Director: Lucy Kerr
Writers: Karlis Bergs, Lucy Kerr
Stars: Rachel Alig, Deragh Campbell, Katie Folger

Synopsis: A sprawling family’s futile attempts at capturing a family photo take a dreamlike turn when the matriarch vanishes and one daughter becomes desperate to find her.

Have you ever wandered through one of your relative’s houses and seen their framed pictures? It is a reflection of that person’s memories and loved ones – still images that elicit some kind of emotional reaction to the person who keeps them. These are beautiful touches that make that person cherish those around them. However, for Roland Gérard Barthes, the French literary theorist, essayist, and semiotician (someone who studies signs and symbols and their use or interpretation), it takes a darker tone, both that serves as a reminder that time movies at different paces and the ending that awaits us all. He says family photographs are a desperate means to freeze time and immortalize the family. However, Bathes also states that the family taking the picture doesn’t realize that, as they smile and pose for the photo, they have already died. 

This is all explained in further detail in his book ‘Camera Lucida: Reflection on Photography’ from 1980, in which he wrote about his mother’s portrait, soon after her death and not long before his own. But, writer Parvati Nair perfectly describes the essence of what Barthes meant with those scarring words in a beautiful piece I stumbled upon while learning more about the man. She interpreted them as “photos signaling death because they seek to rescue the photographic moment from the obliteration accompanying the passage of time and the inevitable alterations of place”. While Barthes comes with a darker perspective than our own, you understand his point of view. When you go back and look at old pictures, you first feel nostalgia. But then it is immediately followed by some dysthymic sensation, mostly occurring when looking at a photograph with someone who has already passed (or a person who is no longer in your life) in them. 

For many of us, some photographs aren’t the same after the lockdown, which left a deep emotional scar because of the gloom gradually swallowing your entire room whole, as days turned to weeks and weeks turned to months. And that’s where Lucy Kerr’s simple yet compelling picture, Family Portrait, takes its inspiration – between the words of Barthes and the experiences of the 2020 pandemic. It is one of the many films concocted from the draining moments and emotions caused by that time. But this one is quite different from the ones you have seen recently. Family Portrait sets itself in the dawn of such events before the world was enclosed in its entirety; this causes the events that transpire in Kerr’s film to have a wounding effect, as these characters don’t know what awaits them. 

This silence and atmosphere-reliant film sneakily moves the viewer with its calm storytelling and dread-inducing underpinning. “Through a circle that ever returneth in to the self-same spot”. These words by Edgar Allan Poe, from his ‘Conqueror Worm’ poem, introduce the film and provide a glimpse of what’s about to occur, at least metaphorically. That poem implies that human life is “mad folly”, which ends in hideous death – the universe being controlled by dark forces we humans can’t understand. Or, if you want to bring in a darker note, humans are no more than puppets caught in an endless cycle of suffering and fear. This is reflected in the persona of the film’s protagonist, played by Deragh Campbell (Anne at 13,000 Feet, Possessor), who’s often seen in a state of worry and nervousness. While she speaks with a soothing and calm voice, her body and thoughts transmit a different message, one that’s being covered in dread by impending pandemic-induced collapse.

The first image you see is a family walking together through some kind of tree-covered backyard with beautiful green plains on a lovely morning, as a Lynchian sound – the wind brushing through the scenery and some static – covers its background. The family members are talking to one another, yet you can’t catch what they are talking about since their voices are muffled. During this initial scene, you notice a significant detail that paves the way for the sadness lingering in Family Portrait. Only one of them is regrouping the entire family, a woman with no name (Campbell). She looks like she’s been trying to get them together for quite a while now; the rest doesn’t even seem to care about what is happening. They have planned a group picture for the Christmas season. And immediately, you go back to Barthes’ words.

The party is reluctant to take the picture because they take that moment for granted, as the only person who seems to cherish this time being spent together wants to frame it. As the woman regroups the family together for the picture, Family Portrait reveals the missing voices of its characters and the setting – the chirping of the birds and crickets, the kids playing in the background, and the conversations, among others. The next couple of scenes dedicate themselves to being with specific family members, shifting the story into a dread-covered one for a few seconds. These scenes don’t contain much dialogue, relying on the soothing yet slowly gnawing atmosphere covering the household these people are staying in. We see a girl reading a poem, a lonesome wife, a stressed mother catching a break, and a little kid hiding behind a tree. 

