Reviews

Faustian myth refracts through a prismatic zoetrope of modern city life as it jostles between a mechanized, capitalist playground and neo-gothic daydream-a hexagonal-shaped panopticon of menial tasks and numbing distractions to match commercialized living. The camera spins and twirls as we try to find our balance. Syncopated BPMs create the pulse of the film's score. A satirical slant where enlightenment isn't sought after; it's bought and sold at market value.

Our lead, Fausto, is distinctly aware of this. A man haunted by the shape of innocence in a white gown while actively seeking paradise amidst devils and vices. Impotence is rectified by wielding a gun, cold steel palmed, and sported as a viable transactional method when others fail. Character decisional detours become narrative cul-de-sacs, playing a cruel, twisted game on the troubled soul of our central figure. A disillusioned man with nothing to rebel against, banging at the invisible walls of a metropolitan prison. His tragedy is no more than a minor punchline when next to the larger comedy of it all. The yuppie class is a paid fool-watch how far they've fallen.

A static frequency, a motorcade to nowhere. Paradise lost; a false dream. Cinder the next cigarette and shuffle into the waking sleep.

God as Frankenstein and his monster. Woman as child and mother. A warped garden of Eden sculpted from marble, dressed in coral and pearls, dual-purposed as embryonic chamber and confinement to quell the fears of selfish men. The world outside pulsating with warm, luminous bursts, beckoning a curious mind to explore. Corridors painted with pastel cellophane ribbons. Fuchsia skies tucked into the endless horizon of cerulean seas. A neurodivergent, psychosexual self-discovery odyssey set on its way. A Björk visual album that never was. A perverse, curious, electrifying vision of make-believe to challenge belief.

Disenvowing from polite society's infantile, infinitesimal series of entrapment by observations unshackled from semantics. Breaking free of the pantomime of everyday life to rediscover the absurdity of the games we play. The masquerade of adult pretend-sex and angst as the essence of self. Beastial playthings run amuck in this sandbox. It's all so horny and ridiculous. Bold and limitless in its imaginative farce. Behind every vice, a new insight, every corner, a new funhouse mirror to gawk at. To see us for the squishy, weird meatsacks that we are. God has a sense of humor; our existence is proof enough. I can't help but smile.

A devotion of nuns adorned in traditional garb, doves clasped in hand, climb a hill towards a convent, while the naked pale flesh of a pagan woman combs a field towards an ancient tree, a rooster held by its feet, ready to make a blood sacrifice and engage in an incestuous tryst. An endless snow-covered expanse, with the occasional black limbs of brushwood reaching out towards the heavens, creates an idyllic image of serenity; however, what takes place on a day-to-day basis on its landscape is anything but. Peace and purity are routinely disturbed by man's cruelty, whose misdeeds can be seen inked across the powdered surface. Various acts of violence write the passages of society's infancy as it goes about any means of survival. Disputes inevitably met by bloodshed; the conflict between the land's encroaching Christians and existing pagans was just another chapter. Men with a steadfast belief in the lamb of God positioned with the ruling class face the antithetical forces of those wrapped in dried wolf fur and sheepskin, ready to engage in blood politics. This is the tale of Marketa Lazarová, a world of faith and flesh, devotion and desire, a staggering thing of beauty-a rapturous symphony of the middle ages that glides through the air and drags you through the mud-a continuous dance between viscera and cerebral evocation.

Brief interims of peace amidst chaos and barbarity are further reinforced by Vlácil's affinity for the avant-garde, breaking away from the conventional means of creating a historical epic to gesture towards something far more challenging. Omnipresence is withheld from the viewer, creating something akin to a subjective viewpoint, history seen through the eyes of a handful of its inhabitants in their fleeting coming-and-goings. You're there, in the times, among its various lords and peasants, bearing witness to skirmishes, riding horseback to give chase to opposing clans. Lying sprawled out in fields, feeling the earth between your fingers, the overcast cloud-covered skies tracing shadows across all below, or sinking into the surrounding marshlands, the distant howls of a wolfpack in pursuit. The audible crunch of ground frost and ice crystals in the dead of winter, sheathed swords clattering as bodies shift through the terrain. This is what Vlácil and his creative team continuously conjure-eliciting various sensations through its textures and highly rendered environment. Capturing an attentive audience made child's play by virtue of existence.

