My last year's annual list of classic first-time viewings encompassed 100 titles, but this time around, I decided to limit myself by pulling focus on experimental and lesser known 'discoveries', delivering a more concise selection of 20 features (and evading a number of household names in the process). For an extra dose of the 20th century recommendations, check out my picks for the past 11 months:
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.
1. Na wylot / Through and Through (Grzegorz Królikiewicz, 1973)
2. Rosa de Areia / Desert Rose (Margarida Cordeiro & António Reis, 1989)
“I would like to be truly multiple. I would like to be a mother... infinitely. I... I’m still alive. But... I’m a dead soul already. I do not exist. Fragile thoughts dance in me.”
Employing literary excerpts (Kafka, Montaigne, Atharvaveda, Zen stories) as ciphers, Cordeiro and Reis weave an abstract story which portrays the invisible / intangible between the myth and history, arcane truths and primordial urges, personal narratives and universal themes on the grounds of Trás-os-Montes region in the northeast of Portugal. Breathtaking highlands become a playground for melancholic spirits whose rituals, in all of their peculiarities, are captured in lasting moments of sublime (visual) lyricism, leaving you stunned by their simple, yet mystifying beauty, further elevated by the rhapsody of nature’s voices. Desert Rose is a lucid dream defying to be interpreted, and reduced to words...
Recommended for the fans of Antouanetta Angelidi, (early) João César Monteiro and Sergei Parajanov.
3. Orestis / Orestes (Vasilis Fotopoulos, 1969)
Oh... my... fucking... Apollo! What a delirious delight!
Its negative presumed lost, and available as a severely damaged VHS bootleg, the only directorial offering from Vasilis Fotopoulos is nothing short of a flawed avant-garde masterpiece. Drenched in bloody, incandescent reds – a produce of multiple copying and gnawing tooth of time that actually lends its visuals a ‘mythical’ patina – it boldly deconstructs Euripides’ play via a brilliant mélange of experimental score, off-the-charts theatrics, ritualized mise-en-scène, and some hyper-kinetic montages involving anachronistic found footage bits. Orestes is portrayed by Hiram Keller who appears as if he wandered off the set of Fellini Satyricon (released in the same year), bringing childlike naiveté, and ‘make love, not war’ attitude to the titular role of gradual descent into madness turned infernal by virtue of the decayed imagery. Along with equally handsome David Elan Peterson (in his sole screen appearance, as Pyladus), he also infuses the film with strong homoerotic vibes that anticipate Pasolini’s Trilogy of Life, as well as Humfress and Jarman’s Sebastiane, with arhythmical proceedings evoking in turns Garrel and Corkidi! The ‘Yin’ to his pacifist ‘Yang’ is Flery Dadonaki (another debutant) whose fierce turn as Electra adds a hefty dose of fuel to the flame of tragedy which is filtered through the prism of opposition to the Military Junta.
4. Bushidō muzan / The Tragedy of Bushido (Eitarō Morikawa, 1960)
An impressive showcase of formidable formal talents, The Tragedy of Bushido is sadly the only feature helmed by writer/director Eitarō Morikawa. Drawing parallels between the draconian ‘way of the warrior’ and the unforgiving corporate system of post-WWII Japan (or capitalism, in general), it thematizes loyalty, honor, and sacrifice through a provocative melodrama giving off some Greek tragedy vibes. A tale of a teen boy (played with stoic intensity by then 21-yo Junichiro Yamashita) forced to commit ‘seppuku’ for his late lord is expressively lensed by another debutant, cinematographer Takao Kawarazaki, its B&W gorgeousness masterfully complemented by a dreamlike, mystery-evoking score from Riichirō Manabe. Morikawa elicits remarkable performances from his entire cast, demonstrating a deep understanding of cinematic language, as well as a keen sense of suspense.
5. 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. 
6. Rapture (John Guillermin, 1965)
“The law is meaningless unless it is compassionate.”
