Director: Luis Federico
Writers: Tomas Murphy, Federico Luis Tachella, Agustin Toscano
Stars: Lorenzo Ferro, Pehuen Pedre, Kiara Supini

Synopsis: Seeking change, 21-year-old Simon finds purpose by befriending two disabled children who teach him to embrace life’s joys. Together, they navigate a world not designed for them, inventing their own rules for love and happiness.

Simon of the Mountain (Simón de la montaña), Federico Luis Tachella’s pretty frustrating picture (screening at this year’s Cannes Film Festival in the Semaine de la critique), is built like a coming-of-story that we all know – a type of narrative that we tend to see at the festival. However, Federico Luis Tachella focuses more on the aspect of trying to find a place or group in the world where he could feel special and cared for. The film is groundbreaking in its casting choices and subject matter, as we haven’t seen it depict disabled people. However, even though it covers an important topic, it feels ever so distant due to some narrative decisions. 

The film begins abruptly, introducing us immediately to the twenty-one-year-old titular character, Simon (Lorenzo Ferro). He claims to be a moving assistant; he knows how to make a bed but nothing else. Simon can’t cook, clean, or lift heavy objects; so the viewer hesitates to believe him during the film’s first segment. At first glance, he is a complex character to read because the director places us in the middle of an encounter between him and a stranger who asks about his past experiences. The first few minutes contain a sense of mystery; the narrative is unclear as we go through a series of vignettes that capture Simon’s life after that encounter. 

Simon remains mostly silent during these scenes; he stays in the background like the viewer watching the film unfold. The only narrative tissue connecting these scenes is the love story between Pehuen (Pehuén Pedie), the stranger from before, and a girl named Angelica. The two meet in secret; the hospice of the disabled where they stay prohibits sexual relations. One day, Pehuén asks Simon to cover for him as he meets Angelica in the showers. But they all get caught, with Pehuén and Simon being sent to the director’s office to discuss the situation. In this scene, we get some clarity within the narrative and some background to Simon as a character. 

We meet his mother, who has been worried sick as she searches for him everywhere. She starts to notice that her son is acting differently. Simon has apparently lost his ID and disability certificate, yet his mother states that he has never had the latter. At this point, multiple questions pop into the viewer’s mind. Is Simon lying to this three-week-old friend about his condition? What are his intentions? Is he being genuine or mocking them? You don’t exactly know, and the film doesn’t make the search for these answers easy. His mother believes he doesn’t have the best intentions, yet Simon remarks that he has always felt that way, just like Pehuén and Angelica. 

That’s why Pehuén helps him to get the disability certificate; he does so by teaching him how to walk, talk, and react just like him. During Simon of the Mountain, the titular character goes through a couple of discussions that make him think about why he feels he belongs alongside his friends. Simon, as well as the audience watching, questions whether or not he is disabled, and if so, why would his mother reject him like that instead of seeking help. This is Simon’s journey of self-discovery, hoping the people around him accept him into this place he deems special. While well-intentioned and good-hearted, the film fails to transmit the character’s emotions to the viewer. 

We watch as he immerses himself in this new life, yet the viewer is not entirely captivated by his journey. Federico Luis Tachella doesn’t take much time to provide details about Simon’s background. Instead, he has him in different scenarios that don’t develop his character to a compelling degree. Simon of the Mountain is a fairly acted drama that leaves more questions in your mind than answering the ones established throughout the narrative. That isn’t a particular issue that ruins the viewing experience. I prefer that films leave room for ambiguity rather than having an immediate answer for everything or sugarcoating the story to avoid doing so. 

However, when you don’t have a fully defined character in the lead role, and he doesn’t grow much during the story being told, significant problems arise. I would like to revisit the film later to see if my thoughts would change, given that I know how Simon’s journey concludes. But as of now, I think the film lacks the brevity to showcase its beating heart properly.  It has been one of the most strenuous watches at the festival, not because of how Federico Luis Tachella handles the subject matter but because of the procedure he used to tell this story.

Grade: C-

Director: Coralie Fargeat
Writer: Coralie Fargeat
Stars: Margaret Qualley, Dennis Quaid, Demi Moore

Synopsis: A fading celebrity decides to use a black market drug, a cell-replicating substance that temporarily creates a younger, better version of herself.

Body horror is the house for mad creatures to concoct their carnal visions, dreams, and nightmares. The exploration of the body is endless in this canvas. Why would filmmakers limit themselves when crossing into this subgenre when it is all about venturing into the unknown? There are many ways you can tie these bloody brigades with everything in life, not necessarily limited to the classic theme of trauma. Filmmakers like David Cronenberg and Julia Ducournau – the king and queen of body horror (and two of my favorite directors of all time) – have found fascinating, unique ways to implement these elements to a plethora of themes, whether it is the 80s obsession with violence on the media in Videodrome or finding unconditional love in Titane. 

The two have revolutionized what can be done with the horror genre. However, a new name is emerging that can be placed on that short list. That is Coralie Fargeat, known for her excellent debut, Revenge, in 2017. The French filmmaker had dabbled before with the subgenre, although it was just passing moments rather than complete focus on it. But in her follow-up, The Substance (screening in competition at this year’s Cannes Film Festival), she decides to go all out, to degrees that both Cronenberg and Ducournau would be proud of. As grizzly as her previous work, yet more audacious, The Substance has Fargeat not wanting to hold back. 