Further aiding in this extraordinary immersion is the dimension of sound, choral vocals that slice through the snow and filth; huge, proud sung performances cascade about, filling the negative spaces, giving a voice to Vlácil's herculean vision. The full-bodied reverberating gong of bells, woodwind flutes that whispers and slithers, and deep, resonant drum hits, the heartbeat of the living landscape echoing out through the valley, each existing as if to ordain the witnessed events as canonized myth-an oral folk tale to be sung for generations and transformed over time.

In this era, nature still reigns supreme, not yet conquered by man's might. Being "civilized" is a false virtue, a comfort for the fool and wise alike; duplicitousness is the desired means of survival and the closest assurance for any offspring to plant the roots of ancestry. From the marshes to the forest, the deciding factor remains bitter, cruel acts, cold as steal blades that ultimately lead the charge to war, or the gold-plated symbols upheld by wayward men, drunk on wine and power. The Christian chapel may sit at the top of the hill while the pagans writhe in the filth below, but make no mistake about it, in Marketa Lazarová, they're all animals.

Its brilliance is in the moments before action. The pause and the friction. The elation of glory on the battlefield. The ecstasy of sexual conquest. The reprieve of brothers in arms. It savors senses and rewards those that give in to it. To be consumed, to let its stimuli overwhelm inhibitions. It's one of the greatest achievements in cinema, and as far as I'm concerned, is as perfect as a film can ever hope to get.

The shifting landscapes and portraitures create the family image as observed from remnants of the 20th century; two bodies whose history is denoted by strands of grey hair and weathered, wrinkled skin. A devoted couple in the twilight of their union, intimately aware of each other's ticks and mannerisms, equally comfortable in their silence as their direct talks. A bond that only time can offer.

Naturally examining interactions with their adult children, day-to-day activities, and interests. Domesticity so authentically rendered, realized through various communal events: cooking and eating together, playing card games, and going for walks, often acquiring realism akin to documentaries. It's almost agendaless, with very little dramatics in its showcase of slice-of-life. Demonstrating what it means to build a life with someone. Complex individuals in an interlocked dance, linked by familial ties and strengthened with continuous growth and an ever-evolving comprehension of the world around them.

Dialogue and minute details so ornate as to question if most of this was even scripted. The particularities of characters enacted with such spontaneity as to repeatedly catch me off guard, often finding the sublime in everyday tasks. The devoted matriarch, even as a house guest, migrates to the kitchen unprompted to lend aid while a daughter-in-law, growing into her womanhood, attentively follows. The importance of a home-cooked meal ability to unite family, an armistice from any previous petty spat or disagreement, and a centerpiece for each resting stop in the film's journey. The grandfather's gravitation toward specific leisurely activities and the often brief, unexpected acts reveals echoes of what he may have been. What director Liu Shumin brings to life here doesn't feel like mere characters but flesh and blood people.

Some amateur editing aside, this debut film is fully realized in a way creatives with years of experience rarely achieve. In the same year that Ryusuke Hamaguchi released what's arguably his opus Happy Hour, a labor of love and years of work in the making, Liu Shumin has seemingly skipped all those steps and positioned himself at the front of the line, creating a film with the legacy of Ozu, and the ethos of the Taiwanese New Wave. The Family is an incredible piece of filmmaking, and I hope it doesn't remain his last.

There's an austerity and femininity to Antouanetta Angelidi's films that I find both intellectually stimulating and alienating. Her works tend to harbor an intimacy in the way scenes are constructed, yet with its total disregard for narrative convention or any traditional formatting, can often create a vast chasm between its viewing audience and what's showcased. Comprehension exists, not from character or any form of "plotting" onscreen but rather from text and textures, the whole "mood piece" idea but for minimalist, avant-garde cinema. Like Thief or Reality and Topos before it, it uses these stagey, threadbare warehouse sets, where subject matter and objects are seemingly sculpted out of darkness, tactile but existing in a state of unreality. But unlike the previous entries, she also incorporates physical locations here, making this one stand out; each tableau still exists in this cerebral void-like nothingness, but the intermixture of set and location lends it a different dimension. Artifice and theatricality that would feel right at home with many of Portuguese cinema's greats.

Also, like Marguerite Duras, Antouanetta Angelidi is a female director I find myself drawn to for more or less the same reason; her particular style of avant-garde and sensibilities as an artist, valuing liminal space and temporal association, where the incongruencies of narration and visual takes precedence over superficial comprehension. It's a style that awards a complete surrender to its form; you have to let it lull you in, to let it wash over you. It's an outpouring of creativity you can't actively try to analyze and comprehend in real time.

