In Víctor Erice’s movies – four in a career that began fifty years ago – cinema, both as a physical place and as a technical and expressive device, has always played a central role. Her first feature film, The Spirit of the Beehive (El espíritu de la colmena, 1973), told the story of a little girl who was shocked after watching Frankenstein (James Whale, 1931). In El sur (The South) (1983) the protagonist discovered her father’s betrayal in a hall where movies featuring the man’s lover were shown. Cinema as an influential art device, capable of having concrete effects on reality, can also be found in Cerrar los ojos (Close your eyes), the director’s latest work.
Climate change is not a fairy tale, and the director makes this clear. Éléonore Saintagnan immerses us in an unusual atmosphere, almost as if it was a science fiction film. I prefer to label it as a fictional feature teetering on the edge of reality — a film that calls into question a monster to shed light on a pressing issue: the drying up of lakes.
A little girl dies and is born again. This is the obsessive research of a maternity which makes the creation of life look like an unfulfilled purpose. What does the idea of parenting bodies and ideas mean? Can creation, intended as a prosthesis of ourselves in eternity, be a possible cure for death? The debut feature film Birth/Rebirth by director Laura Moss tries to answer these questions through the story of two totalizing and petrifying gestations.
Since we were kids, when being first shown a geographical map, political boundaries seemed so obvious and natural to us that we were ready to be tested at school. They may have changed over time, but they remain precise and defined at all times. Paradoxically, it is precisely when at the boundaries that we realise how much those lines we saw reproduced on maps are actually invisible, and how much the very concept of a border is artificial, aimed at reassuringly determining every aspect of our existence. It is in one of those places, in the municipality of Oulx, on the border between Italy and France, that Virginia Bellizzi observes the numerous fleeting passages of migrants in search of a better future.
The Spanish director Pablo Berger and the Arcadia Motion Pictures renew their collaboration to create their first 2D animated film. As with the previous Blancanieves (“Snow White”, 2012) – a black and white silent film – the director feels the need to reconnect with the essence of early 20th century cinema. For Robot Dreams he also looks back to the past, specifically to traditional animation, fascinated by its unlimited possibilities of storytelling and representation. Berger succeeds in tackling the challenge of the step-by-step technique – or, frame by frame – with ease, thanks to the habit of creating storyboards, which allowed him to integrate an ideal process for the development of animation.
The sky burns above Leon (Thomas Schubert), a hopeless author, as he is writing a book without first having thought of an actual story. Concern is evident on his face while he repeats to himself that others do not understand him, his clothes are always black and he often hides in the shadows, he lies in wait at the blind spot of a door window to peek at other people’s lives. He has a tattoo on his chest, barely visible and which can only be glimpsed behind the hem of his shirt: it looks like the perfect picture to represent someone who is almost afraid to be part of the real world.
In Milan’s Labanof, the Laboratory of Forensic Anthropology and Odontology at the University of Milan, Professor Cristina Cattaneo takes care of bodies without identities, which she calls “pure strangers.” These same bodies give their name to Valentina Cicogna and Mattia Colombo’s documentary: Sconosciuti puri (“Pure strangers”), which is dedicated to the struggles of forensic anthropologist’s work.
The colossal shadow of wind turbines looms intermittently over Maria Lukyanova’s face, the protagonist of Grace, as if to recall the centrifugal rage by which she is invested. She closes her eyelids and imagines an escape from the van in which she has lived for as long as she can remember and where her father (Gela Chitava), has placed his last hopes. A dwelling where father and daughter travel through Russia’s remote provinces, screening old films in villages where the internet has not yet taken over. For the protagonist, the escape from her father and consequently from their life as a nomad – or rather, as «travelers», as the man points out – materializes in the sea, which she can only dream about through the images of female swimmers in an old television set and in the plastic attractions of a water park inside a shopping mall.
No man ever steps in the same river twice, for it’s not the same river and he’s not the same man. This idea, which can be traced back to the Heraclitean philosophy of Panta Rei, “everything flows,” well represents the meta-cinematic spirit of Retake, Japanese director Kôta Nakano’s debut. The film was presented at the Nuovimondi (“New Worlds”) section of the 41st Torino Film Festival.
