Directors: Scott McGehee, David Siegel
Writer: Scott McGehee, David Siegel, Sigrid Nunez
Stars: Naomi Watts, Bill Murray, Constance Wu

Synopsis: Follows a story of love, friendship, grief and healing, about a writer who adopts a Great Dane that belonged to a late friend and mentor.

A film set in New York City during the holiday season. All the typical iconography is there: Jane’s Carousel in Dumbo to the beautiful block of brownstones opposite Washington Square Park. Iris (Naomi Watts) is a writer living in one of said apartments. What’s crucial about this apartment is that it’s rent-controlled. With such a slice of heaven in the West Village, any New Yorker knows that under these circumstances, you’ll want to be buried in that apartment. There’s no leaving such a gift! But in comes Apollo (Bing), the mountainous Great Dane that acts as the primary supporting character of the film. In classic comedy fashion, Iris finds herself taking care of this beast of a dog. His previous owner was Walter (Bill Murray), Iris’ writing mentor, best friend, and much more, who suddenly and unexpectedly took his own life. Anybody can attest that dealing with grief is a massive burden in and of itself. It obviously takes a toll mentally, physically, and emotionally. Rest assured, this film isn’t as dour as the inciting incident might have you believe. As much of a drama as this film is, it relies heavily on its comedic spin. Because as Iris deals with her grief, she must also learn the common struggles of owning a dog in the city. For a place known for its lack of space, a 145-pound Great Dane certainly presents more than its fair share of challenges. If you’re wondering, this isn’t the basic set-up of something you’d see when flipping through channels and settling onto the Hallmark channel. Directed by Scott McGehee and David Siegel, this is The Friend, playing in the Spotlight section of the 62nd New York Film Festival. It’s a film we’ve seen before in countless iterations. Despite that, its ability to often charm and occasionally surprise sustains itself through its runtime.

There’s much apprehension on Iris’ part when taking in Apollo. She has plenty of reasons to back this up as well. For one thing, she’s not much of a dog person in the first place. Secondly, her apartment building doesn’t allow pets. It’s a common trait for a New York apartment and while many tenants simply do it anyways, this is a rent-controlled West Village apartment. Is it worth the risk? In the end, she does it for a simple reason: it keeps her close to the memory of Walter. It’s also the product of a guilt-trip by Barbara (Noma Dumezweni), Walter’s current wife. She is one of three of his official spouses in the film. That should give off some sort of idea as to what type of character Murray plays. He’s not in it much, but his presence is constantly felt throughout the film. His life and past actions serve as both a boon and a curse on the people who surrounded him. It’s the first of many ideas and character traits present in The Friend that separate this from its Hallmark counterparts. Whereas films like those are much more glossy and smooth, The Friend is unafraid to delve into murkier waters. Some of these explorations may not always turn up treasure. But it’s the riskier venture that makes this film far more interesting than one which merely plays it safe for 90 minutes. Time and time again, The Friend pulls quite the trick on its viewer. Just when the audience thinks they have it all figured out, McGehee and Siegel throw a curveball that’s enough to hold your interest a bit longer.

When Barbara is trying to offload Apollo onto Iris, she brings up a question which feels like the most fascinating element present in this film. The Friend basically structures itself around two central ideas. The first is fairly obvious: grief. When discussing how Apollo has been noticeably depressed at the absence of his beloved Walter, Barbara poses the question: “How do you explain death to a dog?” And it’s in this simple notion to ease the pain of an emotionally hurt animal that the complexity of The Friend reveals itself. If anything is made apparent by the endearing, sad, and wildly impressive performance Bing turns in as Apollo, it’s that we don’t need to explain death to a dog. Animals are far smarter than humans like to give them credit. It would appear that Apollo has an innate understanding of what’s happening, yet, like many humans, simply cannot cope with processing it. The real question should instead be, “How can death be explained to humans?” We understand the literal process of death. But in the steps of processing loss and grieving those who have passed away, it’s a process that is fundamentally intangible. There’s no guidebook that can be followed to a tee. Grief takes on a multitude of forms. In The Friend, Apollo could even be seen as a physical manifestation of grief. 

A common metaphor used for grief is likening it to a mountain. If Apollo’s presence could be described as anything in this tiny apartment, mountainous feels apt. He takes over Iris’ bed, forcing her to sleep on the floor. He tears her files and personal belongings apart. He refuses to eat or drink water. All Apollo can do for extended periods of time in the beginning of the film is lay with one of Walter’s old shirts. Grief can be all-consuming. It might feel like it’s hovering over our shoulder on a day-to-day basis. It’s something we sleep with. Throughout The Friend, where the emotional depths of its characters may sometimes fall a bit flat, its introspective nature about coping propels it into each new act. Coupled with the comedy and charm of Apollo’s antics, The Friend works when it injects its own observations and emotional stakes onto the tropes audiences are already familiar with. Yes, it’s a film we’ve seen countless times before. But what it aims to achieve in spite of that knowledge is where it’s most interesting. After all, this is very much a film about regular people going through very common occurrences. It’s a notion that Iris actually addresses outright at one point. And it’s the second idea around which McGehee and Siegel structure their film.

