Best Premiere Viewings of February 2026

FEATURES

1. Kuangye shidai / Resurrection (Bi Gan, 2025)

A puzzling journey through the history of cinema, and a love letter to the medium, written as an illuminated scroll, Bi Gan’s latest gift to cinephiles is arguably the most fascinating addition to his filmography. It is a meta-filmic phantasmagoria, not unlike Holy Motors, that kindly invites you to dream, as its author creates a vast, seemingly endless space to let your imagination run wild and free. Inspired by the Buddhist concept of rebirth, Resurrection is split in six chapters de- and re-constructing various genres, continually leaving you in a state of awe – partly by virtue of its technical virtuosity, and partly by the director’s sheer devotion to his creation – particularly during the signature long-take segment set in 1999. But, words do it no justice – it has to be experienced.

2. Au pan coupé / Wall Engravings (Guy Gilles, 1967)

“I’d like to be good, pure, happy, free, sweet, nice and easy. But I can’t. The world is hard and closed around me, us. And those who refuse to see it as it is, are liars.” 

A young artist is haunted by the memories of her lost lover. Yes, the plot does fit in only a dozen of words, but what Gilles delivers is a fascinating study of a star-crossed romance ended too soon, just like the life of a boy who ‘wanted to rebuild the world’. At once formally disciplined, lyrically freewheeling, and delicately nuanced, his unpretentious story mesmerizes with its poetry of fleeting moments; the present deceitfully true in B&W, and the past brimming with vivid, candidly misleading colors.

Right from the establishing shot of Jeanne (crystal-eyed Macha Méril, also credited as a producer) wistfully looking through the window, and all the way to the melancholy-infused coda, Wall Engravings is virtually an uninterrupted series of beautifully composed fragments, forming short, unrhymed stanzas, with stylishly restrained acting preventing sentimentality from reaching the surface. And yet, Gilles’s infatuation with his own characters is profoundly felt, and over the film’s course, the viewer also falls head over heels for both of them, charmed by the tiniest of their imperfections, such as that scratch on the nose of baby-faced Patrick Jouané who portrays Jean. In close-ups, their pretty faces are captured with extra gentleness by the camera of Willy Kurant and Jean-Marc Ripert, anticipating the masterful strokes of Márta Mészáros.

3. Rizal’s Makamisa: Pantasma ng higanti / Makamisa: Phantasm of Revenge (Khavn, 2024)

Nothing short of a milestone in analog avant-garde cinema, Khavn’s bold experiment is a uniquely delirious, genre-overcoming delight! Loosely inspired by an unfinished novel from Filipino national hero José Rizal (1861-1896), Makamisa is the very epitome of subversion; its rebelliously irreverent spirit in wild sync with its visual anarchy. Shot on an expired film stock, hand-painted, scratched and edited in such a way that makes it feel like a recently unearthed artifact from the last century, it mesmerizes you with a cornucopia of deliberate imperfections, turning each and every one of them to its own advantage. Reflecting on evils of the colonial past and religion, it gleefully weaponizes twisted fantasy and absurd humor against the oppression of any kind, profoundly inspired in its fits of creative madness and feisty righteousness. The director himself jumps into the role of one of the three central characters, and going along with his playfulness are German actress Lilith Stangenberg (Wild, Bloodsuckers – A Marxist Vampire Comedy) and acclaimed Pinoy actor John Lloyd Cruz, with filmmaker Lav Diaz making a cameo as ‘a very angry Jesus Christ’.

4. L’allégement / The Unburdening (Marcel Schüpbach, 1983)

Gorgeously photographed in B&W (Hugues Ryffel), with a hauntingly swelling score (Michel Hostettler) accentuating the film’s subtly distorted reality, The Unburdening has to be one of the most stunning pieces of Swiss cinema. Hearkening back to the peak of the 60’s European arthouse, as well as to Altman’s female-centric psycho-dramas of the 70’s, it revolves around a young nurse, Rose-Hélène (Anne Caudry), driven to near madness by uncontainable passion, as if possessed by the spirit of her great grandmother, Flore. Sparse in dialogue and heavy in (borderline gothic) mood, Schüpbach’s hypnotizing exercise in elegant formalism – at once intimate and detached – evokes the likes of Bresson, Bergman, Zetterling, Antonioni and Hanoun, yet it feels like its own animal. An aesthetic triumph.

5. Kičma / Backbone (Vlatko Gilić, 1975)

“Today, the air itself is turning into a murderer. The Earth into a trash can.”

While trying to discover the source of a foul odor that spreads across New Belgrade, a young microbiologist, Pavle (Dragan Nikolić, sullenly restrained), is gradually succumbing to the infectious lethargy, likely in a direct relation to the alarmingly increasing suicide rate. And fifty years later, one can easily recognize the eerily prophetic nature of Vlatko Gilić’s allegorical, profoundly depressing tone poem that leaves a wide room for various interpretations, ecological, psychological and/or socio-political. Densely atmospheric (or rather, befittingly suffocating) and increasingly disorienting, Backbone is one of the most bleakly haunting pieces of Yugoslav cinema, its multiple close-ups – sweaty and brimful of despair – further intensifying the overwhelming sense of existential dread...

6. Os Cafajestes / The Hustlers (Ruy Guerra, 1962)

Little known outside of its home country, Ruy Guerra’s impressive feature debut is the first Brazilian film to feature full-frontal nudity – a body & soul-baring appearance by arthouse regular (and Jeane Moreau look-alike) Norma Bengell. Marking the director’s victory over censors, it employs skin exposure not to titillating effect, but rather as a critique of the viewer’s gaze, with a dizzying ‘arc shot of humiliation’ made essential to the meditation on both illusion and disillusionment. A remorseless attack on machismo-infused egotism, as well as on the petit bourgeois values, it follows a couple of petty thugs, Jandir (Jece Valadão) and Vavá (Daniel Filho), involved in a blackmailing scheme that eventually backfires, with an emasculating verdict. Standing tall somewhere between Koreyoshi Kurahara’s The Warped Ones (1960) and ‘name any piece of the 60’s Italian cinema in which everyone is young and impossibly handsome’ by way of Antonioni-esque alienation, The Hustlers introduces a challenging film language, and seduces you with Tony Rabatoni’s bravura camerawork in a sultry dialogue with a dissonantly cool score from Luiz Bonfá of Black Orpheus fame.

7. Casta Diva (Eric de Kuyper, 1982)

Challenging masculinity from the ‘male gaze’ perspective, i.e. observing men as they would observe women, Eric de Kuyper delivers an experimental essay in which every actor or rather, model is confronted with his own physicality. In a series of long static takes, accompanied by classical arias or complete silence, he seeks for beauty in the most trivial of action, from a personal hygiene ritual to tying a bow to enjoying a cigarette, often emphasizing the voyeuristic position (of the viewer) via the frame within a frame compositions. And yet, everybody – apart from the smoker in the fourth wall-breaking vignette that gives off some ‘homme fatal’ vibes – acts as if the camera’s eye is shut, all the while being unknowingly poeticized and, to a certain (subconscious) degree, eroticized in their mundanity. Through the B&W lens of Michel Houssiau, the tiniest of gestures and the the most incidental of movements are given equal significance, until fully suspended in the ‘epilogue’ of three deliberately choreographed arc shots that see the ‘characters’ extracted from their reality and ‘petrified’ in subtly stylized poses.

8. The Plague (Charlie Polinger, 2025)

In Charlie Polinger’s highly promising debut, the extremely discomforting feeling of re-experiencing pre-teen days of boyhood from the vulnerable perspective of the bullied one comes in an aesthetically refined if familiar package. Psychologically tense and at a few points unapologetically visceral, The Plague anchors itself in taut performances far beyond the actors’ age and experience, precisely calibrated direction, weirdly unsettling score (Johan Lenox), and austerely beautiful framing (Steven Brackon) that captures every nuance of the boys’ inner states reflected on their faces. Standing out is the trio of Everett Blunck, Kayo Martin and Kenny Rasmussen, so eerily attuned to their roles that the viewer believes every fear-fueled tear, psychotic smirk or antisocial gaze portending deeply scarred and/or disturbed adults. Although the ending is stuck somewhere between an ambiguous cop-out and satisfying pay-off, it comes across almost as haunting as the rest of the film, remaining ingrained in your mind days after watching it.

