Good films make our lives better, and one tool that has always accompanied my love for movies is film criticism. A criticism that enriches our viewing experience, awakens curiosity, offers different perspectives, and confronts us.

A criticism that does not create distance, but rather brings us closer to the movie we have seen and to those we have yet to see. Because cinema is an infinite rhizome, and criticism not only helps us not get lost in it, but also illuminates certain paths and can help us find some trees that sometimes the forest does not let us see.

A criticism that, now in the age of algorithms this is more important than ever, invites us to leave the main page of our trusted streaming platform and dive into its endless catalog to discover a movie that otherwise we might never have found.

In short, a criticism that opens our eyes; so that when we close them, we do not forget the movie. Instead, we continue to project it onto that black screen that is our mind.

KILLERS OF THE FLOWER MOON

Martin Scorsese, 2023

Cortázar used to say that culture is the profound exercise of identity, and I add that it is not only individual but also collective. This is something that Scorsese has tirelessly worked on by infusing each of his films, however different they may be from one another, with a search for the DNA of the American identity.

However, the United States resists presenting a multifaceted image of its identity, and, aided by Hollywood's influential narrative, continuously portrays America as a place where dreams are fulfilled.

But we all know that no matter how easy it might be to fall asleep, no one is free from nightmares.

Scorsese is an expert at depicting the traumas that have kept 20th-century American society awake at night: the Vietnam War, the mafia, and violence—nightmares that people want to sweep under the rug but that Scorsese brings into the foreground.

The Italian-American director also takes on the task of making the invisible visible in his role as a passionate cinephile. His World Cinema Foundation demonstrates this by preserving and restoring forgotten works of world cinema.

Scorsese fights against oblivion by creating a monumental three-and-a-half-hour movie about the murder and plundering of the Osage tribe, cursed and blessed with that black gold that only causes fever.

I could talk about the performances, the staging, or that bass by Robbie Robertson that prepares us for the worst, but it would be reiterating what has already been said about this masterpiece. I prefer that you discover it yourselves by watching it.

The New Hollywood has become the old, yet Scorsese, having glimpsed the owl that portends its end, is determined to use all his power to prevent its complete demise.

And we will be there to celebrate it.

SAINT OMER

Alice Diop, 2022

In one of the climactic moments of "Saint Omer," the recent winner of the Grand Jury Prize at the Venice Film Festival and Best Film at the Seville European Film Festival, emphasis is placed on the biological meaning of the word "chimera".

The use of this word, rich in mythological content, to discuss something biological, perfectly sums up the dichotomy between abstraction and literalness that characterizes the entire film.

The movie, the first fiction feature by renowned documentarian Alice Diop, centers on the trial of Laurence, a Senegalese woman living in France who has committed infanticide by killing her 15-month-old daughter Lily, and at no point does the accused deny it.

The trial, therefore, is not about finding the guilty party, but about seeking an explanation, which makes all the protagonist's interventions, reminiscent of a contemporary Medea, fascinating.

While this poses a challenge for the viewer, as it demands active and non-judgmental listening to a character who has committed a horrendous crime, those who dare to watch it will find the greatest of rewards: a mature film that does not provide answers, but raises important questions and speaks about inherited traumas, mother-daughter relationships, and the construction of reality through language.

We encounter the dichotomy between the mythological and the objective once again in Diop's visual approach. As the narrative of the film becomes increasingly abstract, with references to witchcraft for instance, the staging remains firm and inquisitive, allowing space and time for the characters to reveal their truth.

Pasolini would have been proud of this 21st-century Medea.

ANOTHER ROUND

Thomas Vinterberg, 2020

Fourteen years passed between "The Celebration," the film that put Thomas Vinterberg on the map of radical auteur cinema, and "The Hunt," the film that brought him back to the forefront of festival cinema.

During those fourteen years, critics lost confidence in Vinterberg. However, this period also gave him enough distance to return stronger than ever, moving beyond being just the director of "The Celebration" to being recognized as Thomas Vinterberg.

Now, ten years after "The Hunt," he has won an Oscar for Best International Feature Film with "Another Round," creating a vitalist masterpiece from the most mundane realities. Life is an unpredictable journey, and just as one can move from promising youth to a relic of the past, so can a professor stuck in an existential crisis transform into someone who celebrates life in all its facets. This transformation happens to the protagonist of this film, which is erratic in the best sense.

