Festival Coverage by Logan Kenny and Joseph Bullock
For twelve days in October, the BFI London Film Festival screened over 50 feature films from around the world. Due to the COVID-19 pandemic – and the United States’s response – all of the films featured here were viewed on their virtual platform rather than in person. Cinematary writers Logan Kenny and Joseph Bullock were both able to “attend” the festival and here present writing on 10 features from 8 different countries.
Shadow Country by Bohdan Sláma
Czechia
Joseph Bullock: Many of the things that I dislike about Shadow Country are not necessarily bad things. Concerning the events leading up to and after a massacre of supposed Nazi collaborators in a Czech village post-WWII, it is an appropriately bleak experience. Tonally, it echoes whatever the phrase “stark black-and-white” usually means when describing a historical film. It shows how quickly and unassumingly a group of people can adopt fascism; then, pulling the rug from the audience, it shows how an act of retribution can also be horrific and dehumanising, a masquerade of justice. The ideologies of Nazism and Communism rendered here are just symbols of opportunism. In the first act, the dirt-covered and dirt-poor villagers cast out their Jewish friends for the promise of wealth, land, and security. Everything is material; almost everyone is irredeemable. One of the sole bastions of dignity is Marie, a woman who, even when her husband does, will not renounce her Czech ancestry when the Germans invade. By association, however, she is viewed as a collaborator when the war ends.
The absence of colour reinforces the dourness of it all, the inevitability associated with the past. When it comes to Nazi atrocities such as the Holocaust, director Bohdan Sláma works through implication. In once scene, a newly enlisted soldier brags to his wife about working on the train system. She is turned on by this new status and begins to have sex with him immediately. While the first half of the movie is about horrors like these and how people become complicit in them, the second is about how we assign guilt – in this case, with complete dysfunction. I find it hard to decipher what Sláma’s commentary on these events is. Why are the crimes of the Czechs shown far more explicitly and with the kind of self-conscious sordidness that marks a lot of works that deal with history? Is this authentic or is it actually rather biased in its assumption of objectivity? Who knows. It is obvious that he wanted to make something that follows history in a meticulous way, but, even amongst the impressive performances and attentive set-design, laborious detachment is what prevails.
Siberia by Abel Ferrara
Italy
Joseph Bullock: When colour cinematography was originally adopted, film-makers such as Andrei Tarkovsky complained about the commerciality of it, its use as an artificial selling point rather than as a way to create meaning. He noted that “on the screen colour imposes itself on you, whereas in real life that only happens at odd moments.” Abel Ferrara’s Siberia is a film of these odd moments. It begins with a memoir-like, nostalgic recollection of childhood by Willem Dafoe’s Clint, our protagonist. Then it is all colour: a wide shot of a man trudging through snow, bathed in turquoise in a way reminiscent of tinted silent film stock. Clint works in an isolated cabin in the mountains, serving the occasional customer and otherwise, we imagine, reminiscing about his past. In a manner akin to Jean Cocteau’s Orphic Trilogy, he embarks (without really embarking) on a journey through a series of surreal visions: he sees random pregnant women, graphic injuries, death camps, heavy metal concerts – and, in true Ferrara style, he takes part in a number of dimly lit, expressionistic sex scenes.
Indeed, expressionism really is the lens with which to view this latest collaboration between the cult director and Dafoe. It harkens back to surrealist classics frequently, but mainly concerns one man’s subconscious and subjective experiences: Oedipal desire, the regrets of a life lived through inhibition, images of dead relatives and the dreadful realisation that any engagement with them is disjointed, lost somehow. Ferrara’s camera is often dreamlike and detached, tracking away from the characters as if to insist on their unreality. He occasionally disrupts this, though the effect on the whole is transitory. It is fortunate that the style – the colour of it – is so well realised, as some of the philosophical dialogues have little to offer. Clint appears to wearily acknowledge this, feeling his soul slipping away amongst the ink-dark trees and harsh, overwhelming firelight.
Bloody Nose, Empty Pockets by Turner Ross and Bill Ross IV
USA
Logan Kenny: Many documentary scholars and purists might view something as experimental and free flowing as Bloody Nose, Empty Pockets as not a true documentary. The supposed “last night in a closing Las Vegas dive bar” presented by the film actually takes place in New Orleans and it was shot over two nights, with footage spliced together to create the sensation of an unending night. In addition, the members of this bar, from the bartenders to regular patrons to random guests coming for a good time were all chosen specifically by the Ross brothers to capture the energies they were looking for in this production. There is inherent artifice in its construction: it’s the last night in a Las Vegas bar not in Las Vegas populated by people who haven’t been drinking there for years that isn’t even restricted on one night. Nevertheless, this is one of the most honest and emotional documentaries in recent memory partly because of these false truths.