9. Eréndira (Ruy Guerra, 1983)

Penned by THE Gabriel García Márquez, Eréndira is one of the finest examples of magic realism on film, its whimsy and quirkiness turned into a disguise for a rather sordid story playing out like a dark folk or fairy tale. It stars an international, largely dubbed cast, with the great Greek actress Irene Papas stealing a number of scenes as the titular heroine’s evil grandmother, elegantly imposing even in torn, sand-covered garments. Her antithesis is Claudia Ohana, evoking sympathy as poor, gentle Eréndira who initially toils – Cinderella way – at the autocratic matriarch’s lavish home, only to be forced into prostitution after accidentally burning down the house. The colorful gallery of archetypal characters wouldn’t be complete without a stand-in for prince charming and into that role – his only silver-screen appearance – jumps angel-faced Oliver Wehe who would subsequently start a ballet career. A star-crossed romance (or is it?) seamlessly blends with a satire of sorts, brimming with puzzling symbolism of wind-swept interiors, living paper birds and butterflies, and golden oranges with diamonds growing at their core. Often poetic and at times feverishly nebulous dialogue enhances the dreamlike atmosphere of the Mexican desert setting which brings to one’s mind the works of Jodorowsky and his DP turned filmmaker Corkidi.

10. Apenas Coisas Boas / Only Good Things (Daniel Nolasco, 2025)

Intimacy coordinator (presuming they had one in the first place) must’ve been the busiest crew member on the set of Daniel Nolasco’s sophomore fiction feature – an erotically charged queer (melo)drama that takes a bizarre (psychologically surreal?) turn in its second half. A countryside romance between a solitary farmer, Antônio (Lucas Drummond, broodingly mysterious), and a biker stranger, Marcelo (Liev Carlos, boldly uninhibited in his debut) is transformed into a city-based meditation on loss, through what may be dubbed ‘a river portal into another reality’.

Oddly complementing each other with their highly contrasting tones, both the love story, with the shadow of a homophobic patriarch looming over it, and the loveless ‘tone poem’ imbued with a range of ambiguities, see the actors baring their all, literally and metaphorically, their nudity (and sex) subtly elevated beyond the mere provocation. The poignancy, intense sensuality and deeply personal vibes of the ‘pastoral’ chapter are subverted by the alienating coldness of the urban (fantasized?) follow-up that emphasizes the absurdity of living sans soulmate, and exposes the hollowness of a ‘capitalist bliss’, all the while denying the viewer a clear resolution. Once again, Nolasco (Dry Wind) finds a reliable DP partner in Larry Machado who frames the deliberately paced action with a keen eye for the setting and male body alike, also capturing the fiery chemistry between Drummond and Carlos.

11. Twinless (James Sweeney, 2025)

During the first twenty minutes, prior to the opening credits, Twinless plays out like a drama of loss and unlikely friendship, only to take a slightly awkward turn after a flashback exposes not quite white lies of the writer/director’s own character, Dennis. Partnered by Dylan O’Brien – giving an outstanding performance as Roman, and in a couple of scenes, Roman’s late twin brother Rocky – James Sweeney embodies a sort of an emotional weirdo in front of the camera, and demonstrates a great deal of confidence as an up-and-coming auteur. Exploring a variety of themes – grief, identity, loneliness vs. socialization, and queer perspective vs. (toxic) masculinity – he finds dedicated assistance in the cast who succeed in eliciting sympathy even when the characters are at their most flawed. (Aisling Franciosi is particularly memorable in the supporting role!) Also commendable is his taut control over visual aspects, with DP Greg Cotten proving to be a reliable right hand man, and Bong Joon Ho’s regular Jung Jae-il weaving a soft aural veil for the neatly framed imagery. Spicing up the proceedings are subtle humor and sparks of cynicism that subvert or at least mask the clichés, and elevate the film above one’s expectations.

12. Send Help (Sam Raimi, 2026)

There are emotional roller-coasters, and then, there are genre mary-go-rounds, and Sam Raimi’s latest is one of the latter kind. If Blue Lagoon had been filtered through the prism of (Survivor-related) dark humor, with pinches of psycho-thriller and horror spicing up the corporate or rather, privileged vs. hard-working satire, the end result would’ve probably been pretty close to Send Help. Although not exactly at the very top of his game, the veteran filmmaker delivers a tonally delirious, often crowd-pleasing smörgåsbord of suspense, irony and gross outs, with Rachel McAdams and Dylan O’Brien giving unhinged performances as the sole survivors of a plane crash.

13. Третья Мещанская / Bed and Sofa (Abram Room, 1927)

A printer, Volodia, is invited to stay in a small apartment (at the address from the original title) occupied by his old Red Army comrade, Kolia, and his wife, Liuda, which turns into a pretty liberal ménage à trois story exploring a range of topics, from living conditions to bisexuality to abortion to women’s empowerment. Its homoerotic subtext loses the ‘sub’ prefix through a couple of ‘accidental’ kisses between the two men, who are both simultaneously vying for vampish Liuda – initially stuck in a loop of housekeeping. Although some narrative and pacing tweaks wouldn’t have hurt, Room’s competent, matter-of-fact look at a jealousy-free polyamory strikes some fine, ahead-of-its-time chords that earn it extra points.

14. Adamo ed Eva: la prima storia d’amore / Adam and Eve (Enzo Doria & Luigi Russo, 1983)

“It’s only an apple.”

So... A beautiful Biblical twosome run around naked, having all sorts of fun in a lush jungle, until the bite of knowledge sends them into a cave Raiders of the Lost Ark style, then out of it for some aimless wandering, until the encounter with a pterodactyl whose wings – after it’s killed and eaten – awaken Eve’s keen sense of fashion. Another short episode of strolling across the wasteland ensues, ending in a Neanderthals’ den where Adam is deemed a potential sperm donor for one of their own, with a convenient tiger intrusion thwarting an attempt of cross-breeding. What follows involves an adulterous fling with a hunky tribesman, the attack of extremely hairy cannibals, the most ridiculous bear costume in the history of cinema, and the ice age reunion of first sinners, with some archive footage of animals thrown into the mix.

Yes, is all as weird, pulpy, schlocky and exploitative as it sounds, but it is also highly entertaining, eliciting chuckles and louder laughter along the way to the sea, because that is where ‘life begins’, as usually clueless Adam claims. The film feels like a sexed up version of The Blue Lagoon by way of the Tarzan lore, yet it leaves quite a bit of space for gender-related readings, though it could only be me imagining things because – in all sincerity – I enjoyed it more than certain entries from the 1001 movies you must see before you die list. Its mythological irreverence is as fascinating as the looks of both Andrea Goldman (in her first and only screen appearance) and Mark Gregory (who made a short career in Italo-trash of the 80’s), handsomely captured – along with the impressive vistas – by Fernando Espiga, and veiled in synth melodies, with a corny pop ballad theme My First Love by Tania Solnik emphasizing the camp vibe.

15. OBEX (Albert Birney, 2025)

A reticent, soft-spoken ASCII artist, Conor (a low-key performance from the director himself), gets more than he bargained for after starting the titular game that uses ‘state-of-the-art-technology’ for inserting the player’s very own likeness into it. Once his most beloved dog Sandy disappears, his largely uneventful life in self-imposed seclusion takes an adventurous turn in a bizarre virtual world of OBEX.

Think The Dungeonmaster, only more coherent and sans misogyny, filtered through the hipster prism of analog nostalgia, and injected with a loving homage to the Devil scene from Post Tenebras Lux, and you may get the idea of what to expect from this quirky genre-bender. Obviously made on a shoestring budget, OBEX has plenty of pixelated, DIY charm to keep you floating in its decidedly 80’s bubble, even though the blend of arthouse sensibility and nods to old school gamers isn’t always seamless. Not as impressive as my previous (and very colorful) encounter with Birney in The Strawberry Mansion, the film is yet another neat demonstration of its author’s uniquely surrealist vision.  

