No

Brazil held the largest electronic elections in world history less than 18 months ago, and president Dilma Rousseff was reelected with 51.6% of the vote. More than 100 million Brazilians cast their vote in the ballot machines across the nation in October 2014, and the largest country in Latin America set an enviable example to the rest of the world. The process was fast, smooth and fraud-free, in stark contrast to countries like the United States, where the counting process is often convoluted and inaccurate.

Sadly this democratic milestone is now dangerously under threat. DMovies would like to use a powerful movie made four years ago in another Latin American country as a reminder of the importance of popular vote, particularly in young democracies such as Brazil.

The film No is set in Chile in 1988. After 15 dark years of military dictatorship, the ruling junta asks Chileans to vote in a national plebiscite in order to decide whether the General Augusto Pinochet should stay in power for another eight years, or whether there should be elections the following year. The dictator had bowed to international pressure confident that the “yes” vote would win, and that he would remain in power, dismissing his opponents as “communists” and “homosexuals”. To his disappointment and most of the world’s delight, he lost the plebiscite and democracy was restored in the country soon after.

Gael García Bernal plays the fictional René Saavedra, a successful advertisement creator approached by the “No” militants. René deftly crafted a very positive campaign, populating the 15-minute television spots with jingles, dance, music and comedy. The publicist favoured a lighthearted approach, and hardly denounced the atrocities committed by the dirty and oppressive regime: 35,000 victims of human rights violation (murder and torture) and more than 200,000 fleeing the country. He believed that a constructive message would work better than fearmongering (despite the fact that there was plenty to be feared). His maxim was: “a little lighter, a little nicer”. Despite the upbeat nature of the campaign, René was constantly monitored by Pinochet’s secret service.

Larraín created a highly politically-charged movie, which is still straightforward and easy to digest, just like the campaign run by René. The film was made with a 1983 U-matic camera, making it almost impossible to distinguish the fictionalised parts from actual archive footage. As a result, the film feels very realistic; at times it is even difficult to believe that René never existed in real life. No is never manipulative and melodramatic. Quite the opposite: García Bernal’s character is ambiguous and it is never clear whether his motivations are ideological or merely professional.

The camera in No is mostly handheld and the images are often somber and grainy, even when the characters are on the beach. This mood is representative of the fear to which Chile was subject for 15 years. Larraín successfully captured a turning point in the history of the Latin American country, as the it walks out of the shadows of a violent dictatorship. The director beautifully reconciles sombreness with joy and hope. Ultimately, No is a film about rescuing hope and sporting a smile in the face of adversity.

Larraín’s film reminded Latin America and the world that the importance of the popular vote cannot be overstated. The plebiscite enabled Chile to close a very dark chapter of its history. At the time, very few people expected that the “No” vote would win, as Pinochet had firm control over the country’s mostly right-wing media.

This conjecture has many similarities with Brazil right now: it was the popular vote that put Dilma Rousseff in power despite fierce opposition from the media in the country, which is also largely right-wing. The difference is that Brazil could be soon walk in the wrong direction into the shadows of oligarchical ruling. An alliance of the media and politicians are currently attempting to stage a parliamentary coup d’état in order to overthrow Rousseff, possibly turning back the clock of democracy of Brazil.

Today, March 31st 2016, is the 52nd anniversary of the military coup that overthrew the democratically-elected Brazilian president João Goulart, and established a dictatorship that lasted 21 years. Millions of Brazilians are expected to take to the streets today in defence of the democratic establishment and against the imminent coup. DMovies does not like dirty regimes. Instead, it firmly believes in democratic institutions and that the popular vote should be respected.

No can also be viewed online at Curzon Home Cinema. Watch the film trailer below:

For more politically-explosive movies, read the 5-splat review of Larraín latest film The Club (just click here). This equally powerful movie deals with erring Catholic priests, paedophilia and impunity, and it is out right now in cinemas across the UK and Europe.

