Director: Steve McQueen
Writer: Steve McQueen
Stars: Saoirse Ronan, Harris Dickinson, Benjamin Clémentine

Synopsis: Follow the stories of a group of Londoners during the events of the British capital bombing in World War II.

Steve McQueen’s Blitz may only take place over two or three days, but it feels like a lifetime. That’s not meant as a dig towards the pacing of the film. Rather, it’s an observation about how the London Blitz is captured during McQueen’s latest feature. He opens the film full of panic and terror. There’s not a single moment for the audience to get settled in their seats. McQueen instead straps us into sheer horror after on-screen text delivers the context during which this film takes place: London in September of 1940. It’s a cinematic assault on the senses. McQueen and composer Hans Zimmer overwhelm our eyes and ears with a cacophony of screeching music, piercing sound, and thrashing visuals. The blazing building fire that’s roaring like a monster is only drowned out by the occasional dings of a metal-capped fire hose manically swinging all over the street from the sheer pressure of water being pushed out of it. All this time, bombs continue dropping from the heavens. It’s a hellscape that sees citizens desperately trying to seek shelter wherever is closest. When the shelters fill up, they turn to the underground tube stations. In this stunner of an introduction, McQueen’s film proclaims itself as a film that is unafraid to discomfort audiences immensely, while also providing the groundwork for a war film that’s far more complex and interesting than most of its contemporary counterparts. Yet even so, McQueen is a filmmaker that always finds a way to extract some purity out of the most heinous and upsetting of situations. That’s no different in Blitz, the Closing Night film of the 62nd New York Film Festival.

This may be a story set over 80 years ago, but McQueen’s script imbues both a timeless and timely nature to the film. One of the first things we hear Rita (an excellent Saoirse Ronan) say to her son is to just “wait until this is over… then life will get back to normal.” It’s practically a direct address to audiences. There is something that has gone horribly wrong if people feel compelled enough to send their children aboard trains out of the city, never knowing if they’ll see one another again. And that’s the exact drama that grounds Blitz on a personal level. George (Elliott Heffernan, in one of the immediately all-time great debut child performances) is being evacuated from London by his mother, Rita. It’s an unimaginable situation for both of them, or one of the countless other families who made the same devastating choice. And this scene is one of many in which McQueen makes the chilling choice of pitting humanity versus technology. As the train pulls away and Rita desperately tries to get in a few more words with George, the screeching of the steam engine drowns out practically all audio completely. The bombs being dropped nightly achieve the same effect with equally frightening volume. This is a film that feels destined to take home a major award for sound design. Its brilliance extends beyond merely being loud and fear-inducing. It conveys the sense that what’s occurring in these circumstances is cosmically wrong. The scales of life itself are being tipped in such a way that it may be impossible to ever recover from. For all the ways in which Blitz could be seen as predictable, McQueen never takes the standard approach to how he goes about telling this story.

In fact, the structure of this film, and the way it depicts the people living in London at the time, is a choice that feels like only McQueen would think to make. There are many jaw-dropping moments littered throughout Blitz. One, in particular, may have caused more shock amongst the audience than any other film I’ve seen this year. And instead of holding on it, McQueen barely provides an opportunity to register it. It’s a stark depiction of the ways in which war desensitizes us to tragedy. There’s just so much noise in the air that stopping to reflect on any single tragedy would cause our entire world to collapse in on itself. McQueen frequently employs cutaways in this manner, and he also heavily utilizes flashbacks alongside this style to fascinating effect. After a particularly shocking scene, we’ll often witness a memory or dream George or Rita is having. These flashbacks are the warmest parts of Blitz. They look gorgeous, and more often than not, McQueen saves his flashiest filmmaking techniques for these sequences. But once again, this isn’t merely an instance of a filmmaker taking the simple approach of showing life before the Blitz. It’s McQueen showing us all that was lost, both the beautiful and the ugly, and questioning the stakes of humanity itself.

Blitz is a film full of, and about, juxtapositions. War obviously reveals the heinous nature of humanity. But in many of the flashbacks McQueen crafts, he also pairs the stolen joy and stolen life with acts of true ugliness. There are systemic prejudices aplenty and racist remarks tossed around often. During times of immense tragedy, we look to the past in the hopes of remembering what we’re moving forward for. But what happens when the past provides a different evil? One that’s as blatant as any, yet casually accepted throughout much of society? It’s a fascinating approach to grappling with the unwritten histories of London, which is something that Blitz does very often. Take the joy that emanates off the screen when Rita dances with George’s father. It’s a necessary break from the constant tragedy of the rest of the film, but only until McQueen highlights the racism present in the hearts of some individuals outside the walls of a nameless club. Or how, as hellfire is being rained down from the sky, those hiding in shelters will still reveal their xenophobia and racist ideologies. What should provide some comfort in moments of fear instead reveal harsh truths not just about the world we inhabit, but those who inhabit the world alongside us. It would almost serve as an indictment on humanity were it not for the flip side of the coin McQueen makes sure to include. While these portions of the film are, at times, rather blunt or cliché, they’re essential. And it’s something that can be easily forgiven when learning how McQueen pulled all these scenes directly from the research he conducted to ensure the historical accuracy of Blitz.

At its very core, Blitz is a film that demands better from the people around us and the world itself. McQueen’s direction is potent, featuring bone-chilling imagery or moments that will cause your heart to swell. He’s one of our very best filmmakers, and his latest is no different in showcasing his mastery at capturing a devastating tone. One only needs to look at the extended club sequence which occurs in the final act of the film. McQueen takes us from the horror of a bomb falling in mid-air directly to the extravagance of a club. With a single cut, McQueen forces our minds to race at the implications of what’s occurring. Through a brilliant one-take, McQueen extends this sequence as long as he can. The editor tries desperately to keep up with the exciting choreography happening both onstage and in the crowd. The diegetic music from the horn section of the band is getting louder and louder. The lead singer is bringing the crowd to their feet, and all feels right in the world after nearly 90 minutes of tragedy. Through this entire sequence, McQueen is trying to ease our worries and knowledge of what’s to come. Yet that is only possible for so long. Because the real truth of the matter is simple: reality cannot be ignored. In a chilling turn, McQueen rips us away from this sequence, revealing it as another quasi-flashback of sorts. We push forward in the face of such horror to get back to moments of joy such as this sequence. But we cannot simply go on with the normalcy of everyday life while such pain is still being spread. There is a necessity in seeking comfort in times of distress, but it cannot blind us to the truth that horrors are occurring throughout the world.

