1. Rapture (John Guillermin, 1965)
“The law is meaningless unless it is compassionate.”
My, oh, my, what a gorgeous film! Rapture marks my third and most enthralling encounter with British director John Guillermin who creates something quite ahead of its time here (in fact, his heroine’s premature discovery of sexuality would raise some eyebrows even these days). A 15-yo woman-child, Agnes (Patricia Gozzi, giving a heartbreakingly stunning performance), falls for an escaped convict, Joseph (Dean Stockwell in his dashingly handsome prime) believing him to be her scarecrow brought to life, much to the disapproval of her retired judge father, Frederick (Melvyn Douglas, brilliant), and contending against their maid, Karen (the stellar Gunnel Lindblom, well-known to Bergman’s aficionados). Her troubled state of mind (isolation, repressive parent, no mother figure) or rather, slightly distorted perception of reality act as a prism through which the story is told, and it is breathtakingly captured through Marcel Grignon’s sweeping camerawork and clever choices of angles. Ravishing in equal measures is Georges Delerue’s music score, at turns eerily haunting and deeply affective, intertwining with the howling of the winds and later, urban noise which add more nuances to Agnes’s complex persona. What further fortifies Guillermin’s vision is the way he renders his characters relatable or at least sympathetic, despite their lousy decisions, murky morality and unhealthy relationships, pulling the viewer into a darkly romantic whirlpool.
2. Gekijōban Mononoke: Karakasa / Mononoke the Movie: The Phantom in the Rain (Kenji Nakamura, 2024)
Mindblowing doesn’t even begin to describe the dazzling, hyper-stylized extravagance at display – the most unexpected confluences and clashes of shapes and colors, the whirling, bubbling and swirling patterns, twisted angles and snappy, jumpcutty editing, with all the pizzazz overlaid on a washi-like surface. Virtually every frame is a vibrant, mesmerizing piece of art compelling you to pause in order to wonder at the richness of details. Perfectly matched to the jaw-dropping imagery of the Edo-set psychedelia are rustling streams of dialogue fast-flowing through the labyrinthine interior of Ōoku quarters, all the while intertwining with the eclectic score, its solemn passages reflecting the strictness of the palace protocols. Almost as picturesque as the artwork (did I mention that the aromas and odors are visualized as well?) are the characters facing a supernatural threat that an enigmatic ‘medicine seller’ – the returning hero of the 2007 series – is self-invited to exorcize. Once the titular phantom Karakasa materializes, the film’s eye-grabbing qualities grow stronger and wilder, enhancing the phantasmagorical mystery that the story revolves around. Nakamura once again occupies the director’s chair, but opts for a significant tonal shift that may surprise the fans of the original anime, delivering the information – aural, visual and verbal – at the breakneck pace.
3. Kaidan yukijorō / The Snow Woman (Tokuzō Tanaka, 1968)
Shiho Fujimura embodies both otherworldly beauty and uncanniness as the titular (anti)heroine whose evil melts into compassion, as she experiences love in an expertly rendered blend of folk horror and doomed romance, previously adapted into a winter segment of Masaki Kobayashi’s 1964 masterpiece Kaidan. The feature-length version of the tale allows for nuances and subplots to be added, playing out like a poignant (melo)drama with a supernatural twist and some genuinely eerie moments, its atmosphere thickening each time Yuki reveals her true nature. Directed with confidence and clarity, The Snow Woman impresses with its era-authentic costume and production designs, as well as with the expressive interplay between light and shadows in Chikashi Makiura’s meticulously framed shots.
4. Paris, Texas (Wim Wenders, 1984)
I have always admired frequently shared stills of Paris, Texas, and it is, indeed, one of the most stunningly photographed road-movies, great many of its breathtaking shots reflecting or rather, emanating the relatable melancholy of its (anti)hero, Travis (a poignant performance from Harry Dean Stanton), in the same way the elegiac, acoustic score captures his sorrow over the loss of beloved ones and self. The first act – so subtly (and silently!) laced with mystery – and the final one which provides some of the answers, while raising new questions, work seamlessly, with bits of the mid-section family drama putting your patience to test unless you’re an avid Wenders fan. Joining Stanton on the odyssey of his deeply flawed, yet sympathetic character is a mighty fine cast, namely Hunter Carson in his big-screen debut, Aurore Clément, Nastassja Kinski, and Dean Stockwell, each with a role tailor-made for them, in a story of almost mythical nature...