In Jackson Heights

Frederick Wiseman is widely celebrated as one of today’s greatest living documentary filmmakers. Since 1967 he has directed 40 documentaries that portray ordinary human experience in a wide variety of social institutions. His films include: La Danse (2009), Central Park (1991), Crazy Horse (2011) and National Gallery (2014). Architecture certainly plays a major role in his movies, but Wiseman explained to DMovies that “this was not intentional”. Now he brings a loose narrative, of over three hours long, about of community in Queens called Jackson Heights (in New York, in the US).

In Jackson Heights can be defined with just one word: diversity. In 10 weeks, the director collected 103 hours of material and cut it down to a movie of 180 minutes. He filmed barbers, small shops, tattooers, transgenders, old ladies knitting together in a restaurant, ducks killed and sold as fresh meat by Chinese, Latin communities discussing the rights of their illegal immigrants and the birthday parties of Council members. There is also plenty of religious activity: Islamic schools, Hindu temples and Christians saying a prayer on the streets. He even went to a synagogue and shot discussions about tolerance towards gays. The ethnically and religiously-diverse neighbourhood of Jackson Heights provides a spontaneous and chaotic picture of the American way of life.

The many colours of the community, the signs in more than 167 languages and the intrusion of the crossroads connecting train platforms give to the film a sense of disintegration, but still their inhabitants find their way to defend themselves against big corporations and estate agent’s speculation. This ugliness and this filth are somehow peculiar and original, and they give the community strength.

Wiseman explained to DMovies that an American law establishes that people in the streets are not obliged to give their formal consent if they are framed. Most of the times, after a day shooting in a public space, Wiseman’s crew asks for their permission; but this is not a rule. Even so, it is amazing how Wiseman got their trust considering that most of them only saw the filmmaker once. Some other documentarists have to follow their subject for months in order to elicit a genuine and heartfelt statement in front of a camera. Wiseman chose to leave some very long interviews largely intact in the movie because he wanted to preserve integrality of the material, shot in many of the 167 local languages.

The editing process took over a year, and Wiseman was careful enough to intersperse the lengthy interview with shorter, more dynamic takes. Sentimental confessions and strong events are normally followed by filming on the streets, as if the director wanted his audiences people to go outside, breathe and think. But still it is a long film.

In Jackson Heights was shown in London as part of Architecture on Film section at the Barbican Centre. Though it received funds from Sundance Institute and was awarded by the New York Film Critics Circle, it still has no distribution in the UK. DMovies will keep an eye open and let you know once the film is shown in other events or made viewable online. Alternatively, you can e-mail orders@zipporah.com and they will inform you once the DVD becomes available. It was released in France on March 23rd 2016.

Watch the film trailer:

Is this the enfant terrible of Latin American cinema?

No one really cares about cinema” Chilean writer and filmmaker Pablo Larraín tells DMovies. His criticism of the place of film in our contemporary world offsets a film centring on events that have revealed the shadow complex of the Roman Catholic Church, which has impacted its present and future role in our contemporary world. “You do it because you love it, but cinema doesn’t change anything. Maybe it could create a culture or an idea that in time it would sculpt or could transfigure something among artistic activities. Today there are some newspapers and media that will place cinema in the culture space, but most will place it in the entertainment section, and so this is something we have to struggle with.”

What is it that defines a filmmaker, their actions or their profession? “I come from a family of politicians and lawyers, and so before I discovered movies those were the careers I was going to pursue” explains Larraín. “And then what you do becomes what you are”. In his latest film The Club (out on Good Friday, click here in order to read Dirty Movies’ 5-splat review and watch the film trailer), a group of excommunicated priests are defined not only by their priestly devotion, but by their crimes. To outsiders however, their status as priests creates a smokescreen for their status as criminals that includes the crimes of child abuse and baby-snatching. It is a subject that resonates beyond the screen, shaking the social and religious consciousness.

One would imagine that such urgent subjects as this could only be approached with a very serious tone. But for Larraín cinema is an arena of irresponsibility “when dealing with an issue that you should be responsible with, because at some point you can turn the lights on and everybody is the same, and that’s fascinating.”