We all hope to have a source of comfort in our lives. For Rita, it’s George. And it’s never more apparent than in the beautiful ballad sequence McQueen crafted for Ronan. Delivering an original song co-written by McQueen, master composer Nicholas Brittell and songwriter Taura Stinson, Rita sings into the BBC microphone for all of London to hear. She’s also surrounded by a sea of women, all fellow co-workers in the factory making munitions for soldiers on the front-line. The song feels as if it could have been pulled directly from the time period, and projects a real sense of solace. This is immediately followed up by one of Rita’s colleagues rushing the microphone to demand the government open more shelters in the underground stations. Again, McQueen is providing juxtapositions at every turn. People want to be comforted in such distress, but they also want their worries to be heard. They want their fears and their frustration to be met with a genuine sense of care from the powers that be. They want to believe that the welfare of their individual lives matters above all else. There may be moments of peace throughout Blitz, but on the whole, it’s a film whose imagery often frightens with staggering impact. McQueen is crafting images in a war film that are rarely, if ever, seen on the big screen.

Blitz is the Opening Night film of the 62nd edition of New York Film Festival.

Grade: B

Director: Rungano Nyoni
Writer: Rungano Nyoni
Stars: Susan Chardy, Elizabeth Chisela, Esther Singini

Synopsis: On an empty road in the middle of the night, Shula stumbles across the body of her uncle. As funeral proceedings begin around them, she and her cousins bring to light the buried secrets of their middle-class Zambian family.

The road is long, lonely, and dimly-lit; all the more reason for Shula (Susan Chardy) to jam out during her late-night drive home from a friend’s dress-up party. The theme is unclear; Shula’s outfit appears to be part Eyes Wide Shut, part blow-up sumo wrestler costume from Spirit Halloween. We only see the lower half of her garb once she’s gotten out of the car, having come to a slow stop in the middle of nowhere in order to confirm what she believes she’s seen on the side of the road: A familiar-looking dead body on the side of the road. Once she’s sure it is who she initially thought it was, she makes a call, not to the police, but to her father (Henry B.J. Phiri). ““Dad, it’s Shula,” she says in Bemba. “I’ve found Uncle Fred’s body on Kulu Road.” 

Her lack of emotion – of any inflection, for that matter – is disarming and humorous in equal measure. How can Shula be so stoic given what she has just seen? There must be something we don’t know about Uncle Fred that is causing her to react this way, no? These questions, among many others of similarly ambiguous nature, may not be answered explicitly over the course of Rungano Nyoni’s On Becoming a Guinea Fowl, but it would be far from fair to say that any of them are left in the dust alongside Fred. Things in this dark, tragicomic familial drama are more complicated than the questions and answers one might find on an Ancestry.com quiz, as they stretch back generations, not merely to the moment Shula made what should have been a horrifying discovery.

Further proof that Shula’s response to Uncle Fred’s death is shared by others in her family comes in the form of her cousin Nsansa (Elizabeth Chisela), who drunkenly arrives to the scene by happenstance and can only laugh at the fact that her uncle’s body is lying just feet away from a brothel. Their states at the start of the film – Shula’s muted response, Nsansa’s cackling fit – immediately paint a not-so-vague picture that tells us something about their past with Uncle Fred. Did he hurt them in some way? Abuse, perhaps? The implications are evident yet not immediately spelled out, paving the way for what might culminate in an obvious reveal for some viewers, but a heartbreaking one nonetheless. 

Said revelations come later, long after Shula and Nsansa end up at Shula’s mother’s home for the funeral proceedings, a long process that sees the entire extended family gathering in one home to grieve together over a number of days. But the tone quickly turns from solemnity to haste once Fred’s 20-something widow joins the group, as not only has the family descended upon one setting to mourn, but to stake their claim to Uncle Fred’s estate. He’d done well for himself, and despite the typical way these things would go – the widow normally receives her husband’s assets and holdings – Fred’s siblings and cousins argue that she never cooked, cleaned, or cared for him properly; a series of maltreatments that led to his sudden passing. When Shula first encounters the young woman, she’s searching for a place to urinate outside; Shula’s mother refused to let her use the bathroom indoors due to how she “caused” Fred’s death. 

The anger for the loss of a beloved (and powerful) male figure in this family is primarily what propels On Becoming a Guinea Fowl forward, especially when juxtaposed with how Shula, Nsansa, and their younger cousin Bupe (Esther Singini) grapple with the traumatic impact their uncle had on their lives, even if they believed it to have been left in the past. By burying their uncle, they inadvertently dug up old wounds, and the way Nyoni renders the gutting moments when these three young women attempt to express their previously-concealed agonies to their mothers and aunts makes for some of the more haunting non-horror sequences captured on film this year. Just two features into a promising career, Nyoni has already leveled up as an architect of narrative tension from her previous picture, 2017’s I Am Not a Witch, a film that similarly examined the preservation of family and cultural ideals despite the truth, especially as revealed by the young members of the story’s principal unit. Much of that is a credit to Chardy’s startling lead performance, a debut for the Zambian-English actor that fuels Nyoni’s pressure-cooker with its reserved nature. 

That the director never gives in to the conventions of lesser narratives by having Shula arrive at a point where she unravels – or worse, returns to a Western home where she can pretend that the events of the previous days never unfolded as she returns to her apartment and/or cubicle – shows the confidence Nyoni has in the viewer’s investment. Admittedly, it’s not too difficult to latch onto the beats of a story like this, where the heroes and villains (for lack of more appropriate distinctions) are clearly identified. But it’s in her character’s complexities, expertly rendered and brought to pass during the family gathering, where Nyoni asserts the film’s intellect and understanding of what makes for a stirring, turbulent drama, especially one as culturally-specific as this.

Which brings us to the film’s title: Throughout the picture, Nyoni cuts from Shula and her family to clips from a television program called “Farm Club,” specifically an episode that looks at the guinea fowl, a “special and unusual” bird found in Africa. Like much of On Becoming a Guinea Fowl’s subtext, the animal’s role in its own environment, let alone its relationship to this particular story, is unspecified, but as more about Uncle Fred and the young women who survived his abuse becomes clear, we come to learn that the guinea fowl has a distinct way of ensuring that other animals in its surroundings are kept safe from predators. Is the metaphor rather on the nose? Perhaps, but only when verbalized as plainly as this. Nyoni, meanwhile, lets the idea of the guinea fowl simmer, the same approach she takes to Shula’s realization that breaking free from her culture’s traditions may be the only way to survive the chokehold they have on her family, until the two collide in an unforgettable finale that is as empowering as it is unsettling. Sometimes, self-preservation is the only proper method of survival. Otherwise, you don’t become a guinea fowl: You become one of the prevalent predators the bird was warning you about in the first place.

