Director: Mahamat-Saleh Haroun.
Writer: Mahamat-Saleh Haroun.
Star: Achouackh Abakar Souleymane, Rihane Khalil Alio, Youssouf Djaoro.

Synopsis: When Amina learns that her 15-year-old daughter Maria is pregnant and wants to abort the child, they face an impossible situation in a country where abortion is legally and morally condemned.

The first thing that you notice as soon as Lingui, the Sacred Bonds starts is its sun-kissed cinematography, capturing the beautiful aura of Chad. Photographer Mathieu Giombini makes sure to highlight the traditional dresses and the brown and orange colors that form part of the local landscape. Chad has never looked as bright and beautiful as it does in Lingui. This stunning façade echoes a story that is equally empowering as it is indignant and celebratory as it is condemning.

While the topics of abortion and reproductive rights have acquired a loud voice in American cinema during the last years with films such as Never Rarely Sometimes Always (Eliza Hittman, 2020), Unpregnant (Rachel Lee Goldenberg, 2020), and Plan B (Natalie Morales, 2021), Lingui takes a close look to these themes within a society that is much more limitative and condemning than the one from the West (even as Texas has gotten a terrible and recent setback in this endless fight).

With Lingui, Chadi filmmaker Mahamat-Saleh Haroun portrays the demanding and inhumane rules and expectations of a patriarchal society, as well as the subtle and resolute strategies that women design to survive. While the film critiques the Chadi patriarchal norms, it celebrates the sacred bonds (known as lingui in the local customs) between women.

The film presents the story of Amina (Achouackh Abakar Souleymane), a woman that creates vases out of rubber tires to support her 15-year-old daughter, Maria (Rihane Khalil Alio). One day, Maria starts acting weird and aloof. Amina discovers that she is pregnant, having been recently expelled from school to avoid a scandal. Determined to avoid a destiny like her mom’s – Amina got pregnant as a teen and was disowned by her family –, Maria decides to have an abortion.

In a country where abortions are prohibited by law and religion, Amina and Maria’s options are limited, as well as the people in whom they can trust. Haroun slowly and delicately takes us through the small and big obstacles that these women endure. Marina is courted by a long-time friend that highlights her feeble position in society as a reason for her to marry him. The hospital refuses to perform the abortion, instead referring them to a clandestine clinic. The local Iman constantly harasses Amina, scolding her for her absence at daily prayers as she designs ways of getting money.

Achouackh Abakar Souleymane and Rihane Khalil Alio offer captivating performances as mother and daughter. Souleymane goes through a whirlwind of emotions as Alio exposes a determined young girl that knows what she wants and deserves from life.

As the path to get an abortion becomes more complicated and desolate, Amina and Maria’s bond becomes stronger. Their difficulties pull them closer together and their relationship is even deeper from what it was at the beginning of the film. It is worthy of praise that Haroun’s script never alienates one from the other, even as the final revelations are gasp-inducing and infuriating. No matter what happens, their bond is never broken.

They also receive unexpected help and solidarity from the women of the community. Friends, recently reconnected family members, and considerate nurses and midwives offer them support. Mother and daughter are safe whenever they are surrounded by women, even if the external threats are as scary as ever. The mood and tone of the film contrast clearly whenever there are men and women on screen. Lingui offers a glance at the creative ways in which women navigate the difficult norms of their country, strengthening their relationships along the way through their shared secrets and strategies.

In Lingui, the Sacred Bonds, Mahamat-Saleh Haroun presents a film of resilience and determination. He carefully exposes the many ways in which women are abused of in such a traditionalist country while celebrating their strength. The story of Amina and Maria shines through their unbreakable bond, as they are embraced by other women that understand their struggle and pain. This film works as a social commentary, and as a testament to the strength and unity of the female community.

Grade: A-

Director: Theodore Melfi
Writers: Matt Harris
Stars: Melissa McCarthy, Chris O’Dowd, Kevin Kline

Synopsis:  A couple struggles to put their marriage back together after a loss.

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If there’s one cliché in Hollywood that is true, it’s that comedy is harder than drama. The irony of it, though, is that comedic actors are still not recognized nearly enough for the level of difficulty in their craft, and it’s often not until they turn to dramatic roles that the accolades roll in. Granted, not all comic actors can deliver a great dramatic performance, but the ones who can seem to be really good at it. Most recently, Melissa McCarthy has followed this trend, earning an Oscar nomination in 2018 for her dramatic role in Can You Ever Forgive Me? McCarthy, who is best-known for her broad, physical comedy, nailed it as a depressed writer who turns to forgery to keep her career going, proving she certainly is more than a one-trick pony. McCarthy has continued on the dramatic trend this year, starring in the Hulu limited series, Nine Perfect Strangers, and in director Theodore Melfi’s new film, The Starling.

