Category Archives: International Cinema

Film Review: Memoria

For the life of me, I’ll never comprehend why auteur filmmakers today feel compelled to create stories packed with meta-messages and ersatz depth you wonder if there was a point to the entire thing at all. Not that I’m dissing auteur cinema or directors who delve into the deep, unknowable waters of the subconscious. I can kick back and enjoy some slow cinema and watch a story progress until it reaches its conclusion, or decides to give me a middle finger and go “Gotcha. No resolution. Thank you for your time. Go back to your puny little life.” Memoria is a strange beast that has the audacity to do both and emerge unscathed.

Apipatchong Weerasethakul makes a movie every five or so years. Always there is the concept of what lies beyond life as we know it. The dead and the living mix, characters may become Moebius strips of a fragmented, dreamed existence, and we sit back and take it all in, every last detail, and walk out in a daze. His latest movie, Memoria, fits into that category. And as much as it sounds like I’m typing with an annoyed emoji drawn wide across my visage, I feel like I have to admit that while I don’t pretend to say I got it all, I can stand back and call it “something esoteric.” Ish.

So let’s see. A woman wakes up in the middle of the night to a strange sound. The sound sets off some car alarms. The sound rattles her. Breaks her continuity. So far, so good. The woman, Jessica (Tilda Swinton in a rare lead) lives in Colombia and is tending to her sister (Agnes Brekke) as she recovers from dreams in a Bogota hospital. She continues to hear this noise until she meets a sound engineer, Hernan (Juan Pablo Urrego) who moonlights as a futuristic punk rocker. Hernan is able to pinpoint Jessica’s sound almost to a science. However, on the day they are supposed to go exploring a historical site, he goes missing.

Jessica then does the trek alone. It brings her to a place deep inside Colombian wildlife where she encounters a man also named Hernan (Elkin Diaz). This is a man who’s never left his mountainside and prefers to live in isolation for fear of the experience of the world. In short, he’s seen more than he cares to, and it’s enough. Jessica’s meeting with the older Hernan will be the point where the movie reveals more about itself while still leaving you, the audience, a bit confounded. Memories of dreams become entwined with real-life and past-life experiences, and in the end, that same sonic boom.

Much of Memoria lands squarely on two people: director Weerasethakul and Swinton. Swinton never gets a close-up proper, so she has to convey to us, the audience, that Jessica is a woman who seems to be kind but is also reserved and perhaps a bit aloof, while not glacial. In hearing these sounds and being the only person (as to her knowledge) capable of hearing this, she appears to be slowly emerging from a place of deep despair into something resembling enlightenment and acceptance.

Weerasethakul, on the other hand, presents a story that moves at its own deliberate pace. He isn’t interested in shocks and traditional narratives. His science fiction is closely bound to the land and its history, man’s relation to time and space, man’s relation to technology, and man’s apparent denial of spirit except in a chosen few. Even without the complicated puzzle that he presents Memoria comes bursting with quiet wonder. Scene after scene lingers on, forcing the attention to its universe. If it falls short of a masterpiece, it will depend on how you receive the last 30 or so minutes. Personally, on a second viewing, I felt that right up until then, it worked in the same way that Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey worked.

I believe that maybe a third viewing may glean some new light, but as it stands, Memoria is quite an achievement even when the overlapping timelines threaten to alienate viewers not used to this type of story.

For those of you interested, this movie will not be streaming in the foreseeable future in the US. For tickets and showtimes, go here. You do have an alternative to seeing it via MUBI Italy if seeing it in person is not an option.

VOD Review: No Dormirás (You Shall Not Sleep)

Goya famously once quoted, “The sleep of reason breeds monsters.” Stephen King once used this famous quote in a modified form: “This inhuman place breeds human monsters.” Gustavo Hernandez, a director who scored a strong debut with La casa muda (The Silent House) in 2010, seems to have wanted to compose an elegy to the first (this being an Argentinian-Uruguayan-Spanish co-production) with centering the story around an experiment. The experiment in question has actors stepping into Alma Bohm’s (Belen Rueda) drama team and subjecting themselves to sleep deprivation in order to find some truth in performance. At least, this is what I think this is; the movie is rather ill-defined in what it wants, but one would never notice because the first 45 minutes are mostly setup and not much else.