She tests the audience to see if they can stomach the brutal beast she has created. And if they can’t, well… good luck then! The procedure Fargeat uses is similar to how two-time Palme d’Or-winner Ruben Östlund creates satires: having the subtlety of a sledgehammer and putting the audience through an array of loud scenarios that provoke and detach. But unlike him, Fargeat isn’t blindsided by the fact that she has done this; it is a part of the aberrant painting she has covered in bodily fluids, in all of its cinematically delightful carnage that will leave gore-hounds and horror freaks enamored by its madness. 

The Substance centers around Elizabeth Sparkle (a magnificent Demi Moore who has never been better). She is a veteran actress and a top talent of her time whose name immediately hints at the sledgehammer-wielding Fargeat’s unsubtle satire. Elizabeth is a star fading away from the spotlight that used to caress her face with a soothing luminescence. Even with the trophies that ensure she doesn’t vanish from the ostentatious world of Hollywood – an Oscar for a movie that nobody remembers and a now cracked star in the “honored” Walk of Fame, which Fargeat shows from its installation to the stepped-on present during the film’s first-minutes – none of that is stopping the cruelty of how this society focused rejuvenation value women when they are young, leaving them to roost once they are not youthful. 

This is Fargeat’s crux, seen early in the film as a more grounded (in comparison with what the rest of the film has to offer) and unsubtle critique. However, she doesn’t want to stop there. You already might get the point, yet Fargeat intends to construct a carnal attraction of her own. And it is a thing of horrific beauty. The once A-lister is now turned fifty, looking for a way back into the bright lights after the TV executive, Harvey (Dennis Quaid, ever so despicable in his performance, tuning into the material perfectly) lets her go from the dance workout show she hosted, Sparkle Your Life, because he wants a young face in the poster. Elizabeth doesn’t know what to do; in Hollywood’s eye, her glamor is fading. 

With a string of back luck on her side, the day gets worse. She gets into a car accident that sends her to the hospital, even though no injuries were suffered. It is here where she has an encounter with a stranger, a moment that might seem insignificant if it wasn’t for the USB she has now in her possession. Arriving as a “guardian angel” at first, later revealed as a “be careful what you wish for” devil, the hard drive has information about a procedure that will make her young again via a cloning process. As explained in the USB, the experiment involves injecting a serum called “The Substance”, which will allow the user to live a new life in a young, beautiful body for seven days at a time. 

The two women can’t be conscious simultaneously, as they are one person, just separated into two different bodies. Intrigued by the idea, Elizabeth decides to proceed with the unorthodox experiment since she doesn’t have another idea. Out of her spine, she hatches a younger version of herself, Sue (Margaret Qualley), in an amusing, disgusting way. She can’t believe it; right before her eyes lies a new creation. “The Substance” plays a god-like role, breaking the rules and notions of the body and its capabilities. Sue then follows to audition for the role Elizabeth has lost and gains immediate stardom, the slimy Harvey rejoicing as the fresh meat earns him money. But a huge problem arises. Sue doesn’t want to share her time in the world; meanwhile, Elizabeth is comatose in a private room, her life slowly draining and decaying as the starlet gains vivacity. The arrangement fractures as time passes and spinal fluid is removed.

This ‘Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde’ meets ‘The Picture of Dorian Gray’-like story develops into an amalgamation of gory inventions, referencing multiple cinema legends (Stanley Kubrick, David Cronenberg, Lucio Fulci) as well as some of the genre’s cult classics (Society, The Stuff). You immediately notice not only how well-versed Coralie Fargeat is in cinema history but also her great confidence behind the camera. The film oozes, both literally and figuratively, in style and flash, adopting hallucinatory and gruesome techniques that make each horror set piece have a great force of cinematic prowess. Consequently, it feels like a breath of fresh air, a unique addition to a vast genre filled with many ideas and concepts that are as striking as they are thrilling. 

Fargeat demonstrated in Revenge how she could take a subgenre such as rape revenge-thriller and make it her own via her unique feminist methodology in her filmmaking, which lines up with what Carol J. Clover said about the victim-hero and final girl in her excellent book ‘Men, Women, and Chainsaws’. And the French filmmaker, who might win an award at the end of the festival, does the same thing with body horror. It is a movie that is influenced, yet savvy and prolific, made within the confines of a subgenre that hasn’t seen much reinvention since the aforementioned Cronenberg and Ducournau. Fargeat is in full command, never letting the boat she’s sailing go close to sinking. 

In terms of horror, The Substance is a work of sheer expertise. You are perplexed by the tastelessness in the brutality, in awe of the vision in her creations, and captivated by the approach to this damning story. When it comes to the satire, that’s where some audience members might find the most faults. The whole ordeal is more than obvious; the joke that “The Substance doesn’t have much substance” will be thrown around many times in cheap one-sentence Letterboxd reviews. The mechanics of the narrative and the world the film builds revolve around that on-the-nose laughability. The comedy and horror elements are heightened due to the hollowness of the film’s casing, catching the viewer easily off guard when the director mutilates and deconstructs the body of her characters. With a blood bath that emerges later in the story, it might be possible that the Grand Auditorium Louis Lumière might be strained in crimson red for a very long time. The Substance, a beast of its own, is a total uncouth jewel.

