Best Premiere Viewings of August 2025

1. Szabad lélegzet / Riddance (Márta Mészáros, 1973)

Cementing my love for the work of Márta Mészáros is a compassionate exploration of class, gender and generational conflict through a story of an independent factory girl fresh out of an abusive relationship who falls for a university student with snobbish parents. Also posing as a (feminist) portrait of youthful idealism, Riddance (or translated from Hungarian, To Breathe Freely) grabs the viewer’s attention by virtue of Lajos Koltai’s stunning cinematography, particularly when it comes to the framing of faces (Mészáros’ trademark), often telling more than any words would. Also praiseworthy are natural performances from the entire cast led by Erzsébet Kútvölgyi, sparking strong chemistry with her partner Gábor Nagy (also excellent!) in her confident big screen debut.

2. Szindbád / Sinbad (Zoltán Huszárik, 1971)

‘He was a strange, curious person, he wanted the life and he didn’t want it, finally committing suicide.’ This peculiar (and to this writer, somewhat relatable) detail from the bio of the leading actor Zoltán Latinovits (1931-1976) delineates – in a certain way – his stellar, melancholy-imbued portrayal of Sinbad, a Don Juan-like character reminiscing his ‘romantic escapades’. A sinuous stream of the protagonist’s memories tears the boundaries between the past and the present, forming and simultaneously de-forming a hazy, dreamlike narrative in which the wistfully lyrical, subtly sensual and painterly seductive images defy spoken words and weave the verses of sparkling sublimity. And though Thanatos incessantly breathes down Sinbad’s neck, the film appears to be gravitating towards the (purely cinematic) elimination of not only death, but time as well, with Huszárik, his cinematographer Sándor Sára, and co-editor Mihály Morell operating as a single entity, one whose presence is felt throughout eternity...

3. Moetsukita chizu / The Man Without a Map (Hiroshi Teshigahara, 1968)

Beginning as an investigation of a missing person case, The Man Without a Map gradually transforms into a profound reflection on one’s own identity and place in an increasingly alienating universe, with the urban jungle posing as the labyrinth of existential crisis. The central puzzle goes nowhere near its solution, leaving both our unnamed detective hero (a superb performance from Shintarō Katsu) and ourselves wandering from one dead end to another, as red herrings incessantly multiply. In his final collaboration with (screen)writer Kōbō Abe, multi-hyphenate director Hiroshi Teshigahara (Pitfall, Woman in the Dunes, Face of Another) skillfully employs (distorted) reflections, frames-within-frames, solarized dream sequences, jarring details in primary colors and whatnot to amplify the viewer’s bewilderment, often reaching for the farthest recesses of the subconscious mind. Bleak and inscrutable, his metaphysical mystery is also a thing of beauty, dignified in its portrayal of pathetic human condition.

4. Shéhérazade / Scorching Sands (Pierre Gaspard-Huit, 1963)

Anna Karina embodies truth, wisdom, courage, forgiveness, persistence, defiance and hope as the titular heroine in Pierre Gaspard-Huit’s heightened period melodrama that exoticizes Oriental culture to the point of sheer fetishization. Adorned in gorgeous costumes matched by a stunning production design, she IS the film, her strong, magnetic presence felt even when she’s not gracing the screen. Partnered by Gérard Barray and Antonio Vilar as knight Renaud de Villecroix and Caliph Haroun-al-Rashid, respectively, who are vying for Scheherazade’s love, she also epitomizes the idealized pulchritude we often encounter in fairy tales. The romantic adventure she’s the very heart of is sweeping and rapturous, its mythologized reality wonderfully captured by the camera of Christian Matras (Lola Montès, Thérèse Desqueyroux) and André Domage. 

5. Clash (Raphaël Delpard, 1984)

“Why not live behind the shadows?”