McCarthy is joined in The Starling by two other comedic actors, Chris O’Dowd and Kevin Kline, who happens to be one of the few actors the Academy has rewarded for a comedic performance, when Kline won Best Supporting Actor in 1988 for his iconic role in A Fish Called Wanda. Having receded somewhat from the limelight in recent years though, it’s a welcome sight to see Kline in a movie again, The Starling marking only his fourth film in the last five years. As for O’Dowd, his career has continued to gain steam since he first gained attention by American audiences in the 2011 box office hit, Bridesmaids. The Starling is a reunion for O’Dowd and McCarthy, who not only were in Bridesmaids together, but also St. Vincent, the 2014 dramedy starring Bill Murray, also written and directed by Melfi. Melfi is following a similar formula in The Starling, giving Melissa McCarthy a dramatic vehicle in which she can not only find humor and pathos, but allowing her to share the screen with a legend. Unfortunately, though, the overly sentimental and predictable screenplay leaves the actors to fend for themselves to mine for magic and the result is an uneven message movie that you can see coming a mile away.

McCarthy and O’Dowd play married couple Lilly and Jack, whose infant daughter died of SIDS. While neither handled the death well, Jack found it the hardest to cope and ended up checking himself into a mental hospital to try and get right. Meanwhile, Lilly is trying to cope in her own way, cleaning out the house, obsessing over things at work, and deciding it’s time to plant a garden in her front yard. Whenever she tries to do anything in her yard, however, she is attacked by a territorial bird, a starling, who dive-bombs her every chance it can get. Lilly channels much of her bubbling rage and desire to get control of her life back into taking out this bird, which proves to be much more difficult that she thought.

As for Jack, he is simply unable to move on from the death of his daughter, and his marriage is suffering mightily from it. While Lilly does visit weekly and they both want to find a way to keep their marriage together, neither of them knows how to do it and they continue to pick unnecessary fights with each other. After one especially bad visit, a nurse at the hospital suggests that Lilly visit a therapist she knows in her town, who is really good. When Lilly goes to find him, she finds he’s now a veterinarian, having quit psychiatry years before. But Dr. Fine, played by Kevin Kline, is moved by Lilly’s story and offers to help, more as a friend than a doctor. It turns out Lilly needs him more than she ever was willing to admit.

It would be a true insult to the caliber of talent involved with this film to label it not much more than a Hallmark made-for-television movie, but it’s really not that far off. The high level of performances, especially from O’Dowd and Kline, lift The Starling out from its mediocrity, but the screenplay is still riddled with over-sentimentality, predictability, and plot devices that feel manufactured, and not just because the titular starling is completely computer-generated—although that really doesn’t help. Melfi’s direction matches his screenplay, in that it depends way too much on unnatural emotional beats to trigger a response from its characters and from the audience.

What makes it worse is the fact that McCarthy seemingly doesn’t have enough confidence in her dramatic skills to deliver a performance that doesn’t use comedy as a crutch. Lilly has moments of real poignancy that are interrupted by a sight gag or a pratfall. If Melfi had just let those moments get a little darker, go a little deeper, the film might have been more than a surface-level, Hollywood-style look at depression and mental illness. But instead, the film bails out just when it starts to get interesting, and we are forced into awkward laughter by a manufactured comic bit. While McCarthy is still a good dramatic performer, she relies just a bit too much on her innate charm and natural comic tendencies. If she pushes out of her comfort zone, it could be a much more effective performance.

O’Dowd is given much deeper places to roam in his performance, and he delivers with heartbreaking effectiveness. He instead uses his comic instincts to hide his character’s pain, a powerful tool that he breaks out with subtlety and warmth. Kline is similarly endearing, even though he really doesn’t have much to work with. He too is offered a comedic escape route in nearly every scene, as his character is always surrounded by animals, but he never takes it, giving a real and heartfelt performance that is designed to be the anchor of the film and ends up being the exact thing that keeps it afloat.

Far beyond the uneven performances is the fact that The Starling gets lost in its own message. There is no character building or storytelling, just a hammer-on-the-head oversentimentality that ends up misfiring due to lack of a sincere emotional connection. And way too much time is spent on the metaphor of the starling itself, the CGI bird that couldn’t be more on the nose if it were carrying a sign.

While it is great to see these comic talents get the chance to show the world their skills are much more than joke-deep, all three deserved a better vehicle than The Starling, a film that gets in its own way and works way too hard to achieve far too little.

Grade: C

Director: Céline Sciamma
Writer: Céline Sciamma
Stars: Joséphine Sanz, Gabrielle Sanz, Nina Meurisse, Stéphane Varupenne

Synopsis: An eight-year-old girl visits her mother’s childhood home after the death of her grandmother and meets a friend who helps her get close to her mother’s memories.

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Director Céline Sciamma catapulted herself into the international film consciousness with her gorgeous Portrait of a Lady on Fire in 2019, one of the best films of that year. She follows it with the similarly simple yet beautifully rendered Petite Maman, a film about childhood and holding close the memories that we cherish. While Petite maman may not boast the same emotional impact of Portrait of a Lady on Fire, it still delivers a delicate and transcendent experience.