I often refer to her brilliant 2001 film Thief or Reality as "The night to The Color of Pomegranates's day." and in many ways, The Hours: A Square Film more or less fits the same mold. Like a series of dark, cryptic paintings constructed from the mind's eye. Part of a body of work whose meager size has no bearing on its potency as challenging artistic achievements. Big "stern theater director that only wears black turtleneck sweaters, stinks of cigarettes, and is incapable of cracking a smile" energy, and I'm here for it.

Apparitions of the 19th century in an ever-evolving stage play recounting their lives. Extensions of their world liberated from temporal constraint, traversing contemporary landscapes at will. Anachronisms and artifice are interwoven, setting the scene as they mourn those who've left and those left, the contronyms and correlations that house the central thesis of this film. Of death and desire. The restless, fruitless pursuits of perfection. Its ascetic aesthetics showcase precision and discipline; every camera movement, every line delivery, focused to an exact science. Incremental shifts and carefully planned staging transform beautiful tableaux into living, breathing paintings. Its mise-en-scène, sculpted from light and texture, motioned forward by visual motifs and striking music, shots captured in mirrors revealing what's hidden, action and feelings punctuated by the sharp blood-curdling strings of a violin, the dramatic crash of piano keys. It's all so intuitive.

Portuguese cinema, with its illustrative-novelistic style, painterly-theatrical set design, and use of poetic prose, is coupled with the radical techniques of the Japanese New Wave movement. A marriage between different schools of thought in filmmaking hasn't been this successful since 1959's Hiroshima Mon Amour. And with its collision, new expressions emerge. It develops a familiar filmic language by taking what preceded it, the DNA of these different cultural influences, and melds it using the commonalities that overlap. This, too, was also found in the multitude of languages spoken across the film's runtime. Portuguese, Chinese, Japanese, and English are all recognized as art forms in themselves. As much about how words are said as what is spoken. The human voice and body are equally an extension of the composition. Driven by a strong adherence to formalism, rigorous blocking communicates magnitudes with the tilt of a performer's head. The gesticulation of a hand, the shifts in body posture that direct the eye as the camera gracefully move on, repositioning the sequence, readjusting what's framed; all of it so deliberate, so well-timed. From Manoel de Oliveira to Yoshishige Yoshida, Paulo Rocha's film breathes a richness of deeply enrooted methods.

This also extends to the tone and overall feeling. A deep sensuous, simmering sentiment cascades over the performances. Their words may be cold, delivered by sharp, venomous tongues that occasionally cut into opposing characters, and yet the magnetism between orbiting bodies remain palpable. Invisible electricity; it's infectious! It circumvents explicit communication while still being comprehensive. It's able to accomplish this because it trusts the language of film. It trusts its ability to communicate things unsaid equally as those that are. And so you understand the shorthand of political descent, the underline symptoms of a domestic dispute, the feelings of an expat, and their self-imposed exile while still yearning for "home." The unspoken, forbidden tension between lovers-to-be and the emptiness that's left by lovers' past. For all of its theatricality and poetics, when it comes to capturing the core of the human experience, it never misses. The term "style over substance" is dead; let's bury it. Paulo Rocha gives a masterclass on how substantive "style" can be when executed at this level.

I've seen many films like this before, but never to this degree, to this exactness. It's perfection. I'm intimidated by it. At awe of it. I honestly can't properly articulate why I love this film as much as I do. All the creatives involved were moving on one accord. Knowing when to cut and when to linger. When to pan and when to lock down the camera. When to punctuate a moment with sound or to allow silence to become deafening. Every decision was made with confidence, every second was made to count.

It's really "slow and boring," and I love it!

Serene, mystical mountain bluegrass vibes, spiraling outward after multiple puffs of the devil's lettuce. Big scraggly beards, knitted sweaters, mugs of homebrew, and sunkissed psychedelic sounds. Hints of pine waft across morning dew. Cradled in mother nature, blanketed by neverending fog. Flora dances, manipulated by song and edit. Elder forest nymphs on LSD and silly prog-rock nursery rhymes.

A placid stoner musical, wholly of its time. A slice of paradise not wanting to end. Modernity be damned.

An exhaustive, and quite frankly, exhausting film experience, Peter Watkins's The Journey flattens geopolitical borders and physical space in its attempt to create a shared consciousness. To form a linkage of like-minded concerns over the nuclear arms race and the sense of helplessness it conjured up in all those that understood its power to eradicate everything. An attempt to give shape to the Cold War paranoia of its time. The industrialization of mass destruction and fear-mongering. To bridge information-gathering between the vigilant and ignorant, years before the internet would expedite--and for the better--truncate similar content for easier accessibility.

