HIGHLIGHTS
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Soeur Marie-Ange (Lebanon)
★★★★½ Written & Directed by Rami Salloum |
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Persona Non Grata:
Chiune Sugihara (Japan) ★★★★½ Directed by Cellin Gluck |
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ALPHABETICAL ORDER
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A Poet's Life (USA)
★★★½ Directed by Brandon S. N. Butler Brandon S. N. Butler's "A Poet's Life" is a meditative exploration of artistic faith in the face of life's crushing practicalities that recalls Terrence Malick's "The Tree of Life" (2011) in its ethereal visual poetry and philosophical undertones. Like Felix van Groeningen's "Beautiful Boy" (2018), it delicately navigates the complex territory of familial bonds tested by circumstance, though here through the lens of a struggling poet rather than addiction. The film's thematic backbone rests on three philosophical pillars: the tension between artistic calling and material necessity, the nature of sacrifice in the face of mortality, and the ethereal quality of inspiration itself. David Marciano brings a weathered dignity to Benjamin Kays, a 58-year-old poet whose creative spirit wages war with his pragmatic duties as he works extra shifts at a Los Angeles grocery store to fund his younger brother's cancer treatment. Butler's direction demonstrates remarkable restraint, allowing scenes to breathe through visual storytelling rather than dialogue, reminiscent of Chloé Zhao's naturalistic approach in "Nomadland" (2020). The cinematography by John David Wynne exhibits a painterly attention to light and composition, particularly in scenes where Benjamin contemplates his artistic trajectory amidst the fluorescent-lit aisles of the grocery store. These moments are punctuated by Ryan McTear's original score, which weaves together ethereal atmospherics with contemplative piano motifs that underscore the protagonist's inner turmoil without overwhelming it. What elevates "A Poet's Life" beyond mere character study is its exploration of the metaphysical relationship between creativity and sacrifice. The film poses profound questions about the nature of inspiration and whether abandoning one's muse is a form of spiritual death. Butler's script demonstrates a sophisticated understanding of how economic pressures can suffocate artistic expression, yet suggests that true creative spirit may be inextinguishable, even when seemingly abandoned. For a debut film, Butler displays remarkable maturity in his storytelling approach. His background as an actor clearly informs his direction, particularly in the way he draws out Marciano's nuanced performance. The film's limited dialogue and emphasis on visual storytelling create a contemplative space where questions of artistic integrity, familial duty, and personal fulfillment resonate long after the final frame. This philosophical depth, combined with its technical accomplishments, marks Butler as a filmmaker to watch, even as he explores well-trodden territory about the struggling artist with fresh eyes and genuine empathy. Personal note to the filmmaker: Brandon, your inaugural journey behind the camera demonstrates a profound understanding of the delicate balance between showing and telling. There's a beautiful irony in how you've crafted a film about a poet that relies so heavily on visual poetry rather than words. Your trust in silence and space shows remarkable confidence for a first-time director. - Reviewed by Adrián Pérez 
Abnormal Fixation (USA)
★★★ Directed by John Kenneth Muir John Kenneth Muir's "Abnormal Fixation" (2024) emerges as a fascinating experimental piece that deliberately deconstructs genre conventions through its avant-garde approach to form and narrative. Like Luis Buñuel's surrealist masterworks, Muir's film seems to reject traditional cinematic grammar in favour of a more conceptual exploration of truth and perception. The film's protagonist Elvis Bragg's quest to document paranormal activity becomes a clever metaphor for our collective search for meaning in an increasingly mediated world, reminiscent of the ontological investigations in David Lynch's "Inland Empire" (2006). The film's innovative use of direct-to-camera address and minimalist aesthetic creates an intriguing dialogue with contemporary screen culture. Where recent entries like Jordan Peele's "Nope" (2022) or Jane Schoenbrun's "We're All Going to the World's Fair" (2021) explore digital mediation through conventional narrative structures, "Abnormal Fixation" takes a more radical approach, stripping away cinematic artifice to expose the raw mechanics of storytelling itself. This bold stylistic choice positions the work firmly within the tradition of experimental filmmakers like Jonas Mekas and Stan Brakhage, who similarly challenged traditional notions of what cinema could be. Muir's decision to emphasise dialogue over conventional visual storytelling techniques reads as a deliberate subversion of horror-comedy tropes, creating something more akin to the philosophical investigations of Charlie Kaufman's "Synecdoche, New York" (2008). The film's apparent simplicity masks a complex meditation on belief systems, parasocial relationships, and the commodification of personal crisis. Through its unconventional structure, "Abnormal Fixation" creates a unique viewing experience that demands active engagement from its audience. The narrative framework, built around a high-stakes wager involving both financial and emotional investment, serves as a brilliant metaphor for the artist's relationship with their work. Muir's choice to merge personal crisis with paranormal investigation creates a fascinating tension between objective documentation and subjective experience, recalling the best traditions of experimental cinema. The result is a work that feels genuinely unique in today's landscape of genre filmmaking. Mr. Muir, your bold experimental vision marks you as a filmmaker unafraid to challenge conventional wisdom about what horror-comedy can be. "Abnormal Fixation" stands as a testament to the power of conceptual filmmaking, proving that true innovation often comes from rejecting established norms. Your willingness to push boundaries and explore new forms of storytelling suggests exciting possibilities for your future work. This is precisely the kind of daring, experimental filmmaking that keeps the medium vital and evolving. - Reviewed by Adrián Pérez 
Actuality In Acting (USA)
★★★½ Directed by Miguel Mas In an era where meta-narratives have become increasingly prevalent—from Charlie Kaufman's "Adaptation" (2002) to Michel Hazanavicius's "Final Cut" (2022)—Miguel Mas's "Actuality in Acting" emerges as a precisely calibrated chamber piece that deconstructs the artifice of performance whilst celebrating the very essence of cinematic creation. This masterfully crafted short film positions itself within the tradition of such works as Abbas Kiarostami's "Close-Up" (1990) and Olivier Assayas's "Irma Vep" (2022), examining the liminal space between reality and performance with remarkable dexterity. Set within the confined space of a Los Angeles apartment, reminiscent of John Cassavetes's "Opening Night" (1977), Mas orchestrates an intimate pas de deux between Natalia and Pablo, former lovers reunited after thirteen years. Their post-coital discussion about the evolution of method acting serves as a clever metacommentary on the nature of performance itself. The dialogue, laden with theatrical discourse, recalls the intellectual sparring of Eric Rohmer's moral tales, whilst the spatial dynamics echo the claustrophobic intimacy of Ingmar Bergman's "Scenes from a Marriage" (1973). The film's genius lies in its ability to simultaneously operate on multiple diegetic levels, much like Charlie Kaufman's "Synecdoche, New York" (2008). The seemingly naturalistic conversation about producing a film project becomes a russian doll of performance, each layer revealing new dimensions of authenticity. Mas demonstrates remarkable control over the film's phenomenological aspects, allowing the viewer to experience the gradual dissolution of the fourth wall with the same destabilising effect as Michael Haneke's "Funny Games" (1997). The performances by Marian Zapico and Miguel Mas himself achieve that rare quality of being simultaneously self-aware and deeply genuine. Their chemistry recalls the electric dynamic between Julie Delpy and Ethan Hawke in Richard Linklater's "Before" trilogy (1995-2013), whilst their meta-theatrical discourse evokes the philosophical depth of Alejandro González Iñárritu's "Birdman" (2014). The final reveal, where the camera pulls back to expose the film crew, is not merely a clever trick but a profound statement about the collective nature of cinematic creation, reminiscent of François Truffaut's "Day for Night" (1973). In its brief six-and-a-half minutes, "Actuality in Acting" accomplishes what many feature-length films struggle to achieve: a meaningful exploration of performance theory, authenticity in acting, and the collaborative nature of filmmaking. Mas has created a work that functions both as an academic treatise on contemporary performance methodologies and as an affecting piece of cinema. For a director working within the constraints of zero-budget filmmaking, this level of conceptual sophistication and technical execution is nothing short of remarkable. One eagerly anticipates what Mas will accomplish with greater resources at his disposal, as he has already demonstrated an exceptional ability to transform theoretical discourse into compelling cinema. - Reviewed by Adrián Pérez 
Americans In Israel (USA)
★★★½ Directed by Johnny Vonneumann Johnny Vonneumann's "Americans in Israel" (2023) emerges as the latest evolution in his distinctive "documentary opera" series, presenting an immersive audiovisual experience that deliberately challenges conventional cinematic language. Like the boundary-pushing works of Stan Brakhage's "Dog Star Man" (1961-1964) or Jonas Mekas's intimate diary films, Vonneumann's experimental approach creates a unique dialogue between personal documentation and artistic expression. The film's rich visual tapestry—comprising multilayered footage from the director's Israeli journey—creates a bold, phantasmagoric viewing experience. Vonneumann's experimental editing techniques, combined with his carefully selected jazz score, produce an ambitious synaesthetic effect that recalls the innovative spirit of Nam June Paik's pioneering video art. This synthesis of sound and image creates moments of genuine transcendence, particularly when the rhythmic editing aligns with the musical accompaniment. What emerges is less a traditional documentary and more an exploration of perception itself, sharing spiritual kinship with the psychedelic experiments of Kenneth Anger and the visual poetry of Maya Deren. The saturated colours and dynamic imagery create a hypnotic effect that demands—and sometimes rewards—complete sensory engagement. Vonneumann's work occupies an intriguing space between personal cinema and pure visual art, suggesting exciting possibilities for future development in both domains. The director's commitment to zero-budget filmmaking demonstrates remarkable resourcefulness, echoing the DIY ethos of early avant-garde cinema. His approach transforms everyday travel footage into something more ambitious and experimental, challenging audience expectations about both documentary and experimental film forms. While the intensity of his style might occasionally overwhelm, there's no denying the singular vision at work. To Mr. Vonneumann: Your dedication to pushing the boundaries of personal cinema is admirable, and there's something truly fascinating about your desire to transform travel documentation into experimental art. As your "documentary opera" style continues to evolve, it will be interesting to see how you further develop this unique form of audiovisual expression. Your work reminds us that cinema can still surprise and challenge us in unexpected ways. - Reviewed by Adrián Pérez 
Arlington Heights (USA)
★★★ Directed by Eric Ayala In Eric Ayala's "Arlington Heights", we witness a masterfully crafted exploration of familial trauma and corporate power dynamics that recalls the psychological complexity of Ingmar Bergman's "Autumn Sonata" (1978) whilst channelling the contemporary female-driven narrative tension of Sarah Polley's "Women Talking" (2022). At its core, the series pilot presents a dual narrative structure that interweaves the professional dismantling of a successful magazine editor with the unravelling of long-buried family secrets, creating a tapestry of psychological warfare that speaks volumes about contemporary power structures and generational trauma. Shimri Taemar's tour de force performance as Arlington Cavanaugh anchors the series with remarkable psychological depth. Her portrayal of a woman caught between professional ambition and familial obligation demonstrates an impressive range, particularly in scenes where corporate power plays intersect with personal crisis. Taemar brings a raw vulnerability to Arlington that elevates the material beyond its televisual constraints, her nuanced performance style reminiscent of Laura Linney's work in "Ozark" (2017-2022). The narrative's exploration of maternal bonds and corporate manipulation finds fascinating parallels with Charlotte Wells' "Aftersun" (2022) in its examination of memory and identity. While the cinematography remains firmly within television convention, lacking the cinematic ambition that might have enhanced its psychological complexity, Ayala demonstrates remarkable restraint in his treatment of family dynamics. The kitchen sequence, reminiscent of the claustrophobic intensity in Asghar Farhadi's "A Separation" (2011), transforms a simple meal preparation into a powder keg of repressed emotions and unspoken truths, though one wishes for more sophisticated visual language to match the narrative's psychological depth. What elevates "Arlington Heights" beyond its modest production values is its sophisticated engagement with Lacanian concepts of identity formation and maternal loss. Taemar's commanding screen presence helps transcend the somewhat pedestrian visual approach, her performance adding layers of complexity to scenes that might otherwise feel conventional. The series demonstrates potential in its manipulation of space and time, even as it struggles to break free from standard television aesthetics. As a meditation on power, identity, and the price of success, "Arlington Heights" announces both Ayala and Taemar as significant new voices in contemporary television. While the visual execution might lack cinematic flourish, the emotional and psychological complexity of the narrative, anchored by Taemar's compelling performance, speaks to natural talent for storytelling. The series pilot demonstrates remarkable potential for exploring contemporary themes of corporate manipulation and familial loyalty through a distinctly psychological lens, suggesting that with more ambitious production values, future episodes could elevate the material to even greater heights. - Reviewed by Adrián Pérez B
Be Not Afraid (Australia)
★★★½ Directed by Phillip Rang In the vast expanse of the Australian outback, where the ancient riverbed meets the dawn sky, Philip Rang's "Be Not Afraid" emerges as a luminous exploration of spiritual yearning and familial connection. Drawing parallels to Terrence Malick's "The Tree of Life" (2011) and Charlotte Wells' "Aftersun" (2022), this meditative short film transcends conventional narrative boundaries to create a deeply affecting portrait of absence and presence, memory and hope. The film's profound visual grammar, reminiscent of Emmanuel Lubezki's work in "Children of Men" (2006), transforms the arid landscape of Alice Springs into a metaphysical canvas. Rang's masterful cinematography—developed through decades of commercial work across continents—creates a hypnotic interplay between light and movement that elevates the piece beyond mere visual spectacle into the realm of transcendental cinema. The camera's dance with Madison Sue Hull's Kara becomes a sublime pas de deux, evoking the ethereal qualities found in Claire Denis' "Beau Travail" (1999). At its thematic core, "Be Not Afraid" operates within three interconnected philosophical frameworks: the liminality of presence/absence (drawing from Derrida's concept of différance), the phenomenology of embodied memory, and the psychology of spiritual attachment. Ray Martin's disembodied voice—performed with profound restraint—creates a haunting dialectic between the temporal and the eternal, the corporeal and the divine. This layered approach to narrative construction allows the film to function simultaneously as a personal journey and a universal meditation on faith and identity. The film's most striking sequence occurs as Kara's footprints manifest in the soft sand, creating a visual metaphor that recalls both religious imagery and the Australian Aboriginal concept of songlines. This moment, bathed in the crystalline light of dawn, achievely perfectly what Charlotte Rampling once described as cinema's unique ability to "make the invisible visible." The integration of native wildlife as symbolic totems further enriches the film's exploration of heritage and belonging, while the climactic fire sequence serves as a powerful metaphor for transformation and rebirth. What distinguishes "Be Not Afraid" is its remarkable synthesis of technical precision and emotional authenticity. For a first-time filmmaker, Rang demonstrates exceptional control over his medium, creating a work that feels both carefully crafted and spiritually spontaneous. The decision to incorporate the Wanted Gems' music adds another layer of raw authenticity to the piece. In an era where many films mistake complexity for depth, "Be Not Afraid" achieves profundity through simplicity, reminding us that cinema's greatest power lies not in what it shows us, but in what it allows us to feel. Personal Note: As a critic who has witnessed countless attempts to capture the ineffable on screen, I found myself deeply moved by the gentle authority of Rang's vision. His background in cinematography has clearly informed every frame, yet the technical mastery never overshadows the film's beating heart. In just eight minutes, "Be Not Afraid" accomplishes what many features struggle to achieve: it creates a space for genuine contemplation and emotional resonance. This is precisely the kind of bold, personal filmmaking that the industry needs—work that dares to be both intimate and universal, technical and spiritual. Rang has marked himself as a filmmaker to watch, and I eagerly anticipate his future contributions to cinema. - Reviewed by Adrián Pérez 