The Club is infused with a pictorial and musical seriousness that invokes emotional reverberations; it is an art house movie with a sense of urgency of purpose. One aspect of this aesthetic is how Larraín both positions his cast of characters against the ocean, while permitting his actors to consume the frame with their physical presence, which are offset by scenes of verbal contemplation – orchestrating an harmonic balance between silent and verbal contemplation.

The look of silence

“It is a balance, otherwise it would be too noisy or too silent” observes Larraín. “But then it is a good way to create an atmosphere because movies are made with structure, plots and character development, but also tone. Both the tone of a movie and the atmosphere are essential, and then you create an idea of what you or the audience are looking at.”

The helmer also contextualises the words and silence of a film as revealing its playful nature, creating an understanding of what we are looking at, but with a propensity to create uncertainty and mystery. “In that silence you could create a reflection of what you are looking at, but then the characters talk again and it switches and moves in a different direction. Then you don’t know what is going on and so it becomes suspenseful and mysterious. Foucault used to say: ‘You are a parishioner in an open space’, which is a big paradox because there are no keys in here; no doors. You can leave whenever you want, but nobody does.”

Here Larraín could be read as both simultaneously referring to the film as well as the spectatorial experience, because neither does the house nor the rooms in the film have any locked doors. Seclusion and claustrophobia meet open space in The Club, as Larraín constructs the film upon a spatial paradox. “You open the window and you look out at the endless space and so it becomes a psychological form of claustrophobia.

“This is especially true if we don’t know what the priest thinks about what he has done, or if we don’t know exactly what they have done, which means you don’t know why they are there. Or do you know? But then it is contradictory and everything is in a space that requires the audience to close that down, and so it is a movie that needs an active audience.”

Does this mean that silence within cinema acts as an invitation from the filmmaker to the audience to actively contemplate – not for Larraín. “It is never very conscious, and I don’t think it is something the audience does, but of course as an instructor I try to do this.”

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Is it ok to laugh?

One of the ironies of The Club (the image above is taken from the movie) is the way in which a seriousness can emerge through the humorous part of a film’s personality – lightheartedness of laughter penetrating the audience’s moral conscience.

“Having humor offers an interesting way to say something that could otherwise sound very preachy and boring” Larraín observes. “You can make the audience laugh about something, and then when they are laughing they will perhaps feel that they shouldn’t be, and so they feel uncomfortable, and they ask the moral question to themselves of why they are laughing at this moment? Should I laugh or should I not laugh? And so it creates an active relationship in terms of the morality that is expressed in the movie, as well as your own individual morality.”

The child with the bomb

If a film is designed to create an “active relationship” with its audience, then it follows that the creative experience lived through the creation of a film should represent a transformational experience for its filmmaker. But speaking with Larraín he attributes this to the broad uncertainty of the process. “It is impossible for it to not be like that because you really don’t know how the movie is going to turn out, and so you don’t even know how you are going to feel about the movie… In a way you really don’t know what you are doing.”

The process of making The Club and Larraín’s other films is comparable to a recurring journey towards a destination, with the creator gradually discovering new aspects of the work. “The reality is when you start a movie you are in an empty space that you need to fill with images, ideas and silence. Then you have to cut it, which is another key moment because it is only when you cut the movie, and not when you shoot it that you finally discover your movie.”

“That transformation is also your own transformation and I guess that is what is so beautiful – it is something in which you don’t know where you are going. If it was a known place, then maybe you wouldn’t try to go there. You want to put yourself in danger because at the end what you are is you are a kid with a bomb that could explode at any time, and that is fascinating.”

Carmin Tropical

Mabel (José Pecina) is a muxe (transvestite) singer who returns to her hometown of Juchitan (in Oaxaca, Southern Mexico) upon finding out that her old friend Daniela (also a muxe) was murdered. Mabel engages with Daniela grieving family, friends and the police in order to find out the circumstances that led to the tragic event, and who the real murderer is. She even visits a lover of Daniela in prison, who has been accused of killing her but consistently protests his innocence. In the meantime, she meets the gentle and caring taxi driver Modesto (Luis Alberto), and they develop a budding relationship.