5. Images (Robert Altman, 1972)
The boundaries between reality and illusion are blurred right from the first phone call received by a troubled heroine – an author of children fiction, Cathryn, portrayed by Susannah York who brings a potent mixture of inner turmoil, bruised intensity, untamed imagination and brazen sensuality to the central role. An unreliable narrator, she pulls us ever deeper into a rabbit hole or rather, unicorn’s cave of her own creation, quoting the passages from York’s real-life book which adds a meta-dimension to the proceedings. This aspect is further emphasized by actors’ first names lent to the characters played by their colleagues in a psychologically fickle identity play that also involves the appearance of Cathryn’s doppelgänger. Enhancing both the viewer and protagonist’s befuddlement – marvelously captured in the autumnal gloom of the fairy tale-like setting (Irish countryside) and Vilmos Zsigmond’s grainy cinematography – is Graeme Clifford’s deft editing, and John Williams’s experimental score, its eerie dissonance thickening the paranoid atmosphere. Repulsion and Persona are brought to one’s mind as possible influences, with Altman’s own 1977 feature 3 Women coming across as a spiritual successor to Images.
6. TVO (Tatsuya Ohta, 1991)
Love couldn’t be more irrational in a story of an artistically inclined girl with a heartbeat-reading power who comes to Tokyo, and falls for her older sister’s killer, an aspiring nightclub singer. However, the reality of Tatsuya Ohta’s debut (or rather, the first of only two features he has helmed) is so off that murder could be but a metaphor, and the perpetrator only a victim of a society in which everyone operates contrary to their motivations. Part neo-noir deconstruction and part mood experiment / tone poem with a road movie coda, TVO (aka TV Obsession) appears like a missing link between Gregg Araki at his most melancholic and David Lynch in his Twin Peaks element. It is highly likely that Ohta has seen the cult series, considering the more-or-less direct references, and yet his film comes across as quite refreshing in its brooding, post-punk-like ruminations. An out-of-the-box exploration of grief, past traumas, addiction, and longing for a genuine human connection in an alienating environment, it unfolds at a deliberate pace reflecting the media-controlled apathy that chains two central characters, Satsuki (actress and songstress Yukako Hayase in her last role) and Ko (Atsushi Okuno in his first screen appearance). Their suppressed energies collide and intertwine in a way that is both liberating and confounding, the all-pervasive vagueness and non-conformity captured in smoky cinematography by Norimichi Kasamatsu who would later collaborate with Sōgo (aka Gakuryū) Ishii on Labyrinth of Dreams and Electric Dragon 80.000 V.
7. Yo y Las Bestias / Me & The Beasts (Nico Manzano, 2021)
If you’re interested in indie, DIY music and/or quirky fantasies permeated with deadpan humor (and socio-political tension), Me & The Beasts may be just what you’ve been looking for. Enter a singer-guitarist, Andrés (a cool, low-key performance from Jesús Nunes), who leaves his band Los Pijamistas, because all the other members agreed to play at a propaganda festival organized by the regime. What follows is a simple, yet effective story or rather, meditation on his creative struggle tinged with the elements of magical realism embodied in two silent, burka-clad entities seen only by our hero. The music leans towards dreamy/ambient pop, and the visuals are crispy clean, with yellow frequently dominating the screen and softening the formal austerity of framing, somewhat evocative of Susanne Heinrich’s 2019 dramedy Aren’t You Happy?. Venezuelan filmmaker Nico Manzano directs with composure and taut economy, celebrating art against all odds (read: corruption personified by policemen), and demonstrating a knowing sense of artifice through his imagery.