My, oh, my, what a gorgeous film! Rapture marks my third and most enthralling encounter with British director John Guillermin who creates something quite ahead of its time here (in fact, his heroine’s premature discovery of sexuality would raise some eyebrows even these days). A 15-yo woman-child, Agnes (Patricia Gozzi, giving a heartbreakingly stunning performance), falls for an escaped convict, Joseph (Dean Stockwell in his dashingly handsome prime) believing him to be her scarecrow brought to life, much to the disapproval of her retired judge father, Frederick (Melvyn Douglas, brilliant), and contending against their maid, Karen (the stellar Gunnel Lindblom, well-known to Bergman’s aficionados). Her troubled state of mind (isolation, repressive parent, no mother figure) or rather, slightly distorted perception of reality act as a prism through which the story is told, and it is breathtakingly captured through Marcel Grignon’s sweeping camerawork and clever choices of angles. Ravishing in equal measures is Georges Delerue’s music score, at turns eerily haunting and deeply affective, intertwining with the howling of the winds and later, urban noise which add more nuances to Agnes’s complex persona. What further fortifies Guillermin’s vision is the way he renders his characters relatable or at least sympathetic, despite their lousy decisions, murky morality and unhealthy relationships, pulling the viewer into a darkly romantic whirlpool.
7. The Illiac Passion (Gregory J. Markopoulos, 1967)
Led by Prometheus, the characters of the Greek mythology dream themselves into the NYC underground art scene of the time, bound to their cursed fates in a series of stilted rituals. Ancient stories are deconstructed beyond recognition in their becoming of tools for experimenting with the possibilities of cinema, as well as for externalizing the innermost thoughts and emotions of the author himself. And he acts as a hypnotist, his voice-over narration defining the rhythm through incessant repetitions – a Dadaesque recitation that robs the words of their meanings, letting the images speak or rather, wash over the viewer. Occasionally pierced by operatic interludes, they are dreamily captured on 35mm, with dense shadows veiling the naked bodies of increasingly homoerotic vignettes. The portrayals of love, passion, anguish, exploration, disorientation, and death are imbued with sensuality and esotericism; a dash of humor provided by Andy Warhol as Poseidon riding an exercise bike. 
8. Clash (Raphaël Delpard, 1984)
“Why not live behind the shadows?”
A simple if risky job of money smuggling turns into a living and breathing nightmare for Martine (Catherine Alric) doing favor for her thief (boy)friend, Bé. Even before she arrives at the hiding place – an abandoned factory inhabited only by mannequins, she begins seeing visions, the first one being of her younger self with leech-shaped blood clots over eyelids. Once an eerie, tight-lipped stranger (Pierre Clémenti) appears out of nowhere, things go from bad to worse, or more precisely, from pretty weird to deliriously bonkers. Quite possibly inspired by the rampant irrationality of Italian horror cinema, and at times channeling some proto-Lynchian-woman-in-trouble vibes, actor turned director Raphaël Delpard abandons every bit of logic in the barrel-infested backyard of the said factory, because throwing it out of the windows seems impossible, as they prove unbreakable. Thus leaving the viewers to solve the puzzle(s) as they please (or not!), he paints an absurd portrait of fear and guilt (and broken childhood?); a surrealistic fever dream beautifully framed by versed cinematographer Sacha Vierny (Last Year in Marienbad, Belle de Jour, L'hypothèse du tableau volé).
For a double dose of utter WTF-ery, I recommend Jean-Pierre Mocky’s 1982 feature Litan as a companion piece.