Grade: B+

Director: Luca Guadagnino
Writers William S. Burroughs, Justin Kuritzkes
Stars: Daniel Craig, Lesley Manville, Drew Starkey

Synopsis: Lee, who recounts his life in Mexico City among American expatriate college students and bar owners surviving on part-time jobs and GI Bill benefits. He is driven to pursue a young man named Allerton, who is based on Adelbert Lewis Marker.

Earlier this year, Luca Guadagnino gave audiences what will likely be the most popular film of 2024, Challengers. Since then, he’s had many eyes on his next move. So it was quite exciting to hear that he was striking while the iron was still glowing hot. But Guadagnino is not a filmmaker to simply retread familiar ground. There are, of course, thematic links between many of his films. His latest, Queer, which is celebrating its U.S Premiere as the Spotlight Gala film of the 62nd New York Film Festival, is no exception. But Guadagnino is a filmmaker who has been known to take bold departures in style for the sake of keeping audiences on their toes. After all, this is the man who followed up the gorgeous Call Me By Your Name with Suspiria, one of the most disturbing films of the decade. It also happens to be one of the best of that decade; certainly one of the best films of 2018. The point is, Guadagnino is a filmmaker who doesn’t seem to enjoy taking the easy road. And it often pays off. So it’s with great pleasure that I tell you Queer, based on William S. Burroughs’ novel of the same name, is wildly inaccessible when compared to Challengers. This is meant as wholly complimentary. For as it currently stands, Queer is one of the best films of 2024.

Reuniting with Challengers writer Justin Kuritzkes, the glamor of a tennis-obsessed love triangle may be gone, but the inherent messiness of desire and obsession is still very much present in Queer. It can all be seen in the introduction of William Lee (Daniel Craig, who turns in an astounding, all-in performance). Lee roams the streets of Mexico City in the 1950s. In many ways, Guadagnino practically frames the opening of this introductory chapter as a ghost story. It’s something that the film will repeatedly return to through its striking, surreal visuals; but more on that to come. For now, all the audience can gather is Lee’s fundamental loneliness. He‘s searching for something. Companionship feels the most likely. But if he cannot establish a legitimate connection with one of the many individuals he thrusts himself upon, then a nighttime embrace will have to do. Craig’s eyes reveal the emptiness within him these actions bring forth, but it appears giving into the vice of his heart and carnal pleasures is better than the heroin he’s addicted to. Leave it to Guadagnino to take the deep romance he excels at capturing, and warping it into a painfully raw experience. But he also doesn’t make his lead character as cut-and-dry as it would appear.

Yes, Lee resembles something of a drifter stuck in place. He’s an expatriate, having not been on his home soil for quite some time. But the way he confidently struts around via expertly soundtracked montages, you couldn’t tell that he might be homesick, lovesick, or more likely, a devastating combination of both. As Guadagnino reveals more about Lee, we begin to see that it’s all somewhat for show. It’s upon meeting Eugene Allerton (Drew Starkey) that Guadagnino goes about addressing the facade Lee puts on with striking fashion. It could be argued that much of Guadagnino’s filmmaking never calls attention to itself. In many of his films, he lets the image or the performances speak for themselves. But in Queer, which I’d argue is his most densely layered film, he piles on metaphors and cinematic trickery to leave his audience scrambling for meaning. But these sequences are deeply exciting, perhaps none more so than Guadagnino’s initial usage of scrambled A/V imagery to elicit a sense of feeling disconnected. These surreal images that manifest ideas of an apparition are also incredibly tactile to convey meaning to the audience. It’s worthy of gasps, not just because of the emotions at play. It remains a testament to Guadagnino constantly upending audience expectations at every possible turn.

All we’ve seen of Lee begins to strip away as he and Eugene spend more time with one another. But this isn’t strictly a romance captured by Guadagnino. It’s far more compelling. Starkey turns in such an internalized performance. He can switch from hot to cold on Lee at a moments notice. Much of Queer grapples with self-identity, and how we’re perceived by the people around us. It’s clear that this is a defining factor in the decisions Lee makes. When Lee isn’t being tormented by his obsession with Eugene’s approval and affection, the two radiate genuine attraction and chemistry. And of course, it looks gorgeous. Queer captures the beauty of basking in golden rays of sunshine while sitting undisturbed, reading side-by-side. Yet there’s a palpable distraction emanating from the body of the person beside you. It’s so romantic, and yet, Guadagnino occasionally steps in to remind us of the darker side of feeling like we must put all of ourselves into the body of another.

The second half of this film descends into territory that’s completely surreal at times. But Guadagnino begins planting the seeds very early on. There’s one sequence in particular; a nightmare Lee is having, which cracks open the infatuation we’ve seen into something far more depressing and upsetting. As written earlier, Lee is a haunted man. He’s been hurt, and while he may not be entirely innocent, he carries his pain with him in the form of frightening, visceral visions of past experiences blending together in a cramped, dark alleyway. It’s clear that, despite abandoning his home country, he has been unable to run away from what drove him out in the first place. As such, Lee is a man lost not only in place, but within himself. During an extended sequence (beautifully soundtracked to Prince) which draws out the arduous process of his shooting up heroin, Lee appears with head just out of frame. It’s only when the drugs have entered his blood that the camera pans up, revealing not a man on a mission, but a sad, lonely, contemplative individual whose only true company has been cigarette smoke, alcohol, and the drugs laid out on a table in front of him. It’s rather devastating, and Craig’s face is one any viewer could find themselves lost in. It’s over the next two chapters and a stunning epilogue that Lee and Guadagnino’s statement on obsession and yearning begins to form a complete and tragic picture, but it all begins to culminate in this moment.