The actors in the film, particularly the muxes, are very beautiful an captivating. The cinematography in the night club where the muxes sing, in the streets of the town and even on the beach is strangely dark and yet charming. Old faded photographs of the characters in their youth add to this strange mood. The cabaret soundtrack in Spanish and French is pleasant and soothing. Despite all this, the film does not enrapture the viewer, instead it often feels trite and laborious.

There are at least two problems. Firstly, the script is somewhat loose, and it does not provide Mabel with the psychological depth required for such a complex role. Much of the film’s plot is conducted by a dull voice-over. In addition, Pecina’s performance is sometimes wooden. As a result, the film lacks passion and flare. Not that every Latin film must have the clichéd dramatism of Georges Bizet’s Carmen, but at least they would seek to enamor the viewer.

The muxes in Zapotec cultures of Oaxaca (in Southern Mexico) are described as the third gender: they have a male body but wear female clothes and identify as women. They have enjoyed large social acceptance for decades, long before homosexuality was decriminalised in most Western countries. Sadly, Carmin Tropical lacks the historical context and social commentary, which would be very relevant and powerful in this context. In the film, the muxes are a fully functional part of society, but it would be good to understand how they achieved this, and whether they encountered many barriers. How can such unusual identity enjoy such universal acceptance in a Catholic country?

It is still worth watching Carmin Tropical to the end, though. The final sequence and twist – while predictable even with your eyes closed – are very elegant and powerful. It is a pity that the same cannot be said about the film as a whole.

Carmin Tropical is part of the 30th BFI Flare London LGBT Film Festival, which is taking place right now. Watch the film trailer below, and find out more about the Festival by clicking here.

The Chambermaid Lynn (Das Zimmermädchen Lynn)

Lynn (Vicky Krieps) is a ordinary-looking young girl in Germany. She is quiet, puny, introspective, dons a Playmobil-style hairdo and wears very plain clothes. She is the type of person very few would take notice of; yet fewer would imagine that the apparently innocent Germany girl has some very twisted disorders and fetishes.

The insidious girl was recently discharged from a mental institution and now works as a chambermaid and the Eden Hotel. She takes pleasure from hiding under the beds of hotel guests and observe what they do. In addition, she has a compulsive habit of cleaning rooms even when they are not being used, despite insistence from her boss that this is not necessary. One day she observes (from under the bed) a guest having S&M sex with dominatrix Chiara (Lena Lauzemis), and she decides to hire the call-girl herself.

The contrast between Lynn and Chiara couldn’t be stronger, and yet their chemistry is strangely convincing. Lynn’s looks and demeanour are extremely similar to Macabéa in Brazilian classic The Hour of the Star (Suzana Amaral, 1985): both women are quiet, dull, mediocre-looking and yet inherently happy in their condition. On the other hand, Chiara is extremely good-looking, elegant and outrageous, some sort of androgynous, younger Annie Lennox.

While mostly aesthetically-conservative, The Chambermaid Lynn is a very subversive film, revealing that even the most conventional and ordinary-looking people often explore their sexuality and their desires in very daring ways. Despite the topic of voyeurism and fetishism, the film is very lighthearted, unpretentious and indeed enjoyable to watch. Male German filmmaker Ingo Haeb created a movie palatable to most people – not just German Lesbians – without resorting to screwball and clichéd devices. The Chambermaid Lynn is also a beautiful and sexy film, even if you are not attracted to women. It will leave audiences with a healthy and lingering sense of naughtiness to be explored.

At one point, Lynn sums up the ‘rationale’ behind one of her obsessions: “the best part about cleaning is knowing that it will get dirty again”. In a way, his sentence highlights the often absurd nature of pleasure, and it is a gentle reminder that it is OK to be a little crazy sometimes!

The film was adapted from a book by German author Markus Orths. Director Haeb explained: “Markus kept the character of Lynn very open while managing to depict her with great empathy. She is a mystery to the reader, but at the same time, her needs are completely understandable.