The film (in French with English subtitles) centers on 8-year-old Nelly (Joséphine Sanz), whose grandmother has just passed away. When her parents, played by Nina Meurisse and Stéphane Varupenne, take her to her grandmother’s house in the country in order to clear it out, Nelly revels in the opportunities to play with her mother’s childhood toys and explore the woods next door. She wants to learn more about her mother’s childhood growing up in the house, but her mother is finding it difficult to reminisce while still grieving her mother’s death, so Nelly is forced to color in some of her mother’s memories by herself.

While out in the woods, Nelly meets Marion (Gabrielle Sanz), another eight-year-old girl who Nelly becomes instant friends with. They play together, building a fort in the woods. It’s not until we notice the striking resemblance between the two that the audience realizes that Marion is the imagined embodiment of Nelly’s mother when she was Nelly’s age. When Nelly goes to Marion’s house to visit, it is the same house that Nelly’s parents are cleaning out, but twenty-five years earlier. And when we see Marion’s mother warmly greeting Nelly, we realize that is the grandmother who Nelly just lost.

In the hands of another director, this plot twist could be played as either overly saccharine or just plain creepy. But, in Sciamma’s hands, it plays like a beautiful ode to memory, to the simplicity of childhood and the desire to hold close those who we love. The title, Petite Maman, literally translates to “small Mom,” amplifying the generational bridge that is crossed in this film.

But what makes Petite Maman such a beautiful and warm experience is not just the longing that Nelly has to be closer to her mother’s memories, but the fact that Nelly finds such a pure joy in seeking them out. A child’s reaction to death is not the melancholy and sorrowful one that adults tend to linger in, it is instead one that triggers a curiosity and a desire to envelop themselves in memories. While Nelly’s mother chose to run away from her grief, Nelly instead chose to embrace the beauty of it, wanting to immerse herself in the life that was lived. While she does see her grandmother in these memory dreams, it is the memories and childhood experiences of her own mother that Nelly wants to absorb, to be closer to her, to know her better.

It is a beautiful film, in both spirit and production. Cinematographer Claire Mathon, who is also getting rave reviews for her stunning work in Spencer, and who also shot Portrait of a Lady on Fire, creates yet another stunning palette of shots here, taking the audience into a child’s view of the world, seeing the world through a child’s eyes, lowering the camera to Nelly’s level so we feel and see everything she sees and feels. Sciamma hones in on what it feels like to be a child, especially an only child, who revels in their time spent exploring and playing by themselves. The world is a place of discovery for a child thirsty to take it all in, and Sciamma depicts it perfectly, with the help of two exceptionally cast twins who are absolutely perfect.

The real-life Sanz twins, who have never acted on screen before, are the reason Petite Maman is able to be everything Sciamma designs it to be. Despite being twins, each one plays their character with discernably unique qualities, providing just enough separation, yet still intrinsically similar. Their obvious fondness and comfort with each other jumps off the screen, as their interactions feel natural, never forced, especially when the camera is allowed to simply watch them be together. Their believability and natural ease on screen is what makes everything else work.

At just seventy minutes long, Petite Maman is a brisk and monumentally effective film that wins over with its heart and impresses with its structure, a film that may not be a towering achievement of cinema, but is an engaging examination of the curiosities of childhood and the power of memory that will stay with you long after the credits roll.

Grade: B+

Directors: Julie Cohen and Betsy West

Synopsis:  Documentary chronicling the life and career of celebrity chef Julia Child.

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Documentarians Julie Cohen and Betsy West must have found it impossible to follow up their 2018 Oscar-nominated RBG, a documentary about the gigantic force of nature, Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsberg. An icon, feminist trailblazer, passionate, career-focused woman who enjoyed a happy marriage, Ginsberg became a celebrity not for her beauty but for her brains and changed not only her profession but society as a whole. How do you—or can you—follow that? There certainly couldn’t be another story to tell as interesting as hers, right?

As it turns out, there have been many more than just one trailblazing American woman in the past fifty years and it didn’t take long for Cohen and West to settle on telling the story of Julia Child, the original American celebrity chef who revolutionized not only the way Americans ate after World War II, but altered the landscape of popular culture, paving the way for reality television long before there was ever such a thing. While Child may not have changed the path of history the way Ginsberg did, Child certainly inspired and encouraged American women to enjoy cooking, not as an obligation, but as a genuine source of pleasure. Revolutionaries take all shapes and sizes, whether it’s the diminutive RBG or the 6’3” Child, heroes are defined not by their stature, but by their contribution.

As the child of a mother who was a Julia Child devotee, I can attest first-hand to her scope of influence, as my mother would spend hours in the kitchen, perfecting dishes, her dog-eared copies of Child cookbooks always on hand. It’s impossible to overstate Child’s popularity in the ‘60s and ‘70s, through the success of the cookbook that she co-wrote, “Mastering the Art of French Cooking” and her PBS cooking show, The French Chef, which aired from 1963-1966 and then again from 1970-1973. In the documentary, Julia, Cohen and West craft a well-structured journey through Child’s life that gives the audience a sense of who this woman was and why she became so popular. But, more than anything, Julia paints a portrait of a woman who took charge of her own life, followed her own passions and took ownership of her own destiny.