"Another Round" opens with a marathon where young people must stop every 100 meters to drink beer. They run in pairs; if one vomits, the duo is penalized, but if both vomit simultaneously, they earn a bonus. This is the best metaphor for "It is better to go down together than to win alone" that I have seen on screen in a long time.

Later, we see these young people in a class taught by the film's protagonist, an immeasurable Mads Mikkelsen. He, along with a group of teacher friends, discovers a theory: a small dose of alcohol in the bloodstream can create the necessary attitude to enjoy life due to the inhibition it provokes.

A theory and a group of frustrated men are all that Thomas Vinterberg and his co-writer, the renowned director Tobias Lindholm, need to keep us riveted to our seats and follow the journey of these anti-heroes who represent us all.

I want to conclude by saying that the end of this film is the closest thing to catharsis I have experienced in cinema. In its finale, music, acting, and camera work come together to make us leave the theater feeling energized and eager to celebrate life and discuss what we have just seen.

"Another Round," like life, is open to many interpretations, and as with cinema, we always want more. Please, another round of this kind of cinema.

IL BOEMO

Petr Vaclav, 2022

For his sixth fiction feature film, Czech director and screenwriter Petr Václav (known for Marian, Parallel Worlds, The Way Out, We Are Never Alone) turns to the familiar genre of the musical biopic to celebrate the life of Josef Mysliveček, an 18th-century Czech composer. Not only was Mysliveček one of the most significant opera composers in Italy during his time, but he also mentored a young Mozart.

The film is a co-production between the Czech Republic, Italy, and Slovakia and was aptly showcased at the 34th edition of the Trieste Film Festival—a festival emphasizing Eastern European productions. This setting was particularly fitting for a biopic about a Czech composer in Venice.

Interestingly, this isn’t Václav’s first film about Mysliveček; he directed the documentary Confession of the Vanished in 2016, which covered Mysliveček’s life and won several international awards, including the Trilobit Award in the Czech Republic and the FIPA d'or in Biarritz.

With a budget that allowed for the meticulous recreation of the period and majestic settings like the Venice opera house, Václav revisits Mysliveček’s life, this time as a fictional narrative.

The film opens with a flashback to Mysliveček’s final days, showing him indebted and suffering from an illness that severely disfigured his face, necessitating a mask. It then transitions to his early days in Venice, filled with enthusiasm and rubbing shoulders with the elite, setting the stage for a classic rise-and-fall story.

This beginning is remarkably straightforward, immediately clarifying the type of film unfolding—a conventional biopic. Those seeking a psychological or unorthodox portrayal might need to look elsewhere.

One of the film's main issues, from my perspective, is that Václav adheres so closely to the clichés of the genre that he neglects Diane Arbus’ advice: "The more specific you are, the more general it'll be." Consequently, the film often descends into a series of overfamiliar scenarios—arguments with opera divas, encounters with aristocrats, and romantic liaisons.

However, there are moments when the film steps beyond these conventions, such as a lengthy, scatological conversation between the King of Italy and Mysliveček. This scene hints at the kind of film Il Boemo could have been if it had shed the constraints of academicism and embraced its characters' quirks, much like Miloš Forman did in Amadeus with Mozart’s laugh.

Additionally, the film’s portrayal of sexual scenes, which attempt to depict Mysliveček as much a lover as a composer, feels overly explicit and somewhat unnecessary after several similar scenes. The pervasive male gaze within these scenes deserves a critique of its own.

Ultimately, this is a film that prioritizes advancing the plot and incorporating explicit scenes over exploring the psychology of its characters. It will likely appeal to those more interested in lavish sets and costumes than in a richly developed inner world.

Curiously, Václav's parents, music composer Jiří Václav and film conductor Ljuba Václavová, imbue him with a deep musical legacy. It’s unfortunate that this passion does not fully translate into the film.

At least we are left with Mysliveček's music and the allure of 18th-century Venice to enjoy.

ATHENA

Romain Gavras, 2022

"Athena" is the third film by Romain Gavras, the renowned French director known for iconic music videos like Jay-Z's and Kanye West's "No Church in the Wild" and M.I.A.'s "Born Free."

