Author: Redmond Bacon

What to Look Out for at the 75th Locarno Film Festival

Posted on by Redmond Bacon

The Locarno Film Festival returns once again for its 75th edition, providing its characteristic and eclectic mix of arthouse cinema and crowd-pleasing fare. Whether you’re an arduous cinephile or someone just looking for a good time, the cinemas alongside the Lago Maggiore — stretching from the magical Piazza Grande to more intimate indoor theatres — have a little something for everyone.

If 2021 was testing the waters within strict coronavirus protocols, 2022 promises to be even more relaxed, fully returning to the traditional hustle and bustle that characterises the joy and discovery of in-person film festivals. Giona A. Nazzaro returns as artistic director for a second year, providing a steady hand to an event steeped in tradition but still committed to pursuing new and exciting art forms.

Consider the contrast between the opening film and my most anticipated competition inclusion. The opening ceremony is yet another American action film, David Leitch’s unavoidable Bullet Train. Starring Brad Pitt as an assassin on a high-speed Japanese rail-line, I have been subjected to the trailer at least 100 times in cinemas; so many times in fact, that it gives off the impression that it simply won’t be very good.

Meanwhile in the Concorso internazionale, legendary Russian director Alexander Sokurov returns after seven years with Skazka (Fairytale) — pictured below. It’s a mysterious hybrid effort blending archive and newly-shot material that comments on both dictators and the fate of the planet. Rejected by Cannes due to political reasons, it sounds like a fascinating experiment that is sorely needed as the Russian state is slowly collapsing.

Skazka

If Sokurov is the big name on the arthouse scene, the other directors in the competition are unknown to me, stretching from Italy to Brazil to Indonesia. All promise fascinating perspectives: there is a COVID-19 immigrant drama in the form of Mahesh Narayanan’s Ariyippu; a study of toxic masculinity in Bowling Saturne (Saturn Bowling); sea-bound drama in Human Flowers of Flesh; and a look at modern faith in the Austrian Catholic boarding school film Serviam – Ich will dienen (Serviam – I Will Serve).

More populist efforts can be found back on Piazza Grande with the Daisy Edgar-Jones starring Where the Crawdads Sing (which I’ll save for streaming) and My Neighbor Adolf, which, yes, sounds exactly like its title suggests. For those more interested in cinematic history, Douglas Sirk’s exquisite Imitation of Life (1958) plays on 35mm (as part of a wider retrospective), while New Wave-heads can get their kicks with Laurie Anderson’s 1986 Avantgarde concert movie Home of the Brave.

It’s usually around the edges that a festival truly comes to life. (Last year, my most notable experience was a Peter Greenaway film that didn’t even play officially at the festival.) For first and second-time directors, Concorso Cineasti del presente provides a chance to discover emerging talents, while the truly out there Fuori concorso section promises a zone where cinema is set free from any expectations or tradition.

I never try to read too much into what is playing, enjoying the thrill of the new upon walking into a cinema with little idea of what to expect; making the Locarno Film Festival such a unique experience. I shall be attending between 8th-12th August to report from the frontlines, providing reviews and insights from one of the best film festivals in the world.

The Locarno Film Festival runs from August 3rd to August 13th.

Traffic and tragedy: 21st Transylvania International Film Festival round-up

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I spent most of my time in Cluj-Napoca crossing roads. This is a car-centric city, with wide four lane traffic, the constant hum of vehicles and two minute waits to finally get to the other side of the road. But it’s also a city that’s modernising. Apparently, if you do twenty squats in front of a machine, you can get a free bus ticket. Meanwhile, modern QR codes prevail; I rarely handled a paper menu.

This tension between innovation and frustration was best encapsulated by David Easteal’s phenomenal film The Plains, previously reviewed here by John Bleasdale at Rotterdam. Shot over a year, it follows a middle-age man from Melbourne on his commute between the suburbs and the city, capturing the frustration of daily life and living under a constant sense of grind. My final film of the festival, it best captured the smart programming throughout, featuring formally striking documentaries and dark brutal fiction films. The Plains is both and neither, a one-of-a-kind experience that simply demands a cinematic viewing.