16. Mata Hari (Curtis Harrington, 1985)

Curtis Harrington’s last theatrical feature is a romanticized biopic of notorious exotic dancer Mata Hari that sees Sylvia Kristel of Emmanuelle fame – reportedly, addicted to cocaine and alcohol during the shooting – in various states of undress, yet creating and keeping the veil of mystery around the character, despite her limited range. Those hypnotizing green eyes of hers alone are enough to make one believe in the immense power of seduction that many men (and even women!) fall under in the course of 100 minutes. Entirely shot in Budapest posing as both Paris and Berlin, the film boasts elegant production and costume designs, as well as the beautiful cinematography which lends some gravitas to the nude scenes that, inter alia, involve bare-breasted sword fighting during a masquerade orgy-ball. Handled with remarkable taste, the risqué portions of Mata Hari seem to be the main draw, as Harrington – in what can be dubbed a bold move – favors love making over the political scheming and depictions of WWI destruction, blurring the boundaries between the carnal and the spiritual.

SHORTS

1. Anemone Me (Suzan-Lori Parks & Bruce Hainley, 1990)

Co-written and co-directed by Pulitzer-prize winning playwright Suzan-Lori Parks and critic, writer and poet Bruce Hainley, with Todd Haynes (Velvet Godlmine) serving as an assistant director, Anemone Me is a lovely little oddity, at once campy, lyrical, and surreal, not to mention idiosyncratic in its utilization of fairy tale tropes. Starring a cast of four, it takes interracial romance to a whole new level, with (non-professional) Fred Anderson as a fisherman’s son, Blind Boy Bodybuilder, and (TV actor) Peter Hermann debuting as Merboy ‘awakening something in each other’, as noted at Black Film Archive. Their gentle, idealized love is beautifully framed on 16mm which intensifies the short’s tactility, as the sound of waves crashing and an ethereal theme song create a sense of dreamlike calm.

2. La Divina (Brooke Dammkoehler, 1989)

An offbeat amalgam of a mockumentary and poetic biopic of a fictitious diva modeled after Greta Garbo, La Divina operates as both a love letter to the Golden Age of Hollywood, and a (pseudo?) feminist stab at the glamorous sheen it was bathed in. Employing dramatic lighting and over-the-top histrionics to great & campy effect, it comes across as a fever dream-like throwback to the 30’s and 40’s, with first-timer Brooke Dammkoehler mimicing Billy Wilder in his Sunset Boulevard element by way of Werner Schroeter... or someone along these lines. Correspondingly, Michelle Sullivan evokes (to the lisp!) Magdalena Montezuma in the lead, appearing as if she has a whale of a time in the role of continual resistance towards typecasting – her character’s desire to play Dorian Grey brings to mind Ulrike Ottinger’s gender-bender adaptation of the novel.

3. Christmas on Earth (Janja Rakuš, 2026)

Not to be confused with Barbara Rubin’s provocative cinexperiment of the same name, the latest short from multidisciplinary artist Janja Rakuš – one of the most ardent Van Gogh admirers I know of – is a spiritually uplifting meditation on 1885 painting Potato Eeaters. A mystifying collage of essayistic imagery, abstract animation, found footage and quotes from the letters to Theo, Christmas on Earth comes across as a mind-altering and time-distorting ritual, invoking the mythic figure of Kurent into a post-impressionistic welcome to Spring. The season that is usually associated with hope, fertility and rejuvenation is also seen as a symbol of peace, both inner and universal, once again seriously threatened by the monsters in human skin. That is probably one of the reasons why the creator here takes the role of a healer, in possession of a gentle balm for the soul.

Best Premiere Viewings of November 2025

FEATURES

1. Na wylot / Through and Through (Grzegorz Królikiewicz, 1973)

A symphony of soul-eroding despair, Through and Through is one of those films that instantly and without excuses plunge you into their unwelcoming worlds, then refuse to let go. Setting its unsparing yet strangely captivating tone in the opening scene – a drunken, proto-Tarr-meets-Bartas after-party of raw close-ups and perturbing medium shots – Królikiewicz builds a harrowing story of life under a constant strain or rather, a meditation on existential dread, upon grim lyricism. Unflinching and prone to bursts of Żuławskian hysteria in the depiction of misery, humiliation and marginalization his two protagonists are helplessly sinking in, he orchestrates a magnificent cacophony of ominous silences, fragmented noises, feverish melodies, and stark, deliberate images brimming with dense, abyss-like shadows. The harsh and unforgiving reality he portrays is at once nightmarish and recognized as eerily true in its timelessness; a dirty mirror to the absurdity of human condition, as well as to the screaming embodiments of words unsaid. Aesthetically triumphant and stripped of moralizing rhetoric, Through and Through achieves more in only 70 minutes than many features fail to provide during twice longer running time.

2. Pandora and the Flying Dutchman (Albert Lewin, 1951)

A sumptuous melodrama of dreamlike properties, Pandora and the Flying Dutchman sees its leading star, Ava Gardner, basked in an aura of divinity, her character – as the name suggests – existing between myth and reality, love and death, blessing and curse. Initially hampered by her arrogance, Pandora’s beauty and seductive power are the threads that legends are weaved from, and all men are willing to kill and die for, so Lewin and his cinematographer Jack Cardiff (Black Narcissus, Red Shoes) keep them emphasized by way of cinematic means. In a highly memorable shot during the first thirty minutes, her profile is framed in a way that suggests a landscape, with one of her suitors reduced to a lost figure sinking in it, and later on, a similar composition is employed to convey her (innermost) sublimity, once again dwarfing her partner (for a good reason). As awe-inspiring as Pandora and blocking is John Bryan’s art direction, as well as the Catalonian municipality of Tossa de Mar posing as the fictitious seaport of Esperanza where the hyper-romantic tale takes place.

3. Nouvelle Vague (Richard Linklater, 2025)

I haven’t been closely following Linklater’s career, nor am I an avid fan of Jean-Luc Godard, and yet I found this film to be one of the most entertaining / chuckle-inducing offerings of 2025. Centered around the shooting of À bout de souffle – the seminal piece of the French New Wave – this slice-of-history biopic is a delightful ode not only to the titular movement, but to filmmaking itself as well, irresistibly charming in its revival of the period. Everything about it gives you just the right gut feeling – the jazz intrusions, the grain of 35mm pictures, the atmosphere of spontaneity, but above all the pinpoint casting choices of Zoey Deutch, captivating as Jean Seberg, and two newcomers, Guillaume Marbeck and Aubry Dullin, nailing the roles of Godard and Belmondo, respectively. 

4. La tour de glace / The Ice Tower (Lucile Hadžihalilović, 2025)

Arguably the most accessible feature offering from Lucile Hadžihalilović (Innocence, Evolution, Earwig), The Ice Tower plays out like an adult fairy tale or rather, tone poem that is part coming-of-age drama, part meditation on creative process, and part examination of suppressed female desire. Told from the perspective of a 15-yo orphan, Jeanne (the outstanding debut for newcomer Clara Pacini!), the film marks the director’s reunion with actress Marion Cotillard who dominates the screen in the role of an ice-cold diva, Cristina van den Berg, torn by inner turmoil. Invoking the spirits of Deborah Kerr, Marlene Dietrich and Delphine Seyrig, she makes the viewer believe that she actually is the Snow Queen of a film within a film set in what can only be described as the end of the 60’s in an alternate universe – Lucileverse, if you will. Her mystery-infused allure is superbly matched by Jonathan Ricquebourg’s expressive, austerely and uncannily beautiful lensing that transforms physical spaces – dimly lit, often exuding with foreboding, even dread – into the characters’ mindscapes. The glacial pace which corresponds with the wintry atmosphere, letting you absorb the images in all of their bleak glory, finds its aural equivalent in Lexx and Olivier Messiaen’s haunting, frost-covered notes evocative of being lost in a crystal cave.

5. Frankenstein (Guillermo del Toro, 2025)

“Perhaps, I thought, this was the way of the world. It would hunt you and kill you just for being who you are.”