In a sequence fueled by ayahuasca that inextricably links this film to Suspiria more than anything else in his filmography, Guadagnino seems to posit the idea that no matter how much we want to give our all to another individual, it’s impossible. We can feel an unquantifiably powerful connection, but that may be as far as something can go. And much like the arc of the second chapter of this film, we need to recognize such a fact before it’s too late. We can miss what we’ve been searching for all along if we’re too obsessed with something unattainable. And again, Lee is left with a clear sense of longing as the soul-crushing theme from composers Trent Reznor and Atticus Ross rings out. Guadagnino obviously knows how to make a film as romantic as can be. But at its most brilliant, Queer posits the notion that that can sometimes inevitably lead to a life of devastating loneliness. A life of being lost among familiarity, never feeling completely comfortable. Is this familiarity enough to bring solace? Or does it merely exist to remind us of the deeper pains we once felt? We may try to force the obsession out of our minds, but doing so could also tragically cast us away to a life of feeling hollow. If all we seek is comfort amidst the chaos, perhaps being trapped in a prison of our own emotional making is better than living a life of meaningless relations and heavy drug usage? Queer doesn’t go so far as providing those answers, but rather, leaves us with an appropriate sense of devastation. Guadagnino never takes the easy route when making his films, and the characters he becomes attached to rarely have simple decisions to make either. But that’s what makes this film, and all his other films, some of the most compelling of their time. May he continue to never provide the answers to life we seek, and may he always find new ways to ravage our emotional states with each new release.

Queer celebrated its U.S Premiere as the Spotlight Gala film of the 62nd New York Film Festival.

Grade: A-

While the most-discussed title of significant length at this year’s 62nd edition of the New York Film Festival is almost certainly Brady Corbet’s three-and-a-half-hour historical epic, The Brutalist, the longest films in the program remain documentaries. That is, it’s hardly the first time that the programming team behind every New Yorker’s favorite annual period of cinematic discovery has populated its three new-release sections – Main Slate, Spotlight, and Currents; Revivals, obviously, is made up of remastered and/or restored works from the past – with documentaries running multiple hours. At last year’s fest, the first installment in Wang Bing’s Youth trilogy, subtitled Spring, was a Main Slate selection that ran 215 minutes. In that edition’s Spotlight section were Frederick Wiseman’s Menus-Plaisirs Les Troisgros, a four-hour vérité tour of a three-star Michelin restaurant in central France, and Steve McQueen’s Occupied City, a magnificent four-and-a-half-hour film that examined the horrifying realities Nazi-occupied Amsterdam during World War II. Other recent selections include Wiseman’s City Hall (NYFF58, 272 minutes), Lynn Novack’s College Behind Bars (NYFF57, 222 minutes), Charles Ferguson’s Watergate (NYFF56, 260 minutes), and Wiseman’s At Berkeley (NYFF51, 244 minutes). Okay, so not only do they like expansive non-fiction, but they have a soft spot for the genre’s foremost nonagenarian; then again, who doesn’t? 

This lineup, though, is different. I’ve been attending the festival since its 55th edition in 2017, and I’ve never seen a crop of docs like the one attendees have had at their disposal this year. In terms of length, NYFF62’s documentaries are close to unparalleled; in terms of the number of length projects, there’s almost certainly no past competition to look to as references for what this grouping has to offer. From filmmakers who have frequented the festival before to two first-time selectees, the following five documentaries surely aren’t for the unambitious viewer. But should you have the time (and patience) for each work of varying mammoth proportions, the dividends will pay handsomely.

DIRECT ACTION | Ben Russell & Guillaume Cailleau 

Shot entirely on Super 16mm and made up of five-minute long shots, stacked one after the other, DIRECT ACTION may sound more like a meditative exercise than a documentary. In a way, that’s not untrue, as the three-and-a-half-hour experience certainly has a calming quality to its events, even as they unfold with intensity thanks to the impassioned subjects at the film’s center. Ben Russell and Guillaume Cailleau’s daring documentary is in direct conversation with the people and community it paints a portrait of, a refreshing approach that most filmmakers would eschew in hopes of quickly hypnotizing their viewers, forcing investment in the story upon them without doing the leg-work that is required to achieve such an accomplishment naturally. Set in the Notre-Dame-des-Landes commune in western France, DIRECT ACTION chronicles the efforts of a group of people upholding a ZAD (Zone to Defend); they work to dissuade state officials and large corporations from destroying invaluable land for the sake of new revenue streams for the government, in simple terms. Over the course of the film, we see them play chess, feed animals, plan protests, and more. It could be boiled down to a “slice of life” film if not for its urgency and authenticity, as Russell and Cailleau refuse to mine action nor mayhem from their characters in order to make something “more interesting.” DIRECT ACTION need not be any more enthralling than it already is; any other approach, frankly, would likely lessen its impact. | B+

exergue – on documenta 14 | Dimitris Athiridis

At a whopping 14 hours, Dimitris Athiridis’ comprehensive look at what made the controversial 2017 edition of documenta – a quinquennial art exhibition held in the German city of Kassel, a possibility, let alone a reality – is easily the longest film on NYFF’s 62nd program, yet consuming it is hardly as much of a trial in patience as it seems on paper. Focusing primarily on the exhibition’s artistic director, Adam Szymczyk, and his team of curators, Athiridis’ film feels rather Wisemanian in nature, as not only is as vérité as any film at the festival this year, but is also hardly a one-subject study. The 2017 edition divided equally between Kassel and Athens, an ambitious swing for the project, and its contents examined colonialism and neoliberalism in equal measure. That’s just one piece of the documentary. It also dives into the rampant presence of racism and imbalances of power in the contemporary art world, how this exhibition somehow went over budget by 6 million euros, and how all of these complicated obstacles collide in the making of a revelatory work of art. Fitting, then, that exergue deserves a similar distinction, as it maintains its comprehension and care for its subjects – people and artwork – while also managing to be a genuinely thrilling piece of cinema. When previewing NYFF62 on the Film at Lincoln Center Podcast back in September, the festival’s long-time artistic director, Dennis Lim, acknowledged exergue’s length, encouraging audiences to give it a try even if they have to dip in and out over the course of 14 hours. He caveated the thought, however, by noting that he wouldn’t recommend that strategy; neither would I. In totality, the exergue experience is certainly overwhelming, but exhilaratingly so. It warrants your consideration. | A-

My Undesirable Friends: Part I — Last Air in Moscow | Julia Loktev

“When you’re fighting one head of a dragon, he grows another head,” says one of the many characters who appear throughout Julia Loktev’s masterful five-and-a-half-hour documentary, My Undesirable Friends: Part I — Last Air in Moscow. “But your time isn’t wasted. You’ve gained experience [and] visibility.” While that sentiment comes in the film’s first chapter, it surges throughout Loktev’s expansive, urgent film, a vérité look at the lives of young Russian journalists at work in a nation that silences its only truth-tellers. For despite their best efforts at (metaphorically) decapitating the snake that has led their oppressive state for the last decade and change, Russia’s top officials need not acknowledge nor practice the art of honesty. Whatever sets their agenda in motion the easiest and fastest, the better.