Utilizing letters, journal entries, family photographs, and recordings made of Child during her long career, Julia gives the audience an intimate look into Child’s life, from her comfortable, conservative upbringing in Massachusetts to her military service during World War II, to her long and happy marriage to her husband, Paul, and, of course, her lifelong love affair with food, especially French food. The filmmakers give us a complete sense of who Child was, taking their time to tell the story of where Child came from, not just focusing on who she became. A fame that was borne out of the Camelot of the Kennedys in the early ‘60s, Child capitalized on a nation’s desire for change, for discovery, for embracing new and exciting things. Cohen and West lean less on interviews with those who knew her to explain what Child was thinking, and allows the recordings and footage to do the bulk of the storytelling, which is effective and engaging.

But far beyond the incredible chef and the captivating screen presence Julia Child was, she was a woman who lived the life she wanted. Resisting every expectation of her, she did what she wanted, followed the career she wanted, married the man she wanted, and lived where she wanted. She would not compromise, was a perfectionist, and somewhat of a contrarian, a feminist icon who was devoted to her husband and made sure she was home every night to cook him dinner. She was a brilliant businesswoman who put PBS on the map and cookbooks on the bestseller list. Every celebrity chef who now is a household name owes their career to Julia Child, the original.

Cohen and West do let Child be the central figure of their film, but the supporting role that food plays in telling her story is unmistakable. Close-ups of food, slow-motion camera sweeps of food being prepared, cooked, boiled, roasted, chopped, seared, sauteed—will literally make your mouth water. While not a film for vegans, as close-ups of raw meat, poultry and fish are ubiquitous, there is a beautifully delicate dance that plays out with the stylistic choices the filmmakers make, as if trying to seduce the audience—or at least their tastebuds.

In the same year of another documentary about a hugely popular celebrity chef, Roadrunner: A Film About Anthony Bourdain, Julia takes a far less philosophical approach to its muse, allowing Child’s words and craft to simply reflect her genuine affection for her audience, and her real desire to spread the love of cooking to the world. “Food is love,” Julia herself explains in the film. And Julia is indeed a love letter to not only food, but to the icon who turned it into an art form.

Grade: A

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Director: Sébastien Pilote.
Writer: Sébastien Pilote.
Star: Sara Montpetit, Sébastien Ricard, Hélène Florent, Antoine Olivier Pilon, Émile Schneider, Robert Naylor.

Synopsis: Story of a young woman having to choose between three suitors promising each a different life.

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A romantic story presents a young woman being wooed by three different prospects. This brief premise was enough to make Maria Chapdelaine one of my most anticipated films of TIFF 2021 and practically the year. Unfortunately, it is with a heavy heart that I report that this adaptation of Louis Hémon’s book turned out to be an utter disappointment, flirting with attractive ideas and instead offering a lethargic story with little longing and excessive periods of boredom.

The film, written and directed by Sébastien Pilote, follows Maria Chapdelaine (Sara Montpetit) as she reunites with her family in the Northern part of Quebec in the 1900s. Set against a tumultuous and drastic landscape, the movie exposes the beautiful views offered by snowed forests in the winter, blooming flowers and trees in the summer, and the unforgiving isolation that comes from being cut off from everyone else.

Because of the taciturn ways of the patriarch of the family, Samuel (Sébastien Ricard), the family has relocated constantly and now lives apart from any kind of civilization, keeping to themselves during the long winters. Still, Maria manages to get the attention of three suitors: François Paradis (Émile Schneider) is a former neighbor that moved around and now works as a fur trader; Eutrope Gagnon (Antoine Olivier Pilon) is their current and only neighbor, a timid and quiet shadow that is always loyally present; and Lorenzo Surprenant (Robert Naylor) is a factory worker that has moved to Massachusetts and rejects the country life.

While the film has a promising start with Maria and François sharing a furtive look during mass, this is one of the few precious moments of excitement and visual representation of physical interest between two characters. With a story that reminds of films such as Far from the Madding Crowd (Thomas Vinterberg, 2015) or Brooklyn (John Crowley, 2015), where love triangles (or squares) mark the tone and exhilaration of the story, it is amazing how little platonic longing and romantic eagerness is present in Maria Chapdelaine.

Instead, the film focuses too much on the family, their routine, and the superfluous conversations they have when they encounter friends and acquaintances. There are countless of meaningless and shallow interactions where family and friends talk about the weather, the isolation, and the joy of coming together. It seems that they get stuck in their good manners and there is no way for the story to move beyond this. The romantic potential surrounding Maria is side-lined to silent shots and the imagination of the audience wanting something dreamy to happen.