When she’s not writing, Iris is the professor of a writing class. The group of students are often seen conducting exercises amongst one another. The most common? Peer criticism. A student who primarily deals in fantasy writing (Owen Teague) criticizes a fellow student for writing about the ordinary. He questions the point of “writing about somebody regular.” In other words, isn’t life boring enough as it is? But these stories matter! And The Friend is very much an example of that type of story. Through films like The Friend, which don’t rely on a high-concept, audiences are reminded of the often simple nature of life. We go through experiences that may make us feel isolated. But here is a simple reminder that things like this happen all the time, to people all over the world. There’s a version of The Friend that is incredibly boring and borders on trite. And while the cathartic climax of this film may fall a bit flat, McGehee and Siegel carry The Friend in subversive, interesting ways right up until the credits roll. It’s the type of charming film that can be recommended to virtually anybody, and that’s always a beautiful discovery in the ever-expanding world of cinema.

The Friend played in the Spotlight section of the 62nd New York Film Festival.

Grade: C

Director: Pedro Almodóvar
Writer: Pedro Almodóvar, Sigrid Nunez
Stars: Julianne Moore, Tilda Swinton, John Turturro

Synopsis: Ingrid and Martha were close friends in their youth, when they worked together at the same magazine. After years of being out of touch, they meet again in an extreme but strangely sweet situation.

Every lover of cinema has encountered Pedro Almodóvar’s work. The Spaniard is one of the most recognized international voices; his stories of desire, identity, and passion have connected with thousands of cinephiles. While his voice and vision have remained the same, Almodóvar’s style has evolved throughout the decades–from a slight provocateur to a melodrama filmmaker to one with a more mature tone. Almodóvar began his career with striking features in the 1980s, which, by that time, were considered very provocative. The golden shower in Pepi, Luci Bom. The outrageous crew of Madridian mischief-makers in Labyrinth of Desire. Nacho Martinez self-pleasuring to clips of Mario Bava’s most violent scenes in Matador. These are just a few examples of the type of prodding and rousing that Almodóvar used to do back then. 

Within that provocation, his ideas and themes’ crux were intact. Today’s audience would consider some scenes problematic, though he still found many ways to explore how his characters’ identities changed and their desires met. And that, in my books, helped him converge onto his next stage, the Douglas Sirk-inspired melodramas of the 2000s and forward. His story designs felt different, even if his characters were always complex and broken, but ultimately intriguing. You sensed the essence of Pedro Almodóvar’s oeuvre through these new narrative contraptions that blend the throwback 40s style with his colorful portraits. Many directors have tried to inhabit a Sirk-like world in their stories. However, none have contained it like the Spaniard. 

Lately, Almodóvar has reached a new stage in his career, one that is more fully-fledged. This began with Pain and Glory, a film in which he explored his past through a reflection of his desires and art (and how, through art, he expresses his most secret desires). It was followed by Parallel Mothers, in which he takes a more political angle to critique and observe an untalked-about happening in Spain’s history. That is not the only way he is reinventing himself during this latter stage of his career. He is now dabbling in English, doing projects not in his native tongue for the first time. Almodóvar started with two shorts, The Human Voice and Strange Way of Life–a segway into this new strand of pictures and the latter one that recalls his past. 

Now, Almodóvar is doing his English-language feature with The Room Next Door (La habitación de al lado, the Centerpiece of this year’s New York Film Festival), an adaptation of Sigrid Nunez’s 2020 novel, ‘What Are You Going Through’. While he isn’t in top form or contain the melodramatic power of his previous two feature-length projects, Almodóvar gets the best out of his actresses, Tilda Swinton and Julianne Moore, both of which fit perfectly with his style, and depends on them to uplift the frail screenplay on which the film stands. 

The Room Next Door centers around a pair of longtime friends who have reunited after many years due to an illness one of them has. After a lengthy separation, these two souls, hindered in different ways, come together and put aside their severance upon the matter. However, it still lingers upon their many conversations; distance causes bonds to break slowly, yet these two still have a fire to it that curates a shared empathy and love for their memories together. First, we meet Ingrid (Julianne Moore), the novel’s previously unnamed narrator, at a New York book signing for the release of her new book, ‘On Sudden Deaths’. The novel seems to connect with plenty of people, particularly young women, one of whom asks Ingrid to sign it as an apology gift for her girlfriend. 