In defense of the movie’s premise, experiments in sleep deprivation were an actual thing. During the 1970s and 80s, researchers subjected participants to sessions in which they remained awake for extended periods of time. The goal was to see how long the human body could tolerate hours and hours of sleeplessness, and how this would affect the mind. When we step into the movie we see a young woman (Maria Zabay) wandering disheveled, through a darkened hallway. She seems to be drawn to something as-yet-unseen. All the while, we listen to soft yet urgent rustling sounds. The woman, who we learn is an actress of certain prestige named Marlene, comes upon a sinister-looking old woman frantically brushing her hair, her eyes locked into an unseen force, terrified. When Marlene leaves she is suddenly attacked by a horrific creature, it’s face obscured by a gauze. We then realize Marlene is the woman brushing her hair. She is a part of Alma Bohm’s bizarre experiment, and when the camera slowly zooms on Bohm’s sadistically satisfied face we know exactly what we are stepping into.

It’s a pity that Bianca (Eva de Dominici), is oblivious to the trap she’s about to walk into. An aspiring actress of notable talent, she gets bamboozled into participating in Bohm’s experiment. Bohm is using the entire sleep deprivation to conduct a performance based on a mother suffering from postpartum depression who attempted to kill her infant child. She gets pitted against her friend Cecilia (Natalia de Molina), who also happens to be a professional rival. Bianca has a backstory that gets some exploration. Her father (Miguel Angel Maciel) has his own demons that he is unable to put to rest. When his mental lapse almost kills Bianca, he commits himself to a mental facility. In a way, Bianca follows suit as she walks into a former mental hospital that is now Bohm’s headquarters.

Much of You Shall Not Sleep‘s first half is set-up peppered with slight jump scares that don’t ring as earned. Really, the hand placed on a shoulder, or a ghoulish face suddenly appearing, complete with the stinger? Snore, yawn, no. It is, however, rather interesting to see Dominici, de Molina, and Rueda interact amongst each other, with Rueda playing a cross between late-period Joan Crawford and Philip Zimbardo with relished bitchiness. The girls are interchangeable — both complement each other as ingenues — but Dominici has the meatier role as the wait trapped in a Gothic enclave trying to solve a mystery.

The second half of the movie ramps up the horror, but just a bit. Too much time gets spent in narratives that don’t really correlate with the story or the horror ambiance. Bianca manages to leave the place, and her departure serves as an interesting yet also uninspired choice by the director. Is she truly out of the shadows or still “trapped” in the scary hospital? I’ll leave that for you to decide, and it’s really nothing clever. However, the movie decides to pull out all the stops and disclose what it is really about in a series of revelations that would make Rosemary’s Baby blush and M Night Shyamalan proud. That in itself is not a compliment. Perhaps it may have worked on paper, but on screen, it looks like a cop-out. And those jump-scares just keep on coming.

You Shall Not Sleep has an intriguing premise and enough ambiance to warrant a view, but is an overreaching mess that will not merit its run time. Hernandez could have made a disturbing psychodrama of identity and yielded chilling effects and memorable performances from everyone involved, but instead goes the way of tired genre tropes and telegraphing it’s own secret way before it actually arrives.

Titane: Movie Review

Here we have a movie that exists within its own logic. Julia Ducournau’s follow-up feature to her debut, 2016 movie Raw dives even deeper into the discoveries of unusual tastes and slathers itself in it as though it were a sow and its playground was a foot of densely packed mud. Many of you will, upon sitting through a screening of Titane, feel repulsed by what you are about to see on screen. I recall that while sitting in the Walter Reade Theater during the screening. of the aforementioned Raw during Rendezvous with French Cinema a solid 25 % of the audience walked out, their faces visibly nauseated. One woman, in particular, was so incensed by the movie she stood up in a fury from her well-placed seat which was the near center of the auditorium, pointed at the screen, and shrieked, “C’est film est merde! Merde!” spat on the floor, and ran out, a contained storm of indignation muttering to herself while we continued to watch the movie, unfazed.