Grade: A

Director: Paul Schrader
Writers: Paul Schrader, Russell Banks
Stars: Richard Gere, Jacob Elordi, Uma Thurman

Synopsis: Leonard Fife, one of sixty thousand draft evaders and deserters who fled to Canada to avoid serving in Vietnam, shares all his secrets to de-mythologize his mythologized life.

Paul Schrader’s cinema has always delved into the depths of death and existentialism, with some films more overtly exploring these themes than others. The characters he crafts, whether they be taxi drivers, drug dealers, gigolos, or boxers, all grapple with a profound sense of dread. They transform their trauma into a vocational obsession, constructing a facade that conceals their past struggles and perturbations. Schrader’s works, particularly those in the latter half of his career, serve as a confessional for these characters as they introspect on their lives and strive for redemption. You are invited to listen to their revelations and delve into their fractured psyche. The contemplation of broken men on a canvas has become more simplistic, yet no less intriguing to explore, even when these introspections are not entirely successful. 

This self-analysis and exploration by the characters are now prevalent in a more literal form in Schrader’s latest work, Oh, Canada, an adaptation of Russell Banks’ novel ‘Foregone’ from two years ago. After a series of tragic events for him, like the passing of his friend Russell Banks, his health scares, and caring for his wife after being diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, Paul Schrader is now, more than ever, thinking and reflecting on mortality. A string of events made him ponder what’s next for him and how much time he has, both in and out of cinema. Feeling like death was near, he decided to make a movie about that same predicament: running out of time. 

“If I want to make a film about death, I’d better hurry up”, said Schrader in an interview with Le Monde. This is why Oh, Canada has a sense of urgency. Even though his previous work covered prevalent and important topics, they often lacked the immediacy that adds emotional depth to a film. Schrader taps into a manner of storytelling that we haven’t seen from him before; he is reflective and more personal, which amounts to a moving portrait of a flawed man looking back at his life and coming to terms with his mistakes and regrets. Oh, Canada tells the story of the fictional documentarian Leonard Fife (Richard Gere, returning to work with Schrader after 44 years, delivering his best performance in a very long time). 

In 1968, he dodged the draft that was going to send Leonard to the Vietnam War by fleeing to Canada, marrying one of his students, Emma (Uma Thurman), so that he could permanently stay, ridden of the atrocities that occurred at the time. To this day, he feels the pain of his choices, burdened by the effect of what happened during the war, where thousands of young men were sent out to die. And as he has aged, this feeling has increased. Leonard doesn’t show that guilt outwardly; it is mostly internal. But when he agrees to do an interview with two of his old students, Malcolm (Michale Imperioli) and his partner, Diana (Victoria Hill), these emotions are given a time in the spotlight. 

What was initially considered a celebration of his work becomes a confessional. Leonard is questioned about everything that happened in his life, including the partner and child he left behind when he fled to Canada. Leonard isn’t resistant to revealing his past; as a matter of fact, he is insistent on doing so. Leonard wants Emma to know what he has done and who he really is. But the man can’t seem to piece together every memory of that neglected past. The crew and companions around him blame it on his cancer treatment, which has increased due to his condition worsening. This is where Schrader cuts back and forth between the present and the concealed past. The audience slowly learns about what Leonard has been hiding for decades. 

Via flashbacks, we see a young Leonard (played by Jacob Elordi) gearing up to leave his humble life in Virginia, living with a caring wife and a son, to enroll as a teacher in Vermont. In these scenes, you notice the differences in Leonard’s persona. When he was young, the man was charismatic and visionary; meanwhile, he is now pompous and egotistical. He packed his bags on moral grounds and unpacked everything for the first time in public. It brings a haunting sensation of existential regret and hindrance to the film. Leonard continues to share as everyone begs him to stop confessing his hard choices – pouring his heart and soul into the camera recording him. The people in the room and the audience watching are now asked to decide whether or not to judge Leonard for all that he has admitted. 

Evidently, through the project’s backstory and narrative, Oh, Canada is Paul Schrader’s most personal film to date. He takes parts of his own life to plant inside the scripture of Banks’ novel as an ode to his dear friend and a way to be vulnerable with the audience. This is why we get a sense of familiarity in the company of Leonard. We see a bit of the influential American director in him, which both Gere and Elordi bring to life remarkably. Schrader reflects on his worries, offenses, and struggles to ensure the film has that genuine feeling of a confessional – a filmmaker who has been quite indulgent in doing an open testimony. Via the power of cinema, these emotions get transmitted to the viewer on multiple levels. 