Behind The Door (USA)
★★★½ Directed by Danilo Marichal In Danilo Marichal's claustrophobic chamber piece "Behind the Door," we witness the manifestation of grief through a visceral corporeal metaphor that would make David Cronenberg proud. This USC student film demonstrates remarkable restraint in its examination of loss, memory, and the physical toll of emotional repression. Like Julia Ducournau's "Titane" (2021) or Rose Glass's "Saint Maud" (2019), Marichal's work sits confidently within the new wave of body horror that prioritises psychological complexity over mere shock value. The film's central conceit—a mysterious skin condition that spreads across our protagonist's body—operates as a brilliant metaphor for unprocessed trauma, reminiscent of Brandon Cronenberg's "Possessor" (2020) in its exploration of bodily autonomy as a reflection of psychological state. Enzo, portrayed by Bryan Scamman, becomes our unreliable narrator through this somatic journey, his deteriorating epidermis serving as a physical manifestation of his inability to confront what lies behind that titular door. The ambiguity surrounding his partner's fate creates an atmosphere of mounting dread that recalls the domestic unease of Charlotte Wells's "Aftersun" (2022), though here the melancholy is tinged with something potentially more sinister. Marichal demonstrates remarkable efficiency in his use of the single location, transforming a confined space into a psychological battleground that would make Aronofsky envious. Gregory Roberts's cinematography, while occasionally missing opportunities for more intimate character study through close-up work, nevertheless creates a suffocating atmosphere that perfectly complements the protagonist's increasing isolation. The 2.39:1 aspect ratio is employed to emphasise the horizontal expanse of empty space, making the vertical barrier of the door all the more imposing. In its exploration of grief and possible guilt, "Behind the Door" shares thematic DNA with Jonathan Glazer's "The Zone of Interest" (2023), examining how humans compartmentalise trauma and responsibility. The wedding ring becomes a potent symbol, its presence on Enzo's diseased hand forcing a confrontation with marriage, mortality, and perhaps something darker. While Scamman's performance occasionally skims the surface where deeper waters might have been plumbed, the physical transformation he undergoes remains compelling. What emerges from this six-minute exercise in tension is a promising glimpse into Marichal's potential as a filmmaker. Working with a modest budget of $2,000, he has crafted a work that punches well above its weight in terms of conceptual ambition. Though it may not fully realise the psychological depths it reaches for, "Behind the Door" announces the arrival of a director who understands that true horror often lies not in what we see, but in what remains hidden—both behind closed doors and within ourselves. For a student film to achieve such thematic resonance whilst maintaining technical proficiency is no small feat, and Marichal should be proud of this achievement. One senses that with continued refinement of his craft, particularly in terms of performance direction and visual intimacy, his future works will throw open doors to even more compelling cinematic spaces. - Reviewed by Adrián Pérez 
Better Together: Furman's Championship Quest (USA)
★★★★½ Directed by Richmond Weaver Richmond Weaver's *Better Together: Furman's Championship Quest* masterfully transcends the conventional sports documentary format, offering a profound meditation on collective resilience and the transformative power of shared trauma. In an era where sporting narratives often gravitate towards individual heroics, Weaver's lens deliberately focuses on the liminal space between devastating failure and triumphant redemption, reminiscent of Steve James's seminal *Hoop Dreams* (1994) but with a distinctly contemporary dialectical approach to team dynamics. The documentary's opening sequence—capturing the soul-crushing defeat in the 2022 Southern Conference finals—establishes what French philosopher Maurice Merleau-Ponty would term the "lived body experience" of athletic disappointment. This moment becomes the philosophical fulcrum around which the entire narrative pivots, calling to mind the existential athletics explored in Bennett Miller's *Foxcatcher* (2014) and Chloé Zhao's *The Rider* (2017). Weaver's camera, operating with almost anthropological precision, transforms the basketball court into a theatre of psychological reconstruction, where Coach Bob Richey's methodology emerges as a fascinating case study in post-traumatic growth theory. The film's visual grammar deserves particular attention. Through Brian Fannin's cinematography, the training sequences transcend mere documentation to become a kinetic ballet of physical and mental fortitude. The slow-motion segments, particularly during crucial game moments, echo the contemplative sports photography of *Moneyball* (2011, Bennett Miller) while the intimate locker room footage recalls Frederick Wiseman's institutional studies. This visual approach, coupled with the film's innovative sound design, creates what film theorist Laura Mulvey might recognise as a "scopophilic inversion"—where the pleasure of watching becomes inseparable from the psychological journey of the subjects. Most impressive is how Weaver weaves together multiple narrative threads without succumbing to sports documentary clichés. The parallel character arcs of Jalen Slawson and Mike Bothwell serve as compelling counterpoints, their contrasting personalities reminiscent of the dynamic tension in *The Last Dance* (2020, Jason Hehir). The film's exploration of team chemistry through their perspectives offers a fascinating study in group psychology, particularly in how collective identity forms through shared adversity—a theme that resonates strongly with recent works like *Drive to Survive* (2019-2024) and *All or Nothing: Arsenal* (2022, Clare Cameron). What elevates *Better Together* beyond mere sports chronicle is its profound engagement with the philosophy of collective achievement. In an age of hyper-individualism, Weaver's film stands as a powerful testament to the transformative potential of genuine collaboration. The Paladins' journey from devastating defeat to NCAA Tournament glory becomes a compelling metaphor for community resilience, making this not just a sports documentary, but a vital commentary on contemporary social dynamics. In the tradition of great sports filmmaking, from *When We Were Kings* (1996, Leon Gast) to *Free Solo* (2018, Elizabeth Chai Vasarhelyi, Jimmy Chin), Weaver has crafted a work that speaks to universal human experiences through the prism of athletic achievement. The film's ultimate triumph lies in its ability to make us care deeply about a story we might have otherwise overlooked, proving that in the hands of a skilled documentarian, every team's journey can illuminate profound truths about the human condition. Weaver has created not just a sports documentary, but a masterclass in how collective trauma can be transformed into shared triumph. - Reviewed by Adrián Pérez 
Burden (USA)
★★★ Directed by James Nanney Jr In James Nanney Jr's directorial debut 'BURDEN', we witness a Vietnam veteran's homecoming narrative that aspires to join the pantheon of post-war trauma cinema alongside classics like Hal Ashby's 'Coming Home' (1978) and Michael Cimino's 'The Deer Hunter' (1978). Yet where those masterworks plumbed the depths of psychological devastation with surgical precision, Nanney Jr's exploration maintains a more tentative relationship with its subject matter's gravitas. The film positions itself within the zeitgeist of contemporary veteran-focused works like Darius Marder's 'Sound of Metal' (2019) and Paul Schrader's 'The Card Counter' (2021), though its execution betrays its student film origins despite admirable ambitions. The film's most compelling moments emerge in its visual metaphors rather than its occasionally heavy-handed dialogue. A particularly haunting sequence features Mike Silva's Jethro Miles, his facial bandages serving as a physical manifestation of psychological wounds, creating an unsettling tableau reminiscent of Georges Franju's 'Eyes Without a Face' (1960). Silva and Sophie Jordan Collins achieve their finest chemistry in a sofa scene that briefly transcends the film's limitations, capturing the claustrophobic intimacy of a relationship scarred by trauma, their performances here reaching beyond the script's constraints to touch something raw and genuine. The cinematography, while competent, lacks the meticulous attention to composition that might have elevated the material beyond its modest budget, missing opportunities to visually articulate the protagonist's psychological fragmentation in the vein of Ramsay's 'You Were Never Really Here' (2017). One can't help but imagine how the material might have benefited from the kind of expressionistic visual language employed in Alan Parker's 'Birdy' (1984), where the psychological aftermath of Vietnam found its voice through bold visual metaphor rather than explicit exposition. What emerges is a sincere if somewhat surface-level meditation on the phenomenology of trauma and masculine identity in crisis. Silva's performance, while occasionally defaulting to an affected baritone that threatens to tip into caricature, finds moments of genuine pathos in his character's struggle with embodied trauma. The film's exploration of how physical and psychological wounds intertwine recalls the theoretical framework of Maurice Merleau-Ponty's phenomenology of perception, though this philosophical underpinning remains largely implicit rather than fully developed. As a first-time filmmaker and veteran himself, Nanney Jr brings authentic military experience to this narrative, and there's undeniable potential in his directorial voice. While 'BURDEN' may not fully realise its ambitious thematic reach, it represents a promising foundation for future work. With continued refinement of his craft, particularly in the realms of dialogue and visual composition, Nanney Jr could develop into a compelling voice in contemporary cinema's ongoing dialogue with military trauma and its aftermath. - Reviewed by Adrián Pérez 
Burial Rites (UK)
★★★½ Directed by Marius Grose In Marius Grose's haunting experimental short "Burial Rites," we witness the crystallisation of grief through a mesmerising audio-visual tapestry that recalls the metaphysical ruminations of Andrei Tarkovsky's "Mirror" (1975) and the recent ecological meditations in Apichatpong Weerasethakul's "Memoria" (2021). This deeply personal exploration of mortality and memory transforms the act of burial—both literal and metaphorical—into a profound meditation on the cyclical nature of existence, reminiscent of the ethereal dreamscapes in Charlotte Wells' "Aftersun" (2022). The film's phenomenological approach to temporality manifests through its innovative visual grammar, where branches of a "skeleton tree" metamorphose into spectral appendages—"twig toes" and "root fingers"—creating an unsettling arborial anthropomorphism. Grose's background in sculpture becomes evident in his masterful composition of organic forms, whilst his experience as an editor surfaces in the rhythmic interplay between Simon Van der Borgh's hypnotic voiceover and Johannes Ruckstuhl's meticulous sound design. The result is a piece that could easily inhabit the hallowed halls of the Tate Modern, sharing conceptual DNA with Bill Viola's video installations. Through its exploration of thanatopsis—the contemplation of death—"Burial Rites" excavates the Freudian notion of the uncanny, particularly in its treatment of the familiar made strange. The recurring motif of burial serves as both action and metaphor, echoing Julia Kristeva's concepts of abjection and Jacques Derrida's hauntology. When the narrator speaks of living "a day longer than my father," the film transcends personal narrative to touch upon universal anxieties about mortality and legacy, creating a powerful memento mori for our contemporary age. The film's experimental nature might challenge viewers accustomed to more conventional narratives, yet its opacity serves a purpose, mirroring the often impenetrable nature of grief itself. In its brief runtime of 105 seconds, it achieves what Terrence Malick's "The Tree of Life" (2011) accomplished in three hours—a philosophical probe into the intersection of personal loss and cosmic significance. The visual abstraction, where frames occasionally obscure clear interpretation, becomes a metaphor for memory's inherent unreliability, reminiscent of the destabilising techniques employed in Jonathan Glazer's "The Zone of Interest" (2023). Grose, whose poetic sensibilities have earned him recognition in prestigious publications like The White Review, demonstrates an extraordinary ability to transmute personal experience into universal truth. His "Burial Rites" stands as a testament to cinema's capacity to articulate the ineffable, creating a space where loss and renewal coexist in perpetual dialogue. In an era where mainstream cinema often prioritises immediacy over introspection, this film serves as a vital reminder of the medium's potential for profound philosophical and emotional excavation. For those willing to surrender to its rhythms, "Burial Rites" offers a transformative experience that lingers long after its final frame, like the croaking of frogs echoing from the bottom of a well. - Reviewed by Adrián Pérez C
Celluneck (Canada)
★★★ Directed by Barbara Whiting Barbara Whiting's "Celluneck" masterfully transmutes the contemporary anxieties surrounding technological dependency into a sardonic piece of theatre-adjacent cinema that recalls the absurdist traditions of Eugène Ionesco and Samuel Beckett. In this televisual chamber piece, Whiting orchestrates a deliciously preposterous pseudo-scientific exposé that would feel at home alongside Charlie Kaufman's "Being John Malkovich" (1999) or Yorgos Lanthimos's "The Lobster" (2015), yet maintains its own distinct voice in examining our collective digital neurosis. The film's purposeful embrace of theatrical conventions—its confined setting and dialogue-driven narrative—evokes the claustrophobic intimacy of Sidney Lumet's "12 Angry Men" (1957), while its satirical examination of media sensationalism bears comparison to Ruben Östlund's "Triangle of Sadness" (2022). Dr. Neil Anderthall's deadpan delivery of increasingly outlandish claims about evolutionary regression channels the same metabolic grotesquerie that made Julia Ducournau's "Titane" (2021) so compelling, though here deployed for comedic rather than horrific effect. Whiting's direction demonstrates a profound understanding of phenomenological engagement, transforming what could have been mere recorded theatre into a meditation on technological determinism and social constructivism. The 'celluneck' condition becomes a brilliant metaphor for what philosopher Jean Baudrillard might term the 'vanishing point' of human physicality in our increasingly virtual existence. The introduction of the 'cone head collar' solution particularly resonates with Michel Foucault's concept of biopower, revealing how health narratives can be co-opted for commercial gain. What elevates "Celluneck" beyond mere satire is its incisive commentary on the symbiotic relationship between media hysteria and public credulity. The film's formal constraints—its staged quality and limited cinematographic flourishes—paradoxically amplify its effectiveness, creating an uncanny valley between reality television and absurdist theatre that mirrors our own increasingly blurred boundaries between digital and physical existence. Like Cooper Raiff's "Cha Cha Real Smooth" (2022), it finds profound truth through seemingly simple presentation. To emerging filmmakers, Whiting's work here serves as a masterclass in maximising limited resources through sharp writing and precise performance modulation. Rather than being hampered by its theatrical qualities, "Celluneck" embraces them to create something uniquely positioned between cinema and stage, proving that true innovation often emerges from working within constraints rather than fighting against them. The result is a work of startling originality that manages to be both intellectually stimulating and wickedly entertaining—a rare combination indeed. 