I must admit two things – I have yet to read Mary Shelley’s novel, and I have to file this feature under ‘the films that unexpectedly made me cry’. Guillermo del Toro’s Frankenstein is – in my book – the director’s most moving piece since Pan’s Labyrinth, with Jacob Elordi’s heartbreaking, even sensual portrayal of the Creature amplifying the unabashed romanticism the proceedings are infused with. The film’s visual splendor, largely owing to Tamara Deverell’s meticulous production design, and Kate Hawly’s exuberant, Ishioka-invoking costumes, is wonderfully captured by cinematographer Dan Laustsen, and harmoniously matched to Alexandre Desplat’s emotionally resonant score. Although I wouldn’t have minded a cut here and there, the two and a half hours spent in the (hyperbolized) Victorian gothic world left me in awe.

6. Jigureul jikyeora! / Save the Green Planet! (Jang Joon-hwan, 2003)

One way to view Save the Green Planet! is as a love letter to the multifaceted nature and impact of cinema, written as a ransom note, in letters cut out from various magazines, then dipped in honey and absinthe, only to be partially destroyed in sulfuric acid. It blends and bends various genres in the most unexpected fashion, demonstrating its creator’s keen sense of twisted humor, biting satire, edge-of-the-seat suspense, but also of sensitive drama (not to mention crowd-pleasing action and speculative fiction), covering the themes of abuse, paranoia, alienation, mental health, human worth(lessness), and corporate corruption. As heady as it sounds, the feature is directed with unflinching verve, boasting intense performances from Shin Ha-kyun and Baek Yoon-shik in central roles, and delivering some sensory knock outs, notwithstanding the aged special effects.

7. The Thief (Russell Rouse, 1952)

In one of the earliest and classiest examples of ‘anti-talkie’, a highly decorated (and very likely blackmailed) nuclear physicist, Dr. Allan Fields (a bravura performance from Ray Milland!), is selling top secret material to the Soviets, until a chance accident puts him under a wakeful eye of the FBI. Completely void of dialogue, The Thief is a formally challenging noir which sees ‘silence’ in many shades of gray, rather than golden, transforming it from a gimmick into an epitome of the universe’s indifference to one’s existential despair. The brooding absence of spoken words is also employed to emphasize mystery, intensify suspense, thicken the suffocating air of paranoia, and test the micro-acting skills of the entire cast, with everyone proving to be up to the task. Further adding to the strained atmosphere is the sound of phone ringing – an aural leitmotif that poses as the anxious voice of the protagonist’s guilty conscience, growing along with the shadows of Sam Leavitt’s starkly beautiful cinematography. 

8. Krakatit (Otakar Vávra, 1948)

‘The action takes place in the fancy of a feverish dream’, as we’re informed in the opening card, and indeed, there’s a proto-Jacob Ladder-esque vibe attached to the narrative. An unidentified man suffering meningitis and pneumonia is brought to a hospital, and as a doctor and a nurse try to save him, the viewer is plunged into his hallucinations and/or recollections of past events that reveal he’s a scientist named Prokop who has invented a titular, extremely dangerous explosive. Permeating the subtly delirious proceedings is the fear of yet another atom bomb intervention predicted by Karel Čapek whose 1920 novel of the same title Vávra adapts here, and delivers a potent piece of cinema (minor pacing issues aside), on par with the Hollywood offerings of the time. Anchored in the highly expressive B&W cinematography by Václav Hanus, Krakatit weaves the elements of multiple genres into a cautionary tale of poetic, surreal proportions, proposing that every idea can lead to an explosion, and tackling the subjects of guilty conscience and redemption, as well as of the abuse of science and power. Kudos must also be extended to art director Jan Zázvorka whose creative solutions – the most memorable being a university amphitheater with photo cut outs posing as students – often emphasize the feature’s oneiric quality. 

9. Reflet dans un diamant mort / Reflection in a Dead Diamond (Hélène Cattet & Bruno Forzani, 2025)

Directorial duo of Belgian ciné-fetishists Hélène Cattet & Bruno Forzani return with another (over)dose of ultra-stylized imagery, imbuing the details with all sorts of devils in paying a passionate homage to the 60’s Eurospy cinema, and blending in some clear nods to giallo, as well as to Maya Deren. Reflection in a Dead Diamond is arguably their finest feature so far – a metafilmic tale of decidedly irrational proportions that may be viewed as a hallucinatory meditation on the role of cinema in shaping (or just reshaping) one’s own identity, memories and obsessions. Gorgeously lensed on 16mm which provides a warm, grainy texture and makes the colors pop out, burrowing themselves into your mind, it dazzles and disorients, as its ambiguities grow along with the intensity of a sensory stimulation.

10. Pools (Sam Hayes, 2025)

Odessa A’zion of Hellraiser (2022) fame pours heart and soul into the leading role of Sam Hayes’s feature debut, adding an extra layer of personal touch by writing and performing two songs on the soundtrack. She portrays Kennedy, once promising student who aimlessly meanders through the college life after the loss of her father, with the film itself – a bittersweet blend of sparkling comedy and emotionally resonant drama – completely attuned to the ‘messy’ heroine. Partnered by five young, superbly cast actors whose archetypal characters are elevated through subtle nuances, A’zion brings a gust of fresh air to this John Hughes-inspired riff on The Swimmer, as she leads a pool invasion across the estates of ‘Chicago’s very own Beverly Hills’. Kennedy’s coming-of-age & searching-for-purpose tale is split into two distinct parts linked via HVAC tech subplot – the night of escapist partying brimming with invigorating energy, yet sprinkled with moments of poignancy, and the night of self-reflection and decision-making, tamer in tone, with humor ably employed as a repellent of full-blown melancholy. Both chapters – set against the backdrop of an unbearably hot summer – are directed with genuine sympathy and understanding for the protagonists, as DP Ben Hardwicke’s, editor Tucker Marolf and composer Cody Fry join forces to capture all of their inner ‘bubbles’, and evoke the freewheeling chaos of youth.

11. Amateur (Hal Hartley, 1994)

The great Isabelle Huppert playing her ex-nun turned smut writer namesake qualifies as a pretty good reason to spend 100 minutes with this off-kilter genre-bender which also stars inimitable Elina Löwensohn at the top of her game, Martin Donovan low-keying as an amnesiac man, and Damian Young bringing some loony energy to the second half. Their characters and virtually everything else about Amateur, from Hartley’s odd sense of humor to his blurring of the boundaries between art and pulp, comes marinated in quirkiness and/or awkwardness, so you’re never quite sure how it manages to operate so smoothly most of the time, yet you agree to go along with its charming offness. One way to describe this weird romp is to dub it cinematic equivalent of Isabelle’s bathroom with piles of books lying around. 

12. L’astragale / Ankle Bone (Guy Casaril, 1968)

Looking as if she mothered Téa Leoni, Mylène Farmer or – from certain angles – Dolores O’Riordan, rather than her real daughter Eva Green, Marlène Jobert exudes peculiar, or rather inimitable charm as the flawed protagonist of Guy Casaril’s little known romantic drama. Convincing and uninhibited, she portrays a thief, Anne, who breaks her ankle bone during the prison escape, only to be saved by a handsome criminal, Julien (Horst Buchholz), for whom she falls so madly and deeply that her lesbian feelings for a fellow inmate, Rolande, begin to fade. The injury doesn’t make life on the run any easier, so Anne’s newly acquired freedom comes across as just another form of captivity which we’re occasionally reminded of through her inner monologues lending some diaristic vibes to the self-consciously sentimental story based on Albertine Sarrazin’s semi-autobiographical novel. The sultry chemistry between Jobert and Buchholz imbues the bittersweet goings-on with palpable eroticism, as the camera of Edmond Richard turns the lovers’ touches into poetry, and adds nuances to a character study of the intriguing (anti)heroine.