The first deception of the film is its title, giving the idea that the young woman will be the main character of the story. Instead, Maria remains a mystery, and her desires, interests, and expectations are never truly explored. Rather, the movie is more interested in Samuel and his wife Laura (Hélène Florent), who has given up the joy of being around people in the name of love for her husband and family. The camera follows the routine of chopping down wood and maintaining a peaceful life. At least the film successfully portrays the tedium of their lives.

Maria is portrayed as a young girl barely waking up to the expectations of her age. Her monosyllabic answers to the scarce questions thrown her way don’t help. How are we supposed to feel excitement or interest in her life if it is devoid of adventures, decisiveness, aspirations, or restlessness?

This issue is intimately linked to Sara Montpetit, actress who brings Maria to life. She gives a subdued and absent performance as the lead character and source of affection of three very different men. With a juvenile physical appearance, there is a clear mismatch between her and the three men vying for her attention. Her character is devoid of the personality and charisma that is needed in such a heroine. With her lack of presence, the love for actresses such as Mia Wasikowska (Jane Eyre, 2011), Carey Mulligan (Far from the Madding Crowd) or Keira Knightley (Pride and Prejudice, 2005) is instantly increased. Montpetit is just blank and flat.

For their part, the three love interests appear too little on screen to make a lasting impression (it took me half a film to recognize Mommy’s Antoine Olivier Pilon). Furthermore, the few interactions that they have with Maria are boring and muted. There are no clues as to why they would want to be with her and she with either one of them. The film expects the audience to believe in signs, looks, and possibilities that are non-existent. The tenderness of Emory Cohen (Brooklyn), the decisiveness of Matthias Schoenaerts (Far from the Madding Crowd), or the presence of Matthew Macfadyen (Pride and Prejudice) are sorely missed.

While the film slightly improves in its second half (it is more than 2h 30 minutes long), it is still devoid of emotions and expectations. A beautiful but solemn score by Philippe Brault maintains the film in a cold and formal tone that prevents the story of being enjoyable.

This film was the perfect opportunity to offer a new period piece that would allow us to sigh to expectant or suggestive looks, caressing hands, defying speeches, or tense dancing scenes. Instead, Maria Chapdelaine presented a boring story that stays short on its promise of romantic adventures (three suitors! The opportunities missed!) and dramatic encounters.

Grade: C

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Director: Ildikó Enyedi.
Writer: Ildikó Enyedi.
Star: Gijs Naber, Léa Seydoux, Louis Garrel.

Synopsis: A sea captain bets an associate that he will marry the first woman who enters the café. In walks Lizzy (Léa Seydoux). The rest is history.

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After conquering us with On Body and Soul (2017), Hungarian filmmaker Ildikó Enyedi embraced a challenge and wrote and directed The Story of My Wife, an adaptation of the novel of the same name by poet Milán Füst. The story, set in the 1920s, is divided into multiple chapters that are introduced as acquired experience by Captain Jakob Störr (Gijs Naber), as if he were observing his life and defining specific highlights and morals of his doomed love story.

Devoted to his job and dealing with a mysterious stomach disease, Jakob takes to heart the advice of his boat’s cook to get a wife. Leading a lonely life as a sailor, it is not as if many women are vying for his love. Aware of this, when he is on land, he makes a bet with a friend to marry the first woman that walks into the café. This person happens to be Lizzy (Lea Seydoux), a self-assured French lady that humors Jakob’s impromptu proposition. Soon enough, they are married and testing their physical attraction as a possible foundation for a lasting relationship.

As the film is solely explored from Jakob’s point of view, we witness the distrust he develops for his wife, even though there are no real grounds for this uneasiness. They start a toxic game where emotional abuse, challenging attitudes and outbursts of passion mark their volatile relationship. They had the terrible luck of finding someone to match their stubbornness, a decisiveness that proves to be frustrating when neither one of them is entirely honest with each other nor willing to let go of the marriage.

There’s no doubt that Enyedi’s film is challenging. With almost three hours of running time, The Story of My Life feels shallow and senseless at times, even though it is gorgeous to look at. Enyedi creates an elegant and restrained romantic epic, characteristics that constantly work against the film. The dialogues, complicated and refined, feel too rehearsed and polished to be believable. Considering that English is neither Störr’s nor Lizzy’s mother tongue, their expressions are too neat, constantly reminding us that they are actors delivering rehearsed dialogues.

While Naber is a physically compelling leading man, his interpretation is wooden. I wonder if he would have felt more comfortable with a less convoluted script. The fact that he shares no chemistry with Seydoux is another challenge. The movie has all the elements to be a memorable epic, and yet, it often falters because of its refinement and self-contempt.

Nevertheless, its elegance works in other areas. Marcell Rév’s cinematography is sharp and meticulous, standing out in scenes that take place on high seas and offering wide takes that inspire to see them in a loop. The score by Ádám Balázs, with pianos and violins, matches the drama that unfolds on screen. The excellence in its technical departments is the main virtue of the film, and the reason why we keep seeing it, even as it tests our patience several times.