CHAIN (USA)
★★★★½ Directed by Ling Han In Ling Han's masterfully crafted "Chain," we witness the emergence of a formidable new voice in animation, one that transforms a simple Chinese proverb about predatory hierarchy into a sumptuous feast of visual storytelling that rivals the technical sophistication of major studios. Like Domee Shi's "Turning Red" (2022) and Mamoru Hosoda's "Belle" (2021), Han demonstrates an extraordinary ability to weave cultural wisdom into contemporary animation, creating a work that sparkles with both technical brilliance and philosophical depth. The film's narrative architecture, built around the proverb of the mantis stalking the cicada whilst unaware of the oriole behind, becomes a profound meditation on the cyclical nature of predation and existence itself. Han's treatment evokes Jacques Derrida's concept of différance, where meaning is perpetually deferred through an endless chain of signifiers – here literalised in the food chain's dark comedy. The film's surrealist interludes, particularly the hypnotic tango sequence between the female mantis and her emerald counterpart, echo the phantasmagorical elements of Jan Švankmajer's work whilst maintaining a distinctly contemporary aesthetic sensibility. The technical execution is nothing short of breathtaking. Each frame is composed with painterly precision, from the balletic descent of a single feather to the kung-fu inspired confrontation between mantis and spider. The character design demonstrates exceptional sophistication in anthropomorphising insects whilst retaining their inherent otherness – a delicate balance that brings to mind the artistry of Henry Selick's "Coraline" (2009). The sound design, working in perfect symbiosis with the visuals, creates a rich tapestry of aural storytelling that enhances the film's dreamlike quality without relying on dialogue. Han's masterstroke lies in the film's ability to function simultaneously as a child-friendly narrative and a complex allegory for contemporary existence. The mantis's fever dream sequence, with its hypnotic dance macabre, serves as a brilliant metaphor for the way desire and survival instinct can blur into delusion. This multilayered approach to storytelling echoes the sophisticated narrative structures found in Hideaki Anno's "Evangelion: 3.0+1.0 Thrice Upon a Time" (2021), where surface simplicity belies deeper psychological complexity. As a critic who has witnessed countless attempts to blend entertainment with philosophical inquiry, I find myself particularly moved by Han's achievement. This is not merely technical excellence in service of storytelling; it is storytelling that transcends its medium to comment on the very nature of existence. The final moment, where the oriole consumes both predator and prey in one comedic gulp, serves as both punchline and profound statement on the ultimate futility of individual ambition in the face of cosmic irony. For a debut film, "Chain" demonstrates remarkable maturity and promises an exciting future for Han's artistic journey. This is precisely the kind of innovative, thoughtful animation that the medium needs – work that entertains while pushing the boundaries of what animation can achieve as an art form. - Reviewed by Adrián Pérez D
Day of Judgement (Germany)
★★★½ Directed by Sven Oliver Kürten In Sven Oliver Kürten's metaphysical thriller "Day of Judgement," we are thrust into a liminal space between earthly purgatory and divine intervention, where an enigmatic stranger's quest morphs into a profound meditation on redemption, fraternal bonds, and ecological catastrophe. Like Andrei Tarkovsky's "Stalker" (1979), Kürten's film navigates through mystical zones where reality bends to spiritual will, though here the stakes extend beyond individual salvation to cosmic reconciliation. The film opens with a phantasmagoric montage reminiscent of Lars von Trier's "Melancholia" (2011)—apocalyptic visions that shatter into a close-up of our protagonist's awakening, establishing the film's exploration of eschatological anxiety. This Indiana Jones-meets-messianic figure, portrayed with stoic grace by Andreas Wilke, traverses wooded landscapes that echo the metaphysical terrain of Terrence Malick's "The Tree of Life" (2011), complete with miracle-working abilities that position him somewhere between divine messenger and earthbound healer. The cinematography here is particularly striking, with ethereal light piercing through dense foliage like divine revelation breaking through mortal doubt. What elevates "Day of Judgement" beyond mere religious allegory is its sophisticated weaving of contemporary ecological concerns with timeless questions of faith and forgiveness. When Roberto Puzzo appears as Lou (Lucifer?), dressed in symbolic black with a blood-red shirt, the film ascends to a new level of theological complexity. Their confrontation, set against gathering storm clouds, recalls the brotherly tension of Dostoyevsky's Grand Inquisitor, while the presence of Sophie Rankin's wounded woman adds a crucial human dimension to this celestial drama. Kürten demonstrates remarkable restraint in his direction, allowing symbolic elements—a fallen crucifix, a healing touch, a mysterious manuscript—to accumulate meaning organically rather than forcing heavy-handed interpretation. The film's sound design deserves special mention, with its score creating an affective dimension that enhances rather than overwhelms the spiritual undertones. In its finest moments, "Day of Judgement" achieves what Paul Schrader termed 'transcendental style', particularly in scenes reminiscent of A24's recent output like "Saint Maud" (2019, Rose Glass) or "Lamb" (2021, Valdimar Jóhannsson). One cannot help but be moved by Kürten's audacious vision and the way he transforms familiar religious iconography into something urgently contemporary. The film's ecological subtext speaks to our current apocalyptic anxieties while maintaining a profound sense of hope in the possibility of redemption. In an era where faith-based cinema often falls into didacticism, "Day of Judgement" stands as a testament to the power of nuanced spiritual storytelling. Kürten has crafted something rare: a film that challenges both intellect and soul, suggesting that even in our darkest hour, the light of grace can pierce through. - Reviewed by Adrián Pérez 
Dissimulation (UK)
★★★★ Directed by Sam Weeks In the ever-evolving oeuvre of Sam Weeks, "Dissimulation" emerges as a tour de force, a gritty sci-fi drama that plunges us headlong into the uncanny valley of human-AI relations. Weeks, having traversed the cinematic landscape from war epics to urban dramas, now turns his lens to a future where the line between flesh and circuitry blurs into obscurity. The result is a visual feast that marries the grotesque beauty of Guillermo del Toro's creations with the dystopian dread of David Cronenberg's "Crimes of the Future." At the heart of this neon-noir labyrinth is Gene, portrayed with smoldering intensity by Elliot Cable. Cable's performance evokes the existential angst of Harrison Ford's Deckard and the stoic vulnerability of Ryan Gosling's K from "Blade Runner 2049," yet carves out its own niche in the pantheon of sci-fi anti-heroes. As Gene navigates the crime-soaked streets of this brave new world, Cable exudes a star power that threatens to short-circuit the very machines that populate his universe. Weeks' directorial prowess shines in his ability to orchestrate a symphony of visual and thematic dissonance. The production design, a far cry from the austere minimalism of his previous work "Steps," is a triumph of imagination. Each frame is a palimpsest of technological advancement and societal decay, reminiscent of Fritz Lang's "Metropolis" filtered through a post-cyberpunk lens. The robots, with their organic-mechanic hybridity, seem to have crawled out of a fever dream co-authored by Mary Shelley and William Gibson. The narrative, penned by Peter Woolley, serves as a Rorschach test for our collective technophobia and techno-lust. It's a modern-day Prometheus tale, where the fire stolen from the gods is the spark of artificial consciousness. As Gene grapples with his identity crisis, the film poses questions that would make Philip K. Dick nod in approval: What defines humanity in an age of perfect simulations? Is consciousness merely a complex algorithm, or is there an ineffable quality to the human experience that defies replication? In the final analysis, "Dissimulation" stands as a testament to Weeks' artistic evolution and his ability to transmute philosophical inquiries into visceral cinematic experiences. It's a film that doesn't just depict a world on the precipice of profound change; it catapults us into that world, leaving us disoriented, exhilarated, and profoundly moved. As the credits roll, we find ourselves grappling with the same existential quandaries that plague Gene, our perceptions of reality irrevocably altered. Weeks has not merely created a film; he has engineered a paradigm shift in our understanding of what it means to be human in an increasingly artificial world. "Dissimulation" is destined to be dissected, debated, and revered for years to come-a new classic in the annals of science fiction cinema. - Reviewed by Adrián Pérez 
Divebomb (UK)
★★★★ Directed by Clare Davidson & Will Thomas Freeman Clare Davidson and Will Thomas Freeman's "Divebomb" is a mesmerising exploration of adolescent struggle and maternal bonds, set against the backdrop of a luxurious woodland mansion, that serves as both haven and prison. This coming-of-age drama navigates the treacherous waters of Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder (OCD) with a sensitivity reminiscent of Andrea Arnold's "Fish Tank" (2009) and Carlota Pereda's "Piggy" (2022), yet imbued with its own ethereal charm. The film's narrative centres on Rachel, brilliantly portrayed by Jennifer Stender, a troubled teenager grappling with the suffocating tendrils of OCD. Stender's performance is nothing short of revelatory, channelling the raw vulnerability and barely contained chaos of youth with an authenticity that echoes the visceral impact of Gabourey Sidibe in Lee Daniels' "Precious" (2009). Davidson and Freeman's directorial symbiosis shines through in their masterful use of close-ups, which serve as windows into the characters' psyches, particularly Rachel's. These intimate framings, coupled with Nina Humphreys' hauntingly beautiful score, create a cinematic language that speaks volumes about the ineffable nature of mental health struggles. The introduction of Darius, played by the exquisite Alecs Simone, as a love interest adds a layer of complexity to the narrative, serving as a catalyst for Rachel's journey towards self-acceptance. This character, with his carefree demeanour and spontaneity, becomes a symbol of the liberation Rachel craves. Thematically, "Divebomb" delves deep into psychoanalytic concepts, with Rachel's OCD representing an overpowering Superego in conflict with her budding desires. The film also explores the Jungian notion of individuation, as Rachel struggles to integrate the disparate parts of her psyche. The recurring motif of water – from the pool to the titular dive – serves as a powerful metaphor for rebirth and psychological transformation. Philippa Heimann's portrayal of the psychiatric therapist adds gravitas to the film, her scenes with Rachel serving as a Greek chorus of sorts, providing insight and perspective on the protagonist's inner turmoil. The film's denouement, with Rachel donning the blue dress she had previously rejected, symbolises her nascent acceptance of herself and her willingness to embrace vulnerability. This scene, set against the backdrop of the caravan, is a masterclass in restrained emotion, showcasing Stender's ability to convey volumes with the subtlest of expressions. "Divebomb" is a triumph of British independent cinema, blending the gritty realism of Ken Loach with the dreamy aesthetics of Sofia Coppola's "The Virgin Suicides" (1999). As a critic, I found myself utterly captivated by the film's ability to balance its weighty themes with moments of lyrical beauty. The use of the dive bomb as a visual metaphor for letting go is particularly inspired, encapsulating the film's central message of embracing life with all its imperfections. Jennifer Stender, you bring a level of authenticity to the role that is both heartbreaking and inspiring. Your ability to convey complex emotions with the subtlest of expressions, particularly in the pivotal scene where Rachel dons the blue dress, is a testament to your immense talent and bravery in sharing such a personal part of yourself with the world. Clare Davidson, your extensive experience in theatre direction and vocal coaching breathes life into every frame. The way you've guided Jennifer Stender through the complex emotional landscape of Rachel's character speaks volumes about your ability to draw out the very best in your actors. Will Thomas Freeman, your visual storytelling, honed at the Prague Film School, creates a world that is both hauntingly beautiful and achingly real. Your deft use of close-ups serves as a window into the characters' souls, particularly Rachel's, allowing us to experience her inner turmoil with visceral intensity. To you both, your collaboration has yielded a work of profound empathy and artistic merit. "Divebomb" is not just a film; it's a cathartic experience that lingers in the mind long after the credits roll. It stands as a testament to the power of cinema to illuminate the human condition and offer solace to those struggling with their own inner demons. Bravo on this remarkable achievement – I eagerly anticipate your future endeavours. - Reviewed by Adrián Pérez |
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Ebi's Defiance (Nigeria)
★★★ Directed by Kris Ubani Roberts & Rhema Thaddeus In Kris Ubani Roberts' "Ebi's Defiance," we witness a profound meditation on the collision between modernity and patriarchal traditions in contemporary Nigeria, reminiscent of Ousmane Sembène's "Xala" (1975) in its sharp critique of post-colonial social structures. Roberts crafts a melodrama that, whilst technically modest, pulsates with an unmistakable vitriolic energy against institutionalised misogyny. The film's narrative architecture echoes the heightened emotional registers of Rainer Werner Fassbinder's "The Marriage of Maria Braun" (1979), particularly in its exploration of widowhood as a site of societal control and resistance. At the centre of this maelstrom stands Cynthia Agholor's tour de force performance as Ebi, channelling the quiet defiance of Viola Davis in "The Woman King" (2022) whilst navigating the thorny labyrinth of grief, persecution, and eventual empowerment. The film's dialogue-heavy approach, though occasionally limiting its visual scope, serves as a vessel for exploring deeply entrenched power dynamics. The three brothers, performed with convincing malevolence, function as a hydra-headed embodiment of toxic masculinity, their collective delusion manifesting in accusations that transform grief into a weapon of patriarchal control. The film's third act ascends to spectacular heights of tension, delivering an accidentally sublime confrontation scene that wouldn't feel out of place in the heightened reality of Jordan Peele's "Nope" (2022). Here, Roberts demonstrates a masterful grasp of tone-shifting, allowing the sequence to oscillate between genuine threat and darkly comic absurdity. This delicate balance echoes similar achievements in Bong Joon-ho's "Parasite" (2019), where social commentary and genre elements coalesce into something uniquely powerful. Whilst the cinematography might lack the polished finesse of its contemporary counterparts, there's an undeniable raw authenticity that permeates every frame. The film's visual modesty paradoxically amplifies its thematic ambitions, creating a verisimilitude that grounds its exploration of widow persecution, familial betrayal, and feminine resistance. The narrative's progression from domestic drama to revenge thriller mirrors similar trajectories in recent Nigerian cinema, notably Genevieve Nnaji's "Lionheart" (2018), though "Ebi's Defiance" charts its own distinct course through these waters. There's something utterly compelling about Roberts' vision, despite—or perhaps because of—its technical limitations. The film's examination of widow persecution transcends its immediate cultural context to speak to universal themes of power, justice, and autonomy. In Ebi's journey from victim to victor, we witness the emergence of a powerful voice in African cinema. To Roberts and his team: your film might operate within budgetary constraints, but its spirit soars unbounded. This is precisely the kind of bold, uncompromising storytelling that contemporary African cinema needs—raw, honest, and unapologetically confrontational in its challenge to patriarchal hegemony. - Reviewed by Adrián Pérez 
El Tigre (USA)
★★★★½ Directed by Graciela Cassel Graciela Cassel's "El Tigre" is a masterclass in documentary filmmaking. Beyond rendering a hypnotising picture of island life, Cassel's lens doesn't merely observe; it becomes an intimate confidant to the islanders, crafting an exquisite portrait of human resilience and, more so, a visual metaphor for the islanders' existence that's both poetic and deeply symbolic. Cassel doesn't just present her subjects - Angel, Nelly Bettiga, Silvia Gomez, and Gustavo - she invites us into their psychic terrain, mapping the contours of their inner worlds with remarkable sensitivity. For example, Nelly's testimony on the floods and her reflections on solitude - "te agarra una melancolía, te agarra una soledad inmensa" - open up a rich vein of philosophical inquiry and an affective dimension that makes "El Tigre" transcend the conventional documentary canvas to become a profound meditation on human resilience and the price of paradise. The beauty in Cassel's directorial approach is how, despite the hardships of island life, she captures these protagonists as modern-day Crusoes, their isolation not a punishment, but a chosen way of life. Cassel couldn't have found a better confidant in managing such exquisite cinematographic fragility; Guido Gabella's composition, reminiscent of Tom Hooper's work in "The King's Speech," often places our island heroes in vast natural settings, where the Delta itself becomes a silent protagonist, its waters reflecting both the sky above and the psychological depths of its inhabitants below. It would be criminal to dismiss the inclusion of Bikash Makaju's animation, which adds a layer of magical realism to the documentary, reminiscent of Wes Anderson's "The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou." This method only emphasises the almost mythical nature of life on El Tigre, where jaguars still roam in the collective consciousness, misnamed tigers by past colonisers. Cassel's decision to feature the omnipresent soundscape of the Delta—married with Aiert Erkoreka's exquisite music score—creates an immersive experience akin to the hypnotic auditory world of Lynch's "Eraserhead." Lastly, Cassel weaves Teresa Parodi's "Por El Rio Volvere" throughout the narrative, reimagined by the Argentinian legend Victoria Birchner, as a haunting leitmotif. Birchner's ethereal vocals float through the film like mist over the Delta, binding the disparate elements of the story as seamlessly as the river unites its islands, adding a final, transcendent layer to this quietly powerful documentary. Cassel's genius is in her ability to put a human face to this geolocation, where solitude only serves to make the war within more obvious. This admission of weakness in the face of such natural beauty is what makes this character study so full, and allows the movie to escape falling into simple pastoral romanticism. Like the mist that surely cloaks the Delta at dawn, Cassel's film lingers in the mind, a testament to lives lived in harmony with—and sometimes in defiance of—nature's grand design. In conclusion, "El Tigre" stands as a testament to Cassel's extraordinary vision and courage as a documentarian. She fearlessly ventures where others dare not tread, uncovering not just a hidden corner of the world, but also pieces of herself in the process. This journey of mutual discovery - of the Delta and of the filmmaker - results in a work of staggering beauty and profound humanity. "El Tigre" deserves to be mentioned in the same breath as classics of place-based cinema, from Flaherty's "Nanook of the North" to Scorsese's "Silence," and more recently, Zhao's "Nomadland." Like these films, it offers a window into a world at once familiar and utterly foreign, where the boundary between human and nature blurs like the horizon on a foggy river morning. Graciela, your brilliant direction, along with your profound insight into humanity, has produced a work that is not only intellectually provoking, but emotionally devastating. You've crafted a visual poem, your willingness to immerse yourself so completely in this world, to listen so intently to its rhythms and its people, has produced a film that will undoubtedly move viewers to tears, just as it has moved us. "El Tigre" is a towering achievement in documentary cinema. - Reviewed by Adrián Pérez 