These quick scenes may not do much in terms of story development. But they serve as a simple touch that reflects these people’s feelings on the inside, as the next time we see them, they will be using a mask to hide their genuine emotions. Things start to kick off when the mother of these women disappears out of nowhere. And only one of the daughters seems to worry about her, growing anxious about her disappearance and when they will take the picture. The rest of the family appears to wander independently – resisting any attempt to gather. This is the moment where Lucy Kerr halts time and space for her characters as if they were in some haunted location where they can’t leave or in a state of limbo. A beautiful yet hectic summer day is descending into brightly-lit solemnity. This transition reflects on the introductory words of Poe and the background of Barthes, yet with a look and scenery that mirrors the opposite, so it can draw out the characters and trap them. 

That is the film’s best asset. The details in the facial expressions combined with the atmosphere are a mixture that elicits a reaction from the viewer. It helps us think about our own family get-togethers and the losses we have had. However, its short runtime makes the experience feel less effective. Kerr doesn’t give us enough time to immerse ourselves into this transient paralysis fully. You are sent to this place, and everybody knows each other thoroughly, which is excellent because the actors deliver convincing performances, and their chemistry with one another is top-notch. It often makes you feel as if they were all part of the same family in real life. Yet that causes their respective character arcs, outside of the film’s lead, played by Campbell, to feel somewhat hollow. I believe that happens because of her dynamic within the confines of this time and space immobility, and with her relatives is much different. 

Nevertheless, there’s plenty to admire in Lucy Kerr’s picture, precisely how it captures the depiction of family reunions from realistic angles – showing the intertwined delight and sorrow that lingers in them. Family Portrait is an easy-flowing journey into the unknown of these types of dynamics that, although it doesn’t immerse you in its totality due to some restrainment, manages to get the viewer thinking about their time spent with the people they cherish both before and after the pandemic (and how these bonds have changed through that draining period). It is both discrete and evocative in its storytelling procedure. But Kerr ensures she packs strong visuals and metaphors along the seventy-five-minute tale that enriches the story even with its reticence.

Grade: B

Director: Laura Luchetti
Writers: Laura Luchetti
Stars: Deva Cassel, Nicolas Maupas, Andrea Bosca

Synopsis: Ginia, seventeen, experiences the ecstasy and turmoil that characterize the mysterious journey into adulthood. Meeting with Amelia confronts her with new and shocking emotions. But only by recognizing this love, she can be herself.

Summer is the time of year we anticipate the most, especially when we are young. Along with plenty of sunny vacation days and, depending on the city, trips to the beach, there’s room for a person to reflect on how the year has gone so far. To describe it more profoundly, those hot summer days and moonlit nights are not only a time for fun and escape but also for relaxation, self-discovery, reflection, and potential change. And, if you ask me, it is the perfect time to do so. And sometimes, a specific “somebody” helps you along the way. It can be a summer fling or someone you are close to. But what matters is how that person affects your life during those months and if those moments with them will shape your life for the better. 

Because this sort of scenario often happens during our lives, maybe once or twice (if you’re lucky, even more), filmmakers worldwide have found a way to capture the moments in an array of means. They aim to express and replicate the emotions felt during these encounters. Depending on the story’s angle, these films range from palpable and relatable to purposefully distant and devastating. The most recent  of these summer romance tales is Laura Luchetti’s sophomore feature The Beautiful Summer (La bella estate), which had its world premiere at this year’s Locarno Film Festival on the Piazza Grande. By reading the incidentally tongue-in-cheek title, you immediately know what type of story this film will tell (it’s almost too obvious). Luchetti takes a Guadagino Call Me By Your Name-inspired approach to her new work, albeit without the Italian auteur’s unique way of expressing tenderness and efficacy in newly lit and fractured relationships. 

While Luchetti may struggle in presenting those types of emotional cinematic manifestations to us, especially when you put it side to side with the aforementioned Oscar-winning picture, she makes up for it by making sure the cast reflects every feeling in the marginally syrupy narrative can be seen and perceive in a humanistic manner, at least for its first two acts. Set in 1938, The Beautiful Summer’s premise is pretty simple. It is a story we have seen plenty of times: two strangers meet, and the trajectory of their lives is changed forever because of it – a slowly igniting fire that becomes a bright light in their lives after those summer days before their destinies change by a future cataclysmic event. While cliched, it is a proper description, as the two leading ladies seem to be in flux for different reasons. 