Bloody Nose, Empty Pockets captures the melancholy of bars flawlessly. The regulars who have no other place to find human connection, the drunks who linger around to ease their pain of past trauma, a group of lost souls bonding over the bitter taste of liquor and the comfort of human companionship. At first, the staging of Bloody Nose seems slightly alienating, the implemented B roll of Las Vegas and the intricate camera work within the interiors of the bar give the immediate indication that this is not reality as we know it. Yet, after a few drinks between all of these people, there becomes a sense of honest truth between their connections, real stories, real feelings, and real drinks going down throats. Inside an inherently dishonest template, the Ross Brothers capture the most important human truth about spaces like these, how much we crave connection even if we can only find it in a dirty room smelling of piss and alcohol.
These people might not have years of history with each other, but by the end of the night, that doesn’t matter. The joys of singing songs with new friends contrasts perfectly with the knowledge that none will ever drink together like this again. It reminds me of the last day I spent out in public before lockdown, doing my best to achieve and enjoy everything I could, having all my favourite experiences before shutting myself away. We act different when we know it’s going to be the last time for a long time, and every character by the end of this production captures that sensibility flawlessly. By the time the last drinks are poured, there is an overwhelming attachment to this bar and these people. There’s sadness in knowing it’s all over but also comfort in getting to watch it happen. It makes me desperate for the time that I can bond with total strangers somewhere again. Who cares if it’s not real when it still means something?
Kajillionaire by Miranda July
USA
Joseph Bullock: The protagonists of Miranda July’s latest film are small-time crooks in the most exaggerated sense. Old Dolio (Evan Rachel Wood) is an oddball, cool-seeming twenty-something who robs post offices with her equally strange parents. Early on, we see her performing a range of stretches and flips to evade detection. The scene, like many others, is humorous in its assumption of naturalness and professionalism. Wide-angle framings remind us of the offbeat quality of what we are seeing, its tendency to shift emotional register and tone with remarkable fluidity. It is a testament to July’s acuity as a film-maker that even the funniest moments of the movie are punctuated with a deep sadness and fragility. We learn that Dolio’s family is possibly more fractured than the light heist premise would suggest. Her nonchalance is really an affectation. Things that are originally funny become ways to express longing and isolation. Take, for example, a scene where Old Dolio is attempting to rob a dying man. We’ve probably seen something similar dozens of times, but here her conversation with the man is delicate and poetic, the direction of the scene nuanced and articulate.
Outside of performing robberies like this, the family try to avoid earthquakes and to block out the foam that is leaking into their flat, which is really an office space. This urgently overflowing yet pink, bubbly substance forms a perfect metaphor for the movie’s balance of personal drama and deadpan, absurd comedy. Wood’s performance matches these complexities, playing things rigidly straight while still subtly hinting at the vulnerability that slowly builds and dissipates throughout the movie’s runtime. If anything, the plot is too thin, the heist premise more of a catalyst for exploring messed up families. When viewed as more of a hangout movie, a piece where threads laughably fall due to the idiosyncrasies of the characters, it really shines. Richard Jenkins is glorious as the father and Gina Rodriguez too is highly charming as a young woman who joins the family’s schemes and eventually becomes a way out for Old Dolio.
Logan Kenny: It’s hard for me to describe what a film like Kajillionaire means without spoiling every detail of it. On the surface, it seems like another Sundance film, populated with endearing character actors and stars on the rise who will deliver good but forgettable work in a quirky comedy-drama, before the world moves on to the next film of its kind. Kajillionaire might be that kind of forgettable and uninspiring picture to many, but it isn’t to me. This is the kind of work that completely snuck up on with its emotional core, balancing a variety of tones perfectly before re-contextualising the entire experience and destroying those invested in the process. Miranda July’s third feature film manages to make every aspect of this balancing act work, when a lesser filmmaker could have easily failed to achieve the necessary humour and genuine emotional weight.