“It won’t happen again”, Ingrid inscribed to the young fan. However, these words also reflect Ingrid’s past and the experiences that will come further in the film. Some things won’t happen again, whether because of a mistake or because she won’t have the chance to do so on other occasions, whatever it may be. In this case, it is Martha’s (Tilda Swinton) diagnosis of stage three cervical cancer. The two have shared many moments throughout the years, including secrets, writings, and even a lover, later revealed to be played by John Turturro, who does not acclimate to Almodóvar’s way of storytelling. Ingrid and Martha fell apart when the latter went overseas as a war correspondent. But their works always seemed to tie them one way or another. 

The only thing is that through writing, you can feel the psychological state one is in, yet not one’s physical condition, which is why Ingrid feels guilty about not knowing about her condition and immediately reaches out to her. As a form of apology, she vows to visit her more in the hospital. The phrase “It won’t happen again”, a minute detail that can escape many viewers’ minds, makes its way into the narrative again. Memories begin to play on-screen of a time past when the two didn’t think it would run out. Looking at the scenes now, I feel like they are a dream, very distant yet palpable due to the actresses’ work. Catch-up conversations and shared experiences pile into scenes filled with character-defining and compulsory exposition. 

Of course, you know that the “filling in the gaps” of their relationship would be placed in the film one way or another. You see one of the main problems with The Room Next Door from these early conversations. In the past, Almodóvar’s pictures were coveted in emotion because of the dependence on the actor’s expressions–their mannerisms, facials, and eyes told the story hidden from us watching rather than using words to dictate this psychological pandering. You remember the scene in the coffee shop with Manuela and Lola in All About My Mother or the phone call between Salvador and Federico–another conversation between two people, like Ingrid and Martha, who have spent years distant after being connected deeply in the past–in Pain and Glory. 

These are just two examples of how the actors’ performances and pauses do more work than the screenplay on many occasions. It is full of fervor. The incandescent feeling they bring translates to the vibrant atmosphere of Almodóvar’s world, accompanied by a colorful set filled with blood-red walls, shining green seats, and sky-blue carpets. However, even though the actresses work well within Pedro’s scope in The Room Next Door, the reading is more loquacious than expressionistic. The Spaniard is in a verbose state in his first script in the English language, which has one thinking about what could have happened during its translation. 

The spiritedness of his work, which separates his oeuvre from that of other Spanish filmmakers, was also the reason for transcribing the screenplay to another language. Their stories are interesting, yet occasionally, a specific dialogue feels off-place. The spirited sensation building through the melancholy gets lost amidst the prating screenplay. During the hospital sessions, you see this the most; the most expository moments are hindered because Almodóvar reveals too much instead of slowly uncovering everything via his tender magic. The story regains power when the film switches from the busy streets to the lakeside. 

Martha’s treatments are not working anymore; the pain she feels is excruciating. Martha plans to euthanize herself with a pill she bought on the black market. The problem isn’t her indecisiveness of not wanting to go through with the act but doing it alone. She does not want to do this by herself. Martha asks Ingrid to accompany her on a quick retreat to a lavish lakeside housing to cement the deed. The film takes its title from the room in which Martha will take the pill as Ingrid awaits her final breath. Deeper secrets are revealed about their lives, whether their marital status or estranged daughters; the latter comes up as a ridiculous late third-act reveal that does not work. 

The interesting factor from these broader conversations is how Almodóvar explores death and creativity–and how they intertwine. It is fascinating that death seems like the pet topic of many films screened at this year’s New York Film Festival. There are many films about our fear of death and worries about what happens after, all of which are seen differently. Almodóvar has covered the topic before, although none explicitly discussed existential angst. More so, the topic is felt in the background of his works rather than the central theme. Ingrid is a character who is very much afraid of dying. It is one of the reasons why she attaches herself even more to Martha and her decision to die by assisted suicide. 

Her frustrations and dread-induced panic immediately come into play upon seeing her dear friend in that state. Internally, Ingrid questions the reasonings of Martha’s use of the pill. By talking with one another, listening, and recording memories and experiences in her mind, Ingrid understands her decision. Ingrid believes that she is too afraid to do such an act but realizes that people must be given a choice to end their own lives if the pain, in this case from stage three cervical cancer, is too unbearable to endure and the procedures don’t have any more effect. Martha and Ingrid are writers in different branches of that world, one scribing about war and the other more novelistic pieces. However, the two equally feel that their lives in that profession made them see everything differently. 

Ingrid listens to Martha’s stories about her experiences in various fields, including falling in love with one of them. As Swinton delivers her monologues, Moore is put to the sideline in an understated role. But she captures that appreciation and carries out the memories with a pretty subtle whisper to her breath. You see how Ingrid understands that she must cherish this little time together they have left together. It grows a tad repetitive. There is an echoing of these scenarios throughout the film, which makes it less cinematic or without that splendor one is accustomed to seeing from Almodóvar. Regardless, the director’s purpose and crux are clear. 