8. Eadweard (Kyle Rideout, 2015)
It is only natural for a film about an inventive photographer such as Eadweard Muybridge (1830 – 1904) to be beautifully shot, and DoP Tony Mirza does a truly admirable job, taking some recognizable cues from the great Emmanuel Lubezki by way of The Tree of Life. Whether the biopic is historically accurate or not (are they ever?) does not matter all that much, because what we get here is a finely nuanced characters study – a multifaceted portrait of an eccentric artist whose imposing legacy may owe a lot to a stagecoach accident that left him prematurely gray. Kyle Rideout helms his first feature with an assured hand, also excelling as a production designer, and though he doesn’t take many risks – apart from the naturalist locomotion we’re all well-aware of – Eadweard is a solid piece of cinema, as well as a stellar vehicle for Michael Eklund in the starring role.
9. Юность Бемби (Наталья Бондарчук, 1986) / Bambi’s Youth (Natalya Bondarchuk, 1986)
I have seen neither Disney-produced animation, nor Ms. Bondarchuk’s own take on Bambi’s childhood, yet I found the 1986 sequel to be quite a peculiar experience. Compared to the great majority of Soviet fantasies, Bambi’s Youth comes across as non-conformist / avant-garde in its effective simplicity – actors dressed in modest costumes act as animal characters’ counterparts against the stunning landscapes, their movements at times choreographed as if in a ballet performance. Natalya Bondarchuk – probably best known for her role in Tarkovsky’s Solaris – directs with poise and lyrical abandon, employing superimposition and in-camera trickery to achieve a dreamlike atmosphere, with Aleksandr Filatov’s unaffected cinematography attuned to themes of love and ecology. Boris Petrov’s off-kilter mélange of synth-electronica and ethereal vocalizations imbues the proceedings with some postmodern vibes.
10. San shao nü / The Umbrella Fairy (Jie Shen, 2024)
A sensory overload, the first directorial effort from animator Jie Shen boasts absolutely stunning artwork – a combination of traditional watercolor and modern, anime-like designs, most fluid animation, and sumptuous, melodramatic score. Both a blessing and a curse, the film’s rapturous style is so overwhelming that you find yourself absorbed by images and music so much that you often forget to read the subtitles. Less captivating is the story – told through the prism of objects’ spirits – of finding one’s own purpose, and (dis)respecting the rules on your quest, with the beats of emotional core muffled by either pseudo-philosophy or sweeping melodies. Despite its drawbacks, The Umbrella Fairy is solid starting point for Shen, so if you are ever given the opportunity to see it in the cinema, don’t miss it!
A RE-WATCH TRIBUTE TO DAVID LYNCH (January 20, 1946 - January 16, 2025)
Inland Empire (2006)
I could swear that the labyrinths of Inland Empire are reconfigured each time I revisit them, only to get lost in their long, dimly lit passageways, often coming across a plethora of dead ends that are – strangely enough – never discouraging. A ‘brutal fucking masterpiece’, to rephrase Grace Zabriskie’s line from an awkwardly creepy ‘courtesy call’ (and my personal favorite) scene, this feature appears like Mulholland Drive on hard drugs previously soaked in garmonbozia of self-referentiality and Twin Peaks: The Return anticipation. A puzzling meta-film of starkly introspective proportions, it effortlessly reaches the most hidden recesses of one’s subconscious mind, as its heroine, Nikki/Susan – a tour de force performance from Laura Dern – faces the identity crisis, following her fall through the rabbit hole. However, the film doesn’t stop there – oh no, it burrows even deeper, tearing the fabric of reality (or rather, realities), and revealing that which cannot be seen, heard, or easily put into words, existing and resisting beyond our dichotomies – ugly / beautiful, good / evil, inward / outward, curse / blessing... Thickening the mystery (of creativity, inter alia), and solidifying the illusion, all the while trying to shatter it, is the ‘cheap’ camcorder imagery captured by Lynch himself, at once down-to-earth and sublime.
