Director: Antoine Chevrollier
Writers: Berenice Bocquillon, Antoine Chevrollier, Faiza Guene
Stars: Damien Bonnard, Mathieu Demy, Leonie Dahan-Lamort

Synopsis: Willy and Jojo are childhood friends who never leave each other’s side. To beat boredom, they train at the Pampa, a motocross track. One evening, Willy discovers Jojo’s secret.

The Cannes Film Festival always has an array of coming-of-age stories lined up in their slate, whether in competition for the Palme d’Or or their independent sections, such as the Semaine de la Critique (Critic’s Week). Many directors are given the opportunity to concoct their near-adulthood tales that, one way or another, reflect their own lives. Antoine Chevrollier is one of those filmmakers in this year’s festival, presenting his latest work, Block Pass (La Pampa) – a genuine yet poorly structured story about two best friends’ trials and tribulations, as one of them deals with the loss of his father, while the other has his most kept secret revealed. 

Block Pass begins with a dare between friends – a dangerous antic that might kill someone in the worst-case scenario. Jojo (Amaury Foucher) must cross the busy highway on his motorbike at top speed. His best friend, Willy (Sayyid El Alami), is highly preoccupied with what might happen if Jojo doesn’t make it or crashes into a vehicle. Everything goes well. Willy recognizes that it was a risky move on his part yet celebrates this stunt, as he deems it entertainingly maddening. After this maneuver, we get a glimpse of their life as off-road circuit racers, where the adrenaline rush fuels each turn and jump. These scenes reminded me of Lola Quiveron’s Rodeo, which coincidentally also played at the Cannes Film Festival two years ago. 

The viewer is placed at the center of this subculture, but instead of dirt riders in Quiveron’s film, Chevrollier uses motor cross. Unlike the aforementioned film, Block Pass doesn’t focus on this daredevil, thrilling lifestyle’s specifics and ins and outs. It gives hints during the first act to get you in the headspace of the lead characters – the reasons why they do the sport. I would have appreciated seeing more of this life, not to the extent that Quiveron did in great detail, but something of that nature. It adds more personality to the film and provides glances at a side of the world that most people don’t know about. Instead, Chevrollier focuses on the dramatic elements rather than drawing up the environment. 

When the races are finished and the duo is tired from celebrating, Willy and Jojo return to their respective homes, dealing with their family troubles and demons. Willy is still emotionally wounded by the death of his father. He hasn’t been able to move on, hence the aggression and hostility toward his mother’s new partner. Meanwhile, Jojo is trying to reach the standards that his father has for him, as well as keeping his sexuality a secret from the people around him. The reason why Jojo hides this big secret is because this subculture is very masculine, and he knows that they won’t look at  once they hear about his sexuality, they won’t look at him the same way – treating him with disrespect and malice. The only person who will be there for him is his best friend.

Block Pass struggles with how Chevrollier handles the intertwining between Willy’s grief and his relationship with Jojo, sometimes making it feel like two different projects. When Chevrollier focuses on one side of the story, the other is sidelined for a very long period of time, making each narrative intersection between the two have a lesser impact than it should. Each of these topics, grief, and acceptance, needed more time to be examined. They remain incomplete; the audience wants to learn more about the characters and their respective angst. Willy and Jojo suffer plenty, yet they aren’t given many moments of brevity so that we can know them better. While the emotions are palpable, the notions about understanding are somewhat short-sighted. 
Halfway through Block Pass, Chevrollier pivots the story into a Close territory.

And that transition in dramatic tone doesn’t contain the emotional potency or subtlety that Lukas Dhont provided his film with when approaching that heavy emotional turn. During that section of the film, the story is handled with care yet in a loose manner that makes each scene afterward feel a tad distant. However, when Block Pass is nearing its end, Chevrollier delivers one final punch that is very effective. It is a short and slight moment that not only makes up for the poor management of the narrative beats in the film’s second half but also encapsulates the beautiful friendship that Willy and Jojo have in a single frame. But this moment arrives so late that it makes you wish that Chevrollier had delivered the same emotional potency to the rest of the story.