Eh, sometimes shit happens even in Film Societies. People have strong reactions, and Durcounau’s movies are not for the faint of heart. Like Raw, Titane also follows a young woman. However, where Raw was kind of a coming of age, Titane is a little more elliptical. A little girl named Alexia is riding along with her father in his car when she makes the mistake of unbuttoning her seatbelt. Her father, upon trying to get her to put her seatbelt on again, gets into a hrorific car accident. Miraculously, both survive, but Alexia undergoes cranial surgery to replace missing bone and gets a titanium implant. It’s safe to say that she changes dramatically. Years later, a grown Alexia (Agathe Rousselle) works as a showgirl for a car show. When an admirer comes to meet her outside, she responds to his kisses by jamming her rather long hairpin into his neck and holding his spasmodic body until he dies in her arms.

It’s here where Titane the movie rears an extremely bloodthirsty head. Alexia inexplicably and gruesomely dispatches everyone who comes within three feet of her. The ferocity in which she commits these murders is only magnified by how unemotional she is, how disconnected. Adding to this, she starts having sex with what can only be described as a car while sitting in the back seat. What this may imply is left unexplored. In the meantime, Durcournau has Alexia escape from the authorities after she’s demolished the entire cast, and again, it’s not the fact that she is able to do so, but the way she goes about it that makes even this sequence the more disturbing. To make it simple: she sees the picture of a missing teenage boy she vaguely resembles. Because she will get caught looking the way she does, she not just cuts her hair to look like a boy but bashes her face into a sink to deform her nose and avoid detection.

From here on, Titane takes a complete nosedive. I won’t spoil it much — incredibly, what I wrote can only be considered a prologue to the real events of the movie. Titane moves from a woman on the run to a woman living like a man amongst men who display the glaring characteristics of toxic masculinity. At the same time, Alexia’s change into a boy also brings another change within her own body, and it’s one that the movie asks you to believe would happen undetected. However, as the story progresses and its own premise gets stretched out to its extremes, I realized that this is not a regular thriller about a female serial killer on the loose but something else entirely. As strange as this movie already is, Durcournau seems to be trying to tell us that sometimes human connections can arise from the weirdest of places. Alexia, now going by Adrien, seems to relinquish her need to escape and with great resistance settle into someone else’s life, even when she knows she may be discovered at any point. Alexia’s relationship to the man who was the real Adrien’s father (Vincent Lindon, in a balls-out committed performance, equal parts damaged goods and narcissistic he-man) dances the delicate territory of the incestual and the thuggish. It is cringey as all get-out, but Durcournau has her own agenda in mind.

I admire challenging movies. I want to see movies that dare to go to places that most of us wouldn’t. The entire time we follow Alexia on her journey and wonder what’s next. Knowing her penchant for horrific violence from the whirlwind intro, the long pause that follows might be its own mediation on a situation of symbolic gestation (still not a spoiler). Durcournau artfully drops Alexia into the most ironic of situations, and even then all we can think of is, will she escape — and there is that hairpin. We don’t even know how someone like her can have a future, but Durcournau pulls the rug even on her. In the end, once her purpose is complete, it becomes clear that perhaps this was never her story proper, but someone else who needed a son. In this, Titane becomes an exercise in misdirection, and that makes Durcournau’s movie unique.

Bergman Island: Film Review

Director Mia Hansen-Löve tackles the topic of young love from the perspective of her own life experience in this very meta-narration that also pays homage to Ingmar Bergman.

It is a well-known belief that writers go back to the well of their own experiences to create their stories. For someone like myself who has read countless books and seen the works of many directors, I would be inclined to believe that this saying is true more than not. Even writers of science-fiction, horror, and fantasy will filter true-life events or experiences through the lens of the fantastic in order to narrate a compelling story.