ENESCU, Skinned Alive (Romania)
★★★★ Directed by Toma Enache Toma Enache's sweeping biographical drama "Enescu, Skinned Alive" (2024) stands as a magnificent testament to both its titular subject and the grand tradition of European period cinema. Like Bradley Cooper's "Maestro" (2023) or Miloš Forman's "Amadeus" (1984), the film deftly weaves the personal and artistic spheres of a musical genius, though Enache's approach feels distinctly more intimate and psychologically probing. Set against the opulent backdrop of early 20th century Romania and France, this €1.2 million production follows the tumultuous relationship between composer George Enescu (Mircea Dragoman) and Princess Maruca (Theodora Sandu). Their forbidden romance becomes the prism through which Enache explores broader themes of artistic sacrifice, duty versus desire, and the crushing weight of genius. The film's title, derived from Enescu's own words about feeling "flayed alive," perfectly encapsulates the raw emotional terrain it traverses. Dragoman delivers a remarkably nuanced performance as Enescu, capturing both the composer's legendary gentleness and the torment of his creative process. His scenes at the piano, particularly during the composition of his masterwork "Oedipe," recall the intensity of F. Murray Abraham's Salieri in "Amadeus," though here the struggle is internal rather than with a divine antagonist. Sandu matches him beat for beat as Maruca, bringing a complex mixture of aristocratic poise and barely contained passion to her role. Their chemistry crackles with the same refined intensity found in Todd Field's "TÁR" (2022), though here serving a more classical narrative structure. The film's technical achievements are equally impressive. Italian costume designer Stefano Nicolao's period-perfect wardrobe and the production design transform various Romanian locations into a convincing early 20th century milieu. Most notably, the orchestral sequences, featuring both the French National Orchestra and the Romanian National Radio Orchestra, are filmed with such immersive precision that they become characters in their own right. Sebastian Androne-Nakanishi's original score, interwoven with Enescu's own compositions, creates a soundscape that's both historically authentic and emotionally resonant. Where Enache truly excels is in his ability to make Enescu's internal struggle visceral. Like Pablo Larraín's "Spencer" (2021), the film uses its biographical framework to explore deeper psychological terrain. The composer's self-imposed exile, his struggle between artistic purity and social obligation, and the price of genius are all rendered with remarkable clarity. These themes find their perfect expression in a devastating final act that rivals the emotional impact of Todd Field's "TÁR" or Florian Henckel von Donnersmarck's "Never Look Away" (2018). In crafting this masterful portrait of one of Romania's greatest artists, Enache has not only honored Enescu's legacy but created a work that stands proudly alongside the best of contemporary European cinema. It's a film that reminds us why we need art, even as it shows us the terrible price some must pay to create it. - Reviewed by Adrián Pérez 
Enough For You (USA)
★★★½ Directed by Justin Mawardi In Justin Mawardi's "Enough For You," we witness an achingly intimate portrait of contemporary isolation that feels spiritually connected to Wong Kar-wai's "Chungking Express" (1994) and the nocturnal wanderings of Martin Scorsese's "After Hours" (1985). Mawardi, serving as both director and lead actor, demonstrates a remarkably assured hand in crafting this exploration of attachment theory and urban alienation. The film's examination of emotional unavailability in the modern metropolis recalls the recent "Past Lives" (Celine Song, 2023), though Mawardi opts for a more visceral approach to excavating the psychology of abandonment. The film's protagonist Jay embodies what attachment theorist John Bowlby would term 'avoidant attachment style', his tendency to flee from genuine connection serving as a defence mechanism against the very intimacy he craves. Skye's persistent presence acts as a catalyst for confronting these deeply embedded patterns, their relationship dynamics reminiscent of the tender persistence found in Charlotte Wells' "Aftersun" (2022). Mawardi's direction shows remarkable restraint, allowing silence to speak volumes in scenes that could easily have descended into melodrama. Perhaps the film's most transcendent moment arrives in its culminating nocturnal odyssey, a sequence that transforms the urban landscape into a canvas for emotional catharsis. The cinematography here evokes the dreamy melancholia of "Moonlight" (Barry Jenkins, 2016), whilst the characters' meandering journey through city streets recalls the existential wanderings of "Before Sunrise" (Richard Linklater, 1995). This sequence, bathed in neon-noir aesthetics, demonstrates Mawardi's understanding of cinema's power to transmute emotional states into visual poetry. What's particularly striking is how Mawardi subverts the traditional romance narrative through his deployment of psychoanalytic framework. The film's exploration of attachment trauma and defensive solitude feels particularly resonant in our post-pandemic landscape, where isolation has become both refuge and prison. Like Joachim Trier's "The Worst Person in the World" (2021), the film interrogates the paradox of seeking connection while fearing its consequences. As both filmmaker and performer, Mawardi displays an impressive grasp of cinematic grammar that belies his emerging status. His careful calibration of performance and visual storytelling suggests we're witnessing the early works of a significant new voice in American independent cinema. To Mr. Mawardi: your understanding of visual narrative and emotional truth marks you as a filmmaker to watch. This reviewer eagerly anticipates your continued evolution as you further develop your already considerable talents. - Reviewed by Adrián Pérez F
FUGUE For A Spiritual Life (UK)
★★★★ Directed by Thomas Wohlmut In an era where environmental collapse and spiritual disconnection threaten to overwhelm our collective consciousness, Thomas Wohlmut's "Fugue for a Spiritual Life" emerges as a masterfully crafted meditation on humanity's relationship with the sacred. Drawing parallels to Werner Herzog's "Cave of Forgotten Dreams" (2010) and Ron Fricke's "Baraka" (1992), Wohlmut's documentary traverses the sublime landscapes of the Lake District, creating a visual symphony that echoes the contemplative power of Terrence Malick's "A Hidden Life" (2019). Through the philosophical musings of Reverend Stephen G Wright, the film constructs a phenomenological bridge between environmental crisis and spiritual awakening, reminiscent of the ecological-spiritual dialogue present in Viktor Kossakovsky's "Aquarela" (2018). The film's genius lies in its deceptive simplicity, employing iPhone 14 cinematography that transforms technological minimalism into transcendental art. Wohlmut's composition choices reveal an acute understanding of the Japanese concept of 'ma'—the meaningful negative space between moments. The drone footage, rather than serving mere aesthetic purposes, becomes a metaphysical apparatus for viewing humanity's place within nature's grand tapestry. This technical approach creates a fascinating dialogue with contemporary works like Charlotte Wells' "Aftersun" (2022), where everyday technology becomes a vessel for profound spiritual exploration. At its philosophical core, the documentary grapples with three interconnected theoretical frameworks: deep ecology, as conceived by Arne Næss; contemplative phenomenology, drawing from Maurice Merleau-Ponty's work; and what might be termed 'spiritual materialism'—the paradoxical relationship between physical environmental collapse and metaphysical awakening. Wright's peripatetic discourse, set against the backdrop of ancient fells and valleys, excavates these concepts with remarkable accessibility, achieving what Gilles Deleuze might term a 'minor cinema'—one that speaks to universal truths through intensely localised experience. What distinguishes "Fugue for a Spiritual Life" from conventional spiritual documentaries is its refusal to resort to didacticism. Instead, it creates what I would term a 'contemplative dialectic' between viewer and subject, environment and inhabitant, crisis and transformation. The film's structure mirrors its title's musical reference—a fugue where themes of ecological awareness, spiritual awakening, and human responsibility weave together in counterpoint, creating a harmonic complexity that rewards repeated viewing. Particularly striking is a sequence where Wright discusses the concept of 'relinquishment'—of letting go of our anthropocentric worldview—while the camera slowly pulls back from an ancient stone wall, revealing its integration into the broader landscape, a visual metaphor that recalls the ethereal environmental consciousness of Andrei Tarkovsky's "Stalker" (1979). To you, Thomas Wohlmut, I must express profound admiration for crafting a work that demonstrates cinema's capacity to function as both spiritual practice and ecological wake-up call. Your decision to embrace technological minimalism while achieving maximum philosophical impact reveals a deep understanding of documentary's transformative potential. In an age where environmental documentaries often resort to apocalyptic sensationalism, you've created something far more valuable—a contemplative space where crisis becomes opportunity, and spiritual awareness emerges as a practical response to environmental collapse. This film stands as testament to the possibility of finding profound meaning precisely when things fall apart. - Reviewed by Adrián Pérez I
Idle Hands (USA)
★★★½ Directed by Douglas Ridloff In an era where cinema increasingly grapples with authentic representation, Douglas Ridloff's directorial debut "Idle Hands" emerges as a profound meditation on intergenerational trauma and acceptance, rendered through the prism of Deaf experience. Like Chloé Zhao's "Nomadland" (2020) or Charlotte Wells' "Aftersun" (2022), Ridloff masterfully navigates the delicate territory of familial bonds, though here through the uniquely expressive vocabulary of American Sign Language (ASL), transforming apparent silence into deafening emotional resonance. The film's narrative architecture, though appearing deceptively simple, carries echoes of Yasujirō Ozu's domestic dramas, particularly "Tokyo Story" (1953), in its exploration of familial obligation and generational disconnect. Ridloff's camera captures the minute psychodynamics at play when a Deaf father visits his hearing mother with his own Deaf son - a triumvirate of perspectives that becomes a microcosm for broader societal dynamics of ableism and acceptance. The film's soundscape, punctuated primarily by breath, serves as both diegetic score and metaphorical underpinning, reminiscent of Alfonso Cuarón's sophisticated sound design in "Roma" (2018). What elevates "Idle Hands" beyond mere representation is its deft handling of psychological concepts like transgenerational inheritance and attachment theory. The grandmother's initial resistance to sign language becomes a powerful metaphor for society's broader reluctance to adapt to neurodiversity, while the father's journey mirrors Lacan's mirror stage theory - forcing him to confront his own childhood trauma through the reflection of his son's experience. These themes are particularly poignant in our current socio-cultural moment, where discussions about accessibility and inclusion have never been more crucial. The technical limitations that might typically hamper a debut film instead imbue "Idle Hands" with an almost cinéma vérité quality, reminiscent of early Ken Loach. The film's authenticity stems not from technical perfectionism but from its raw emotional honesty and groundbreaking representation both in front of and behind the camera. Ridloff's direction suggests exciting possibilities for future works, perhaps in more genre-focused territories - imagine a thriller in the vein of "A Quiet Place" (2018, John Krasinski) but crafted from within the Deaf community rather than observing it from outside. As a debut film, "Idle Hands" announces Ridloff as a filmmaker of remarkable promise. While the narrative might seem quotidian to some - a family visiting their grandmother - its implications resonate far beyond its domestic setting. The film's denouement, where the grandmother finally embraces sign language for her grandchild, achieves a catharsis worthy of Douglas Sirk, transforming a simple gesture into a profound statement about acceptance and growth. In an industry still struggling with authentic representation, Ridloff's achievement isn't just in making a film, but in creating a work that demands to be seen - and felt - on its own terms. - Reviewed by Adrián Pérez 
I SEE RED. (Portugal)
★★★½ Directed by Silvestre Correia In Silvestre Correia's haunting debut 'I SEE RED', we witness a masterclass in expressionist horror that excavates the deepest recesses of gender identity through a distinctly phenomenological lens. Like Julia Ducournau's 'Titane' (2021) or David Lynch's 'Inland Empire' (2006), Correia crafts a deeply personal meditation on corporeal horror that transforms lived experience into sublime nightmare fuel. Within a nameless space exists Wendy, portrayed with mesmerising vulnerability by Carolina Dominguez, whose very existence seems to pulse with an undercurrent of existential dread reminiscent of Charlotte Wells' ethereal 'Aftersun' (2022). The film's chromatic obsession with red—which bleeds into every frame like a wound that refuses to heal—recalls both Dario Argento's 'Suspiria' (1977) and the contemporary masterstroke of Brandon Cronenberg's 'Possessor' (2020). Yet Correia's vision stands uniquely apart, transforming the colour into a metaphysical prison that encases Wendy's reality in a suffocating pink penumbra. The director's decision to cast themselves as 'The Mouth' whilst separating its voice (performed by George Murphy) creates a striking metaphor for the dissociative experience of gender dysphoria, reminiscent of the fragmentary identity exploration in Céline Sciamma's 'Tomboy' (2011). Through a series of increasingly surreal vignettes, Correia's camera work—which they handled themselves—creates a claustrophobic space where reality dissolves like sugar in rain. A particularly memorable sequence features Wendy engaged in a frenzied dance with 'HER' (Anabela Ribeiro), their bodies contorting in a macabre pas de deux that would make Gaspar Noé proud. The scene's choreography, set against José Valente's discordant score, transforms physical movement into pure psychological torment. Portuguese cinema has long harboured a tradition of pushing boundaries in exploring identity and sexuality, from João Pedro Rodrigues' 'The Ornithologist' (2016) to Miguel Gomes' 'Tabu' (2012). Correia's contribution to this legacy feels both revolutionary and deeply rooted in tradition. Working with a modest budget of £2,000, they have created something that transcends its financial constraints through sheer artistic vision, proving that authentic voices will always find a way to pierce through the noise of contemporary cinema. In this expressionist tour de force, Correia has crafted more than just a film—they've created a visceral document of transgender experience that stands as both personal testimony and universal exploration of identity's mutability. Much like how Robert Eggers' 'The Lighthouse' (2019) used horror to explore masculine identity, 'I SEE RED' employs the genre's tools to dissect gender with surgical precision. For a first-time filmmaker to demonstrate such command over their medium while tackling themes of such profound personal significance marks Correia as a vital new voice in contemporary cinema. Their ability to transform personal trauma into universal art suggests we're witnessing the emergence of a significant talent who understands that the most effective horror often emerges from our own reflected image—even when that reflection appears in a shade of haunting pink. - Reviewed by Adrián Pérez 
In Your Blood: Hoki Naiden (Japan)
★★★½ Directed by Julien Uzan In Julien Uzan's arresting directorial debut 'In Your Blood: Hoki Naiden', we witness the birth of an auteur who masterfully weaves Japanese folklore with contemporary psychological horror, creating a tapestry that bears striking resemblance to Kiyoshi Kurosawa's 'Cure' (1997) in its meditation on inherited trauma and supernatural awakening. Through intimate close-up cinematography that recalls Ingmar Bergman's 'Persona' (1966), Uzan crafts a deeply personal narrative about generational gifts that transform into curses, reminiscent of Ari Aster's 'Hereditary' (2018) but with a distinctly Japanese sensibility. The film's protagonist, Takahiro (portrayed with remarkable nuance by Kotatsu Terabayashi), carries the weight of his ancestry—specifically the legendary Heian period sorcerer Ashiya Doman—with a complexity that evokes the psychological turbulence of Florence Pugh's character in 'Midsommar' (2019). Terabayashi's performance is a masterclass in restraint; his subtle facial expressions and measured movements perfectly capture the internal struggle of a man desperately trying to suppress his supernatural inheritance. The actor's ability to navigate the film's tonal shifts, from gentle slice-of-life moments to scenes of metaphysical drama, demonstrates a remarkable range that rivals Sota Fukushi's work in 'The Real Thing' (2020). Uzan's directorial approach employs a fascinating balance between everyday warmth and underlying mysticism, creating a narrative structure that bears comparison to Hirokazu Kore-eda's 'Shoplifters' (2018) in its gentle exploration of family dynamics before unveiling deeper, more poignant truths. Through masterful cinematographic composition, Uzan creates an intimate frame that amplifies the protagonist's internal journey, whilst the deliberately paced narrative leads to a provocative denouement involving blood rituals and maternal spectres that marks a striking shift from the film's previously light-hearted tone. The film's exploration of psychic inheritance and maternal bonds operates within a rich theoretical framework that encompasses Jungian concepts of the collective unconscious and Kristeva's theories of abjection. The climactic sequence, where Takahiro performs the ritual from the Hoki Naiden whilst receiving a call from a spiritual psychologist, masterfully collapses the boundaries between psychological analysis and supernatural horror. The ambiguous ending—leaving us uncertain whether Takahiro survives his mother's spectral visitation—speaks to deeper questions about the price of denying one's true nature and the potentially devastating consequences of awakening dormant spiritual powers. In this remarkable debut, Uzan demonstrates a sophisticated understanding of genre conventions whilst pushing beyond them to create something uniquely transcendent. While the tonal shifts might occasionally disorient, they serve to underscore the protagonist's increasingly fractured reality. The presence of Beat Takeshi in a pivotal cameo adds gravitas to this meditation on identity and inheritance. Despite its modest budget, 'In Your Blood: Hoki Naiden' announces the arrival of a filmmaker with a distinct vision and the technical acumen to realise it. As a first feature, it stands as a testament to the continuing vitality of Japanese genre cinema and its ability to probe profound psychological and spiritual truths through the lens of horror. - Reviewed by Adrián Pérez L
Líbranos Del Mal "Deliver Us From Evil" (Spain)