In the film’s first few shots, we see a young woman, Ginia (Yle Vianello, known for her work in Alice Rohrwacher’s works), running through the Turin streets. It looks like she’s a woman out of time in a rapidly changing world. Her blonde hair brushes against the calm whispering winds of uncertainty, and her facial expressions determine such sentiment. Having just moved from the countryside, Ginia seems to be thinking about the many possibilities that might arise, yet she doubts the choices that have been presented to her, which led to her move. Nevertheless, she’s desperate for adventure. Ginia seeks something exciting to soothe her boredom and slowly-building gloom. And that’s when she meets someone special during a trip to the beach with some of her (and her brother’s) friends. That person is Amelia (Deva Cassel), a model she meets while having an affair with a local painter. 

The instant Amelia looks into Ginia’s eyes, you know something will happen between the two. Just by the glances on their faces, you can perceive the wavelengths of their relationship’s trajectory, both developing joyful and saddening moments. As expected with this type of story, these women are far different from each other in terms of personality. While Ginia is more restrained and quiet, Amelia is the opposite; she’s more sensual and outgoing – almost up for anything. It goes back to the aspect of Ginia feeling like a woman gradually running out of time. You can perceive the same thing in Amelia’s persona. Via her “up for anything” personality, you feel she is avoiding something that might (or might not) shift her life for the worse. At least one thing’s for sure, Amelia helps Ginia get the courage she needs to become her true self. 

This dynamic brings a fast-paced rush to the young Ginia’s life, ending in some equally beautiful and delicate, in a way overarchingly schmaltzy, moments. The specifics of their relationship’s development aren’t that easy to predict. But the opening and closing of each chapter is. There’s the usual falling apart and getting back together, each person missing each other yet avoiding them, the culminating reconciliation, amongst other scenes. You are not bothered by your knowledge of these tropes, as Laura Luchetti takes her time to develop each emotional story beat in the first two acts. The issue is that in The Beautiful Summer’s third and closing act, the delicateness of its passionate story is lost due to rushing the character’s arcs and leaving its side characters on the side after being critical players in the story. You get that constantly returning sensation of running out of time. Instead of letting the narrative simmer for a while, the film closes things out rapidly. 

And it is a shame because, although some unnecessarily syrupy moments were scattered across its 110-minute runtime, you grow fond of Ginia and Amelia. Though Vianello and Cassel do great acting work, it feels like you never got the chance to connect with them on a deeper level. Even if you knew where things were going, you wanted to perceive those beautiful moments with them together, as each second they spend together makes The Beautiful Summer shine brighter. Nonetheless, the abruptness of its curtain-closing act makes those moments feel somewhat pointless. We spent all those moments with these two characters just so that what’s supposed to be the most impactful and definitive moment in their relationship is hastily delivered to us. The first act switched its hurried pacing to fit the calmness and fragility of this slowly building romance. But the ending doesn’t have much reason to conclude with a rush if the characters have finally found peace and ease in their previously quickened lives with each other. 

Grade: C

Director: Leonor Teles
Writers: Francisco Mira Godinho, Leonor Teles, Ágata de Pinho
Stars: Carolina Miragaia, Meghna Lall

Synopsis: When Home stops feeling like one, wandering becomes routine. Time, space and emotions implode, blurring Lisbon with Bangkok. Past, present or perhaps future intertwine in a story that begins when L meets K.

Inspired by Hou Hsiao-Hsien’s masterwork Millennium Mambo, Leonor Teles’ latest work Baan, is a fragmented story about two lost souls who roam around the world searching for a place to call home. Some moments disorient the viewer due to the film’s stylistic storytelling choices. Yet, its wandering nature fits with the character’s constant ballads with love, time, and individualism. 

So far this decade, plenty of films talk about people’s search for their own selves or how they fit in the world. There are various renditions of this classic tale. However, the most effective (and relatable) ones have been concocted in this modern era. There are the likes of Davy Chou’s Return to Seoul, Joachim Trier’s The Worst Person in the World, as well as Luca Guadagnino’s Bones and All. Another fitting into this category is Leonor Teles’ Baan, playing at this year’s Locarno Film Festival in the varied Concorso Internazionale slate. The Portuguese cinematographer-turned-filmmaker blends time and location to tell a puzzled piece about a young woman’s search for a place to call home and how she tries to overcome the misery attached to tenderness and devotion. Baan may not be the best example of its kind. But thanks to the leads’ performances, as well as a bold yet impressionistic stylish attire, its emotions are perceivable enough to withstand its narrative faults.