His music video aesthetic has been both his greatest strength and his burden throughout his film career. His two previous films, "Our Day Will Come" and "The World Is Yours," were visually stimulating but criticized for their stereotypical characters and plots, resulting in a display of empty style.

However, "Athena" marks his third film, and it clearly shows that the third time's the charm.

Moving away from the advertising pomp of his previous feature films, "Athena" embraces the elements of Greek tragedy, set in a Parisian banlieue that soon becomes a powder keg.

This potent social and political fable is co-written by Gavras himself, Elias Belkeddar, and importantly, Ladj Ly, the director of the acclaimed 2017 film "Les Misérables." This trio offers a powerful narrative about managing both individual and collective rage and how it can lead to the worst of tragedies, showcasing Ladj Ly’s knack for crafting a social and political portrait with a unique sense of time and place.

The story begins with the announcement of the death of Idir, allegedly at the hands of police officers. Idir is the youngest of four brothers of Algerian origin living on the outskirts of Paris. The film explores how his brothers manage the rage provoked by this murder, especially two of them, Karim and Abdel, one choosing a peaceful path and the other unleashing violent revenge, disguised as justice.

If the names Karim and Abdel remind you of Cain and Abel, it is no coincidence, as the film builds on myths to attain the status of a complete Greek tragedy—a tragedy that neither seeks nor gives answers but follows characters condemned to their destinies, suggesting that no matter how hard we try, we often find no solace in our ways of dealing with grief and inner fury.

At best, we achieve catharsis, recognizing that violence only begets more violence, and often the greatest act of bravery is to put a stop to it.

And that's why I think "Athena" is a sincere film; it doesn't take a position.

A separate mention is deserved for its visual commitment. It is shot with such ambition and a love for all cinematic possibilities that even if you don’t like the movie, you will admire its aesthetics. Noteworthy is the 11-minute opening sequence that fascinates and shakes you as only great films can, setting the stage for everything that unfolds during the rest of the film.

A masterpiece in which, for the first time in Gavras's cinema, form and substance come together to offer us an unparalleled spectacle.

The film has been available on Netflix since last Friday, September 23, but while watching it, you'll wish you could have seen it in the cinema.

TRIANGLE OF SADNESS

Ruben Östlund, 2022

Among all the reasons to go to the movies—watching a premiere on the big screen, without distractions—the most romantic is to share an experience with strangers. Comedy, more than any other genre, is especially rewarding to share, as laughter spreads and transforms a movie theater into a celebration.

This is precisely what the recent Palme d'Or winner, "Triangle of Sadness," achieves. The film captivates viewers with its histrionic humor and sharp social critique. As great directors understand, comedy serves as the perfect conduit to address the most uncomfortable realities.

The film’s title refers to the area between the start of the eyebrows and the top of the nose, known in the fashion world as the "triangle of sadness." This zone, often targeted in cosmetic procedures to eliminate wrinkles, metaphorically suggests that the ultimate purpose of money is to buy perpetual youth.

However, the title also nods to the film's three-part structure and alludes to the Bermuda Triangle, that enigmatic point in the sea from which no one returns. Every element of this film is meticulously crafted, discussing power dynamics and exposing the capitalist belief that everything is a transaction.

In conclusion, the best decision you could make this week is to head to the cinema to enjoy the luxury cruise that Ruben Östlund offers with "Triangle of Sadness." Palme d'Or winners as engaging as this don't come along every week. Hopefully, the theater will be packed, ensuring the viewing is nothing short of a celebration.

SCARLET

Pietro Marcello, 2022

Raphaël returns home to a small French village at the end of World War I, only to discover that his wife has passed away while he was at the front, and his daughter, Juliette, has been born.

Thus begins a film that has been marketed as a romance, yet it is much more; it's a journey in search of hope and freedom for two characters overwhelmed by their circumstances. They possess only their hands (Raphaël is a craftsman capable of creating the most intricate toys) and their voice (Juliette is the only person in the village who sings, a poignant metaphor that defines the sole character capable of envisioning the future in a world that seems to exist solely in the present).