In Kleber Mendonça Filho’ debut film, O Som ao Redor (“Neighbouring sounds”, 2012), there’s a scene in which two people visit an abandoned cinema and the sound recalls films that used to be shown there in the past. Through this dimension, images manifest themselves as spectres that want to communicate with the living, echoing in crumbling and forgotten places. The last work of the Brazilian director, Retratos fantasmas (“Pictures of ghosts”) – presented at the International Documentaries Competition of the 41 st edition of the Torino Film Festival – is based on the same concept of returning images.
It’s tough to picture what thousands of young people must have felt when, after years under the regime, they suddenly had the chance to cross their country’s borders and freely explore cities like London, Paris, Rome, Madrid, or Amsterdam. It’s not surprising that László Csáki wanted to create an animated documentary to leverage drawing possibilities and convey the feelings of an entire generation in Hungary during the 1990s, following the breakup of the People’s Republic and the Soviet Union.
“What happens to a country when an entire page of its history is erased?” This is the starting point of Felipe Gálvez’s debut feature film Los colonos (“The settlers”). A raw and refined film that, through the journey of three men charged by landowner Jose Menéndez to find a “safe” – meaning “cleansed” of Indians – route to the shores of the Atlantic, brings attention to the genocide of the indigenous Selk’nam people perpetrated at the beginning of the 20th century for long obscured by Chile’s official history.
A couple of actors decide to participate in the television program “Scheletri nell’armadio” (“Skeletons in the closet”), in which they have to tell their love story without any filter or secret. Lucia’s idea (Barbara Giordano) is to let the audience know about her using the catch of a national-popular show, which now seems to be the only way to achieve popularity besides social networks. Paolo (Alessio Vassallo), instead, is reluctant to the idea of showing his secrets, but he will be persuaded by the perspective of job. They swear to each other that they will only tell the truth on camera, even if, being actors, they can alter it a bit for the audience. A complete fiasco.
Gianluca Maria Tavarelli, author and screenwriter of Indagine su una storia d’amore (“Analysis of a love story”), performs an autopsy on this relationship, which the spectator looks at with a voyeuristic taste. From the beginning of the film, in fact, we already know how the relationship of Paolo and Lucia will end, but we are captivated by a kind of morbid curiosity, on which the script and the staging pry. The facts that are shown and told will end up being wrong. Everything is uncertain and put under question in a way that leaves the audience unable to understand who is right. By doing this with a multi-layer and multi-sense narrative, Tavarelli constantly keeps the interest of the audience alive, so that they don’t have time to relax – or worse – to get bored. Thanks to this device, he doesn’t risk appearing trivial with an ordinary topic in this hyper-exposition era.
That which provides the attraction mechanism in the audience is to find how things really went, spying on the couple’s private reactions while on their own rediscovery. But since lies are always more intriguing than truth, Paolo becomes the real protagonist of this story. In fact, the audience knows a lot more about Paolo than Lucia does, a character that seems far too functional, if not just the litmus test of her partner’s behaviour. Alessio Vassallo manages to put on stage a good degree of measure even in the most desperate moments, such as when he attempts suicide. ( we give credits to Alessio Vassallo for some moves taken in the most desperate moments like attempted suicide) A quality that Paolo shares with the other characters too, also thanks to the irony with which Tavarelli colours the whole film, moving between an excessive exuberance and a comic lightness.
The young protagonist (Marc Zinga) and his pregnant girlfriend (Lucy Debay) fly from Belgium to Congo to reestablish their relationship with his family. However, he has to face the prejudice caused by a birthmark on his face – a bad omen, according to the local tradition, which has negatively affected his life since he was a child.
This is the very beginning of Augure, the opening film of the “Crazies” section of the 41st Turin Film Festival, and the first feature film by the eclectic artist Baloji, a Belgian graphic designer and musician from Congo. During the scenes of this family drama, the director tackles the spectacularity of the human bodies of a small local group, thereby depicting the colors and customs of a culture somewhere between actual African tradition and the director’s phantasmagorical inventiveness. A visual staging that crosses the boundaries of the mundane, taking us toward the magic of the fairy tale and the anxiety of the unconscious.
«What are you doing? Are you sleeping at this time? No. I’m dreaming.».