13. Attihannu Mattu Kanaja / Fig Fruit and the Wasps (M S Brakash Babu, 2014)

In M S Prakash Babu’s feature debut, many are the sequences dominated by silence (or rather, wordlessness) – fraught with tension, imbued with foreboding, or laced with ostensible calm, but always amplyfing off-kilter vibes of the dense atmosphere, deliberate rhythm, and borderline-Beckettian narrative. The arrival of a young filmmaker and her assistant at a remote village takes a Waiting for Godot turn, with a famed musician who is supposed to be the subject of their documentary being unavailable for days. Making their stay awkward is the unspoken, yet deeply felt rural/urban divide embodied in a local poet who ‘roams around like a ghost’, and recites his verses during the bizarre soirées that leave the gathered in a state between trance and apathy. Adding to a growing sense of unease – of the kind that haunts you after an unpleasant dream you’re inexplicably holding on to – are the subtle surrealistic touches (such as the red stool rolling across the field), as well as the steely greenish patina that shrouds the lingering images. Beautifully framed, and directed with a clear vision aided by a number of non-professional performers lending it authenticity, Fig Fruit and the Wasps is an auspicious calling card for its author.

14. Ręce do góry / Hands Up! (Jerzy Skolimowski, 1981)

Part anti-Stalinist (or rather, anti-authoritarian) tirade, part meditation on identity, Hands Up! is a formally challenging piece of cinema, to say the least, questioning the role of art during the times in desperate need of upheaval. Its major part – filmed in 1967 – was banned for 14 years, with its author forced into exile, only to be complemented by the diaristic prologue giving off strong apocalyptic vibes, and finally released in 1981. Heavily fragmented and extremely claustrophobic, it revolves around five friends reunited after completing their medical studies, throwing a wild, flour-covered party in a candlelit freight train, and reminiscing about ‘good’ ol’ days through the frenetic rituals and increasingly disorienting colloquies. The viewing experience is not pleasant, nor it is meant to be, yet the delirious vision which Skolimowski ruthlessly plunges you in is utterly hypnotizing (and radical), hard to categorize and harder to forget.

15. Laulu tulipunaisesta kukasta / The Song of the Scarlet Flower (Teuvo Tulio, 1938)

Teuvo Tulio’s oldest film to survive in entirety is a lush melodrama based on Johannes Linnankoski’s novel of the same name, revolving around a womanizing daredevil of a lumberjack and log driver, Olavi (Kaarlo Oksanen, who would be killed in WWII). The son of a wealthy farmer, this young and handsome man leaves his home after a dispute with old parents, sweet-talking his way into beds of numerous fair maidens, blind to the consequences of his faux-romantic conquests. And then comes along the daughter of the wealthy Moisio house, Kyllikki (angelic Rakel Linnanheimo) – the first woman not to fall easily for his charms, veering him towards the road of redemption. With emotions amped up to eleven, a soaring score that amplifies them, and beautiful B&W images that make them virtually palpable, Tulio explores the themes of class, morality, guilt and atonement, freedom vs. responsibility, and adventurous vs. conventional life, yet he appears to be more interested in bringing erotic energies to the fore. His unapologetically sensual direction – complemented by the thespians’ penetrating gazes and juicy histrionics – may not be a prime example of consistency, but one can’t help admiring its audacity, especially during the skinny dipping scene halfway through the feature... 

16. Saadia (Albert Lewin, 1953)

Following her first (and utterly magnetic) big screen appearance as a mysterious girl in Russell Rouse’s experimental noir The Thief, Rita Gam jumps into the role of the titular heroine in Albert (of The Picture of Dorian Gray fame) Lewin’s Saadia. This time around, her strong presence is all the more impressive by virtue of her velvety alto, and penetrating gaze of crystal green in glorious Technicolor imagery captured by Christoper Challis (The Tales of Hoffmann) on Moroccan locations. She plays an Arab peasant girl, initially under the influence of an ostracized ‘witch’, Fatima (Wanda Rotha), who appears to have some serious hots for her, gradually turning into a love interest of two best pals – French doctor Henrik (Mel Ferrer) and local prince Si Lahssen (Cornel Wilde) – whose relationship leans towards bromance. So, there’s a plethora of ‘subtextual’ queer sparks flying around the romantic triangle (or is it a quadrangle?) central to the pulpy melodrama based on the novel by French writer Francis D’Autheville, with the themes of cultural clash and conflict between science and superstition lending some gravitas to the proceedings.

17. Proklisis / Provocation (Omiros Efstratiadis, 1971)

Filmmaker Angelos Frantzis was only one when the legendary Udo Kier shared both his first and last name in the (arguably) finer of two collaborations with Greek filmmaker Omiros Efstratiadis, best known for his exploitation flicks of the 70’s. In Provocation aka Love Above All, Kier portrays a young sailor from the Hydra island who prepares to leave for Australia, but instead, gets involved with a wealthy heiress, Isabella (actress and activist Anna Fonsou), whom he meets on a ship to Athens. Haunted by memories of his old lover Eirini (magnetic Elena Nathanail of ‘The Fear’ fame) who was forced into a marriage with an impotent pharmacist, Angelos hesitates to bid farewell to his homeland, and leave loose threads from the past hanging. Schmaltz, camp and erotica blend surprisingly well into a romantic melodrama including a murder subplot and bits of social commentary, all handsomely captured by cinematographer Stamatis Tripos (Face to Face), with stylistic flourishes, such as a kaleidoscope effect, distorted angles and hyperkinetic montages, elevating the pulpy material. And by virtue of Efstratiadis’s penchant for traditional music, a few sequences see Udo Kier Hellenized into a hasapiko trance.

18. Un escargot dans la tête / Snails in the Head (Jean-Étienne Siry, 1980)

Jean-Étienne Siry’s swan song is also the only feature in his brief directorial career out of the gay porn zone – it is an outré psychological drama of the molluscophobic kind. At its core is a doomed romance between a novelist, Hélène (Florence Giorgetti), abandoned by both her husband and lover, and a painter, Edouard (Renaud Verlay), responsible for deaths of his wife and son in a car accident. The two meet in a psychiatric hospital, and after ‘just a single glance’, they ‘click’, but as soon as their love starts to bloom, the bleak past comes knockin’... and turns her fear into his obsession. Their tale – just like snails – could only be a figment of Hélène’s tortured mind, with its distorted reflection duly captured in nightmare sequences that wouldn’t feel out of place in the Italian horror cinema. As the narrative unfolds, irrational forces grow stronger, along with Siry’s obvious hots for Verley, so first we see him naked, and then in a wet fling with a guy named – not by coincidence, that’s for sure – Etienne. Eventually, it all comes full circle, leaving you intrigued, even though the film isn’t without its share of (charming?) shortcomings.

19. Pathosformel (Vasco Araújo, 2020)

A one-hour-long film created as a part of Vasco Araújo’s exhibition / installation at the Rialto6 gallery in Lisbon. It is spoken in English, Italian and Latin (with Portuguese subtitles), so I couldn’t understand all of its parts, but I found most of its ‘tableaux vivants’ to be neatly composed. The imagery features figures from the Greco-Roman mythology reflecting on human condition, with its title inspired by the concept developed by German art historian and cultural theorist Aby Warburg (1866–1929).

Detailed info can be found HERE.

20. Winter Kept Us Warm (David Secter, 1965)

The first English-language Canadian film to deal with the queer subject matter, as well as to be shown at the Cannes Film Festival also marks the feature debut for David Secter, then a 4th-year student at the University of Toronto. Made on a minuscule budget, with the non-professional cast acting for free (and unaware of the subtext), Winter Kept Us Warm is a bold curiosity, considering that it addresses what was considered ‘triple taboo’ at the time. Borrowing its title from T.S. Elliot’s poem The Wasteland, the romantic drama portrays an ‘intense friendship’ between ‘a charismatic senior and a timid freshman’ in a somewhat relaxed manner, its greatest strength lying in dialogue-free montages of sheer jazzy coolness.

SHORTS

1. Roseblood (Sharon Couzin, 1974)

In the mesmerizing 7-minute-long debut from Chicago-based filmmaker Sharon Couzin, a young woman (Carolyn Chave Kaplan) dances against / behind / inside incessantly changing backdrop (flora, eyes, crystal, city, sea, etc), as the hectically edited images – at once propelling and obstructing her movements – lull the viewer into a state of subliminal euphoria; sensory bliss of the highest order.

2. Christmas U.S.A. (Gregory J. Markopoulos, 1949)

“An artist always paints his own portrait.”

