Best Premiere Viewings of September 2026

1. Le grand Meaulnes / The Wanderer (Jean-Gabriel Albicocco, 1967)

If hopeless romanticism – translated into the language of (surrealist) cinema – could kill, The Wanderer would be one of the deadliest films. Appearing as if conjured in an alchemist’s laboratory two decades later, this period melodrama transforms the reality of rural France into a lucid dream, through the special lenses used by the director’s cinematographer father Quinto Albicocco. And its dreamlike qualities are maximized during the first wandering of a young protagonist, Augustin Meaulnes (the sublime debut for Jean Blaise), in a party sequence that can easily be described as pure magic.

Subjected to ethereal distortions, the hypnotizing imagery invokes the spirit of Jean Cocteau, and anticipates the works of Alexander Sokurov and the Quay Brothers, bringing to mind a whole lot of phantasmagorical features, from Wojciech Has’s The Hourglass Sanatorium (1973) to Juraj Herz’s Beauty and the Beast (1978). Elevating the visuals – beautifully and meaningfully matched to swift editing – is their indissoluble bond with the themes of memories, nostalgia, longing, the loss of childlike innocence, and the unending (and oh so poetic) quest for the unattainable ideal, weighed down by the melancholy of reality.

Recommended as a companion piece: Marianne of My Youth (Julien Duvivier, 1955)

2. Kárhozat / Damnation (Béla Tarr, 1988)

“The fog gets into the corners, into the lungs. It settles in your soul.”

It’s been a long, long while since my first and – up to this point – only encounter with Béla Tarr, through the sublime Werckmeister Harmonies, and all this time, I was (foolishly) afraid that the second one wouldn’t be as inspiring. And yet, I found Damnation – with all of the decay, despair and disenchantment conveyed so candidly and unapologetically – oddly comforting, with my brain waves attuned to its languorous pace, or rather, my spirit clinging to its bleakness.

Speaking of which, virtually everything in this film comes across as moodily melancholic if not absolutely depressing, from the characters’ physiognomies, to the sex scene shrouded in silence, to the night of dancing soaked in torrential rain, alcohol and shared (?) loneliness. Disillusionment, disorientation, doomed desires, and exhaustive disintegration are captured with an unflinching formal rigor – broodingly poetic monologues, the decrepit post-industrial landscape, starkly beautiful B&W cinematography, and the mournful wailing of accordion (as well as the other instruments) converge to establish a dense atmosphere of fatal inevitability...

3. А бяхме млади / We Were Young (Binka Zhelyazkova, 1961)

The sophomore feature from the first Bulgarian woman filmmaker, We Were Young is nothing short of a stunner. A missing link between The Cranes Are Flying and Ashes and Diamonds – a couple of highly acclaimed classics set during WWII, it revolves around a guerrilla group of young communists, with the focus being pulled on a sweet, innocent romance between Veska (Rumyana Karabelova) and Dimo (Dimitar Buynozov). Gorgeously shot with a master’s eye (kudos to Vasil Holiolchev) in expressive B&W, and directed with a delicately poetic touch and brilliant sense of mise en scène, it is a poignant yet strangely optimistic piece of anti-fascist cinema, exploring the themes of love vs. (political) sacrifice, youthful idealism vs. harsh reality, and the importance of camaraderie in the face of the oppressor (assisted by the traitors). Memorable for its use of the flashlight’s inspection beams as a leitmotif with high symbolic value, the film flows smoothly in a fine balance of inspired visual style and modernist storytelling.

4. Fedra (Manuel Mur Oti, 1956)

When a Greek tragedy (or precisely, a Roman one based on a Greek myth) meets Spanish Mediterranean temperament, sparks are bound to fly in all directions. A story of destructive obsession and untamable passion, Fedra sees absolutely magnetic Emma Penella as a wild village girl, Estrella, whom all the men lust after and the women hate. Falling for her is a widowed captain, Don Juan (Enrique Diosdado), but her heart beats or rather, loins burn for young horseman Fernando (Vicente Parra), who turns out to be Don Juan’s son... and most probably gay. The ‘nuclear love triangle’ is formed and nothing will prevent it from exploding, especially when the rumors start to spread, and hurt feelings are paired with miscommunication.

Unlike his characters, Mur Oti knows exactly what he is doing and how he wants it done – assisted by stunning B&W imagery from cinematographer Manuel Berenguer, and sweeping score from composer Guillermo Cases, he delivers a melodrama so intense, that every emotion, conflict and erotically charged advance feels like the crashing of waves against the rocks.

5. Алые паруса / Scarlet Sails (Aleksandr Ptushko, 1961)

Based on Aleksandr Grin’s 1923 eponymous novel – recently (and lovingly) adapted by Pietro Marcello into L’envol (2022) – Ptushko’s least fantastical fairy tale is tailor-made for dreamers, and others who haven’t lost their inner child. Pervaded by a gentle yet strong sense of wide-eyed curiosity, it is soothingly humanist at its big heart, exploring the themes of hopeful individualism vs. cynical community, openness vs. isolation, the power of imagination, the rejection of privileges, and the creation of ‘miracles’ with one’s own hands. It may be too innocent or rather, naive for its own good, but its purity – eventually embodied by Anastasiya Vertinskaya in her zestful debut – is so irresistible, that you can’t help embracing it warmly. Ptushko directs with the wisdom of an experienced storyteller attentively listened by the audience gathered around the fire, his vision beautifully translated into painterly images and sweeping orchestrations.

6. Resident Evil (Zach Cregger, 2026)

After six action-oriented vehicles for the worship of Milla Jovovich, four CG animated features, and a trashy low-budget take Welcome to Raccoon City (yes, I’ve seen them all), Capcom’s long-running game series gets yet another cine-adaptation – on its 30th anniversary – in a surprisingly effective ‘black comedy’ key. Third time in the horror genre is definitely a charm for Zach Cregger (Barbarian, Weapons) who seems to be at the top of his game in a tone-consistent blending of body-altering biopunk and often hilarious dark humor. His right-hand man in front of the camera is Austin Abrams portraying Bryan – one of the most hapless and clumsiest couriers in the world – with a big heart, heightened vulnerability and ‘loser everyman’ charm turned irresistible, effortlessly earning the viewer’s rooting interest.

Behind the camera, Cregger is greatly assisted by DoP Dariusz Wolski (The Crow, Dark City, Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street) who captures Brian’s ‘infected’ misadventure from a variety of angles, including POV shots as one of the numerous nods to the gamers well-familiar with the source material. Thickening the wintry atmosphere and amplifying edge-of-the-seat suspense (which increases as things go from bad to absolute worst for poor Bryan) is not only an ominous ambient score by brothers Hays and Ryan Holladay, but also a very apt use of silence and diegetic noises. All in all, the latest (but probably not the last) Resident Evil is a self-contained crowd-pleaser that provides an energizing big-screen experience, especially if you approach it with lowered expectations like this writer who’s not a big fan of Weapons did.

7. Lilies Not for Me (Will Seefried, 2024)

Based on archival research of the early 20th century practices purported to ‘cure’ homosexuality, Lilies Not for Me is a poignant if harrowing drama revolving around a young gay novelist, Owen (Fionn O’Shea in a heartachingly sincere performance), committed to a ‘conversion’ clinic. In a series of awkward ‘therapeutic dates’ with a nurse, Dorothy (Erin Kellyman, portraying her role with profound compassion), we learn of his past relationship which disintegrated after his partner subjected himself to a risky surgical procedure... 

The flashbacks of Owen’s life before the confinement in a cold and sterile institution operate as a ‘pastoral’ counterbalance, given that they are set in a remote country house and its lavish surroundings. However, as the story unfolds, even those portions grow darker, with the film approaching the psycho-thriller territory, its tonal shifts handled with utmost subtlety. Demonstrating confidence, composure and maturity beyond his experience, writer/director Will Seefried elicits genuine emotional response from the viewer, and delivers an admirable feature debut that feels refreshingly ‘classical’, even in the tree sex scene. Assisted by Theodosia Roussos’ hauntingly elegiac score, Birrie le Roux’s authentic (on location) production design, Grace Snell’s period-accurate costumes, and Cory Fraiman-Lott’s beautiful framing, he comes up with a powerful portrait of inextinguishable passion and queer resilience in the (ugly) face of institutionalized homophobia. 