A simple if risky job of money smuggling turns into a living and breathing nightmare for Martine (Catherine Alric) doing favor for her thief (boy)friend, Bé. Even before she arrives at the hiding place – an abandoned factory inhabited only by mannequins, she begins seeing visions, the first one being of her younger self with leech-shaped blood clots over eyelids. Once an eerie, tight-lipped stranger (Pierre Clémenti) appears out of nowhere, things go from bad to worse, or more precisely, from pretty weird to deliriously bonkers. Quite possibly inspired by the rampant irrationality of Italian horror cinema, and at times channeling some proto-Lynchian-woman-in-trouble vibes, actor turned director Raphaël Delpard abandons every bit of logic in the barrel-infested backyard of the said factory, because throwing it out of the windows seems impossible, as they prove unbreakable. Thus leaving the viewers to solve the puzzle(s) as they please (or not!), he paints an absurd portrait of fear and guilt (and broken childhood?); a surrealistic fever dream beautifully framed by versed cinematographer Sacha Vierny (Last Year in Marienbad, Belle de Jour, L'hypothèse du tableau volé).

For a double dose of utter WTF-ery, I recommend Jean-Pierre Mocky’s 1982 feature Litan as a companion piece.

6. Bayn al Remal / Within Sand (Moe Alatawi, 2022)

In equal measures breathtaking and unwelcoming, the desert of the Neom area is more than a setting – it is a whimsical character in its own right, as well as a reflection of the mental and emotional state of the film’s hero. After he leaves the caravan, young tobacco-merchant Snam (Ra’ed Alshammari) is ambushed by a trio of thieves and later joined by a big, one-eyed wolf on his way home where his pregnant wife Halla (Adwa Fahad) waits for his return. The account on his survival amidst the dunes and rocky mountains is ‘based on a true story that’s engrained in Saudi culture’, in the director’s own words, and marks a few milestones for the nascent cinema of Saudi Arabia. Gorgeously framed and graciously paced, Within Sand never appears like the work of an inexperienced filmmaker – Moe Alatawi’s grip rarely loosens, and his control of both human, largely non-professional actors and the beast is admirable. The addition of hallucinatory visions and dream sequences enriches the folk tale-like adventure, and in a way, softens the harshness of the landscape, all the while amplifying its borderline-surreal nature.

7. Gekijōban Mononoke Dai-Ni-Shō: Hinezumi /
Mononoke the Movie Chapter II: The Ashes of Rage (Kenji Nakamura & Kiyotaka Suzuki, 2025)

Returning to the Ōoku quarters of the Edo castle, Kenji Nakamura – this time assisted by Kiyotaka Suzuki – delivers another visually arresting phantasmagoria which appears as if it absorbed all the colors, shapes and patterns of the world, alchemically transmuting them into an overwhelming, über-psychedelic smörgåsbord for the senses. As jaw-droppingly gorgeous as its predecessor (and as its successor will certainly be!), with the traditional and electronic music in a time-bending fusion, Chapter II of the planned Mononoke trilogy explores jealousy and familial conflicts, as the characters climb the social ladder, elbowing whomever they deem a threat (thus awakening demonic forces). However, the story is of secondary importance here, not to mention that it’s quite a challenge to follow it with your eyes glued to the screen, and mind blown by what they witness. Did I mention how astonishing the artwork is?

8. Maléfices / Where the Truth Lies (Henri Decoin, 1962)

If the English version of the title were a question, we would all know the answer – not in the mouths of our leaders. Politics aside, Where the Truth Lies could be described as an atmospheric blend of dysfunctional marriage (melo)drama and adultery thriller, with hints of black magic thickening the air of mystery which envelopes the proceedings. An affair between a village vet (Jean-Marc Bory) and an enigmatic, African-born woman (Juliette Gréco) who keeps a pet cheetah (!) dissolves the image of the guy’s seemingly harmonious relationship with his wife (Liselotte Pulver), as Decoin tosses a whole school of red herrings that point at the possibility of ‘evil spells’ which is the literal translation of Maléfices. Where his film shines brightest is the striking use of Marcel Grignon’s highly expressive B&W cinematography that wouldn’t feel out of place in a gothic horror, as well as the visuals’ strong synergy with Pierre Henry’s discordantly foreboding score that underlines the dark side of love.

