captivating narrative is lovingly attuned to the anticonformist attitude, not only of the protagonists, but also of the side or rather, literally supporting characters of Bob and Marion, who amplify the feature’s humane notes.
6. Sirāt (Óliver Laxe, 2025)
Taking cues from Friedkin and Miller, and wearing these influences proudly on his sleeves, Oliver Laxe delivers one of the most fascinating desert-set films in recent memory – a heart-achingly beautiful journey towards the end of ends. Kicking off with a search for a missing daughter / sister, Sirāt – named after a bridge that links heaven and hell, ‘its passage narrower than a hair, sharper than a sword’ – transforms into a road movie that sees the birth of a surrogate family, until a harrowing tragedy turns it into a Grim Reaper’s playground refusing to be defined. At once poignantly intimate and broadly foreboding, it strongly resonates with our times, its apocalyptic vibes shaking you to the core, as its unapologetic bleakness burrows deep into your mind / soul. Confidently directed, with always reliable Sergi López, as a worried father, integrating a group of non-professional ravers who play meta-versions of themselves, the feature plunges you into its inhospitable setting by way of Kangding Ray’s pounding electronica, and Mauro Herce’s handsome lensing of scorching vistas and sunburnt, self-ostracized characters.
7. La rose de fer / The Iron Rose (Jean Rollin, 1973)
My recurring dream of being lost in an unknown metropolis gets its outré cinematic equivalent in what’s arguably the most atypical piece of Jean Rollin’s oeuvre. A young couple portrayed by Françoise Pascal and Hugues Quester find themselves disoriented in a large graveyard after sundown, following ‘la petite mort’ in an underground crypt. As their fears transform into frustration and later – for the girl, at least – fascination, the nocturnal wandering evokes a bizarre sense of mystery and madness amalgamated into a dark revelation of sorts. The lush greenery, rusted crosses, moss-covered headstones and cherubic statues of La Madeleine Cemetery in Amiens make for a bewitching setting – the third, silent character that gets too attached to the lovers to let them go. After all, it externalizes their labyrinthine minds which gradually allow Thanatos to dominate Eros, becoming one with it, as the iron rose is imagined to be crystal, and the simplistic narrative is drowned in the silently evocative stream of gothic imagery. Irrationality can be so delightfully seductive.
8. Rhythm Thief (Matthew Harrison, 1994)
“Life isn’t a popularity contest.”
Imbued with no wave quirkiness, sympathy for outcasts and existential despair, Rhythm Thief comes off as a cinematic equivalent of a trippy, wordless hip-hop song playing on an old radio in a back alley where one can hear a muffled post-punk noise coming from a nearby underground nightclub. Shot in 11 days (add three zeros for a budget), this slice-of-life drama takes the viewer to the pre-gentrification lower east side of New York, focusing on the struggle of a bootlegger, Simon, and eccentrics who orbit around him. Our hero is a gruff loner who feeds on diner leftovers, and back in his almost empty apartment, eats peanut butter with a screwdriver, drinks vodka, and has casual sex with Cyd on a floor mattress. Yet, somehow, Jason Andrews who portrays him manages to turn this antisocial son of a bitch into a pretty cool character whom the viewer slowly begins to root for, especially after his ex-girlfriend Marty arrives, cutting the barbed wire around his heart. The stark grittiness of his day-to-day survival is beautifully, or rather, truthfully captured by Howard Krupa’s 16mm handheld camera, the grainy texture of high-contrast B&W emphasizing the abrasiveness of NYC ghetto.
9. Короткие встречи / Brief Encounters (Kira Muratova, 1967)
“When I watch a film or read a book, the women and the men are so beautiful, their feelings and actions are so meaningful and complete. Even when they suffer, everything’s logical and correct, there’s cause and effect, a beginning and an end. Here everything’s so vague.”
Spoken by one of the protagonists portrayed by Muratova herself, these lines very much define her film, unfolding in a non-linear fashion, with bittersweet lyricism marking all the fleeting moments suggested by the title. Examining dichotomies such as woman vs. man, presence vs. absence, country vs. city, freedom vs. commitment, Brief Encounters also provides some edgy social commentary between the lines, i.e. behind the gauzy curtain of memories and longing outlining a love triangle. Femicentric at its heart, and ahead of its time in terms of both the treatment of female characters and use of narrative devices, it presents us with a remarkable big screen debut of Nina Ruslanova whom the author immortalizes by way of (also debuting!) Gennady Karyuk’s camera.
