Where Ingmar Bergman saw severe austerity in the landscapes of Fårö, Mia Hansen-Løve discovers optimism and fantasy, and in weaving those tones deep into her layers of storytelling around a filmmaking couple coming to the island in search of inspiration, Bergman Island becomes an affecting examination of originality and influence in art.
Paolo Sorrentino weaves a light Christian mysticism into his autobiographical coming-of-age piece, The Hand of God, threading a theological sense of destiny and exquisite visual artistry through its narrative parallels of Italian folklore, sporting legends, and cinema culture.
It is in the dingy, yellow lighting and deliberately hazy camera focus of The Batman that Matt Reeves crafts an entirely new vision of Gotham City and its morally ambiguous vigilante, thoughtfully examining notions of vengeance as a corrupting force within the tight grip of its magnificently thrilling narrative.
Ex-chef Rob’s ability to evoke emotions so powerful that he can move hearts with a single dish may seem like the basis of a ludicrously sentimental character, but the patient honesty of both Nicolas Cage and director Michael Sarnoski sells every tender minute of his quest to recover his stolen truffle-hunting pig.
There is something playfully novelistic about the way Joachim Trier lays The Worst Person in the World out in a series of chapters around our young protagonist, Julie, guiding us through her messy mistakes and complicated relationships with a superbly formal structure, and thoughtfully constructing what might as well be a coming-of-age film for those approaching their 30s.
Joe Wright’s elegantly fluid camerawork flourishes in the tragic love story of Cyrano, as even while it struggles against the odd piece of contrived sentiment in its musical numbers, its narrative of classical literary archetypes serves as a perfect canvas for his stunning visual displays of French Baroque beauty.
Though Aaron Sorkin’s screenplay for Being the Ricardos may at times indecisively tug its narrative in multiple directions at once, it is tough faulting the electric dialogue that keeps us glued to Lucille Ball’s behind-the-scenes television troubles, holding firm to its empathetic understanding of the comedic television star.
There is an inherent clash between animation and documentary filmmaking in their relationship to reality, but in piecing together the memories of an Afghan refugee who fled his country in the 90s through live interviews and hand-drawn reconstructions, Jonas Poher Rasmussen turns Flee into a compellingly fluid examination of historical truth.
Paul Verhoeven’s irreverent provocations are well-suited to this compelling piece of Italian history, with each of Sister Benedetta’s cunning power plays, false miracles, and sexual advances driving this riveting narrative towards an outburst of wrathful vengeance, violently bringing a hypocritical Catholic Church to its knees.
There is an invitation built into both the title and story of C’mon C’mon, beckoning us to join a radio journalist and his nine-year-old nephew on a road trip across the United States, through which Mike Mills’ beautiful greyscale cinematography and stream-of-consciousness montages paint a portrait of a relationship as sweet and unhurried as his narrative’s easy-going pace.