★★★★★ Directed by Andrea Casaseca In Andrea Casaseca's haunting psychological thriller "Líbranos del Mal," the rural Spanish landscape becomes a canvas for exploring collective guilt and supernatural intuition. Goya Award winner Ana Wagener delivers a masterfully nuanced performance as Eloísa, a woman whose prophetic visions blur the line between premonition and paranoia in a small village grappling with a child's disappearance. Casaseca's direction demonstrates remarkable maturity in its ability to weave together elements reminiscent of Michael Haneke's "The White Ribbon" (2009) and Lucrecia Martel's "The Headless Woman" (2008), while carving out its own distinct visual language. The film's exploration of rural isolation echoes Robert Eggers' "The Witch" (2015), yet recontextualizes these themes within Spain's contemporary socio-geographical landscape. Much like Charlotte Wells' "Aftersun" (2022), the film excels in making the familiar strange through its innovative use of sound design and careful frame composition. The cinematography, rich in Caravaggio-inspired chiaroscuro, transforms the stark Castilian plains into a psychological battleground where bulls - both real and imagined - serve as powerful metaphors for unspoken violence and repressed trauma. This visual metaphor recalls the symbolic weight of nature in Carla Simón's "Alcarràs" (2022), though Casaseca pushes further into supernatural territory while maintaining psychological realism. Particularly impressive is the film's climactic long take, where Wagener's performance reaches its zenith as Eloísa confronts both her gift and its consequences. The scene's technical execution rivals similar moments in Sebastian Schipper's "Victoria" (2015), though here the unbroken shot serves to amplify psychological rather than physical tension. The presence of flies throughout the film creates an unsettling memento mori that speaks to deeper themes of decay within rural communities. Casaseca's exploration of female intuition and societal skepticism proves especially relevant in our current climate of truth-questioning and gaslighting. The film's treatment of these themes recalls Alice Winocour's "Augustine" (2012), though updated for contemporary discourse around women's voices and credibility. The integration of religious imagery - particularly in the confessional scenes - adds another layer of complexity to the narrative's examination of guilt, faith, and moral responsibility. - Reviewed by Adrián Pérez Reseña en Español En el inquietante thriller psicológico de Andrea Casaseca, "Líbranos del Mal", el paisaje rural español se convierte en un lienzo para explorar la culpa colectiva y la intuición sobrenatural. La ganadora del Goya Ana Wagener ofrece una interpretación magistralmente matizada como Eloísa, una mujer cuyas visiones proféticas difuminan la línea entre la premonición y la paranoia en un pequeño pueblo que lidia con la desaparición de una niña. La dirección de Casaseca demuestra una notable madurez en su capacidad para entretejer elementos reminiscentes de "La Cinta Blanca" (2009) de Michael Haneke y "La Mujer Sin Cabeza" (2008) de Lucrecia Martel, mientras forja su propio lenguaje visual distintivo. La exploración del aislamiento rural evoca "La Bruja" (2015) de Robert Eggers, pero recontextualiza estos temas dentro del paisaje socio-geográfico contemporáneo español. Al igual que "Aftersun" (2022) de Charlotte Wells, el filme destaca en hacer lo familiar extraño mediante su innovador uso del diseño sonoro y la cuidadosa composición de planos. La cinematografía, rica en claroscuros inspirados en Caravaggio, transforma las austeras llanuras castellanas en un campo de batalla psicológico donde los toros - tanto reales como imaginados - sirven como poderosas metáforas de la violencia no expresada y el trauma reprimido. Esta metáfora visual recuerda el peso simbólico de la naturaleza en "Alcarràs" (2022) de Carla Simón, aunque Casaseca se adentra más en el territorio sobrenatural mientras mantiene el realismo psicológico. Particularmente impresionante es el plano secuencia climático, donde la interpretación de Wagener alcanza su cenit cuando Eloísa confronta tanto su don como sus consecuencias. La ejecución técnica de la escena rivaliza con momentos similares en "Victoria" (2015) de Sebastian Schipper, aunque aquí el plano ininterrumpido sirve para amplificar la tensión psicológica más que la física. La presencia de moscas a lo largo del filme crea un inquietante memento mori que habla de temas más profundos de decadencia en las comunidades rurales. La exploración de Casaseca sobre la intuición femenina y el escepticismo social resulta especialmente relevante en nuestro clima actual de cuestionamiento de la verdad y gaslighting. El tratamiento de estos temas recuerda a "Augustine" (2012) de Alice Winocour, aunque actualizado para el discurso contemporáneo sobre las voces y la credibilidad de las mujeres. La integración de imaginería religiosa - particularmente en las escenas del confesionario - añade otra capa de complejidad al examen narrativo de la culpa, la fe y la responsabilidad moral. - Escrito por Adrián Pérez M
Mille Ponti (Italy)
★★★★½ Directed by Nicolò Novek Nico Amedeo's "Mille Ponti" offers a poignant exploration of disability, intimacy, and urban design within the labyrinthine landscape of Venice. This 20-minute short film interrogates the intersectionality of ableism and architectural hegemony, presenting the city's iconic bridges as Foucauldian heterotopias—spaces that simultaneously represent, contest, and invert societal norms. Through the lens of protagonists Tommaso and Chiara, Amedeo crafts a narrative that resonates with disability theorist Rosemarie Garland-Thomson's concept of the "extraordinary body," challenging viewers to confront their own ableist biases and reimagine the social construct of disability. The film's thematic exploration extends beyond mere representation, engaging with complex issues of caregiver burnout, sexual agency, and the psychosocial impact of sudden disability. In its visual language, "Mille Ponti" evokes the aesthetics of Italian Neorealism, particularly reminiscent of Vittorio De Sica's "Bicycle Thieves" (1948) in its use of urban landscapes as a character unto itself. However, Amedeo's work also dialogues with contemporary disability narratives in cinema, such as "The Intouchables" (Nakache & Toledano, 2011) and "The Theory of Everything" (Marsh, 2014), while offering a unique perspective on the intersection of disability and romance. The film's unflinching examination of intimacy and sexuality in the context of disability marks a significant departure from traditionally desexualized portrayals of disabled individuals in media, aligning more closely with the raw honesty of Ben Lewin's "The Sessions" (2012). Nico Amedeo's "Mille Ponti" hit me like a punch to the gut. This 20-minute short isn't just a film; it's a window into a future I both fear and feel compelled to understand. As the son of a man who lost his leg at 10, I've grown up acutely aware of the challenges faced by those with mobility issues. While my dad manages with a prosthetic now, I can't help but see glimpses of our potential future in Tommaso and Chiara's struggle. Venice, that floating dream of a city, becomes a nightmare labyrinth in Amedeo's lens. Each bridge transforms into a mountain to climb, a barrier between Chiara and the world she once knew. It's a brilliant metaphor. Giulio Foccardi's Tommaso broke my heart. His journey from devoted partner to exhausted caregiver is painfully real. That scene in the bedroom - God, I had to pause the film. His breakdown, his admission of fatigue, of feeling more like a "chauffeur" than a lover... I haven't been there yet, but I can feel the weight of that future pressing down on me. It's a glimpse into a world I'm not sure I'm ready for, but one I know I might have to face. Emma Padoan's Chiara is a force. Her portrayal of a woman grappling with the loss of her mobility, her independence, and potentially her partner is gut-wrenching. The scene where she confronts Tommaso about his pre-sex ritual - it's uncomfortable, it's raw, and it's so, so necessary. How often do we see disabled characters allowed to express sexual frustration, to demand to be seen as desirable? Not nearly enough. Nico, your evolution as a filmmaker since "Virtuoso" is staggering. There's a maturity here, a willingness to sit in the discomfort of difficult emotions, that speaks volumes. Your use of Venice's panoramas to chart the growing distance between Tommaso and Chiara is masterful - it reminded me of the way Antonioni used landscape in "L'Avventura", but with an added layer of bitter irony. These views that tourists flock to see become a taunt, a reminder of all Chiara has lost. The script, co-written with Claudia Sferrazza, doesn't waste a word. Every line peels back another layer of this relationship, revealing the tender flesh beneath. And Tomasz Jagoda's score - it's the heartbeat of the film, swelling and receding like the tides of the canals. I can't help but wonder about your connection to this story, Nico. The sensitivity with which you handle motor diseases - first in "Virtuoso" and now here - speaks of personal experience. Whatever your inspiration, know that your work is seen and deeply appreciated by those of us who live on the periphery of this world, watching our loved ones navigate its challenges. This film feels like a classic, something that should have existed for years but somehow didn't until now. It's 2024, and we're only just seeing love stories like this? It's a testament to how far we still have to go in representing disabled experiences on screen. I'm curious how the disabled community will receive this film. It's a harsh representation, yes, but an honest one. It doesn't shy away from the ugly truths - the pitying looks, the friends who drift away, the strain on relationships. But in that honesty, there's respect. You're not asking for pity; you're demanding to be seen. Nico, thank you. Thank you for this film, for the visibility it brings, for the conversations it will start. As someone who's grown up alongside disability and who faces an uncertain future of caregiving, I feel seen in a way I rarely do in cinema. This short has legs (forgive the poor choice of words) to become a feature, and I sincerely hope it does. There's so much more to explore here - Chiara's journey post-Tommaso, her sexual reawakening, her reclaiming of self in a city that seems designed to exclude her. "Mille Ponti" is a bridge - between the able-bodied and disabled worlds, between love and resentment, between what was and what is. It's not an easy crossing, but it's a necessary one. And Nico, you've given us a map to start the journey. - Reviewed by Adrián Pérez 
Mercy Of Others (Australia)
★★★½ Directed by Damien Giglietta In Damien Giglietta's haunting psychological thriller "Mercy of Others" (2024), the filmmaker masterfully weaves a tapestry of guilt, responsibility and redemption through the lens of collective trauma. Much like Gaspar Noé's "Irréversible" (2002) and Michael Haneke's "Funny Games" (1997), Giglietta employs a non-linear narrative structure to excavate the psychological aftermath of violence, though here specifically examining the ripple effects of schoolyard bullying through a distinctly Australian lens. The film's narrative architecture brilliantly parallels works like Jennifer Kent's "The Babadook" (2014) and Justin Kurzel's "Snowtown" (2011) in its exploration of how trauma manifests within confined spaces. Giglietta transforms a reunion setting into a pressure cooker of suppressed guilt and delayed accountability. The claustrophobic cinematography by George Davis creates an atmosphere reminiscent of Alex Garland's "Men" (2022), where the physical space becomes a metaphor for psychological imprisonment. The film's visual grammar speaks to both isolation and interconnectedness - a dialectic that drives home its central thesis about the far-reaching consequences of our actions. At its philosophical core, "Mercy of Others" grapples with three profound conceptual frameworks: collective responsibility, temporal justice, and the psychology of redemption. The ensemble cast delivers nuanced performances that embody these themes, with Jack Martin's portrayal of Aiden particularly standing out as a study in protective instinct warped by trauma. Traccin Rameka's devastating turn as Shaun channels the vulnerable rage of Timothy Chalamet in "Beautiful Boy" (2018), while Vanessa Madrid brings a haunting presence to Brooke that echoes Florence Pugh's work in "Midsommar" (2019). The film's technical achievements belie its modest budget. The original score by Jeenyis Scoring provides a disquieting soundscape that enhances the psychological tension without overwhelming it. Taylor Buoro's production design deserves special mention for its subtle evolution throughout the narrative - the gradual degradation of spaces reflecting the characters' psychological states brings to mind the environmental storytelling of Ari Aster's "Hereditary" (2018). For a sophomore feature, Giglietta demonstrates a startling maturity and command of his craft that marks him as one of Australia's most promising emerging auteurs. His ability to orchestrate such delicate psychological terrain while maintaining both narrative tension and thematic resonance is remarkable. "Mercy of Others" joins a proud lineage of Australian films that dare to probe the darker corners of our collective psyche, but Giglietta's distinct voice - empathetic yet unflinching, intimate yet universal - feels entirely fresh. In an era where independent cinema often struggles to balance artistic integrity with commercial viability, Giglietta has achieved something rare: a film that challenges and moves us while never losing sight of its fundamental humanity. This is deeply personal filmmaking that speaks to universal truths, crafted with the kind of raw honesty and technical precision that makes one eager to see where this filmmaker's journey leads next. If "Mercy of Others" is any indication, Australian cinema has found an important new voice - one that understands that true horror lies not in what we see, but in what we do to one another, and more importantly, what we can do to make it right. - Reviewed by Adrián Pérez 
Mountains In Harmony (Spain)
★★★★½ Directed by Francisco Javier Fernández Bordonada Francisco Javier Fernández Bordonada's "Mountains in Harmony" ascends to breathtaking heights, both literally and metaphorically, offering a masterclass in environmental documentary filmmaking that echoes the reverent approach of Werner Herzog's "Cave of Forgotten Dreams" (2010) whilst embracing the urgent ecological consciousness of Jennifer Baichwal's "Anthropocene: The Human Epoch" (2018). This visually sumptuous meditation on our relationship with mountainous landscapes positions itself at the intersection of ethnographic observation and environmental advocacy, crafting a narrative that resonates with particular poignancy in our current climate crisis epoch. The film's cinematographic prowess rivals that of James Reed and Pippa Ehrlich's "My Octopus Teacher" (2020), but rather than plumbing oceanic depths, Bordonada scales vertiginous peaks with a camera that seems to defy gravitational constraints. Each frame is composed with painterly precision, calling to mind the sublime landscape paintings of Caspar David Friedrich, while simultaneously embracing the contemporary environmental zeitgeist that defined Brett Morgen's "Fire of Love" (2022). The director's background in aerial photography manifests in sequences that transcend mere documentary convention, achieving a sort of visual phenomenology that speaks to both the majesty and vulnerability of these elevated ecosystems. Through a masterful interweaving of expert testimony and indigenous wisdom, Bordonada constructs a rich tapestry of meaning that explores three central philosophical threads: the concept of topophilia (humanity's profound psychological connection to place), the anthropocene's impact on traditional ways of being, and the dialectic between preservation and progress. These themes are particularly evident in a stunning sequence where ancient shepherding practices are juxtaposed against encroaching modernisation, creating a visual rhetoric that recalls the environmental consciousness of Viktor Kossakovsky's "Aquarela" (2018). The film's most transcendent moments arrive when Bordonada allows his camera to linger in contemplative silence on the interaction between light and landscape. These sequences achieve what French philosopher Gaston Bachelard termed "vertical time" - moments where chronological time seems to pause, allowing for deep phenomenological engagement with space. The director's previous work documenting Spanish olive groves clearly informed this patient, observational approach, though here it reaches new heights of artistic maturity. For a first foray into feature-length environmental documentary, Bordonada demonstrates remarkable assurance in his craft. The film's technical excellence serves its deeper purpose: to illuminate the precarious harmony between human culture and mountain ecosystems. In an era where environmental documentaries often default to didacticism or despair, "Mountains in Harmony" charts a more nuanced course, offering a profound meditation on our relationship with Earth's most majestic formations. This is essential viewing for anyone concerned with the future of our planet's wild places, marking Bordonada as a significant new voice in environmental cinema. - Reviewed by Adrián Pérez N
No Vacancy (USA)
★★★½ Directed by Jay Sherer & Lukas Colombo In Jay Sherer and Lukas Colombo's nocturnal noir-thriller 'No Vacancy' (2024), we're thrust into a labyrinthine exploration of guilt that would make David Lynch proud. The film's exquisite manipulation of the thriller genre architecture reveals itself through a journalist's descent into her own psychological abyss, reminiscent of Christopher Nolan's 'Memento' (2000) in its fractured narrative approach, whilst sharing DNA with Nicolas Winding Refn's 'Drive' (2011) in its sumptuous neon-drenched aesthetic palate. What distinguishes 'No Vacancy' is its masterful oscillation between colour and monochrome—a technique that transcends mere stylistic flourish to become a powerful narratological device. The black-and-white sequences, serving as windows into our protagonist's inner world, evoke the psychological complexity of Ingmar Bergman's 'Persona' (1966), whilst the neon-saturated colour passages remind one of Julia Ducournau's 'Titane' (2021) in their visceral impact. This chromatic dualism creates a compelling visual dialectic that mirrors the protagonist's psychological splitting, reminiscent of the metaphysical dualism in Robert Eggers' 'The Lighthouse' (2019). The film's exploration of shame and guilt through the lens of genre convention is particularly fascinating. Leigh Larson's character arc, brilliantly portrayed by Colleen Trusler, operates within the familiar territory of neo-noir character studies whilst simultaneously subverting these tropes through its careful deconstruction of journalistic ethics and personal culpability. The dialogue crackles with purpose, each line weighted with significance in a way that recalls the taut screenwriting of Taylor Sheridan's recent works. Cinematographically, 'No Vacancy' is a triumph of nocturnal atmosphere. The camera work transforms the confined space of a remote motel into a phantasmagoric playground where shadow and light engage in an eternal dance. The film's visual grammar speaks in the dialect of classic noir whilst incorporating contemporary technical virtuosity, creating a hybrid aesthetic that feels both timeless and urgently modern. This visual sophistication, paired with its experimental avant-garde sensibilities in the monochrome sequences, elevates the film beyond its modest budget constraints. To Jay Sherer, this debut marks the emergence of a significant new voice in independent cinema. The confidence displayed in both the narrative construction and visual execution suggests a filmmaker who has not only studied the masters but understood their fundamental lessons. As a proof of concept for 'The Harlequin', 'No Vacancy' demonstrates remarkable promise, hinting at even greater depths to be explored in the feature-length format. One can only anticipate with excitement the full realisation of this vision in the broader canvas of the feature film. - Reviewed by Adrián Pérez |
Noctambule (France)
