In an era of the atomisation of viewing practices through streaming, increasingly short, self-produced videos for TikTok and YouTube, and the reduction of all audiovisual material to “content” for various “platforms”, there is something refreshing about a bunch of strangers assembling in a dark room to collectively watch a giant screen with massive sound.
In other words, going to the movies.
And there’s no better place to see films limited in mainstream release than at film festivals. The standard of the films screening at this year’s Sydney Film Festival was exceptional, and it is difficult to select a top five out of the 40 or so I managed to see. But here goes!
Sirât
Produced by Pedro Almodovar, writer-director Oliver Laxe’s Sirât, which recently won the Jury Prize at Cannes, follows middle-aged Luis (Sergi López) as he travels with his son Esteban (Bruno Núñez Arjona) and their dog Pipa looking for his estranged daughter in the desert rave scene. They team up with a group of ravers and set off across Southern Morocco towards the next party.
Early on, there are some hints that things are awry on a broader scale – the military break up the opening doof, and we hear, at one point, World War III has broken out.
And as the film unfolds, things take a turn for the worse, with a litany of tragedies – increasingly absurd – afflicting the members of the group. The vaguely futuristic world of the opening crystallises into something much more terrifying than the kind of shrill cinematic post-apocalypticism we’ve become used to through films like Fury Road.
What begins as a kind of paean to raving – replete with bass-thumping speakers (cranked in theatres to eardrum pounding loudness), a “cool” crew of trippers, and an emphasis on the free lives of the ravers (played by real-life party-goers) – rapidly descends into a wild existential nightmare. And the idea that life is a kind of free consumerist party for westerners is viciously dismembered in the second half: we are all refugees in this era.
Sirât is a masterpiece. Its stunning 16mm film images (courtesy of cinematographer Mauro Herve) are complemented by exceptional sound design by Laia Casanova, a majesty of image and sound demanding to be experienced in a cinema.
Somebody
Written and directed by Lee Jung-chan and Kim Yeo-jung, the South Korean film Somebody is a puzzling, intense psycho drama about precociously evil child So-hyun (Gi So-yoo) and the pressures this places on her single mother Yeong-eun (Kwak Sun-young).
An unsettling horror thriller, the film also plays like a study of the evil child archetype. It works through the genre’s cliches, unpicking them while eschewing the usual evil-kid scares in favour of looking at the complex interplay between and ambiguity around the image of child as brat/evil and mother as caring/enabler.
In the first half, the point of view oscillates between an image of the child as evil and the child as scared. In the second half, the evil child has grown up, and we follow her towards the film’s brutal (and unexpected) ending.
And this is where Somebody excels. It taps into the fear of parents that their children are alien parasites – who is this stranger now living off me? – but also the difficulties for children in feeling isolated and scared.
Somebody is a deeply sad and troubling film, buoyed by excellent performances from adults and children alike. In real life, the idea that a kid would be born evil is preposterous, but it’s a movieland cliché that works. Somebody addresses this idea with a genuinely impressive vision.
Harvest
Athina Rachel Tsangari’s Harvest is a melancholic, elegiac film set in a rural community in Scotland in the Middle Ages. When the economic harmony of the village is disrupted by the advent of a new noble, three wandering strangers are mercilessly scapegoated, despite the efforts of villager Walter Thirsk (Caleb Landry Jones, in a beautifully understated performance) to protect them.
Despite the turmoil it depicts, the film unfolds as gently as the familiar rhythms of the seasons.
Cinematographer Sean Price Williams’ 16mm images are uncannily beautiful, supported by an astonishing score and sound design from Nicolas Becker.
This fable about the ravages of modernity (recalling Vincent Ward’s The Navigator) – of the violence of calendar time as it overcomes the time of the harvest – is exceptional in every respect.
Not much happens. It’s a slow-moving, brooding film, and it would not be nearly as compelling seen on a small screen. But for those of us willing to make a trip to the movies, Harvest is immensely satisfying.
Redux Redux
Part of the eternally rousing Freak Me Out strand of the program from film critic Richard Kuipers, Kevin and Matthew McManus’ Redux Redux is the kind of high concept film that could easily depend too much on its ingenious conceit (a woman travels throughout the multiverse repeatedly avenging the murder of her daughter) and forget about the stuff that actually makes films work (coherent, striking visual design, immersive sound and compelling performances).
