Director: Gianfranco Rosi
Writer: Gianfranco Rosi

Synopsis: Naples faces dual volcanic threats from Vesuvius and Campi Flegrei. Amid increasing tremors, archaeologists work as residents live anxiously, haunted by Pompeii’s fate while emergency services strain.

“You’ve never seen death?” the French multihyphenate Jean Cocteau once asked, rhetorically. “Look in the mirror every day and you will see it like bees working in a glass hive.” It’s plenty fair to assume that the Italian documentarian Gianfranco Rosi is aware of this quote, though when it came to beginning his new film, Below the Clouds, with one of Cocteau’s wisdom-filled nuggets, a note about being swarmed to death was likely never on his radar. Instead, he went a more direct route: “Vesuvius makes all the clouds in the world.” The latter statement gets right at the heart (and appears at the beginning) of Rosi’s eighth documentary, both referencing the volcano that looms over its actual subject, the city of Naples, and the film’s title itself. Mount Vesuvius is, of course, famous for burying the Roman cities of Pompeii and Herculaneum with an eruption almost 2,000 years ago, and still sits close enough to roughly three million people that could feasibly be impacted by another explosion. These are the people that, to use Rosi’s parlance, reside below the clouds Vesuvius manufactures and live in a practically religious fear of the volcano’s destructive capabilities. Any and all tremors, whether felt or imagined, are reported to an emergency line that can’t do anything but quell concerns with factual evidence that everything is going to be fine. 

The “below” that Rosi focuses his gaze on (at least when he’s not capturing Naples from far above in stunning black-and-white photography) owes plenty to the roads paved in the past and present by documentarians like Frederick Wiseman and Wang Bing, who prefer focusing on communities through the eyes and testimonies of their inhabitants. The latter’s Youth trilogy, in all its 10-hour glory, could work as a particularly strong companion piece; it follows Chinese migrant workers navigating life in a professional and personal capacity with intense scrutiny. It’s not done critically, but intimately. Below the Clouds has a similar feel to it – aside from the fact that its foreboding elements are closely related to the volcano looming in the background rather than job insecurity and uncertain futures – with its curiosities primarily related to the people living in the city. Rosi descends into underground tunnels with a group of investigators seeking evidence that tomb-robbers have been at work; he spends time in a tutor’s makeshift classroom, where an elder shopkeeper teaches students how to read and write with a critical mind; he descends again into the basement archives of a local museum, chatting with the clerk who says the artifacts on display have been “her friends” for years.

Frequent visits with the aforementioned call center works provide an occasional reprieve for the audience, but exhibit an undercurrent of dread existing within the community they communicate with. Some are curious to know the time; in one devastating scene, a domestic-abuse call is heard in its entirety; most callers are curious as to whether or not there has been an earthquake. They’re sure they felt a tremor, and are wondering whether or not they should evacuate the area. Earthquakes aren’t uncommon in Naples – roughly 2,700 are reported annually – but they are infrequently related to Vesuvius’ activity, if ever. That doesn’t stop the concerns from flowing in at a rate that would be sure to overwhelm any operator, let alone the few on staff at the center Rosi captures. 

Not a great deal happens over Below the Clouds’ two-hour runtime, though it’s both stunning and naturally fascinating enough to hold viewers at attention, if only because they’re witnessing something unfamiliar. The municipality that sits beneath Rosi’s longingly-filmed clouds is quiet and still more than it is ever bustling (at least on camera), a quality that juxtaposes almost too perfectly with the constant concern radiating throughout the film; imagine watching a scared sloth attempting to outrun a predator and you’re halfway there. Yet the beauty of it all is so undeniable that you almost need no other reason to take it in aside from its existence. Rosi forgoes sound as much as he does color, a sensation that takes some getting used to without ever feeling wholly discomfiting, especially for those familiar with the directors past works. 