The Chambermaid Lynn is part of the 30th London LGBT Film Festival, which DMovies is following live right now. Click here in order to find out more about the event, and watch the film trailer below:

The Club (El Club)

In a remote and cold coastal town in Chile – presumably in the far south of the country – Sister Monica dwells with four priests who have retired from church and society because they have committed crimes. Three of them, all of them homosexuals, abused children, while the fourth one snatched babies from teenage mothers and handed them to the wealthy. The “club” is a purgatory for erring priests.

The Club is a film painful and excruciating to watch not because it was poorly made, but because of the graphic detail, mostly in the dialogues. The conversations are callously descriptive of the abuse perpetrated by the ‘pious’ men, reminding viewers that words too can be extremely powerful and violent. Alma (Bibi Andersson) does that in Ingmar Bergman’s Persona (1966) when describing sex with a stranger (many countries refused to translate the Swedish dialogue at the time), but Larraín does it in the context of non-consensual interaction.

The rape of children is described through vivid and clinical vocabulary: the glans, the foreskin, the forces anal and oral penetration, they are all in there. Smells, sounds and even the salty taste of sperm are also evoked.

The retired, ageing priests are forced to confess their crimes to a younger priest sent by the Vatican. In addition, a victim of another molesting priest consistently haunts them by shouting out his clear-crystal memories at their windows. His abuser committed was meant to live at the home, too, but he committed suicide upon arrival at the beginning of the movie.

Most of the action of the film happens in secrecy. The sister and the priests are never hesitant to conceal their dark secrets from the rest of the world, even if they have to lie or murder someone. They are intrinsically corrupt and manipulative. The visiting priest is forced to accept their crimes and is easily dissuaded from closing down the home when the sisters threatens to expose it all to the media. All is acceptable in name of the Catholic Church.

The events that inspired the film and much of the plot are highly secretive. The criminal material is very toxic, both on- and off-screen. Larraín explains: “because the film is about the operations that the Catholic church carries out in a secretive, silent way, the materials we obtained through investigation had to be collected through unusual methods, since the internet and other classic methods were rendered useless.”

The problematic highlighted in the film lies in the sexually egodystonic doctrine of the Catholic church, which does not allow for the clergy to engage in sex, particularly if homosexual. As a consequence, it is particularly through these actions that the religious men achieve pleasure and even enlightenment. One of the men claims that it was only “through wretched and dirty gay sex” that he could “see the light”. The writing is on the wall: it is impossible to reconcile sexuality with Catholic faith.

Despite being removed from society, these men are largely unrepentant about their actions and arrogant about their place in the hierarchy. They do not seem deranged or depressed. Impunity has empowered them with a new sense of life.

Paedophilia in The Club is invariably linked to homosexuality, which could harm the LGBT community and further stigmatise same-sex male relations. DMovies hazards a guess that Larraín isn’t a homophobe himself, but his intentions could backfire here.

The Club was out in UK and other European cinemas on Good Friday, and it is available on DVD and Blu-ray on May 30th. Watch the film trailer below:

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Ka Bodyscapes

Once upon a time, British scholars and travellers considered India a country where erotic fantasies could be fulfilled with impunity. Back in Victorian Britain, rich men spent large sums searching for pubescent virgins. Homosexuals were also free to satisfy their fancies in India, whereas in Britain they were widely despised and buggery was a capital crime until 1861. India offered abundant sexual experiences for the libertines, a fact largely explored in literature.

Sociology, anthropology and history explain that societies evolve from irrational to rational, and from superstition to enlightenment. Well, it is not that simple. History moves as a pendulum and some societies, instead of moving forward, swing backwards. This is what Ka Bodyscapes reveals about current India: misogyny and homophobia have reach a new high.

The film opens with a photographer registering a sports dispute among men, where close-ups of male bodies lead to erotic and lascivious thoughts. Haris is a young bohemian painter and photographer, whose model is his lover Vishnu, who has moved from the countryside to Kerala. Vishnu starts working for his uncle as a graphic designer in a company that does not value artistic freedom and creativity. The uncle then finds out his lustful behaviour and begins to persecute his nephew and lover.