As he stated moments after he won the Venice Film Festival’s top prize, the Golden Lion, The Room Next Door is a criticism of the countries that have euthanasia as an illegal act. Like his previous feature, Parallel Mothers, Almodóvar speaks about political and societal topics through the melodrama he is known for, which covers the film with a second layer to the narrative and the characters’ interactions. It is more evident here than in his aforementioned 2021 movie. However, the effectiveness of this commentary is still rising. For that, I applaud him, although I wish he had added his usual subversiveness when speaking about the topic and death in general. 

One of the things I have been finding quite fascinating is the recent rise of filmmakers, most of whom have been in the industry for decades, speaking about mortality through the self-analysis of their grieving processes. The most recent examples are Paul Schrader with Oh, Canada and David Cronenberg with The Shrouds, both coincidentally playing at the festival’s Main Slate alongside Almodóvar’s film. The former adapted the book of one of his closest friends to honor him and reflect on his past, riddled with secrets, his present affected by illness, and what the next couple of years will look like. It is very personal, more so than one would expect. Through the story of a fictionalized character, Schrader taps into his own travels, successes, and sorrows in a beautiful and tangible piece that is unlike anything he has done before. 

The latter has Cronenberg trying to pour his heart out in cinematic form after the passing of his wife, creating a unique concept about seeing your loved ones decompose and interlacing it with a conspiracy theory. This theory is not meant to be looked at at face value; it is more so the reflection of one questioning existence, life, and death–the various stages of grief, mourning, and broken hearts. These are two of the most recent unique portrayals of acclaimed veteran directors tackling death in a visionary and personal manner. Then there’s The Room Next Door, which does have Almodóvar’s stylistic panache that covers all of his sets in such beautiful colors that reflect the vivacity of the characters while creating a parallel to the downheartedness they are currently facing. 

Regarding looks, Almodóvar knows how to make his works pop. But this latest one does not add that personal layer about his thoughts and insecurities about mortality and loss. You get a minor taste of it, albeit punctured in a weak screenplay that fails to handle one character’s acceptance of death and the other’s rejection. The aforementioned films had an intense personal attachment in each moment. The Room Next Door does not contain such outside of the melancholy that rises through the melodrama mold. Considering how poignant and emotionally commanding his two previous feature-length projects were in spades, it is a shame this is the case. This film got lost in translation.

Grade: C

Director: Mike Leigh
Writer: Mike Leigh
Stars: Marianne Jean-Baptiste, Bryony Miller, Sophia Brown

Synopsis: Ongoing exploration of the contemporary world with a tragicomic study of human strengths and weaknesses.

While watching Mike Leigh’s latest film, social media came to mind. A common trend often seen nowadays among viral videos is recording strangers causing a scene in public. It’s nearly the same format every single time. There’s a crowded setting where the recording starts a few seconds into the outburst. The location is interchangeable: a restaurant, a department store, a public gathering. And often, the reaction of the viewer or those around the person causing a scene is identical. Those in the video and those watching cast judgment on a complete stranger. We wonder who raised them to behave in such a way. We speculate as to the circumstances that caused the outburst in the first place. It’s shared amongst our circle or our social media feed, and on goes the day. Now, I am not saying shouting at employees or strangers is remotely justifiable. Actions can be reprehensible whether we intend to let our emotions get the better of us or not. But Hard Truths, which is celebrating its U.S. Premiere as part of the Main Slate of the 62nd New York Film Festival, sets out to examine the type of person who may behave in such a way. And of course, it’s not as cut-and-dry as an out-of-context video on social media would like us to believe.

Once again, it feels important to reiterate that under no circumstances should anybody ever feel justified in verbally accosting a stranger because of being unable to keep their emotions in check. It’s unfair and downright cruel. We all have bad days, and it’s up to the individual to manage those emotions in healthy ways that don’t negatively affect the people around them. In writing that understanding, there are legitimate reasons for some mental and emotional breakdowns. Just because lashing out at somebody is not justified doesn’t mean they can’t be understandable. Hard Truths takes this challenging push-and-pull of the truth about reality, and forms an entire character piece around it. Leigh, in all his curiosity and empathy for the human experience, challenges his audience through Pansy (a fantastic Marianne Jean-Baptiste). Her on-screen introduction is the cinematic equivalent of a tornado. Think the sheer energy of Twisters, but balled up into a human who is completely pent-up with stress, panic, anger, and hypochondria. She’s taking an afternoon nap as serene as can be, before practically rocketing out of bed and racing to the window with fright at the sound of… pigeons. Instantly, Leigh’s quaint imagery of a neighborhood street during the opening crawl of the film is jolted away. All we’re left with is Pansy. And Jean-Baptiste delivers a powerhouse performance designed to intentionally alienate audiences from the outset.