Below the Clouds is somehow more compelling than 2020’s Notturno, though the two might make for an even better double bill than the work of Bing or Wiseman. A documentary that was shot from 2017 to 2019 and centered on people from Middle Eastern areas with proximity to war zones, Notturno was similarly methodical and interested in the lives of people whose safety constantly existed under duress. One might not jump to connect a volcano to a war zone, but the former is certainly more threatening than the latter insofar as scope of tragedy. (Should the proverbial bomb detonate, that is.) That Rosi manages to consistently highlight the threat of a community’s surroundings while still prioritizing its citizens remains his hallmark as a documentarian, and an infatigable one at that. He regularly spends years filming his movies on location in order to capture the whole story. The only problem with that approach is one that solely plagues his audience: The waiting game for one of his muted, minor stunners is always a far more brutal test of endurance than the films he makes.

Below the Clouds screened at the 63rd New York Film Festival and will have its awards-qualifying release this fall. Mubi will release the film in early 2026,

Grade: B

Director: Mona Fastvold
Writers: Brady Corbet, Mona Fastvold
Stars: Amanda Seyfried, Lewis Pullman, Thomasin McKenzie

Synopsis: Ann Lee, the founding leader of the Shaker Movement, proclaimed as the female Christ by her followers. Depicts her establishment of a utopian society and the Shakers’ worship through song and dance, based on real events.

Musical biopics are all the rage these days, even though I’m not quite sure who is asking for them, outside of studio execs seeing the box office and awards success of movies about well-known artists like Bohemian Rhapsody. Just last year, we had Back to Black, A Complete Unknown, Bob Marley: One Love, and Better Man. Springsteen: Deliver Me From Nowhere just had its release in late October. All of these vary in terms of both critical and commercial success, but the message is clear: studios will keep churning these out whether we like it or not. 

Enter Mona Fastvold with The Testament of Ann Lee, a musical unlike any that I’ve ever seen. It follows Ann Lee (Amanda Seyfried), the leader of the Shaker Movement, a charismatic Christian sect born out of the more reserved Quaker communities in England and America. The Shakers were known for their erratic and expressive movement during worship, more akin to what you might see in a Pentecostal church in the modern United States. All of the music featured in Ann Lee is taken from traditional Shaker hymns, not necessarily written by Mother Ann herself, but certainly influenced by her leadership and teachings. 

Fastvold, alongside Brady Corbet and much of the team behind The Brutalist, crafts the most beautiful and enthralling choreography committed to film this century. Almost every musical moment comes from a worship setting rather than the spontaneous singing found in most other musicals. The dancing, combined with immaculate production and costume design, is truly dazzling and pulls you in with each song. 

The heart of the film, as with the heart of the Shaker movement itself, is Seyfried as Ann Lee in a breathtaking performance. Lee is one of the few prominent women to lead a religious movement like this, which provides this community with a unique vision and perspective. Many portrayals of religious leaders show them grasping at power for power’s sake, looking out for themselves and no one else. Seyfried’s Mother Ann channels her suffering as a child and young woman into powerful worship and leadership amongst a group of Christian believers yearning for direction and reform. Her singing and emotional range are on full display, marking my favorite performance of the year. 

A fascinating aspect of the film is the team’s approach to the “cradle-to-grave” story most audiences are all too familiar with. Many films about religious leaders try to tap into their psyche and get intimately close, whether looking for empathy for them or uncovering evil within them. The Testament of Ann Lee takes a surprisingly removed look at the life of Ann and her community. We see intimately painful moments, but are often not privy to her innermost thoughts. It’s only when these come out as religious expression that we are let in on her motivations and ideology. 

Seyfried leads the charge, but Lewis Pullman, as her brother William, rallies the troops. A lesser movie would find the William character as an undermining and begrudging servant to his sister Ann, but he is nothing but supportive of the movement and the reverence that others feel for Mother Ann. This is by far Pullman’s best performance to date, using his charm and vulnerability uniquely. It’s Pullman’s part of the story where the cinematography really shines, leading us into the fields and forests of the coastal northeast, bringing out a contrast in color to the dark and dreary indoor settings of England and the Shaker’s first few months in America. 