8. Une histoire d’âme / A Spiritual Matter (Bénédicte Acolas, 2015)

“All you need to make a movie is a girl and a gun”, said Godard, but in her only directorial effort, Bénédicte Acolas proves that when a girl is Sophie Marceau, a gun becomes superfluous. There are other props to be found here of course, but it is Marceau’s utterly mesmerizing performance that matters the most, carrying an  intriguing psychological monodrama. Based on Bergman’s play originally titled En Själslig Angelägenhet (lit. A Matter of Soul), the film pulls the viewer into a troubled (likely insane) woman’s memories, dreams and hallucinations, with reality put to a severe test. Almost empty rooms of a seemingly inescapable house pose as compartments and extensions of our unreliable narrator’s mind, with her, Viktoria, playing various versions of herself, accompanied by the ghosts of the past and other imaginary partners. The claustrophobic character study is transcended by the subtle surrealist touches, some of which evoke David Lynch, whereas Marceau’s measured theatricality brings to mind the work of Antouanetta Angelidi. Viktoria’s introspection – framed with a keen eye by Gilles Porte – leaves a lot of space for the viewer’s own self-examination, and potential identification with lines such as: “My problem is I was born an artist... I live in a vacuum which I fill with my dreams and fantasies.”

9. Pillow Talk (Michael Gordon, 1959)

Quite possibly one of the most delightful rom-coms ever made, Pillow Talk boasts sharp comedic timing, a  heightened sense of style with a special emphasis on colors, and sizzling, energizing chemistry between its leads, Doris Day and Rock Hudson, who portray an interior designer and a composer playboy sharing a party phone line. The first of three features to star the duo supported by Tony Randall as a ‘third wheel’ character, this vibrant piece of unapologetically escapist entertainment served as the main source of inspiration for Peyton Reed’s down-to-a-tee pastiche Down with Love. And if someone asks how did I end up watching it, the answer is – by accidentally stumbling across a fabulous split-screen shot of a sexy bathtub conversation.

10. Un beau monstre / Love Me Strangely (Sergio Gobbi, 1971)

Based on the eponymous novel by Swiss writer Dominique Fabre, Un beau monstre is a twisted psycho-drama in which ‘psycho’ or rather, ‘a beautiful monster’, which is the literal translation of the French title, is played with eerily seductive detachment by Helmut Berger. Partnered by ravishing Virna Lisi who channels unguarded vulnerability in the role of his victimized wife, he is the prime subject of a nuanced character study addressing the power dynamics of a relationship, trappings of obsession oft-mistaken for love, and moral ambiguities stuck in the web of mental manipulation.

Reminding us that physical beauty is only skin deep, the film operates as a starkly stylized portrait of cruelty – the sadism of gaslighting, to be precise, at once oddly irresistible and unsettling, but always decidedly anti-romantic, even in the moments of ostensible happiness. Unfolding at unhurried pace, it gives off some slight giallo vibes, especially if viewed through the psychosexual prism, but with black gloves and cold weapons substituted by brightly colored eyes, and blood-letting eschewed in favor of penetrating stares. What makes the film a fascinating watch is Pierre Guffroy’s unmistakable art direction – the off-kilter harmony between the costume and production design, the absolute highlight being the couple’s bizarrely furnished apartment with disorienting decoration, all handsomely framed by Daniel Diot.

11. En el caminho / On the Road (David Pablos, 2025)

Victor Prieto Simental makes a bold, uninhibited debut as Veneno, a young male prostitute on the run from the ‘shadows’ of his recent past who falls for a taciturn truck driver, Muñeco (Osvaldo Sanchez, excellent), pulling him into his own mess. As things for the two men go from bad to worse, their homosocial bonding transforms into a passionate romance, with white lines done, and dead bodies left in the wake. A captivating blend of road-movie, queer drama and crime thriller, On the Road posits itself at the intersection of daily life and dirty business, focusing on the marginalized, highly vulnerable individuals in search of affection and safety. Exploring the theme of day-to-day survival within a milieu largely defined by cruelty, the film also touches upon the effects of traumatic experiences, and the ways of meeting emotional needs in a society that is still rigidly constructed around heteronormativity. Pablos directs with a keen sense of pace and style, great understanding and sympathy for the outcasts, warning of the risks of homosexuality within the ‘easy money’ context, all the while evading the trappings of a cautionary tale. 

12. Powiedz mi, co czujesz / Tell Me What You Feel (Łukasz Ronduda, 2026)

According to John Maybury’s ‘study for a portrait of Francis Bacon’, love is the devil, but Polish filmmaker Łukasz Ronduda proposes a wholly different perspective – love as a form of free psychotherapy; an endless art performance involving tears dealing, role playing, and of course, facing the past traumas. Enter the lives of rich girl Maria (Izabella Dudziak) and poor boy Patryk (Jan Salasinski) who meet at a ‘crying lot’ of sorts, and almost immediately click with each other. At first, it seems that she is the more confident one, especially with his ‘premature finish’ issue taken into consideration, but gradually, we learn of both of their insecurities, and grow our sympathies for the couple. An oddly sweet chemistry between Dudziak and Salasinski, as well as their characters’ personality quirks and imperfections add a lot to the charm of this modern romance that invites the viewer to try to heal some of their own wounds along with the protagonists. In strengthening of the emotional connection, Ronduda relies on Weronika Bilska’s intimate cinematography of vivid colors, and the softness of pop-rock soundtrack (with one surprising metalcore intrusion).

13. Vexanthrone (Jacob Green, 2024)

“I guess you could say I am pretentious, but I don’t believe in that word...”

A bizarre blend of art performance, mockumentary and body horror, Vexanthrone is essentially a one man show, and what a (gross-out) show it is! Written, directed, produced, scored, filmed and edited by first-timer Jacob Green, also starring as an outcast artist, this audacious experiment reflects on the trials of the creative process, blurring the lines between self-destruction and spiritual ascension. Our lone, isolated hero – exiled for an offensive work (hint: clay & excrement) – goes through a personal transformation or rather, mutation, even though he admittedly shuns change, as his inner turmoil externalizes through visceral practical effects.

Bloody blotches, a vulva-shaped palm ulcer, a toothed lump on the back of the hand, and a nasty wound spreading around his (previously penetrated) navel, inter alia, are all depicted in extreme closeups, and often turned into fetish objects, with soft focuses lending them an aura of otherworldly abstractions. Devoured by deep and dark shadows, as a single source of light produces a strong chiaroscuro effect, Green’s slender (and frequently naked) body – initially, charged with homoerotic desire – becomes a canvas at which madness throws its disfiguring colors. Thickening the claustrophobic atmosphere of the surreal ‘inward odyssey’, as well as emphasizing its transcendental nature is the haunting, broodingly mysterious soundscape somewhat evocative of David Lynch.

Likely to garner polarizing reactions, this flawed yet boldly provocative feature debut possesses a significant potential to reach cult following, particularly among the despondent and/or highly vulnerable creative souls.

14. Plagio (Sergio Capogna, 1969)

Set against the backdrop of 1968 leftist protests in Italy (Bologna, to be precise), this little known gem can be described as a spiritual predecessor to Bertolucci’s The Dreamers, although its foggy atmosphere feels much closer to Antonioni’s brilliant psychological drama Red Desert (1964). It revolves around a strange ménage à trois between a couple of student lovers, Angela (Mita Medici) and Massimo (Alain Noury), and a mysterious rich boy, Guido (Ray Lovelock), whom they save from brutal beating. That their disillusioned relationship is bound to end tragically is portended by the pre-credits scene in which we see Angela carrying a bouquet of flowers through the graveyard, accompanied by an elegiac inner monologue.

Pervaded by a thick air of melancholy, and laced with subtle eroticism, including simmering gay undertones, the feature anchors itself in the delicate helming from Sergio Capogna (who created only four films during his half-century-long lifetime), employing subjective sepia-toned sequences as both the narrative and stylistic tools. Greatly assisted by cinematographer Antonio Piazza, he delivers a number of empathically intimate shots of his incredibly attractive leads supported by equally beautiful Cosetta Greco in her penultimate role, and handsome Dino Mele who debuted along with the director Giuseppe Patroni Griffi in The Sea (1962). Plagio is also commendable for its soundtrack – a mélange of classical and rock music that emphasizes the themes of isolation, youthful angst, emotional codependency, and the blistering effect of a childhood trauma. 