9. Souvenir (Michael H. Shamberg, 1996)

In the only feature offering from Michael H. Shamberg (1952-2014) – best known for producing New Order music videos, singer turned actress Miranda Stanton plays Orlando, a reticent, expatriate American sports journalist who lives and works in (deglamorized) Paris. Haunted by the memories of her abusive childhood, she is the benevolent heart of a dreamy, stream-of-consciousness narrative that brings together ghosts of the past and prospects of the future into the sullen present dissolving under the weight of the trauma. Fragments of her everyday life are often intertwined with the imagined conversations of teenage Orlando with her late brother, Charles (voiced by Christina Ricci and Adam Hann-Byrd, respectively), that hint at their incestuous relationship, and further blur the boundaries between the real and imagined. Add to that bizarre computer sessions featuring graphics created by the acclaimed experimentalist Chris Marker, and you have yourself a lyrically outré portrait of an emotionally scarred woman, and simultaneously, a formal challenge that sees every technique, from soft focuses to slow motion to tracking shots to handheld montages, employed as an asset for externalizing the heroine’s innermost workings. Supporting Stanton in what feels very much like a deeply personal project are Kristin Scott Thomas as Orlando’s superior, and Melvil Poupaud as Charles.

10. Nemo / Dream One (Arnaud Sélignac, 1984)

Read my review HERE.

11. La fuga / The Escape (Paolo Spinola, 1965)

“The day on which man manages to control his subconscious as he controls his conscience will be the dawn of a great era...”

There’s a thick air of mystery surrounding Giovanna Ralli and Anouk Aimée in their bravura portrayals of two women, Piera and Luisa, who get involved in a lesbian relationship, once the former realizes she’s stuck in an unhappy marriage (with a nuclear physicist), all the while weighed by a childhood trauma triggered by her parents’ separation. Both of them have long been searching for meaningful affection, and Spinola – in his psychosexual or rather, psychoanalytical debut – strives to understand his heroines, primarily focusing on Piera, and telling a story in a non-linear fashion, though flashbacks, dreams, diary-like and psychotherapy sequences. Subtle in achieving palpable erotic tension, he elicits eloquent looks and gestures from the leads, their beautiful faces magnetically captured in stark B&W by Marcello Gatti, with Piero Piccioni’s smooth, atmospheric score accentuating the mesmerizing and all-pervading elegance.

12. Redenção / Redemption (Roberto Pires, 1959)

The abrasive textures of both image and sound – due to the original stock heavily deterioration, and despite the restoration – lend a certain charm to Roberto Pires’ feature debut. Directed with a penchant for pulpy fiction, and – no doubt – influenced by Hollywood noirs, Redemption almost effortlessly sucks you into its shadow-infested world, and elicits sympathy for the deeply flawed characters (played by firsttimers and non-professionals) coping with unsparing reality. A pioneering example of ‘Igluscope’, the film is shot through the lenses which the author himself developed in his father’s optics shop, providing each frame with slight distortions at the edges, and thus reinforcing the notion of cinema as a dream. It may not be a groundbreaker, but it is a commendable effort nonetheless.

13. Oh, Hi! (Sophie Brooks, 2025)

“We need to cut the shit and turn to witchcraft.”

And turning to witchcraft is only one phase of Iris’s ‘going to absurd lengths’ plan to make her boyfriend Isaac love her during a romantic getaway that goes awry. What initially appears like a match made in heaven situation gradually glides into a silly micro-hell for poor Isaac who spends a good deal of the film’s running time handcuffed to bed. He’s a ‘classic softboy’ deserving of a sweet torture which writer/director Sophie Brooks employs to explore Millennials’ gender dynamics, poking fun at both young men and women, all the while demonstrating a keen sense of tonal shifts and wry humor. Behind a rather banal title that significantly lowers one’s expectations, she conceals a charming anti-romantic comedy that primarily works by virtue of good chemistry within the small, yet playful cast, with big-and-sad-eyed Molly Gordon in the lead being an affection-hungry standout. 