The challenge any filmmaker faces is getting audiences on the side of their protagonist over the course of a runtime. In Hard Truths, Leigh seems as if he’s crafted himself quite the challenge. For the entire first half of the film, Jean-Baptiste practically bowls through anybody and everybody in her path. Barely letting anybody else get a word in, it’s a statement-making performance full of brash venom being tossed at whoever is in her vicinity. Nobody is safe, from dentists and nurses to grocery store clerks, neighbors, and strangers in parking lots. Pansy’s husband and son seem to have learned better after years of this behavior. At the dinner table where not a moment of peace can be found, their eyes appear to have glazed over as Pansy rattles off all her rage-fueled observations made during the day. With each passing scene, Leigh makes it abundantly clear that her behavior and actions are becoming more frustrating and despicable by the day. The audience must trust that the legendary filmmaker knows what he’s doing, because just as we’re made to feel like we can’t possibly handle such outbursts any more, Leigh pulls out the rug from under us. But prior to this shift, there are countless moments littered throughout Hard Truths that reveal its hidden hand.

As Pansy goes through her daily errands, Leigh will occasionally cut away to the rest of the small cast. Pansy’s sister, Chantelle (Michele Austin), is a hair-dresser raising her two daughters alone. Leigh will transport us to either her salon or home, and the stark difference in tone and look alone should scream where Leigh is hoping to lead his viewer. Gone is the fear-fueled hush and stark, monochromatic look of Pansy’s home. Whenever Chantelle is present among her daughters or customers, there is such colorful joy bursting off the screen. It’s a clear boon to the energy Pansy brings to the table. Whenever Leigh cuts back to Pansy anywhere, the audience. with bated breath, fears her next outburst. It’s not until a certain encounter that Leigh finally breaks open his lead character, and the film as a whole, to reveal his thesis. This extends beyond a person merely lashing out at the world around them. Hard Truths is all about how people come to terms with the circumstances that end up coming to define their life and relationships.

Leigh morphs a humorous film about the sheer lack of interest in social niceties into something devastating and relatable. Hard Truths becomes a study in human empathy. Riddled with emotional pain and frustrations, Pansy goes from being seen as the human embodiment of a hurricane to a woman frightened by her loss of liveliness. She is haunted by the moments that seem to have broken her ability to enjoy the life she has found herself in. To be human is to come to terms with the notion that there are hard truths about life. Things happen, and they can sometimes irrevocably alter us as people. The simple truth Leigh is setting out to make clear is that life is hard. There are moments where we all walk on eggshells as we do it best to navigate our emotions. It’s important to accept that there will be times where we fail. Despite that, we have to do our best. If we push past the pain and raw emotions coursing through our minds, there are wonders throughout the world just waiting for us. One of the final moments of the film involves Pansy’s quiet son, Moses (Tuwaine Barrett). It’s such a tender moment in a film. where he’s intentionally resigned for essentially the entire runtime. As noted at the top of this piece, Pansy is rarely ever justified in her actions. But it’s easy to forget just how quickly we can all reach a breaking point when refusing to engage with the moments in our lives that have devastated us. Importantly, Leigh reminds us with Hard Truths that it’s never too late to take a deep breath, look at all the potential love we still have left to both give and receive in the world, and go forward into a new day and a new era.

Hard Truths celebrated its U.S. Premiere as part of the Main Slate of the 62nd New York Film Festival.

Grade: B+

Director: Philippe Lesage
Writer: Philippe Lesage
Stars: Noah Parker, Aurelia Arandi-Longpré, Arieh Worthalter, Paul Ahmarani

Synopsis: Seventeen-year-old Jeff stays at film director Blake Cadieux’s wilderness lodge after being invited by friend Max’s family. When strange events occur, Jeff suspects something is amiss with the director and his retreat.

Festival fatigue, an uncommon level of exhaustion brought on by the seemingly never-ending practice of watching, discussing, reviewing, and thinking about anywhere from three-to-six movies per day, comes for us all. You just don’t know it’s hit you until it wallops you over the head like _______ did when he _______ _______ with a _______ in _______, a Main Slate selection at this year’s New York Film Festival. It happened to me a few moments ago, when I was two revelatory paragraphs into this review of Phillipe Lesage’s Who By Fire – which will have its U.S. premiere at the festival on Sunday, Oct. 6 – only to find that I was basing my thesis around a note I made about an entirely different film. Assuming I was looking at my chicken-scratched thoughts about Who By Fire, I began to write about one of “its” opening title cards: “In the name of friendship.” 