9. Yumenoshima Shōjo / Dream Island Girl (Shōichirō Sasaki, 1974)
A mood piece of hypnotizing, soul-healing quietude, Dream Island Girl exists somewhere between a secret and a reverie, in the haze of half-remembered memories of soft yet raw, proto-Jarmanesque textures, and poetic inwardness that anticipates the works of filmmakers such as Isao Yamada and Shunji Iwai. Largely told in flashbacks that often tear the boundaries between the dreamed and real, with dialogues significantly toned down in favor of lyrically composed images, it so wonderfully captures the melancholy of yearning, (im)possibility of love, intricacies of life, and vulnerability of the titular heroine (Sachiyo Nakao, then a high school senior, charmingly reserved in her debut), who seems to be lost in / shackled by a patriarchal society. Directed with a freewheeling ease, and shot with a keen if somewhat gazey eye, a plethora of wistful close-ups amplifying the emotional brooding, this experimental, stream-of-consciousness drama far surpasses its made-for-TV format, making for a shiny gem from the obscure side of Japanese cinema. 
10. Esquizo (Ricardo Bofill, 1970)
“I have the biggest patience and electricity in the world. God is the universe. I am the owner of the world. Therefore, I am God. Revolution is in progress and men will become demi-gods. Democracy doesn’t exist.”
A pseudo-documentary filtered through the prism of speculative fiction, and dubbed A Fictitious Report on the Architecture of the Brain, the only feature offering from acclaimed Catalan architect Ricardo Bofill portrays the mind of a schizophrenic woman as a piece of performance art. Intersected by the footage of real mentally disordered patients, naked boys playing in the sand, and animal carcasses in the slaughterhouse, it can be viewed as a simulacrum of life under a fascist regime, especially when the ‘omnipotent’ voice-over is taken into consideration. Miraculously surviving the Francoist censors (or was it too clever for them?), it has stood the test of time, and now – when the liberties are increasingly endangered all around the globe – its relevance couldn’t be more pronounced. A challenging experiment that may be dismissed as ‘pretentious’ by the mainstream audience, Esquizo also exposes “the lack of understanding, the lack of sympathy, the lack even of seeing or being incapable of visualizing how some people suffer, how incomprehensible their anguish is”. (Daniel Kasman, Rotterdam 2016. Acting Out)
11. 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. 
12. Kyūba no koibito / Cuban Lover (Kazuo Kuroki, 1969)
Released between Silence Has No Wings and Evil Spirits of Japan, both highly recommended, Cuban Lover commemorates the 10th anniversary of the Cuban Revolution, combining a romance and travelogue with archive footage of Castro’s and Guevara’s speeches. The film’s deliberately meandering tale chronicles the road trip of a young, aimless Japanese sailor, Akira (Masahiko Tsugawa, charmingly assertive), making advances to chiquitas (when ome exquisite use of POV shots comes into play) until he encounters Marcia (Obdulia Plasencia, superb in her only screen appearance) and falls head over hills for her. Following her around the country, he learns of its turbulent recent past, but is oft-left to his own devices, as the girl doesn’t seem too keen to abandon her post-revolutionary ideals for love. Their awkward relationship operates as a guerrilla-counterpart of the one from Resnais’s 1959 masterpiece Hiroshima, Mon Amour, leaving plenty of room for the reflection on the struggle for freedom and equality. The camerawork by the great Tatsuo Suzuki who would later frequently collaborate with Shūji Terayama, also working on feature offerings from Toshio Matsumoto (Funeral Parade of Roses, Dogura Magura), captures a specific time in history with such an inviting flair that one gets the impression of being there. Adding to the authenticity of the experience is the selection of popular songs intertwined with Teizō Matsumura’s euphonious, harp-heavy score.
13. Maléfices / Where the Truth Lies (Henri Decoin, 1962)
If the English version of the title were a question, we would all know the answer – not in the mouths of our leaders. Politics aside, Where the Truth Lies could be described as an atmospheric blend of dysfunctional marriage (melo)drama and adultery thriller, with hints of black magic thickening the air of mystery which envelopes the proceedings. An affair between a village vet (Jean-Marc Bory) and an enigmatic, African-born woman (Juliette Gréco) who keeps a pet cheetah (!) dissolves the image of the guy’s seemingly harmonious relationship with his wife (Liselotte Pulver), as Decoin tosses a whole school of red herrings that point at the possibility of ‘evil spells’ which is the literal translation of Maléfices. Where his film shines brightest is the striking use of Marcel Grignon’s highly expressive B&W cinematography that wouldn’t feel out of place in a gothic horror, as well as the visuals’ strong synergy with Pierre Henry’s discordantly foreboding score that underlines the dark side of love.