★★★★½ Directed by Adrien Caulier In Adrien Caulier's haunting nocturnal odyssey *Noctambule*, the mundane act of walking home transforms into a phantasmagorical meditation on feminine vulnerability and urban predation. Like Julia Ducournau's *Raw* (2016) or Rose Glass's *Saint Maud* (2019), Caulier weaponises the female gaze to excavate deeply rooted societal horrors, creating a work that straddles the liminal space between psychological thriller and sociological commentary. The film's premise—a young woman's solitary journey home after a party—may seem deceptively simple, yet it unfolds into a masterclass in sustained tension and metaphysical dread. Through Alice Beaujoin's remarkably nuanced performance, we witness the psychological deterioration of a woman confronting the omnipresent spectre of male violence. Beaujoin's expressive eyes become a portal into collective feminine trauma, reminiscent of Sosie Bacon's paranoid descent in Parker Finn's *Smile* (2022). The film's visual grammar, particularly its clever manipulation of negative space and shadow play, evokes the expressionist terror of F.W. Murnau's *Nosferatu* (1922), whilst simultaneously channelling the contemporary urban horror of Ari Aster's *Beau Is Afraid* (2023). Caulier's command of cinematographic chiaroscuro transforms ordinary streetscapes into tableaux of mounting horror. The film's masterstroke lies in its subversion of traditional horror tropes through a distinctly phenomenological lens. When our protagonist encounters a contorted figure in the road—a scene that mirrors the biomechanical horror of Julia Ducournau's *Titane* (2021)—the ensuing standoff becomes a meditation on fight-or-flight responses and the paradoxical nature of survival instincts. The sequence where multiple silhouettes trail her, forcing an acceleration of pace, masterfully deconstructs the quotidian horror of feminine existence. Here, Caulier transforms John Krasinski's *A Quiet Place* (2018) premise into a gendered commentary: silence and stillness become necessary tools of survival in a predatory landscape. The denouement, with its gathering of spectral male figures gazing upward at the protagonist's window, transcends simple horror to achieve something approaching social surrealism. Like Jennifer Kent's *The Babadook* (2014), *Noctambule* understands that true horror lies not in the supernatural but in the everyday—in the collective weight of societal threats that transform routine journeys into potential nightmares. Caulier's decision to maintain ambiguity about the nature of these threats—are they physical manifestations or psychological projections?—speaks to the film's sophisticated understanding of trauma and its reverberations. What elevates *Noctambule* beyond its genre trappings is its unflinching examination of urban spaces as sites of gendered terror. Through its masterful sound design and haunting original score, the film creates a sonic landscape that mirrors its protagonist's increasing paranoia. Like Robert Eggers' *The Witch* (2015), it understands that horror's true power lies not in what is shown, but in what lurks in the shadows of our collective consciousness. In crafting this deeply personal yet universally resonant piece, Caulier announces himself as a formidable new voice in contemporary cinema, one who understands that the most effective horror springs from lived experience rather than manufactured frights. This is a remarkable achievement that marks the emergence of a director who grasps the profound intersection between social commentary and genre filmmaking. - Reviewed by Adrián Pérez O
OSMOSE (France)
★★★★½ Directed by Eva Motreff In Eva Motreff's mesmerising "Osmose" (2024), we witness the sublime convergence of corporeal presence and geological timelessness, as a solitary figure navigates the liminal space between day and night in a lunar landscape that echoes the stark terrains of Zabriskie Point (1970, Michelangelo Antonioni). The film's choreographic poetry recalls the metaphysical explorations of Maya Deren's "A Study in Choreography for Camera" (1945), yet Motreff transcends mere homage to craft something uniquely contemporary, speaking to our modern alienation and search for connection in an increasingly fractured world. The film's phenomenological approach to movement, masterfully embodied by dancer Tao Zhang, evokes what philosopher Maurice Merleau-Ponty termed the 'flesh of the world'—the inexorable entanglement of perceiver and perceived. The direction of movements of Motreff and the dancer Zhang, reminiscent of both Tai Chi's meditative flow and the grounded expressionism of Pina Bausch, transforms the barren landscape into a partner in an intimate pas de deux. This dialogue between body and environment calls to mind the ecological dreaming of "Sun & Sea" (2019, Rugilė Barzdžiukaitė), whilst pushing beyond into newer territory that explores the very essence of human fragility in the face of geological permanence. As day yields to night, Motreff orchestrates a remarkable transition that owes as much to JakoJako's ethereal score as it does to Jianhua Ma's exquisite cinematography. The camera work particularly excels in its ability to capture what Jung might have termed the 'synchronicity' between internal and external landscapes—a visual meditation that shares spiritual DNA with Alejandro Jodorowsky's "The Holy Mountain" (1973) while establishing its own distinct visual grammar. The way Zhang's body seems to be guided by invisible currents of air creates a haunting metaphor for the invisible forces that shape our psychological existence. The film's pivotal sequence, where Zhang encounters and caresses the mountainside, transcends mere choreography to become a profound commentary on human existence. This tactile communion with the ancient rock face evokes the Sisyphean struggle detailed in Camus' philosophical writings, yet offers a gentler, more harmonious resolution. In an era where environmental anxiety and existential dread permeate our collective consciousness, Motreff's vision suggests a way forward through embodied connection rather than technological solution, calling to mind the ecological meditations of "All the Beauty and the Bloodshed" (2022, Laura Poitras). "Osmose" ultimately emerges as a masterwork of contemporary experimental cinema, one that deftly weaves together threads of phenomenology, environmental philosophy, and somatic experience. In just five minutes, Motreff manages to create what feels like an epic meditation on human fragility and resilience. For a debut installation film, this represents an extraordinary achievement that positions Motreff as an important voice in contemporary cinema. The film's power lies not just in its technical excellence, but in its ability to remind us of our own delicate position within the vast tapestry of existence—a reminder that feels increasingly crucial in our precarious times. - Reviewed by Adrián Pérez P
Pickleball Is Life: Dill With It! (USA)
★★★ Directed by Carol Ann DeMarco & Ethan de Aguiar In an era where streaming platforms saturate us with narratives of youth-centric existential crises, Carol Ann DeMarco's "Pickleball is Life: Dill With It!" serves as a refreshing paradigm shift, offering a delectable blend of communal spirit and late-life renaissance that echoes the warmth of Nancy Meyers's "Something's Gotta Give" (2003) whilst embracing the sardonic wit of Alexander Payne's "Sideways" (2004). DeMarco's pilot episode masterfully navigates the intersection of ageism, female solidarity, and economic precarity—themes that resonate powerfully in our post-pandemic landscape where community cohesion has become increasingly paramount. The narrative architecture, revolving around three quinquagenarian friends battling their nemesis landlord through the unlikely medium of pickleball, might initially evoke the playful spirit of "Ted Lasso" (Jason Sudeikis, 2020-2023), but DeMarco's vision transcends mere sports comedy to explore deeper phenomenological territories. The series' mise-en-scène, particularly in its treatment of Cape May's sun-drenched courts, creates a heterotopic space where social hierarchies dissolve—reminiscent of Jacques Tati's "Playtime" (1967) in its clever manipulation of social spaces as sites of democratic potential. Catherine Curtin, Sharon Lawrence, and the ensemble cast deliver performances that masterfully traverse the liminal space between comedy and pathos. A particularly poignant sequence involves a failed serve attempt that transforms into a moment of profound solidarity, channelling the spirit of Robert Altman's overlapping dialogue technique whilst maintaining its own unique temporal rhythm. The cinematography, especially during the pickleball sequences, employs a kinetic dynamism that recalls Damien Chazelle's "Whiplash" (2014), albeit in service of a gentler, more inclusive narrative. DeMarco's auteurial voice emerges most distinctly in her treatment of the sport as metaphor—pickleball becomes not merely a plot device but a semiotic framework for examining contemporary social bonds. The pilot's clever integration of sports pedagogy with character development echoes similar strategies in "CODA" (Sian Heder, 2021), where skill acquisition becomes a vehicle for personal transformation. The series' exploration of late-life friendship dynamics particularly recalls the tender camaraderie of "80 for Brady" (Kyle Marvin, 2023), whilst maintaining a sharper edge in its social commentary. What elevates "Pickleball is Life" beyond its genre constraints is its unflinching examination of community as both sanctuary and battlefield. DeMarco has crafted a narrative that serves as a powerful critique of late-stage capitalism's impact on local communities whilst celebrating the resilience of human connection. The result is a remarkable achievement in televisual storytelling that manages to be both intellectually stimulating and emotionally resonant. One cannot help but be reminded of Agnès Varda's "The Gleaners and I" (2000) in its celebration of marginalized perspectives and collaborative spirit. DeMarco's pilot suggests not just the birth of a promising series, but the emergence of a significant new voice in contemporary television—one that understands that sometimes the most revolutionary act is simply showing up to play. Personal Note: As a critic who has witnessed countless attempts to capture the zeitgeist of community resistance, I find myself particularly moved by DeMarco's ability to weave together humour, social commentary, and authentic human connection. The series' understanding of how sports can transcend their physical boundaries to become vehicles for social change is both timely and profound. Keep serving these stories, Carol Ann—they're exactly what our fractured world needs right now. - Reviewed by Adrián Pérez 
Project Shadow (Brazil)
★★★★½ Directed by João Filipe Santiago In a remarkable achievement that rivals professional studio productions, João Filipe Santiago's Project Shadow delivers a poignant exploration of one of gaming's most complex characters. This fan film, produced on a modest budget of $4,350, demonstrates how passionate creativity can transcend financial constraints to create something truly extraordinary. The film's narrative prowess lies in its expert handling of Shadow the Hedgehog's origin story, masterfully weaving themes of family, sacrifice, and the corrupting influence of militaristic ambition. Santiago's direction evokes parallels with Christopher Nolan's Inception (2010) in its sophisticated handling of time perception, and Neill Blomkamp's District 9 (2009) in its examination of governmental overreach. The story's emotional core bears striking similarities to Guillermo del Toro's Pan's Labyrinth (2006), particularly in its exploration of innocence confronting institutional violence. Technically, the CGI work is nothing short of remarkable. Shadow's character model and animation rival those seen in Paramount's official Sonic films, with particular attention paid to subtle emotional expressions that bring unprecedented depth to the character. The seamless integration of CGI elements with live-action footage creates a cohesive visual language that never breaks immersion. The film's cinematography, particularly during the ARK sequences, employs a masterful use of perspective and framing that recalls Denis Villeneuve's Arrival (2016) in its ability to make institutional spaces feel simultaneously vast and claustrophobic. The film's emotional crescendo - Maria's sacrifice - stands as its crowning achievement. The scene's power stems from its restraint; rather than relying on melodrama, it allows the raw emotion of the moment to emerge naturally through the performances. The relationship between Shadow and Maria is developed with extraordinary nuance, making their final separation devastatingly effective. This sequence particularly recalls the heart-wrenching farewell in Satoshi Kon's Millennium Actress (2001), where personal sacrifice similarly intersects with larger historical forces. Most impressive is how the film expands upon established lore while remaining faithful to its source material. Through carefully crafted character moments and environmental storytelling, we gain deeper insight into Shadow's pre-tragedy personality - a fascinating contrast to his later characterisation. The exploration of his initial optimism and subsequent descent into darkness provides compelling psychological depth that enriches the entire Sonic canon. Professor Gerald Robotnik's portrayal as a brilliant scientist driven by love for his granddaughter adds layers of moral complexity to the narrative, while G.U.N.'s intervention serves as a pointed critique of military-industrial complex overreach. This thematic richness, combined with outstanding production values and emotional authenticity, elevates Project Shadow beyond mere fan service into legitimate cinematic achievement. For Santiago and his team to accomplish this level of quality on such a modest budget isn't just impressive - it's revolutionary. Project Shadow stands as a testament to the democratisation of filmmaking, proving that passion, vision, and talent can sometimes matter more than financial resources. This film doesn't just pay homage to its source material; it enriches it, offering fresh insights into one of gaming's most compelling characters while delivering a moving meditation on love, loss, and the price of progress. - Reviewed by Adrián Pérez Q
Questioning The Window (Austria)
★★★½ Directed by Vulpecula Collective (Valentina Himmelbauer, Myriam Angela, Tess Hermann) Valentina Himmelbauer's "Questioning the Window" emerges as a haunting triptych of generational trauma and linguistic identity, reminiscent of Chantal Akerman's "News from Home" (1977) in its claustrophobic domesticity and exploration of maternal inheritance. Through the confined space of a Viennese apartment, Himmelbauer orchestrates an intricate dance between three women—Alpha, Beta, and Gamma—whose struggles with their Burgenland-Croatian heritage echo the fragmentary nature of diasporic existence that we've seen recently in works like Jonas Bak's "Wood and Water" (2021) and Jacqueline Lentzou's "Moon, 66 Questions" (2021). The film's experimental structure, revolving around intensive conversations between these three women, creates a psychogeographical mapping of linguistic anxiety. Beta's attempt to liberate Gamma from her fears mirrors Ingmar Bergman's "Persona" (1966) in its psychological intimacy, while the spectral presence of Alpha introduces a third dimension that transforms the apartment into a palimpsest of generational discourse. Himmelbauer's camera work, particularly in its framing of the titular window, becomes a metaphor for the permeable boundaries between cultural retention and assimilation—a visual dialectic that recalls Céline Sciamma's "Petite Maman" (2021) in its tender exploration of intergenerational dialogue. What distinguishes "Questioning the Window" is its sophisticated handling of linguistic trauma. The fear of speaking Burgenland-Croatian becomes a profound meditation on cultural authenticity and belonging. Through Beta's transformation from a fearful keeper of tradition to a mediator between worlds, Himmelbauer crafts a narrative that speaks to contemporary discussions of cultural hybridity and linguistic preservation. The film's examination of the "misogynistic attitude of the Burgenland-Croatian elite" positions it within broader feminist discourse, reminiscent of the institutional critique found in Charlotte Wells' "Aftersun" (2022). The experimental nature of the film manifests in its temporal fluidity, as conversations between different generations overlap and intersect. This creates a phantasmagorical effect where past and present coexist within the apartment's walls, recalling the dream-like qualities of Apichatpong Weerasethakul's "Memoria" (2021). The window itself becomes a liminal space—simultaneously a barrier and a portal—through which these women negotiate their relationship with tradition and modernity. In crafting this deeply personal exploration of cultural identity, Himmelbauer and her collective have created a work of profound resonance that speaks to the universal experience of navigating between worlds. The film's achievement lies not just in its thematic complexity but in its ability to render abstract concepts of linguistic alienation and cultural preservation into deeply affecting human drama. As Beta attempts to guide Gamma towards fearlessness, we witness a masterclass in how cinema can illuminate the invisible threads that connect generations, languages, and identities. - Reviewed by Adrián Pérez S
Sign From God (USA)
★★★★ Directed by Timothy Shin & Yang Zimik Divine Intervention meets deadpan comedy in Timothy Shin and Yang Zimik's delightfully absurdist micro-short 'Sign from God', a film that wrings profound commentary on contemporary faith from the unlikeliest of sources - a fallen mattress store mascot. With aesthetic sensibilities that recall Yorgos Lanthimos's 'The Killing of a Sacred Deer' (2017) and the sacred-meets-secular surrealism of Luis Buñuel, this three-minute masterclass in visual storytelling transforms an empty church into a stage for divine comedy. The directors paint their canvas with masterful chiaroscuro, reminiscent of Robert Eggers' 'The Witch' (2015), as shafts of light pierce through the abandoned church's darkness like divine arrows seeking their target. Kane Lieu's Pastor Seoul embodies a perfect synthesis of Charlie Chaplin's pathos and Buster Keaton's stoic melancholy - his face a roadmap of ecclesiastical disappointment as his congregation of two dwindles to none. The film's meditation on faith in crisis eerily echoes themes from Rose Glass's 'Saint Maud' (2019), though here treated with a lighter touch that makes its commentary no less incisive. In an era where organised religion grapples with dwindling attendance and spiritual malaise, 'Sign from God' offers a wickedly clever metaphor: salvation arrives not through traditional channels but via a sign-spinning mascot who bears an uncanny resemblance to traditional depictions of Jesus. The transformation sequence, catalysed by communion grape juice serving as impromptu baptismal water, employs colour grading that would make Wes Anderson proud - shifting from desaturated despair to vibrant revelation. The film's technical virtuosity belies its micro-short format. The directors demonstrate remarkable control over their visual grammar, creating compositions that wouldn't look out of place in Paweł Pogorzelski's work on 'Hereditary' (2018), though deployed here for comedic rather than horrific effect. Jeremy White's Jesus-mascot performance is a masterclass in physical comedy, his sign-spinning routine elevated to the realm of religious ecstasy through careful framing and timing that would make Jacques Tati beam with approval. To Timothy and Yang: you've created something rare indeed - a film that manages to be both irreverent and deeply respectful of faith, technically accomplished while maintaining a playful spirit. The way you've married high art cinematography with low-brow premise speaks to a sophisticated understanding of cinema's capacity for simultaneous elevation and subversion. In just three minutes, you've captured something profound about the persistence of faith in our secular age, suggesting that perhaps divine intervention comes not with thunder and lightning, but with a spinning sign and a comfortable night's sleep. Your micro-short stands as testament to cinema's ability to find profound truth in the absurd, and I eagerly await your next offering. - Reviewed by Adrián Pérez 
Snow Dog (USA)