It would make a great double feature with The Balcony Movie. Shot before coronavirus, it still feels like a lockdown project, with director Paweł Łozinski standing on his balcony and asking people about their lives. Like the camera seldom leaving the back of a car in The Plains, the restricted balcony itself becomes a view to look upon the world, capturing the small yet expansive lives of Warsaw’s citizens.

And despite the traffic, Cluj itself never felt restrictive, with relaxed terraces, cute cobbled streets, great, inexpensive food, beautiful parks and friendly people. The democratic nature of the film festival was best represented by its open-air screenings. Although ticketed events, anyone in practice can stand in the street and watch a film like Gala opener Call Jane or Cannes opener Coupez! It’s this kind of democratic approach to screenings in the Unesco City of Film that made for such a pleasurable experience.

And when in Romania, it would be rude not to visit a Transylvanian castle. The highlight of the fest was dinner followed by a movie at Bánnfy castle; the movie, of course, was Nosferatu, replete with a new, brash and operatic (if a tad on-the-nose) live score by composer Simona Strungaru. In one moment of true site specific magic, a bat flew over the audience. Whether let out on purpose or not, it makes one appreciate the power of seeing films in their appropriate settings. Celebrating its 100th anniversary, the film was eerily relevant, with plague and disease following the eponymous vampire along every step of his lecherous journey.

Does one need to travel to a festival to appreciate films, or the lives of filmmakers? I learned that if I want to see where F.W. Murnau lived in Berlin, I only need to walk twenty minutes from my home in Grunewald. Meanwhile, digital options are proliferating and screeners are easily available (at least for me). While a great film can be watched anywhere, the most transportive experiences are still found in a cinema, all the while surrounded by willing crowds (and the locals were very generous during some terrible comedies.)

Talking of connections — both figuratively and literally — I’m writing this round up on the first of many trains back to Berlin, watching fields and cars and hills roll by, delving deep into the beautiful Romanian countryside. No one is wearing a mask; perhaps the pandemic is behind us.

Open Air

In Europe right now, there are even worse things than pandemics. The main idea behind the festival, encompassing both films and talks and debate, was the idealistic slogan: “Make Films, Not War.” Talking to organisers, there was tension about including Russian films in the programme. And despite the brilliance of competition entry Execution, a twisty-turny serial killer drama with shades of Park Chan-wook and David Fincher, there is certainly an uneasiness in watching a film from a country (and I country I love) that’s waging war on Ukraine and the free world. There are no easy solutions here, making for an awkward time in filmmaking, exhibition and distribution.

Perhaps other nations can teach us valuable lessons: How I Learned to Fly is a broad Serbian holiday comedy from populist director Radivoje Andric that although silly and childish on the surface, hides a serious message behind the gags. A young girl from Belgrade goes on a trip to Hvar with her grandmother; she’s uninterested in history and just wants to meet boys. But she eventually reunites with her Croatian family, previously rent apart by the war, something the children know nothing about. Neat equivalences between the Balkans and the Ukraine/Russian conflict cannot be made — no two wars are the same, and I am not remotely close to an expert in either region. Nonetheless, perhaps it gives us hope that conflict will one day look as strange and alien to us as Nosferatu itself — a film that doesn’t feel just 100 years old, but positively ancient — and modern-day vampire Vladimir Putin (who looks a little like Count Orlok himself) finally gets burned by the sun.

The ticket inspector rolls by; my inter-rail ticket is valid. There’s no air-conditioning or Wi-Fi, and the train keeps randomly stopping (at least the train is running, unlike most options in the UK this weekend!). I’ll be in Budapest some time tomorrow. Europe remains at a fractured moment, but moments like this, and festivals like TIFF, can help us to come together.

First peace, then more efficient public transport. In the meantime, there’s cinema.