If we could see with a painter’s eye Mimmo Calopresti’s portrait of one of Italy’s most beloved and most brilliant designers, it would appear to us as a chiaroscuro. This docu-fiction alternates between reality and fiction, past and present, the protagonist’s extensive cultural background and the abandonment of his studies. A duality that converges, in the end, in the construction of a great character, a down-to-earth dreamer: “I live in a dream. My dream is coming true: to be Gianni Versace.”
The second feature film by Quebecois director Chloé Leriche, Soleils Atikamekw (Atikamekw Suns) portrays the profound intergenerational pain of the Atikamekw community in Manawan, Quebec. The film’s delicate aesthetics and careful formal work are not intended to sugarcoat the film, but rather to testify the strength and beauty of a community that, though destroyed, attempts to rebuild its memory.
Lydia (Hafsia Herzi) and Salomé’s lives are intricately and specularly linked: if one of them is happy, the other one suffers and viceversa. Therefore, on the same day that Salomé celebrates her birthday and her newly discovered pregnancy, Lydia mourns the end of her relationship with her boyfriend, letting herself go to a lonely and alienated autumnal Paris that resembles Taxi Driver’s (1976) New York. However, when Salomé gives birth, Lydia runs into Milos (Alexis Manenti) – an insomniac bus driver that impersonates De Niro’s Travis Bickle and with whom Lydia previously had a fling –and realizes that the newborn represents a desperate attempt for her to finally feel loved.
Yes, Quentin Dupieux has done it again. After the killer tyre in Rubber (2010), the jacket in Deerskin (2019) and the fly in Mandibles (2020), this time it is some eccentric horror stories – not very scary actually, rather pleasantly hilarious – that wring big laughs and dominate the scene in the latest film by one of the most absurd and paradoxical authors of contemporary cinema.
A group of extremely dangerous Korean criminals leave the port of Manila on a hyper-secured cargo ship to return home, where they will finally be tried for their crimes. What could possibly go wrong?
The 40th edition of the TFF is covered in stars and stripes in the new retrospective on western cinema: the festival’s director – Steve Della Casa is a great fan of the genre – could only pay homage to some films of this fundamental strand in American production from 1938 to 1960.
The films in question, however, have nothing to do with the great auteurs of the Hollywood western, in this case replaced by skilled tradesmen such as Joseph H. Lewis and Alfred “Al” Green, cornerstones of the industry and prolific creators of b-movies. Thematically too, there was a desire to find a common thread linking the various titles in the section: extravagance and uniqueness are the two terms that guided a careful selection of the most unknown and forgotten films of American cinema par excellence.
Shotgun (1955) di L. Selander.
But what is western cinema without its heroes? Sometimes ‘knights without blemish and without fear’, other times men torn apart by a dark past. In High Noon, the heroes are nothing more than anomalous characters at the mercy of the narrative, which transports them – willingly or unwillingly – to new and painful frontiers: this is the case of Henry Carson (Van Johnson) in R. Rowland’s rural The Romance of Rosy Ridge (1947) where we are presented not with a restless cowboy, but with a romantic and mysterious vagabond who settles in the house of Southerner Gill MacBean (Thomas Mitchell), the father-master of the beautiful Lissy (Janet Leigh).
The same could be said for Four Faces West (1948) directed by Al Green where we find Joel McCrea as Ross McEwan, a bandit with a heart of gold on the run from the infamous – but more harmless than his classic portrayal – sheriff Pat Garrett. Not a single shot is fired throughout the film: this is unnecessary, since our outlaw is actually a good and generous man who gives the money he stole to his financially struggling father and helps a needy Mexican family afflicted with diphtheria.
Four Faces West (1948) di Alfred Green.
The absence of duels in Green’s film is compensated for by J. H. Lewis’ Terror in a Texas Town (1958), in which guns are loaded and fired, but when firearms are not enough, harpoons and forges worthy of a Melville novel appear in the anomalous final confrontation between the one-armed gunman Johnny Crale (Nedrick Young) and the vengeful George Hansen (Sterling Hayden).
The section dedicated to B-westerns reserved some curious rediscoveries and courageous revivals such as S. Newfield’s The Terror of Tiny Town (1938), a musical played entirely by dwarf actors, but also more sober films in Technicolor such as R. Enright’s Coroner Creek (1948) and L. Selander’s Shotgun (1955). In short, High Noon took spectators on an atypical journey through the festival trails, offering genre lovers unmissable appointments with the theatre and the most unusual stories of the American frontier.
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