Between this and The Brutalist, Fastvold and Corbet have to be the most confident filmmaking team working right now. This is a huge swing for all involved, and it’s amazing that a movie like this got made. The Testament of Ann Lee subverts expectations on all fronts, throwing many tropes of musicals, biopics, and the ever-popular combo of the two out the window. There’s not a film this year that combines period craft, performance, and cinematography as well as Ann Lee. It’s utterly mesmerizing, and the more I think about it, the more I’m convinced it’s the movie of the year.

Rating: ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

Grade: A+

Director: Hasan Hadi
Writer: Hasan Hadi
Stars: Baneen Ahmad Nayyef, Waheed Thabet Khreibat, Sajad Mohamad Qasem

Synopsis: In 1990s Iraq, 9-year-old Lamia must bake the President’s birthday cake. She scrambles to find ingredients for this compulsory task while facing potential punishment if she fails.

Set over a weekend in Iraq in 1990, with international sanctions against its brutal dictator, Saddam Hussein, the citizens are encouraged to be ready for combat (this is a few months before the invasion of Kuwait, followed by the Gulf War) against foreign aggressors. However, the poverty is quite obvious, and citizens in the cities are scrambling to get as many supplies as they need, not because they are stacking supplies during the harsh sanction period, but because it is Hussein’s birthday. To honor him, people must make a cake, including a school where strict rules are enforced in defense of Saddam, and Lamia (Banin Ahmad Nayef) has the unenviable task of getting those ingredients. 

Lamia lives with her grandmother Bibi (Waheed Thabet Khreibat) and her pet rooster in a village along the marshes. Bibi has diabetes and is no longer fit to work in the fields, but they barely have money. While people line up to receive fresh water courtesy of the President, other essentials like flour and sugar will not be easy to obtain or even find. There’s the threat of punishment if she fails to get it, and Lamia’s teacher tells the class, “I’m just a soldier and I must report anyone who refuses to obey.” He even mentions the parents of another student when detailing what happens if they defy orders; while he doesn’t say what happened, we can assume imprisonment and probably death. For Lamia, she must succeed by any means necessary.

However, going into the city with Bibi, Lamia learns the trip is not for looking for those ingredients, and Lamia flees. She runs into classmate Saeed (Sajad Mohamad Qasem), who also has the equally unenviable task of finding fruit as part of the collection, and they go on their quest to hustle, barter, and, unfortunately, steal their way into getting what they need from different places. Bibi, meanwhile, finds no help from the police as they are too busy with other things to go look for a peasant girl. The story focuses on the two children going on a trek similar to Abbas Kiarostami’s Where’s The Friend’s Home?, and Francois Truffaut’s The 400 Blows.

These kids, about nine years old, are thrust into a world that demands full obedience and hardship for their dear leader, a man who doesn’t mind killing his own people while also living the decadent lifestyle of a secular Westerner. Everyone is dressed up, holding guns, and playing soldier for a bloodthirsty man who wouldn’t be toppled until 2003. In the middle of this, while he maintains his popularity, Lamia, Saeed, Bibi, and the rest of the people are moving around trying to survive the harshest of economic conditions. Corruption lies everywhere they go, yet they encounter those small moments of humanity and humor that give hope to these children.

In his directorial debut, writer/director Hasan Hadi brings us back into his childhood and makes a tragicomedy from such horrid circumstances. It’s a film that clearly made a strong impression; it debuted at the Cannes Film Festival, where it won the Camera d’Or (best first feature) at the Directors’ Fortnight portion, and was chosen by Iraq for their Best International Feature nominee for the Oscars. And, when your executive producers include screenwriter Eric Roth (Killers of the Flower Moon), writer/director Marielle Heller (A Beautiful Day In The Neighborhood), and director Chris Columbus (Home Alone), that’s a pretty strong support group that loved Hadi’s coming-of-age story, one he had to grow up in.  