The most terrifying aspect of this film is the feeling of totality showcased by the direction of governing bodies and the media's deliberate obfuscation of actions being taken. Global militarization and weapons stockpiling with the twisted logic of "mutual destruction equal no destruction" without a hint of acknowledgment of the absurdity of this circus act. It's honestly quite distressing--the magnitude of it all. After 14 hours of viewing, the only thing left besides mental strain is the sinking feeling that what it offers still exists as an outline at best. A blip on the radar. A summary of a much larger text, a far greater truth that can't be appropriately scaled or discussed in any meaningful way. That in its present state, what we've been made privy to then and now remains limited at best.

Even the banality in which Watkins presents this makes it threatening. A matter-of-fact, threadbare-like frankness to the proceedings. His left-leaning bias is still omnipresent, but the clinical approach in his presentation makes the entire thing almost morbid. Performing a post-mortem dissection of humanity's failures, as if to serve the benefit of future historians rather than us, the viewer. And ultimately, that approach may be the biggest downside to this ambitious effort as well.

As is, The Journey is a flawed film. Partly due to losing relevance in the mass adoption of the internet and concise/readily available content to make a DIY researcher out of anyone willing to sift through the misinformation from facts, and perhaps more critically, issues the film suffers from on its own accord. For all its well-intentions, it's still a bloated, unrefined manifesto; an issue absent in a vast majority of his other humanist works. Often retracing its steps with a type of redundancy that doesn't glean new insight but rather dulls some of its initial impact. Unlike before, Watkins isn't reconstructing history in a manner that absorbs us into the world projected but instead gives us a textbook reading.

Nevertheless, this is a significant entry in his filmography, as it tackles and draws out many of his concerns and obsessions. However, unlike entries before and since, engaging or stimulating its viewership appears to be an afterthought, while the very assimilation of inconvenient truths tucked away from everyday citizens seems to be its only concern. Public news agencies are as biased and agenda-driven as Watkins (even under its veil of journalistic integrity). Faceless corporations continue to selfishly gobble up everything in the name of profit (as if you needed that told to you). And mankind continues to flirt with the Doomsday Clock (water wet, fire hot, nihilism is on the rise).

Unless you're an extremely patient Peter Watkins fan or staunch neoliberal devotee (boots on the ground with picket sign in hand, not just online sloganeering), this isn't a mountain you have to climb. As for everyone else, consider viewing his swansong La Commune (Paris, 1871) instead, as it's a far better political statement that doesn't forget to interject style with all its hours of sobering substance. The Journey just doesn't fully justify the journey anymore.

A beautiful, kaleidoscopic daydream. A kid lost in their games with camerawork equally as playful-boundless imagination and fascination with the world around her. Foliage bejeweled by sunbeams as she cut across an endless field. Everything in service of extending the adventure-of prolonging the fun. Edits that transport us with the same curious gaze, latching onto one diversion to the next. From Mickey Mousing the tiny steps of a kitten to the whirling fisheye lens shots that mirror the thrill of discovery, this film's ability to effortlessly capture childhood is incredible. It's Kati's wonderland; we're just along for the ride.

I couldn't stop smiling. What an absolute delight!

Huge swaths of Russian history represented as a sprawling, moving canvas. The scale of which can't be properly appreciated until you've stepped back to observe the full picture on display. A history of revolution, disillusionment, national pride, and hardship. Men cutting through a dense Siberian forest to build a road with no discernable end in sight. Holding out hope for the unforeseen future of their homeland. With each decade chronicled, a rebellious spirit is continuously fostered, inherited from one generation to the next. Whether it's on the battlefield, in the workforce, or on the political stage, this is no place for the weak-willed.

And as the past dies to allow the future a chance to live, so too does this multi-generational tale continues to evolve itself. We see the idealogical rift that slowly separates fathers from their sons; coexistence made tentative at best. Each must forge their own way forward. And yet the ghosts of their forefathers lingers, a fog hovering over the fields, engulfing the personalities of those that carry the bloodline. All of it is witnessed through the eyes of remote villagers. Individuals with their interconnected relationships simultaneously serving as a microcosm for the Soviet Union's state of being, reflecting the turmoil it takes to build a nation. Changes occurring in the outside world that seeps in, altering the course of all those involved. From small-village superstition to post-war industrialization; it's all here on display.