15. Москва, любовь моя / Moscow, My Love (Aleksandr Mitta & Kenji Yoshida, 1974)

A Japanese ballerina, Yuriko (Komaki Kurihara), falls for a Russian sculptor, Volodya (Oleg Vidov), during her studies at Bolshoy Theater, and gets a titular role in Giselle. Halfway through, we learn that her mother was a Hiroshima survivor, and at that point, a dark cloud begins to form over the sweet romance. Initially, this co-production between Soviet Union and Japan evokes Kon Ichikawa’s 1971 interracial love story Ai futatabi (minus the cultural clash), only to take a turn from a melancholy-laced melodrama to a tear-jerking tragedy with political undertones.

Advocating anti-nuclear policies, and celebrating art (as a hard, time-consuming work!) not only through its lovely leads, but also through the folk-song-collecting by Yuriko’s other suitor, Tetsuya (Masami Shimojō), Moscow, My Love shrouds the proceedings in deep shadows, prolly as a portent of the fatalist denouement, operating in a sort of a heightened reality, with a certain montage sequence appearing like a tribute to Maya Deren’s 1955 dance fantasy The Very Eye of Night. And despite the monotone voice-over that translates the Japanese-spoken dialogues, Mitta & Yoshida’s collaboration never feels dull, its artifice harmonized to honesty.

16. El amor brujo / Bewitched Love (Francisco Rovira Beleta, 1967)

Flames of passion turn quite literal at one point in Francisco Rovira Beleta’s romantic (and during the first half, psychological) melodrama in which a young blacksmith, Antonio (Antonio Gades), must fight against a naughty ghost of the past to win the heart, or rather, save the tortured soul of beautiful Candelas (La Polaca). Based on the eponymous ballet by the composer Manuel de Falla and the librettist María de la O Lejárraga, Bewitched Love is a classic love triangle story with flamenco edges that intensify already heated emotions. Particularly mesmerizing in nocturnal sequences and Candelas’ nightmares, the feature is expressively shot by Francisco Marín and Gábor Pogány on the authentic Andalusian locations, with Beleta employing both imagery and music – along with the folk mysticism – to capture his heroine’s distressed state of mind.

17. Sweet Sweetback’s Badasssss Song (Melvin Van Peebles, 1971)

All cops are bastards, especially the white supremacist ones, so seeing them fucked up – pardon my French – in various ways can certainly be labeled as a form of poetic justice. And literal fucking is what our hero, Sweetback, has been doing since his early adolescent years, as shown in a controversial, Emperor Tomato Ketchup-evoking opening for which the director/writer/producer/composer/editor/star casts his own son. A raw, boldly experimental chunk of independent cinema, and a pioneering example of the ‘blaxploitation’ subgenre, Sweet Sweetback’s Badasssss Song adapts the film language to African-American slang, turning art into an act of rebellion. Thin on plot, but brimming with free jazz grooviness in a strong conjunction with anarchic imagery – dizzying camerawork, split-screens, soft focuses, superimpositions, solarized sequences, etc, it plunges you into a ‘one man against the unjust law’ nightmare and rarely loosens its grip. Charmingly ‘amateurish’ (in a non-derogatory way!), the feature is, essentially, one long chase sequence that uncovers the rot of American society, taking no prisoners, and in an odd, pulpy, borderline-surreal manner, it works! 

18. Nož / The Dagger (Živorad ‘Žika’ Mitrović, 1967)

Žika Mitrović must’ve been familiar with the ‘Krimi’ subgenre popular in West Germany of the time, given that his ‘whodunnit’ appears to be cut from the same cloth, minus the masked villain and gothic atmosphere. Following or rather flowing smoothly in a police procedural pattern (kudos to editor Katarina Stojanović), the film dismantles the cult of celebrity created through the media ‘hyperboles’ (read: lies), and operates as a social commentary that hasn’t lost much of its relevance in six decades since its release. (Though nowadays, the forces of law and order are much closer to the criminals.) Its cast features some of the finest Yugoslavian actors joined by musician Zafir Hadžimanov in his first big screen role (as a murdered schlager singer), so the performances shine through in spite of slightly stilted dialogue, with Vera Čukić giving off camp vibes, and Mija Aleksić providing a comic relief. However, the main forte is Branko Ivatović’s crispy clean B&W cinematography beautifully complemented by Miljenko Prohaska’s delicuously jazzy score.

19. Rapa Nui (Kevin Reynolds, 1994)

Squeezed in-between two starring vehicles for Kevin Costner (here, credited as a producer), Rapa Nui sees Jason Scott Lee fresh out of Dragon: The Bruce Lee Story as Noro – a young native of Easter Island in a Romeo and Juliet-like romance within a story of social inequality that is also an ecological parable, and a critique of religious fundamentalism. On top of that, the feature strives to capture the timeless qualities of a legend (well, it is based on one), its main forte being the breathtaking beauty of the authentic location, with handsome, half-naked leads and dozens of extras in equally skimpy tribal costumes making you turn a blind eye to the flaws and clichés of the proceedings. Proposing a hypothesis on the mystery of moai statues, it sacrifices historical accuracy, yet it still feels relevant in its ostensibly simplistic dissection of human nature and its negative effects on the environment. Lending it gravitas are the sweeping score by Stewart Copeland, and Stephen F. Windon’s striking widescreen cinematography.

20. Spiti stous vrahous / House on the Rocks (George Zervoulakos, 1974)

Rocks, goats, tan lines and incest! In the second of only four big screen appearances, Christo Spyropoulos portrays a young man, Alexis, engaged in a steamy affair with his archaeologist stepmother, Eleni (Bente Børsum), on a remote, sparsely populated Greek island. According to the synopsis of his first feature, Love on a Horse, Spyropoulos reprises the role of an incestuous stepson, spending a considerable amount of time shirtless or in his birthsuit, basking in the sun, skinny dipping, and defying his estranged father through Eros. 

Alexis’ cumming-of-age story is paralleled by the awakening of Eleni’s repressed desires magnified by self-imposed isolation, exposing both of their characters’ vulnerabilities, which they seek to burn in the flames of forbidden passion. The fisherman’s daughter also named Eleni (Anda Vartholomeou), and the later arrival of the paternal figure (Andreas Barkoulis) further amplify the psychosexual tension, so some wrong moves are bound to be drawn. Curiously, the taboo relationship doesn’t feel as awkward as one might expect, but rather almost as natural as the idyllic surroundings that give the story strong Arcadian vibes, emphasized by a pagan ritual ‘living on to our times’. Linos Kokotos’ flute-heavy score – intertwined with traditional music and Schlager ballads – adds to the kinky romanticism of the proceedings, beautifully captured in the natural light by Aris Stavrou who would collaborate with the great Nikos Papatakis on his penultimate feature, The Photograph, in 1986.

21. Wetiko (Kerry Mondragon, 2022)

Associated with ‘greed, selfish consumption and a loss of the connection to the community and nature’, Wetiko is a malicious spirit from the folklore of the Algonquin people of Canada. However, In Mondragon’s sophomore feature, it ‘possesses’ a phony gringo shaman, Zake Zezo (Neil Sandilands, brilliant as a silver-tongued manipulator), who appropriates the culture of the Maya minority and exploits their women deep in the thick jungle. Falling into his clutches is a local boy, Aapo (Juan Daniel García Treviño, embodying the viewer’s growing confusion, as an unlikely hero), whose simple task of delivering poisonous toads turns into a bad, hallucinatory trip.

The story of ‘spiritual gentrification’ – spoken in Maya, Spanish, English and Afrikaans, and permeated by an anti-colonialist sentiment – unfolds in an oddly deliberate pace, so some viewers may find their patience severely tested, even though their eyes will be glued to the screen by virtue of the delightfully grainy 16mm visuals providing the ‘lost 70s cult film’ vibes. Cinematographer Carlos Gerardo García captures all nuances of both the reality and ‘fever dream’ bits, even when the latter feels too disjointed for its own good, defying or twisting what little logic there is, whether it is an intentional move or a miscalculated one. Adding to the quirkiness or rather ‘offness’ of it all are the musical choices, such as the ‘Silence Is Golden’ cover by The Tremeloes, although the lyrics ‘Talking is cheap / People follow like sheep / Even though there is nowhere to go’ align with the critique of New Ageism.