While the film is very breezy and enjoyable for the majority of the runtime, there is this genuine sadness in the study of its protagonist. Evan Rachel Wood conveys her sheltered sensibilities with equal amounts of melancholy and ecstasy. In the performance of her career, she alters her vocal range to a lower register and makes her physical demeanour more rigid for the majority of the first half. She moves and sounds like someone constantly paranoid, raised on a lifestyle of no true connections and the possibility of chaos around every corner. The true joy found in Kajillionaire isn’t in the gags or comedic set pieces but in watching Dolio embrace her body and existence as the film progresses. It is career-best work from Wood, whether she’s delightfully talking about trying all the products in a corner shop or unleashing her repressed emotions of fear and sadness.
Her relationship with Melanie, oscillating between friendship and potentially something more is the best aspect of the film, with Rodriguez’s charismatic and caring performance being believable enough to unlock Dolio’s true self. Their chemistry is extremely endearing and leads to some of the film’s sweetest and most emotional moments. Jenkins and Winger do great work as well, with a third act monologue from Jenkins in particular standing out as one of the best performances of the year. Dolio’s dynamics with all three of them shift throughout the film, but create an undeniable sense of intimacy between the viewer and these characters. They are all so clearly written and not archetypes in the slightest which ensures Kajillionaire stands out amongst more stereotypical entries in Sundance canon.
This connection to the characters makes the final 15 minutes an absolute rollercoaster, as July tears your heart apart and puts it back together again seemingly instantaneously. It captures the heartbreak of being let down by someone you trusted and cared for, of having to look back on all your treasured memories with them with a sadder lens. Yet, instead of lingering in miserablism or heartbreak, July instead showcases the importance of connection. For anyone that’s dealt with disappointment and dysfunction in their personal lives, it’s impossible to not get swept up in the final gestures of Kajillionaire as it makes you feel like for a moment, everything is impenetrable. It might not be perfect – there will always be that bitterness and sadness over what’s happened – but it’s all going to be okay in the end.
Undine by Christian Petzold
Germany
Logan Kenny: Undine captures the little details of a relationship in ways that most films miss. The way time slows to a halt as protagonist Undine (Paula Beer) waits for her person to arrive at the train station. The way Christoph (Franz Rogowski) holds his lovers after some time apart, embracing them completely in his arms like it might be the last time he’ll ever feel their flesh pressed against his. Most importantly, the way it captures memories that come from little accidents around one of their places, a wine spill against the wall transitioning from a simple mistake to a physical indication of your love as time passes and things change is breathtaking. It understands how the smallest things in a relationship become seismic upon any prospect of loss, how a stupid conversation or a shared cafe or a lecture about the history of architecture become the most important things in the world to you without your partner there.
Undine, like Christian Petzold’s previous two films Phoenix and Transit, is partially a film about the power of love in spite of overwhelming barriers. His films are never consistently joyous, with differing identities and global crises looming over his protagonists like a mundane apocalypse, but there’s truth in his romances that connect to anyone who’s ever struggled in a relationship. Undine is the most explicit romance of his career thus far and one of the greatest in recent memories, there are few films ever made that capture the essence of how empty places feel without the person you love there. There’s a sequence, reminiscent of Kiyoshi Kurosawa’s To the Ends of the Earth, in which Undine sits in the dark, broken by the prospect of what’s to come, staring at her phone screen waiting for any information or response from the person she loves. It is one of the most cutting sequences of the year, and works so effectively because of how convincing the central relationship is. Beer and Rogowski’s chemistry is through the roof, selling every glance and display of physical intimacy with unbelievable passion. Beer is incredible but Rogowski turns in the performance of his career, embodying love and especially grief with every fiber of his being. The way he limps through sequences in the second half, how he trembles with tears, even how he moves underwater, all create this perfect representation of someone designed to love, even when it’s the most painful feeling in the world.
Undine is unsurprisingly dense. There’s a lot to cover in a work as mystifying and rooted in as much history and mythology as this, but what stands out the most is how beautiful it is to watch these characters choose to love anyway. They all know it’s not permanent, whether that’s because of death or something more surreal, but they embrace it for as long as they can. Like with Petzold’s previous films, the ending is a monumental one, perfectly capturing the catharsis from grief and the comfort of embracing another person in a way words can’t describe. In a time where relationships are more fragile than ever – with a pandemic making many of us aware of our imminent mortality and how easily we can lose people – it’s beautiful to see something as convincingly romantic as this.