Babysitter

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The Quebecois Babysitter starts at full gallop and never goes down to a trot throughout its entire 90 minute runtime. It begins with men delivering dialogue out their mouths like they’re firing semi-automatics, annoying women in front of them by asking them inappropriate questions. They’re drinking, shouting, almost screaming, the camera cutting between them in a chaotic, oppressive fashion, cinematographer Josée Deshaies favouring intense close-ups and avoiding wide shots. They’re at an MMA match, which is bloody, two men on the floor almost killing each other. We’ve been airdropped in the land of toxic masculinity. No one will get out unscathed.

Cédric (Patrick Hivon) is living in the land of misogyny, so he doesn’t think it’s a big deal to harass a TV reporter outside the match with a hug and a kiss. But he lands in hot water straight away; suspended from his job, he has to do some soul-searching, 8 1/2-style (Federico Fellini, 1963), taking us on a surreal, overwhelming and frantic comedy that I found more irritating than thought-provoking.

It’s clear that Cédric is not a monster, but he’s definitely an asshole. The question you might ask yourself is: where does the asshole end and the monster begin? It’s worthwhile for all men, and women too, to do the necessary work to see how they might be misogynists, overt or otherwise. In a clever bit of plot-development, Cédric decides to write a letter to the aggrieved TV reporter, which he later develops into a narcissistic memoir. Masculinity is toxic, but its also a hot, marketable topic. Everyone loses under capitalism.

Meanwhile, Sonia Chokri, also directing, stars as his wife, refusing to fit into any conventional category of oppressed womanhood. Nonetheless, she is also taken on a journey of confused identity when the titular babysitter Amy (Nadia Tereszkiewicz), appears, tasked to help the two exhausted parents take care of a baby that simply doesn’t sleep.

22, big hair, and cleavage always on show, she is a parody of flush, young and readily available sexuality, provoking Cédric and his journalist brother while also defying conventional stereotypes of women as mere victims. Tereszkiewicz plays the part particularly well, imbuing porno clichés with uncertain menace.

It’s ripe for a clever and biting farce, but the overbearing atmosphere, replete with chaotic sound design and rapid cutting, makes for an experience as intrusive and as unwarranted as Cédric’s drunken advances. This is an all-woman show, with Chokri working alongside playwright Catherine Léger to make fun of both men and women alike. But the final result is all over-the-place, unable to corral the material into the deconstruction of masculinity the premise deserves.

I guess the #metoo movement and the surrounding debate over male norms is due a good satire. But they need to be a lot sharper and funnier than this. Babysitter starts with a clever enough idea and boasts a fresh enough style, but the movie never does enough in the first place to actually make this a satire worth sitting through. Don’t book a babysitter to go see this one.

Babysitter plays in Competition at TIFF, running from 17th-26th June.

Inferno Rosso: Joe D’Amato on the Road to Excess (Inferno Rosso: Joe D’Amato Sullva Via Dell’eccesso)

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In a strange moment of serendipity, I caught Eli Roth’s Hostel (2005) the night before on my hotel television. It’s that weird mixture of boobs and gore that feels like it comes out of the imagination of a fourteen-year-old child, hitting me very definitely than when I was entranced by the movie as a teenager. But some directors never grow up, attracted to both eroticism and gore right until the very end.

It’s serendipitous because Eli Roth is also an executive producer and interview subject in Inferno Rosso: Joe D’Amato on the Road to Excess, a workmanlike documentary about the ultimate cinematic workhorse. Before his death in 1999, Joe D’Amato directed soft-core and hard-core porn, grotesque horror movies, adventure films and historical films; films for Italian cinema, films for foreign distributors and films in America starring big actors. He had his own production company and mentored others as well, making him the “Roger Corman” of Italy. All in all, he was involved in over 200 films, making him one of hardest working directors of all time, a man who made movies as if he was merely breathing.

He’s a fascinating character, his forays into the smartest risk-to-reward genres, telling typically low-budget porn and horror, making him worth of his own deep dive. We are treated to clips from his classic films, including mutilations, sexual violence, body horror, sacrilegious elements and lots and lots of topless ladies. In one of the few stylistic flourishes in the entire documentary, we are treated to rapid-fire montages of naked bodies in all their writhing, sexy glory, showing off just how far D’Amato was willing to push the boat out in the name of entertainment.