14. Almost Blue (Alex Infascelli, 2000)

Married to an atmospheric rock score, with Elvis Costello’s song Almost Blue posing as an aural leitmotif, a stylish, closeup-fetishizing cinematography by Arnaldo Catinari helps create a strong sense of discomfort in Alex Infascelli’s giallo-esque feature debut revolving around a self-mutilating, identity-shifting psycho who terrorizes Bologna. In a slight subversion of the said subgenre, victims are largely male students, and a profiler in charge of the case is a woman, Grazia Negro (Lorenza Indovina), who will be assisted by a blind hacker, Simone Martini (Claudio Santamaria), unwittingly becoming one of the next targets. Inexperienced yet ambitious, our heroine faces not only a difficult assignment, but also the prejudice of her colleagues, and the mental strain she’s under throughout the investigation is often reflected in Catinari’s framing, as well as in the use of soft focus, and visual barriers. Infascelli elicits solid performances from his cast, with Rolando Ravello making the most of the limited screen time to instill some dread as the killer. 

Honorable mention: La sorcière / The Witch (Andrzej Żuławski, 1958)

Andrzej Żuławski’s exquisitely framed (and surprisingly reserved) 7-minute debut created at IDHEC (Institut des Hautes Études Cinématographiques).

Best Premiere Viewings of January 2025 + A Tribute to David Lynch

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.

Twin Peaks: Fire Walk with Me (1992)

“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. 

Best Premiere Viewings of 2024 (Modern Cinema Edition)

Featuring everything but the kitchen sink of post-2000 cinema - predominantly 2023 and 2024 releases - that I was introduced to during this year, the following list encompasses a wide variety of genres and subgenres, ranging from f-rated body horror and cyberpunk animation, to an African folklore-inspired drama and martial arts extravaganzas, to boldly erotic queer flicks and the first adaptation of Bulgakov's masterpiece novel The Master and Margarita that I could sit through without any regrets. And let's not forget a deeply personal project of delightfully chaotic nature, a zero-fucks-given experiment in eye-popping visuals, and a triumphant return from the retirement by the legendary Hayao Miyazaki. Mini-reviews for the great majority of these films can be read through monthly compilations - January / February / March / April / May / June / July / August / September / October / November / December.

1. The Substance (Coralie Fargeat, 2024)

2. Poor Things (Yorgos Lanthimos, 2023)

3. Mami Wata (C.J. 'Fiery' Obasi, 2023)

4. Mars Express (Jérémie Périn, 2023)

5. The Zone of Interest (Jonathan Glazer, 2023)

6. She Is Conann (Bertrand Mandico, 2023)

7. Chłopi / The Peasants (DK Welchman & Hugh Welchman, 2023)

8. La bête / The Beast (Bertrand Bonello, 2023)

9. The Return (Uberto Pasolini, 2024)
10. He bian de cuo wu / Only the River Flows (Wei Shujun, 2023)

11. Chime (Kiyoshi Kurosawa, 2024)
12. Jiu Long cheng zhai - Wei cheng / Twilight of the Warriors: Walled In (Soi Cheang, 2024)

13. Megalopolis (Francis Ford Coppola, 2024)

14. Someone from Nowhere (Prabda Yoon, 2017)

15. Kurak Günler / Burning Days (Emin Alper, 2022)

16. Banel e Adama / Banel & Adama (Ramata-Toulaye Sy, 2023)

17. The Girl with the Fork (Ignacio Maiso, 2024)

18. Rumours (Guy Maddin, Evan Johnson & Galen Johnson, 2024)

19. Furiosa: A Mad Max Saga (George Miller, 2024)

20. Sirocco et le royaume des courants d'air / Sirocco and the Kingdom of the Winds (Benoît Chieux, 2023)

21. Vermiglio (Maura Delpero, 2024)

22. The Shadow Strays (Timo Tjahjanto, 2024)

23. La Chimera (Alice Rohrwacher, 2023)

24. All of Us Strangers (Andrew Haigh, 2023)

25. Once Within a Time (Godfrey Reggio & Jon Kane, 2022)

26. Aurora’s Sunrise (Inna Sahakyan, 2022)

27. Dead Whisper (Conor Soucy, 2024)

28. Eileen (William Oldroyd, 2023)

29. Sayyedat al-Bahr / Scales (Shahad Ameen, 2019)

30. Kimitachi wa Dō Ikiru ka / The Boy and the Heron (Hayao Miyazaki, 2023)

31. AGGRO DR1FT (Harmony Korine, 2023)

32. Femme (Sam H. Freeman & Ng Choon Ping, 2023)

33. Caché / Hidden (Michael Haneke, 2005)

34. Sanctuary (Zachary Wigon, 2022)

35. Мастер и Маргарита (Михаил Локшин, 2024) / The Master and Margarita (Michael Lockshin, 2024)