22. Tarung: Unforgiven (Razaisyam Rashid, 2026)

If you like your crime-dramas hard-boiled, and fighting sequences gritty and realistic rather than physics-and-human-stamina-defying, with queer-coded relations between friends, frenemies and enemies thrown in the mix, then Tarung: Unforgiven may be just the film you’ve been looking for. A story of a young fighter haunted by guilt and returning into the ring (or rather, underground cage) to help his sick older sister doesn’t break any new ground (breaking is reserved for bones), but Malay filmmaker Razaisyam Rashid delivers a classy B-actioner with decent performances and solid camerawork.

23. Sex-Power (Henry Chapier, 1970)

The obscure fiction debut for Romanian-born French journalist, critic and filmmaker Henry Chapier, Sex-Power stars Alain Noury as a young, unnamed man who travels to California to forget his lost love (Jane Birkin), only to encounter archetypes representing feminine power, all embodied by gorgeous actresses, with an early experimental score from the legendary Vangelis accompanying the bizarre ‘odyssey’. Appearing to be partly improvised and ‘documented’ rather than scripted, this feature is very much a product of its (post-68) time – marked by the death of the hippie counterculture, it is loosely structured as a quest for (personal) freedom, exploring the themes of self-discovery and youthful disillusionment. Blurring the line and refusing to differentiate between the physical reality and the protagonist’s fancy, it unfolds or rather, meanders at a relaxed pace, as it evokes the comforting sense of abandon by virtue of its raw, rhymeless poetry. By the end, in one of its several desert-set scenes, it comes dangerously close to being labeled as a spiritual predecessor to Philippe Garrel’s Inner Scars.

Best Premiere Viewings of August 2026

1. Herostratus (Don Levy, 1967)

“Because it’s all so empty... It’s all so futile. It’s all so meaningless, and yet everybody sweats. Everybody stands on their head, making such a fuss about being here and getting the best moments out of it. And yet, all the time, there aren’t any best moments...”

Part psychological drama that cuts deeply into the artist’s despair (and human condition, generally speaking), and part anti-capitalist tirade drenched in utmost resentment and disenchantment, Herostratus is one of the most sincere, understanding and achingly beautiful debuts ever conceived. Nothing short of an underrated masterpiece of experimental cinema, it plunges the viewer into the bottomless abyss of a creative soul and makes you feel not only every step of the fall, but also the very soul’s displacement in a society indifferent to its own whoring. Deliberately paced, with artfully employed jump cuts, Kuleshov montages and Bacon-inspired, motion blurred freeze frames injecting it with offbeat energy, it provides you with a strong sense of the leading protagonist, Max (Michael Gothard’s impressive, fully invested performance!), his surroundings (from highly detailed to void-like), emotional and mental states, archive footage intrusions, dark and cynical humor, as well as of the supporting characters, such as symbolically named Clio (Gabriella Licudi, saving her histrionically best for last). On top of all that, the film marks the first credited role for the legendary Helen Miren in a short yet memorable (and meaningful) sequence mocking the advertising industry.

2. Libera me (Alain Cavalier, 1993)

Not a single word is spoken, nor is any tune played in Alain Cavalier’s formally reductive experiment which makes Lars von Trier’s Dogville appear like an easy piece of mainstream cinema. The complete absence of dialogue and music, whether you label it gimmicky or not, proves to be perfectly sensible in conveying the overwhelmingly oppressive atmosphere of a totalitarian state where the story is set. Silence – interrupted only by an intoxicating cocktail of diegetic sounds – simultaneously encapsulates the cruelty of the military regime, and the secrecy of the resistance movement whose members identify themselves through the pieces of torn photos. So, in that regard, it can be viewed as both rotten and golden / terrifying and encouraging / political and poetic, but first and foremost, it operates as an amplifier of the imagery’s power. Speaking of which, cinematographer Patrick Blossier frames action or rather gestures (of the fully non-professional cast) in close-ups and medium shots, emphasizing the claustrophobic, dehumanizing inescapability established by the men in uniforms and their leader. The austere, ascetic beauty of his gray-dominated compositions adds to the harrowing yet immersive (and unique!) viewing experience, fueled by an antifascist sentiment.

3. I pugni in tasca / Fists in the Pocket (Marco Bellocchio, 1965)

A biting subversion of familial and Catholic values, and an incisive character study, Fists in the Pocket marks a superb feature debut for writer/director Marco Bellocchio, cinematographer Alberto Marrama, and leading man Lou Castel whose bold, disturbingly convincing performance makes for a fascinating if jarring viewing experience. His take on Alessandro – a strong contender for Norman Bates’s runner-up – is on point from the tiniest of micro-expressions to the weirdest of mannerisms, inspiring the following re-phrasing of Tolstoy: “Happy families are all alike; every dysfunctional family may have a homicidal psychopath who believes in the idea of altruistic murder, and one day may be reincarnated as the president of some Balkan country.” Add to that an exploration of alienation, narcissism and bourgeois decay, underscored by strong incestuous undertones, and you got yourself a film that is not easy to recommend, yet awe-inspiring in its devious mastery. And I could swear that in maestro Ennio Morricone’s eerie, hauntingly beautiful score, I heard the ‘anticipation’ of Yoshihiro Kanno’s gothic symphony for Mamoru Oshii’s 1985 anime Angel’s Egg, which is why I fell for Bellocchio’s twisted drama right from the opening theme.

4. The Comfort of Strangers (Paul Schrader, 1990)

What a stunning film, and how could it not be when it stars Rupert Everett and Natasha Richardson having a vacation in Venice, while being stalked by Christopher Walken’s charmingly creepy character married to Helen Mirren, and living in a gorgeous, museum-like apartment, all captured by Dante Spinotti who framed ‘Manhunter’ – one of the most handsome thrillers of the 1980s? On top of that, the austerely elegant visuals are married to Angelo Badalamenti’s euphonious, romantically or rather, seductively mysterious score that blurs the distinction between Eros and Thanatos, elevating the psychosexual drama almost to a spiritual level, thus making the denouement feel like a sudden punch in the stomach. At once cunningly sexy and subtly discomforting, The Comfort of Strangers explores the dangers of (physical) beauty, the raw (destructive?) power of human desire, the lasting effects of childhood trauma, and emotional codependency against the backdrop of the gender struggle, carried by superb performances and unflinching direction. 

5. Королевство кривых зеркал / Kingdom of Crooked Mirrors (Aleksandr Rou, 1963)

Oh... my... f*cking... God! This film is brilliant! Highly enjoyable at its surface value, Kingdom of Crooked Mirrors is an innocent juvenile fantasy that employs a kaleidoscopic wealth of post-expressionist studio sets, gorgeous matte paintings, over-the-top costumes, Bava-esque lighting scheme, and in-camera effects to cast a spell on its target audience, or your inner child. But if you’re a versed cinephile, you won’t have to dig too deep to view it as a gleefully edgy critique of autocratic regimes (even the Soviet one, in spite of a certain line spoken by the young heroine), as well as a foreboding prediction of fascism returning as a deranged circus in what was then the distant future.

A third-grade pupil, Olya, passes through the mirror and, together with her reflection Aylo (portrayed by adorable twins Olga and Tatyana Yukina) embarks on a weird adventure across the titular land, in which the names spelled backwards reveal the truth about the (mostly eccentric) characters. The royalty and the court are subjected to wry, unapologetic mockery giving off some Ubu Roi vibes, with the words coming from the mouth of an evil, crooked-nosed minister Kwah reflecting the (author’s) utmost disgust for oligarchy: “You have to follow our wishes, the wishes of the richest people in the kingdom.” Isn’t that the ugly reality of our times?

6. The Crimson Kimono (Samuel Fuller, 1959)

A great reminder to seek more of Fuller’s work, The Crimson Kimono is a film noir ahead of its time or rather, against the racial prejudices at the root of anti-miscegenation laws in the 1950s, introducing a love triangle between two Caucasians and ‘Nisei’ amidst a police procedural. A couple of detectives and BFFs, Charlie Bancroft and Joe Kojaku (Glenn Corbett and James Shieta, respectively, both credible in their big screen inauguration), fall for the same woman, artist Christine Downs (Victoria Shaw, superb), during the investigation of an exotic dancer murder, shown in a bold, teasing opening. As the brotherhood – borderline bromantic, considering the inclusion of kendo and not some other martial art sans suggestive wooden swords – disintegrates, crime and action give way to romantic (melo)drama, and rising as a central topic is that of cultural identity, with (Joe’s) jumbled feelings externalized as unintended ‘reverse racism’. The case which initially appears to be the main hook is slyly and gradually pushed from the forefront, extending space for the insightful character study, only to make a meaningful comeback and lead us to a bittersweet ‘happy’ end. Not only progressive in terms of thematic resonance, the film is also praiseworthy for Fuller’s bold direction, with his utmost respect for and equal treatment of the protagonists elevating the pulp material to a whole new level. 