Despite all of this titillation, this film is oddly incurious. Only 70 minutes long, it feels made for television rather than the big screen. It’s curious how a director that made so many films wasn’t captured more often in archive footage, making me wonder if the team behind this didn’t do enough research or there simply wasn’t enough to go on. The same goes for the interview subjects, who are incredible knowledgable about distribution details or the technical details of filmmaking, but betray little emotion about the man himself. His daughter tearily tells us about how he was misrepresented as a mere porno director by the press, or how he put the house up as collateral so he could continue making movies, but the camera doesn’t linger, and we move on to more platitudes, reducing the emotional impact of the moment.

He is obviously a complex figure, but the complexity feels flattened by this tribute film, introduced by Nicolas Winding Refn. In one major misstep, we are told an actress tried to sue the crew of one of his films after she felt traumatised on set. This moment is basically treated as a joke by the men who remember it, who say it was all part of the way films were made back then. That might’ve been true, but a more interested documentary would embrace the different aspects of filmmaking back then, instead of just going down memory lane. If you’re just interested in a primer on a legendary filmmaker, then you’re in the right place. But there’s no genuine interrogation here, making for a flat experience. Horror and eroticism can benefit from a childlike perspective, but documentaries need to be far more grown up.

Inferno Rosso: Joe D’Amato on the Road to Excess plays as part of the Larger Than Life section at TIFF, running from 17th-26th June.

Beautiful Beings

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Step over, Euphoria (Sam Levinson, 2019-). When it comes up to hyper-attenuated and messed-up portrayals of youth, you have a serious contender from Iceland in the form of Beautiful Beings. Telling the story of four kids growing up in a rugged and beaten-down Reykjavik, it’s a dark, mysterious and complex portrayal of young life that is equal parts beautiful and grotesque.

It’s a 90s period piece. The main give away is the sheer amount these 14-year-olds smoke. Given that a pack of cigarettes in Iceland these days is just over £10, there’s no way that they could chain with the absolute glee seen here. Likewise, the country, known for its natural beauty, has never looked quite so depressing and ruinous. Director Guðmundur Arnar Guðmundsson and his team do some great location work here to depict a city that feels like one of the worst places in the world to grow up.

We start with Balli (Áskell Einar Pálmason), who comes from a broken home and is a shy reticent boy. His mother is off scoring drugs and drinking with friends, while his abusive step-dad is in jail. To make matters worse, he is terrorised by the cooler kids In the first of many violent scenes to come, he is smacked in the face with a branch. This attracts the attention of Konni (Viktor Benóný Benediktsson), Siggi (Snorri Rafn Frímannsson) and Addi (Birgir Dagur Bjarkason), who think it’s fun to terrorise Balli and make fun of his injuries. Nonetheless, Addi is revealed to be a far more sensitive soul, eventually reaching out to Balli and becoming his best friend.

Unlike many movies, where bullies are often one-dimensional and uninteresting, this film does a great job of showing the ways that bullies can become friends and friends can become bullies. But while Siggi bullies to fit in and Konni to assert power, Addi seems to do it just because he can. This also makes it easier for him to stop. But in a few strange dream sequences, he starts to sense violence coming around the corner, which finally erupts with incredible force and brutality.

The kids do a great job of navigating an almost-adultless world, free to run around, smoke, experiment with drugs and rib each other over the slightest deviation from the so-called masculine norm. Their lives are captured with handheld camera-work, soft colours and nuanced editing choices, resulting in a poignant portrait of broken youth, the cycle of violence and the difficulty of finding your place in such a terrible world.

Nonetheless, viewers should beware: there are scenes of sexual violence here that are likely to turn some people off. While the more joyful parts of the kids lives go someway counteract the misery-fest, they’re not quite handled with the nuance that such a difficult topic deserves. Despite this, the kindness and the tenderness remains. While adults may have ruined their chances of being better people, kids are often far more malleable. There’s still a chance that they’ll be alright.