More impressively, The President’s Cake is a modern neorealist piece where Hadi got non-actors to play these roles on location and encounter some nefarious situations. This is right from the school of Roberto Rossellini and Vittorio de Sica, masters of the style, who did the same thing in post-war Italy. This is a wonderful period piece about an era that is foreign to us, outside of who Saddam Hussein was, but Hadi does a great job in allowing us to follow the sad folly of working for pride and being paid back in fear. “The walls have ears,” the teacher says in one scene. All of this, as the final moment of the film shows, for a man who liked cake but was hungrier for other things.

Grade: B+

Director: Hlynur Pálmason
Writer: Hlynur Pálmason
Stars: Saga Garðarsdóttir, Sverrir Guðnason, Ída Mekkín Hlynsdóttir, Grímur Hlynsson

Synopsis: Captures a year in the life of a family as the parents navigate their separation. Through intimate vignettes and strange occurrences, the film explores the complexities of family, love, and the impact of shared memories.

Some Icelandic history off the top, to whet your appetites: Every proper Icelandic surname ends with one of two distinctions, “son” or “dottir,” and is preceded by the patriarch’s first name. If your father’s first name was, say, “Bjarna,” your last name would ultimately be “Bjarnason.” That was my grandfather’s name before he moved West and Americanized it, tossing an “r” at the end to make it somewhat simpler for folks with pronunciation troubles. That’s it’s my father has always been Jon Bjarnar, not Jon Vilhjálmurson; his father was Vilhjálmur Thorsteinn Bjarnar, a linguistics lecturer and a historian with a focus on Old Icelandic Literature at Cornell University for the back half of his life before he passed in 1993. I never met him, but it’s from him that I got my name. Well, him and my mom, who agreed with my dad that honoring his late father was an appropriate thing to do with their first born, but as a longtime educator herself, refused to put a “Vilhjálmur Thorsteinn Bjarnar II” into the throes of Upstate New York’s public school system. I thank her and Jon for reaching such a compromise every single day.

A touch of extraneous lore there, but I hardly ever get to talk about it. Most people just ask me how it’s pronounced, or whether I know Thor, or why the “j” isn’t hard, or why I’m not Norwegian. (I never know how to answer that one. I’m just… not.) But Icelandic names have always intrigued me. I find it fascinating that since the country’s first genealogical records, which were written in Old Norse between the 9th and 11th centuries and are called “The Sagas of Icelanders,” this is how Icelanders have been named. Had my mom and dad grown up in Iceland, I likely would have been a Bjarnason – and also a Vilhjálmur. (Note: Will isn’t short for anything. Mom also didn’t want a “Billy.”) 

It’s fitting, then, that I was knocked upside down, frontwards, and back around again by Hlynur Pálmason’s The Love That Remains, not merely because its cast members all have “son” or “dottir” in their names, but because it’s the best Icelandic film since Fridrik Thor Fridriksson’s Academy Award-nominated Children of Nature that I can remember predominantly dealing with “sons” and “dottirs” in an intimate, grounded fashion. It’s astonishing and familiar, even if the family at its center and the place they live aren’t necessarily ones that I recognize, last names aside.

This might be due to its central narrative pillar, the separation of Anna (Saga Garðarsdóttir) and Magnús (Sverrir Gudnason), one that obviously impacts them individually while having a less definitive yet potentially more pivotal effect on their three children. (We see them coparent and struggle to communicate over the course of four seasons.) It could also have something to do with the intrinsic existence that names, sons, daughters, and families at large owe to their home land, especially one that continues to carry on ancient tradition that places an emphasis on blood relations. It’s not that most countries don’t, but there’s evidence in Pálmason’s impressionistic dramedy that the nation prioritizes connection more than most. 