Oh, Canada contains a sense of honesty that Schrader hasn’t seen before. Like Francis Ford Coppola in Megalopolis, Schrader puts his thoughts on the passing of time and our inability to stop it on a cinematic canvas—although the director of Apocalypse Now was less successful at doing so with his thematic exploration. Both veteran filmmakers who have graced the screen with masterpieces of their own in the 70s and 80s have endured many hindrances across their careers. Somehow, Oh, Canada and Megalopolis arrive not only in unison (both screening in competition at this year’s Cannes Film Festival), but at the perfect time. They are at a point in their life where they notice more of the remaining sand in the hourglass. And it is fascinating how the two intersect. 

Schrader’s latest is thematically tragic, cinematically moving, and, most importantly, filled with hope, yearning for us who still have time on our hands to self-reflect on our lives before it is too late. As grim and anxiety-inducing as it may sound, that’s the thought that lingers in your head after watching Oh, Canada. Through the puzzle Leonard is trying to assemble, we slowly come to our own conclusions about where we are headed, at least at this point in time. It is missing a couple of pieces to complete the picture, just like Leonard’s confession is just a part of it – a human element that holds onto you. Instead of gnawing and unforgiving notions about death, we get a more evocative one. Oh, Canada is more than a gateway into Schrader’s psyche; it is a candid divulgence, rampant Facebook comments and all.

Grade: B+

Director: Andrea Arnold
Writer: Andrea Arnold
Stars: Barry Keoghan, Franz Rogowski, James Nelson-Joyce

Synopsis: Bailey lives with her brother Hunter and her father Bug, who raises them alone in a squat in northern Kent. Bug doesn’t have much time to devote to them. Bailey looks for attention and adventure elsewhere.

Andrea Arnold’s characters, often trapped in isolation, grappling with loneliness, and facing desperate circumstances, are not mere wanderers across their rural or coastal settings. They are souls yearning for love and acceptance, seeking open arms that will never let them go. Arnold’s direction skillfully brings out their emotional depth, evoking a profound empathy in us. Whether it’s Star in American Honey or Cathy in her mossy adaptation of Wuthering Heights, she compels us to want to protect them as they navigate their respective hardships. After premiering her documentary Cow in the 2021 Cannes Film Festival (in the Cannes Premiere section), Arnold is now back in competition with her latest work, Bird. Arnold combines these elements with a touch of anthropomorphic, magical realism, a signature feature in some of her previous works (recall the white horse in Fish Tank). 

This time, these elements are more refined and prominent than ever before, adding a unique layer to the narrative. Bailey (the fascinating Nykiya Adams) is at the story’s heart, a twelve-year-old from northern Kent. She shares her home with her half-brother, Hunter (Jason Buda), and father, Bug (Barry Keoghan) who seamlessly fits with Arnold’s storytelling style). He is adorned with insect tattoos, including a scorpion, spider, beetle, and butterfly, among others. Like the exoskeletons of the animals tattooed across his body, Bug uses these marks as a shield, concealing his emotions from his penury. Meanwhile, Hunter, alongside his friends, is taking justice into their own hands. They do weekly raids where they do damage to some local abusers, filming it and putting the videos online. 

This family tries to hold itself together through harsh means – wishing they get out of the gutter. They live in a city that, in the captivating lens of cinematographer Robbie Ryan, reeks of hopelessness, adding to the British filmmaker’s pet topic of social miserabilism. Arnold frames this city with trash strewn around each corner of the street and the walls covered with graffiti, some with uplifting messages (which feel quite trite) and others with profanities (which don’t contribute to the film). And with the meticulous attention that Arnold tends to put to the setting, in Bird, it never feels that this setting is a character, less even one that is realistic. 

Bug later reveals to Bailey and Hunter that he will marry his girlfriend of three months, Kayleigh (Frankie Box), in the coming week. Bailey disapproves of this decision, even though she has no say in the matter. She doesn’t think this is a good decision on his part; she sees her as an addition to his problems; rather than a salvation or a pairing that will make him happier in the long run. That’s why Bailey decides to rebel against it. She makes her half-brother’s girlfriend cut her hair, starts wearing black eyeliner, and even joins Hunter on one of his raids. During one of these, Bailey decides to step out and wander across an open field, later laying on the grass until she falls asleep. 

Upon closing her eyes, Andrea Arnold performs a cinematic trick, showering the film with magical realism. This reminds me a bit of how Alexandre Koberidze did in What Do We See When We Look at the Sky? but with a broader stroke rather than a discreet one. When she opens her eyes, Bailey sees a strange man approaching her named Bird (Franz Rogowski), who is introduced to us by a gust of wind that blows through the plains; his name, just like Barry Keoghan’s character, hints at the first glimpses of anthropomorphic story elements. His appearance seems crafted from the mind of a dreaming child; Bird looks like a drifter. Where has he come from? Scared, Bailey’s first reaction is to take her phone out, grabbing it as if it were a weapon. But Bird doesn’t mean any harm, going along his way after a freeform dance. 

Curious about his presence, Bailey follows him to the council block’s housing project beside her. Bailey then asks her what he’s looking for. Bird says he is searching for his parents, who used to live there. Bailey wants to help him because they are two sides of the same coin; both are lost in a world deemed without aspirations, wanting a pair of open arms to go to when things are at their lowest. This reflective mirror forges a strange bond between them, one of understanding and acceptance of each other’s desolation and isolation. The only person Bailey knows who can maybe help him out is her mother, Peyton (Jasmine Johnson). 