But Loktev’s film is hardly the sort to spend the majority of its time on recounting all of the reasons Vladimir Putin is a malicious totalitarian dictator. For that, she’d need a longer runtime, and it would be nowhere near as interesting as this follow-along doc, one that passes through the lives of foreign agents working for news networks and websites that attempt to strike the difficult balance between delivering the truth and risking the invasion of Russian militants in their offices due to press that speaks “negatively” of the state’s leaders. When the film begins in October of 2021, there is some leniency in regards to that practice; when Russia invades Ukraine four months later, any false move is met with detainment.

Largely filmed by Loktev on an iPhone, My Undesirable Friends has an evident lived-in quality to it, and not solely because the director and her characters – that’s what she calls them, as opposed to “subjects,” because they are the heart of the story – form a strong, somewhat unspoken bond over the course of many months working in the same orbit. Its primary strength, though there are a great many, is in Loktev’s ability to capture these journalists working tirelessly to fight a system that can’t be beaten. Not unlike another NYFF selection from this year, No Other Land, this first part in what Loktev has described as a multi-part project – the second, “Exile,” is currently in progress – is a vital work of activism that will almost certainly never reach nor mean anything to the audience that most desperately needs to see it. But the fact that it was made at all, and that those involved are not only still working while in exile, but alive, is the sort of miracle that the film’s primary subject, Anna Nemzer, says she will keep hoping for in its fourth chapter. In more ways than one, My Undesirable Friends is a miracle in and of itself. | A-

Youth (Hard Times) and Youth (Homecoming) | Wang Bing

When the festival’s Main Slate was announced in early August, jokes aplenty were made about a few familiar faces making reappearances at NYFF for the umpteenth time. The South Korean stalwart, Hong Sang-soo, returned to Lincoln Center with two new films – A Traveler’s Needs and By the Stream – for the fourth consecutive year, and that’s only because he managed a mere single film in 2020. Otherwise, his streak would be longer. He has yet to take Jean-Luc Godard’s throne as the most-screened director at the festival. The French master had a film play at this year’s edition despite having passed away two years ago; chalk it up to movie magic. 

Yet if Wang Bing keeps apace with his sprawling body of work, they may have some company in the coming years. For just one year after Youth (Spring) held its U.S. Premiere at NYFF, Bing has returned with the final two installments in his Youth trilogy, respectively subtitled Hard Times and Homecoming. Where Spring introduced a community of rural migrant workers at textile factories in a town outside Shanghai and the growing pains they may be facing in the near future, Hard Times aptly examines the combative conditions that come with working long hours for low wages, and Homecoming portrays moments of respite for the laborers as they celebrate cultural festivities with their families. A few of them even get married. Screening the final two parts back-to-back would cost you seven hours of daylight; in many ways, it would be worth it.

The experience, while epic, is exacting, to put it bluntly. Bing’s filmmaking is observational and comprehensive in nature, so don’t expect to be lulled into the proceedings with emotional music swells and walk-and-talks focusing on difficult upbringings. Instead, we’re dropped back into the lives of Bing’s subjects with no warm-up – if you can manage it, revisiting Spring is worthwhile prior to the final two installments – and the films are better for it. The tension Bing mines out of menial grievances in Hard Times spills over into thematic examinations of police brutality, among other powerful and resonant topics for audiences from all walks of life. Homecoming, in short, is like a reward for your continued investment in the previous portions, as it’s both slighter and softer than its preceding entries. It still maintains the trilogy’s overarching style – a work of inspection, not introspection – yet as a coda, it places a perfect cap on Youth: The lives of the subjects we met 10 hours ago will continue, but leaving them at Homecoming’s conclusion leaves us feeling like we’ve watched them grow and move forward, one small step at a time. |B-

Director: Daisuke Miyazaki
Writer: Daisuke Miyazaki
Stars: Sumire Ashina, Takuma Fujie, Kyôko Koizumi

Synopsis: Teenagers Jun and Ibuki set out to find the psychedelic rock band Exne Kedy.

Daisuke Miyazaki’s Plastic (2023) is one in a long line of films that have made valiant attempts to capture the transient existences led by audiophiles; passionate music enthusiasts who are happy to spend their days engaging in debates over all but the most obscure artists. There is, of course, a certain romantic quality that this lifestyle possesses. The idea of critically regarding art, while also affording it tremendous respect, is relatable to any human being who has developed a serious hobby. Music appreciators are somewhat distinct from rugby enthusiasts, however, in that they are able to largely avoid the complications that come with accepting the same degree of financial or professional responsibility that an artist takes on when pursuing their passions. The touch of sentimentality with which the audiophile lifestyle is regarded is inevitably shot through with a hint of bittersweet melancholy, as the audience comes to accept that it’s just not possible to pursue this lifestyle for a lengthy period of time. Life gets in the way and you find yourself drifting away from the interests that captured your attention when you are young and carefree. 

This narrative arc, in which viewers are encouraged to watch on, comes with a touch of fear and anxiety, as someone grows old and loses the carefree spirit that allowed them to accept certain disappointments in life. This micro-genre speaks to the somewhat unique relationship that musicians, specifically, can have with the process of growing older. Plastic places a focus on the rocky relationship between Jun and Ibuki, who fall in love after connecting over their shared fascination with the 1970s glam rock band Exne Kennedy and the Poltergeists. Their passion for music sustains them even while they struggle through young adulthood but they break up after realizing that they have different ambitions in life. It is only the surprise announcement of an unexpected Exne Kennedy and the Poltergeists reunion that brings them back into each other’s orbit. 

It is perhaps significant that the band Exne Kennedy and the Poltergeists does not actually exist. Director Daisuke Miyazaki, himself a fan of Kensuke Ide, drew upon his album Contact From Exne Kennedy and the Poltergeists for inspiration. Ide, a major figure in Japan’s contemporary rock music scene, enjoys playing around with gender boundaries and concepts of Japanese national identity. The freewheeling energy of his music permeates the entire film and Miyazaki creates a blend between 1970s glam rock aesthetics and the youth culture that thrives in Japan today. In discussing his approach to integrating music into the film, Miyazaki notes that music no longer plays a crucial role in shaping Japan’s youth culture. Members of Generation Z have moved on to playing video games and producing avant-garde comedy skits that require their audience to have consumed thousands of hours of internet lore. Music is seen as old hat and representative of a potentially damaging nostalgia for the past, which would prevent new generations from moving forward and developing a culture of their own. 