10. Rabbit Trap (Bryn Chainey, 2025)
“With your eyes you enter the world. With your ears, the world enters you.”
Light on scares, but thick with (mythical) mystery, refusing to provide answers to a whole lot of questions, Chainey’s feature debut impresses as a mood piece that plays out like a dark fairy tale fueled by profound sadness. Set in 1976, it revolves around a musician and field recorder couple, Daphne and Darcy (Rosy McEwen and Dev Patel, both at the top of their game), whose peace in a remote house near the woods is disturbed after the ‘invasion’ by an enigmatic boy (Welsh actress Jade Croot, oft stealing the show in a bold casting choice). The intruder is likely the embodiment of an ancient, supernatural force that feels invited by Daphne’s repressed insecurities and Darcy’s unspecified, nightmare-triggering trauma which involves the fourth actor (Nicholas Sampson) in the supporting role of a creepy entity credited as The Shadow. The trio gradually evolves into a nuclear family of sorts, as the ‘parents’ lose the grip on their reality in a dreamlike progression of the ambiguous, ecologically conscious narrative. An intimately eerie chamber drama sees the nature as an additional central character who speaks through the noises collected across the breathtaking surroundings (North Yorkshire posing as Wales), with the exquisite aural design and haunting score beautifully complemented by autumnal images appearing tangible due to the exuberance of textures. Horror aficionados may be disappointed with the flirty approach to the genre, but melancholic fans of densely atmospheric arthouse cinema will certainly cherish the efforts of a promising new voice and his crew.
“With your eyes you enter the world. With your ears, the world enters you.”
11. Plata quemada / Burnt Money (Marcelo Piñeyro, 2000)
Based on Ricardo Piglia’s 1997 novel of the same name or rather, on the true events that inspired it, Burnt Money is a melancholy-drenched crime drama anchored in superb performances, particularly from Eduardo Noriega (intensely brooding as one half of a central bad boys couple), and smoky cinematography of dark and dirty colors establishing a moody neo-noir atmosphere. Its heist-gone-wrong story of running away and hiding – set in 1965 – is just a disguise for a passionate, not to mention tumultuous gay romance between Angel (Noriega) and Nene (Leonardo Sbaraglia), their ups and downs filtered through the prism of former’s mental issues, latter’s (bi)sexual flings, and their mutual involvement in robbery and murder. Strangely, the film’s overt homoerotic tones – amplified through the character of lovers’ swaggering straight accomplice, Cuervo – come across as pretty subtle when compared to the steamy scene involving Nene and a depressed prostitute, Giselle (Leticia Brédice), as if Piñeyro wants to soften the queer edge, so to say. Nevertheless, the director’s sense of style, as well as his treatment of morally corrupt protagonists, is commendable, and he sure knows how to end it all with a memorable bang. 
12. Les distractions / Trapped by Fear (Jacques Dupont, 1960)
A photojournalist philanderer, Paul, who shouldn’t be likeable at all is turned into a charming bastard by the sheer power of Jean-Paul Belmondo’s charisma which is also found irresistible by three (gorgeous!) women – Véra (Alexandra Stewart), Arabelle (Sylva Coscina), and Dany (Eva Damien). Distracted by wooing one, giving false promises to the other one, and turning the third one (who lives in a most adorable cottage!) into an unknowing accomplice, our deeply flawed, yet engaging hero armed with a ‘fuck the police’ attitude tries to save his ex-comrade in arms, Laurent (a melancholic turn from Claude Brasseur), who accidentally kills a cop during an opening car chase. Despite the murder setting the plot in motion, the film kicks off on a rather nonchalant note, only to gradually turn gravely, with Jacques Dupont (whose work I encounter for the first time) almost effortlessly handling tonal shifts, and helming the proceedings at a smooth pace. But, the real surprise here is the handsome framing by a duo of then inexperienced cinematographers, Michel Flour and Jean-Jacques Rochut, the former of whom would be subsequently credited as a sound department member. Jazzing up their impressive B&W imagery is Richard Cornu’s diversified, mood-setting score.
(The English version of the title isn’t exactly spot-on, but I can relate to it at the present moment...)