Baan begins with a shot of a woman, El (Carolina Miragaia), looking out of her window. The shades of dark blue in the skies and the silver buildings in the background offer a beautiful image that transmits her low spirits. This scene doesn’t last long; it transitions into El singing Banks’ ‘F*** Em Only We Know’ (from her debut record ‘Goddess’) into a man’s ears. That song is a ballad about star-crossed lovers longing to run away together; similar to the story of Romeo and Juliet, people doubt their love and future – which would later involve some form of emotional abuse. This is a strange song choice, and El sings it does so in a calmer, yet somewhat saddened, manner. But it hints at what might be coming for the characters in Leonor Teles’ film. Recognizing the song and its meaning, I seriously want to know their relationship status. 

Later, we will receive more details about this pairing, which ends with the man rejecting El’s will to fight for their relationship. Via quick cuts and scenery changes, Teles takes us through various places in this woman’s life – a grocery store, her apartment, a nightclub, and a street in Bangkok. But there are two things in common with this mini collage of scenery swapping and the previous singing sequence: the woman still looks like she’s lonesome, and yet another great track about love backs the scenes, this time being Chaka Khan’s cover of ‘I Feel For You’ – a track about the power of love, both in its beauty and its imperfection. Most, if not all, of the songs in Baan’s jukebox are related to love and extremities of experience with relationships, whether good or slowly going bad. 

Once the track ends, something strange happens with the film that fits with its constant changes – some of them fit perfectly into the scene, while others do not. El’s story begins to get fractured; her visions and experiences blur with one another – she’s in Bangkok, and, within minutes, it goes back to Lisbon. The film’s transition of fractured states begins with reference to a movie that inspired it, Hou Hsiao-Hsien’s Millennium Mambo, specifically the aforementioned film’s introduction, where the main character walks through a tunnel passage in the dead of night under a row of fluorescent headlights. Like Vicky in Hsiao-Hsien’s masterwork, El looks back as if she’s leaving something behind and moving forward for new things, relating to her respective amounts of time in Bangkok and Lisbon. This specific scene is replicated on a couple of occasions throughout the film’s runtime, citing the development of a new chapter in the character’s search for individualism. 

Blurred altogether, the audience, alongside El, feels trapped between the two cities, often going back to one another or both weirdly being together simultaneously through some details in the background. Sometimes, this transition from scene to scene feels a bit disorienting as the film continues. While the aspect of time is indeed a factor in her life, you can’t grasp it. Time flows differently and weirdly as it’s fragmented; the past, present, and future are mended together in a narrative concocted via memories and reflections. There are moments when you feel that this story-telling device is beginning to fracture the film itself. If you think about it further, it does fit with the lead character’s persona and development. Yet it is more of a slight nuisance rather than an effective stylistic choice if done without precision. 

Baan focuses more on the bond between El and Kay (Meghna Lall), specifically the impact she had on her life – two lost souls who roam around the world in search of a place to call home. Their constant wandering from city to city makes them feel like they aren’t supposed to land anywhere. During one of their many conversations about their constantly shifting lives, El asks Kay about the reason why she didn’t stay in London, one of her many pit stops throughout her search for identity and sanctuary. Kay replies, “I felt like I never belonged there”. She also quotes an idiom that’s primarily used in Southern parts of the United States, “If it’d been a snake, it would have bitten you already”, stating that if one of those locations where Kay has traveled where the right fit to call home, she would have never left them. 

As the two get along and, at the same time, separate from one another, the story begins to gain more emotional weight, elevated by the performances of Lall and Miragaia, both of which are brilliant in their respective portrayals. Yet, the former upstages due to her personal and humanistic expressionism. The camera always lingers for enough time that their facial expressions transmit the necessary emotions to us watching. When you add the cherry on top of the melancholic sundae that is the cinematography, shot by the director herself (who also worked on João Canijo’s brilliant double-film Mal Viver and Viver Mal), you end up with a collage-like expressive portrait of the struggle with identity in the modern era and the distance in heartache. 

