1. Archa bláznu aneb Vyprávení z konce zivota / Ark of Fools (Ivan Balada, 1990)
“Me, ill? Hundreds of madmen are free. Why am I here?”
Filmed in the late 60’s, then halted for two decades, and finished after Velvet Revolution, Ark of Fools is the only silver-screen offering from Slovak filmmaker Ivan Balada, but what a striking piece of cinema it is! A loose adaptation of Chekhov’s story Ward No. 6, it comes pretty close to being labeled as a spiritual predecessor of Alexey German’s swan song Hard to Be a God in its portrayal of anti-intellectual milieu. Its muddy, ramshackle setting – a remote, unwelcoming province – acts like a microcosm for the world in utter disarray wherein charlatanism, narrow-mindedness and vulgarity rule supreme, with erudition subjected to mockery, and reason drowning in loud voices of stupidity.
Juraj Sajmovic’s camera – almost constantly in motion – becomes a silent, disoriented witness of one man’s spiraling descent into madness under the pressure of aggressively reactionary social environment, and it is through its eyes that we’re plunged into an increasingly absurd, surrealist nightmare. Think feverish delirium that has absorbed combined anarchic / manic energies of Jakubisko and Żuławski, with a handful of quietly poetic passages providing moments of welcome if equally gloomy relief, and you may get the impression of how disquieting (and at once, oddly liberating) the viewing experience is.
2. Превращение / Metamorphosis (Valery Fokin, 2003)
In a wryly humorous twist, Evgeniy Mironov chirps and squeaks, wriggles his fingers and toes, crawls on the floor and hangs from the ceiling as Gregor Samsa, his only mask being the progressively dirty and torn union suit. His largely physical performance – the film’s sturdiest anchor – would’ve likely been applauded by Kafka who reportedly ordered in 1915 that there should be no illustration of his character transformed into an unspecified insect. Fokin’s decision to eschew effects in favor of the vermin mimicry proves to be a wise one, as Mironov impresses time and again, with his colleagues playing along and suggesting through their ‘shocked’ eyes that Gregor is a monstrosity. And further elevating the narrative – which plays out like a sweaty dream open to various interpretations just like the novella it’s based upon – is a marvelous synergy of Leonid Svintsitskiy’s exquisite production design, Igor Klebanov’s expert camerawork, and Aleksandr Bakshi’s moody, minimalist score. 
3. El jockey / Kill the Jockey (Luis Ortega, 2024)
In his eighth feature (which marks my fifth and most entertaining encounter with the Argentinian director), Luis Ortega takes an exploration of identity along with the notion of rebirth / reincarnation to absurd lengths, easily earning comparisons to Yorgos Lanthimos, with bleakness and misanthropy significantly toned down. Anchoring it in a magnetic central performance from Nahuel Pérez Biscayart who effortlessly creates a link between Buster Keaton and Pedro Almodóvar, he marries a peculiar brand of surrealism to a wry sense of humor, as his self-destructive protagonist goes through a gender-fluid transformation paralleled by kooky, genre-bending goings-on. Each step along the way towards the paradoxical conclusion – sure to elicit a loud laugh if you have previously attuned to its off-kilter wavelengths – is meticulously framed by Kaurismäki’s regular DP Timo Salminen, with a selection of vintage songs on the soundtrack (and a couple of dance acts) amping up the weirdness. Clocking in under 90 minutes, Kill the Jockey is a perfect film to help you with lifting the veil of winter gloom.
4. Den røde kappe / The Red Mantle (Gabriel Axel, 1967)
Opening with a breathtaking total of three horsemen dwarfed by a vast, sparse Icelandic landscape, the film pulls the viewer into its archaic setting in an instant. Based on a Nordic folk tale Hagbard and Signe that carries some of Romeo and Juliet DNA, The Red Mantle honors its roots with a sort of a ‘regal modesty’ that is attached to virtually each of its aspects. Light on (concise) dialogue, but rich in (solemn) visual poetry evoking Bressonian formal rigor, it establishes the atmosphere in equal measures brooding and foreboding, largely by virtue of sharp dissonances in Per Nørgaard’s experimental score.
Speaking of sharpness, Danish filmmaker Gabriel Axel doesn’t shy away from the depiction of decapitations, or sword and spear penetrations, with the central battle scene mirroring medieval brutality. (Unfortunately, the savagery, and one old man’s malice that leads to the bloodshed are timeless and seemingly ineradicable.) On the other hand, the doomed romance of tragic heroes, albeit limited to fleeting moments, is laced with gloom-lifting tenderness, culminating in a scene of subtle eroticism sublimated by the angelic pulchritude of Gitte Hæning and Oleg Vidov as Signe and Hagbard. Directing with stark precision, Axel also lends his contribution to the 60’s sexual revolution by throwing in a steamy sauna sequence of intense queer energies.