13. Семья вурдалаков / The Vampire Family (Gennadiy Klimov & Igor Shavlak, 1990)
At turns eerie, oneiric and nightmarish, this folk / gothic horror from the final days of Soviet Union adapts Aleksey Konstantinovich Tolstoy’s novella The Family of the Vourdalak to Russia’s transitional period, with a young photojournalist travelling to a remote village, to spin a sensationalist yarn out of strange stories circulating the foggy countryside. Staying in the house of a superstitious family that appears as if stuck in the 19th century, the protagonist (portrayed by Igor Shavlak) gets more than he bargained for, after pater familias returns as an undead fiend to terrorize his own kin... Progressing at a languorous pace which adds to the sense of suspense and supernatural dread, the narrative grows increasingly surreal, especially in the final twenty minutes during which dream logic seems to take over both time and space. Shavlak’s character finds himself challenged by the irrational forces, as he loses grip on reality, with the viewer pulled ever deeper into the thick, spine-chilling atmosphere established through the synergy between the whispery dialogues, broodingly lit cinematography, sounds that creep under your skin, and shooting locations, from a creaky old house to dilapidated church to a snow-covered forest. 
14. Nattevagten / Nightwatch (Ole Bornedal, 1994)
In his big-screen debut that also marks director Ole Bornedal’s first theatrical release, my almost-namesake Nikolaj Coster-Waldau brings fresh energy, undeniable charm, and good looks to the role of a law student, Martin, whose night shift at The Department of Forensic Medicine turns into a nightmare, as the serial killer runs loose in Copenhagen. Further complicating his professional, as well as personal life is a silly game of dare he plays with his asshole friend, Jens (Kim Bodnia, stealing a few scenes), providing chunks of (dark) humor that is seamlessly blended in the atmosphere of simmering psychological tension, and – in the closing act – nail-biting suspense. A fairly conventional story is elevated by virtue of remarkable craftsmanship, particularly from cinematographer Dan Laustsen, and editor Camilla Skousen.
Around these parts, there’s a saying that can be loosely translated as ‘a singing heart holds no malice’. In the case of Lonnie Price, both the protagonist and antagonist of Rat Fink, these words don’t apply. Portrayed by Schuyler Hayden in his only leading role, channeling an unpolished blend of Dean, Beatty and Brando, a young Coloradan clears his rags-to-riches (to self destruction) path by lying, manipulating, stealing and even killing, so calling him a ‘bad boy’ would be an understatement. Add to that a hefty dose of narcissism, and you got yourself a one-of-a-kind psychotic country-rock singer / teenage heartthrob that makes the vilest of sharks amongst the music exploiters appear as goldfish. Acting (under a moniker) as a producer too, Hayden brings a certain kind of wicked charm to his decidedly unsympathetic character, with Warrene Ott as his agent’s wife Vera capitalizing ‘M’ in melodrama by way of her ‘haughty diva’ performance. Elevating the briskly paced (and increasingly nihilist) proceedings is Vilmos Zsigmond’s slick B&W framing of LA, and catchy tunes by the 60’s B-movie regular Ronald Stein (Dementia 13, Spider Baby), My Soul Runs Naked being a standout.
Michael Greer steals a number of scenes from the leading duo of Kevin Coughlin and Lawrence P. Casey who portray a couple of straight friends pretending to be gay in order to avoid being drafted for the Vietnam war. Greer’s sassiness is only matched by the vibrant production design brimming with colors and tastefully kitschy decor, beautifully captured by DoP Richard C. Glouner, and complemented by Stu Phillips’s groovy score. Despite its somewhat tacky nature, stereotypical representations of homosexuality, and jokes that don’t always land, the film comes across as a rather harmless and uplifting romp that occasionally feels like it was made in the 80’s, especially considering all the time Casey spends shirtless.
17. Exilados do Vulcão / The Volcano Exiles (Paula Gaitán, 2013)
Assisted by cinematographer Inti Briones, Paula Gaitán delivers a plethora of sublimely / sensually beautiful shots, and though the marriage of her visual poetry and glacial pacing isn’t always harmonious (or rather, justified), one often wishes to disappear in the dreamlike, melancholy-imbued haze rising from her characters’ memories.
