Savina Petkova

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).

Poor Things showcases the director at his most playful and comedic, weaving his otherwise evident political critique into the complex character of Bella: a new kind of woman, a tabula rasa. How pleasurable it is to witness an evolution like Bella’s, with wonder and admiration.

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.

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.

Seydoux is once again marvellous and a collaboration such as this seems long overdue.

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’s too much to make it really work.

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.

Afire is the uncompromising work of a master not only on conceptual and stylistic levels but also in terms of his emotional politics.

It is surprising, stylish, and unabashedly brave.

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

By replacing one, more earthly transcendence, with another, Pleasure confirms itself as a film that lays bare the paradoxes of complying to a flawed system, and critiques the commercialisation of bodies with orgasmic poeticism.

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.

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.

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.

On the one hand, Society of the Snow is a perfectly watchable film punctured by affect and empathy, and on the other it taps into the power of cinema to bear witness––even in the most conventional of genres––to those who no longer are with us.

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.

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.

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.

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