In Indian society, kissing in public is a taboo, and public display of affection is deemed unacceptable (even for heterosexuals). Sexual activity between two males is illegal and is punishable by incarceration, while female same-sex activity is not criminalised. Yet, women face all sorts of prejudices. For example, women having their period are considered impure. They are not allowed into the kitchen, they cannot enter the temples and they cannot sit with others. Jayan Cherian exposes an India that is neither harmonious nor kind to its people, where prejudice is endemic and systematical.

Sometimes the camerawork and acting in the movie is a little rough, but these minor faults do not compromise the urgency, the beauty and the integrity of the social message in the film. Haris’ friend Sia is a defiant young woman and activist who is trying to survive in a misogynistic workplace and restrictive home life. She takes solace in masturbation. At one point, she takes a picture of her bloodied sanitary pad and posts it as her avatar on Facebook, as a statement against discrimination of women. This is possibly one of the most subversive sequences in the history of Indian cinema.

Cherian explained to DMovies that “homophobia and aggression towards women are happening now in Kerala. Eighteen months ago, 30 women were searched in their work, in order to check if they were menstruating. Women sued the company, but those girls are lost. There is a moral vigilante police in the streets looking for girls and boys who ‘cannot conform to social roles’.”

Haris, Vishnu and Sia are pushed to the margins of the intrusive society because they are not ashamed of their bodies and desires. They fight for civil liberties and labour rights by turning their bodies into art, both through social media and paintings.

Jayan Cherian hasn’t showed yet the film to his crew and doesn’t know if his feature will be distributed in his country. The “Ka” word in the title refers to Ancient Egyptian mythology. Ka was the part of the soul believed to be a life-force of a person that survived after death. Ka is a ghostly duplicate of the body. Surely the feature is a beautiful attempt to achieve body and soul harmony. Will India allow it to come to fruition?

Ka Bodyscapes is part of the 30th BFI Flare London LGBT Film Festival, which is taking place right now. Click here for more information, and watch the film trailer below:

Sworn Virgin (Virgine Giurata)

Many Western countries take pride in tolerating homosexuality and sexual diversity. Sadly, transphobia is still rife in most of these places. On the other hand, socially conservative societies such as Iran and Albania are very willing to embrace their transsexual and transgender citizens. The government of Iran even pays for sex reassignment surgery, while some rural peoples of Albania fully accept transgender men, as long as they remain celibate (they are called “sworn virgins”).

Hana (Alba Rohrwacher) lives with her sister Lila (Flonja Kodheli) and their parents in the remote mountains of Albania. Lila then escapes to the West in the hope of a better life, leaving Hana to care for her parents. Hana then decides to become Mark so that she can perform the family duties that only a man is allowed to carry out (such as handling a shotgun and hunting), according to strict social rules. She undergoes a conversion ritual, cuts her hair and begins to wear male clothes, all with the full consent and support of her parents as well as the rest of the community.

Sworn Virgin tells two stories in parallel: of Hana becoming Mark in rural Albania, and of Mark becoming Hana once again in Italy. After the death of his parents, Mark moves to Italy in order to live with his sister Lila, now married and with a child. He slowly settles in the new environment, and begins to shed the male clothes and identity, which has carried for so long.

Mark never underwent hormone treatment and sex reassignment surgery, which were never an option in the impoverished mountains of Albania. He hides his breasts with bandages instead. His face and his body are not feminine, and he is not butch either. At times he looks androgynous, but never like a man. In rural Albania dress codes are very binary, and so it was very easy for Mark to identify as a man simply by wearing the right clothes. In Italy, women often wear male attire, and so Mark’s identity is often thrown into question.

Hana’s female-to-male transitioning was never a sexual choice. She neither had a female lover nor seemed attracted to women. As a result, Mark seems like a woman trapped in a man’s clothing and identity. And it is now time for him to reassess whether he should keep his promise and remain a virgin male for the rest of his life, or whether he shun the old tradition and go back to living as Hana.