5. Deu suay doo / Raging Phoenix (Rashane Limtrakul, 2009)
The second and at this point latest feature from Thai filmmaker Rashane Limtrakul, Raging Phoenix starts off like a blend of action and comedy soaked in vibrant colors, only to grow increasingly sinister, borderline surreal and full-blown epic, its palette fading into ashen greens as protagonists sink deeper into the baddies’ lair. Its major hook is an awe-inspiring fight choreography by Panna Rittikrai introducing an unpredictable fictional style, Meyraiyuth (lit. dance that kills), that combines breakdance, drunken boxing, Muay Thai and capoeira to singular effect.
Propelled by heavy drinking or deep sorrow once the booze is out, the unusual technique is used by a quartet of vigilantes joined by a depressed ex-drummer girl, Deu (JeeJa Yanin, immersing both body and soul in her role), going after the violent gang who abduct women across Thailand. Another quartet makes sure that the cameras capture all intricacies of Rittikrai’s ‘bone-crunching ballet’ from various angles, turning virtually every clash into the hip poetry of movements that not even the instances of wonky CGI can hamper. Just as in many other Asian martial arts movies, the characters’ stamina is out of this world, with the intrusion of tear-jerking melodrama possibly informed by Chinese cinema. Tonal shifts are well-handled by Limtrakul whose sense of style may not be unmistakable, but it is definitely not be underestimated either.
6. Dark Angel: The Ascent (Linda Hassani, 1994)
Set in an alternative universe where an unspecified American town looks like a carbon copy of a European one, with an Orthodox icon hanging on the wall of a hospital room, this gem of a direct-to-video B-movie serves a healthy portion of poetic justice through its heroine. Veronica (Angela Featherstone, bringing a bewitchingly understated blend of mystery, naiveté, sex appeal and danger to the role) is a bored young demoness who – following her dream – escapes from the bowels Hell, only to learn that life on Earth isn’t much different. So, she decides to take the law into her black claws, and go after the criminals, corrupt cops and lying politicians (has there ever been a different sort?), sharing their organs with her devoted German Shepherd, Hellraiser, or just showing them the visions of eternity in flames.
What she doesn’t expect is to fall in love with a handsome doctor, Max (Daniel Markel, solid in his second of two movie credits), whose pure heart must be beating in the rhythm of the film’s breezy pacing. The leading duo’s drop dead gorgeous looks are perfectly matched to the actors’ instant chemistry, as well as to the quaint beauty of Romanian shooting locations captured with a neo-noir-esque flair by DoP Vivi Dragan Vasile. A delightfully pulpy amalgam of horror, romance, edgy social commentary, theological subversion, and keen sense of humor works like a charm in the steady hands of first-time feature director Linda Hassani who approaches the strangeness of the whole affair with a face so straight that it is impossible to notice she has her tongue deeply planted in the cheek.
7. Orfeusz és Eurydiké / Orpheus and Eurydice (István Gaál, 1986)
An adaptation of Christoph Willibald Gluck’s opera set to a libreto by Ranieri de’ Calzabigi, István Gaál’s film features some impressively staged sequences, especially considering the made-for-TV format. Opening on a behind-the-scenes note, with the musicians and the rest of the crew preparing for the shooting, the story begins with Eurydice’s funeral – the first out of three most memorable set pieces to involve dozens of extras in ritualized choreographies. What follows is the hero’s arduous journey instigated by Amore, his mourning white clothes changing in Act 2, and then again in Act 3, with the passionate red signifying his undying love for Eurydice, as well as the warning for potential breaking of the rules. 
The murky grays of his encounter with the mummy-like furies in a rocky landscape are later contrasted or rather, absorbed by ethereal whiteness of ‘blessed spirits’ in Elysium which sees veiled figures transformed into abstract compositions by virtue of certain camera angles. Each of the three major characters – Orpheus, Eurydice and Amore – is portrayed by an actor / actress (Sándor Téri, Enikõ Eszenyi and Ákos Sebestyén) and voiced by a singer / songstress (Lajos Miller, Maddalena Bonifacio and Veronika Kincses), with Frantz List Chamber Orchestra and Hungarian Radio and Television Choir conducted by Tamás Vásáry providing the lavish musical accompaniment. Gaál makes a couple of radical changes to Gluck’s score and Calzabigi’s text – his Orpheus doesn’t sing in a castrato alto or high tenor but in a masculine baritone that renders him as an imposing figure, and the ending remains closer to the original myth, leaving the viewer with the feeling of profound melancholy.
8. Enemy Territory (Peter Manoogian, 1987)
Treating the scenery as all you can eat buffet, Tony Todd takes a highly memorable turn as the Count – the psychotic leader of a militia-like gang known as the Vampires who terrorize the housing project of Lincoln Towers in New York. Their latest target is an outsider – a once successful, now down-on-his-luck insurance executive, Barry (Gary Frank), who taps one of their members on the shoulder, unaware that simple move will turn the building into a war zone. Forcefully plunged into a night of survival, he finds assistance in a tough telephone company employee, Will (singer Ray Parker Jr.), a resolute young woman, Toni (Stacey Dash in her big-screen debut) and her kind grandmother Elva (Frances Foster), a paranoid, wheelchair-bound Vietnam veteran, Parker (Jan-Michael Vincent), and a fearless 9-yo boy, Chet (another first-timer, Deon Richmond).