Joseph Bullock: For me, Undine answers the question, “what would happen if you took an eerie and romantic fairytale and made it as bland as possible?” Fit with an aqueous meet-cute and extended, strange underwater sequences, the movie shows its eponymous heroine (played by Paula Beer) falling in and out of love, performing her day job showcasing city planning models of Berlin, and casually threatening to kill a guy who dumps her. Girl-boss memes non-withstanding, the result of Petzold’s blend of gothic tropes and romantic drama very rarely entertains. The two ideas don’t even seem to gel in any interesting way.
When Undine meets Christoph (Franz Rogowski), a diver – which is literally one of the only words I can think of to describe him – both the promises of haunted, melancholic love and fantastical escapism remain unfulfilled. It’s hard to articulate why, but I found every turn of the story flat and meaningless. This isn’t helped by the real tonal and thematic incoherence here. Even scenes that are surely meant to be moving and beautiful, like Undine having to be dragged out of a lake, are all shot in this senseless, mundane way.
To avoid being too harsh, let me finish by listing some good things about it. The score is gentle yet evocative. Paula Beer’s performance is charming, emotive, and complex enough to sell the mysterious water-spirit vibe. There’s a great scene where she does one of her speeches in bed for Christoph, which is probably saying something about how we negotiate work and our romantic lives. Also, the chunky catfish named Gunther is incredibly cute.
Never Gonna Snow Again by Małgorzata Szumowska and Michał Englert
Poland / Germany
Joseph Bullock: Another flawed piece of work, albeit a more interesting one, is this collaborative effort which relies heavily upon Alec Utgoff’s energetic and enigmatic performance. He stars as Zhenia, a masseur and Ukrainian immigrant who moves to a Polish town to perform on the rather stuffy, broken cast of middle-class locals. In their identical, spacious houses, everyone from grieving widows to stern military men seek solace in his careful hands. Some are xenophobic and tedious; some have an array of hidden doubts and insecurities. All, in a sense, are hiding behind the smokescreen that their environment provides. Zhenia becomes a reliable confidant, but their attachment to him also gives way to jealousy and sexual attraction. Oh, and he also might have radioactive, hypnotic powers related to Chernobyl.
In terms of its idiosyncratic characters and satirical study of immigration and gated communities, this is a pretty successful and unique film. Where it fails for me is that there is a certain mundanity to the encounters that makes the whole overlong and repetitive. For much of its runtime, the film plays its cards close to its chest. This is laudable as it makes the experience feel revelatory to an extent, yet I wish that the weirdness, when it does happen, was ramped up further. The dream sequences are often enticing and very stylish in their dynamic, angular compositions, yet the rest is rather austere and plain. More attention is paid to the dull bickering of the townsfolk than to the discovery of their more internal conflicts. It makes sense: they are, like the place in which they live, cordoned off from the world, able to be honest only when a supernatural stranger visits town. When he does, it seems more like a diversion than a sea-change.
Farewell Amor by Ekwa Msangi
USA
Logan Kenny: There’s something quietly monumental about Ekwa Msangi’s feature film debut. Focusing on a family of Angolan immigrants in New York, Msangi explores a side of American and African culture that’s rarely explored in Western culture.
Walter (Ntare Guma Mbaho Mwine) is an immigrant who came to America years ago due to the Angolan civil war, leaving his family behind in order to establish his life in this new world. Now he drives a cab, can pay for his own apartment and has embarked on a romantic affair with a nurse. Esther (Zainab Jah) is his wife, finally able to come over to her new home alongside their teenage daughter Sylvia (Jayme Lawson) who hasn’t seen her father in person for as long as she can remember. Farewell Amor is about the process of a family who have never had the chance to truly be one yet, about the difficulties of dealing with a person’s changes over decades, and, eventually, about the beauty of having people in your life who love you.
The major structure is brilliantly handled, with each act taking the perspective of one of the three family members as they adjust to their new circumstances. We see their first meeting at the airport three times, each time, it has a different weight and effect to it depending on who’s being focused on. The first act is the finest, focusing on the father Walter’s difficulties letting go of the new life he’s found in this country. The way he smells the clothes of his former mistress, knowing that they can no longer be together is heartbreaking. The editing uses subtle flashbacks to beautiful effect in his sequence especially. As we develop more of a perspective on each character, fewer judgements are made towards any of them. It is clear to understand each one’s specific melancholy and they are treated with such overwhelming compassion that it’s impossible not to be invested.
