Savina Petkova

Chomet’s film is finally an edifying, educating piece of work, beautifully drawn and composed.

The two powerhouse performances at the heart of Dreams manage to stand so tall that it seems a love story like theirs can overpower even the trademark brutality one has learned to expect in every Michel Franco film.

Rarely has maternal trauma been so well-dramatized on the big screen with zest, humor, and genuine appreciation of the ambivalence baked into these relationships.

Holding Liat quickly reveals a much more complex picture: a constellation of personal opinions, politics, and viewpoints coming from the Israeli-American Beinin family.

León and Cociña, per usual, have their fingers on the pulse, and their particularly material approach to storytelling and the nation-psyche makes The Hyperboreans a poignant, experimental film-warning urging you to never forget.

Hadžihalilović has formed an homage to cinema as an enchantment-casting machine.

The definition of an oddball, Manfred / John is a brilliant character for Mads Mikkelsen to experiment with; mostly, it’s a role that’s not physical in a way that showcases the actor’s plasticity. He’s a bespectacled middle-aged man who’s timid and quiet until he’s volatile and hysterical––a surprisingly infantile character that brings out of Mikkelsen something we’re not used to seeing.

Immersing yourself in the daze of Silent Friend is like accepting a joyous gift, even if you don’t ultimately believe that plants can or want to communicate with us. With her exquisite new work, Ildikó Enyedi has achieved the improbable goal of making non-human, humanistic cinema that is inclusive and reverent without falling into idolization (of plants) or condemnation (of humans).

That most of Hersch’s breakthroughs have been, in one way or another, reported on and drowned out in the media noise is also quite telling: without overtly stating it, the film also undercuts the image of him as a journalistic messiah or prophet-of-sorts: he was simply more persistent.

The film’s whole narrative set-up reveals itself flimsy and unconvincing––it doesn’t take much to realize that a conversation between a political advisor and a political expert could never in a million years be so toothless and dull.

Yes, the film is called Frankenstein, but it feels like he never fully deserved the title of protagonist, especially since Oscar Isaac manages to give such a strong performance playing a morally limp man who flew too close to the sun.

Yuknavitch’s book is one of reflected pains and joys, a testimony to the resilience of a woman’s own body; Stewart’s filmmaking renders them not visible, not audible, but deeply felt.

By the end, everything that was once smooth has become textured––the sleek TV-style aesthetic morphing into a sweaty mix of shadow, light, and flickers––as Hannah Holland’s pumping techno soundtrack has fully taken over. A sexy new world emerges from the rubble of torn-down bourgeois morale.

Yes, the film is a heartfelt homage to Lorenz Hart, but also to the strength necessary to say goodbye to the world as you knew it, so even the occasional bitterness Hart speaks with has a balmy quality to it.

Carax allows his audience to see a process––assertive statement to hesitation to defeat. The true vulnerability of the essayistic form lies in showing attempts and failures, not only successes.

Happyend outlines two kinds of responses to a future that seems bleaker by the hour: one is abdication, the other resistance. But the split between the two is never clear-cut and Neo Sora imbues the film with doubts, hesitation, and hope in equal measure.

Harvest operates on the level of humanism and micro-history, conjuring the feeling it’s possible to inhabit a lost past––even for a little bit––as if it was a myth, before we made the crushing reality that eventually overtook our present and future.

That, in the end, everyone is yearning for Horizon remains a beautiful melodramatic touch: in this symbol Costner has weaved a Romantic thread without diminishing the traumatic resonances associated with every depiction of that era.

Dea Kulumbegashvili has found a way to draw mystery from the literal instead of turning it into metaphor––April’s hypnotism is made possible because everything onscreen is what it looks like, but it is also something more. But never something else, as a metaphor or an allegory would suggest.

With all this at play, Matt and Mara conjures a very particular kind of magic: that of an emotional journey which is shared but never properly enunciated.

On this occasion Salles has somehow failed to find the right cinematic framework for this biopic storytelling. The film feels uncalibrated, but not in the free-flowing, depth-exploring, liberated kind of way.

There is wit, some stinging humor, and a lot of arousal baked into Babygirl, but it all works so well as an exciting, sexy (yes, let’s reclaim this word!) whole because the film pays attention to sex. The mood, the boundaries, the mistakes, the ecstasy of it all feed into its melodramatic streaks.

There’s something hypnotic in the rhythms of the film, seeing how troubles that could be easily resolved are left to fester; now there is no going back.

It’s easy to see Family Portrait as a film about familial dynamics (all of which are similarly complex) and a snapshot of an erratic day (all of which are, when the family gathers), but Kerr unearths something buried much deeper. Throbbing underneath the surface is longing.

The film may not leave any deep marks or make you consider parenthood in a new light, but it still constitutes an auspicious debut.

It is surprising, stylish, and unabashedly brave.

Khebizi, an acting newcomer, delivers a performance that’s this close to perfection, using her sparse dialogue and highly stylized gestures to make Liane appear almost untouchable. If only the script could live up to the level of complexity her first role achieves.

Fantastic Machine makes for a decent A-level crash-course in media history, before you graduate to Kirsten Johnson’s far superior Cameraperson.