These simple tools are all that the characters need to transform their world and rise above the misery that envelops them (the literal translation of the title in French would be 'the ascent'). Pietro Marcello's direction is both austere and magical, employing analog imagery and vibrant colors that transport the viewer to a state of fascination. It's no wonder he won the award for Best Director at the Seville Film Festival.

Moreover, the film features magical and fantastical elements, such as a witch who reads the future and a pilot who crashes in uncharted territory, a clear nod to the quintessential French fairy tale "The Little Prince."

In conclusion, we are presented with a beautifully tender film that navigates, as only the great masters of magical realism can, the grimness of the interwar period and the protagonists' quest for hope.

BEAUTIFUL HELEN

George Ovashvili, 2022

In the life of everyone passionate about cinema, whether as a director, critic, or film buff, there comes a time when the allure of meta-cinema captivates. This cinematographic style reflects on the medium itself, inevitably drawing in those infected by the cinema virus. From Dziga Vertov’s "Man with a Movie Camera" to Haneke’s "Funny Games", and more recently, Spielberg’s "The Fabelmans", many directors have explored this territory. Now, it's Georgian director George Ovashvili and his co-writer Roelof Jan Minneboo's turn.

Ovashvili first gained international acclaim in 2014 with his film "Corn Island", a contemplative, naturalistic movie that won awards at Karlovy Vary and the Trieste film festival, where his latest creation, "Beautiful Helen", competes in the official feature film section. The story begins with Helen, a 25-year-old from Tbilisi, returning home after studying in New York. Like many young people, she is lost and disconnected, finding that a return home might help her reconnect with herself.

There, she meets Gabo, a renowned film director who hasn’t released a significant film in years and who hires Helen as his assistant. This marks the beginning of a special relationship between them, which could easily be defined as a power relationship. However, Ovashvili and Minneboo twist this into the realm of metafiction. The film thus explores themes such as the relationship between the artist and their work, the artist and their muse, and how the private lives of creators nourish their fiction, all underlined by a pervasive sense of loneliness.

The film articulates that loneliness is a powerful creative engine, capable of generating stories and connections—an idea that resonates deeply with cinephiles and creators. However, the film addresses these themes in an expository manner, primarily through dialogue that is engaging but ultimately too explicit.

This represents new territory for Ovashili, a director known for his implicit trust in the power of images, who previously resorted to dialogue only when absolutely necessary. I’d like to believe that this heavy reliance on dialogue in "Beautiful Helen", far from indicating a lack of trust in the audience's intelligence, is an experiment by the director, exploring new narrative forms different from his usual approach.

It is always refreshing to see a director step out of their comfort zone, even if it means embracing lengthy dialogues. The most compelling aspect of this film is witnessing a predominantly visual director tackle the challenge of visualizing extended conversations. Some situations are resolved with simple close-ups, while others, like the scene in the inn, create a sense of phantasmagoria through a fixed shot with internal movement—a visual challenge only a great director could manage.

This tension between the abstraction of some scenes and the explicitness of others is central to the film, providing a challenging but rewarding experience for the viewer. Moreover, Ovashvili has now joined the ranks of those who have ventured into making a meta-cinematic movie, a seeming rite of passage for any director.

INCREDIBLE BUT TRUE

Quentin Dupieux, 2022

For aficionados of fantastic cinema, Quentin Dupieux needs no introduction. This French filmmaker and musician has been a mainstay at the Sitges Film Festival for over a decade, where each of his films has been a hit. For everyone else, you're invited to the wonderfully conceptual and hilariously entertaining universe of this prolific filmmaker, highly sought after by the crème de la crème of the French star-system.

Jean Dujardin, Adèle Exarchopoulos, Benoît Magimel, Adèle Haenel, Vincent Lacoste, Gilles Lellouche... no, this isn’t the Cannes Film Festival red carpet, but just a few of the notable actors with whom this French filmmaker has collaborated. Ever since he captivated cinephiles with the unclassifiable "Rubber" in 2010, Dupieux has continuously gifted us unique films that everyone wants to be a part of. His works begin with highly original high concepts that reveal aspects of our human condition, approached with a sense of humor that balances between the absurd and the humanistic, always resonating with his characters, laughing with them rather than at them.

And now comes "Incredible but True," which won the Best Screenplay award at the last Sitges Film Festival. In just 75 minutes—a miracle!—it offers a brilliant examination of human fragilities while amusing us and endlessly doling out new ideas.