Beautiful Beings plays in Competition at TIFF, running from 17th-26th June.

The Execution (Kazn)

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This is a crime thriller with enough twists to make Agatha Christie proud. An unpredictable, non-linear serial killer drama from Russia, Execution is a bloody, bruise and highly nasty film from debut director Lado Kvataniya. With echoes of Memories of Murder (Bong Joon-Ho, 2003), Old Boy (Park Chan-wook, 2003) and David Fincher’s Mindhunter (2017-19) and Zodiac (2007), The Execution a confident and exciting genre picture that doubles up as an allegory of the last, fading days of the Soviet Union.

It’s freely inspired by the true story of Andrei Tchikatilo, who murdered, sexually assaulted and mutilated at least 52 women and children in the 80s 80s. While the USA had experience building psychological profiles of killers from the mid-20th century, this was the first time the Soviet Union had to pursue such a case, leading to much confusion among the politburo.

Nikoloz Tavadze is perfect in the main role as the lead investigator in the case. With a similar gait and frame to Ivan Lapshin in Alexey German’s classic My Friend Ivan Lapshin (1985), he occupies a similar world of paranoia and crumbling institutions, with lone men given free rein to be both judge, jury and execution. With intense pressure from above, the police commit unspeakable brutality in order to pursue their cases, showing how the solution can often approximate the same level of the problem. The myth of the Etruscan Execution is invoked, whereby the perpetrator is attached to the body of the victim until both bodies turn black. Of course, we’ll see something to that effect by the end, but its how it gets there that keeps us riveted throughout.

The film starts in 1991, but the killer starts in 1978, the film freely hopping between and playing with time, slowly revealing layer after layer during its luxurious runtime. The non-linear approach is a smart one, as the story is as much about how information is doled out as what we know from the start. And no matter how much you predict what’s going to happen, there’s simply no way to have a clear grip on how brilliantly this film reaches its final conclusion.

Mixing a romantic atmosphere with the utter darkness of man, it often feels more South Korean than Russian, especially in the way that lurid violence is tied to character and its portentous sense of destiny and forward momentum. While it often strains towards the absurd, its excesses seem necessary given the lurid subject matter. All the while, the heads of state seem useless to stop the killer or rein in the reckless behaviour of its officers. Considering torture is still commonplace in Russian prisons, it has an all-too present day resonance.

Considering that it’s from Russia, the chances of it playing in the UK are incredibly slim. Yet one hopes that when the awful invasion is finally over, it will have a chance to be discovered as a solid genre programmer worth pursuing.

The Execution plays in Competition at TIFF, running from 17th to 26th June.

The Balcony Movie (Film balkonowy)

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The Balcony Film is both simple and profound, a bare-bones documentary that seems to be about everything and everybody. Director Paweł Łozinski simply sits on his balcony with a camera and a boom mike on a pole, and asks people questions about their lives, their days and the meaning of life itself. The result is a funny, heartfelt and panoramic view of life in contemporary Poland.

Although shot before the coronavirus pandemic, it’s the kind of small-scale film that feels of the moment; a way of exploring the world without ever having to leave your own small corner of it. Paweł looks for heroes. Some people are reticent to respond, others are more than happy to confess their entire lives, while others offer acres of wit and humanity, often within the same scene.

The set-up is simple. The film starts with a static frame, half of the picture bisected by the fence of separating his apartment building from the rest of the street. Someone passes by and he asks them if they would like to talk. We see all sorts, from the old ladies missing their husbands to homeless people to young women talking about their work. One women tries to sell him new curtains. Even his wife and dog star, with his beloved berating him for doing his work while she has to shop and walk and attend to other domestic duties.

Poland is a Catholic country, with priests and devout people passing by, and even the locals seeming to treat the process like confession. There is the gay man who tells of living with his late partner while pretending that was his brother; there is the recently widowed woman who is starting life again and says she’s truly happy for the first time; there is a clearly unwell woman who says that she doesn’t feel “defined” yet; there is a man who finally quit drinking and now has to understand what life is all about. Just from a window, Warsaw life is gloriously revealed to us, resulting in one of the best films of the year.