Likely inspired by Carpenter’s masterful exercise in suspense that is Assault on Precinct 13, with hints of Warriors thrown in for good measure, Enemy Territory is a pulpy thriller skillfully laced with social commentary, primarily on racial tensions, and excelling in keeping its viewer on the edge of the seat. The graffiti-adorned hallways and stairwells of its residential building setting create a palpable atmosphere of claustrophobia, as our heroes’ journey from top floors to the basement (and presumed freedom) often comes across as a descent into hell. Manoogian keeps the proceedings in a sort of a hyperreality that allows for one (zombified) supernatural intrusion, with cinematographer Ernest Dickerson’s providing extra grit with his gloriously grainy lensing and moody lighting.
9. Arena (Peter Manoogian, 1989)
It doesn’t get more 80’s than this! Marking Manoogian’s fourth feature, as well as my fourth encounter with the director, Arena comes across as a spiritual predecessor to Xenophage – an obscure MS-DOS fighting game that I very much enjoyed in the 90’s, despite its flaws. And the same I can say for this hyper-campy romp that adds an intergalactic twist to sport dramas such as ‘Rocky’, chronicling the rise of the only human fighter in a tournament set in the far future – the year of 4038. Bizarre creatures that inhabit a space station somewhere in the galaxy come in various shapes and sizes, from a four-armed ‘Nebulite’ to cyber-Minotaur-like ruffian to an overgrown cross between a toad and a grasshopper, with the makeup and SFX team doing some pretty heavy lifting. Also commendable is the set and costume design, the latter probably influenced by glam pop / punk fashion of the time, though we also get strong post-apocalyptic vibes in ‘The Tubes’ – a slum area for those who ‘don’t have any place else to go’. Elevating the film is a solid cast – sci-fi fans are sure to recognize Claudia Christian from The Hidden, and Armin Shimerman (Star Trek) behind the mask of Weezil – and superb cinematography from Mac Ahlberg of Re-Animator and From Beyond fame.
10. Kamen raidā Zetto Ō / Kamen Rider ZO (Keita Amemiya, 1993)
Running for more than five decades, the Kamen Rider franchise has spawned a number of TV series, films, manga, anime and video games. ZO is a direct-to-video featurette which clocks under 50 minutes and blurs the boundaries between a children show and cyberpunk body horror. It follows a human and grasshopper hybrid (!), Masaru Asō (Kō Domon), on his rescue mission, facing a variety of bizarre creatures. Designed by the director himself, they range from actors wearing rubber suits to a stop-motion model straight out of an arachnophobic nightmare. Amemiya directs at a breakneck pace, with the exposition eschewed in favor of action, though halfway through he does stop for a (surprising) poetic breather. Combining practical FX and early CGI, he delivers an entertaining little romp whose quaint aesthetic awakens nostalgia for the 20th century.
11. Final Impact (Joseph Merhi & Stephen Smoke, 1992)
Read my review HERE.
12. Bedtime Eyes (Tatsumi Kamashiro, 1987)
One of the most erratic romances to hit the silver screen, Bedtime Eyes chronicles a chaotic relationship between a Japanese club singer, Kim (Kanako Higuchi), and an Afro-American soldier, Spoon (Michael Wright), gone AWOL and ending up on the wrong side of the law. Oddly fascinating in its portrayal of the couple’s (erotically charged) ups and (increasingly violent) downs, the 2-hour-long feature plays out like a crazed, heightened melodrama of over-the-top performances and unpredictable behavioral patterns. And it is often hard to discern whether the actors follow clear instructions from the director (with the background in ‘roman porno’), or improvise along the way, adding off-the-wall nuances to the intense, borderline deranged dynamics between their characters. Strengthening their fragile yet fierce bond of star-crossed co-dependence is the film’s only constant – the anchoring synergy of Kōichi Kawakami’s handsome cinematography and David Matthews’ silky jazz score performed by Manhattan Jazz Quintet.
13. Joshua Tree (Vic Armstrong, 1993)
Sometimes, you just have to let the stuntman do the work. First time occupying a directorial chair (though it is hard to imagine him sitting in it), Vic Armstrong delivers a thrilling smörgåsbord of narrow escapes, car chases, bullet barrages, big-scale explosions, and a bit of aloe oil petting in a story of a falsely accused one-man army going after dirty cops that you love to hate. Set against the picturesque backdrop of Californian deserts, Joshua Tree is a super-gritty B-actioner that doesn’t revolutionize the genre, but it does test your suspension of disbelief in regards to our hero’s wounds, all the while reminding you that not even the state-of-the-art CGI compares to the real (practical) deal.