This films raises many complex questions about sexuality. Firstly, is it possible to be transsexual/transgender without sex? Secondly, are the so-called liberal world truly that liberal with regards to transgender and transsexual practices? Finally, what is it that makes a man and a woman (as in gender, not biological sex). Even Judith Butler (who wrote the influential book ‘Gender Trouble’ in 1990) might be baffled at Hana/Mark.

Italian director Laura Bispuri and editors Carlotta Cristiani and Jacopo Quadri (click here for his dirty profile) crafted a convincing tale that is both visually attractive and emotionally gripping. The snowy mountains of rural Albania are contrasted with the multi-coloured and fast-paced urban life in Italy. Rohrmacher’s performance as both Mark and Hana is superb, and she quietly yet effectively convey a vast array of complex feelings.

Sworn Virgin is being presented as part of the 30th BFI Flare London LGBT Film Festival, and it premiered last year in the official competition of the Berlin Film Festival. DMovies is following the event live right now. Click here for more information, or watch the film trailer below.

Inside the Chinese Closet

“Marriage is like politics, if you don’t like each other at least there must be understanding”, explains one of the real-life characters in Inside the Chinese Closet, a new documentary about gay life in China presented as part of the 30th BFI Flare London LGBT Film Festival taking place this week. The film was made by Italian-born and London-based filmmaker Sophia Luvarà.

Getting married, having a baby and therefore not drawing any attention to oneself (by abiding to strict social rules) appear to define the life of most Chinese people. Homosexuality is tacitly accepted as long as one gets married to someone of the opposite sex and they have a child. This requirement has triggered a large market for sham marriages in China, where gay men typically spouse lesbians.

Andy is a successful gay man working as an architect in Shanghai and searching for a wife. Cherry is a lesbian already married to a man and now looking to have a baby. Neither of their parents has accepted their homosexuality, and yet they have not disinherited and refused their gay children. Fake marriage and parenthood are the tipping factors towards acceptance. Fake marriage overrides homophobia, it seems.

Inside the Chinese Closet follows the lives of these two young Chinese homosexuals as they make life-changing decisions. The camera never feels invasive, as characters seem to speak at their own pace and will, and there is no manipulative voice-over. Despite being made by a European director, this film feels like the voice of the Chinese.

Both Andy and Cherry believe that their parents “went inside of the closet” as soon as their children came out of it. It seems that an entire country is in denial of its homosexuals, and China is clearly unable to reconcile economic growth with personals freedoms.

China is the largest country in the world; it presumably has the largest gay population, too. Earlier this month, the country banned depictions of homosexuality on television, in a controversial new law. Overall, gay rights seem to be moving in the wrong direction in China, and so enormity of this issue as well as the urgency of this documentary cannot be overstated.

The film Here Come the Brides (Fábia Sartori Fuzeti, 2016; just click here in order to find out more) provided a picture of gay marriage in Brazil, the second largest country in the world to recognise it (after the United States). In the film, Gabriela cries upon finding out that her grandparents will not attend her lesbian wedding. In Inside the Chinese Closet Cherry’s grandparents never visit their grandchild not because she is gay, but simply because she is a girl (there were hoping for a male heir). This indicates that China’s social conservatism is so deeply-rooted that it affects not just homosexuals, but also women in general. The Chinese closet is double-locked for lesbians.

In a way, Luvarà’s film is still in the closet as well. The director explained to DMovies that the names of the characters in the film are not real, and that the crew went to China on a tourist visa because the Chinese government never gave them authorisation to make the film. She also clarified: “we were very careful while filming, and never used any tripods or big equipment”.

Inside the Chinese Closet is part of the 30th BFI London LGBT Film Festival, which DMovies is covering live right now. Just watch the film trailer below and click here for more information about the Festival.

I Promise You Anarchy (Te Prometo Anarquía)

I Promise You Anarchy sounds like a very promising movie, mixing a number of heady and controversial topics. Gay skaters, the chaotic urban buzz and background of Mexico City, immigration to the United States, illegal blood trade and even human trafficking: it’s all in there. Mexican director Hernández Cordón sets out to comment on the apparently anarchic forces driving his country, but ultimately it is his very own film that feels indeed anarchic and disjointed.