7. Дочь рыбака / The Fisherman’s Daughter (Uldus Bakhtiozina, 2020)

Credited as writer, director, editor, cinematographer and costume designer (!), first-timer Uldus Bakhtiozina delivers an eye-catching experimental / postmodernist fairy tale that is both unhinged, and unhindered by its low budget. Best described as Ulrike Ottinger’s rebellious offspring godmothered by Renata Litvinova (or Björk), The Fisherman’s Daughter follows Polina (Alina Korol) through a bizarre,  bureaucratic dreamland in which she has to undergo a series of absurd tests to qualify as a princess. Deconstructing Russian folklore and traditional gender roles, all the while mocking the competitiveness and superficiality of the mass culture, this avant-garde fantasy advocates nonconformity, with its quirks and eccentricities sewn into extravagantly campy garments acting as the main driving forces. Although it is (currently) available without any closed captions, I found it a rewarding experience, and even grinned at some of its visual gags.

8. Rose of Nevada (Mark Jenkin, 2025)

They say third time’s a charm, and that certainly rings true when it comes to my encounters with the work of Mark Jenkin (Enys Men). His latest offering is a richly textured, delicately ambiguous mood piece in which the ghosts of the past – arriving on the titular ship – resurrect through the identity theft, turning time thirty years back. Nick (George MacKay) and Liam (Callum Turner) find themselves in a Twilight Zone, with the former refusing to adapt to it, and the latter nonchalantly playing along. However, the director eschews the conventional narrative in favor of the picturesque 16mm imagery that transforms a small fishing village into the most beautiful place on Earth, and creates an aura of mystery around every single object. His ‘still life’ montages betray an intrinsically fetishist relation to analog film, and though they may be accused of serving no purpose but to stretch the running time (particularly in the first half), it’s hard to deny their grainy beauty of radiant colors. An acquired taste for sure, Rose of Nevada is a curious cinematic delight that the patient viewers are likely to appreciate.

9. Yön lapsi / Nightborn (Hanna Bergholm, 2026)

“The forest takes its own.”

Not the first, and probably not the last horror about parenting, the sophomore feature from Hanna Bergholm of Hatching fame doesn’t disappoint, unless you expect it to revolutionize the (sub)genre, which it doesn’t, nor it strives to. Enter a newlywed couple, Saga (Seidi Haarla, playing her role with feral intensity) and Jon (Rupert Grint, finding a fine balance between gullible optimism and gaslighting), whose short-lived joy in a house straight out of a (dark) fairy tale is interrupted with the arrival of their firstborn. Unusually hairy, light-sensitive and too eager for mother’s blood (not to mention its obnoxious, borderline animalistic crying), the baby seems to have something in common with the (folk) tales grandmothers used to tell by the fire. However, everyone but Saga appears to be blissfully unaware that the child isn’t exactly a perfectly healthy boy, which has a rather disorienting effect on the viewer.

Trapped inside the increasingly agonizing nightmare of a troubled mum, we experience the proceedings largely from her own perspective, distorted by this new ‘reality’ or rather, the stubborn, oft-eerily persuasive refusal by all of her relatives to accept the obvious truth. Occasionally, this conflict turns somewhat bleakly comical, but most of the time it causes as much annoyance as the real-life situations in which many fingers are pointed at you, instead of the true culprit (the system or the lack of it, legalized corruption, capitalism, etc). And bit by bit, you begin to feel Saga’s (externalizing) pain, which is heightened by Kari Kankaanpää’s superb production design that – as noticed by Catherine Bray in her Variety review – also emphasizes the out-of-the-ordinariness, particularly in the nursery room with its velvety dark-green wallpapers and curtains of the matching color. Beautifully capturing both the psychological and gnarly aspects of the twisted ‘little’ motherhood saga is Pietari Peltola (Dogs Don’t Wear Pants), his photography attuned to the autumnal and winter moods.

10. Ghost in the Cell (Joko Anwar, 2026)

Not to be taken too seriously, nor to be undervalued, Joko Anwar’s latest feature is the finest of four of his offerings I’ve seen so far – a highly entertaining blend of splatter horror, dark/buddy comedy, and overt socio-political commentary that reveals Indonesia and Serbia are very close corruption-wise, also confirmed by the CPI list. The titular ghost arrives into a notorious prison – presumably, a microcosm of the state – and wreaks some serious havoc that is both sadistic and artistic, with all victims ending up turned into sculptures (which made me think of 1999 film Resurrection, and the Hannibal series). Without revealing too much, I’ll just say that Anwar handles tonal shifts with gleeful efficiency, his sense of humor ranging from silly to wry, and hitting home most of the time, as his cast do (and in some cases, overdo) a superb job in portraying colorful if archetypal characters, equal in mustard uniforms and eventually united by a common cause.

11. Spider-Man: Brand New Day (Destin Daniel Cretton, 2026)

I haven’t seen many offerings of the so-called Marvel Cinematic Universe, partly because it spreads faster than a virus, and partly because I haven’t been much into superhero movies since they’ve become ‘the thing’, but among the features that I’m familiar with, the latest Spider-Man entry ranks pretty high. D.D. Cretton is very at home here, similarly to James Gunn in the first two installments of the Guardians of the Galaxy trilogy, finding a fine balance between a breakneck spectacle (including the elements of the wuxia subgenre), poignant drama, effective humor and critical social commentary, with Tom Holland giving a sympathetic performance. Standing out in supporting roles, largely in the comic relief department, are Florence Pugh as Black Widow and Jon Bernthal as Punisher, though the rest of the cast does a pretty good job as well. On the additional note, I can’t remember the last time local cinema was so crowded by a well-mannered audience. All in all, Brand New Day is a highly enjoyable summer refreshment.

12. Rock Bottom (María Trénor, 2024)

“Nothing makes any sense. I don’t know how to carry on. I don’t know if it’s worth trying anymore.”

Created on the occasion of the 50th anniversary of Robert Wyatt’s sophomore solo album of the same name, ‘Rock Bottom’ is, hands down, one of the trippiest pieces of adult animation in recent years. Marking debut feature for María Trénor, it poses as a fictionalized, defiantly unconventional biopic of the aforementioned musician, depicting his passionate love affair with filmmaker Alif (in real life, lyricist and illustrator Alfreda ‘Alfie’ Benge). Told in flashbacks, all the while drifting between two locations – countercultural New York, and Eden-like Mallorca of the early 1970s – the film feels like a fever dream of ungovernable creativity, its psychedelic visuals combining Bakshi-esque rotoscopy with punkish overlays, painterly vignettes and digital collages to maximize the surreal effect. And it absolutely works, especially in the context of the period that is known for bold experimentation, extending to various (and here, very present) substances – everyone is often high if not wasted (and in addition, naked), their experiences beautifully captured through Trénor’s freewheeling assault on the senses...

13. Domenica d’agosto / Sunday in August (Luciano Emmer, 1950)

A perfect film for a hot August evening (and it doesn’t have to be Sunday), Luciano Emmer’s lighthearted dramedy skillfully intertwines a number of episodes from the lives of a cyclist gang, Roman families, young lovers, and some shady characters, with the beach of Ostia acting as a microcosm of post-war Italy. A LOT happens over the course of a single (titular) day – classes intermingle, a heist goes wrong, relationships bud or are broken, cousins are tricked, and fiancées look for an affordable accommodation, one of them being 26-yo Marcello Mastrioanni as a traffic policeman of mythological name (Ercole). The sweetest of ‘stories’ in this pleasantly noisy, highly spirited, skillfully directed and beautifully photographed feature is the one of teenagers Marcella (Anna Baldini in her first and only role) and Enrico (Franco Interlenghi) who fall for each other while both pretending to be patricians, sneaking through a barbwire onto the beach for the rich.