That’s best exemplified by the moments that are most closely rooted to that movement, one that relies far more on feelings than on fact. The family is a close-knit one, further complicating the nature of Anna and Magnús’s separation, though not necessarily in the expected manner. Their kids –  who are all played by Pálmason’s own children, Ída Mekkin Hlyndsdóttir and twins þorgils and Grímur Hlynsson – speak frankly and, on occasion, inappropriately, suggesting if not ensuring that this household has a penchant for the intrusive. Of course, it makes for a film that highlights hilarity, one that views dark humor as one of its most powerful assets. (Keep an eye on the arrows that the youthful trio fire at a scarecrow donning knight’s armor, as one may or may not skewer your funny bone.)

But their familial rapport is much more of a distraction from their shared daily lives in the rural landscape they call home than a few mere cuss words and questions about why the chickens “let the rooster fuck them like that.” The joys they experience are genuine – and often aided by Panda the dog, who won Cannes’ top prize for canines in May and deservedly gets her own credit text – but their willingness to find anything that pulls their attention away from the marital dissolution occurring before them is just as concrete. It’s as if we’re watching routine after routine unfold through the reflection from a mirror with a crack through its center, though the split in the glass just seems to separate the picture into halves without warping the image. 

Pálmason’s filmmaking so often deals with “what surrounds us or where we come from,” as he told Variety about making this movie in particular, but it’s more evident here than ever. The performances – particularly from Garðarsdóttir, whose work with art in the film feels like free admission to a museum exhibit that has yet to be unveiled to the public – play with the sort of freedom typically reserved for less composed features than The Love That Remains, which is unmistakably and meticulously framed by Pálmason (who also serves as his own DP, shooting on gorgeous 35mm) but remains uninhibited by plot. It’s spontaneous, not unscripted; the former is often more difficult to capture, but is pure magic here in moments both imbued by the light and the dark.  

Iceland’s fastest-rising filmmaker has been almost severely intrigued by melancholy since coming onto the scene with his 2017 debut Winter Brothers – a film that was similarly interested in the bonds siblings share – and has continued through his career, from 2019’s A White, White Day to 2022’s Godland. All are tremendous explorations of how displacement leads to discovery, and all wade through heartbreak like the world’s most resilient, picturesque canoe handling choppy white waters. The Love That Remains, however, pulls back the scope that those films had on one or two characters to capture a familial unit whose commanders are on the brink. The situation is knotty, and multiple parties are attempting to pull on separate ends believing that it will help loosen the tether; naturally, it only tightens the more they tug. 

Better yet: It’s the struggle of a fisherman, like Magnús, battling with an unyielding cod, the hooked foe refusing to be lined and sinkered. It’s more compelling to watch spurned lovers grapple with the future of their relationship as opposed to giving up hope on it altogether, even if their disunion has occurred prior to the film’s prologue, but it’s heartbreaking, too, especially for a trio of preteens still in the primes of their youth. Then again, the parents are young enough to be considered well within their more seasoned salad days as well. Elation and dejection, as hand in hand as “sons” and “dottirs.” No matter what wins out, love remains.

The Love That Remains screened at the 63rd New York Film Festival and will be released in 2026 by Janus Films following its 2025 awards-qualifying run. It is Iceland’s official submission for Best International Feature Film at the 98th Academy Awards.

Grade: A–

Director: Dolores Fonzi
Writer: Laura Paredes, Dolores Fonzi, Agustina San Martin
Stars: Dolores Fonzi, Julieta Cardinali, Gaia Garabaldi

Synopsis: A woman hospitalized for pain discovers she’s pregnant. After a medical emergency, she faces criminal charges. With support from her attorney and women’s rights advocates, she fights for justice in a landmark case that could change lives.

Abortion is as sensitive a subject as an individual topic could get. The emotional reactions and feelings are passionate to either side and, unfortunately, to moments where violence against doctors, patients, and locatiosn where abortion is provided as happened. Of course, this country (the U.S.) has now been engulfed in this debate in recent years, but going to Latin America, it’s a whole different story. A region heavily influenced by the church, conservative values, even among those who are liberal, will maintain the pro-life position and heavily restrict access. Argentina is one of the very few countries in the region which has liberalized abortion laws and the true story of Belén is the catalyst as to why.

