Argentina, 1985 takes creative liberties in dramatising the first legal conviction of a military dictatorship, but there is a sincerity baked into its performances and direction which offer its subjects a forthright compassion, reframing the nation’s political legacy as one of democratic victory over fascism.
There is incredible subtlety and depth to Charlotte Wells’ character work in Aftersun, as one woman’s ruminations over a vacation she went on with her deeply troubled father effectively takes off the rose-tinted glasses of her childhood, and retrospectively pieces together a fragmented portrait of his stifled, internal suffering.
The discovery of a horrific secret within the isolated Mennonite colony of Women Talking leaves some difficult decisions to be made by its female population, and through Sarah Polley’s bleak yet sensitive direction, she transforms it into a nuanced allegory of patriarchal exploitation at large, pushing it to a terrifying, unpredictable tipping point.
Todd Field remains at a chilly distance from the casually cruel subject of his interrogation in Tár, unleashing the full, daunting force of a gifted yet abusive musician with Kubrickian precision, and tracing her psychological disintegration to the depths of a painstakingly formal study in unchecked power, exploitation, and highbrow art.
Just as Babylon writhes with excitement at cinema’s potential during the early years of its formation, so too does Damien Chazelle eagerly tease apart the connection between artistic genius and debauchery in its first pioneers, swinging as hard with his decadent maximalism as the modern empire of insurmountable, ruinous ambition at the centre of it all.
It is an unexpectedly self-aware period drama that Sebastián Lelio composes in The Wonder, deconstructing its own form to examine the purpose it holds as a piece of metafiction, but it is through such profound introspection over one girl’s miraculous fast in 19th century Ireland that he paradoxically draws us even deeper into its richly designed world of believers and sceptics.
Nicolas Winding Refn’s enigmatic odyssey through a criminal underworld of sex traffickers, drug lords, and vampires demands a patient willingness to fall under its neon-soaked trance, as Copenhagen Cowboy invites us to traverse the psychological terrain of its stoic, otherworldly protagonist through a mesmerisingly surreal quest for vengeance.
There are whodunits which may be more sophisticated in their construction, but See How They Run still makes for a visually adventurous and hilariously fun meta-study of the genre, borrowing a great deal from Wes Anderson’s stylistic repertoire to break down and assemble its conventions into a sharply witty mystery set in 1950s London.
Each time we are convinced that the luxury cruise vacation in Triangle of Sadness has hit rock bottom, Ruben Östlund torments his eccentric ensemble of millionaires, influencers, and service workers with yet another horrific development, satirising the extravagant worlds of the ultra-wealthy with a darkly subversive wit and explosively foul set pieces.
The violent sounds of battle may be confronting to hear, but in Edward Berger’s take on All Quiet on the Western Front, the true tragedy of war emerges in the still, lifeless aftermath where grief is born, painting out World War I’s carnage in scenes of harrowing beauty, and centring a group of traumatised German soldiers trying to survive the last few weeks before armistice.