The premise is highly original yet straightforward: a couple buys a house that includes a sewer leading to a parallel reality where you rejuvenate by three days. Naturally, Dupieux doesn’t just leave it there; he delves into a critique of the obsession with beauty and youth, including scenarios involving electric penises.

In essence, what in other hands might be a ponderous two-and-a-half-hour study on the obsession with appearances, Dupieux transforms into an original, entertaining, and light—yet profound—film. The only regret is wishing we could have spent more time with it.

When was the last time you wished a movie lasted longer?

THINGS HEARD & SEEN

Shari Springer Berman and Robert Pulcini, 2021

The filmmaking and romantic partners Shari Springer Berman and Robert Pulcini delivered a supreme delight in 2003 with their debut film "American Splendor." This sharp and impeccably staged movie ingeniously integrated comic book elements to portray the creation of Harvey Pekar’s seminal comic strip, American Splendor.

The success of that indie film, which won at Sundance, propelled them to create higher-budget films, albeit with less cinematic impact. After five films that failed to resonate with critics or audiences, it seemed they were returning to a more personal cinematic style with “Things Heard & Seen,” an adaptation of Elizabeth Brundage’s novel "All Things Cease to Appear."

The first half-hour of the film promises a psychological horror experience rich in symbolism (evoking Swedenborg’s imagery through the paintings of George Inness), but the initially subtle script eventually leads into a clichéd plot involving infidelity, fragile masculinity, and a haunted village.

However, some scenes (like the car chase or the ambiguous introduction of the two brothers who assist the protagonist) manage to rekindle interest. Using a painting analogy—a significant element of the film—the narrative begins with delicate strokes of tension but ultimately applies the broad brush of routine horror typical of enchanted village tales.

The character development doesn't help either; we encounter clichés such as the frustrated man who cannot accept the life decisions he has made and rebels through deceit, and the submissive woman who finds her strength.

If the film aimed to maintain the ambiguity suggested by its title, it falls short. However, its attempt to soar with a highly unconventional and symbolically rich ending—reminiscent of the poetic climax in "Hereditary"—is notable, though it arrives too late, after both the viewer and the narrative have sunk into apathy. Things are heard and seen in this movie, but not felt.

MIDSOMMAR

Ari Aster, 2019

After "Hereditary," expectations for Ari Aster's next film were sky-high; the world had been captivated by the first feature from this New Yorker in his early thirties.

Critics and audiences, still reeling from the shock of the car scene and the ending of "Hereditary," along with Martin Scorsese, who acknowledged the director’s unmistakable talent, were all eager to see what he would deliver in his sophomore effort.

Then came the summer of 2019 with "Midsommar," portraying the emotional and physical journey of a young woman who has lost her family in the most tragic circumstances and is experiencing a fragile moment with her partner.

We could mention references to "The Wicker Man," "Häxan" (interestingly, the composer of the "Midsommar" soundtrack is known as The Haxan Cloak), or even Pasolini's "Salò." However, these are mere footnotes in a film whose disturbing power has few rivals in recent cinema, except perhaps Robert Eggers' "The Witch" or the works of Lars von Trier and Darren Aronofsky.

Upon its release, "Midsommar" was marketed as the quintessential daytime horror film, yet its impact extends well beyond simple daylight horror. Aster’s masterful staging of symbols, rituals, and hallucinogenic moments—both raw and poetic—are unforgettable.

Because while we remember what makes us feel good, what causes us pain is indelible. Just as the protagonist suffers, the director intends for the film to be painfully memorable.

This film is not for all audiences, nor does it aim to be. It embarks on a journey where each stop presents new manifestations of evil, acts justified by tradition and a sense of belonging. However, a shared morality does not make these acts any more bearable.

Ari Aster uses the narrative of an outsider, portrayed by the incomparable Florence Pugh, who enters a community and exposes all its flaws through her uncorrupted perspective. Yet, the desire to belong can sometimes lead one to fall prey to these aberrant but mesmerizing voids.

Second films can be more than just good—they can be unforgettable.

Gerard Jaurena

Mail: gjaurena.cm@gmail.com
Phone: +34 679683105