In the 2010s, a young woman named Julietta (Camila Pláate) enters the hospital complaining of abdominal pains and says she isn’t pregnant. Physically speaking, she doesn’t look so, but to the shock of the doctors and herself, she has miscarried and the fetus is left on the bathroom floor where Julietta goes into. She is in the operating room when police come in to arrest her on charges of having an illegal abortion, intentionally inducing it herself before going to seek help. Two years later, Julietta is convicted and sentenced to eight years in prison. Soledad Deza (Dolores Fonzi), an attorney specializing in cases against women, hears about Julietta’s story and decides to seek out to clear Julietta’s name. 

Illegal in most cases at the time, it immediately becomes obvious the system is built against them because Julietta is immediately presumed to be guilty despite no evidence presented against her. They are not going to be flexible, and socially, people are vehemently against them for even trying to defend this. A sensationalized press that calls Julietta an outright killer, a legal process that makes it hard for Soledad to get the files on the case, and open intimidation against them and Soledad’s family indicates how much people want them to fail. Remember, this is the 2010s, not the 1980s like in Argentina, 1985, where the country is decades past the military junta, and even with a left-leaning government in power (and the President at that time was female), abortion laws effectively doom pregnant women if something goes wrong.

Fonzi is a triple threat here as beside the lead role, she also is co-writer and director. In a story that is part-Vera Drake, part-Just Mercy, Fonzi plays her real-life hero as defiant and fearless like Atticus Finch, knowing she’s putting her safety on the line for something unpopular. Yet, it is a just cause because of the barriers that a society, while growing progressive in some ways, still maintains the patriarchal status quo on women’s rights. However, it started up a growing movement that helped women speak out boldly on something that was never discussed and addressed the systemic misogyny on women’s rights.

Belén, however, doesn’t come close to rising the real-life drama and the strain put on everyone, especially Julietta. The depth of some characters, such as Soledad’s assistants who are passionate in fighting for Julietta and other women, feel one-dimensional and the script staggers on like a TV melodrama. It could’ve used some of the same juice that Argentina, 1985 got from being a true story itself and keep us closer to the action. It’s a really powerful story and the performances of Fonzi and Pláate keep the film afloat despite its shortcomings and give hope to those who feel empathetic to this real story.

Follow me on X: @brian_cine (Cine-A-Man)

Grade: C+

Director: Ben Stiller
Stars: Jerry Stiller, Anne Meara, Ben Stiller, Amy Stiller

Synopsis: Ben Stiller tells the story of his parents—comedy icons Jerry Stiller and Anne Meara—exploring their impact on popular culture and at home, where the lines between creativity, family, life, and art often blurred.

There is a version – and there have been versions – of a documentary like Stiller & Meara: Nothing Is Lost that is so painfully saccharine and twee to a point where the fact that it is a loving work of memoriam from a child to a parent doesn’t forgive its syrupy qualities. We’re told to never judge a book by its cover, but that was this critic’s unfortunate instinct regarding Ben Stiller’s documentary (now streaming on Apple TV+ in the aftermath of its world premiere at the New York Film Festival) about his parents, the comics Jerry Stiller and Anne Meara. Its logline is a fine one: As described by its festival page, which are understandably and often glowing representations of its programmed films, “the most personal film of [Ben Stiller’s] career” is a “funny, moving documentary” in which “he tells the story of his parents… who were a beloved mainstay of 1960s and ’70s American culture.” All true enough, and perhaps a 27-year-old writer whose familiarity with Anne lacked entirely and knowledge of Jerry was limited to his work on sitcoms like Seinfeld and The King of Queens was never the “target” audience for a work like this one. Yet it quickly proves that loglines are frequently as useless and inconsistently revealing as trailers, for Stiller & Meara is not merely the depiction of parents by a son donning rose-colored glasses nor is it merely “funny” and moving” enough to get by on charm. It gets by on those qualities, to be sure, but Stiller’s direction and intimate involvement in the documentary’s schema itself provides significant depth, yes, to the relationship he had with both of his parents, but more importantly the partnership they shared for six decades and change.