Shot over the course of the year, we get a sense of the full Polish seasons, from sunny spring and winter to the melancholy autumn to the freezing cold and snow and sludge of winter. Characters repeat themselves, with any one of them threatening to become the film’s main protagonist.

Eventually a man worthy of redemption emerges, Robert, a man just out of jail who has to rebuild his whole life. He starts by begging, but after being gifted a shirt from Paweł he looks for a job. He finds one, but still has to sleep on the street, on night buses, with nuns or in homeless shelters. He’s completely burned out. Nonetheless, he keeps on going. What else can he do?

Although not overtly political, Łozinski doesn’t shy away from the issues in Polish life either from gay rights to nationalism (with a disturbing street rally seemingly professing love for the Polish state which actually is just an excuse to bash migrants) to the degradation of postal workers to the problems with the public healthcare system. But it also has a truly universal feel, capturing life in all its mess, wonder and mystery. I want this film to start a franchise. Let’s do it in every country in the world.

We don’t find out the meaning of life, but I do feel anyone who watches this film feels like they might get just one step closer. An old lady right at the ends has an almost perfect response: “Life is meaning.” We just have to go about our days, do our little tasks, love the people around us, and everything will be alright. The answer to life appears to just be in living it.

The Balcony Movie plays in the Focus Poland section of the Transylvanian International Film Festival, running from 17th to 26th June.

The Hole (Il Buco)

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Scriptwriting instructors love the cliché: “Show, but don’t tell.” They say it’s better to convey information visually as opposed to leading the viewer by the hand. Il Buco takes this to the nth degree, creating a film which is all glorious show, while telling us very little. Audiences left my screening frustrated, debating what it’s all about. My simple answer: does it actually matter when when what’s on screen just looks so awesome?

I learned a new word from this film: speleology. Simply put, it refers to the art of descending caves and figuring out their depth. Clambering through tiny cracks and wading through stagnant pools with only a searchlight for company, The Hole is freely inspired by a true story of speleologists who reached the bottom of the third deepest cave in the world in 1961, located in southern Italy.

For anyone who has been to southern Italy, it’s a place where time seems to move just that little slower. Director Michelangelo Frammartino captures the beauty of the area in great depth before taking us into the cave: rugged roofs that cats scamper across; people huddled together watching the only television in the village; trains appearing occasionally in the mist; vast mountains and vaster valleys; luscious greenery and a fine sense of mystery. It seems like the natural place for a massive cave.

Eschewing almost any dialogue whatsoever in favour of a documentary-like approach, featuring no music, and actually recreating real cave-diving sequences (probably with a higher level of health and safety than in the 60s), this is a film that demands a cinematic viewing. Particularly impressive is the immersive sound design — water perennially dripping and huge echoing sounds — and the use of light, men often seeming to descend into almost complete darkness. It looks absolutely terrifying. Like fighting in the army or going into space; it’s definitely the kind of job I’m glad someone else is doing. I’ll stick to writing film reviews in the sunshine.

Meanwhile, an old man sits on the side of the hill. He makes strange sounds to call his flock; sheep, cows, horses; all freely grazing. As the men descend the cave, his health deteriorates. He’s a symbol of the old-world, filled with an acceptance of mystery, the likes of which the others want to eliminate. It’s up to you whether or not this is just the mere passing of time, or a critique of man’s need for exploration.

And if there is any direct commentary, it comes from a short documentary we see on TV. Two men are climbing the highest building in Milan on a lift, commenting (in the only sequence that was subtitled) on all the people at their office jobs. They quote a window cleaner, who is enjoying the voyeurism so much, he forgets that he’s working at all (perhaps he’s Daniel Day-Lewis from The Unbearable Lightness of Being! (Philip Kaufman, 1988)). Perhaps the descending, silent men are the same; simply loving the joy of discovery, even if the bottom of the cave is just yet another dirty pool of water. If we don’t know why or what it’s all for, does it actually matter? This is a film that expands our sense of wonder, even if final meaning is elusively out of our grasp.