Mia Hansen-Löve’s stories tend to walk the path of delicate character studies that give us glimpses of people handling romance and personal dramas without too much intensity, or at least, the right amount of pathos. Bergman Island, her first film in five years (to have a US premiere) focuses on a married couple, Chris and Tony, who happen to be filmmakers (played by Vicki Krieps and Tim Roth). They have come to Farö, the Scandinavian island where Ingmar Bergman filmed most of his iconic work and is also screening one of Tony’s movies.

Tony happens to be an admirer of Bergman’s work. Chris, however, is a bit ambivalent (although both engage in a lengthy conversation about the auteur’s movies while rooming in the place where he filmed Scenes from a Marriage and joking that “this is the same bed where [the movie’s stars] slept on). She uses the trip as a means to do a little creative writing herself and brainstorm an outline for a screenplay. While doing so, she misses some of the island’s offerings, like the “Bergman Safari”. In the interim, she meets a local, Hampus (Hampus Nordenson), a film student who takes her on a tour of the small island.

It doesn’t seem to amount to much, but once Chris [mostly] completes her story, she shares it with Tony. In her story, a young woman named Amy (Mia Wasikowska) meets and falls in love with Joseph (Anders Danielsen Lie); however, a series of events has Joseph breaking Amy’s heart. All throughout Chris’ narration, Tony continues to either interrupt her or simply, not be engaged enough and resolves that he cannot help her end her story.

Bergman Island, like Hansen-Löve’s movies, meanders in a way that engrosses the viewer, I don’t recall wondering where was the story going — I was simply rapt by the bubble of gentle energy that she’d imbued her movie. I had let it take me along for the ride, enjoying the location dropping (“Here is where Bergman filmed the ___ scene in Persona.”), followed by a humourous conversation about Bergman’s ability to be a father and a filmmaker at the same time. The island’s peculiarities and its people, who also sub in as minor characters in her film, were a clever touch.

Where the movie also drew me in was in watching what seemed to be Hansen-Löve share with me what it must be like to be married to a film director of equal prestige (and longer career). The parallels couldn’t be clearer: Olivier Assayas has been making movies since the mid-80s and is internationally recognized for his own vision of cinema. Like Tony, he also doubles the age of Hansen-Löve. I can’t but help wonder if the couple in the movie is a mirror to their real-life counterpart. It very well might be, because how else would the director create something that seems so intimate and also, so delicate, like a lost love?

And how clever for Hansen-Löve, to pull a little bit of metafiction onto the viewer, a thing she has never done before. I won’t spoil it for you, but it pretty much mirrors the last scene of Persona. Bergman Island may be as light and gentle as a breeze, but when viewed, it will linger as an incursion into the creative mind of its own director who tackles not only the ghost of a great director, but also her own past, and in this way, finds her own voice.

When Reality Cracks: the Ominous Surreality of Lamb

This one is going to be a mess for me to write about. How can I comment about Valdimar Johansson’s debut movie Lamb, a movie that begs to be disclosed and analyzed from all angles, without ruining it for anyone who has not yet seen it and even if they take a bit to come to, would like to? The trailer, seen on TV, is a bit much already and gives away just enough before it becomes a spoiler in itself. All I can say is, go see it, or rent it once it comes out on streaming, pay no mind to any trailers, any reviews, any videos, and let it happen, untainted by bias. The less you know about this movie, the better off you will be.

Look, parenting is hard. I am not a direct parent per se but have assisted in the task. The events in Lamb, as off the limb as they are, happen to two people who not only lost a child but desperately want to be parents. However, Lamb does not start in this manner. Much like the fellow Icelandic movie A White, White Day, Lamb begins in dread, silence, and complete isolation. Instead of a car driving to an unsuspecting destiny across a foggy landscape, we get a married couple of sheep farmers, Maria (Noomi Rapace) and Ingvar (Hilmir Snær Gudnason), moving in near-silence about their days as they tend to their sheep and horses. There is a monotony about their actions, similar to the monotony of the landscape at the start of A White, White Day, that conveys an empty hole.