Grade: C-

Director: Jonathan Millet
Writers: Jonathan Millet
Stars: Adam Bessa, Tawfeek Barhom, Julia Franz Richter

Synopsis: Hamid joins a secret group tracking Syrian regime leaders on the run. His mission takes him to France, pursuing his former torturer for a fateful confrontation.

Jonathan Millet’s feature-length debut Ghost Trail (Les fantômes) is a neatly crafted film that explores the psyche of a Syrian refugee via a spy-genre model. Millet uses an exciting way of exploring the tensions and angst a refugee goes through during and after the significant changes in their lives, especially when encountering ghosts of the past. However, such deconstruction of the espionage subgenre tends to drag across the film’s fascinating premise. Ghost Trail begins in 2015, when we see a man named Jamid (Adam Bessa, an underrated, talented actor) waiting exhausted alongside some other men in the back of a truck. They look worn out and tired of having to face these injustices daily. 

The camera focuses on the sun burning the Syrian desert as they head toward the light until there is no return. The film flashes forward to when Hamid lives in Strasburg, France, two years later. In this time that we miss, Hamid has been very busy – doing various jobs, talking to other Syrians from exile circles, as well as trying to find a person who he deems is his lost cousin from the war. It is slowly revealed that our protagonist is hiding secrets, so his life is very isolated; he even lies to his mother about living a successful life in Berlin. Hamid is part of a “clock-and-dagger” European-based organization that tracks down war criminals responsible for the atrocities that occurred under Bashar’s regime. 

These people Hamid and company are searching for use fake names and disguises, hiding themselves within all of Europe – camouflaging to begin their new lives. With these details known, you realize that Hamid is not looking for his cousin. Instead, he is searching for a man named Harfaz, his torturer from the time he was imprisoned in Sednaya. This is an intriguing premise with many possibilities as the spy games begin and the tension rises. Miller doesn’t indulge in the flash and action that modern spy films tend to use; instead, he takes a more grounded approach to the genre, focusing on Hamid’s perspective during his search for the man who tormented him.

We get plenty of close-ups of Hamid’s stone-cold expressions in the process, further adopting the persona of a lone wolf captured with ease by Bessa throughout the film. Ghost Trail begins to go into a darker territory thematically when Hami thinks he has found Harfaz near Strasbourg. Hamid only has a blurry picture of him and can’t rely on facial recognition, as Harfaz put a bag over his head when torturing him. But his presence still puts a chill down his spine; the way the man talks, smells, and walks reminds Hamid of Harfaz. However, the key is in the details. Hamid notices the man has an injured hand, a mark he recognizes immediately. That’s when he questions what his next move will be. 

The man Hamid believes is his torturer goes by the name of “Hassan” (Tawfeek Barhom), who lives a comfortable life devoid of any complications. This makes Hamid even more furious, as “Hassan” is living a life that he couldn’t have – one taken away from him forcefully. The audience feels his pain through Bessa’s solid performance. The man was robbed of a prosperous life with his wife and daughter, who died during the war. But he now lies deep in isolation; his PTSD haunts his daily living. Through this isolation, MIllet reflects on how the world moves on from these severe problems worldwide. He questions if the world wants, or is interested, in bringing these war criminals to justice instead of letting them go on with their lives as if nothing has happened. 

When Hamid finally decides how to approach the situation, Ghost Trail then plays off as a game of cat and mouse, where Hamid is slowly trying to get closer to “Hassan;” it even reaches a point where he can smell him, which has the audience worried about his actions. During these moments, you get the best and worst assets that MIllet offers in his feature debut. Ghost Trail, unfortunately, ends up dragging a lot when developing this hunt. By the last act, you feel pretty tired of the lone wolf procedure of catch and follow, and the film’s strong ending doesn’t manage to hit as hard as one would like. 

Sometimes, Miller’s direction hints at Francis Ford Coppola’s The Conversation via sensory clues and details revealed instead of lots of violence, which would have the film go to an unwanted exploitative territory. However, Millet runs out of ideas to keep the audience completely hooked on the narrative. For the most part, Ghost Trail remains engaging enough to make us intrigued about where it is heading and the exploration of a refugee’s broken psyche thanks to the solid performances and the aforementioned sensory element. I think there should have been a more crafty or savvy manner in which everything came to a close in the last few minutes.

Grade: C+

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