(Jean Cocteau)

And what Markopoulos depicts in Christmas U.S.A. is the acceptance of his own homosexuality paralleled by a strong feeling of alienation in a disapproving environment, whether it be familial or public. Intuitively editing the scenes from everyday life, with occasional slides into ritualized action, and pulling focus on the intense physical presence of his alter egos, particularly in sensual closeups, he renders the film as both real and fanciful, liberating and constricted.

3. Fragment of Seeking (Curtis Harrington, 1946)

Four years before Markopoulos’ Swain, Curtis Harrington – then, a student – creates a coming-out short, boldly metaphorizing the death of heteronormativity, and anticipating Psycho through a subtle flirtation with horror. Playing an androgynous ‘seeker’ himself (and initially appearing like a secret, proto-Alphaville agent), he’s partnered by a couple of (uncredited) actors – a blonde woman and a young man, in dreamlike ‘fragments’ shot and edited with an expert eye. His images are permeated by a great sense of mystery which remains almost intact even after the realization of the author’s intention.

4. La révolution n'est qu'un début. Continuons le combat. /

The Revolution Is Only a Beginning. Let’s Continue Fighting. (Pierre Clémenti, 1968)

Pierre Clémenti’s poetic and politically charged directorial debut feels eerily relevant at the present moment in Serbia, especially when the on-screen slogans such as ‘POWER TO IMAGINATION!’ and ‘POETRY IN THE STREETS!’ are replaced with the ominous truth – ‘STATE POLICE KILLS, RAPES, CASTRATES FREEDOM!’ Filmed partly in Paris during May of 1968, and partly in Rome where Clémenti was working on Bertolucci’s Partner, this 20-minute cinétract is a sensory overload of liquefying soft-focuses, dreamy superimpositions, and shaky footage of protests, all of which are often soaked in reds signifying the author’s leftist views. It is a powerful, uncompromising experiment that ends on a witty, self-deprecatory note.

Best Premiere Viewings of October 2025

FEATURES

1. Sanatorium Under the Sign of the Hourglass (Stephen & Timothy Quay, 2024)

“So it is, so it happened, unprepared for and uncompleted, at an accidental point in time and space, without a settling of accounts, not arriving at any finish line, as if in the middle of a sentence, without a period or an exclamation point, without judgement... or the wrath of God, the Earth was to meet its end, simply and irrevocably.”

A strong contender for the animated film of the year, the Quay brothers’ first feature in almost twenty years was absolutely worth waiting for. Based on Bruno Schulz’s 1937 novel previously adopted by Wojciech Has in 1973, it looks, sounds, feels and flows like a dream, one conceived by an entity neither living nor dead, existing in a hypnagogic limbo. Elusive, haunting, hypnotic, and in every sense of the word unconventional, it is a distinctive blend of stop-motion animation and live-action vignettes, covered with heavy patina and bathed in gauzy haze. Surrealism at its most phantasmal.

2. Перемена участи / Change of Fate (Kira Muratova, 1987)

A note to self: “Don’t wait seven years to watch another Muratova film.”

Oft-appearing as if possessed by Kafka’s specter in drag hosting a neurotic cabaret, Change of Fate mocks the rich, patriarchy, bureaucracy, and judicial system with infectious glee, its humor ranging from quirky to irreverent to absurd. Dialogues overlap, extras go loony, and certain scenes (in the prologue) are repeated, anticipating a kind of a psycho-trickery at play, with Natalya Leble bringing a peculiar cunning to the central role of a woman, Mariya, accused of murdering her lover. Various eccentricities involving a group of prison entertainers and an exotic dancer abound, as the viewer is left defenseless against the virtually incessant barrages of words, their invisible shells turning into vignettes of beautifully framed shots. It all amounts to a surreal experience, at once overwhelming and energizing.

3. El llanto / The Wailing (Pedro Martín-Calero, 2024)

Not to be confused with the 2016 South Korean horror, The Wailing is not only one of the most promising feature debuts in recent memory, but also one of the finest Hispanophone additions to the genre. Martín-Calero eschews jump scares for psychological intensity, deeply unsettling atmosphere, and characters whom we actually care for, demonstrating a keen sense of mystery, and creating a phantasm that effortlessly finds its way into the Pantheon of the creepiest cinema ghosts. And although he refuses to provide the answers to the questions surrounding the spook, you won’t have a hard time drawing your own conclusions – the entity is embodied by a creepy, corpse-like old man, and the titular wailing comes from a phallic Brutalist high-rise. However, even when you realize the meaning behind this metaphorical evil, you won’t be able to shake off the spine-chilling, hair-raising feeling elicited from you through the effectively timed scares, and if you’re as easily scared as this writer, you’d want to turn on the light as soon as the credits start rolling. Add to that the most delightful casting choices for the three young, uncompromising women in leading roles – Ester Expósito, Malena Villa and Mathilde Ollivier, none of whom is objectified by Constanza Sandoval’s (superb!) camera, haunting vocalizations of Oliver Arson’s skin-crawling score and Victoria Lammers’ tight editing of a non-linear story, and you’ll find yourself wondering what the director has in store next.

4. Nightshift (Robina Rose, 1981)

The pale, expressionless face of the UK punk icon Jordan (of Jarman’s Jubilee fame) speaks volumes of a dead-end job her Portobello Hotel receptionist protagonist endures through routine tasks such as filling out forms, wrapping up pastries, or vacuuming the lounge, all the while humming in tune. It also comes across as a wax mask that conceals its reticent owner’s true self – a mystery that one tries to unlock observing details of her workplace, as well as the people she has minimal interaction with. Various guests, from a band of juvenile punk-rockers to a bourgeois PR lady to a drunkard walking about the hallways wearing only his underpants under a night robe, come and go in a borderline surreal ‘procession’, partly defining the hypnotic rhythms of Robina Rose’s first and only fiction feature. Anchored in Jon Jost’s exquisite 16mm framing that lends it a dreamlike quality emphasized by both the quietude and a music box tune, Nightshift is a most peculiar piece of experimental cinema, disciplined in its form, insightful and even witty in its seemingly uneventful content, strangely involving in its elusiveness. I’d go as far as dubbing it a spiritual or rather, avant-garde predecessor to Jessica Hausner’s Hotel, though it evokes a wide range of associations, from Jane Arden and Chantal Akerman to Isao Yamada and David Lynch. 

5. The Adventures of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert (Stephan Elliott, 1994)

One of the most mood-lifting, life-affirming road-movies that I’ve ever seen, the sophomore effort from Aussie filmmaker Stephan Elliott approaches the drag subculture with utmost affection, presenting an open-minded lesson in tolerance as a finely honed blend of comedy and drama, wrapped in sequins and tinsels. Coalescing with effervescent chemistry are the incredibly bold central performances from veteran Terence Stamp, Hugo Weaving and Guy Pearce, the latter of whom often steals the spotlight in the role of a highly spirited queen, Felicia. And elevating their screen presence to a whole new level of sass are the outrageous costumes by Lizzy Gardiner and Tim Chappel, especially memorable in a couple of Felicia’s show offs on the rooftop of Priscilla (that’s their bus) cruising across the Outback deserts. (Many kudos to debuting DoP Brian J. Breheny for capturing some truly iconic moments in all of their fabulousness!) The ‘joie de vivre’ vibe which permeates a simple, yet captivating narrative is lovingly attuned to the anticonformist attitude, not only of the protagonists, but also of the side or rather, literally supporting characters of Bob and Marion, who amplify the feature’s humane notes.

6. Sirāt (Óliver Laxe, 2025)

Taking cues from Friedkin and Miller, and wearing these influences proudly on his sleeves, Oliver Laxe delivers one of the most fascinating desert-set films in recent memory – a heart-achingly beautiful journey towards the end of ends. Kicking off with a search for a missing daughter / sister, Sirāt – named after a bridge that links heaven and hell, ‘its passage narrower than a hair, sharper than a sword’ – transforms into a road movie that sees the birth of a surrogate family, until a harrowing tragedy turns it into a Grim Reaper’s playground refusing to be defined. At once poignantly intimate and broadly foreboding, it strongly resonates with our times, its apocalyptic vibes shaking you to the core, as its unapologetic bleakness burrows deep into your mind / soul. Confidently directed, with always reliable Sergi López, as a worried father, integrating a group of non-professional ravers who play meta-versions of themselves, the feature plunges you into its inhospitable setting by way of Kangding Ray’s pounding electronica, and Mauro Herce’s handsome lensing of scorching vistas and sunburnt, self-ostracized characters.