This search for Bird’s lost parents opens a closet of misgivings. The two begin to get involved in their messes, helping each other along the way and, when in deep sorrow, are there for each other. Bird plays a significant role in her life during this journey, being a guardian angel of some sort – overseeing her every move from the rooftops of the housing complexes, just like a stark or seagull. There are many attempts at magical realism here, with Franz Rogowski’s character being the main one, followed by Bailey’s father, who, at a certain point in the film, sings two “drug toad” songs by Blur and Coldplay to potentially extract its psychedelic slime. 

Arnold has played with similar elements, primarily by using animals as metaphors for the characters’ imprisonment, being stuck, and wanting to run away. Although, these are seen in ways that aren’t too in your face. This is why it doesn’t work this time around. These elements are used to blend within the setting, swiftly put together with plenty of brevity, which the viewer latches onto. But in Bird, they come off as strange oddities; instead of enhancing the experience and making the emotions feel grounded, the anthropomorphic elements take you out of the spell that Arnold wants to put the audience under. Somewhere along the lines of the film’s palpability lies a beating heart, which is pumped by the touching performances of the cast, notably Adams and Keoghan. Both seem to be in sync with delivering the emotional tenure in Arnold’s previous work. As for Rogowski, just like in his previous performances, he offers plenty of nuance to let us into the magic. But, rather unfortunately, the screenplay takes us away with on-the-nose dialogue and miscalculated narrative choices. 

This is definitively Andrea Arnold on her most playful side in a narrative sense, as visually, it remains more on her wavelength. She piles up many ideas about love, forgiveness, and friendship, yet they all come across quite like the characters – wandering until they find their place in the world. But they never find the right place to fit in the narrative. Bird comes off as a meretricious attempt at making a slightly feel-good picture due to the mishandling of the story within the confines of the magical realism that Arnold wants to place forcefully. And the audience leaves with the notion of not knowing what to get out of it all. As an Andrea Arnold fan who thinks American Honey was one of the best films of the previous decade, I am very disappointed.

Grade: C-

Director: Jonás Trueba
Writer: Jonás Trueba
Stars: Itsaso Arana, Vito Sanz

Synopsis: After 15 years as a couple, Ale and Alex decide to throw a party to celebrate their separation, leaving their loved ones perplexed.

In his latest work, The Other Way Around (Volveréis), Spanish filmmaker Jonás Trueba delves into the emotional depths of a marriage potentially meeting its end. He navigates through some regularly seen tropes, gradually unfolding a metatextual ode to love in union and separation—the beginning and end of a beautiful relationship. Trueba’s exploration of the heartwarming and cruel nature of bonds and their necessity for personal growth resonates deeply. By blending reality and fiction, as well as wishes and desires, he transforms a standard narrative into a touching feature with many intertwining details, providing the film with a beating heart that captivates from start to finish. 

“We should do as your dad suggested” are the first words spoken in The Other Way Around. A couple – husband actor Alex (Vito Sanz) and wife filmmaker (Itasa Arana) – are now at a point in their life together where they believe there’s no return. Love has been lost from both sides or at least to some degree where they haven’t decided if they should (or shouldn’t) separate. This is where Ale’s father and his unique perspective on love come into play. He once talked about doing a party that celebrates a couple’s separation rather than union, or as Alex refers to it, a wedding but the other way around – saying the film’s title and coincidentally, one of the many winks at the camera that Trueba places from time to time. 

Ale says that this “celebration” can only be done if both parties are at the same emotional point, an answer that reveals to the audience that one of them is still holding on to the love they once had. We don’t know who the one out of the two who feels this particular way is, but there’s this hesitance beneath their breath when speaking about the topic. Sadness lingers as they laugh through the uncertainty and treat the party as a joke. Their minds aren’t clear; they don’t know what to do with their lives after all this. So, the two rush things and seek the opinions of others to see what they think of this weird scenario.

The reactions from their close friends and family range from “I don’t understand the concept” and “Did you both agree on this?” to “You will get back together eventually”. Of course, these aren’t the responses they seek – leaving them even more perplexed and in doubt about the whole thing. Is repentance going through their minds? Or are they just putting their emotions aside so that they can’t face their true feelings about their fifteen-year-long relationship? Their discussions may not even relate to the matter, but somehow it returns to the “celebration of separation”. An example of this is seen when they talk about a film they just watched. Alex and Ale differ on whether or not the film is an elegy of matrimony or a caricature of it. 

Their frustrations wiggle their way in if they should feel repentant about their current status and sights emotionally. The two actors got their teeth way too sunk in the material that it seems they were in love with one another before. Every single emotion they transmit comes off as palpable. Sanz and Arana aren’t doing screaming matches or melodramatic tenures for their performances; instead, they come off as grounded portrayals of a broken bond. Even if there are moments where fiction and reality intertwine, as Ale’s film continues to shoot, The Other Way Around remains true-to-life instead of relying too much on its self-referential elements regarding depicting the emotions felt by the characters. 