It took me a second before realizing that this title card did not, in fact, appear anywhere throughout Lesage’s drama, but instead in the final film I saw on the previous day and thus took notes for on the previous page, Matthew Rankin’s Universal Language. Good film. I quite liked it! Too bad the only thing it has in common with Who By Fire is that it was written and directed by a Canadian and takes place up North. Command + A + Delete. Time to find a new slant.

Or so I thought. As I pondered the Quebecois Lesage’s epically-tense drama about a young man who tags along on his best friend’s trip to visit his father’s old filmmaking partner, the idea that Rankin, a Winnipegger, raised at the beginning of his absurdist comedy came into focus as a pertinent theme at Who By Fire’s core. The journey that Jeff (Noah Parker) takes with Max (Antoine Marchand Gagnon) and his family – his sister, Aliocha (an excellent Antoine Marchand Gagnon), and father, a writer named Albert Gary (Paul Ahmarani) – to the cabin of famed director Blake Cadieux (Arieh Worthalter, magnificent) could very easily be subtitled, “In the name of friendship.” The bonds that Lesage illustrates and unpacks in his film are far more volatile than anything Rankin puts forth in his film, but they are friendships nonetheless. And the complicated ones are often the most fascinating to watch unravel. (Will Bjarnar: 1, Festival Fatigue: 0. Take that, horrid sleep schedule.)

Albert and Blake collaborated back in the day, making enough much-celebrated narrative films that the latter’s successful move to documentary filmmaking still stings the former’s ego. The group of relaxing artists and intellectuals share dinners together in scenes that recur over the course of the film, and as the wine flows and the chicken is carved, spirited debates often evolve into furious arguments, especially between Albert and Blake. During their first meal, Albert asserts that he’s a far better writer than Blake could ever be: “You’re very passionate,” he says, “but that means you want every scene to be rhythmic and contemplative, humorous but tragic… they drag on forever.” Whether or not Lesage is ribbing his own cinematic style here – Who By Fire is his longest film to date, but it’s just as meditative as his 2018 feature Genesis, as well as 2015’s The Demons, which saw him break through as a director – doesn’t matter nearly as much as the fact that he’s willing to give us individual windows into each character’s psyches the moment they open their mouths. Albert is quick to put his old friend down in an effort to stand tall himself; Blake, the richer, handsomer half of their duo, immediately sideswipes Albert’s children as the reason he’s stopped working on meaningful projects of late. (That is, unless you count the animated series Albert is writing; called Rock Lobster, it’s about a lobster who gets lost in Toronto, and it’s going to be a hit.) 

Indeed, Lesage tips his hand early on in Who By Fire, layering his proceedings with a great deal of tension as though he’s itching to run out of frosting before serving up his massive, uber-dramatic cake. But he doesn’t do so in the sense that tells you exactly where his narrative is heading. Sure, an overabundance of long, looong takes – the film begins with an extended oner of a car traveling down a lonely road; no wonder it runs 155 minutes – spell out some things that could ostensibly pass us by as subtle foreshadowing (if not solid clues) were they shown as brief glances. For instance, when he finally cuts away from his opening overhead shot of the family vehicle, Balthazar Lab’s lens lingers on Jeff, Max, and Aliocha, who are crammed shoulder-to-shoulder in the back seat; Jeff attempts to brush Aliocha’s hand, a gesture she surely notices and evades before he can make contact. (You’ll never guess which one has unrequited feelings for the other.) Yet this moment, while just the first of Jeff’s pervasive efforts to win the heart of his buddy’s sister, hints at but one of many subplots that surge throughout Lesage’s plot. And while there are a great many – perhaps one too, depending on your patience – each receives its fair share of time in the spotlight, assuring that no one is left to wait for the rest to reach their respective resolutions. They unfold in concert, fueling Lesage’s principal effort to tell a tale heavy on uncertainty and yet deftly light on shock value, no matter how certain some of the shocks may feel when they finally do come to pass.

Lesage is also aware that in order to make the events of his film enjoyable on some level, he has to find ways to ease the straining bonds between his characters with every appropriate opportunity, if not every available one. To be clear, the tension is damn-near constant, but Lesage’s dialogue is often laced with wry humor (humorous and tragic, see?) that alleviates the persistent sense that something sinister could be afoot in this vacation home. When Jeff, desperate to make a connection with Aliocha, learns that her brother caught her watching porn featuring one participant who hits the other, he begins to discuss the books they’re reading, maintaining boyish charm until BOOM, he slaps her out of nowhere and sprints out of the room. (Needless to say, what he was going for didn’t work.) Later on, Albert flirts with a heart attack when a special bottle of wine he brought to share with the group – including a famous actress named Hélène (Irène Jacob) and her partner Eddy (Laurent Lucas), who travel from Paris to join the retreat halfway through – doesn’t taste the way he expected. Ahmarani’s physical acting in this scene – the behavior of a revolted man who may or may not have been pranked by his jealous pal – almost rivals the sequence that will surely serve as the preeminent standout stretch of the film, a prolonged dance sequence ironically set to The B-52’s “Rock Lobster.”