14. Undertow (William Castle, 1949)

In her first big screen appearance that would be followed by a brief acting career, Peggy Dow (still with us, approaching her centennial birthday!) radiates an aura of a borderline-saintly girl next door, sparking instant chemistry with the leading man, Scott Brady, and counterbalancing Dorothy Hart’s femme fatale who looks as if she (grand)mothered Garla Gugino. They are greatly supported by John Russell, in a queer-coded role (oh, that scene of wedding rings comparison!), and Bruce Bennett, as one of those cops that get suspended for doing the right thing. The story of a veteran, Tony Reagan, starting afresh but being framed with murder unfolds at a brisk pace under Castle’s assured direction and ‘wholesome subversion’ of the noir subgenre, eschewing fatalism in favor of hope, which actually works like a charm. His team behind the camera does a commendable job of beautifully capturing every step of Tony’s evasion of law enforcement paralleled by the struggle against the shadows of the underworld, with Orry-Kelly of Casablanca fame providing costumes.

15. Сатана / Satan (Viktor Aristov, 1991)

“The devil's got your face on

Look at your reflection...”

(Nova Twins / Devil’s Face)

In Viktor Aristov’s penultimate feature (of only five he authored during his half-century-long lifetime), the incarnation of evil sports no horns nor pointed tail, but a handsome face of a young, innocent-looking man. So, in that regard, his drama/thriller evokes the horror films and perspective on beauty by recently deceased Yugoslav filmmaker Đorđe Kadijević, although Aristov’s ‘demon’ is not of the supernatural but of the very (inherently) human kind. Embodying ‘intelligent wickedness’, Sergei Kupriianov portrays twentysomething Vitaliy whose criminal behavior is most probably intended to be viewed through the prism of post-Soviet transition. Speaking of which, its bleakness is felt right from the get-go, i.e. the opening scene shot during a foggy night, soon followed by a cold-blooded murder of a 10-yo girl, with the perpetrator’s deviousness reflecting the societal decline. As the story unfolds – in what appears to be a somewhat twisted version of reality (or not?!) – and other characters are introduced, such as Vitaly’s accomplice grandfather (the director’s brother Anatoly), one often gets the impression that it is not the protagonist/antagonist to be labeled as ‘satan’, but rather the state (of things). And the circumstances are portrayed without a hint of glamorization, as the keen eye of cinematographer Yuri Vorontsov captures the disorientation, melancholy and disillusionment through both dingy and kitschy living spaces, as well as through the crowded public places. Amplifying the pervading sense of doom is Arkadi Gagulashvili’s ominous theme, and a certain detail from the coda that anticipates Haneke’s Funny Games. 

16. Yiu sau dou si / The Wicked City (Tai-Kit Mak, 1992)

“Thinking differently doesn’t mean betrayal.”

Just when you think you’ve seen everything, this film comes along. A live-action re-imagination of Yoshiaki Kawajiri’s eponymous anime based on Hideyuki Kikuchi’s novel, Wicked City is easily one of the most bonkers genre-b(l)enders emerging from Hong Kong. A wild animal in its own right, it presents a somewhat messy story in a package oozing with hyperbolic style that gives ‘camp’ and ‘pulp’ whole new meanings. Employing distorted angles, colored lighting, and fog machine like there’s no tomorrow, with outdated yet ridiculously cool special effects on top, Mak delivers an outré piece of dark fantasy – alternately energizing, melodramatic, and unintentionally funny, with the latter turned into its strength. Although he tones down the (tentacle) perversity of the preceding feature, he introduces sex with a pinball machine which is actually a shapeshifting demon-lady screaming ‘Tilt me, daddy! Tilt me hard!’ in ecstasy. With a penchant for heavy downpour that soaks his heroes with queer undertones, as well as for interior wind (!) every time gorgeous Michelle Reis is in the frame, he amps up eroticism even without undressing the actors. And the finale – it has to be seen to be believed!

17. The Garden of Allah (Richard Boleslawski, 1936)

If I had to describe The Garden of Allah – whose title refers to the vast North African desert – in only one word, it would be ‘elegance’. Sheer, sublime, overwhelming, it marks everything from Marlene Dietrich’s poise, melancholy in Charles Boyer’s eyes, and scene-stealing dance act by Tilly Losch, to Ernest Dryden’s veily costumes, Max Steiner’s rapturous score, and the dreamlike, early Technicolor cinematography (by W. Howard Greene, Virgil Miller & Harold Rosson). Hell, even when the film gets lost in awkward dialogue, and favorizing of (divine) devotion over (earthly) passion, veering towards über-romantic kitsch, it does ever so gracefully, its atmosphere bordering surreal. And though I strongly wish the ending were different, I find myself enchanted by its intense cinematicity.

18. Onda Nova / New Wave (José Antonio Garcia & Ícaro Martins, 1983)

A forefather of Brazilian queer cinema, the sophomore feature from Garcia & Martins duo revolves around a women’s rookie soccer team, blending a light-hearted sport drama with quirky humor and brash eroticism, and adding a bit of musical flavor for good measure. Driven by desire ‘as an affirmation of identity and life’, New Wave boldly confronts or rather, negates the military dictatorship of the time, its charming campiness emphasizing the resistance, and anarchic spirit evoking Derek Jarman’s Jubilee. True to its inclusive vision, it sees the cast of both professional and non-professional actors, as well as cameos of real-life soccer players Pita, Wladimir and Walter Casagrande (all involved in the struggle for democracy), freewheelingly directed, yet strangely compatible. On their way to liberation, virtually every leading and some supporting characters get their own ‘skin screen time’, with nudity weaponized against the oppression which is literally pissed on after the scene of gay sex between one of the girls’ bi-boyfriend, and his inseparable friend. An extra dose of camp (and provocation) is injected by Patricio Bisso’s drag persona Olga del Volga in a maternal role.

19. The Last House (Louis Leterrier, 2026)

“How inappropriate to call this planet Earth, when it is quite clearly Ocean.”

- Arthur C. Clarke

A smorgasbord of chamber drama, survival/disaster/apocalyptic flick, and pseudo-Lovecraftian sci-fi/horror, The Last House is deeply flawed, yet pretty entertaining, if you’re willing to inject yourself with a heavy dose of suspension of disbelief, and turn a blind eye to some gaping plot holes. Carried on the shoulders of its minimal cast of four, the story of perseverance and undying hope amidst all the ‘nature finding her way’ chaos (or maybe, that’s the order?) feels like a perfect fit for a lazy summer afternoon (or evening), and to a certain degree redeems Leterrier for his bland (not to mention unnecessary) remake of Clash of the Titans.

20. As Núpcias de Drácula / Nuptials of Dracula (Matheus Marchetti, 2018)

Pretty rough around the edges, Matheus Marchetti’s sophomore feature is nonetheless a labor of love; a love so grand that the team squeeze every single penny out of an obviously tight budget. A loose adaptation of Stoker’s seminal novel, Nuptials of Dracula brings queer undertones to the forefront, portraying a bisexual romantic quadrangle between the (young) Count, Jonathan, Mina and Lucy. Narratively unconventional, it relocates the story from Victorian England to modern-day Brazil, with some anachronistic liberties taken by Marchetti emphasizing the fever dream-like proceedings. Possessed by the spirit of Jean Rollin and shadows of Dario Argento, the film gives off strong Eurotrash vibes through its use of colored lighting and propulsive blend of classical music and psychedelic rock, appropriating Tchaikovsky’s Swan Theme as its leitmotif.

Honorable (Short) Mention:

Saint (Bravo Defurne, 1996)

The most refined of the 90’s shorts by Belgian filmmaker Bavo Defurne, Saint is a concise portrayal of the St. Sebastian myth, eschewing dialogue in favor of dreamlike, high-contrast B&W imagery that presumably draws inspiration from Wilhelm von Gloeden, George Platt Lynes and Bruce Weber, also evoking Kishin Shinoyama’s iconic photo of Yukio Mishima. Unabashedly homoerotic due to its heightened tactility and youthful cast, although much subtler than its spiritual predecessor Sebastiane by Derek Jarman and Paul Humfress, it reframes the violent act through the prism of queer desire, largely relying on exquisite editing of ropes (and later, tears and blood) slithering across the skin, and of arrows piercing the flesh.

Best Premiere Viewings of July 2025

FEATURES

1. Sister Carrie (Daniel Nearing, 2022)

“Love’s finest hours occur not in declarations and lovemaking, but in absence and sacrificial discretion. The greatest love is never aggrandized, but exists unseen to all, even the beloved.”