The event that takes the movie into its dark fable at its center occurs fairly early during the movie. We don’t get to see it come to life, but Maria’s and Ingvar’s facial expressions, which navigate the scope from perplexed to the kind that can only come after witnessing a miracle, tell us all we need to know. It’s the decision that follows shortly after that then drives the story. The lengths to which both Maria and Ingvar will go to not only act as this were the most quotidian thing in the world but to also, protect it from any outside intrusion, becomes Lamb‘s driving force. Oh, but if only they knew how far the repercussions from their actions will go…

This is the type of movie that viewers will either get or they will not. Its concept seems far-fetched, but switch the “gift” that Maria and Ingvar receive to let’s say… something less strange, and you may even say this could be a case of kidnapping, which by default creates an imbalance. Maria’s behavior, more so than Ingvar, is extremely telling in how protective she becomes, how far she is willing to fill the imbalance in her own life. To see a woman devolve from an otherwise unassuming farmer to ruthless killer in one visually jarring scene made all the crueler by the vastness of its surroundings and how the camera lingers shortly after as Maria performs methodic disposal of evidence is to see a performance that moves from sanity into much greyer, nebulous lines.

Then you see an outsider, revealed to be a family relative, who witnesses this act of brutality (with nods to the violence that men inflict upon defenseless animals, as seen previously in the 2020 documentary Gunda) and infiltrates Maria’s and Ingvar’s house and speaks for the audience. That is, right up until he himself decides to take matters into his hands (in one of the movie’s more chilling sequences) and finds that as bizarre as it may seem, he also has to accept whatever nightmare reality has invaded the real world. Perhaps in avoiding this action he gets spared the more bizarre comeuppance that transpires in the movie’s veer into cosmic tragedy and renders the family unit to shreds.

If Lamb has any message, it would be simply: be careful what you claim as your own. Maybe even more succinctly: respect nature; don’t force nurture. What might come back claiming its own might be just as unforgiving as you were with an animal who also couldn’t experience motherhood.

A comedy that observes rather than delivers laughs: Roy Andersson’s About Endlessness

About Endlessness is a difficult movie. Even with its short running time of 68 minutes, it will make you feel as though you sat through an eternity, waiting for a sign, or perhaps Godot himself. Roy Andersson is one of those few art directors that could care less, it seems, to win over a vast audience, and have the luck to work on their own terms, present their finished product, and walk away from it without drawing any attention to himself. To me, that is quite a feat considering how the system works (and has worked since making movies became part of an industry). Andersson’s story presents a man and a woman, suspended in an embrace, seemingly surveying the world below them. We won’t get to know this couple, and perhaps it does not matter. what matters is the world below, and soon enough, and a tableau of vignettes appear, one after the other, some droll, some dryly funny, some touching. All of them come preceded with a woman’s voice-over as she blandly recites: “I saw a man who wanted to surprise his wife with a nice dinner,” or “I saw a woman incapable of feeling shame.”

To anyone expecting some explicit denouement, some comedic coda, look elsewhere. Andersson’s movie avoids those cliches and embraces starkness as if it were the driving force of his entire vision. Not all of it will come into a tidy whole, but that is the point — life, according to Andersson, is wonky, messy, barely even suggested. His characters simply exist in their most basic nature, or their most salient characteristic, whatever it is that defines them. If a man, late in the movie, is seen only in the aftermath of a horrific crime as he hugs the body of a woman he just murdered, then that is how he will be remembered.

The closest he comes to a story involves a priest with a massive guilt complex (and a faltering faith) who wants to die for reasons unknown (although a session with a therapist may point towards a reason why). He becomes unsuccessful in his quest for death, but at least, he finds an unresolved solace in knowing that if anything, there is life. That seems to be the implicit message in Andersson’s film (which has been announced to be his final). Life, off-kilter, sometimes even nihilistic, will continue, while the lovers — love itself, will remain untouched and elusive, knowing and seeing it all unfold below like an all-seeing-eye without malicious intent.

