Maite Alberdi allows us to travel back-and-forth through the life of writer Augusto Góngora. Part of the documentation and reconciliation after Chile’s fascist junta, his own memories are now scattering with Alzheimer’s.
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An enigmatic sci-fi-adjacent Moroccan mystical mood piece – which is a term, I never thought I would use.
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“Perpetrator perp-perpetrator, you’re a perpetrator.” The beats of Britney Spears’ Womanizer oddly fit this chaotic, feminist body horror by Jennifer Reeder.
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Capturing the world of a six-year-old child with astounding authenticity, Marie Amachoukeli-Barsacq shows us a time in our lives before we understand the larger world.
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Kleber Mendonça Filho takes us on a slow, self referential meander through his home suburb of Recife in Brazil and the history of its cinemas.
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Children are the same everywhere, except the ones living in a Cameroon civil war zone tell stories of people being blown up and make art and drawings about tanks and guns.
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A couple of cinematic hours in a remote, Siberian village is never a bad thing. I still remember the exquisite Ága (2018), an intensely beautiful exploration of silence and subsistence that immersed you in a life that seems far removed from what we think of as Russian culture.
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My heart was full after spending two hours with Amy Ray and Emily Saliers a.k.a. the Indigo Girls.
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This thoroughly enjoyable schlock horror game show pastiche is, as my MIFF buddy Not a Sexy Vampire aptly calls it, “the Don Lane show gone to hell.”
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An insubstantial musical bubble about the vagaries of love set in an 80s stage set shopping mall.
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