★★★½ Directed by Christina Park, Marisol Salazar Montoya In an era where animation increasingly grapples with weighty existential themes, Christina Park and Marisol Salazar Montoya's "Snow Dog" emerges as a crystalline reminder of animation's capacity for pure, unbridled whimsy. Their short film ingeniously evokes the spirited playfulness of Pete Docter's "Up" (2009) whilst channelling the transformative magic reminiscent of Hayao Miyazaki's "Howl's Moving Castle" (2004). The narrative, centred around young Holly and her spontaneously animated snow companion Snowbert, masterfully navigates the delicate intersection between magical realism and childhood psychology, offering a fascinating discourse on the nature of responsibility and the psychodynamics of wish fulfilment. The film's visual grammar draws fascinating parallels with recent animated masterworks like "Wolfwalkers" (2020, Tomm Moore and Ross Stewart) in its exploration of the metamorphic relationship between child and beast. Park and Salazar Montoya's technical virtuosity manifests in their deft manipulation of scale and proportion, as Snowbert's incremental growth becomes a metaphor for the mounting weight of accountability. The animators demonstrate remarkable restraint in their deployment of physical comedy, allowing moments of quiet observation to punctuate the escalating chaos, creating a rhythmic tension that speaks to the influence of Michel Gondry's surrealist sensibilities. In its exploration of unintended consequences, "Snow Dog" positions itself within a rich tradition of cautionary winter's tales, whilst simultaneously subverting the genre's typically darker implications. The film's central sequence, where Snowbert's expanding form wreaks havoc across the neighbourhood, brilliantly echoes the controlled chaos of Phil Lord and Christopher Miller's "Spider-Man: Across the Spider-Verse" (2023), yet maintains its own distinct charm through its masterful deployment of scale and perspective. The designers' careful attention to Snowbert's characterisation, particularly in his expressive features, creates an endearing presence that rivals the emotional resonance of Dean DeBlois's "How to Train Your Dragon" (2010). The philosophical underpinnings of "Snow Dog" extend beyond its surface charm to engage with substantial questions about the nature of desire and responsibility. Holly's journey from disappointment with her pet rock to her eventual recognition of the consequences of unchecked wishes bears striking similarity to the thematic concerns of Domee Shi's "Turning Red" (2022), particularly in its examination of adolescent agency and accountability. The film's denouement, where Holly must literally deconstruct her creation, offers a poignant meditation on the nature of love and loss that resonates with surprising depth for its brief runtime. Park and Salazar Montoya have crafted something truly remarkable here – a work that functions simultaneously as a technical showcase and a deeply affecting narrative experience. Their command of the medium demonstrates a maturity that belies their status as student filmmakers, suggesting the emergence of two significant new voices in contemporary animation. The film's ability to navigate complex emotional terrain while maintaining its sense of joy and wonder marks it as a worthy addition to the pantheon of short-form animation, alongside works like "Kitbull" (2019, Rosana Sullivan) and "Hair Love" (2019, Matthew A. Cherry). One eagerly anticipates what these promising filmmakers will create next, as they have already demonstrated such a sophisticated understanding of animation's capacity to enchant, enlighten, and move audiences of all ages. - Reviewed by Adrián Pérez T
The Ange & Addi Show (USA)
★★★★ Directed by Dustin James Leighton Dustin James Leighton's "The Ange and Addi Show" is a bizarre blend of infomercial and sitcom that feels like the lovechild of "The Office" and QVC, raised by "Saturday Night Live." Created for Legend Brands, this web series showcases Leighton's extraordinary range as he pivots from his ethereal mind-bender "Lostless" (2023) to slapstick comedy with the finesse of a true auteur. Through a high-speed odyssey of office hijinks and product demonstrations, Leighton transforms the staid world of cleaning and restoration equipment into a playground for comedy, his keen eye for visual gags and impeccable timing elevating every product placement to new heights of hilarity. At the heart of the show are the cleaning and restoration sales reps Ange and Addi, brought to life by the phenomenal performances of Jade Soto and Jaclyn Hamric. Soto's portrayal of Ange is nothing short of revelatory, her impeccable comic timing and nuanced take on the 'girly girl' archetype a masterclass in comedic acting. The chemistry between Soto and Hamric crackles with energy, their rivalry reminiscent of the absurdist competitiveness in Guy Maddin's "Rumours" (2024), but with more talk about extraction perimeters and LGR 6000 Li Dehumidifiers. The cast commits fully to the absurdity, from worshipping HVE 3000s to parodying hyper-masculine infomercials. Dustin's intervention as Jax is understatedly hilarious, rounding out a team that delivers laughs with every exaggerated sales pitch. Visually, the show is executed flawlessly – if your eyes have developed a particular appetite for cleaning equipment glamour shots. The decision to present these products on literal pedestals atop office desks is *chef's kiss* perfection. It's all very meta, weird, and oddly compelling. As for its impact, will "The Ange and Addi Show" revolutionise the world of branded content? Who knows. But there's something refreshing about a show in this specific branded realm willing to get its hands dirty for a laugh. With Leighton's innovative direction and Soto's star-making performance leading the charge, this series is a triumph of creativity over convention – a cleaning product commercial that leaves you feeling thoroughly entertained. Boldly Bizarre and Persistently Playful. - Reviewed by Adrián Pérez The Buzzard Squadron (USA)
★★★★★ Written by William Hovey Smith In this masterfully crafted meditation on nuclear brinksmanship, William Hovey Smith orchestrates an ontological exploration of humanity's relationship with apocalyptic technology that recalls both the existential dread of Stanley Kubrick's "Dr. Strangelove" (1964) and the metaphysical weight of Christopher Nolan's "Oppenheimer" (2023). The screenplay's central conceit—the retrofitting of vintage aircraft with contemporary weaponry—functions as a brilliant metaphor for the dialectical tension between technological progress and atavistic human nature, reminiscent of the temporal paradoxes in "Tenet" (2020) whilst channelling the geopolitical anxieties of "All the Light We Cannot See" (Netflix, 2023). The narrative's phenomenological approach to military theatre operates within a fascinating liminality, where the boundaries between deterrence and aggression become delightfully problematised. Smith's character work demonstrates a profound understanding of the heteroglossia inherent in military discourse—particularly evident in Commander Reynolds (a role that practically demands Bryan Cranston's aptitude for depicting moral ambivalence). The screenplay's treatment of Lt. Sarah Mitchel (perfectly suited for Emily Blunt, channelling her masterful edge from "Sicario") exemplifies the intersection of technocratic expertise and humanitarian conscience that defined Cold War epistemology. In its most virtuosic moments, such as the haunting reactor cable crisis sequence, Smith's writing achieves a rare synthesis of technical verisimilitude and profound human pathos. The dialogue crackles with an authenticity reminiscent of "Chernobyl" (2019, Johan Renck), whilst the moral weight of targeting decisions echoes the ethical complexities explored in "The Creator" (2023, Gareth Edwards). Particularly notable is Petrov's heart-wrenching protestation against civilian targeting—"He who kills the innocent will die the damned"—which encapsulates the screenplay's central ethical aporia with devastating clarity. The incorporation of celestial navigation as both plot device and metaphor represents a masterful engagement with what I term "retroactive futurism"—a philosophical framework where technological regression paradoxically enables strategic advancement. This conceptual innovation places "The Buzzard Squadron" in dialogue with recent works like "Blade Runner 2049" (2017, Denis Villeneuve) and "Mission: Impossible - Dead Reckoning Part One" (2023, Christopher McQuarrie), where humanity's relationship with technology becomes increasingly interrogated through the lens of historical recursion. In its denouement, Smith's work transcends the traditional parameters of the military thriller genre to achieve something approaching the sublime. The final escort sequence, with its unexpected alliance between Reynolds and Weavisloskev, offers a profound meditation on the possibility of transnational humanism in an age of renewed geopolitical balkanisation. This moment of grace, emerging from the crucible of potential nuclear annihilation, speaks to our contemporary moment with almost prophetic resonance. Like the retrofitted B-36 at its heart, "The Buzzard Squadron" represents a brilliant fusion of classical storytelling and contemporary relevance, offering both a warning and a testament to humanity's capacity for both destruction and redemption. - Reviewed by Adrián Pérez 
The Days Of Knight (USA)
★★★ Directed by John P. Martinez In John P Martinez's "The Days of Knight," we witness the emergence of a genuinely intriguing voice in experimental cinema, one that masterfully weaves together elements of supernatural horror with surveillance aesthetics to create a haunting meditation on existential dread and ancient power structures. Drawing inspiration from the paranoid surveillance horror of "Paranormal Activity" (2007, Oren Peli) whilst elevating it through a more sophisticated cinematic vocabulary reminiscent of Darren Aronofsky's "Pi" (1998), Martinez crafts a minimalist yet psychologically dense narrative that revolves around a seemingly straightforward premise: a clandestine operative's mission to retrieve an mysterious item. The film's strength lies in its ability to transform this simple setup into a labyrinthine exploration of consciousness and reality, particularly through its hallucinatory dream sequences that echo the metaphysical horror of "Enter the Void" (2009, Gaspar Noé) and the recent "Infinity Pool" (2023, Brandon Cronenberg). Martinez's background in law enforcement lends authenticity to the surveillance aspects, whilst his artistic sensibilities enable him to transmute these elements into something far more transcendental. The film's visual language, though occasionally hampered by murky cinematography, creates a phantasmagorical atmosphere that recalls the experimental works of Maya Deren, particularly in its treatment of time and space as malleable constructs. What's particularly fascinating is how Martinez utilises the supernatural elements not merely as genre trappings, but as vehicles for exploring deeper philosophical questions about free will and predetermination. The caped shadow figure that haunts the periphery of the frame serves as both a literal threat and a metaphysical reminder of the protagonist's uncertain position within ancient power structures. This approach brings to mind recent works like "Relic" (2020, Natalie Erika James) and "Men" (2022, Alex Garland), where horror elements function as manifestations of deeper psychological and sociological anxieties. The film's ambitious scope occasionally exceeds its modest budget of 500 USD, yet this limitation paradoxically enhances its experimental nature. Martinez's decision to emphasise psychological horror over explicit supernatural encounters demonstrates a sophisticated understanding of the power of suggestion, though one wishes the sound design had been more aggressive in its psychoacoustic manipulation of audience anxiety. The ambiguous ending, while frustrating on a narrative level, succeeds in creating a lingering sense of unease that extends beyond the film's brief runtime. As a first-time filmmaker, Martinez shows remarkable promise in his ability to synthesise various cinematic influences while maintaining his unique vision. His background in law enforcement brings a fascinating verisimilitude to the surveillance aspects, whilst his clear passion for genre filmmaking enables him to transcend mere procedural accuracy. While the film occasionally struggles to fully integrate its existential themes with its supernatural elements, there's an undeniable raw talent on display that marks Martinez as a filmmaker to watch. As Chapter 3 in an ongoing series, "The Days of Knight" leaves us eager to explore both previous and future instalments, suggesting a larger mythology that promises to be as philosophically rich as it is cinematically ambitious. - Reviewed by Adrián Pérez 
The Delicate Cycle (USA)
★★★½ Directed by Katherine King In Katherine King's directorial debut "The Delicate Cycle," a laundromat becomes an unlikely crucible for exploring masculine vulnerability and intergenerational wisdom. Like François Truffaut's "The 400 Blows" (1959), King's film delicately navigates the precipice between childhood and adolescence, though here the exploration occurs in the liminal space of an early morning laundromat rather than the streets of Paris. The film's confined setting evokes the claustrophobic intimacy of Celine Sciamma's "Petite Maman" (2021), yet King transforms this limitation into a strength, allowing the washing machines' cyclical rhythms to become a metaphor for life's perpetual transitions. The narrative centres on an unexpected friendship between young Adam (Dean Norris Jr.) and the dishevelled but engaging Lance (Fred Mancuso), their relationship unfolding against the backdrop of humming dryers and flickering arcade machines. King's direction demonstrates remarkable restraint, allowing the camera to linger on small moments that speak volumes about masculine emotional articulation - or lack thereof. The film's approach to male bonding recalls Sean Baker's "Red Rocket" (2021), though King's feminine gaze offers a refreshingly nuanced perspective on male vulnerability, particularly in how she frames their shared moments of silence. Through its masterful sound design and cinematographer Dave Haws' carefully composed frames, the film creates a temporal pocket universe where past and present collapse into each other. The Ms. Pac-Man machine serves as both literal and metaphorical interface between generations, its pixelated maze becoming a labyrinth of memory and loss. This recalls Charlotte Wells' "Aftersun" (2022) in its exploration of father-son relationships through the prism of memory and play, though King's approach is more immediate and present-tense. The performances shine with understated brilliance. Norris Jr. brings a raw authenticity to Adam, his occasional glances toward the laundromat door suggesting both hope and resignation about his absent father. Mancuso imbues Lance with a complex mixture of world-weariness and warmth that avoids the typical mentor figure clichés. Their chemistry feels organic, their relationship developing through shared silences and casual gameplay rather than forced dialogue. The addition of Yassmin Flores as Anita provides a subtle commentary on the feminine presence that both characters seem to simultaneously seek and avoid. King's background in theatre and songwriting enriches the film's texture, particularly in its use of the original song "Sunday's Best," which serves as both diegetic and emotional counterpoint to the narrative. The film's exploration of masculinity, mentorship, and emotional authenticity positions it within the contemporary discourse on toxic masculinity, yet it never feels didactic. Instead, it offers a tender meditation on how wisdom and vulnerability can be transmitted across generations in the most unexpected places. Like Barry Jenkins' "Moonlight" (2016), it understands that sometimes the most profound moments of connection occur in the spaces between words, in the gentle cycle of human interaction. This twenty-two-minute short film accomplishes what many features struggle to achieve - a genuine emotional resonance that lingers long after the final frame. King's feminine perspective on male relationships offers a fresh take on coming-of-age narratives, suggesting that sometimes the most important lessons about manhood come not from fathers, but from strangers who take the time to care. For a first-time filmmaker, King displays remarkable confidence in her visual storytelling, marking her as a distinctive new voice in American independent cinema. - Reviewed by Adrián Pérez 
The Feeling Part (USA)
★★★½ Written and Produced by Romy Nordlinger Directed by Jesse Lowell Anholt "The Feeling Part", written and produced by Romy Nordlinger (who also delivers a commanding lead performance) and directed by Jesse Lowell Anholt, emerges as a haunting meditation on addiction, loss, and the perpetual struggle between darkness and light in contemporary urban life. The film's striking blend of psychological realism and surrealist elements brings to mind the phantasmagorical atmosphere of Guillermo del Toro's "Nightmare Alley" (2021), while its raw exploration of grief and survival echoes the contemplative depths of Jean-Marc Vallée's "Wild" (2014). Through this synthesis, the film crafts its own unique visual language that speaks to the fragmentary nature of trauma and recovery. The narrative follows Liv, a recovering addict grappling with the anniversary of her mother's suicide, as she navigates the treacherous waters of sobriety and survival. Anholt's direction, coupled with Bryan James Hamilton's cinematography, creates a deliberately stark visual palette that mirrors the protagonist's psychological landscape. The film's aesthetic oscillates between harsh reality and surrealist interludes, particularly evident in the nightmarish Nutcracker sequences that serve as manifestations of Liv's internal struggle. This interplay between the real and the fantastical recalls the psychologically charged spaces of Darren Aronofsky's "Black Swan" (2010) while carving out its own distinct territory in the realm of magical realism. Thematically, "The Feeling Part" takes bold steps in exploring the intersection of addiction, inherited trauma, and the sometimes overwhelming weight of Christmas-time sentimentality. The film's structure, punctuated by surrealist elements, effectively communicates the dissociative aspects of grief and recovery. These moments, particularly when the boundaries between reality and hallucination blur, echo the fractured narratives of Derek Cianfrance's "Blue Valentine" (2010) while maintaining a uniquely gritty New York sensibility. What distinguishes this work is its ambitious fusion of punk rock aesthetics with the traditional Christmas narrative, creating an urban carol for the disenfranchised. The appearance of Sid Vicious as a spectral guide adds a layer of cultural commentary that speaks to the film's larger themes of rebellion against prescribed healing narratives. This subversive take on holiday conventions brings to mind Alex Cox's "Sid and Nancy" (1986), though here reimagined through a lens of recovery and redemption rather than destruction. From a production standpoint, there's a raw authenticity to the film's approach that serves its subject matter well. While there are moments where technical polish might have elevated certain sequences, the somewhat rough-hewn quality ultimately reinforces the story's emotional truth. Nick T. Moore's score deserves particular mention for its ability to bridge the film's disparate tonal elements, from punk aggression to holiday melancholy. For emerging filmmakers, this work represents a valuable example of how to tackle ambitious themes with limited resources while maintaining artistic integrity. A personal note to the filmmakers, to Romy: Your courage in tackling such challenging subject matter with both sensitivity and stylistic ambition is commendable. While there's room for technical refinement in future projects, you've created something genuinely meaningful that speaks to important contemporary issues. The film's willingness to embrace both darkness and hope marks it as a significant early work with great promise for what's to come. - Reviewed by Adrián Pérez 
The Melody of Ashes (Switzerland)
★★★★ Directed by Jonathan Moratal In Jonathan Moratal's "La Mélodie des Cendres" (2024), grief manifests as an all-consuming inferno, both literal and metaphorical, reminiscent of Joachim Trier's "Oslo, August 31st" (2011) in its raw portrayal of personal catastrophe. This Swiss micro-short masterfully orchestrates a symphony of loss, where every frame burns with the intensity of unprocessed trauma. The film's spellbinding original score doesn't merely accompany the narrative; it incarnates the protagonist's psychological imprisonment, creating a haunting soundscape that echoes the works of Jóhann Jóhannsson. The film's exploration of paternal guilt and artistic paralysis recalls Ingmar Bergman's "Through a Glass Darkly" (1961), particularly in its claustrophobic rendering of mental anguish. Jean's inability to compose becomes a powerful metaphor for the ineffable nature of grief – a theme that resonates deeply with recent works like Florian Zeller's "The Son" (2022). Moratal's decision to open with the house aflame creates a temporal loop of tragedy, suggesting that Jean's trauma exists outside linear time, perpetually recurring in what Freud would term the "repetition compulsion" of the traumatised psyche. The sister's note – "my dear Jean don't blame yourself for what couldn't be saved" – serves as a devastating catalyst, echoing the impossible weight of survivor's guilt. This moment particularly evokes Charlotte Wells' "Aftersun" (2022) in its delicate handling of familial bonds stretched across the chasm of loss. The piano, traditionally an instrument of expression, becomes a sacrificial pyre in Jean's hands, transforming into what Lacan might identify as the ultimate object of sublimation – the destruction of art as the final artistic gesture. Moratal demonstrates remarkable restraint in his visual language, allowing the sparse imagery to amplify the emotional resonance. The act of self-immolation serves not merely as a shocking denouement but as the logical conclusion to Jean's journey towards self-annihilation, calling to mind the psychological horror of Ari Aster's "Hereditary" (2018) in its exploration of grief's destructive power. The film's economical 2:20 runtime proves that profound emotional depth requires neither lengthy exposition nor verbose dialogue. In my years of reviewing, rarely have I encountered a micro-short that achieves such devastating impact through such minimal means. Moratal has created a work of staggering emotional intelligence that deserves recognition alongside contemporary masters of psychological cinema. The way he orchestrates the interplay between music, memory, and mourning speaks to a filmmaker of remarkable sensitivity and promise. To Jonathan Moratal: your ability to distill the complexity of human suffering into such a concentrated form marks you as a significant voice in contemporary cinema. This is not merely a film about loss; it's a masterclass in the power of cinematic minimalism to express the inexpressible. - Reviewed by Adrián Pérez 