18. Staying Alive (Sylvester Stallone, 1983)
During one October night’s cult classic double bill, I enjoyed Staying Alive more than Saturday Night Fever which – unpopular opinion ahead – I found to be extremely overrated, due to its clumsy storytelling, uneven pacing, tonal inconsistencies, misogyny running amok (poor Annette!), anticlimactic epilogue, Karen Lynn Gorney forgetting to bring her charisma to the shooting, and Travolta’s dance king protagonist being a jerk most of the (overlong!) running time, with none of his pals evoking an iota of sympathy. Although this Sly-directed sequel has its own share of issues (and clichés), they all seem to fade away into the final act – the energizing performance of the ‘Satan’s Alley’ show which gives off some serious proto-Showgirls vibes. Also, both Cynthia Rhodes and Finola Hughes are superb casting choices, the former as Tony’s dulcet voice of reason / love interest / only true support, and the latter as an inspiring if negative role model. And that flying kick included in the choreography beats the poster on the wall as a response to ‘address the character as a Bruce Lee fan’.
SHORTS
1. Du sang, de la volupté et de la mort (Gregory J. Markopoulos, 1948)
Gregory J. Markopoulos’ student trilogy Du sang, de la volupté et de la mort (lit. Of Blood, Pleasure and Death) marks the director’s earliest preserved work, and demonstrates impressive maturity for someone so young at the time. Each of the three films – Psyche, Lysis and Charmides, in the chronological order – can be labeled as oneiric, twisting the logic of known reality through the prism of ciné-means. Markopoulos’ visual language is one of heightened sensuality, delicately suggestive, seductively eloquent and subliminally poetic, his editing virtually intuitive, and camera intimate, particularly in close-ups of actors’ faces, whereby his characters often act as avatars of mythological figures, while the contemporary space is transformed into a dreamscape. 
Somewhat reminiscent of Maya Deren’s and Curtis Harrington’s (early) works, all the while anticipating François Reichenbach’s Last Spring (1954), Swain stars then 22-yo director in ‘a ritualized rejection of heterosexuality’ structured like a dream within a dream (or two dreams colliding into one?), and laced with heavy, at times cryptic symbolism, its ‘suspended reality’ conveyed by way of overexposed imagery, playful editing, repetition of certain details, and dramatic classical music that bursts in after a little bit more than four minutes of complete, ruminative silence...
Composed of exactly thirteen shots, mostly static, each one worthy of framing and hanging on the wall, this experimental short borrows its name from a self-feeding furnace used by alchemists, with Nico and Musky posing as medieval enchantresses in an ambiguous (non)narrative. The hypnotizing beauty of the inscrutable vignettes – appearing like a study for a series of paintings deeply rooted in mysticism – keeps you bafflingly transfixed to the screen, the abrupt ending working like a trance-ending snap of fingers.
Being an experimental short about the carnal cravings that disintegrate a marriage of convenience between a gay man and a lesbian woman, The Flesh Is Willing is surprisingly light on nudity, yet its sensual power is undeniable, contained within the voice-over confessions, interplay of light and shadows, vibrantly red blazer, blue satin shoes, leather jacket, dreamy gazes, and even ominously brooding electronica that enshrouds the broken mirror-like narrative. Its grainy, and often hazy visuals never cease to titillate, with subtle depictions of violence – a figment of the spouses’ dirty imagination, perhaps – reflecting the couple’s sexual repression. Todd Verow’s freewheeling approach to both the direction and camerawork evokes a sense of liberation his characters struggle to achieve.
A fine piece of video art portraying what appears to be a young man’s inner struggle, his nudity hinting at vulnerability / harmlessness, underlined by the opening card that reads: “I am not armed and I am not out to shoot anybody.” (Digression: Strangely, this line corresponds with the mentality of peaceful rallies in Serbia over the past year, even though protesters have been satanized by the psychotic regime and the sycophant, extremely toxic media.) The protagonist’s other / female self, inner child and demons, as well as the burly embodiment of primal / violent urges all enter the scene at certain points throughout 10 chapters of symbolic action neatly captured by Enrique Uralde’s camera in moodily lit spaces, and accompanied by Jose Luis Rebollo’s offbeat music.
7. Niccolò (David Florian, Axelle Granet, Sirui Liu, Hugo Michalet, Clémentine Di Prizio & Njolai Pachomius, 2025)
8. Sinistri / Some Accidents (Salvatore Insana, 2025)
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