These developments ensure that Plastic can create a dialogue between the generations and ask questions about whether music is becoming a museum piece of sorts in a world in which audiophiles are becoming more and more scarce. What does it mean to engage with an art-form that is in a constant state of flux? For Jun and Ibuki, the nostalgia is kind of the point. Loving Exne Kennedy and the Poltergeists provides them with a window into a world that no longer exists. There is something romantic about the fact that this cultural milieu can not possibly be resurrected. It is permanently dead and can only be regarded from a comfortable distance. Even the reunion of the band plays as a kind of postmodern pastiche. The members of the band are back together and playing all their old songs but the cultural context around them has changed so much that they can no longer claim to be the same band in any real sense. 

It’s pleasing to discover that there are films out there that are seriously asking these deeply discomfiting questions. In a time when art lovers like myself fear that the things we love are going to be snatched away from us by a society that is changing for the worse every single day, Miyazaki’s film is a breath of fresh air. He acknowledges some of the sadness that we all feel while still avoiding throwing out the cheap platitudes that we often employ when addressing these problems. 

Grade: B+

Directors: R.J. Cutler, David Furnish
Stars: Elton John

Synopsis: It showcases a never-before-seen concert footage of him over the past 50 years, as well as hand-written journals and present-day footage of him and his family..

Elton John is a special artist and performer. He may be one of the best showmen music has ever had. And everything he brought us via his artistry’s presentation will never be replicated. I highly doubt that there will be another like him in the future. His blend of rock, blues, funk, and pop styles charmed the world with his beguiling, dazzling records like ‘Bennie and the Jets,’ ‘I’m Still Standing,’ and (one of my favorites) ‘The Ballad of Danny Bailey.’ Elton John is a chameleon, an artist who is always willing to experiment with his form via his influences–The Beatles, Jerry Lee Lewis, Ray Charles, Fats Domino, etc. A child prodigy on the piano who became one of the most impressive musical acts to cross the earth. 

In my household, a lot of Elton John’s music is heard; the entire family has playlists of his music, and there are even a couple of vinyl records here and there. So, when I heard that a documentary about him was going to be screened at the New York Film Festival (in the Spotlight section), I wanted to take some time off from watching international arthouse films to check out R.J. Cutler and David Furnish’s Elton John: Never Too Late. Unfortunately, the documentary does not add much to the legend’s story or explore the process behind the Rocketman with rose-tinted shades. It leaves the project alongside the many biographical portraits made by big studios. While one might be charmed by it all due to Elton’s persona, the project lacks deeper insight and interest. 

Cutler and Furnish have plenty of material at their disposal from five decades worth of shows, recordings, and behind-the-scenes footage that capture the essence of Elton John. But, without a clear vision for the project based around him, you have a lot for nothing–everything available, yet not knowing what to do with it. Never Too Late is tied together by two performances at Dodger Stadium in different eras: the height of his career in the mid-’70s and the potential end of his live performances in 2022. If you love his music or have seen the film Rocketman, you know about the former. It was a two-night event in 1975 where 110,000 fans got crammed in Dodger Stadium, as Elton wore the baseball team’s uniform with plenty of sparkling lining. The latter was fairly recent, during his Farewell Yellow Brick Road tour–the curtain closer to his legendary career of magnificent showmanship. 

Initially, you have the connective tissue of a man looking back when his career peaked, creatively and commercially, and pondering what comes next when he retires. However, within these two critical moments in his career, the documentary starts developing two new narrative strands that talk about his beginnings as a trained classical music student in England to his grand farewell all over the world–the start and finish of the Rocketman. The start of Elton John has been documented many times. Even Dexter Fletcher planted it in his 2019 biopic starring Taron Edgerton. The aforementioned shows his start through the vivacity of Elton’s records, which contrasts with his repressed childhood, which he had artistically and his time backing bands like The Drifters. 

Meanwhile, in Never Too Late, you never feel vivacity and spirit from the artist’s interviews. His journey is still fascinating; how Elton grows from classical music to a multigenre mash-up composer is very impressive–everyone who aspires to be a musician must read about him to get inspired. Yet, in the vacuous way it is approached here, it does not capture that magnificence. You only sense the grandeur of his musical aura via the performances we see, both old and new. Examples that come to mind are a cover of The Who’s ‘Pinball Wizard ’ and John Lennon’s last performance in America during Elton’s 1974 concert–the ex-Beatle’s ability to move a crowd and Elton passing the spotlight to someone else. As a slight gift and a shift in tone, we see an animated sequence of the two stars partaking in some substances. 

There are some personal scenes in which Elton delves into the abuse, both by drugs and his parents, he faced during his teenage years and the height of his career. People like Winifred Atwell, Bernie Taupin, John Reid, and Roy Williams are mentioned throughout this section of the film–all riddled with painful angst that took their lives into dangerous, isolated territories. These moments in Never Too Late show the true purpose of the documentary and why Cutler and Furnish made it. The title, taken by the track of the live-action Lion King film of the same name, may recall the availability to change, whether it is referring to something you want to fix or make amends to. 

In the documentary, Elton refers to it as a means to reflect on the past and guide his loved ones–his partner and kids–so they can avoid his deeply wounding woes. That’s why he wants to retire. He wants to be in their lives, support their decisions, and care for them, unlike his own parents. Elton glances at the past with new eyes that are clearer about everything that happened. While the majority of the doc does not contain that personal emotional heft, these moments do have Elton showing some vulnerability, just like he does in his best and most memorable records. In the modern era part of the doc, little emotion is felt, and most is hidden. The element of looking back to pave the way for the future is lost amidst very unimportant ramblings. You don’t get anything out of it, even if you are a fan. 

For lack of better words, it feels safe and clean rather than open and sensitive. You would expect more playfulness behind the camera and experimentation with the information provided for a man like him, with a discography filled with glitz and glamor. A film like Moonage Daydream by Brett Morgen comes to mind–a kaleidoscopic roundabout through the different eras of a musical genius. You see what Morgen did with all access to archive footage. And in comparison, Never Too Late reeks of uniformity and flavorlessness. Nothing feels cinematic, and it infuriates me that many documentaries on iconic artists always end up as weak efforts due to the filmmaker’s inability to capture their music’s impact through style and importance rather than a thorough examination. 