It is a testament to the wonderful filmmaking and stellar performances that something as simple as this works the way it does. It manages to take you on a range of emotions without major conflict, instead getting its resonance from the subtle sadnesses and joy of everyday life. By the end, not only does it feel like you’ve watched the emergence of a family unit, but that you’ve lived in their home with them. It feels like nothing is more important than getting to be alongside the people you love.
David Byrne’s American Utopia by Spike Lee
USA
Logan Kenny: Comparisons to the classic Jonathan Demme film Stop Making Sense, also centred on frontman David Byrne’s genius musical compositions and passionate stage performances, are built into the text of the latest Spike Lee film. There is no attempt to remain distanced from the film that came 35 years before. Byrne and Lee come together to celebrate the past of Demme’s images, the past of Byrne’s musical catalogue and combine it all together to create something brand new.
Focusing on the Broadway show of the same name, David Byrne’s American Utopia is initially structured in a similar way to the Stop Making Sense, with members of this band being introduced gradually throughout the opening songs. The stage is initially similar at first to the opening image of Sense, an empty barren location that gradually gets populated by the bombast of its frontman and the sound of groundbreaking music. Over the course of the show, we see Lee capture the limitations of the theatre stage to beautiful effect, getting every part of the location burned into the brains of viewers within 30 minutes. Like Demme, his focus in depicting musical performance is focusing on the physical expression of the performers making it happen, from the constant delight of the joyous bass guitarist to the sly confidence of one of the drummers, showing that they’re having as much fun playing as everyone listening. It makes the songs themselves stand out even further, with the vibrancy of the people playing infecting the local crowd and everyone at home with the desire to dance their fears away. He continues on the legacy of Demme – the greatest concert filmmaker of all time – by attaching his interest in humanism and flair for montage onto the live theatre template.
Much like in Lee’s criminally underrated film Pass Over, here he understands the effect of the audience on viewers and how they become crucial parts of the performance. He frequently cuts back to close up shots of specific viewers, showing the glee in their eyes when a Talking Heads song plays or emotion in their eyes during some of the more evocative moments of the production. In addition to this, the style transitions from a well executed and loving tribute to Jonathan Demme into a monumental Spike Lee production on its own terms around the halfway point, with Byrne’s scintillating cover of Janelle Monae’s “Hell You Talmbout” being perfectly represented on film with trademark Lee documentary montage. Whenever Byrne and his backup singers say the name of a Black person killed by the police or other racist bastards, it cuts to shots of women holding the images of each life lost, with the camera zooming into their faces as the drums increase in intensity. It is indisputably Spike and provokes an immediate emotional reaction, particularly when it cuts to the Black members of Byrne’s band who are clearly overwhelmed by anger and emotion. Lee’s interest in pushing his filmmaking into the future, like Byrne’s interest in grappling with new songs and ideas musically, pays off wonderfully with a euphoric encore. As Byrne and company walk amongst the crowd, the cameras become less professional, with lower quality and more intimate footage being spliced into the extremely high definition edit. It adds a sense of immersion breaking that the show aims for, getting audiences to feel like they are now amongst the performers as individuals instead of exclusively as figures in a show. There’s true freedom and happiness in how Lee shoots these last moments.
While Lee plays tribute for long stretches, Byrne mostly avoids trying to emulate the Stop Making Sense in terms of his musical performances. He’s older now, filled with less physical exuberance to match his energetic demeanour and has channeled that impulse into increased creative ambition. Instead of elaborate costume changes or splicing together different concerts to amplify his unpredictable persona as a stage performer, Byrne is dressed in a single suit that gradually gets drenched in sweat as he goes on. His band aren’t performing with the raucous intensity of Talking Heads either, all staying fairly minimalist throughout, focusing on harmony over sheer energy. Byrne embraces his past, with the use of “This Must Be The Place” being particularly nostalgic and sweet, but implements it with weird quirks and nonsensical moments that could only have come out of his head. Unexpected pauses in the middle of his biggest hits, backing tracks continuing while he and his band remain static, and several other moments of truly wonderful strangeness. He uses nonsense rhymes to build a song around and pauses every few minutes to sincerely talk to the audience.