The story at the core is challenging to portray without access to the thoughts of the characters. Considering that we witness the version of an unreliable narrator, it is understandable that Lizzy is hazy and mysterious. We never truly learn anything about her, and the relationship that she has with Jakob is superficial and frail.

Jakob is also an enigma. He sees himself as the victim of the story, something fascinating when we consider that he is the one cheating on his wife, physically assaulting her, or setting up private investigators to follow her around. While he is not sympathetic, this theme is fascinating and compelling. Precisely this aspect of the story is the one that offers a reward long after the movie has finished. The Story of My Wife demands patience from an audience that may find it challenging to stay with deplorable characters for three hours.

Following the steps of A Phantom Thread (Paul Thomas Anderson, 2017), The Story of My Wife presents an example of how love is not supposed to be. As that film, Enyedi’s feature is visually captivating. Its immaculate beauty makes it difficult to resist to.

With all its flaws, I can’t help but admire and appreciate this epic. It is elegantly and masterfully presented, and while it may not provoke an instant feeling of gratification, it is bound to stay in the mind of the spectator long after it’s finished.

Grade: B

Director: Clint Bentley
Writers: Clint Bentley, Greg Kwedar
Stars: Clifton Collins, Jr., Molly Parker, Moises Arias

Synopsis: An aging jockey desperately tries to stay in the game, even as a talented rookie appears, claiming to be his son.

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While there have been many films about racehorses, there have been very few, if any, that have been about the jockeys that ride them. The life of a jockey is unglamorous, difficult, and often painful, sometimes even tragic. Jockeys are elite athletes with a unique skillset, without which a multi-million-dollar industry would collapse, and yet they are often treated no better than the hired help. The spotlight rarely finds these humans who dedicate their careers—and often their lives—to the sport of horse racing, which is why Jockey, a new film from Clint Bentley, is all the more moving and vital.

In his introduction of the film before its showing at the Toronto International Film Festival, Bentley reveals that he is the son of a jockey and has always wanted to tell his father’s story and the story of all the people who live and work in the world of horse racing. His father would undoubtedly be proud with the film that Bentley delivers, which he also co-wrote with Greg Kwedar, as Jockey is a supremely sublime cinematic experience that resonates with a deep soul and heartbreaking clarity.

Clifton Collins, Jr. plays Jackson Silva, a veteran jockey whose body is starting to give out. The vet at the racetrack begs him to go to a real doctor, but Jackson knows that, in the sport of horseracing, any sign of weakness from a jockey is a liability, so he soldiers on, hoping for one last great ride before he hangs up his spurs. When Ruth (Molly Parker), his longtime trainer, shows up with a new young horse, Jackson can instantly tell the horse is a champion, the kind of horse jockeys dream of riding. Ruth, who is loyal to Jackson, promises that her new horse is his to ride, which invigorates Jackson, helping him stave off his pains and recommit to his sport. But when a rookie rider (Moises Arias) shows up on the circuit claiming to be his son, it complicates things for Jackson, who has never been able to commit or follow through on anything in his life outside of racing. He is forced to confront both his past and his future, while trying to win one last race.

Collins, a longtime character actor, delivers poignantly in a performance that carries the film on its shoulders, as the audience experiences everything that Jackson experiences, and we have to feel his highs and his lows, his doubt and his hope, his fear and his pain. Collins delivers a masterful performance at the center of this gloriously stripped-down, no-frills, melodrama-free reflection of a man facing the end. Collins manages to find every bit of pathos without a note of self-pity, mining the humanity that lives deep within a character who has only known one thing his entire life and is now facing existence without it. The performance is so subtle it will no doubt be underestimated, but there is no denying that this is a performance that deserves to be remembered deep into awards season.

While Collins’ performance is certainly worthy of high praise, as is the superb performance turned in by Parker, the artist whose imprint on Jockey is most unassailable is cinematographer Adolpho Veloso, who paints the canvas with one gorgeous shot after another. Reminiscent of Nomadland in so many ways, Jockey similarly captures an essence of Americana and the down-to-earth and hardworking people who live in the shadows and make the wheel turn. And like Nomadland’s Oscar-nominated cinematographer Joshua James Richards, Veloso shoots the Arizona landscape of Jockey with a painter’s brush, shooting most scenes at twilight, capturing the deep hues of a changing sky and the dramatic silhouettes that emerge in the looming darkness. I honestly can’t imagine seeing a more beautifully-shot film this year, and here’s hoping this film has its own racehorse legs to keep it in the awards conversation for the next several months.

Bentley’s choice to allow Veloso free rein was the best choice he made, but the other (other than casting Collins) was the decision to make a movie about horse racing that doesn’t ever actually show a horse race. While there are races in the film, Bentley instead keeps his lens trained on a closeup of the jockey, watching the race play out on his face. It is so refreshing to see an American filmmaker resist the urge to artificially pump up the audience with the adrenaline rush of a Hollywood-style racing scene. When the story is about the human on the horse, it’s so much more effective for the audience to ride with that human instead of watching from a distance, especially when the actual outcome is truly secondary.

