Rafaela Sales Ross

Despite the frustrations of its labyrinthine rhythms, Landmarks is a worthy companion to Martel’s Zama in its prodding at the contradictions of a country whose denial is so grave it will bend its language and its laws before acknowledging truths that shed light on the horrors of its past that painfully echo in the present.

A bothersome, ever-present sense of constraint permeates this twisted drama on the complexities of Gen Z morality. The Italian auteur, renowned for gnawing at the knotty edges of controversy with the unrestrained hunger of the unbothered, seems somewhat hesitant to fully dig into the messiness of the piping hot issue at hand.

Whenever it leans into these poignant metaphors to ask questions of guilt and duty, A Private Life grasps at something real and raw. It’s a shame Zlotowski so willingly refuses to take her finger off that pulse, even if the result remains a pleasurable ride.

Urchin puts forward a sensitive, promising director. And an even more promising writer.

There is something not quite right about this one Almodóvar film, a dramedy that emulates all that makes a story Almodovarian but bypasses its essence entirely.

By creating — and persisting — on this on-the-nose parallel between the tragedy of opera and the one of Callas’s life, the duo sees this woman solely through the tragic value of her woes, denying her talent and her craft from the light that is true human connection, built not only through shared griefs but the deep understanding of one another that only great art can promote.

While the first act feels dynamic despite its stationary setting, the latter sections unravel oppositely. The gags that played so well the first time around grow tiresome through repetition, and the mystery around the big event that seems to lead them all into doom takes center stage to the detriment of the relationship between the characters.

What is grief if not a non-linear, mood-spanning, incongruous mess? In this, The Shrouds feels like one of the greatest encapsulations of loss and one we might look at more and more fondly as time goes by.

By gambling with the flimsy dice of morality, the director crafts a film that successfully bypasses the traps of the gratuitous to find its way towards an uncomfortable but ultimately rewarding catharsis.

The End We Start From is a muddy post-apocalyptic drama that fails to nail the human connection at its core.

The result is a visually rich film that finds moments of entertaining inspiration but suffers from a frustrating lack of focus.

The two veteran actors share a lukewarm chemistry but settle into a competent balance between the diametrically opposed nature of their characters. Alas, as sharp as the duo might be, they cannot fight the moroseness that sets into the film’s latter half.

Not only is the film’s portrayal of Felicia tainted by ethnically inappropriate casting, but her character itself is often reductive—she is but the modern wife of a modern man, coming forth with a loose agreement on fidelity that inched Leonard across the finish line of a lengthy road towards marriage.

As it is, the enormity of these feelings is trapped, lingering unexplored with nowhere to go, and the frustration felt as a viewer eventually gives way to disengagement.

Had it kept prodding at the political parallels of 1990 Berlin and Maria and Henner’s romance, “Someday We’ll Tell Each Other Everything” would have sat beautifully at the intersection between the coming-of-age of a young woman and that of an old country. Instead, Atef opts to stretch out the story, stubbornly tugging at the corners of the narrative, expanding a tale rich in its metaphors until it becomes see-through.

Subtlety proves a scarce commodity as the debuting duo chops at this cautionary tale until its fragile narrative bones are fully exposed, dialogue stripped of any valuable nuance.

If the script plunges into the frustrating waters of predictability, Manodrome finds some solace in the asserted cast.

She Came to Me lacks the palpable chemistry of a rom-com and the sobering relatability of a Nicole Holofcener dramedy, but it does find moments of inspiration thanks to its A-lister cast.

The arresting visual competency of Scarlet, which includes the clever use of archival footage previously seen in Marcello’s Venice darling “Martin Eden” and the beautifully composed textures of its cinematography, can’t salvage its muddled pace.

As a visual offering, The Silent Twins has moments of sheer, raw imaginativeness. As a worthy study of the two central characters, sadly, it lacks the same level of vision.

It is a shame that The Tender Bar never truly capitalizes on the quality of its few moments of comedic inspiration, leaning instead towards a melodrama doomed to be forever trapped in afternoon reruns.