Dream Horse – A crowd-pleaser if there ever was one

Leave it to the UK to produce some of the best feel-good movies that you’ll ever want to see. It never fails: it doesn’t matter the topic or the cast of characters. Whenever a movie made in the UK comes out dressed in the topics of the underdog who scores, or the little village who could, or the little man who makes it, it’s bound to be a crowd-pleaser that will also wring a shameless tear from your eye.

Dream Horse comes from the original 2015 documentary Dark Horse: The Incredible True Story of Dream Alliance. Reader, if you haven’t seen that little doc you owe it to yourself to see it. It is a wonderful, oftentimes gripping story that focuses not only on the woman who raised the foal who became Dream Alliance but the snobbery that is a part of the world of horse breeders and racing in itself.

Dream Horse follows the path of its predecessor pretty closely, which would have been the only way to film this movie. We meet Jan Vokes (Toni Collette, disappearing in her role), a woman who works as a check-out girl at the equivalent of a Walmart or Shop-Rite. Her life has become as grey and dejected as the small Welsh town where she lives with her husband Brian (Owen Teale). Brian barely acknowledges Jan, not out of a lack of love — the movie establishes pretty early on that he does love her — but because at his age, life seems to have beat the spirit out of him.

Jan isn’t having that. A woman who lives by her dreams, she takes on horse breeding on a lark after encountering a businessman (Damian Lewis) discussing horse races. Having next to no money, but wanting to try this experiment out, she enlists those closest to her to create a money club to fund the purchase and rearing of a racehorse. Incredibly, she succeeds and soon purchases a mare whom she then has a mate with an American prize winner. The mare dies while giving birth, but leaves a tiny foal behind. That foal becomes Dream Alliance, which then falls under the care of breeder Philip Hobbs (Nicholas Farrell). But is Dream Alliance racehorse material?

I have to say it, but a) if you saw Dark Horse you will already know what happens in its movie version, and b) even if you didn’t, these movies arrive with their very own template at hand. Even when the actual events seem to have come out of a feel-good movie of the year, Dream Horse takes the entire premise and knocks it out of the park with breathtaking shots of horses running at full speed countered with the facial expressions of Collette and the rest of the cast. It’s not a surprise, then, that despite the incredible predictability of the entire story, you can and will find yourself swept away by the sheer purity of its people, and the horse itself. And that says something.

Dream Horse is jolly and earthy where it needs to be and emotional when it needs to be. Collette, surrounded by a cast that includes Derek Jarman veteran player Karl Johnson as the town drunk and Siân Philips as the town matron, makes it all come alive.

Lambs to the Slaughter: Viktor Kossakovskiy’s Gunda

This review contains mild spoilers.

Animals in cinema fall under three categories. First, we have the merely decorative ones — the cute pets that have sometimes grace the screen, sometimes with a tiny part to play. Then we have the more symbolic, or even heroic, in which an animal — usually a dog, or a horse — becomes an emblem for a larger scope if you go for greatness, or the stuffed birds in Psycho which portent not to a greater danger just about to happen, but segue into another film titled The Birds. We could also include, as a third category, the anthropomorphic creatures that since the dawn of animation — drawn and now, computerized — have told their own stories, which dimly reflect the human experience.

What Gunda offers is something completely different, Zoning in ever so slowly to the barn where she lives, we don’t get to see her proper until we are about five or so minutes of an extremely slow zoom-in. Lying on the ground, she seems to be in some pain. We soon realize why. She’s currently in the end phases of giving birth to a dozen little piglets who are already squirming about trying to find her milk-engorged teats to begin feeding. Meanwhile, she lies on the ground, accepting, not really moving, barely making any noise at all. If anything, the only noises come from the piglets themselves, and while at first, they seem to be akin to the cries of newborn babies, later on, they will morph into the cries of hunger, play, and something completely unthinkable.