It’s too bad that Jockey is coming out less than a year after Nomadland took the world (and the Oscars) by storm, as it will no doubt suffer many comparisons to that Chloé Zhao Best Picture winner. Admittedly, it is hard to not think of Nomadland during the first fifteen minutes of Jockey, but once the film finds its rhythm, it settles into its own unique stride and manages to separate itself with aplomb, crossing the finish line with a grace and beauty all its own.

Grade: A

Director: Luàna Bajrami
Writer: Luàna Bajrami
Star: Flaka Latifi, Uratë Shabani, Era Balaj, Andi Bajgora, Luàna Bajrami

Synopsis: In a remote Kosovar village, three young women who feel their dreams have been stifled go on a quest for independence.

After starting her acting career in France, Luàna Bajrami went back to her native Kosovo for her directorial and writing debut, The Hill Where Lionesses Roar. The filmmaker – barely 20 years old – offers a promising style and a relevant perspective on topics such as identity and the overwhelming prospect of the future, taking advantage of her youth and her recently-lived period of maturity.

The Hill Where Lionesses Roar follows three best friends as they spend their summer holidays together. Soon it becomes evident that there is nothing to do in their little Kosovar town, with them spending their hours in an abandoned house, an empty pool, and the hill that gives name to the film. Always together, they seem to have created a bond on the basis of their scarce future prospects and the difficulties they face at home.

Qe (Flaka Latifi) has to deal with an abusive father and the constant pestering of her mother, reminding her that no one expects anything else from her but to become a hairdresser and join the family business. Jeta (Uratë Shabani), an orphan, lives with her uncle who constantly harasses her. Li (Era Balaj) has the better life with a mother that motivates her to go to college and a boyfriend (Andi Bajgora) that cares for her.

The film starts as a familiar coming-of-age story, pretending to be an enchanting story filled with natural sounds, dreamlike colors, and a lack of concern for chores and responsibilities. Nevertheless, Bajrami cautiously peels the reality of life in this small town and its static nature. Everyone seems to be stuck in unchanging surroundings, abandoned places, and a certain feeling of hopelessness. It is understandable when the girls make it clear that they can’t wait to go to college.

Bajrami offers clues about the current situation in Kosovo and the way the war of the 1990s shaped the country. She explores the violent past of her home country and the way its uneventful present shapes a future of minimal opportunities of growth. People are afraid to come back after the past diaspora, multiple gangs control the place, and the institutions are filled with corruption and disappointment. After waiting for two years to be selected to go to college, the three girls are rejected once again. Restless, hopeless and a little desperate, Qe, Li, and Jeta decide to create a gang, demanding for themselves the things that they were hoping to earn.

While the story is thinly joined by an ethereal script, Bajrami’s words shine as she illustrates the overwhelming experience of growing up. She aptly portrays the feelings of anxiety and fear of her generation.

The arrival of Lena (interpreted by the director herself), a girl that is visiting her grandfather for the summer, offers a new perspective. A Kosovar that lives in Paris (an evident wink to Bajrami’s life), Lena is overwhelmed by the prospects of her future and the need to decide by 20 what she wants to do for the rest of her life. She would prefer to not have options, just as the main characters. While they crave for freedom and options, Lena wants direction and an emotional bond like the one they share.

With its low-scaled stakes, feminine perspective and maturing storyline, Céline Sciamma’s influence comes to mind (Bajrami had a secondary role in Portrait of a Lady on Fire). The freedom of the camera and the unfashionable portrayal of life reminds of Mia Hansen- Løve’s style. Bajrami conveys sensibility and empathy in the way she portrays young women looking for a way out and finding constant obstacles.

The film changes its ways the moment the girls decide to become petty criminals. Their actions become reckless, and they descend into a nihilistic lifestyle as if they knew that this couldn’t last long. Bajrami finds the beauty in uncertainty and short-lived happiness, rejoicing in filming her three leads having fun and being physically and spiritually linked.

The main trio offers head-turning performances. Each one with well-defined personality traits. Flaka Latifi is reckless, daring, and intimidating, going through a mental awakening when she comes into contact with Lena. Uratë Shabani conveys an overwhelming sadness, giving a powerful performance with her eyes and reactions. Andi Bajgora merges anger and receptivity in her layered character.

The Hill Where Lionesses Roar is a promising directorial debut. Bajrami understands and knows how to portray the restlessness of her peers. She dares to be vulnerable by showing a rumination about her identity and the restlessness of growing up. The anguish and despair of the four young women presented on screen are recognizable and empathetic. The film is a dreamlike act of rebellion and just as it is about to turn into a nightmare, Bajrami brings everything to an end.

Grade: B-

Director: Eva Husson
Writers: Alice Birch, based on the novel by Graham Swift
Stars: Odessa Young, Josh O’Connor, Colin Firth, Olivia Colman

Synopsis: A writer reminisces about the affair she had in post-World War I England with a man who was about to marry another woman.