This makes each narrative beat feel full of vigor, with some necessary touches of gloom, as most relationships contain. The narrative so far has been pretty repetitive, with the two asking different people about the party and their thoughts. But this repetition gets a new meaning when Ale breaks the news to her father. He says that the idea of celebration separations doing good to both sides of the couple was told in passing. And that doesn’t mean they have to go through it. The man who came up with the idea has now backed away from it, leaving Ale feeling an array of emotions. 

It is here when, through Ale’s father, Trueba starts to meddle with the film and peel away the layers in the same way that Mia Hansen-Løve did in the brilliant Bergman Island.  The man recommends that she read a couple of books to ease her mind. One of them is ‘Repetition’ by Søren Kierkegaard. The Danish philosopher (under his pseudonym Constantine Constantius) talks about whether repetition is actually possible and the difference it has with recollection. Later in the film, a line is repeated from the book: “Repetition’s love is, in truth, the only happy love.” Kierkegaard mentions that what has been recollected has already been, hence the sadness that lingers upon remembrance. Meanwhile, repetition is recollected forwards. 

Trueba combines this line with the structure of the film. Each time Ale and Alex ask a person about the party, it is repetition. However, when they were alone, the two thought back to their early years, the “good old times”, subjecting themselves to recollection – threading backward and unable to solve their anguish. It is a brilliant tie-in that makes The Other Way Around go past its by-the-numbers procedure during the first act, done on purpose so that the film blooms into something rather moving. The second book is called ‘El Cine, Puede Hacernos Mejor?’ (translated as ‘Cinema, Can it Make Us Better?’) by Stanley Cavell. 

Ale’s father explains that Cavell’s arguments are based on classic comedies from Hollywood’s Golden Era – like The Philadelphia Story, The Lady Eve, and His Girl Friday (my favorite of the ones mentioned) – where the couples in these films give themselves a second chance. They don’t want to make the same mistakes but do things differently, better. Much like Walter Burns and Christy Colleran or Charles Pike and Jean Harrington, the man wants Ale and Alex to reconcile. The audience watching knows they are meant to be together; Ale and Alex complement each other perfectly, even more so than the characters from these screwball comedies. Trueba, just like Cavell, believes that cinema can help us be better people and heal our wounds. 

The film that Ale is making reflects her relationship with Alex. In this fictitious struggling marriage, one doesn’t want to continue the relationship (the character being played by her husband) while still having doubts about his decision. And it all circles back to the initial thought of doing what Ale’s father suggested. It is with this performance that Alex thinks clearly about the situation. Alex’s character and him intersect for one moment; reality and fiction meet at the point where this love story reaches the point of remorse. It is like a double-sided cinematic therapy session where the film and the movie insider help uncover the crux of their problems. Trube ties every narrative beat that felt loose or disjointed before and provides a new lens through which to see them. 

Both Ale’s and Trueba’s works have the same purpose and are constructed in the same manner. They are broken and without a correct rhythm until the inner workings of the narrative find their place. It is a brilliant execution of self-referential techniques and fourth-wall breaks. Jonás Trueba has always been quite experimental with his movies. But in The Other Way Around, he is more playful than before. The Spanish filmmaker develops a premise that seems simple on paper and begins to disorganize everything in a clutter that the characters must clean for themselves. It is pretty moving once you see the complete picture, the repair of something deemed broken – a comedy-drama combination about whether or not separation should be the first (and immediate) response to a relationship slowly failing.

Grade: B+

Directors: Matthew Rankin
Writers: Ila Firouzabadi, Pirouz Nemati, Matthew Rankin
Stars: Matthew Rankin, Mani Soleymanlou, Danielle Fichaud

Synopsis: Two women find frozen cash, try to retrieve it. A tour guide leads confused tourists around Winnipeg sites. A man quits his job, visits his mother. Storylines intertwine surreally as identities blur in a disorienting comedy

One of the most intriguing aspects of the Quinzaine de Cineastes’ lineup is the discovery of talented filmmakers who could be the directors of tomorrow. This unique side section of the prestigious Cannes Film Festival often goes unnoticed, as the spotlight is understandably on the films competing for the Palme d’Or. However, having covered this section for the past couple of years, I can attest to the wealth of surprises it holds. This year, Matthew Rankin’s latest work, Universal Language (Une Langue universelle), is a shining example.  It is a deadpan, structurally weird, and heartful piece that beautifully explores the theme of connection.

Rankin tells a tale that ties three cities together. He captures the longing for belonging and solidarity via a poetic Matryoshka doll concoction that doesn’t make sense at first but slowly blossoms into a thing of beauty. Introduced to us with a VHS tape educational video presentation meant for the youth of Winnipeg and done “in the name of friendship,” Universal Language begins with a scene in a classroom. Rowdy children are awaiting their teacher, who is running late after his bus broke down and had to walk through the snow to get there. He’s mad at them because of their bad behavior – disappointed that they misbehaved in his absence. The teacher later starts mocking their answers when he asks them what they want to be when they grow up.