36. Motel Destino (Karim Aïnouz, 2024)

37. Le règne animal / The Animal Kingdom (Thomas Cailley, 2023)

38. Le Vourdalak / The Vourdalak (Adrien Beau, 2023)

39. Lonesome (Craig Boreham, 2022)

40. Le coeur du masturbateur / The Masturbator’s Heart (Michael Salerno, 2023)

41. Stopmotion (Robert Morgan, 2023)

42. Terrifier 3 (Damien Leone, 2024)

43. Club Zero (Jessica Hausner, 2023)

44. Des Teufels Bad / The Devil’s Bath (Veronika Franz & Severin Fiala, 2024)

45. A Quiet Place: Day One (Michael Sarnoski, 2024)

46. City Hunter (Yūichi Satō, 2024)

47. Afterglows (Taichi Kimura, 2023)

48. Think at Night (Greg Hanec, 2024)

49. Jour de colère / Interstate (Jean Luc Herbulot, 2024)

50. To kalokairi tis Karmen / The Summer with Carmen (Zacharias Mavroeidis, 2023)

Best Premiere Viewings of June 2024

1. Австрийское поле (Андрей Черных, 1991) / Austrian Field (Andrey Chernykh, 1991)

Ruiz meets Sokurov in a peculiar, equally sensual and mysterious world behind the mirror, where crypto-poetic dialogues pose as echoes of feelings and experiences so intimately opaque that they defy any attempt to be discovered and named, let alone put into definitions. Softer than melancholy, more fragrant than love, and more elusive than thoughts yet to be born, they transcend cinematic (sur)reality which they’re integral part of, bringing you into a liminal state. The camera (of Dmitriy Mass) acts like a silent observer visiting someone’s subconscious mind, as it captures the complete dissolution of both time and space, becoming one with the soul / psyche of the mesmerized viewer. ‘Austrian Field’ marks the feature debut from Andrey Chernykh, and it is more a dream, than a film.

2. Kuća na pijesku / House on the Sand (Ivan Martinac, 1985)

“Where is evening coming from?”

Dedicated to Bruce Baillie’s 1964 short ‘Mass for the Dakota Sioux’, the only feature in the filmography of Croatian experimenter Ivan Martinac is a miraculous anomaly in Yugoslav cinema. Decidedly minimalist in narrative terms, with dialogues eschewed in favor of rhythmical editing, ‘House on the Sand’ is a fascinating meditation on loneliness, transcending time through clearly defined spaces, both interior (deeply intimate) and exterior (at times, as ostensibly infinite as the open sea), as well as the liminal ones (elusive, invisible). The strongly felt sense of space (and displacement within it!), often accentuated by ‘a frame within a frame’ compositions, elevates the film’s already brilliant ‘architectonicity’ to a whole new level, as rigid geometries transmute into subliminal sensations. All the while, the most mundane of actions are portrayed as if the eye of the camera belongs to an alien entity, lending them a thick aura of austere poetry, and anticipating ‘Homo Sapiens Project’ bits of Rouzbeh Rashidi’s oeuvre. They repeat in a ritualistic manner, suspended between (no)life of a depressed archaeologist protagonist (Dušan Janićijević, his stern expressions perfectly matched to the melancholic mood), and the only certainty that is death...

Available @ VIMEO

3. La bête / The Beast (Bertrand Bonello, 2023)

“Don’t be scared. There must be beautiful things in this chaos.”