14. Antes, o Verão / Before, the Summer (Gerson Tavares, 1968)
A fragmented, flashback-punctuated story of the upper middle class disintegration, Before, the Summer feels like a cross between a piece of La Nouvelle Vague cinema, neo-noir, and Antonioni-esque meditation, charged with sexual tension. Revolving around a successful middle-aged man, Dr. Luiz (Jardel Filho), who conceals his insecurities behind the alpha male disguise (and gets his share of objectification), the film is set in and around a Cabo Frio summer house which poses as the extension of the protagonist’s personality. The glance-exchanging episode with his two teenage sons’ older friend, Roberto, and the mysterious hit-and-run in the vicinity of the resort portend the crumbling of Luiz’s marriage, and his own integrity, metaphorized through the ‘invasion’ of salt, sand and wind on his cozy (or rather, showy) cottage. The second of only two features Tavares helmed, this existential drama sees stellar performances from both professional actors and first-timers matched to assured direction, with the exquisite blocking and framing – laced with sensual, jazzy music – betraying the author’s background as a painter.
15. O Menino e o Vento / The Boy and the Wind (Carlos Hugo Christensen, 1967)
A missing link between Rashomon and Call Me by Your Name, with the elements of magic realism, noir, and Italian modernism permeating the proceedings, The Boy and the Wind is a peculiar queer drama, one with a poetic soul that may not be evident right from the get-go. Its emotional core – a gentle tale of the bromance between a young engineer and an adolescent boy who share the passion for the winds – gets fully revealed in the second half, through a flashback posing as the protagonist’s testimony during a somewhat Kafkaesque trial. Ênio Gonçalves (in a TV-to-big screen transfer) and Luiz Fernando Ianelli (unaffected in his debut) both bring subtlety and intuitive intelligence to their leading roles, as Antônio Gonçalves’ camera captures their handsome faces with great affection. The epilogue is, simply put, wonderful.
16. Souvenir (Michael H. Shamberg, 1996)
In the only feature offering from Michael H. Shamberg (1952-2014) – best known for producing New Order music videos, singer turned actress Miranda Stanton plays Orlando, a reticent, expatriate American sports journalist who lives and works in (deglamorized) Paris. Haunted by the memories of her abusive childhood, she is the benevolent heart of a dreamy, stream-of-consciousness narrative that brings together ghosts of the past and prospects of the future into the sullen present dissolving under the weight of the trauma. Fragments of her everyday life are often intertwined with the imagined conversations of teenage Orlando with her late brother, Charles (voiced by Christina Ricci and Adam Hann-Byrd, respectively), that hint at their incestuous relationship, and further blur the boundaries between the real and imagined. Add to that bizarre computer sessions featuring graphics created by the acclaimed experimentalist Chris Marker, and you have yourself a lyrically outré portrait of an emotionally scarred woman, and simultaneously, a formal challenge that sees every technique, from soft focuses to slow motion to tracking shots to handheld montages, employed as an asset for externalizing the heroine’s innermost workings. Supporting Stanton in what feels very much like a deeply personal project are Kristin Scott Thomas as Orlando’s superior, and Melvil Poupaud as Charles.
17. Born in Flames (Lizzie Borden, 1983)
“We still see the depression from the oppression that still exists, both day and night. For we are the children of the light and we will continue to fight. Not against the flesh and blood, but against the system that names itself falsely...”