Grade: B

Directors: Ira Sachs
Writers: Mauricio Zacharias, Ira Sachs, Arlette Langmann
Stars: Franz Rogowski, Ben Whishaw, Adèle Exarchopoulos

Synopsis: A gay couple’s marriage is thrown into crisis when one of them impulsively begins a passionate affair with a young woman.

When we first see Tomas (Franz Rogowski) in Ira Sachs’ Passages, he’s directing a scene from his latest film. Hyper-focused on the minutiae, he stops a seemingly simple scene multiple times before rolling. An actor swinging his hands too much, a partygoer’s cup being empty.  Almost immediately, we feel we understand this character. So how is it that a man so in control of his sets can spend the next 90 minutes of a film making the most rash, thoughtless, impulsive decisions imaginable? That’s where the subtle beauty of Sachs’ direction and script co-written by Mauricio Zacharias comes in. While this film is incredibly comical, if only for the sheer absurdity of its scenarios, Passages never feels as if it’s crossing over into cartoonish. Instead, the lives of Tomas, and the two lovers he bounces between, feel deeply rooted in the worlds of one another. Tomas being the only connection between Martin (Ben Whishaw) and Agathe (Adèle Exarchopoulos), the consequences are felt deeply and reverberate throughout the film, and subsequently, the audience.

Passages feels like Uncut Gems, if that film was incredibly sexy. Tomas is likely to go down as the messiest character of 2023. How are characters such as himself and Howie able to get the viewer so much on their sides? These characters, long before seeing how their stories end, are so clearly tragic figures. While it does feel that both Martin, and especially Agathe, are a bit under explored as characters, Passages operates way better on a Freudian level. With Tomas clearly operating as the id, the title of ego and superego shifts between the two other central characters throughout the runtime. They’re left to seemingly battle each other for the scraps as they become more wrapped up in his twisted love life. What’s most raw and depressing about this film, however, is how little they actually attempt to do so. 

Rather than having Martin and Agathe pitted against one another, they’re deeply passive in the film, and at least some of it feels intentional. Another key aspect that saves the somewhat shallow nature of how these characters feel written is the performances given. Each one feels immensely lived in, and every reaction feels genuine. There are multiple instances of Whishaw’s performance wherein he hides a deep level of sadness, but captures a sense of composure barely being held onto. It’s the type of emotionally resonant performance full of nuance that feels special from the second you see it on screen. Rogowski, on the other hand, feels a bit reserved, but for good reason. It feels as if Tomas’ face is, more often than not, intentionally hidden and kept away from the audience in moments of vulnerability. A particular directorial choice in the third act breaks this pattern in a way that’s both brilliant and maddening. In many ways, Passages feels both elusive and deceptively simple. Yet it’s in this balance that its best moments shine. 

Another element of Passages that must be noted is the gorgeous costume design. Each outfit on screen shines brighter than the last, and it’s the type of film that makes you want to reassess your entire wardrobe. There’s a palpable sense of freedom in how all the characters dress. From the strikingly colored dress and jackets, to the sheer crop-top Tomas inappropriately yet unabashedly wears, these characters all exude deep comfort with themselves, even during objectionable moments. Time and time again, you’ll want to scream at Tomas. You’ll do nothing but hope that Agathe and Martin are able to break free of Tomas’ deceit. But you’ll always remember that this is simply in Tomas’ very nature, and it almost seems that he’s less so just committed to his behavior, as much as it’s just the only behavior he knows.  

Passages as a whole film really grapples with the notion of choice. Whether or not the right choice is made feels secondary on some level to the very idea that we have a choice in the first place. But it’s funny that the thesis statement of the film could be found, in all places, from one of Agathe’s young students. When asked if he’s allowed to go to bed whenever he would like, the young boy simply replies, “I can’t go to sleep whenever I want.” Tomas, the man who strolls into homes unwarranted whenever he so feels inclined, must have never learned this in school or at home. As his actions become more and more intolerable, you begin to wonder what his life must have been like that led him to this point. And yet, he has convinced two people to love him. When discussing the controversial NC-17 rating of this film from the MPAA, Sachs said, “There’s no untangling the film from what it is.” To look at Tomas as anything besides what he is: a narcissistic wasteland of pain dragging down those around him, would be a fool’s errand. Passages is beautiful because it focuses on an individual that, at his core, is ugly. Even still, Sachs is able to find a human core that’s radiant within all of it, warts and all.

Grade: C+