In his latest offering (and the first one that piqued my interest, after a failed sitting through ‘Nocturama’), Betrand Bonello reflects on the anxieties of our time, delivering a formally fascinating meta-film loosely based on Henry James’s 1903 novella ‘The Beast in the Jungle’. Starring Léa Seydoux and George MacKay, both shining in their roles though the former does a heavier lifting, ‘The Beast’ braids three stories – set in La Belle Époque, social media-infected 2014, and the near, ‘Equilibrium’-like future of 2044 – into a tightly edited narrative of doomed star-crossed lovers. Deliberately reserved, maybe even alienating in its highbrow approach to romance and other themes it explores (loneliness, death, time, past lives, emotional numbness), the feature successfully blends a variety of disparate influences, from Resnais to Carax to Lynch, yet always remains... well, its own beast, one in possession of an uncannily magnetic power. The production design by Katia Wyszkop is pitch-perfect in all of the three eras, and admirably captured by cinematographer Josée Deshaies, with widescreen slyly narrowed to academy ratio for AI-dominated 2044, and thoughtful blocking elevating the beauty of numerous shots.

4. Requiem (Zoltán Fábri, 1982)

The history of oppression is intertwined with the memories of love in a romantic drama centered around a former athlete, Natti – a seductively compelling performance from Edit Frajt. Sentimentalism is eschewed in favor of bittersweet poeticism permeating both dialogue (and the way it is delivered) and mise-en-scène, from its autumnal palette to the smallest of details (a plate of pears). Fábri’s direction betrays the hand of a master, with slow-motion and freeze frame utilized as tools for controlling the past, allowing the characters and viewers to savor the moments as they’re lost, one by one...

5. La Chimera (Alice Rohrwacher, 2023)

A charming film of dreamlike textures, its luminous heart in the right place (somewhere in the 20th century), ‘La Chimera’ reaffirms Rohrwacher as a filmmaker of delicate sensitivity, and keen sensibility reflected in the picturesque cinematography, musingly meandering story, as well as in the sparkling chemistry she has with with the entire cast, creating a bunch of authentic characters, sympathetic even at their most flawed. Carol Duarte as Italia is a revelation to me.

6. Kimitachi wa Dō Ikiru ka / The Boy and the Heron (Hayao Miyazaki, 2023)

Reminiscing his own childhood in post-war Japan, as well as his professional relationships with fellow director Isao Takahata, and producer Toshio Suzuki, Hayao Miyazaki delivers his most personal film to date – a coming-of-age tale that grows progressively more surreal, as fantasy invades reality in often unexpected, and largely bird-related ways (heron’s bizarre inner/true self, kingdom of man-eating parakeets). Themes of loss, grief, mortality, inner conflicts, and life’s uncertainties are gently intertwined into a nuanced narrative revolving around a motherless boy on a journey of self-discovery, at once fantastical, jovial and bittersweet. Needless to say, the animation is as awe-inspiring as expected from the master of the Ghibli studio, with the exquisite cast of voice-actors breathing life into a bunch of colorful characters, and Joe Hisaishi’s evocative score emphasizing the all-pervading feeling of delicate melancholy.

7. A Quiet Place: Day One (Michael Sarnoski, 2024)

My personal favorite in what is currently ‘A Quiet Place’ trilogy, Michael Sarnoski’s sophomore feature is a poignantly directed humane drama set against the alien invasion that leaves New York in shambles, forcing it into silence. Focused on a terminally ill heroine, Samira (a sweeping performance from Lupita Nyong’o), who’s partnered by a therapy cat, Frodo (what a fine feline!), and British law student prone to panic attacks, Eric (Joseph Quinn, superb), ‘Day One’ shifts between the emotionally resonant parts, and edge-of-your-seat tension with seemingly little to no effort that reflects Sarnoski’s impressive versatility. Speaking of which, he even manages to slip in a handful of sublimely poetic moments into a struggle to stay alive, and though he doesn’t revolutionize any of the genres, he does deliver a potent, lovingly crafted cocktail – a modestly budgeted blockbuster with a heart.