Siberiade is a moving, monumental piece of work. From minute one to its credit role, it never lets up. A crowning achievement in a year that birthed several classics and a must-watch for fans of Soviet cinema. Don't let this one pass you by.

The human body as a mound of flesh, ranging from sensual to repulsive in a matter of seconds. Cosmetic beauty spiraling into disquieting body horror, not from disfigurements, but continual exposure to attractive physiques, robbing the individual of "self" until only limbs, breasts, lips, and the vague resemblance of a person, remains. Fascinations with anatomy made to dehumanize its subject with suffocating blocking and compositions, not too dissimilar from other 1969 films, Funeral Parade of Roses and Eros + Massacre. Feminine heat, bodies writhing and contorting to psychedelic sounds and emerging trends. Trends that still color the imaginations of filmmakers today.

The male gaze weaponized, reducing women to corporeal commodities, objectification as venture capital or "art," depending on the clientele. The proliferation of sex as a mainstay in pop culture's lexicon shown explicitly. God is a woman and society never hesitates to exploit her. Flesh and landscape made to be one and the same. Matched by an erratic editing style that helps create temporal distortion, collapsing time, making all actions and gestures seem reactionary. Which also reflected the restlessness of society during this period, with its ceaseless march forward. There's no moment to rest in the tides of perpetual change. The luxuries of "taking it slow," along with traditional values, died, another casualty of a post-war world. A generation of rebellious youth whose maturation period in the 60s resulted in an era of openly resentful attitudes towards the nuclear family and all that it came to represent, while conversely, engaging in open acts of free love and experimentation, creating a new normal. It's this very attitude that the film reflects best.

A Woman's Case is yet another radical film made during an era when bucking against old-hat methods of storytelling seemed instinctual. A time when expanding cinema's language and creating new forms of expression in the process was almost a sink-or-swim mentality. In hindsight, this very refusal to compromise has granted this film, and many like it, an extended shelf-life. A film that's every bit as relevant and riveting in today's society as it was in the 60s counterculture that initially provided it a platform.

While it may not have the same kind of reverence as other content from its time, it's every bit as deserving of your attention, and I highly suggest seeking it out if you have an affinity for films with a punk attitude.

In which the film is the window we look out of. Quietly observing small shifts and movements occurring in its borders. Where the edit may take us next. People-watching without crossing into the environment. Time processed differently. Spatial rather than durational. Eyes scanning over each frame, no matter how "insignificant" the change. Just the beauty of variance and motion. The magic of light cutting into darkness to create imagery.

Don't bring demands here, you'll be sorely disappointed, The Enclosed Valley doesn't offer any instant gratification. There's no explicit narrative or story structure, it's burden-free; immortal. Allows you to just wander. The curiosity of being a child again, taking in your surroundings as if for the first time, yet the patience allotted with adulthood to veer past the obvious. And like a child, time stands still. It either registers or doesn't, there's no in-between. Nothing to debate or overanalyze. It has a rhythm if you're willing to dance.

"Compelling mundanities"? Yeah, let's go with that. I wouldn't recommend this film to anyone.

A galaxy pouring out from half-forgotten memories, the subconscious, and dreams of an individual's life. Each cosmic burst giving shape through film, ever-shifting, altering its appearance to make sense of the chaos. Reels of celluloid extended like DNA strands, cutting and splicing, stringing itself together, all in a futile attempt to be streamlined. To make a lifetime digestible. "Cerebral globe-trotting" as it were.

It's big, messy, human cinema.

Exists in an alternative reality where the 60s counter-culture, with all its drug use and eastern-influenced exploitation, has warped itself into a shapeless mass. A hallucinatory nightmare made flesh, residing in the thin membrane that separates conscious thought and impulse. The same partition where "peace and love" mantras and the occult stands shoulder-width apart. Absurd and perverse. Pulsating, droning, dissolving, turning into liquid.

Alternatively, it's just a bunch of hippies flailing around after a bad acid trip. Either way, It's perplexing all the same. Whether you love or loath it, The Invasion of Thunderbolt Pagoda will likely leave an impression.

Like a cross-section between films of the Taiwanese New Wave and a mood piece, 1987's Gondola is a curious gem. With little in the way of audience coverage for it or its director, the few that have sought it out seemed to have done so by word of mouth and comparisons to works sharing a similar appeal. From what I've gathered, August in the Water and the early 80s output of Edward Yang (That Day on the Beach, Taipei Story, and The Terrorizers) are what's picking up steam as a selling point. Seeing it for myself, I'd say the end result is somewhere in the middle.