Lost Highway (1997)
(the mini-review written on Lynch’s birthday)
David Lynch is dead, and yet he lives through his impressive legacy, just like many great filmmakers who left us before him. Today, he would’ve turned 79, and I decided to honor him with yet another re-watch of his criminally underrated neo-noir. Seriously, just reading those Metacritic blurbs makes me sick, because Lost Highway is one of the most fascinating dives into the darkest pits of the human mind. And you don’t need a psychology degree to have a field day trip with the stylish portrait of tenor-sax player Fred’s split which boldly breaks the time-space continuum, and pulls you ever deeper into his meticulously constructed (and simultaneously de-constructed) nightmare. The masterful use of shadows, mirrored shots and situations, as well as of the killer soundtrack is perfectly matched to Lynch’s unwavering direction.(the mini-review written on Lynch’s birthday)
Twin Peaks: Fire Walk with Me (1992)
“We live inside a dream.”
“We live inside a dream.”
One of the finest – and doubtlessly, most surreal – prequels ever made, this playful expansion of the mind-opening Twin Peaks universe is always a pleasure to return to. It is also a rare example of a film whose deeply and sadly flawed protagonist elicits sympathies, as one strives to decipher the codes of both darkness and light that surround (and clash within) her. Its delightfully weird genre-bending structure, and masterful navigation of tonal shifts are in pitch-perfect harmony with Angelo Badalamenti’s prodigious jazz score, in turns smoky, sultry, ominous, nostalgic and brooding. The same goes for the highly memorable images that blur or completely erase the boundaries between dreams and reality, banal and outré, provincial Americana and phantasmal Beyond.
Eraserhead (1977)
David Lynch’s singular (not to mention influential) debut is a lullaby for the ‘deranged’, at once deliberately harrowing and darkly funny, grotesquely surreal yet immensely beautiful. On the surface, it is a disquieting look into a man’s fears of attachment and parenthood, but as you sink through its nightmarish, metaphysical and psychosexual layers, you realize that it can (and must!) be much more than that. Whatever meanings may lay there, every time you return to it, the film injects the seed of fruitful dirt and evocative gloom into the very meat of one’s subconscious mind, leaving you profoundly mystified. Brimming with the late artist’s obsessions, from the zigzag floor patterns to ominous aural stimuli to characters emerging from shadows, that would mark his subsequent offerings, Eraserhead is an awe-inspiring field trip through the Lynchverse at its rawest.
Blue Velvet (1986)
With each viewing, Blue Velvet grows more on me. A spiritual predecessor to Twin Peaks and an offbeat ode to curiosity, it peels back the skin of ‘white picket fence’ idealism to reveal its rotten underbelly, so brilliantly metaphorized in one of the most iconic openings in the history of cinema. As its central mystery is explored, the film turns weirder and freakier, pulling you closer to the heart of darkness that beats stronger than its protagonists and viewers could’ve ever imagined. It boldly borders surrealism without bringing any supernatural tidbits into play, seducing you with the self-confident direction, exemplary synergy between the visual and aural elements, as well as the stellar performances, particularly from (unhinged!) Dennis Hopper as the embodiment of remorseless evil. Most, if not all of Lynch’s obsessions are present, from the moody interiors to industrial locales to a character’s recounting of a dream.
Wild at Heart (1990)
“If you’re truly wild at heart, you’ll fight for your dreams.”
Arguably the most accessible of Lynch’s eccentricities, Wild at Heart acts as a link between Blue Velvet and Twin Peaks, presenting a gallery of hyper-bizarre characters who – in the incessant scenery-gnawing – inhabit the American South existing somewhere on the wrong end of the rainbow. As if created on a whim, just to be imbued with a plethora of references to The Wizard of Oz – one of the author’s all-time favorites, it anticipates Natural Born Killers, as well as the powerful (or rather powermad) use of metal music (i.e. Rammstein) in Lost Highway. Its two central characters, Lula and Sailor, may not be the most sympathetic of lovers to hit the screen, yet their inflammable romance feels like the single truth in the demi-monde of mostly dangerous weirdos. Quite tongue-in-cheek, this genre-bending road-movie is anchored in its strong audio-visual language, playful direction and offbeat performances.