Driving much of Who By Fire forward, though, are Jeff’s inability to operate as freely in a new environment as his contemporaries are able to, Aliocha’s brusque modus operandi, and Blake’s dark side, which Parker, Arandi-Longpré, and Worthalter bring to life with furious vivacity that fuels Lesage’s dramatic sensibilities. For Parker, it’s a remarkable turn in what appears to be his first starring role, though if the emotional range on display here is any indication, that won’t be the case for long. Arandi-Longpré, too, gets the first true showcase of her career here, and as Aliocha, she provides a vital sense of humanity and reality amidst an environment oozing with the pus of toxic masculinity’s wounds. Worthalter, on the other hand, has been a reliable performer on both stage and screen for the better part of the last 20 years, but has seen a surge in castability – as well as popularity in Canada and France – since his award-winning supporting performance in Lukas Dhont’s 2018 feature debut, Girl. If, by chance, you were able to catch this year’s The Goldman Case before it vacated Film at Lincoln Center theaters prior to the start of NYFF, you’re undoubtedly well aware of his tenacity as a lead performer. His work in Who by Fire isn’t just another level for him: It’s another stratosphere. 

The same could be said for Lesage, whose aforementioned films The Demons and Genesis were both evident influences on his latest and longest feature: The former is based in part on events from its director’s own childhood, like some of Cadieux’s films in Who by Fire are on his, while the latter focuses on two half-siblings who struggle with their own flailing, ill-defined romances. Those elements are (obviously) at play here, but to see Lesage take on such a massive challenge while mixing so much else – adolescence, lust, rivalries both personal and professional, sexuality, et al. – feels like an invested viewer’s triumph just as much as it is a resounding success for the filmmaker. 

It’s clear that he sees himself in many of his characters, and one would only know how much personal intel is poured into this work were they to ask the director directly. That’s what makes it that much braver as a piece of art, not just due to the daunting experience it beckons viewers to take on, but frankly, because most audiences these days tend to be hesitant to invest their time in a near-three-hour intellectual exercise about characters they don’t recognize and lives they might not otherwise invest in. Who by Fire takes the makings of what could have been an overlong, overstuffed, overdramatic melodrama and turns it all inside-out in favor of a richly-stimulating feature about desire and privilege. It may not realize the trappings of life we’re all used to, but it tells a story we can all understand in a way we have yet to see it told. After all, what else do we go to the movies for? You know, other than in the name of friendship. 

Who by Fire will celebrate its U.S. Premiere on Sunday, Oct. 6 at the 62nd New York Film Festival. KimStim will release it in theaters later this year.

Grade: B+

Director: Nelson Carlos de Los Santos Arias
Writer: Nelson Carlos de Los Santos Arias
Stars: Jhon Narváez, Fareed Matjila, Steven Alexander

Synopsis: A voice that claims to be from a hippopotamus. A voice that doesn’t understand the perception of time. Pepe, the first and last hippo killed in the Americas, tells his story with the overwhelming orality of these towns.

There have been plenty of documents about Pablo Escobar’s crimes and illegal actions. But many don’t know about Hacienda Napoles (or Naples Estate in English), an estate that was built and owned by the Colombian drug lord in Puerto Triunfo. With almost twenty kilometers squared of land, Escobar made a zoo of his own, consisting of many kinds of animals not indigenous to his country–illegally transported to Colombia because he had all the money in the world to do what he pleased. He had antelopes, elephants, exotic birds, giraffes, and four hippos. 

We have heard of millionaires having their strange choices for “pets” before, most notably monkeys or wild cats. (First, let’s note that it is stupid to have those types of animals in a habitat and whether they are not accustomed to removing them from the wild just to showcase power and wealth.) But Escobar had some of the weirdest selections of animals in his estate. When Escobar was shot and killed in 1993 by the police, the property had a possession war, where the family and local government were trying to seize control. The latter won. However, managing it was too expensive, and most animals were donated to South American zoos. 

The exception was the four hippos, also known as Escobar’s cocaine hippos, who got so accustomed to living in that weather and terrain that they left them there. To this day, there are hundreds of hippos around Colombia, and it is all due to Escobar. Many attacks have occurred, with some of them causing rampage and killing several locals. It all seems too unbelievable. But indeed, all of this happened and continues to cause some damage. In Pepe, Nelson Carlos de Los Santos Arias’ followup to 2017’s Cocote, the Dominican director takes the journey of one of those hippos, both through his wanderings in the jungle and rampage elsewhere, and makes something very intriguing, yet tonally strange, out of it. 