Like August in the Water, there's a strong emphasis placed on its ephemeral/vaporwave aesthetic and daydream tone. And of the two, August might be the one that consistently sustains it, but not to the detriment of Gondola's efforts; its success derives elsewhere. It achieves a synthesis with its vapor-trail style and narrative threads, a singularity where written content and feelings are unified. Motifs that serve multifaceted purposes, complementing each other throughout. It's not just a great aesthetic, it's a reinforcement of the screenplay. Water, music, translucent objects intermix; glass for barriers, figurative distance, and isolation, water for longing, a point of return-memory for one character, a dream state for the other-music as a representation of a missing parental figure. A constant reminder of a bygone time, changing with the development of the narrative itself, becoming something of a healing agent. If any comparisons to 80s Yang are to be made, it's here, in the way the architecture of the cityscape lives and breathes with the personal lives of its inhabitants. An ecosystem of mutual give-and-take.

There's more than "vibes" to soak in here. There's a story of loneliness, of coping, the role of the family as a sculpting component for the way children turn out. Gondola's narrative stays in the forefront, holding equal weight to its visual fidelity. An elegy dedicated to those that feel like ghosts of their society, a part of yet apart from the crowd. Empathetic and therapeutic, to the right person, Gondola could be more than 2 hours to kill, it could be a source of comfort. Something to revisit when you just need to tune everything else out.

Chile's landscape transformed into a metaphysical Mobius strip of endless misdirection, each housing several nesting doll narrative threads, couched in a labyrinth of peculiar folklore, backstories, and dreams. A tale populated with devils, angels, village idiots, and wise men.

A film for the Ruiz faithful that tend to enjoy his more puzzle-box plot assembly and absurdist/bone-dry sense of humor. This one is a gift that keeps on giving.

Released a decade earlier than Ken Russell's The Devils, yet functioning as a spiritual successor of sorts, Jerzy Kawalerowicz's Mother Joan of the Angels also bases its story around the 17th century Loudun possessions to interesting effect, especially when taking into consideration the vast stylistic differences that define each film.

Where Russell exposed the ugliness of this tale of unholy devotion through farce, allowing his characters to writhe around in all the filth and hypocrisy that defined the period, Kawalerowicz created a world where the peasants, nuns, and clergymens' mindsets were treated as frankly as it may have been for those residing in it, unaware of any other reality besides their own. It was documentation not through historical hindsight but by retracing the footsteps that led to its foregone conclusion. Russell's maximalism replaced with Kawalerowicz's minimalism. Vibrant colors traded in for textural black and white. Psychosexual phantasmagoria replaced by emanations of a slowly corruptive force.

If a directors' execution could be grouped by an imaginary school of thought, these two men may as well be rivaling factions. Rusell's proximity to Alejandro Jodorowsky in stylistic technique equals the vastness that may group Kawalerowicz to Frantisek Vlacil when tackling the same subject matter. And yet, both films are masterfully done despite their radical departures in approach.

With Mother Joan of the Angels, Kawalerowicz showcases the temptation, elation, and destructive power that blind devotion could manifest. A thin margin separating spiritual ecstasy from cardinal desire. A nudge made in either direction holding the power to change a pillar of sanctity into one accused of sacrilege. The same kind of thin margin that separates the physical space between a nun and priest, bound by an unspoken unison. It's either sainthood or sinner. Any system defined by that sort of dogmatic rule is a house of cards waiting to topple.

An honest meditation on faith and its inescapable fight with the world that surrounds it, Kawalerowicz's Mother Joan of the Angels has cult-classic status written all over it. All it's missing is its faithful congregation.

Nirakar Chhaya has to be one of the more curious oddities I've stumbled upon in recent years, a film that's sustained by the cinematic language toiled over and mastered by established directors, yet, its existence remains entirely absent. A piece of post-modernist work that simultaneously evokes the alienation of Michelangelo Antonioni's modernity trilogy while delivering performances and framing not too dissimilar from the essay reads of a Straub-Huillet exercise. There are even hints of 50s era Agnès Varda emanating throughout, mise-en-scène sharing a striking resemblance to La Pointe-Courte. All these points of influence mentioned aren't meant to devalue what Ashish Avikunthak has accomplished here, but rather to highlight what's perhaps a well-cultured creative whose biggest limitation seems to be budgetary and audience exposure.