8. Ai no Bōrei / Empire of Passion (Nagisa Ōshima, 1978)

The only ‘true kaidan’ in Ōshima’s four-decades-long career, ‘Empire of Passion’ plays out like a cautionary tale, with guilty conscience of its anti-heroes manifesting as a ghostly presence that fertilizes the garden of madness, until the flower of ugly truth blooms. Deliberately paced, and directed with an acutely unforgiving sense of human fallibility, the film is wonderfully lensed by Yoshio Miyajima (of ‘Kaidan’ fame), with Tōru Takemitsu (The Face of Another, Himiko) composing an unnervingly haunting score, establishing an eerily brooding atmosphere. In two (stellar!) central roles, Kazuko Yoshiyuki and Tatsuya Fuji manage to elicit a certain dose of sympathy, in spite of their characters’ heinous act, as Takuzō Kawatani provides unexpected, yet welcome comic relief as a police officer, Hotta.

9. To teleftaio psemma / A Matter of Dignity (Michael Cacoyannis, 1958)

Anchored in believable performances, particularly from Ellie Lambeti whose character is the focal point of a simple, yet insightful story, ‘A Matter of Dignity’ (or ‘The Last Lie’, as the original title literally translates) is a powerful tragedy that plays out like an indictment of the rich, following the decay of a high bourgeois family, and their pathetic games to keep appearances. Gradually transforming into a poignant social drama, and eventually leaving you with a lump in you throat, the film is also praiseworthy for its black and white cinematography (Walter Lassally) almost perfectly matched by Cacoyannis’s exquisite mise en scène.

10. I visionari / The Visionaries (Maurizio Ponzi, 1968)

“No one is better or worse, people are just different.”

Life, theater and cinema clash and densely intertwine in Maurizio Ponzi’s feature debut, while he explores how they affect his characters (and viewer!) as both actors and human beings in their search for the meaning (if any) of the three ‘entities’. Inspired by the writings of Austrian novelist Robert Musil, the author wrestles with the concept of intellectualized emotions, telling a story of a triangular relationship between a director, actress and actor – one that implies a personal experience. Amidst the interplay of love and jealousy, he weighs the significance of artistic expression in the face of the fickle, multifaceted reality, eliciting well-balanced performances from his cast, and delivering some handsome imagery in a limited, chamber setting.

 

11. Darling (John Schlesinger, 1965)

The sixties are imbued with extra swinging in one of the most biting (and somewhat vitriolic) portrayals of elite, opportunism, and lies some build their lives upon, with Julie Christie taking an outstanding turn as a central character – a young model, Diana Scott, bedding her way to the top of the social ladder. Torn between the search for love, and the need for admiration, this starlet grows emptier with every new ‘trophy’ she wins, leaving the ruins of confused emotions in her wake. And yet, she is not the most unsympathetic character in the (still relevant!) ‘anti-fairy tale’ about the bitterness of ‘la dolce vita’ co-penned by director John Schlesinger, screenwriter Frederic Raphael, and producer Joseph Janni. Her (anti?)heroine is, simply put, too much at the same time that it is not easy to decide whether to root for her, or just wish her to burn in the fire she started, with various men adding fuel. Speaking of men, they are a rather colorful bunch admirably portrayed by (suave) Dirk Bogarde (true love?), (snaky) Laurence Harvey (jet-set pimp), (flirty) Roland Curram (gay bestie), and (regal) José Luis de Vilallonga (an Italian prince, no less), each one complementing Ms. Scott’s persona in a different way. Matching superb performances is Schlesinger’s elegant, if occasionally uptight direction, and Kenneth Higgins’s stark B&W cinematography beautifully capturing the urban stuffiness of London, the ostensible idyll of English countryside, and ‘a sense of eternity’ in one of those fascinating remote villas of Italy.

12. The Primevals (David Allen, 2023)

A delightful throwback to the adventure classics such as ‘Journey to the Center of the Earth’ (1959), and a loving homage to stop-motion creations of Willis Harold O’Brien (King Kong, 1933) and his protégé Ray Harryhausen, ‘The Primevals’ is released almost twenty five years after the death of its originator – animator David Allen (1944-1999). Five decades (!) in development and production hell, it comes across like a shiny artifact of a time long gone, its ‘innocence’ awakening a warm sense of nostalgia in the viewer.