Gunda remains close to its protagonist, the camera practically right next to her and her piglets as they all move as one body throughout the confines of the barn and then venture out into the farm. Along the way, the omnipresent camera, while tracking her movements, also tracks that of a trio of chickens recently let out of a coop, and focuses on one who is missing a leg. Then the camera tracks Gunda who has approached what seems to be a cow farm. One majestic shot gives these animals a sense of grandiosity only afforded to scenes of horses during a stampede. To see a group of cows emerge and tear through the fields into the woods, sometimes skipping, as their bells clang, is truly an epic experience.

But then, Kossalovskiy’s camera does what little movies do: focus on not just the animal in question but on their faces. While it is possible that some people may wonder what is the purpose for this, it gave me a sense of identification if you will. Watching an animal who seems to be alert, watching me, as it continues to move about, is a bit unsettling, particularly when you realize later where Gunda is headed, and how complicit you are in its own thread.

It slowly becomes apparent that because Gunda transpires within the confines of a farm that these animals, as cute as they are, are completely under the control of their unseen humans. This becomes clear when Gunda herself while venturing a bit too far from her home, comes across an electric fence, We don’t see it; she doesn’t, either, and her squeal of surprise and pain is piercing.

The reality of these animals couldn’t be more present when focusing on the piglets, a thing which Kossalovskiy’s camera does, and often. At first, the suspense hinges on their mother’s enormous body. The babies are so small, so fragile, that one slight movement from her could mean the difference between life and death. Every time the camera, after cavorting with the chickens and cows, returns to Gunda and her babies, they seem to have grown. First, it looks like a week, then months. Suddenly, they have what seem to be personalities all their own. A scene in which two piglets taste the rain with their mouths is something out of magic. I couldn’t get it out of my head for a while.

Of course, something indescribably awful cracks the serenity of the entire montage, and then I feel the rug being pulled from under my feet. All this time, a false sense of security has been planted within the meandering narrative. The camera, which has stayed so close to both Gunda but especially her little piglets, continues to do just that, now only delivering a growing sense of shock that is more effective from what we never see but hear. Those squeals from the moment of the piglets’ birth now come with terror, while Gunda can only run — yes, run — after the large tractor that has come. It is a gut-wrenching scene and stands right up there with the scene in Bambi.

This is a deceptive documentary. It arrives enfolded in the black and white beauty of pastoral images, slowly draws you into what seems to be the life of a pig, only to disclose the ugly magician at the center. You will not see anything else like it. I don’t think it will change the world, but at least, it has changed me.

Woman at war blends disparate styles to create an unclassifiable eco-thriller with a wink

Sometimes you say you’re going to watch a movie or read that new book, and you place it in your queue where it sits and sits and sits. That is the case of Woman at War, a 2018 film by Benedikt Erlingsson (and follow-up to his quirky debut Of Horses and Men from 2013) that follows Halla (the regal Halldora Geirharosdottir), a chorus teacher living in Reykjavik who unbeknownst to everyone who knows her, moonlights as an eco-terrorist (or eco-activist, pick your term; I’ll stick with the former and I’ll tell you why later). Intensely focused on preventing an aluminum factory that could potentially contaminate Reykjavik, she has no problem decimating drone cameras, power lines — heck, entire towers! — in order to render any further development dead in Iceland’s as-yet pristine waters.

Trouble arrives — as it would — from a few angles. First, a manhunt predictably ensues, but it is, if anything, predictable. Second, a letter of adoption from a Ukrainian agency now gives Halla the chance to adopt and raise a little girl of her own and thus, fulfilling her dreams of motherhood. While Halla continues to evade officers in sometimes truly daring ways, the urgency of her mission, now compounded by the urgency of her having to leave to Ukraine to fetch her daughter, pushes Hall against a crossroads.