A smattering of styles and influences, a digression into form. Textural black and white sequences heightened by the unnerving sounds of a violin and piano-backed soundtrack, striking with the kind of punctuated arrival reminiscent of Akio Jissoji's Buddhist trilogy. The unnerving tones of its sonoristic/modern classical music are left to simmer beneath the surface, leaving the audience in a state of discomfort. These sequences of cerebral quality are then juxtaposed beautifully with an approach reminiscent of guerrilla-style documentary filmmaking. Shots that capture the mundanity of modern culture. Walking through a marketplace, riding public transport, viewing the remnants of a forgotten town. Moments of normalcy that allow its highbrow sensibilities the means to remain grounded, by the mere fact that these are places we can visit. Run our fingers across. Touch and smell.

This film has all of the trappings as well as liberations of a DIY effort. Limitations announced when certain shots pick up the bellowing sound of a windy day, further accentuated by captured audio of the surrounding environment. However, none of this takes away from the ambition on display, and in many ways, it lends to its charm. That rare good kind of "low polish" (think along the lines of Lav Diaz's work). Here's someone who's accomplished something that's possible by anyone determined enough to see it through. What this film accomplishes with its still-life compositions, gorgeous pillow shots, and experimental storytelling has won me over.

A story about the subjectivity of stories, how reliant they are on the perspective of the narrator, and the paranoia conjured up when the unreliable narrator trope is applied to predatory behavior. When a relationship is built on deceit. A story about the power of a lie and how it could be utilized in forming its own version of the truth.

Inexplicable. Mesmerizing. Magical. Perhaps the most complicated thing I've had the pleasure of piecing together. How do you even begin to make something so infinite in scope? Kaleidoscopic and radiate. Stories beaming out in geometric patterns of fiction within the fiction of the story being told. It exists in a state of variables, branching out and operating in limitless possibilities. All of it contained by a handful of characters' lives that work in tandem with a fairytale unbound by traditional rules.

And despite its seemingly disorderly approach, all these branch paths are connected to the same tree-to the same journey-merging itself into a singular form. Cohesion exists in fleeting glances, slipping just out of reach before it could make itself completely known. The pleasure of the mystery, of the hunt, sustained. Oneiric yet tactile, with defined order and space. A universal, architectural binding agent. However, it's the dimensions of the world created that remain troublesome; length and width without a foreseeable end.

Dreams about the past taking place in the future of the world's making. Fantasies and historical events within the story hold weight by their interplay with any given reality it reveals unforeseen knowledge to. It's deceptive but never malicious. Plot points mutated by any little revelation. In its lies lies the truth.

I couldn't look away. Slack-jawed, sitting at the edge of my seat. Bewildered and in awe at what was unfolding before me. And to think, at the center of all this madness is a simple tale of love. I don't think I could ever adequately describe this. Consider this the 1st of many failed attempts.

A film that folds in on itself, where the lines between acting and acting natural is an equally weighted farce. Everyone is playing a part even when off-camera. Hiding behind their persona built up to appease others, or lost within the persona they've interjected themselves into when performing on film. Egotistical self-aggrandizing small-players all trying to assert their pseudo-philosophy about content that was in itself a lack of content.

It's such an utter takedown of perceived reality while operating under the confines of a camera lens that it's hard to even draw the lines between its genius and self-serving conceit.

And somewhere between where the true answer lies and the fabrication takes over is where the appeal can be found. Transient glimpses of something resembling "purposeful chaos" that keeps the viewer from looking away.

A reality that falls victim to the entropy of unguided celluloid. Directing byways of not. Acting byways of not. Development byways of not. It's a documentary-hybrid about nothing that becomes something by the mere fact that tangible film exists to support it.

A documentary-film hybrid about a documentary being filmed based on the 2nd filming crew that's documenting the filming process of the 1st film crew, while this 1st crew in question is in the process of shooting a screen test for a film with no clear beginning or end. Yeah... let THAT metacontextual mindfuck sink in.

It Comes at Night is a film that discards typical horror movie tropes in place of actual craftsmanship. There are no big revelations being made here, no grand "aha" moment that would have you giving a standing ovation. All it offers you is a general sense of paranoia that's fostered under the right set of circumstances.

Using different aspect ratios (letterboxing) to insinuate the differences between reality and a delusional dream state was not only a clever bit of extradiegetic storytelling but also a great conversation piece once you get to the finale. By playing with the subconscious understanding of these aspects and the simple mechanics of the world created, you basically get a film that demands a rewatch upon completion or at the very least, a proper discussion of the events delivered in the 3rd act.