The teacher picks on Omid (Sobhan Javadi) the most, a young kid behind in his studies due to his myopia; the youngling lost his glasses when a runaway turkey attacked him on his way home. Of course, nobody believes him, especially his teacher. So, he then decides that there will be no more education until Omid can see properly. In this scene, Rankin begins the pattern of intertwining stories and presenting hints at the sadness behind the comedic elements. You immediately point out that the teacher’s rant isn’t just about his string of bad luck that day; there’s more than meets the eye. These emotions are carried over from another incident.

The film then switches scenery, and we follow two of Omid’s classmates, Negin (Rojina Esmaeili) and Nazgol (Saba Vahedyousefi), who find an Iranian banknote worth five hundred riels stuck on the frozen floor. Instead of thinking about themselves, the two want to help poor Omid by buying him a new pair of glasses. The two friends take off into a small venture to try and take that money out of the ice by any means possible. They seek help from strangers, ask vendors to borrow ice picks and axes, as well as get sent from one place to another to do quick favors like mini sidequests in a videogame. At the same time, two other concurrent stories take place.

A tour guide leads a group of people through Winnipeg’s monuments and historic sites. There are a couple of important spots to look at, but the city itself doesn’t seem that interesting. Not even the tour guide seems to sell the monuments as grand. The other story centers around a man named Matthew (played by the director himself, Matthew Rankin), who has quit his job in Quebec and now travels to Winnipeg to visit his ailing mother. These stories might seem very different from one another, as they have different tones and pacings. But in how Rankin intertwines them, they come together in quite surprising ways. Everyone is connected. Every single character is tied to one another, even in the slightest details imaginable.

At first, it is hard to truly get into the movie due to the viewer’s uncertainty about where these stories will intersect narratively and thematically. We go from the past to the present and vice-versa; time splits as the stories shift. But when you notice how beautiful and captivating the webbing is, everything is seen and perceived in a new light. Rankin purposefully entangles the narrative for two-thirds of the film to reveal his film’s proper form later. The viewer patiently waits as the two kids, the angry teacher, the man visiting his mother, and even the runaway turkey with Omid’s glasses are tied together. And it is all so fascinating to watch.

Stylistically, Matthew Rankin takes inspiration from some filmmakers who use deadpan comedy in brilliant ways, giving their respective works personality and uniqueness. The works of Roy Andersson and Wes Anderson inspire Universal Language. Rankin uses the former’s blend of “laughing through the pain” existentialism and melancholia, as well as the muted colors in the background and locations. Meanwhile, you can see the centric shot compositions and vivacity from the performances of the latter demonstrated. Because of these two influences, Rankin gives his film multiple emotional layers that sneak into the viewer’s soul as everything comes together.

Everything is odd and cluttered initially, yet it still intrigues you with how it develops. Matthew Rankin mentions in the press notes—where he hilariously interviews himself—that one line from The Color of Pomegranates was crucial for this film’s creation. “We were looking for ourselves in each other”. In relation to the Universal Language, Rankin reflects on how each of these characters on-screen has deep humility and compassion for them all by the end of the film. They acknowledge that they have, in some way, shape, or form, done the same actions and went through similar situations. So, a feeling of understanding is created in the process.

Somehow, that is the universal language that unites us all, holding us on tenterhooks and tranquility. Everyone goes through hardships that make each day feel like a living hell. Yet, compassion can be transmitted through that understanding via dialogue or even a quick glance. That is the beauty that emerges from the ending of Universal Language. Matthew Rankin creates a deadpan comedy that has many layers once the stories begin to meet. It is a true demonstration of the talent that lurks in the Quinzaine des Cineastes; the film is a little hidden gem that holds a big, delicate heart.

Grade: B

Directors: Joaquín Cociña and Cristóbal León
Writers: Joaquín Cociña and Cristóbal León
Stars: Antonia Giesen, Francisco Visceral Rivera, Natalia Medina

Synopsis: A woman’s storytelling and illusions bring to life the controversial figure of Miguel Serrano, a Chilean writer who propagated esoteric Neo-Nazi philosophies, prompting contemplation about his place in history.

The Quinzaine de Cineastes (Directors Fortnight) is the perfect space for the filmmakers of tomorrow, the new voices that will shape the future of cinema. Many established and influential directors have brought their films to the Cannes Film Festival’s side program, stamping their names in one of the most underrated selections in all big European festivals. The committee in charge of choosing which films to play in the Quinzaine always tends to offer a variety of pictures with fascinating and creative ideas. But they always leave a spot or two for some heavily experimental, bold, and quite weird pictures that provoke the audience while leaving them astonished by the creativity and vision of the directors attached to these projects. 

In the past couple of years, we have had films by Bertrand Mandico (his gender-flipped version of Conan the Barbarian, She is Conann), Alex Garland (the imagery-focused and folk horror-inspired MEN), and Panos Cosmatos (the surrealistic revenge-thriller starring Nicholas Cage, Mandy). There are many other notable examples of these types of films. But these examples alone should let you know of the artistry and boldness at play here. This year, this “sacred” spot belongs to what may feasibly be the most inventive and surrealistic feature to screen at this year’s Cannes Film Festival, not only in the Quinzaine. That film is the sophomore outing by the Chilean directing duo Cristóbal León and Joaquín Cociña, The Hyperboreans (Los Hiperbóreos). 