The Night Of Purple Horrors (Estonia)
★★★½ Directed by Kadri Nikopensius, Rebeka Põldsam In an era where queer cinema often oscillates between trauma narratives and sanitised mainstream acceptance, Kadri Nikopensius and Rebeka Põldsam's "The Night of Purple Horrors" (2024) pirouettes gracefully into uncharted territory, offering a sumptuous historical fantasia that excavates Estonia's forgotten queer underground with both scholarly rigour and theatrical flair. Like Todd Haynes' "Velvet Goldmine" (1998) or Derek Jarman's "Caravaggio" (1986), this audacious short film uses anachronistic elements and dreamlike sequences to illuminate historical truths that documentary realism could never capture. The film's exploration of 1930s Tallinn's clandestine queer spaces echoes the decadent aesthetics of Baz Luhrmann's "The Great Gatsby" (2013), but with a distinctly underground sensibility that feels more authentic to its subject matter. Through the story of Ann, who discovers an old newspaper article that serves as her rabbit hole into this hidden world, we're introduced to a vibrant demimonde of drag performers, gender-nonconforming artists, and forbidden loves flourishing in the shadows of interwar Estonia. The costume design by Kalle HT Aasamäe deserves particular acclaim, creating a phantasmagorical fusion of period accuracy and theatrical extravagance that speaks to both historical truth and emotional authenticity. Where the film truly ascends into the sublime is during its surrealist centerpiece: a queer wedding that transforms into a fever dream of BDSM puppies and purple-lit underground revelry. This sequence, arriving at the eight-minute mark, recalls the radical theatricality of Ulrike Ottinger's "Freak Orlando" (1981) while speaking to contemporary conversations about gender performance and social constraint. The choreographed dances, executed with precision by an excellent ensemble cast, create moments of collective euphoria that feel both historically specific and timelessly relevant. Freddy-Alder Saunanen's exquisite cinematography bathes these proceedings in rich purples and golds, creating a visual language that bridges past and present while suggesting the liminality of queer spaces throughout history. The film's pacing occasionally meanders, particularly in its early scenes, and one wishes for a more pronounced tempo-rhythm in the editing to match the eventual boldness of its vision. However, when the narrative fully embraces its experimental impulses in the latter half, particularly during the catwalk sequences, it achieves a transgressive power that few contemporary films dare to attempt. Most importantly, "The Night of Purple Horrors" doesn't just excavate history – it reanimates it with contemporary urgency. By incorporating the historical figure of Magnus Hirschfeld, the pioneering sexologist whose progressive views on gender and sexuality were decades ahead of their time, the film draws explicit connections between past and present struggles for recognition and rights. Like Robin Campillo's "120 BPM" (2017) or Cheryl Dunye's "The Watermelon Woman" (1996), it understands that queer history isn't just about documentation – it's about creating a living dialogue between generations. In doing so, Nikopensius and Põldsam have created not just a film but a temporal portal, inviting us to see how the purple lights of underground clubs have always illuminated paths to freedom. - Reviewed by Adrián Pérez 
The Old Man And The Demon Sword (Portugal)
★★★★ Directed by Fábio Powers In an era where high-budget spectacles dominate cinematic discourse, Fábio Powers' "O Velho e a Espada" emerges as a refreshingly authentic piece of Portuguese genre filmmaking that proves creativity and vision can triumph over financial constraints. This supernatural comedy-drama, produced on a modest budget of 7,000 EUR, channels the spirit of early Sam Raimi whilst carrying distinct echoes of Guillermo del Toro's "Cronos" (1993) and the metaphysical playfulness of Charlie Kaufman's "Adaptation" (2002). Powers orchestrates a deeply layered narrative that operates simultaneously as a meditation on alcoholism, a critique of religious institutionalism, and a meta-commentary on the nature of filmmaking itself. The film's protagonist, António da Luz, bears striking similarities to the tormented hero of Lars von Trier's "The Kingdom" (1994), where the veil between reality and supernatural phenomenon becomes increasingly permeable through altered states of consciousness. What distinguishes Powers' approach is his ability to maintain tonal equilibrium between existential dread and absurdist humour, reminiscent of Alex Garland's "Men" (2022) in its exploration of masculine crisis through folkloric horror. The film's technical execution, while occasionally betraying its budgetary limitations, demonstrates remarkable ingenuity. Powers employs a visual language that recalls the psychogeographic wanderings of Peter Strickland's "In Fabric" (2018), particularly in sequences where António navigates the cursed village's metaphysical boundaries. The decision to voice the demon sword with João Loy's sardonic delivery proves inspired, creating a dynamic that evokes the existential buddy comedy of Harold and Maude whilst maintaining an undercurrent of genuine menace. Most impressive is Powers' ability to weave Portugal's rich tradition of magical realism into a contemporary framework that speaks to universal themes of isolation and redemption. The film's meta-narrative turn in its final act, rather than feeling gimmicky, serves to underscore the artificial constructs we build to process trauma and grief. This brings to mind the work of Miguel Gomes in "Arabian Nights" (2015), where the boundaries between documentary and fiction dissolve in service of deeper emotional truths. Despite its occasional rough edges, "O Velho e a Espada" announces Powers as a filmmaker of remarkable promise. His ability to blend genre elements with profound philosophical inquiry recalls early Cronenberg, particularly "Videodrome" (1983), in its exploration of how media shapes reality. The film's closing moments, which leave us questioning the nature of António's experience, demonstrate a sophisticated understanding of cinema's potential to blur the lines between reality and fiction, truth and perception. In an industry increasingly dominated by algorithmic content, Powers' wildly imaginative debut serves as a reminder of cinema's potential for genuine artistic risk-taking. A profound note to Powers: Your fearless combination of metaphysical horror, existential comedy, and meta-narrative innovation marks you as a unique voice in contemporary cinema. The raw authenticity and creative courage displayed in this work suggest the emergence of a filmmaker willing to push boundaries while remaining deeply connected to cultural roots. Continue pursuing your distinctive vision – the international film community will be watching with great interest. - Reviewed by Adrián Pérez 
The Punisher: Nightmare (USA)
★★★★ Directed by Brandon Forgione In Brandon Forgione and Rahi Raval's "The Punisher: Nightmare," we witness an extraordinary achievement in independent filmmaking that transcends its modest budget to deliver a psychologically rich character study wrapped in explosive action sequences. This fan film demonstrates how passion, when married with technical prowess, can rival studio productions in both scope and emotional resonance. The film's narrative architecture cleverly interweaves themes of redemption, divine judgment, and the cyclical nature of violence, drawing fascinating parallels to Paul Schrader's "First Reformed" (2017) in its exploration of faith under duress. Just as Hawke's tormented priest grapples with environmental apocalypse, Forgione's Frank Castle confronts personal demons while seeking spiritual absolution. The psychological framework recalls Christopher Nolan's "Memento" (2000), where trauma and memory interlock to create a labyrinth of moral complexity. This psychological depth is particularly evident in the film's treatment of post-traumatic stress disorder, reminiscent of David Ayer's "Fury" (2014) in its unflinching portrayal of combat veterans' inner turmoil. Cinematographically, the film stands as a testament to resourceful filmmaking, achieving striking visual compositions that echo the neo-noir aesthetics of Matt Reeves' "The Batman" (2022). The action choreography, accomplished without professional stuntmen, showcases raw intensity that brings to mind the visceral immediacy of Gareth Evans' "The Raid" (2011). Particularly impressive is how Forgione and Raval utilise limited locations to maximum effect, transforming ordinary spaces into theatres of psychological warfare through clever lighting and composition. The narrative's exploration of vengeance and redemption is masterfully handled through its religious undertones, creating an interesting dialogue with films like Martin Scorsese's "Silence" (2016) in its meditation on faith and violence. The script deftly balances action set-pieces with moments of quiet introspection, allowing the protagonist's internal struggle to resonate beyond the confines of the superhero genre. This approach elevates the material into territory more commonly associated with serious dramatic works, whilst maintaining the visceral entertainment value expected of the genre. Forgione's multifaceted contribution as director, writer, producer, and lead actor is nothing short of remarkable. His portrayal of Frank Castle captures both the character's legendary ferocity and his deeply buried humanity, creating a performance that stands proudly alongside more heavily resourced interpretations of the character. The technical accomplishments - from the precisely choreographed fight sequences to the atmospheric cinematography - demonstrate how passionate filmmaking can transcend budgetary constraints. One eagerly anticipates what Forgione and Raval will achieve with greater resources at their disposal, as they have already proven their ability to create compelling cinema through sheer determination and artistic vision. - Reviewed by Adrián Pérez 
The Way Of Mizoguchi (Italy)
★★★★ Directed by Danilo Del Tufo In an era where streaming platforms bombard us with algorithmic content, Danilo Del Tufo's 'The Way of Mizoguchi' emerges as a masterfully crafted meditation on one of cinema's most profound auteurs. This documentary essay, reminiscent of Chris Marker's 'Sans Soleil' (1983, Chris Marker) in its contemplative approach, weaves together the fragmentary remnants of Kenji Mizoguchi's early works with a deeper exploration of Japanese cinema's formative years. Del Tufo demonstrates remarkable sensitivity in his treatment of both historical documentation and artistic interpretation, creating a work that serves as both scholarly examination and poetic reverie. The film's structural approach ingeniously mirrors Matsuo Bashō's 'The Narrow Road to the Deep North', creating a metaphysical journey through time and space that examines not just Mizoguchi's cinematic legacy, but the very nature of artistic preservation and cultural memory. Del Tufo's decision to interweave readings from Bashō's text with archival footage creates a haunting dialogue between different forms of Japanese artistic expression, drawing fascinating parallels between the impermanence of early cinema and the transient nature of life itself - a theme that would later become central to Mizoguchi's surviving masterpieces like 'Ugetsu' (1953, Kenji Mizoguchi). In its exploration of early Japanese cinema's vulnerability to natural disasters and wartime destruction, the documentary recalls similar themes in Bill Morrison's 'Decasia' (2002, Bill Morrison), yet approaches its subject with distinctly Japanese aesthetic principles of mono no aware - the pathos of impermanence. The film's examination of how the 1923 Great Kantō earthquake decimated early film archives becomes a powerful meditation on cultural loss and resilience, reminiscent of the way Alain Resnais approached historical trauma in 'Hiroshima Mon Amour' (1959, Alain Resnais). Most impressive is Del Tufo's ability to transform technical limitations into artistic strengths. Working with a modest budget of 600 EUR, he crafts a visual essay that rivals the philosophical depth of much more expensive productions like Mark Cousins' 'The Story of Film: An Odyssey' (2011, Mark Cousins). His use of both black and white and colour footage, rather than feeling inconsistent, creates a powerful visual metaphor for the way we experience history - sometimes in stark monochrome, sometimes in vivid colour, but always through the lens of our present moment. The documentary transcends mere historical reconstruction to become a profound reflection on the nature of cinema itself. In an age where we take film preservation for granted, 'The Way of Mizoguchi' reminds us of cinema's inherent fragility and the importance of maintaining our cultural heritage. Del Tufo has created not just a documentary, but a vital piece of film historiography that deserves to stand alongside other great essay films about cinema like 'Los Angeles Plays Itself' (2003, Thom Andersen) and 'The Story of Film' (2004, Mark Cousins). It serves as both a scholarly resource and a moving tribute to one of cinema's greatest artists, while establishing Del Tufo himself as a significant voice in contemporary film essay tradition. - Reviewed by Adrián Pérez 
There Is A Moose (USA)
★★★ Directed by Robert Hicks Robert Hicks' "THERE IS A MOOSE" arrives like a delightfully absurdist breath of fresh air in the experimental music video landscape, channeling the spirit of They Might Be Giants meets David Attenborough. Through its infectiously catchy melody and deliberately quirky presentation, this semi-finalist for Best Experimental Music Video transforms natural history into a joyous celebration of the unexpected, reminiscent of the playful sensibility found in Bill Wurtz's viral hit "history of the entire world, i guess" (2017). The composition's strength lies in its brilliant fusion of educational content and earworm-worthy musical phrases, creating what ethnomusicologist Thomas Turino might term "participatory performance" - the audience can't help but join in with the recurring "there is a moose" refrain. This approach shares creative DNA with the educational musical numbers of "Schoolhouse Rock!" while embracing the contemporary absurdist humour seen in Adult Swim's "Off The Air" series. The intentionally straightforward production values serve not as a limitation but as an enhancement of its charm, suggesting a kind of anti-establishment approach to wildlife documentation. What elevates "THERE IS A MOOSE" beyond mere novelty is its clever deconstruction of nature documentary conventions through music. The repetitive chorus becomes an almost Dadaist statement, transforming the majestic moose into both subject and surrealist muse. When the video introduces human reactions to moose encounters, it creates a delightful meta-commentary on our relationship with wildlife, sharing philosophical kinship with Werner Herzog's deadpan nature observations but filtered through the lens of internet meme culture. The lyrics showcase genuine wit in their educational delivery, packed with fascinating moose facts that stick in your head precisely because of their musical presentation. From "highly humongous ears that can rotate around" to details about their underwater grazing habits, Hicks manages to make zoological education genuinely entertaining. The video's inclusion of human reactions ("holy cow there's a moose in our pool!") adds an element of vox pop comedy that grounds the piece in relatable human experience. For a modest production, "THERE IS A MOOSE" achieves something remarkable - it makes learning about wildlife genuinely fun without sacrificing educational value. Hicks displays an intuitive understanding of viral video appeal while maintaining genuine affection for his subject matter. While there's room for technical refinement, the raw creativity and infectious enthusiasm on display suggest exciting possibilities for future works. This is exactly the kind of experimental content that deserves recognition - authentic, educational, and impossibly catchy. One viewing, and you'll find yourself humming about moose facts for days.- Reviewed by Adrián Pérez 
We Can Still Be Friends (Poland)
★★★★½ Directed by Ewa Sztefka In her hauntingly beautiful animation "We Can Still Be Friends," Ewa Sztefka crafts a phantasmagorical meditation on unrequited love that brilliantly meshes the aesthetics of Henry Selick's "Coraline" (2009) with the psychological horror elements reminiscent of Julia Ducournau's "Raw" (2016). Through masterful visual metaphor, Sztefka transforms the quotidian experience of romantic rejection into a grotesque botanical nightmare that speaks volumes about the overwhelming nature of Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD) and the sometimes monstrous dimensions of unchecked emotional growth. The film's protagonist, with her distinctive large circular eyes, inhabits a world where the personal and supernatural collide with devastating precision. Sztefka's command of colour psychology is particularly noteworthy—the juxtaposition of cold blue and warm red hues in the couple's final scene together evokes the clinical dichotomy of splitting, a fundamental aspect of BPD symptomatology, whilst simultaneously nodding to the chromatic mastery of Guillermo del Toro's "Crimson Peak" (2015). This masterful use of colour symbolism is further enhanced by the film's exploration of botanical horror, calling to mind the eco-horror elements of Alex Garland's "Annihilation" (2018) whilst carving out its own unique visual language. The metaphorical transformation of emotional turmoil into physical entanglement reaches its apotheosis in a sublime dream sequence that would make Carl Jung proud. The journey through the forest of tangled leaves to discover a beating heart serves as a brilliant allegory for the process of emotional individuation, whilst the subsequent stabbing gesture emerges as a powerful symbol of psychological separation—a moment that recalls the visceral body horror of Rose Glass's "Saint Maud" (2019), albeit rendered here through the more palatable medium of animation. Sztefka's exploration of BPD through the lens of fantasy horror represents a significant contribution to the growing corpus of films addressing mental health through genre conventions, joining the ranks of Ari Aster's "Hereditary" (2018) and Charlotte Wells' "Aftersun" (2022) in their nuanced portrayal of psychological distress. The film's intimate scale belies its ambitious thematic scope, tackling not only the complexities of BPD but also broader questions about the nature of attachment, the violence of emotional severance, and the sometimes suffocating quality of unreciprocated affection. As a piece of student work, "We Can Still Be Friends" displays remarkable maturity in both its technical execution and thematic sophistication. Sztefka's background in digital painting and character design shines through in every frame, creating a work that feels both personally authentic and universally resonant. The sound design by Tomasz Kaczor and music by Kacper Krupa work in perfect synchronicity with the visual elements to create an immersive psychological landscape that lingers long after the film's conclusion. This is precisely the kind of bold, personal filmmaking that the animation medium needs—work that dares to probe the darker corners of human experience whilst maintaining an unwavering commitment to artistic innovation. Sztefka's voice is one we desperately need in contemporary animation, and I eagerly anticipate her future contributions to the medium. Reviewed by Adrián Pérez |