Byrne’s no longer the young man who can dance around for hours every night with overwhelming energy, but he has the biggest creative drive an artist could have, constantly pushing to reinvent himself and the nature of what he can do on stage. The previously mentioned cover of “Hell You Talmbout” is monumental for him as a departure from any conventional Byrne performances, not only adopting another artist’s song to make a larger point about police brutality but largely sidelining himself in the camera’s eye to spotlight the rest of his band. Throughout most of the show, Byrne is positioned ahead of his band, slightly separate to amplify his status as the frontman, but here, he becomes part of the entourage. It’s a subtle change in Byrne’s own positioning, but Lee’s skillful filmmaking ensures that it makes an impact on the audience. Throughout the runtime, it makes clear to the world that David Byrne still has things to say, still has music to make and obtains sincere pleasure out of performing to a live crowd. That’s a beautiful realisation to have.
At the end of the day, the most important thing about David Byrne’s American Utopia is that it’s a celebration of life and art in a way that makes you happy. The best thing anyone can ever say about this wonderful movie is that it makes the day a little easier just by it existing, that for a couple of hours, we can all still get lost in the rhythms of good music and the idiosyncrasies of one of our finest artists. It might not be Stop Making Sense, but Jonathan Demme would be proud, and it’s one of 2020’s most essential films.
Related: Hear Zach and Andrew discuss David Byrne’s American Utopia on Episode 318 of the podcast
Days by Tsai Ming-liang
Taiwan
Joseph Bullock: Introducing itself as intentionally unsubtitled, Days is a spare, measured piece about a romantic encounter between two men. Lee Kang-shung plays Kang, a wealthy middle-aged man who always seems to be aching or in pain somehow. Non (Anong Houngheuangsy) is a masseur from the inner city, poorer yet equally disillusioned. Legendary director Tsai Ming-liang takes care to show Non preparing each item of his meal, as well as the mundane, discordant life that Kang leads in his empty house. Both performances are subdued and delicate but searing in their portrayal of loneliness. The two meet, have sex, and then part. The stillness returns. Days go past. And the film ends.
Through this meticulous rendering of time, space, and routine, the audience is forced to view these people circumstantially and through a genuine examination of how they, and we, interact with our modern environment. While we might ascribe less significance to spaces than the film does, the incalculable richness of Ming-Liang’s images helps us to see beyond, to grasp the absences present in this chaotic city. He is deeply concerned, too, with what lies outside of his camera, with the traffic and incisions of metal that block our perspective, fracturing our relationship to the central characters. We understand them completely and are yet hauntingly outside of them. If the takes are long and occasionally frustrating, it helps massively that there is such an assurance of colour and depth here. Undoubtedly, this is masterful direction. One wide shot shows a web of shattered windows glistening in a planetary haze of orange and blue, pierced by the thin, alien figures of lampposts. It is rare to watch something and feel as though you’ve seen an entirely singular, abundantly fascinating image – rarer still that it almost suggests a new way of seeing the world.
Genus Pan by Lav Diaz
Phillipines
Joseph Bullock: I’ll end my coverage with the latest from another titan of slow cinema, Filipino director Lav Diaz. While Genus Pan’s central idea, that of exploring the resemblance of man and beast, could more obviously lend itself to a maximalist style, Diaz’s patient monochrome takes here successfully conjure an elliptical tone of pity and dread.
The plot is simple, detailing an expedition taken by Andres, a miner, to the supposedly cursed Island of Hugaw. He goes with two older men who are more world-weary than him but who are also disgusted by their treatment at the hands of crooked bosses. The mystery of the film is far greater than what this suggests. The central corruption consists of poverty-inducing thievery and possible murder, and the men are also hiding something about their past in this strange, dangerous place.
Reinforcing the uncaring nature of this brutal world are shots that mildly irritate in their relentless immobility. Each waits for characters to leave the frame, no matter how long they are taking. Due to the length of the shots as well as their wide, distanced angles, this work isn’t going to sway Diaz-skeptics or any other audience members who prefer their movies quick and emphatic. In fact, while I found the first half intriguing and frequently stunning, it does drag towards the end despite the more macabre turn that the story takes.
The best sequences capitalise on the haunting isolation of the rainforest and the inherent tension of the conversations that take place there: light glaring down or else being severed by overflowing trees; foliage glimmering and startling with immense clusters of darkness. It’s a worthwhile watch, but not a great one. Perhaps I just prefer my studies of human cruelty to be either more indirect or more visceral, as opposed to the mildly tiresome mix of pulpiness and deliberation that the third act takes.
BEST OF THE FEST
Joseph’s pick: Days
Logan’s pick: Undine