León and Cociña present a captivating and enigmatic exposition of modern imaginative filmmaking at its most surreal state. The directing duo, known for their excellent stop-motion nightmare, The Wolf House, now take us on a more mind-bending journey. In The Hyperboreans, you’ll find yourself questioning what is real and what is not in the story, but one thing is certain: it’s a cinematic experience unlike any other. This work solidifies them as two of the industry’s most original and innovative minds today. Explaining, or even doing a brief synopsis, The Hyperboreans is a very arduous task, as reality and imagination, dreams and nightmares, and narrative and documentary filmmaking begin to blend as the film runs its course. But I will try to make it seem cohesive so the ready can follow along. 

A hypnotherapy-like image introduces us to the film; it feels like a portal that makes the viewer travel from their seat at the cinema to León and Cociña’s mad minds, where everything is intertwined and impossible to separate. After the image dissipates, we advance to a film studio covered in muted-colored drapes with an array of period costumes and puppets hanging from them. An actress is wandering around the large yet equally cramped room; practicing her lines before presenting herself to us. She seems nervous about what will happen; she is dithering, indecisive about whether it is a good idea or not to go on with the show. But she holds her chin up and sets herself in front of the camera. 

This can be described as Alice’s first step into the rabbit hole, yet instead of finding wonders and beauty, you get concoctions from purgatory. “Welcome to the set of The Hyperboreans”, the actress says via one of the many fourth-wall breaks and self-referential antics León and Cociña pull in this project. In a brief introduction about her life, she reveals herself as, well… herself, Antonia Giesen. The Chilean actress says that she is recognized for her work on the big screen, like Pablo Larrain’s underrated Ema and Leo Medel’s La Veronica, but most people don’t know that she is a clinical psychiatrist. As she continues her introductory monologue, Giesen tells us the story of the stolen negative of a film she starred in. The project was shot on celluloid, and the print was stolen before the director could digitalize the negatives. 

The police couldn’t find any evidence of the robbery, so the case never was solved. But the film we are watching is an opportunity to bring the lost film to life through the memories left of it. As soon as she says that, another step is taken into the rabbit hole. Giesen continues the story while changing the scenery behind her, making it look like a therapy room. It is an odd concoction that draws immediate intrigue due to reality and fiction colliding to form another story running concurrently with the one she’s telling the viewer. Giesen recalls a time when she was meeting a patient, known throughout the film as “El Metalero” (the Metalhead), who was struggling with his psychiatric treatment. 

As a last possibility to help him, she recommends that he write his thoughts down each day in a journal. During his daily scribes, he wrote a screenplay about a police officer in a sci-fi fantasy version of Chile. Intrigued by his ideas, Giesen makes the script a feature film. She turns to her filmmaker friends Cristóbal León and Joaquín Cociña, the directors playing more frenetic versions of themselves, to direct it, with Giesen playing the lead role. They all smile and are full of excitement to start production. But this is the point of no return; nobody is safe, not even the audience watching. If this description were two steps into the rabbit hole, only covering the first ten minutes of The Hyperboreans, then what’s next is an uncontrolled freefall into the abyss. 

Everything changes drastically; the tone, structure, stylistic approach, and atmosphere, amongst other things, alternate to a more surrealistic and experimental design. Men are turned into stop-motion puppets; bodies are transformed into different figures; there are stories within stories, psychoanalytic exploration of the effects of cinema, and a pitch-black version of a ‘Tale of Two Cities’. And that doesn’t cut it. León and Cociña create an array of weird, stirring machinations that feel tangible; you can grasp the scenery and everything around it with your fingertips, which shows the viewer how immersive this experience is on a technical side. They showed us their impressive talents in The Wolf House a few years ago. However, the expertise and attention to detail here, considering that they mix live-action with stop-motion animation and documentary filmmaking, is just an act of two cinematic magicians. There are many original films released year-round. But none of them manage to feel like this; those films don’t feel nearly as inspired as this. 

Unorthodox storytelling procedures being able to work out is always a thing that people should champion, especially in this manner. However, the immersiveness of the story also comes from an emotional side, which is a different ride on its own. While sometimes confusing and, in others, utmost inexplicable, the viewer senses a chill down their spine as the story progresses. The Hyperboreans is about one thing at first: the curious screenplay that “El Metalero” has written and how making it helps him mentally. Yet, it rapidly switches its gears and covers more ground than before; life, death, loss, and separation mix into a Molotov cocktail of pure gloom. This amalgamation takes a toll on you, feeling every inch of the atmosphere in your mind, body, and soul. 

The damnation clouds your head. And once it gets you, it never lets go. León and Cociña’s latest feels like the theater-play scene in Ari Aster’s Beau is Afraid, which they helped create, mixed with David Lynch’s Rabbits online series (also seen in his film Inland Empire) if they were a metatextual documentary on a crazy occultist. All of this may seem like a huge red flag for many viewers. But I felt captivated by it in every way possible, even if it’s hard to follow occasionally. This is some of the most creative and bold direction I have seen in a long time. I know that nothing at the festival could stand up to this in terms of cinematic innovation and despondency.

Grade: A-