When Alex Ross Perry made Pavements (playing at the festival in the same section), he said that he wanted to pave the way for directors to craft more inventive portraits of musical figures with flair and ingenuity–projects rooted in the acclaimed that made the artist(s)’ style and musical posture. And it feels odd that such a film like Never Too Late plays next to Pavements, a project with tons of purpose and dedication that shows the band’s history and acclaim through many cinematic tricks and innovations. They feel like polar opposites of what can be made by visionaries and studio heads. Cutler and Furnish have open doors to access the sparkling world of the Rocketman, yet decide to delve into the old, tired traits of uninspired biographies and portraits made in today’s age

Grade: D

Director: Mati Diop
Writer: Mati Diop

Synopsis: The journey of 26 plundered royal treasures from the Kingdom of Dahomey exhibited in Paris, now being returned to Benin, a French-speaking West African nation.

If a short and imaginative documentary about 26 stolen treasures making their way home after 130 years in captivity isn’t quite what you expected Mati Diop’s next film to be after her 2019 directorial debut, Atlantics, join the club. Yet it should hardly come as a surprise that Dahomey, the name of that very follow-up, is just as transfixing and haunting as her previous film. Both are meditative; both are beautiful, strange, and beautifully-strange; and, in a way, both could be called ghost stories. That distinction certainly applies to Atlantics – its plot hinges on men who were lost at sea coming back to haunt their home island by possessing the bodies of the girlfriends they left behind – but there’s a different sort of spiritual nature to Dahomey. Diop, in just two features, has cemented herself as a remarkably cerebral auteur who sees beyond the outer layers of her subjects; her knack for infusing them with souls, regardless of them being living, breathing objects or not, is wholly singular.

So, too, is the way she goes about doing so: In Dahomey, which gets its name from the kingdom that is now known as Benin, a number of the aforementioned looted artifacts are given voices. The first piece we hear from is known as “26,” the statue of a Dahomey king made up of wood and metal and possessing a deep, distorted, and demonic voice that mimics what I imagine a cave would sound like if it could speak. As “26” and their fellow artifacts share memories of their travels and the tribulations they faced along the way, they describe treatment that can only be described as that of a negative immigrant experience. We hear things like, “Why don’t they call me by my real name? Don’t they know it?” and “Is this the end of the journey? Everything is so strange. Far-removed from the country of my dreams.” The dialogue, co-written by Diop and the Haitian author Makenzy Orcel, and the voices, performed by Lucrece Hougebelo, Parfait Viayinon and Didier Sedoha Nassegande, pair nicely, perfectly embodying the gravely-wisdom that would come with a life that has spanned well over a century.

That’s what makes up the first chunk of the film, the process of retrieving the artifacts, carefully boxing them in wooden crates, and placing them aboard an aircraft carrier that will safely guide them home. At one point, Diop and Dahomey cinematographer Joséphine Drouin-Viallard place a camera inside 26’s container; the screen goes black as the box is nailed shut, and we’re left with the statue’s ruminating thoughts on its past, present, and future. The next thing we see is the unboxing upon arrival in Benin, where Diop and Drouin-Viallard follow archaeologists as they assess each piece’s condition (physical appearance) and description (what it is, and what it means). Many have suffered a fair amount of wear and tear over the course of 100-plus years, especially considering the fact that they were stolen in the first place. The artifacts are then put on display for a group of Beninese dignitaries and their invited guests, and later, for the public to view. Parades break out in the streets. The statues, vases, thrones, and memorials, meanwhile, have traveled from one display case to another; at least in these ones, they are home.

From there, the pace picks up, as the film’s conclusion is almost entirely dedicated to a lively debate between students at the University of Abomey-Calavi, all of whom are remarkably passionate on the subject of the artwork’s return, primarily that only 26 of over 7,000 looted pieces have actually been returned. Issues of colonialism and heritage, among others, are discussed at length. Given how natural this section feels as it unfolds, it was a surprise to learn that Diop engineered the debate herself, casting students at the university like she would a fiction film, and creating their discussion for the purpose of her film. 

After Dahomey’s first screening at the New York Film Festival, Diop noted that she knew she wanted the film to involve both the perspective of the artifacts and students early on in the filmmaking process, and after hearing a radio broadcast from the campus’ own station, orchestrating the event herself seemed to be the best (and most efficient) course of action. That the students’ opinions appear to be entirely their own and not scripted nor influenced by Diop’s direction helps to soften the blow, but that the inception of the debate’s lack of authenticity did set off a few alarm bells for this critic. Diop further mentioned that the debate went on for three hours, and that she even organized a second debate in order to mine more footage, given how profound the first discussion was. With that in mind, it’s hard not to wonder what was left on the cutting room floor. And, is it somewhat ironic that, in a film about a culture being returned what was stolen from it, Diop chose what bites to take from these dialogues depending on what worked best for her project?

Then again, there’s an element of surrealism hanging over the entire picture – what with the talking statues and all – and it doesn’t exist as a dark cloud. It’s much closer to that of a rainbow, with the pot of gold at its end being the objects returning to their rightful birthplace. Indeed, it would be fair to call the journey that these artifacts take back home a “return,” especially considering how Diop views the pieces as cognizant, soul-baring vessels. But there’s something to be said for viewing this voyage as an act of reclamation, that Benin took back what was theirs. Of course, it was President Emmanuel Macron and the French parliament who spearheaded the return of the items to Benin, with Macron noting that “African heritage can’t just be in European private collections and museums” back in 2017, when he told a crowd of students in the African country of Burkina Faso that the return of their nation’s artifacts was a “top priority.” Is it worth noting that he didn’t commit to whether the restitution would be temporary or permanent? Perhaps, but Diop’s film is a resounding enough argument that each piece belongs at home. 26 may not be 7,000, but it’s a step in the right direction. 

Dahomey opens in theaters in New York on October 25th and Los Angeles on November 1, with an expansion to follow.

Grade: B

Director: Miguel Gomes
Writer: Telmo Churro, Maureen Fazendeiro, Miguel Gomes, Mariana Ricardo
Stars: Gonçalo Waddington, Crista Alfaiate, Claudio de la Silva

Synopsis: Edward, civil servant, flees fiancee Molly on their wedding day in Rangoon, 1917. His travels replace panic with melancholy. Molly, set on marriage, amused by his escape, trails him across Asia.