But Redux Redux gets everything right, maintaining its iron grip on the viewer from the opening title card to the closing credits. Michaela McManus – sister of the writer-directors – is brilliant as the grieving, vengeful mother, playing the part with a staid intensity that never tips into hysteria or melodrama.
There are some funny moments – the amusingly lowbrow design of the multiverse machine, for example. But the film never feels like it plays too hard for laughs. Paul Koch’s synth music and sound design are richly atmospheric without coming off as trite, and perfectly support the crisp, economical cinematography of Alan Gwizdowski.
The most impressive thing about the film is the effortlessness with which the story feels like it develops throughout – even though the plot, on the surface, involves the same thing being repeated ad nauseam.
Unlike, for example, in the case of the multiverse-themed Everything Everywhere All at Once, Redux Redux never comes across as self-indulgent, clever for its own sake. It never feels like anything other than a compulsively watchable – and immensely pleasurable – revenge thriller.
Alpha
Writer-director Jan-Willem van Ewijk’s Alpha begins as a lightly comedic intergenerational social satire.
Thirty-something Rein (Reinout Scholten van Aschat), a Dutch snowboarder in the Swiss alps, clashes with his movie-star father, Gijs (Gijs Scholten van Aschar), when Gijs visits him. Gijs flirts with Rein’s girlfriend, asks inappropriate questions about race, and parties with his son’s friends, all the time escalating the stakes, becoming increasingly overbearing and competitive.
It’s funny and familiar fare, treading similar terrain to a Ruben Östland film, and it’s well-done. Pairing a real life father and son is a casting act of genius, adding both pathos and authenticity to their competition.
Similar to Sirât, Alpha takes a sudden turn at the mid-way point. Father and son are trapped in an avalanche. It becomes a race against time as son tries to rescue father in a gruelling battle for survival.
Its brutal second half completely detonates the entire scaffold of our pleasure from the first half. Testament to the craft of van Ewijk (and the talent of the stars), this radical change in tone never feels incoherent or contrived.
By the end of Alpha, the petty dick-swinging of father and son from the first half – and the energetic (and well-shot) skiing footage – becomes nothing before the austere, cold majesty of the mountains looming over and entrapping them.
Alpha is a masterclass in audience manipulation. A truly devastating experience for the viewer.
Other notable films – and one dud!
There were too many excellent films to note them all. Some include master auteur Christian Petzold’s Mirrors No. 3, a film – typical of Petzold – of people haunted by ghosts of lives lost and faded desires, an understated film which – again, customary for Petzold’s work – has an enigmatic air one can’t quite put one’s finger on.
Kleber Mendonça Filho’s The Secret Agent was another standout: a fun, rollicking romp for cinephiles about political machinations in Brazil in the 1970s.
Richard Linklater’s Blue Moon, a biopic of American songwriter Lorenz Hart, had a charmingly goofy affect, as did Vie Privée, a breezy French thriller starring Jodie Foster as a psychoanalyst caught up in a mystery.
Olmo, which could easily have made the top five, is a charming coming of age odyssey about a Mexican-American 14-year-old going to a party with his crush. The Love That Remains is a stunningly shot, surreal comedy about the trials and tribulations of an Icelandic family.
As per usual, some exceptional documentaries screened. Joh: The Last King of Queensland made by Kriv Stenders (better known for narrative works like Red Dog), is a formally compelling study of the reign of Australia’s longest serving premier.
The Raftsmen is an uplifting crowd-pleaser about the expedition from Ecuador to Australia that captivated the public’s attention in 1973. The film is built around an exceptional archive of contemporaneous 16mm footage shot by the rafters.
Lowland Kids, produced by Darren Aronofsky, is a carefully observed documentary about a community in Louisiana forced to relocate because of climate change. This tender film counterpoints the grim reality of global warming with the individual disappointments of the characters’ personal lives.
The only truly execrable film I saw was Michel Franco’s Dreams, a hokey, profoundly dumb film masquerading as something cutting edge (wow – there’s sex, and the camera doesn’t move much), cashing in on topical problems in the United States. Worst of all – and despite ballet sequences, which are always good to watch - it’s a very ugly film.
Given the mediocre quality of much contemporary Hollywood cinema, one dud out of 40 isn’t too bad!
Ari Mattes does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.
This article was originally published on The Conversation. Read the original article.