7. La rose de fer / The Iron Rose (Jean Rollin, 1973)

My recurring dream of being lost in an unknown metropolis gets its outré cinematic equivalent in what’s arguably the most atypical piece of Jean Rollin’s oeuvre. A young couple portrayed by Françoise Pascal and Hugues Quester find themselves disoriented in a large graveyard after sundown, following ‘la petite mort’ in an underground crypt. As their fears transform into frustration and later – for the girl, at least – fascination, the nocturnal wandering evokes a bizarre sense of mystery and madness amalgamated into a dark revelation of sorts. The lush greenery, rusted crosses, moss-covered headstones and cherubic statues of La Madeleine Cemetery in Amiens make for a bewitching setting – the third, silent character that gets too attached to the lovers to let them go. After all, it externalizes their labyrinthine minds which gradually allow Thanatos to dominate Eros, becoming one with it, as the iron rose is imagined to be crystal, and the simplistic narrative is drowned in the silently evocative stream of gothic imagery. Irrationality can be so delightfully seductive.

8. Rhythm Thief (Matthew Harrison, 1994)

“Life isn’t a popularity contest.”

Imbued with no wave quirkiness, sympathy for outcasts and existential despair, Rhythm Thief comes off as a cinematic equivalent of a trippy, wordless hip-hop song playing on an old radio in a back alley where one can hear a muffled post-punk noise coming from a nearby underground nightclub. Shot in 11 days (add three zeros for a budget), this slice-of-life drama takes the viewer to the pre-gentrification lower east side of New York, focusing on the struggle of a bootlegger, Simon, and eccentrics who orbit around him. Our hero is a gruff loner who feeds on diner leftovers, and back in his almost empty apartment, eats peanut butter with a screwdriver, drinks vodka, and has casual sex with Cyd on a floor mattress. Yet, somehow, Jason Andrews who portrays him manages to turn this antisocial son of a bitch into a pretty cool character whom the viewer slowly begins to root for, especially after his ex-girlfriend Marty arrives, cutting the barbed wire around his heart. The stark grittiness of his day-to-day survival is beautifully, or rather, truthfully captured by Howard Krupa’s 16mm handheld camera, the grainy texture of high-contrast B&W emphasizing the abrasiveness of NYC ghetto.

9. Короткие встречи / Brief Encounters (Kira Muratova, 1967)

“When I watch a film or read a book, the women and the men are so beautiful, their feelings and actions are so meaningful and complete. Even when they suffer, everything’s logical and correct, there’s cause and effect, a beginning and an end. Here everything’s so vague.”

Spoken by one of the protagonists portrayed by Muratova herself, these lines very much define her film, unfolding in a non-linear fashion, with bittersweet lyricism marking all the fleeting moments suggested by the title. Examining dichotomies such as woman vs. man, presence vs. absence, country vs. city, freedom vs. commitment, Brief Encounters also provides some edgy social commentary between the lines, i.e. behind the gauzy curtain of memories and longing outlining a love triangle. Femicentric at its heart, and ahead of its time in terms of both the treatment of female characters and use of narrative devices, it presents us with a remarkable big screen debut of Nina Ruslanova whom the author immortalizes by way of (also debuting!) Gennady Karyuk’s camera.

10. Rabbit Trap (Bryn Chainey, 2025)

“With your eyes you enter the world. With your ears, the world enters you.”

Light on scares, but thick with (mythical) mystery, refusing to provide answers to a whole lot of questions, Chainey’s feature debut impresses as a mood piece that plays out like a dark fairy tale fueled by profound sadness. Set in 1976, it revolves around a musician and field recorder couple, Daphne and Darcy (Rosy McEwen and Dev Patel, both at the top of their game), whose peace in a remote house near the woods is disturbed after the ‘invasion’ by an enigmatic boy (Welsh actress Jade Croot, oft stealing the show in a bold casting choice). The intruder is likely the embodiment of an ancient, supernatural force that feels invited by Daphne’s repressed insecurities and Darcy’s unspecified, nightmare-triggering trauma which involves the fourth actor (Nicholas Sampson) in the supporting role of a creepy entity credited as The Shadow. The trio gradually evolves into a nuclear family of sorts, as the ‘parents’ lose the grip on their reality in a dreamlike progression of the ambiguous, ecologically conscious narrative. An intimately eerie chamber drama sees the nature as an additional central character who speaks through the noises collected across the breathtaking surroundings (North Yorkshire posing as Wales), with the exquisite aural design and haunting score beautifully complemented by autumnal images appearing tangible due to the exuberance of textures. Horror aficionados may be disappointed with the flirty approach to the genre, but melancholic fans of densely atmospheric arthouse cinema will certainly cherish the efforts of a promising new voice and his crew.

11. Plata quemada / Burnt Money (Marcelo Piñeyro, 2000)

Based on Ricardo Piglia’s 1997 novel of the same name or rather, on the true events that inspired it, Burnt Money is a melancholy-drenched crime drama anchored in superb performances, particularly from Eduardo Noriega (intensely brooding as one half of a central bad boys couple), and smoky cinematography of dark and dirty colors establishing a moody neo-noir atmosphere. Its heist-gone-wrong story of running away and hiding – set in 1965 – is just a disguise for a passionate, not to mention tumultuous gay romance between Angel (Noriega) and Nene (Leonardo Sbaraglia), their ups and downs filtered through the prism of former’s mental issues, latter’s (bi)sexual flings, and their mutual involvement in robbery and murder. Strangely, the film’s overt homoerotic tones – amplified through the character of lovers’ swaggering straight accomplice, Cuervo – come across as pretty subtle when compared to the steamy scene involving Nene and a depressed prostitute, Giselle (Leticia Brédice), as if Piñeyro wants to soften the queer edge, so to say. Nevertheless, the director’s sense of style, as well as his treatment of morally corrupt protagonists, is commendable, and he sure knows how to end it all with a memorable bang.  

12. Les distractions / Trapped by Fear (Jacques Dupont, 1960)

A photojournalist philanderer, Paul, who shouldn’t be likeable at all is turned into a charming bastard by the sheer power of Jean-Paul Belmondo’s charisma which is also found irresistible by three (gorgeous!) women – Véra (Alexandra Stewart), Arabelle (Sylva Coscina), and Dany (Eva Damien). Distracted by wooing one, giving false promises to the other one, and turning the third one (who lives in a most adorable cottage!) into an unknowing accomplice, our deeply flawed, yet engaging hero armed with a ‘fuck the police’ attitude tries to save his ex-comrade in arms, Laurent (a melancholic turn from Claude Brasseur), who accidentally kills a cop during an opening car chase. Despite the murder setting the plot in motion, the film kicks off on a rather nonchalant note, only to gradually turn gravely, with Jacques Dupont (whose work I encounter for the first time) almost effortlessly handling tonal shifts, and helming the proceedings at a smooth pace. But, the real surprise here is the handsome framing by a duo of then inexperienced cinematographers, Michel Flour and Jean-Jacques Rochut, the former of whom would be subsequently credited as a sound department member. Jazzing up their impressive B&W imagery is Richard Cornu’s diversified, mood-setting score.

(The English version of the title isn’t exactly spot-on, but I can relate to it at the present moment...)

13. Семья вурдалаков / The Vampire Family (Gennadiy Klimov & Igor Shavlak, 1990)

At turns eerie, oneiric and nightmarish, this folk / gothic horror from the final days of Soviet Union adapts Aleksey Konstantinovich Tolstoy’s novella The Family of the Vourdalak to Russia’s transitional period, with a young photojournalist travelling to a remote village, to spin a sensationalist yarn out of strange stories circulating the foggy countryside. Staying in the house of a superstitious family that appears as if stuck in the 19th century, the protagonist (portrayed by Igor Shavlak) gets more than he bargained for, after pater familias returns as an undead fiend to terrorize his own kin... Progressing at a languorous pace which adds to the sense of suspense and supernatural dread, the narrative grows increasingly surreal, especially in the final twenty minutes during which dream logic seems to take over both time and space. Shavlak’s character finds himself challenged by the irrational forces, as he loses grip on reality, with the viewer pulled ever deeper into the thick, spine-chilling atmosphere established through the synergy between the whispery dialogues, broodingly lit cinematography, sounds that creep under your skin, and shooting locations, from a creaky old house to dilapidated church to a snow-covered forest. 