13. Der schweigende Stern / The Silent Star aka First Spaceship on Venus (Kurt Maetzig, 1960)

Based on the 1951 novel ‘The Astronauts’ by Stanisław Lem (who was reportedly ‘extremely critical’ of the film), ‘The Silent Star’ is a neat, if slightly campy piece of Utopian science fiction made behind the Iron Curtain, in co-production of East Germany and Poland. Featuring an international, subsequently dubbed cast, it takes the viewer from Earth, united and in peace, to devastated Venus, reflecting on the fears of another atomic destruction. Although its buildup may be slower (and talkier) than necessary, once the ethnically diverse crew of scientists reach their destination, the things become more intriguing, with a radioactive glass forest, mechanical ‘insects’, a mysterious white sphere, and gooey, lava-like substance causing some serious trouble for our heroes. There is an undeniable, if naive charm attached to its optimistic view of humankind, as well as to the dated, yet ‘palpable’ visuals, especially when it comes to the bizarre designs of alien world.

14. Jengi / The Gang (Åke Lindman, 1963)

A group of rebels without a cause follow a wild one across Helsinki of the 60’s in a cautionary tale told from the perspective of a country girl, Eeva, and a country boy, Paavo. Tarja Nurmi and Esko Salminen are so sweet and have such a nice chemistry as a couple, that it’s easy to root for their characters, even when they act as accomplices to a street gang led by one bad apple, Kalle (Ville-Veikko Salminen). And though their big city adventure appears dated or rather, conservative in its incessant moralizing, the portrait of the Finnish youth culture of the time isn’t without its charms. Cinematographer Olavi Tuomi provides us with some superb shots of neon-lit Helsinki, cozy interiors and eloquent faces, and Erkki Melakoski composes a frothy score to emphasize the delinquents’ mischief at display, with Åke Lindman’s neat direction keeping all bits of his melodrama, including the (unintentionally?) campy ones, together. 

15. Grad / The City (Vojislav ‘Kokan’ Rakonjac, Marko Babac & Živojin Pavlović, 1963)

A three-part omnibus covered in a heavy patina of despair, loneliness, alienation and disorientation, with death lurking around the corner...

SHORTS

1. Five Filosophical Fables (Donald Richie, 1967)

Dedicated to Buster Keaton, and appearing like a spiritual successor to silent cinema, ‘Five Filosophical Fables’ is the longest and arguably most entertaining film from Ozu and Kurosawa scholar Donald Richie. Composed of five allegorical shorts, this omnibus – dubbed ‘an outrageous farce’ by none other than Yukio Mishima – dissects the modern (Japanese) society with a sharp sense of absurd, slapstick, raunchy and dark humor. It opens with a loony story of romantic rivalry set in the desolate outskirts of a coastal town, moves to a lusty deconstruction of the Pygmalion and Galatea myth, takes a cannibalistic turn to a park (probably making Manet turn in his grave), challenges the viewer’s point of view through the eyes of a man walking only on hands, and ends on a naturist / anti-materialist note, as its protagonist is stripped / liberated of his earthly possessions. Handsomely captured on 16mm, its grainy B&W images married to a classical score – ‘Felix Mendelssohn, etc’, as noted in the credits, ‘FFF’ subverts human values in a gleeful mixture of cultured barbarism, dreamlike abandon, and uncanny eroticism.

2. Mass for the Dakota Sioux (Bruce Baillie, 1964)

Available @ VIMEO

3. Armagedon ili kraj / Armageddon or the End (Ivan Martinac, 1964)

Accompanied by Ray Charles's ‘Unchain My Heart’ set on repeat, and interrupted by black screens portending the end of a relationship, this experimental short is permeated by a strong sense of alienation emphasized by pitch-black shadows. Its deeply melancholic beauty is devastating.

Available @ VIMEO

4. Kuća / House (Radoslav Vladić, 1977)

Available @ YouTube

5. Bad Acid (Sam Fox, 2022)

Inspired by the 80’s aerobic videos, ‘Bad Acid’ is a garish, over-the-top dark comedy on vanity and narcissism, bursting with unrestrained campiness.

Available @ YouTube