In Chris Marker’s 1983 film, Sans Soleil, an unnamed woman (voiced by French academician and actress Florence Delay) narrates the thoughts, worries, and observations written by a world traveler, his perceptions visualized in words and images from various places like Japan, Iceland, Guinea-Bissou, and San Francisco. It is a travelog with plenty of philosophical reflections from the unknown scriptor of those letters. He speaks about time, memory, life and death, as well as how life on this planet has changed (and vastly increased or decreased in various aspects). Pictures of foreign countries through Marker’s lens turn into depictions of strangers’ daily living. Each frame is played like a memory from not only the photographer but also the one behind the camera–fragmented yet containing a sense of mysticism. 

We travel the world with new eyes as Marker experiments with the form again after his revolutionary La Jetée in 1962. There’s something oddly fascinating about how Marker perceives this world that is entirely alien to him. You are drawn, yet detached; reality and dreams cinematically tether tin between the cultures depicted on-screen by some poignant conceptualizations of the worldwide view of life’s mundanity. Sans Soleil may be a travelog in its first layer. However, as it continues, the experimentalist documentary blossoms into a multilayered piece, with more to find upon each viewing. It seems that Portuguese filmmaker Miguel Gomes has taken inspiration, both directly and indirectly, from Chris Marker’s documentary for his latest work, Grand Tour (playing at the New York Film Festival in the Main Slate), a magical film that sweeps through the many Asian countries where two lovers travel in their cat-and-mouse games towards a reunion of realization.

Both Sans Soleil and Grand Tour are unique forms of travelog, the former relying more on reality and the latter fiction, which breaks the form of the state of filmmaking. While Gomes does not reach Marker’s work’s limitless experimentation, he offers something different to the table, providing a fresh viewing at the festival–whose slate consists of some of the most inventive projects of the year–and in the international cinema circuit. It is kaleidoscopic in its own right, merging the old with the new, monochrome with color, and reality with fiction, employing footage by three different cinematographers (Gui Liang, Sayombhu Mukdeeprom, and Rui Poças) and an overall sense of the esoteric behind the grounded. 

Grand Tour, taking its title from the Asian Grand Tour, where tourists travel to different cities to experience new sights and cultures, is split into two parts, each following one side of the on-the-run lovers. The first half centers on British diplomat Edward Abbot (Gonçalo Waddington), stationed in colonial-era Burma (now Myanmar) in 1918. We meet him as he waits for his fiancée, Molly (Crista Alfaiate). They have been engaged for seven years, and there has not been a glimpse of marriage until now when Molly has decided it is finally time to seal the details–traveling from London to Burma and marrying her one true love. The debonair Edward becomes a coward when he gets cold feet out of the blue. This is why Edward takes the first train to Singapore for an Asian Grand Tour. 

Gomes never states why Edward panics with the first thought of marriage. The Portuguese filmmaker exemplifies his cowardliness in exploring the psyche of a 20th-century romance. Gomes wants to pinpoint early on his uncalled-for action of escaping reality to pave the way for his other themes, like culture, time, and space–all interlaced through the titular roundabout. In a matter of minutes, his world changes and leaves behind reason and indulges in worry. In some aspects, Edward represents the unsettled people who go their separate ways at the moment of significant change because they can’t commit. His journey through Asia takes Edward to Bangkok, Saigon, Japan, and the Philippines. He meets various locals that enrich his cultural and societal scope while concurrently shifting his paradoxical presumptions and contemplations. 

Molly is right on his trail. In the second half of Grand Tour, she follows his steps to marry the love of her life. The tone between the two acts is quite different. Molly’s personality is more vibrant, which adds some comedic elements to the film, while Edward is a brooding character. This combination might seem odd at first, considering Gomes’ experimental approach, yet everything comes together as a fascinating daydream that blends the past with the present and reality with fiction. This tour has the two lovers running away and chasing each other from one country to another–cowardice and stubbornness colliding–with narrations, often heard in different languages, accompanying their travels, asserting the universality of storytelling. 

Perspectives change how stories are told, and Gomes uses this narrative gadget to show how Edward and Molly’s tale is relatable yet isolated depending on the voice speaking on it. You get your first taste of the Marker influences here, as the background of Grand Tour comes within the experimentality of Sans Soleil. Gomes, known for blending narrative and documentary filmmaking in very creative ways, composes some scenes in a manner that Marker’s dreamy vision would. Gomes has said that in his films, “fiction is capable of fictionalizing the images themselves”, and you see how these beautiful monochrome images contain a reverie that puts the viewer in a trance. 

Another element the Portuguese filmmaker uses to match Marker’s work is the addition of present-day footage (mostly shot in color) capturing the people and their respective situations in these countries. The narrations of Edward and Molly’s journeys intersect with fictionalized and documentary footage unrelated to the narrative. It hints at Gomes’s (and his group of screenwriters: Mariana Ricardo, Maureen Fazendeiro, and Telmo Churro) genuine interest and admiration for the film. They all want to meditate on memories and reflect on how our perception of remembrance has changed through the cinema forged by our dreams. It is not just memories about good or bad experiences you had, but history, place, sounds, and everything that traces back to one thing that traces back to another–creating a web of interlaced recollections held sacred by their owners to be shared with the world. 

While Marker immortalized his footage of a moment that once was, preserving it via the power of celluloid and cinema, Gomes looks back at it with a new adventurous lens, crafting places and locations of the past with well-made sets–interspersed with modern-day footage–to reconfigure them into something new, stories with a new meaning and definition. By doing that, he is developing memories not only for himself and everyone involved in Grand Tour but also for us–the viewers who will look back on these piercing images and capture true, unique definitions of them. Of course, this applies to a great variety of films with potent images that are dreamy and grounded simultaneously. Yet, due to the magical nature of the direction in Grand Tour, it harnesses more power and inspires the mind. 

I felt this same feeling in Alice Rohrwacher’s incredible La Chimera, where the beauty and imagination of cinema enchanted everything. Both stimulate your senses with their imagery; Gomes and Rorhrwacher share the brilliance of being such expressive artists in their own right, where every frame acts like a shot in the heart. Grand Tour and La Chimera–the two using memories as a gateway for realization and emotional healing–live in your mind, body, and soul as long as these frames and words continue to have meaning. (I still think about the “You are not meant for human eyes” line.) They are immortalized in your spirit like an irremovable tattoo, and if you seem to forget, these films are at arms’ length for you to revisit their enchanting power.

Grade: A-