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Just as the Academy has a soft spot for films about moviemaking, so are film critics naturally vulnerable to films about a writer’s anguish. Even more so when the film is based on a book. Both are the case with Mothering Sunday, a new film from director Eva Husson and based on the 2016 novel of the same name by Graham Swift, adapted for film by Alice Birch.

Writer Jane Fairchild (Odessa Young) is struggling to write her latest book, distracted by memories that keep flooding back of a time when she worked as a maid for an upper-class family in England before, during, and after World War I. The specific memory that sticks with her is that of Mothering Sunday, 1924. Mothering Sunday, the equivalent of Mother’s Day in the United States, is the day when families get together to celebrate, but, for families in England who lost sons in the Great War, it was difficult to find joy in much of anything. The Sheringhams lost two of their three sons in the war, but they are clinging to the joy they can find in the upcoming wedding of their youngest and only surviving son, Paul (Josh O’Connor). On this day, the Sheringhams are meeting the family of Paul’s fiancée, Sylvia (Caroline Harker) for a picnic lunch by the river, joined by Mr. and Mrs. Niven (Colin Firth and Olivia Colman), who Jane works for. Because of the holiday, Mr. Niven gives Jane the day off, but, because she’s an orphan, he wonders how she will fill her day, with no family to visit. Little does he know that Jane will be sneaking over to spend the morning with Paul, with whom she is having an affair. Paul tells his family he will be late for the picnic because he has to study, but Sylvia blames his tardiness on the fact that he’s just plain inconsiderate, not knowing it’s really because he is with Jane. Sylvia’s sullenness at the picnic makes for an already awkward meeting of families who are all still grieving the losses of their soldier sons in the war.

While the mothers continue to grieve, perhaps nobody carries the weight of the losses more than Paul, the only surviving son of the three families, who now feels the expectations fall heavily on his shoulders to live the life that his two brothers never got the chance to, including getting married, having children and becoming a lawyer. The only control Paul has over his own life is to steal some precious moments with Jane, the only person he can truly be himself with and can talk to. As for Jane, she allows herself to dream of what it would be like to be a part of his life, to live in a house as the mistress of the house instead of the maid. Their morning together is sensual and intimate and, after he leaves to go join Sylvia and his family at the picnic, Jane wanders around the empty house, naked, taking in every extravagant detail of the lavishly appointed house, with its paintings, books, and flowers, and imagines herself a part of it. Tragedy then befalls the families yet again, marking the day forever in time.

It was just the sort of day that lingers in one’s memories, and, as we see Jane many years later, in a relationship with another man, it’s one that she keeps going back to, replaying it in her mind, all the sorrow, all the hope, all the passion of that one, idyllic and tragic day. Director Husson does well to tap into the things that keep memories alive, like specific sounds or smells that instantly transport us back to a place and time. The older Jane is somewhat haunted by her affair with Paul and all the melancholy that surrounded him and she often finds it difficult to escape from it, no matter how happy she may be or what success she finds. There is a deep sorrow that she continues to carry, something that, ironically, Mrs. Nevin had once declared she would be free from because she has no family. It turns out sorrow can come from any number of places, and love is not only devoted to blood relations, and neither is pain.

While there really isn’t anything new or groundbreaking in a period drama about sad British people, Husson still finds a way to keep this relatively simple story engaging enough, largely on the strength of O’Connor and Young, who provide intimacy in their performances that draw us in. O’Connor has mastered the troubled young man routine and plays the “poor me” thing to the hilt, but he still finds an empathy in his character, the spoiled young man with the world at his feet who is drowning in guilt and familial expectation. He plays off of Young with a vulnerability that she absorbs to make her stronger, giving a performance that is confident and self-possessed.

When we see Jane again as an old woman (played by Glenda Jackson), she is successful but still holding onto memories that she has finally accepted will never leave her. While it’s great to see Jackson, it’s too bad she only gets one scene, and a quite confounding one at that. There’s a feeling of wasted opportunity with Colman as well, who clearly put in a day’s work and was done. She is paired with Firth, who is given much more to do, but they have little actual interaction with each other, which leaves the audience naturally wanting so much more.

Sandy Powell’s costumes and Jamie Ramsay’s cinematography are luscious, but there is more of a sense of what is missing in Mothering Sunday than there is to recommend it. It’s always difficult to make a film that is organically very interior—what someone is feeling, remembering or regretting is hard to capture visually and it takes a truly skilled hand to be successful. Husson does an admirable job and Mothering Sunday certainly is beautiful to look at, but it is just not able to achieve the emotional wallop that it’s going for. The dramatic beats feel too on the nose and the sense that we’ve seen it all before prevents the audience from getting wholly invested. There is just a little too much languishing in the moment and not enough coloring in the details. A writer’s gift is in the illumination of experience, and, sadly, Mothering Sunday leaves its audience just a little too much in the dark.

Grade: B-