Once again, I find myself utterly impressed by a film from Daniel Nearing whose 2014 feature Hogtown marked my first encounter with his work exactly five years ago. His keen eye for highly expressive visuals is evident on virtually every step of his currently latest offering – in chiaroscuro close-ups, distorted angles, dreamlike filters, fisheye perspective, intrusion of color, bleeding of light, and loving homages to Flaming June by Sir Frederic Leighton, New York Movie by Edward Hopper, Imagen de Yagul by Ana Mendieta, and other pieces.

A loose adaptation of Theodore Dreiser’s eponymous novel, Sister Carrie operates like an experimental melodrama in a dialogue with the history of cinema (and fine art too, as already disclosed); a sort of a tone poem that elicits sentiment through its very imagery, reaching its highest point in a dance act as a substitute for mourning over deceased lover. Eve Rydberg and (ballet dancer) Fabrice Calmels often break the fourth wall as they navigate us through this meditation on love, obsession, identity, yearning, ambition, and death, both giving solid, ‘Frenchified’ performances, not to mention they’re as pleasing to the eye as Nearing’s handsome framing. Calmels is also credited as composer, alongside Paul Bhasin, providing a befittingly elegiac score – an aural equivalent of rain drops flowing down the (photographic) glass.

2. Leviticus (Adrian Chiarella, 2026)

It Follows gets a younger and bolder queer brother with Adrian Chiarella’s highly commendable feature debut in which a homophobic entity of ambiguous (but likely dogmatic) origin takes the form of the most desired one. Penned with loathing for fundamentalist evil and directed with an assured hand, Leviticus is firmly anchored in devoted central performances by Joe Bird and Stacy Clausen. Their palpable chemistry makes the drama at the heart of this indie horror hit as hard as (at times, even harder than) the fear-fueled bits, whether they’re implied, as in the attention-grabbing opening, or ‘shoveled down the throat’, so to say, as a reference to a certain bathroom scene. Further elevated by Tyson Perkins’s moody cinematography, and Jed Kurzel’s haunting score, the (evenly paced) film marks another superb contribution to the Aussie genre cinema that seems to grow more vital than the (much larger) American one.

3. Meztelen vagy / The Legend About the Death and Resurrection of Two Young Men (Imre Gyöngyössy, 1972)

“I am the final limit of being, where words end, and actions begin. It is the most critical point in a man’s life... Brother, consider me dead by suicide. I want to be changed to the last nucleus. I grew tired of myself and of you. I’m tired of being a ‘famous gypsy painter’, I am tired of the debates, and the salons that identify with the intellectual poverty of the hovels.”

A young Romani painter, Gera (Sándor Oszter), burns his paintings, and seeks to implement social reforms in a poor, marginalized Roma community, only to be rejected as a stranger, along with his best friend (who may be his lover as well). Seen through the ethnographer’s eyes, and captured by the camera of ever-reliable János Kende, a simple, yet highly poeticized story unfolds in a vicious cycle of misery, prejudice, alienation, exploitation, senseless brutality, and radical sacrifice. Co-written by director Imre Gyöngyössy and his colleagues Barna Kabay and Gábor Bódy, best known for his epic drama Narcissus and Psyche, it is subtly romanticized, brimming with raw emotion, as well as with authentic flavors, given that the cast is largely comprised of non-professionals. Flirting with magical realism, and exuding the air of profound melancholy, The Legend... is the epitome of ‘beauty in the rough’; a missing link between Aleksandar Petrović’s I Even Met Happy Gypsies (1967) and Emil Loteanu’s Gypsies Are Found Near Heaven (1976).

4. L’Engloutie / The Girl in the Snow (Louise Hémon, 2025)

Louise Hémon’s leisurely paced, visually impressive and highly atmospheric feature debut evokes Breughel and Rembrandt through the beautiful framing (and lighting!) by DoP Marine Atlan, whereby Emile Sornin’s eerily mesmerizing score deepens the mystery and accentuates the multi-layered tensions in a snow-covered mountain hamlet where an inconclusive folk tale is about to be born. A young woman’s emancipatory zeal clashes with the locals’ frosty superstition; her sensuality triggering avalanches of mistrust; her language turning into an instrument of colonialism. The gap between the newcomer and the natives keeps widening, and someone is bound to be swallowed by it, as the audience is left with a number of unanswered questions, and the lingering effect of the spell Hémon casts upon them.

5. Kota / Hen (György Pálfi, 2025)

If you ever wondered how it feels to be a black chicken lost in Greece after a narrow escape from a trucker taking you to his wife’s kitchen, then the latest offering from György Pálfi of Taxidermia fame is the film you’ve been looking for. He directs ‘eight separate Hungarian chickens named Eszti, Szandi, Feri, Enci, Eti, Eniko, Nora, and Anett’, as noted in IMDb trivia, and does it with wit, sobriety and compassion, assisted by superb editing of Réka Lemhényi, crisp cinematography from Giorgos Karvelas, and compelling score by Szabolcs Szõke. Starting on a light note, with the feathered heroine embarking on a humorous adventure, he eventually takes a darker turn into the crime territory, and provides a fresh perspective on human condition, exploring the themes of survival and perseverance. This certainly isn’t the first feature to employ the animal POV gimmick, but it is one of the finest... and most playfully irreverent.

6. I Love Boosters (Boots Riley, 2026)

“We’re on one side of the same contradiction.”

Part socialist satire, and part surrealist (sci-fi) heist movie, the sophomore feature from musician (and self-proclaimed communist) turned filmmaker Boots Riley is a vivid, mood-boosting WTF-ery that gives Mika Ninagawa a good run for her money with its kaleidoscopic color palette, unapologetically amping up absurd humor to eleven. Set against the backdrop of fashion industry as a microcosm of capitalist exploitation, with Demi Moore shining through as an evil (and not to mention eccentric) designer genius, the story follows the Robin Hood-esque exploits of the Velvet Gang – a group of socially conscious shoplifters whose motto is Fashion Forward Filanthropy. Portrayed by Keke Palmer, Naomi Ackie and Taylour Paige in deadpan to camp turns, these ladies wear clothes as statements, their inner states, or simply as disguises, depending on the context, with DoP Natasha Braier (The Neon Demon) beautifully capturing not only their borderline-cartoonish ‘rags’, but also the equally inspired production design by Christopher Glass. (The diagonal studio in a leaning skyscraper is a blast!) Also praiseworthy are Eiza González and LaKeith Stanfield in supporting roles, the latter providing some... outworldly fun, so to say without spoilers. Oh, and that delightfully weird soundtrack by Tune-Yards!

7. I Live Here Now (Julie Pacino, 2025)

“Our sadness will never go away. But it can’t hurt us anymore...”

In her visually arresting feature debut, Julie (the daughter of Al) Pacino blurs (or completely erases) the line between reality and fever dream, the moment her heroine, Rose (a grounded portrayal by Lucy Fry), checks in a bizarre, seemingly inescapable hotel, Crown Inn. Carrying the heavy baggage of a childhood trauma, anxiety, depression, self-harm, dwindling actress career, and miraculous pregnancy, our heroine must face the facets of her own psyche, coming to campy life as childlike receptionist Sid, intoxicated owner Ada, and intrusive guest Lillian, with Sarah Rich, Lara Clear and Madeline Brewer, respectively, boldly jumping into the abstract roles. Not to mention that on her heavy tail she has her unreliable boyfriend’s despotic mother, Martha, with Twin Peaks darling Sheryl Lee giving an imposing supporting performance, while serving as a medium for the channeling of Lynchian energy. (Oh, that hand gesture through which she is introduced...)

Influenced not only by the late great surrealist, but also drawing inspiration from baroque sets of Argento’s Suspiria, feminist kaleidoscope of Anna Biller (of The Love Witch fame), rabbit holes of Lewis Carroll’s worlds, as well as from Kubrick’s ways of mapping the architecture of one’s mind, Pacino could certainly not be accused of lacking ambition, and although her screenplay may be overwrought at certain points, and some of the symbolism may veer into on-the-nose territory, I Live Here Now rarely ceases to impress. By virtue of Aron Meinhardt’s exquisite lensing on 35mm and 16mm film, the skillfully weaponized colors of Hannah Rawson & Lucie Brooks Butler’s gorgeous production design are transformed into vivid characters in their own right, enhancing the head-scratching experience. Composers Pam Autuori & Jackson Greenberg bring a pulsing mixture of ominous droning, uneasy percussion, and eerily ethereal vocalizations to the table, constantly reminding us that we’re watching a twisted fairy tale of body and soul in distress.