The Hole plays in the Supernova section of the Transylvania International Film Festival, running from 17th-26th June.

How I Learned To Fly (Leto kada sam naucila da letim)

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A pre-teen comedy in the vein of Diary of a Wimpy Teenager (Thor Freudenthal, 2010) or Angus, Thongs and Perfect Snogging (Gurinder Chadha, 2008) that also manages to talk about the Balkan conflict in the 90s, How I Learned To Fly is a perfectly enjoyable film from Serbian director Radivoje Andric that tackles both serious and lightweight themes with ease.

Apart from the rocky beaches (I prefer sand) and the annoying British (myself included) and American tourists, there are hardly any better places to spend a summer holiday than the Croatian island of Hvar. For Serb Sofia (Klara Hrvanovic) however, she’s devastated that she’s not able to go camping with her best friend and her brother, who she has an immense crush on. Instead, she is saddled with her grandmother Marija (Olga Odanovic), who is returning to the island for the first time in 25 years. Odanovic plays the part well, constantly nagging the poor child to put on sun cream and wear appropriate clothing.

Sofia’s dreams and desires — kissing a boy for the first time, finding a crew to hang out with and avoiding her pestering “hitman” grandmother — are represented in an extremely broad style, with endless selfies, wipe cuts and whip pans, dream sequences, dodgy CGI insects and animated text overlays. It’s the kind of hyperactive style that seems in vogue today, with little separating it from the recent Ms Marvel (Bisha K. Ali, 2022) series. It’s fine for kids, and funny at times, but I found it mostly overwhelming.

Hrvanovic plays the part well, mixing voiceover and physical reaction comedy to convey the well-spring of emotions that pre-teen girls can feel, slowly coming to terms with both the world around her and her own intense maelstrom of feelings. Yet she remains more or less oblivious to the real reasons her grandmother moved to Belgrade all those years ago — or why she still refuses to talk to her brother, who remains on the island. From the perspective of a child, the conflict seems absurd; for her grandmother, these are old wounds she finds it intensely painful to re-open. For all the silliness, Andric manages to find a subtle way of navigating the pain of war without making it seem trite in the process. Playing here as part of the EducaTIFF programme, its the perfect introduction to this topic for young children.

Given how broad the comedy was, I’m easily the wrong demographic for the film, which is highly unlikely to play over in the UK. But judging from all the laughs from the children around me, this definitely has the potential to be a breakout hit in the Balkans (it’s already topped the Serbian box office) and other regions of Eastern and Southern Europe.

How I Learned to Fly plays as part of the EducaTIFF programme at TIFF, running from 17th to 26th June.

Piggy (Cerdita)

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This film is foul and exceptionally mean-spirited. It’s also hilarious and monstrously enjoyable. Telling the story of an obese teenager bullied by her peers who finds the most perverse way possible to finally turn the tables, it’s a deliriously fun Spanish effort boasting a fearless lead performance, a strong sense of place and a keen willingness to push the limits of sheer awfulness.

Sara (Laura Galán) is doubly unfortunate. Not only is she extremely overweight, but she also works in a butcher shop. This earns her the brutal moniker of Piggy by the other girls in the small Spanish town, who take pictures of her and post them on Instagram with cruel hashtags. (It brought back memories, considering my own surname). She eventually tells her mother about her plight, who meanly suggests she should go on a diet. When Sarah heads to the local pool alone, three of her contemporaries capture her head in a net before stealing her clothes. After that, you can’t really blame her for not saying anything to the police when those same girls get kidnapped by a deranged serial killer.

We’re never given a definitive reason why Sara doesn’t report these kidnappings to the police. Is she scared? Is she attracted to the serial killer? Or does she think that these horrible girls actually deserve it? All interpretations are in play, with Sara making bad emotional, hormone-filled decisions every step of the film, causing endless and unpredictable chaos; confusing everyone from worried mothers to clueless cop to teenage heartthrobs.