The film, titled after one of the initial hippos that Escobar brought, is narrated by Pepe (voiced by Jhon Narváez) upon his death, letting us know that he, alongside his “owner”, Pablo Escobar, has passed away via news footage and audio logs. If you don’t know anything about the history of Pepe, de Los Santos Arias does give you moments to recap how the hippo ended up in Colombia, as the film’s first strand revolves around his home in Africa, which is one of the few things Pepe recalls about his life, and how he was taken away from it, alongside the three hippos. Later, we see his life in Colombia, where he was left alone in a country that was alien to him. Yet, he has been able to live and adapt to its luck. 

There’s a hierarchy within that growing community of hippos. His brother, Pablito, named after his now-deceased owner, emulates Escobar’s ruthlessness and coldness and takes over the Magdalena River. Pepe, now exiled, goes elsewhere in search of a home. However, many complications arise; his presence elicits a warning–an uncontrollable animal is on the loose. Everybody he crosses paths with runs in fear of the worst scenario. After an incident with two local fishermen, the government hatches a plant to kill Pepe, much like they did Pablo Escobar–a parallel that is not the main focus of the film, yet adds to the strange nature in which this story abides. 

Every scene is before Pepe’s death, most of which is vaguely placed together and focuses on the atmosphere rather than what is happening per se. It may be a hippo crossing the Colombian plains for an hour or so. Yet the way Nelson Carlos de Los Santos Arias shifts this true tale from unorthodox to existentialist is ever so fascinating, even with its quirks. His vision for this is a story about the nature of life in isolation through the eyes of a sentient hippo, traveling through time and space in the events before his eventual death. The narration here is very dept, albeit a rocky one that puts the film between melancholy and exploration, both in Pepe’s doubts of his own life and the Dominican’s cinematic experimentation. 

The former is reflected in his grasp of language, which he takes from his surroundings and switches dialects during the film’s chapters, and in his social observations. Pepe grows aware of the treatment of animals and the human condition in the eyes of an animal who slowly adapts to a country that hurriedly wants him gone. As Pepe looks for a sanctuary after being kicked out of his home country, the Hacienda Napoles, and Magdalena River, de Los Santos Arias examines, through the “infamous” hippo, the souls of the displaced in today’s age. He sees all these nationless people–seeking a safe place to live in prosperity–in Pepe’s philosophical conversations with this floating spirit. 

Now left without a home, Pepe is down and out, beyond his climate and living conditions. He sees how the rest of the world goes on with their lives as he remains distanced from the one he previously had. This placement of being a bystander or observer of a fast-paced world reminds me of Gaspar Noe’s Enter the  Void–the audience watches a vessel of a dream, a ghostly presence seeking a way back to the world or the beyond, go through every nook and cranny, street or club, in awe and haunted by how the world moves on without him. Some people will remain hurt by your loss. But the great majority moves around your loss almost immediately, very coldly.

Both films, Pepe and Enter the Void, shift in different tides, with Noe’s being more frantic and somewhat cruel, while de Los Santos Arias’ is more meditative and nonchalant. However, the two are tied in the breadth of placing the viewer in a trance, experiencing recollections and out-of-body (and mind) scenarios of resurrection through cinema. These characters’ spirits lead them to their destination, whether spiritual damnation or salvation. We already know the outcomes. But it is how their newly-forged notions about their life, existence overall, and society guide their bodies to the eventual death they will meet. There is something transient about the whole thing. You feel it in your gut, even when some lines and narrative choices don’t work entirely. Yet, in Pepe trying to understand the societal rotation of the world, or even death, he taps into our doubts and frustrations. 

Although we don’t get that spectral camerawork by Benoît Debie in Enter the Void that feels as if a spirit itself was the cinematographer, many stylistic techniques fit in the dreamy canvas of Pepe. Another film that many will correlate with this one is Robert Bresson’s near masterpiece Au Hasard Balthazar, or the weaker remake from 2022, EO. The central figures of the aforementioned films deal with a heavy burden, traded and moved around from place to place as they are stuck in the hands of people who work them harshly, coping with an internal and physical sacrifice and hoping that, one day, they will get to a safe haven. 

Spiritually molds with life’s mundanity; the human characters’ theological morality meets the animals’ ethics. In Pepe, this takes a less subtle approach with the narration, which accompanies the hippo’s predicaments. Yet, you feel how this wisdom is giving way to his percipience, even in the limbo state his voice comes from. Pepe may not shake the sentimentality and spiritualness of Balthazar. However, it offers a unique, cinematic treat nonetheless. It is not set in a world of rapture, where one must travel in a purgatory-like setting, but one of curiosity, albeit isolated. 

Grade: B