8. Backrooms (Kane Parsons, 2026)

It is absolutely incredible that Backrooms is directed by a twenty-year-old, and based on a series of creepy (if occasionally tiresome and nauseating) YouTube shorts which he developed as a teenager on a personal computer in his own room. An intriguing mélange of psychological, conspiratorial, found footage and even ontological horror, it is stuff the most irrational nightmares are made of, especially if you experienced them first hand. Simultaneously claustrophobic and agoraphobic, it treats the labyrinthine physical space as the inescapable state of mind, inducing dread by way of both dead ends and multiple (infinite?) choices, with the creatures (of our own making) given secondary importance.

Exploring the disintegration of modern life due to the lingering effects of not only trauma, but decaying memories as well, the film makes the most of the impossible and illogical architecture which becomes the multi-layered character in its own right. Although it falters in the psychologization of human protagonists, and somewhat diminishes the mystery of liminal spaces by introducing the scientific experiment as the cause, it is a beautifully weird piece of (genre) cinema well-worthy of checking out. A remarkable starting point for its up-and-coming author.

9. Hilda Was a Goodlooker (Anna Thew, 1986)

In experimental feature from English linguist, writer, painter, filmmaker and performer Anna Thew, a major role is played by textures – first and foremost, of the 16mm film stock, and then, of lace curtain, human skin, brick walls, river surface, street asphalt, polka-dot dress, torn fishnet stockings, etc. They lend palpability to the memories recollected by Thew’s mother, in broken fragments forming a tricky ‘narrative’ or – in the words of the author herself – ‘an intricate web of associations’ weaved through a deliberate discordance of images, voice-over, and music. This way, the deceptiveness of remembering finds its cinematic equivalent – a slippery illusion which strives to convey moods, vibes and feelings, rather than recreating the past events from the familial history, with Thew’s half-aunt Hilda ‘who was never short of a boyfriend’ turned into the central figure.

10. L’aigle à deux têtes / The Eagle with Two Heads (Jean Cocteau, 1948)

“They were only the dreams of a sleeping person, sleeping so profoundly, that he didn't even realize that he was dreaming them.”

An adaptation of Jean Cocteau’s own play from 1946, The Eagle with Two Heads retains the original actors, Edwige Feuillère and Jean Marais, whose performances tend to be so hypnotic that you don’t realize Feuillère’s delivers the longest monologue in the history of dramatic cinema. Part political intrigue, and part tragic romance evocative of Shakespeare, the feature is set in a fictitious mid-European country during the 19th century, its plot triggered by an anarchist poet’s failed attempt to assassinate the queen, spending the night in the castle of Krantz. Bearing a striking resemblance to the king who was killed ten years prior, the young dissident stirs the storm of mixed emotions in the royal heart, and unlikely love begins to bloom against the backdrop of the sleazy ministerial scheming.

What elevates this film from its theatrical origins is Georges Wakhévitch’s sumptuous production design of highly detailed castle interiors, married to Marcel Escoffier’s equally lavish costumes (including traditional lederhosen worn by Marais in his first appearance), all dreamily captured by Christian Matras. The looks of a gothic fairy tale achieved through their combined efforts may not be as enchanting as in its predecessor ‘Beauty and the Beast’, but they do work wonders when all the melodrama and plotting to remove the ruler grow too convoluted, or a tad tiresome. At its highest points of exchanging tenderness between the leading characters, the viewer is given a clear insight into how truly, madly and deeply Cocteau adored his muse, Marais.

11. Pee chai dai ka / A Useful Ghost (Ratchapoom Boonbunchachoke, 2025)

Magic realism, Thai style. A highly ambitious feature debut from Ratchapoom Boonbunchachoke, the film starts as a deadpan comedy of a ghost possessing a vacuum cleaner, and seeking to reunite with her husband, only to gradually transform into an allegorical narrative of political repression, told from a queer perspective, and through the exploration of loss, grief, memories, tradition, exploitation, and resistance. Although its tone grows more serious and melancholic as the story unfolds, it succeeds in keeping its quirky sense of humor, eventually exploding in a cathartic, splatterish sequence that comes across as a reward for the patience it previously requires. Helmed with a formal rigor somewhat reminiscent of Julian Radlmaier (though not as dry), and firmly anchored in tautly controlled performances from the entire cast, A Useful Ghost is also a visually arresting piece of (outré) cinema, its imagery in perfect tune with the clear directorial vision.

12. Broadway Melody of 1936 (Roy Del Ruth, 1935)

Oh, boy, this film has everything – Adrian’s dazzling gowns, lessons on snoring onomatopoeia, Katharine Hepburn impersionation, singing and tap dancing in a Micky Mouse sweater (all before breakfast), and storming through the newspaper agency to punch a gossip journalist right in the nose that pokes everywhere. Bad jokes aside, the second installment in the Broadway Melody tetralogy is a charming piece of Golden Age Hollywood, anchored in beautifully choreographed dance sequences, with Eleanor Powell’s electrified footwork stealing your breath away. The rom-com story of big dreams, backstage scheming and the power of media is of secondary importance, and yet Roy Del Ruth handles it admirably, and with subtly campy flair, his cast doing an amazing job, and seem like having a whale of a time. Setting the feature’s ‘fluff’ tone is the very opening song:

“Don’t bring a frown to old Broadway

You gotta clown on Broadway

Your troubles there are out of style

For Broadway always wears a smile...”

13. Les nuits rouges du bourreau de jade / Red Nights (Julien Carbon & Laurent Courtiaud, 2010)

Prolific Hong Kong actress Carrie Ng injects a scented dose of camp into the role a sadistic femme fatale inspired by the legendary jade executioner whose pain-and-pleasure-enhancing poison is sought after by various underworld figures throughout the capriciously convoluted (read: borderline senseless) plot. But, the story is of least importance in Carbon & Courtiaud’s hyper-stylized feature debut which betrays influences of traditional Chinese opera, giallo cinema, Brian De Palma, John Woo, and even New French Extremity, grabbing your attention by the very first scene of latex kink and claw-nailed murder. Oddly enough, nobody is innocent in Red Nights, as all of the leading characters emerge from the shadows, i.e. wrong side of the law, with the police coming across as an afterthought in the wicked game of double-crossing, back-stabbing, and twisted obsession. The ‘form over content’ approach doesn’t always work, but whenever it is at its peak, by virtue of Horace Ma’s superb art direction and Man-Ching Ng’s classy cinematography, it is absolutely fascinating.

SHORTS

1. Nowhere (Dimitris Papaioannou, 2021)

In the prison of existence / the tragedy of human condition.

Arguably the most Beckettian of Papaioannou's performances.

2. Cling Film (Anna Thew, 1993)

“What’s a bit of rubber between friends?”

Filmed at the peak of AIDS crisis, Cling Film is a bold experiment promoting safe sex, as well as the most punkish and explicit of five Anna Thew’s shorts I’ve seen so far. Starring a cast of performance artists, it suffocates inhibition and censorship in dizzying coital montages, largely eschewing sync sound in favor of associative discordance. Taking cues from a wide range of edgy avant-garde films, including thumb-sucking that evokes Buñuel’s masterpiece L’Age d’Or, and leather fetishism which brings to mind Anger’s queer classic Scorpio Rising, this twenty-minute ‘art pamphlet’ raises an important question, one that transcends the confines of the HIV-related themes: “What if offending public taste saves lives?”

3. Kummer (Anna Thew, 1986)

4. … nur noch Gewölk … / ... but the clouds ... (Samuel Beckett, 1977)

5. Humanity Gone (Raphaël Hay, 2026)

Gorgeously framed on 16mm, Humanity Gone comes across as a meeting point between performance art, fashion photography and experimental cinema, its story of an angel betrayed by a human presented through a dialogue between chiaroscuro images and ambient music. Making the most of its tight time frame, author Raphaël Hay creates a ‘micro-myth’ that is at once primordial and modern.

6. J (Virgilio Villoresi, 2009)

7. That Which Will Become of a Stolen Soul (Amin Shakuri, 2025)

Primordial screams pierce the infernal (and internal?) visions in a raw, abrasive, mind-fucking stop-motion short that, albeit rough around the edges, possesses a dark and morbid kind of beauty, comparable to early works by Jaume Balagueró (of REC fame), as well as to the hyper-grotesquerie of animator Robert Morgan. The unsparing amalgam of its body horror imagery, frenetic montages, and ear-shredding sounds makes for a trippy, relentless attack on the senses.