And why shouldn’t it be both? It’s a film about family, and a film about a professional partnership between funny people that was regularly elevated by the romance between the duo and sometimes hindered because of the differing individual philosophies Anne and Jerry clashed on, and not always in private (or not always successfully behind closed doors). The film lays out the pair’s field-specific qualifications, achievements, and general history as it is supposed to, of course: Both had high aspirations as public figures, and though most of their success came from their years as the titular twosome, Jerry wanted that work to be his hallmark, while Anne had hopes of being a dramatic actress revered across multiple forms. Jerry wanted his work to be synonymous with Anne; she lobbied for independence that allowed her to be “Anne Meara,” not the name next to “Stiller.” This was the 1960s, mind you, so her calling to a different part of the cultural world was given less respect than the work she did alongside her husband. 

Stiller details this conflict with generosity for both of his parents, acknowledging how their respective complexities as human beings – not just as celebrities – influenced their handlings of separate and shared anxieties about their future as a brace and as a couple. Jerry needed the public to love him; Anne drank. Both are reasonable, familiar responses to depressive states, and neither are particularly productive. Given the intimacy between filmmaker and subjects, it’s no surprise that Stiller paints both with a delicate brush, but what’s most refreshing is how he is sure to place an emphasis on his mother’s troubles, not deeming her a societal boil for her “behavior,” but as a woman who needed more than what was being offered to her. A lesser documentary – or this one, if directed by a director with some distance – might have used interviews with their son and daughter (Amy Stiller, a key presence throughout the film) to humanize the subjects. That Stiller never veers off his humanization-directed course as the core principle of this project is perhaps a given, but it’s how he does it that stands out beyond the junky portraits that are far more common in film today. 

Not only does he give himself and his sister an opportunity to reminisce about their parents and consider their lives through the lenses of their careers both mutual and respective, but it includes testimony and discussion from/between the likes of Christine Taylor, Stiller’s partner since 2000, with whom he offers a sort of parallel example to the relationship between Jerry and Anne. Stiller and Taylor separated in 2017, but reunited in 2022 and talk openly about the difficulties of marriage and of parenting with prolific careers such as theirs. Their children, son Quinn and daughter Ella, are included here, too, and it’s fascinating to watch kids speak so transparently about how difficult it intermittently was to have Ben Stiller as their father. He was often away, acting or doing press or directing or writing or all of the above; the same goes for Taylor, which she and Stiller acknowledge, but there’s an understanding that it’s different when Dad is Zoolander and the Night at the Museum guy and Mom simply works less. Rarely before has a documentary managed to work in so many familial layers to the point where the whole experience feels more like peering in on family therapy than a documentary on streaming, but it works emotional wonders, all while staying rooted to the Jerry and Anne of it all.

Anne died in 2015 and Jerry in 2020, leading Ben and Amy to the Upper West Side apartment in which they grew up to uncover the trove of memories and narrative substance that became Stiller & Meara’s driving force; Jerry insisted on recording everything they did as a family, leading to a vast array of home videos that dance across the screen like mementos playing out in real time. He and Anne also regularly wrote each other letters, and the siblings read a few. (Bring your tissues, if only from one room to the living room couch.) The non-name portion of the title is a perfect encapsulation of not only these elements, but of the relationship that the names enjoyed from 1954 until their respective deaths, just five years apart. Nothing is Lost ensures that everything was at one point in time or another gathered and meticulously stored in order for the proper person to find it when the time came. There’s something almost too perfect about that, the sort of parental presence that feels ripped out of something closer to This Is Us than real life, but that’s only because it might not reflect our experience, and Stiller & Meara is specifically about one man’s experience, and that of his loved ones by relationships of their own, with Mom and Dad. It shouldn’t have ever been anyone else’s; it couldn’t have been.