Set in a dystopia rising behind the facade of ‘socialist democracy’, Born in Flames has to be one of the most revolt-inspiring films ever made. Politically conscious in its raw, pamphletic poetry, and, at the present moment, alarmingly relevant, it is directed with a punk attitude and sense of urgency for justice, primarily gender, but racial, social and sexual as well. Its themes – filtered through the actions of a radical feminist group dubbed Women’s Army – sit pretty well with the grungy 16mm cinematography, abrasive soundtrack, and unaffected, cinéma vérité-like performances from a largely non-professional cast, with the acclaimed filmmaker Kathryn Bigelow making her big-screen debut in a supporting role.
18. Boof-e koor / The Blind Owl (Kioumars Derambakhsh, 1975)
“Only death never tells a lie.”
Faithfully adapting a part of Sadegh Hedayat’s masterful novella of the same name, Kioumars Derambakhsh (1945-2020) manages to capture the spirit, if not all the layers and ellipses of the source material in his first (and only?) fiction featurette. A cinematic equivalent of a nightmare, The Blind Owl clocks at around 55 minutes, playing out like a time-distorting rumination on death, with themes of desire, guilt and tradition (as a factor of torment) skillfully intertwined into the bleakly surrealistic tale. In the central role of an unreliable narrator, Parviz Fanizadeh delivers a superb performance, his expressions and the slightest of movements reflecting the disturbed inner state of his world-weary character. Desolate surroundings of withered grass, barren trees, cracked earth, and man-made structures of mud and stone – all arrestingly framed – also play an important role in the portrayal of the protagonist’s anguished psyche...
19. Docteur Chance / Doctor Chance (F.J. Ossang, 1997)
“She’s dreaming. Blood colors the leaves. A smell of gasoline. The metal drenched with rain. Just a wall to lean on. A piece of glass in the throat till the blood stops flowing. We empty ourselves of the world and it’s good.”
More a (pulp) fever dream than a film, Doctor Chance appears like a vague reflection / afterthought of a gangster noir gradually turning into a road movie on a lost highway of crypto-poetic raving. Its fragmented narrative or rather, a dissolving illusion of it, exists only as a thread which holds a patchwork of cinematic references, from silent era to the French New Wave to postmodern psychological thrillers. As always with F.J. Ossang, the strongest is a Godardian influence, subtly filtered through the prism of punk nihilism into a freewheeling, stream-of-consciousness abandon. His brooding characters are but ciphers rooted in the crime genre archetypes, and confined within the images they desperately try to escape from – “disappear in flight to show that the sky exists”. A mother figure (the late and great Almodovar’s regular Marisa Paredes) and a lover (the author’s muse Elvire) may hold the keys of the exit...
20. TVO (Tatsuya Ohta, 1991)
Love couldn’t be more irrational in a story of an artistically inclined girl with a heartbeat-reading power who comes to Tokyo, and falls for her older sister’s killer, an aspiring nightclub singer. However, the reality of Tatsuya Ohta’s debut (or rather, the first of only two features he has helmed) is so off that murder could be but a metaphor, and the perpetrator only a victim of a society in which everyone operates contrary to their motivations. Part neo-noir deconstruction and part mood experiment / tone poem with a road movie coda, TVO (aka TV Obsession) appears like a missing link between Gregg Araki at his most melancholic and David Lynch in his Twin Peaks element. It is highly likely that Ohta has seen the cult series, considering the more-or-less direct references, and yet his film comes across as quite refreshing in its brooding, post-punk-like ruminations. An out-of-the-box exploration of grief, past traumas, addiction, and longing for a genuine human connection in an alienating environment, it unfolds at a deliberate pace reflecting the media-controlled apathy that chains two central characters, Satsuki (actress and songstress Yukako Hayase in her last role) and Ko (Atsushi Okuno in his first screen appearance). Their suppressed energies collide and intertwine in a way that is both liberating and confounding, the all-pervasive vagueness and non-conformity captured in smoky cinematography by Norimichi Kasamatsu who would later collaborate with Sōgo (aka Gakuryū) Ishii on Labyrinth of Dreams and Electric Dragon 80.000 V.