It’s shot in Academy Ratio, a suitable choice as it allows Sara’s gait to fill the frame and for the film to have an ironic, whimsical approach to the material, utilising pastel colours at first before getting darker alongside the subject matter. Complemented by moody string music, Stranger Things-like lens flares and a solid evocation of a small town where everyone knows each other’s business, and this is the perfect teen horror movie to watch at a midnight drive-in. The destination might be obvious, but it’s the way it gets there that provides pure thriller pleasures.

It is also the kind of film that would inspire endless discourse on Twitter if it was made in the USA or UK. It’s the classic question of laughing with the protagonist or laughing at her. Nonetheless, Piggy is not so much concerned with getting representation right then just allowing Sara’s fatness drive the story at every turn — including a ridiculous but also finely rendered subversion of the final girl trope. It helps that Galán is completely game here, turning in a brave performance that combines sexual curiosity and teenage despair with absolute ease. She’s flawed, stupid, funny and complex; not a fat girl who was made just for think pieces, but one seemingly doing everything possible just to exist in the first place. For one thing, her story carries an important moral: be careful who you bully. They might actually be a lot stronger than you think.

Piggy played as part of the Full Moon sidebar at Transylvania International Film Festival, when this piece was originally written. In cinemas Friday, January 6th.

Amira

Posted on by Redmond Bacon

QUICK SNAP: LIVE FROM TRANSYLVANIA

Amira (Tara Abboud) is a daughter of the revolution. She has never hugged her father, who has been in prison as a Palestinian political prisoner for as long as she remembers. She is also a skilled photographer, fiddling around with photoshop and placing her image next to her father’s on fake holidays to Hawaii. It’s a handy metaphor for the film as a whole, which explores in great depth the true meaning of family, home and the impossibility of living under occupation.

Her father is a beatific man, oddly resembling Zelensky in his demeanour with a saintly look and a neatly trimmed beard. He is considered a hero in Palestine, married to Amira’s mother despite not being legally able to attend his own ceremony. But if he lives in a literal prison, Palestine is the biggest metaphorical open-air prison in the world, a place where secrets never remain that way for long and everything is pervaded with an ever-increasing sense of dread.

The setting is ripe with dramatic potential, which director Mohamed Diab exploits to fine effect in this smart and sensitive film. It’s based on the real phenomenon of semen smuggled out of Palestinian prisons by its forever-inmates; her father used this technique to aid Amira’s birth and he wants to do it again so she’ll have a companion. (It’s worth pointing out that there has been a backlash to the exact depiction of this process in the Palestinian press, leading to some calling for the film’s removal from the festival circuit). Yet when things start to go awry, her very identity is put into question, creating a smart metaphor for Palestine itself, a country that exists and doesn’t exist at the same time due to Isreal’s unending occupation.

There is a touch of Asghar Fahradi to the way the plot progresses, putting an oppressive society and its attendant patriarchal structures into conflict with one another through well-observed dramaturgy and naturalistic touches. But there is solid flair in the filmmaking as well. A reverse mirror shot is deployed twice in the film, showing you someone from one angle before turning around and showing them from the other side; it’s as if to show you that there’s always a different way of looking at things, and how nothing is ever clear cut. In another stand-out shot, with Amira and her father engaged in a crucial conversation, her face is superimposed against the window of her father in prison, evoking previous photographs in the way it creates intimacy in an otherwise alienating setting.

The biggest flaw is with Amira herself. Abboud is playing a 17-year-old, but oftentimes she doesn’t quite act like one, with far more conviction than a confused teenager would otherwise have. It might be necessary for the dramatic arc of the film — which bends to an absolute bitter and savage irony by the end — but it makes her unconvincing. This isn’t the fault of the actress herself, who carries both betrayal and determination with ease, but the way that she’s pitted against both the brutality of the Israeli’s and the patriarchy of the Palestinians. It’s a fine line to tread: with a third act that can’t bite into the awfulness of the situation and the impossible ways of fighting against it, Amira certainly gives you a lot to think about, but doesn’t quite land with the devastating impact that such a clever set-up deserves.

Amira plays as part of the Supernova section of the Transylvania International Film Festival, running from 17th to 26th June.