Miguel (Diego Calva), from a middle-class family, and Johnny (Eduardo Martinez Pena), from a poorer background, are skateboarders in Mexico City’s largest square. They also share a profound friendship and sexual attraction for each other. They sell their own blood, until they find out that Johnny has hepatitis and therefore he can no longer do it. They then become brokers for the blood of their fellow skateboarders and friends. Until one day a big delivery job goes wrong: a large group of prospective blood sellers are kidnapped while Miguel and Johnny pop to the shop to buy water for them.

The urban images of Mexico City are a bleak backdrop to this sad predicament, and the performances in the film are strong and consistent. There are particularly beautiful shots in bed (see trailer below), on the motorway and of a nude Johnny on a skate rink. The film never feels exploitative or vulgar, and the topics are very pertinent in modern-day Mexico and the world.

The problem is that film script – which apparently combines elements of fiction and documentary – is too jumbled and incoherent. It is borderline impossible to follow the intertwining plots and the numerous characters being progressively introduced. For example, the abduction of the blood-donors takes place offscreen, and it is unclear what happened to them and even the consequences of the stealthy event for the lives of the two lead characters. Their relationship breaks down, but no one ever understands why, and the outcome in the end of the movie is even less tangible.

Hernández Cordón threw dirty photography, subversive themes and social woes all in the big gumbo of the film, but sadly he overcooked it, and the result is hardly palatable. This is a pity, a great opportunity missed. The film is still worth watching for some poignant moments.

I Promise You Anarchy shoed as part of the 30th BFI Flare London LGBT Film Festival, which DMovies followed live. You can now view it on BFI player – just click here.

Don’t forget to watch the film trailer right here:

Beautiful Something

Gay men are constantly seeking to reconcile sex, love and affection. The search is often full of misadventures, sadness, doubt and despair. Four gay men of different ages living in Philadelphia (in the United States) are no exception. Brian (Brian Sheppard) is an troubled poet who engages with multiple sex partners and often finds solace in the bottle. Drew (Colman Domingo) is an established sculptor frustrated that his younger boyfriend Jim (Zack Ryan) wants to move to a more promising New York. Meanwhile, Jim meets Bob (John Lescaut), a rich and ageing businessman driving around with his chauffeur in a limousine.

Beautiful Something is about gay men’s unrelenting search for ‘something big and profound’ (and perhaps indeed beautiful), and their inability to do so. Brian, Drew and Bob are heartbroken or sorrowful. All three are infatuated with Jim, who seems to yearn for something else, perhaps money and a glamorous career in New York. Ultimately, all four are deeply sad people. Soul-searching in sex, post-coital anger and regret are recurring themes throughout the movie, are reminders that – contrary to belief – gay relationships and sex are not always fulfilling and liberating. One character claims in the film that “love is a disease”, and seems that – by extension – so is sex.

The film also portrays obsession with wealth and fame. Bob is confidently boasting his vehicle and his success, and Jim looks indeed impressed by it. The size of the car is a perfectly acceptable substitute to the size of the penis.

American film director Joseph Graham created a film with a somber and elegant cinematography, representative of the dark feelings and experiences of its characters. Most of the dwellings have no windows, making the viewer feel trapped, just like the men in the movie. The subtle rock-electronic soundtrack is also effective. The acting is satisfactory, making the film mostly enjoyable to watch.

On the other hand, Beautiful Something has a lot of clichéd themes and devices. Gay sex is almost entirely reduced to penetration and hard pounding, with loads of saliva and no condom. The young actors are very conventionally good-looking, and do little to represent the gay world as a whole. There is nothing daring and new in the film, and yet it often feels self-conceited.

Most gay men will relate and perhaps even enjoy this film, but it has little appeal to other viewers, such as women and straight men. Beautiful Something was presented as part of the 30th BFI Flare London LGBT Film Festival, which DMovies is covering live. You can find out more information by clicking here.