Stiller & Meara celebrated its world premiere at the 63rd New York Film Festival. The film is now streaming on Apple TV+.

Grade: B+

Director: Sepideh Farsi
Stars: Fatima Hassona, Sepideh Farsi

Synopsis: Director Sepideh Farsi chronicles Israel’s ongoing military campaign in Gaza through a series of FaceTime calls with Palestinian photojournalist Fatima Hassona, as she and her family continue to search for hope in an increasingly hopeless environment.

Some films are difficult to discuss without revealing the ending, specifically those detailing real-life events. Danny Boyle’s 127 Hours is a tour-de-force of filmmaking, acting as a one-man show for James Franco’s portrayal of avid mountaineer Aron Ralston, whose hike into Utah’s Canyonlands National Park turns dire after an 800-pound boulder crushes his arm, trapping him in an isolated canyon for five days. Those unfamiliar with Ralston’s brush with death going into the film as a true story will be moved by his journey, but the film itself was sold on how Ralston got himself out of the canyon, thus “spoiling” the reveal and reason the film was made. However, like any film based on true events, the purpose of their existence is less the destination and more about the journey surrounding its characters overcoming insurmountable odds.

However, some true stories force us to come to grips with devastating reality, none more relevant than Sepideh Farsi’s astonishing documentary Put Your Soul on Your Hand and Walk, chronicling Israel’s ongoing genocide in Gaza over the course of a year, following the events of October 7. In the wake of No Other Land, the brilliant Oscar-winning documentary cataloging four years of the Israel army’s aggressive demolition of Palestinian homes ultimately ending with the events of October 7, Farsi has crafted a disheartening, but necessary companion piece. As a real-time exposé of Israel’s destruction of Gaza, Farsi succeeds in cataloging both the continuous suffering of Palestinians as well as the disillusionment of those helpless to end it. However, the film is even better as a testament to the power of the human spirit in terrifying times, as seen through the eyes of photojournalist Fatima Hassona’s testimonial.

Farsi’s approach to crafting Put Your Soul on Your Hand and Walk, while simple and often experimental, is gripping to behold. Most of the film is constructed through a first-person perspective as Farsi films her FaceTime conversations with Hassona, checking in for regular updates on how she and her family are navigating Israel’s increased military presence. However, Houssana’s demeanor on the calls, in the midst of increasingly bleak circumstances, is nothing short of joyous. She often laments the hardships her family and the rest of Gaza’s residents are experiencing, being cut off from essential food staples with bombs being dropped on buildings from all angles, yet she persists. She describes her position and insistence on staying in Gaza amidst Israel’s occupation as a point of pride, her infectious optimism shining through with an ear-to-ear smile. As unceremonious as times are, all that she can do is continue to survive, describing the film’s title as an act that the people of Gaza are forced to live through every day.

Farsi stitches her discussions with Houssana using cornerstone events after October 7th, 2023, providing context for each of their conversations. The perspectives of both facets of Put Your Soul on Your Hand and Walk helps cut through the red tape of much of western media’s centrist coverage of Israel’s treatment of Palestine. Admittedly, there are sequences when the experimental style that Farsi employs doesn’t fully support the film. While some details embedded into the conversations between Farsi and Houssouna help to amplify the latter’s circumstances such as frequent dropped calls caused by shoddy reception, some details were better left on the cutting room floor, such as Farsi taking breaks to let her cats inside her home. However, it’s not that these details don’t add character, because Put Your Soul on Your Hand and Walk exudes character from every frame, just from its frank depiction of what it’s like to live through an atrocity. Through communication and empathy, Farsi has opened the world of documentary filmmaking with an execution all her own, showing how a series of conversations can enlighten new audiences. While the ending of Put Your Soul on Your Hand and Walk may be permanent, her conversations and spirit are etched into eternity as a defining moment in Palestinian cinema.

Grade: B+