Erlingsson refuses to give into genre conventions which make his movie a weird, but totally satisfying experience. His Woman at War is part-action, part character study, part surreal thriller that offers a unique but dry sense of humor and a clever, unobtrusive music score played by stand-ins both Icelandic and Ukrainian that serve as a Greek chorus and subtly impose a slight effect on Halla’s own character and the chronology of her movements. A touch of 40s screwball enters the movie in bringing in a twin sister also played. by Gerhardsdottir, and while at first it seems it might only be to grant a sense of surreality, the story reveals much more later on.

There seems to be a running commentary on how tourists – and most global travelers who may not look like the ideal race – get treated overseas. A minor character, Julio Castillo, played by the actor of the same name (who also had an observer-like character in Of Horses and Men), repeatedly gets assaulted by officers who continually (and ineffectually) identify him as a terrorist. Julio, who also often breaks the fourth wall, becomes every tourist or immigrant who invariably tends to receive the brunt of the law while its more privileged folk run rampant and create chaos (and let’s not romanticize Halla; she is an eco-terrorist, she just happens to be a nice one with noble motives). An almost symbolic exchange occurs late in the movie between Halla and Julio that Erlingsson leaves unresolved, but he makes his point.

Woman at War is available on DVD formats and Prime. See it before Jodie Foster Americanizes it and thus saps it from all its light, comedic touches.

Suffer the Little Children: Bad Tales (Favolacce)

The D’Innocenzo brothers tackle suburban life as a portrait of hell in their latest (and second) movie Bad Tales. [Their 2018 movie Boy’s Cry is available on IMDBTV.]

Focusing on three separate families, they immerse their movie with a sense of surreal dread right from the start. Featuring a voice-over from an unseen narrator (Max Tortora), they seem to give the impression that the events of their movie transpired in the past, and the unseen someone is simply telling his memories. However, it turns out, the events that unfold come from a little girl’s diary… but these events are all false.

That already gets us into the mood of the movie, which is bleak. Two families, the Rosas and the Placidos, live side by side on the outskirts of Rome. When Viola, the daughter of the Rosa family, does something apparently awful, off-screen, her hair gets cut, and she spends the rest of the movie in a depressed funk wearing an oversized black wig, Dennis and Alessia Placido (Giulietta Rebeggiani and Tommaso di Cola) are a brother and sister who are forced to read their report cards in which they reveal they’ve gotten straight A’s except for one. Their father (Elio Germano), ostensibly the most violent of the two fathers, has installed an elevated swimming pool. In an irrational moment, because the Rosas were using it, he destroys it only to blame gypsies for the act.

We segue to the third thread in the movie. Geremia Guerrini (Justin Korovkin) and his father Amelio Guerrini (Gabriel Montesi) live in what seems abject poverty, but seem to enjoy a relationship. However, it seems there is no mother figure here, and Amelio seems to have no real means to support his son. Going even further into dysfunction, Amelio also seems like an overgrown kid himself with sex on his mind (and is trying to get Geremia to have his first sexual experience).

Woven into the story, which is already brimming with something awful about to happen due to the lack of communication between parents and children and an undercurrent of rage just hiding underneath all three of the fathers, is the threat of disaster just waiting to happen. A young woman floats into the picture. Contrary to the carnal fantasies in Fellini’s movies, she is its antithesis, a peroxide blonde with a look of hate on her face and a body about to blow because she is with child. One of the boys takes notice and repeatedly hits on her. Meanwhile, a teacher gives out some very disturbing classes to his students, who are, in turn, creating artifacts of obliteration… and that’s not the worst of it.

Bad Tales could easily be an American horror story of the quintessential family (and neighborhood) gone to rot from the inside out. The D’Innocenzo brothers keep most of their story under never-ending pressure — it seems that all this unspoken, unresolved tension that is eating away at their families must at one point get acknowledged. They make it near impossible with the presence of patriarchy rooted in the past, in which fathers were demanding monsters and mothers had no say in the house — or were simply absent. If the final act seems too brutal, that is because that is how a story like this would resolve itself. When there are no signs of communication and all attempts at logic fly out the window through acts of perpetuated violence, the only way out is, well, out.