14. Nattevagten / Nightwatch (Ole Bornedal, 1994)

In his big-screen debut that also marks director Ole Bornedal’s first theatrical release, my almost-namesake Nikolaj Coster-Waldau brings fresh energy, undeniable charm, and good looks to the role of a law student, Martin, whose night shift at The Department of Forensic Medicine turns into a nightmare, as the serial killer runs loose in Copenhagen. Further complicating his professional, as well as personal life is a silly game of dare he plays with his asshole friend, Jens (Kim Bodnia, stealing a few scenes), providing chunks of (dark) humor that is seamlessly blended in the atmosphere of simmering psychological tension, and – in the closing act – nail-biting suspense. A fairly conventional story is elevated by virtue of remarkable craftsmanship, particularly from cinematographer Dan Laustsen, and editor Camilla Skousen.

15. Rat Fink (James Landis, 1965)

Around these parts, there’s a saying that can be loosely translated as ‘a singing heart holds no malice’. In the case of Lonnie Price, both the protagonist and antagonist of Rat Fink, these words don’t apply. Portrayed by Schuyler Hayden in his only leading role, channeling an unpolished blend of Dean, Beatty and Brando, a young Coloradan clears his rags-to-riches (to self destruction) path by lying, manipulating, stealing and even killing, so calling him a ‘bad boy’ would be an understatement. Add to that a hefty dose of narcissism, and you got yourself a one-of-a-kind psychotic country-rock singer / teenage heartthrob that makes the vilest of sharks amongst the music exploiters appear as goldfish. Acting (under a moniker) as a producer too, Hayden brings a certain kind of wicked charm to his decidedly unsympathetic character, with Warrene Ott as his agent’s wife Vera capitalizing ‘M’ in melodrama by way of her ‘haughty diva’ performance. Elevating the briskly paced (and increasingly nihilist) proceedings is Vilmos Zsigmond’s slick B&W framing of LA, and catchy tunes by the 60’s B-movie regular Ronald Stein (Dementia 13, Spider Baby), My Soul Runs Naked being a standout.

16. The Gay Deceivers (Bruce Kessler, 1969)

Michael Greer steals a number of scenes from the leading duo of Kevin Coughlin and Lawrence P. Casey who portray a couple of straight friends pretending to be gay in order to avoid being drafted for the Vietnam war. Greer’s sassiness is only matched by the vibrant production design brimming with colors and tastefully kitschy decor, beautifully captured by DoP Richard C. Glouner, and complemented by Stu Phillips’s groovy score. Despite its somewhat tacky nature, stereotypical representations of homosexuality, and jokes that don’t always land, the film comes across as a rather harmless and uplifting romp that occasionally feels like it was made in the 80’s, especially considering all the time Casey spends shirtless. 

17. Exilados do Vulcão / The Volcano Exiles (Paula Gaitán, 2013)

Assisted by cinematographer Inti Briones, Paula Gaitán delivers a plethora of sublimely / sensually beautiful shots, and though the marriage of her visual poetry and glacial pacing isn’t always harmonious (or rather, justified), one often wishes to disappear in the dreamlike, melancholy-imbued haze rising from her characters’ memories.

18. Staying Alive (Sylvester Stallone, 1983)

During one October night’s cult classic double bill, I enjoyed Staying Alive more than Saturday Night Fever which – unpopular opinion ahead – I found to be extremely overrated, due to its clumsy storytelling, uneven pacing, tonal inconsistencies, misogyny running amok (poor Annette!), anticlimactic epilogue, Karen Lynn Gorney forgetting to bring her charisma to the shooting, and Travolta’s dance king protagonist being a jerk most of the (overlong!) running time, with none of his pals evoking an iota of sympathy. Although this Sly-directed sequel has its own share of issues (and clichés), they all seem to fade away into the final act – the energizing performance of the ‘Satan’s Alley’ show which gives off some serious proto-Showgirls vibes. Also, both Cynthia Rhodes and Finola Hughes are superb casting choices, the former as Tony’s dulcet voice of reason / love interest / only true support, and the latter as an inspiring if negative role model. And that flying kick included in the choreography beats the poster on the wall as a response to ‘address the character as a Bruce Lee fan’.

SHORTS

1. Du sang, de la volupté et de la mort (Gregory J. Markopoulos, 1948)

Gregory J. Markopoulos’ student trilogy Du sang, de la volupté et de la mort (lit. Of Blood, Pleasure and Death) marks the director’s earliest preserved work, and demonstrates impressive maturity for someone so young at the time. Each of the three films – Psyche, Lysis and Charmides, in the chronological order – can be labeled as oneiric, twisting the logic of known reality through the prism of ciné-means. Markopoulos’ visual language is one of heightened sensuality, delicately suggestive, seductively eloquent and subliminally poetic, his editing virtually intuitive, and camera intimate, particularly in close-ups of actors’ faces, whereby his characters often act as avatars of mythological figures, while the contemporary space is transformed into a dreamscape. 

2. Swain (Gregory J. Markopoulos, 1950)

Somewhat reminiscent of Maya Deren’s and Curtis Harrington’s (early) works, all the while anticipating François Reichenbach’s Last Spring (1954), Swain stars then 22-yo director in ‘a ritualized rejection of heterosexuality’ structured like a dream within a dream (or two dreams colliding into one?), and laced with heavy, at times cryptic symbolism, its ‘suspended reality’ conveyed by way of overexposed imagery, playful editing, repetition of certain details, and dramatic classical music that bursts in after a little bit more than four minutes of complete, ruminative silence...

3. Athanor (Philippe Garrel, 1972)

Composed of exactly thirteen shots, mostly static, each one worthy of framing and hanging on the wall, this experimental short borrows its name from a self-feeding furnace used by alchemists, with Nico and Musky posing as medieval enchantresses in an ambiguous (non)narrative. The hypnotizing beauty of the inscrutable vignettes – appearing like a study for a series of paintings deeply rooted in mysticism – keeps you bafflingly transfixed to the screen, the abrupt ending working like a trance-ending snap of fingers.

4. The Flesh Is Willing (Todd Verow, 1990)

Being an experimental short about the carnal cravings that disintegrate a marriage of convenience between a gay man and a lesbian woman, The Flesh Is Willing is surprisingly light on nudity, yet its sensual power is undeniable, contained within the voice-over confessions, interplay of light and shadows, vibrantly red blazer, blue satin shoes, leather jacket, dreamy gazes, and even ominously brooding electronica that enshrouds the broken mirror-like narrative. Its grainy, and often hazy visuals never cease to titillate, with subtle depictions of violence – a figment of the spouses’ dirty imagination, perhaps – reflecting the couple’s sexual repression. Todd Verow’s freewheeling approach to both the direction and camerawork evokes a sense of liberation his characters struggle to achieve.

5. Anthropozulo (Josu Rekalde, 1994)

A fine piece of video art portraying what appears to be a young man’s inner struggle, his nudity hinting at vulnerability / harmlessness, underlined by the opening card that reads: “I am not armed and I am not out to shoot anybody.” (Digression: Strangely, this line corresponds with the mentality of peaceful rallies in Serbia over the past year, even though protesters have been satanized by the psychotic regime and the sycophant, extremely toxic media.) The protagonist’s other / female self, inner child and demons, as well as the burly embodiment of primal / violent urges all enter the scene at certain points throughout 10 chapters of symbolic action neatly captured by Enrique Uralde’s camera in moodily lit spaces, and accompanied by Jose Luis Rebollo’s offbeat music. 

6. Ama (Julie Gautier, 2018)

7. Niccolò (David Florian, Axelle Granet, Sirui Liu, Hugo Michalet, Clémentine Di Prizio & Njolai Pachomius, 2025)

8. Sinistri / Some Accidents (Salvatore Insana, 2025)