All the performances were fantastic. Even the younger characters were believable. In a short period of time, they all became flesh and blood people, with none feeling gimmicky or poorly placed.

Perhaps this film was too subdued for its own good. As was the case with 2015's The Witch, this film's dedication for a higher pedigree of horror movie storytelling may have effectively deafened its acceptance from general movie goers. With that being said, this is basically another shoe-in for cult status territory.

This review will be extremely short, not because the show lacks anything worth dedicating a detailed analysis on, but because no matter how much I elaborate on why it works, at the core of it all, the reasoning is so simple that it's almost unfathomable to think that so many creators are missing this key ingredient in their works. Miss Kobayashi's Dragon Maid is FUN, plain and simple.

That's it, that's the magical formula. It turns out that after all the overzealous attempts at trying to make "mature/2deep4u" anime to be accepted by a general audience, all it really takes to win people over, in the end, is less cynicism and more unadulterated fun.

Using the fish-out-of-water foundation for its story, the show introduces us to a bevy of mythical dragons that take on human forms. After stumbling around in a forest in a drunken stupor from one too many shots, 9-to-5 salary woman Kobayashi finds herself coming face-to-face with one of these dragons. Fast forward later and this dragon, named Tooru, is now her maid, and the rest is history.

What I love about this show is just how whimsical and lighthearted it treats everything. And when I say everything, I mean that quite literally. Cannibalism, excessive stalking, casual homosexuality, threatening to murder someone, devouring small critters like little morsels, causing mass destruction; every bizarre situation you could think of, the show manages to flip it into a hilariously "out there" situation. There isn't a moment that passes by where I wasn't laughing at the nonsense that occurred on screen. This is a show that effortlessly flies through slapstick scenarios like it's second nature, made all the funnier when accounting for the dragons themselves.

Each dragon has their own quirks and mannerisms. From the adorable goth loli Kanna to the grimdark stick-in-the-mud, Fafnir. What the show does so well is essentially taking all these simplistic personalities, dumping them into a container, shaking it up and just sitting back and view the kind of interaction that would occur when their personalities collide. It's the same method shows like K-On adopted, but here, I think it's even more successful, as it doesn't remain relatively grounded, instead choosing to give birth to the weirdest outcomes possible. As is the case with Fafnir, who, despite his stoic persona, turns out to be a hardcore otaku in the making, or with Kanna who exudes an extreme amount of enthusiasm, but with a facial expression that's complimented with a thousand-yard stare.

This anime is essentially a slice of life with kooky characters all being placed within a proverbial pinball machine, where every episode results in left-field eccentricities and small moments of endearment.

And really, there's nothing else for me to say here. If you've grown tired of all the bleak, overly-serious melodrama and just want FUN in your anime again, this title is a must-watch. A show that carves something out for itself without all the overt cynicism usually associated with the "cute girls" trend.

With a few beers in their system, a myriad of obscure video tapes to pick from, and a camera in place to capture every reactive moment, The Best of the Worst series has been considered by many RedLetterMedia viewers to be Mike Stoklasa and friends' best outing yet.

The setup usually sees the crew scour through their shelves filled with videotapes to select three from the pile. After their selection, they crack open a few beers, sit back and take it all in, where they later go on to hold a roundtable panel discussion on what they've seen with their signature dry/deadpan humor flavored throughout. And between all the farcical meta-narratives they've established throughout the series and odd distractions spurred on by their inebriation, they then attempt to evaluate and vote on which they feel is "The Best of the Worst." Consequently, the one they favored the least might be subjected to some kind of creative destruction carried out by the crew.

Aside from RLM regulars like Jay Bauman and Rich Evans, they also use this segment to occasionally bring on guest stars, from fellow B-movie enthusiasts to creators working in some capacity within the industry. Every participant --whether they're a recurring guest (Jim and Collin from Canada) or a new face to the mix -- all bring something unique to the table.

The web-series has also gone on to spawn several mini-segments under the "Best of the Worst" moniker: Wheel of the Worst, Plinketto, and Battle of the Genres, just to name a few. Each of these mini-segments adds a certain "pizzazz" to the audiovisual torture they place themselves through. Seeing their reaction is the highlight of each episode, as they spawn out meme-worthy moments, routinely incorporating active member Rich Evans as the butt of some cruel joke.

If you're a fan of RedLetterMedia's warped sense of humor, then chances are you've already seen this series, however, if your only exposure to the RLM brand starts and ends with the Plinkett Reviews or Half in the Bag, then this is one drunken carnival ride you should definitely consider climbing aboard.