Jack is a striking biopic that forays into the enigma of controversial criminal Jack Wunterberg whose case of the early ’90s went largely unresolved. In fact, sophomore director Elisabeth Scharang (In Another Lifetime) is so flexible and supplementary in her approach to telling the ghastly tale, that it feels like a mockery of the incident, or perhaps even a merciless exploitation of Jack. However, this is an effective approach, as the psychographic pieces are powerful and go the distance of novelty.

Jack is a killer. He is first convicted of murder in 1974 and sentenced to 15 years in prison. This initial murder is the launching point. From then on, the narrative coils between a few brash scenes in prison, many sexual encounters with women upon release, and triumphant times of success with the intellectual elite in Vienna. Jack becomes a writer, his typewriter is his saviour and words are his freedom. “Time is running… but my time stands still,” Jack narrates as he sits engulfed in the writing of his novel. Despite the public knowing of Jack’s earlier crime, they are clearly able to look beyond it and take the man as an artist devoid of circumstance. The revolving point for Jack’s story comes when prostitutes begin to go missing again in Vienna. Is Jack still a killer? “Once a murderer, always a murderer?” Jack asks his fellows in his feverish tone and his sunken cheekbones expressing a callous look.

Johannes Krish (Revanche) plays Jack with as much virtuosity as you’d expect from a psychopathic character. Although he is never labelled as a psychopath, Scharang is careful to raise more questions than she answers about the man. Bold colours, costumes, Austrian pop music (Naked Lunch mix the soundtrack), devilish performances, and candid material seek to match this film with the likes of other psycho-thrillers, such as the work of Nicolas Winding Refn (Bronson, Drive, Only God Forgives) and even the deftly affecting films of Alejandro González Iñárritu (21 Grams, Babel, Biutiful). The linchpin with all these films is in the distressing performances. And here, Krish is so volatile that we can never second-guess his actions and where the plot will lead him.

As gripping and haunting as sequences of the film may be, it isn’t without a fair share of laughs, most of which place the audience right along the mischief of Jack’s own rotten behaviour. His charm for the truth and poetry in all things can become attractive, which would explain his relentless womanizing qualities. An elderly architect falls deeply for Jack. He is boundless in expressing his desire for her and making her feel wanted, but he quickly becomes reproachable, as games turn sour with a severe disposition of rage. Jack’s feelings have been bottled since childhood—no surprise there—but he is adamant to find success by following his own path in life. In fact, Jack is so obstinate that he will become noted that he does indeed claim that title, hence the success of his writing. It is slightly ironic, but persistence often meets great reward.

This character study seems like familiar territory, Jake Gyllenhaal’s recent performance in Nightcrawler comes to mind. But Jack is a biopic that doesn’t just wish to track a narrative of one insane man, it’s far more interested with bigger questions and in actually hiding the facts (an interesting dichotomy considering much of the film was developed on factual evidence). There’s very little exposition in the film and things end up piecing together as it goes. There’s a beautiful Terrence Malick quality of well-poised shots of nature and wilderness, which makes a stirring mix with the precariously sadistic tone of the film. Human beings all warrant their shades of grey, and Scharang isn’t afraid to question the status quo.

The true definition of love is something beyond appearance, an abstract noun that is at once magical and mysterious. Debut feature director Jong-Yeol Baik’s The Beauty Inside uses this notion to make a concoction that attempts to meet Shallow Hal in laughs and add plenty of slushy romance too. Baik’s film is based on the foundation of appearance, which has become most valued in contemporary society. Kim Woo-jin (played by 123 different actors and actresses) wakes up every morning to a different face and body; he is entirely transformed regardless of age, gender, or even nationality. It is a remarkably high-concept pitch that inevitably bears a few holes if one prods hard enough, but Baik takes this story and develops it beyond comedy and into a far more layered romance with a few thoughtful insights.

Woo-jin is, by no surprise considering his condition, a solitary person who spends his time designing bespoke furniture from his drawing desk and MacBook pro. His one friend, Sang-beck (Lee Dong-hwi) is his manager, who has a zeal for eccentric socializing. Woo-jin is a gentle and sincere character, although he clearly carries the burden of his condition, with remnants of tears often etched around his eyelids. It is a truly extraordinary feat that his persona is able to drift between a mighty ensemble of actors, most notably the more attractive of faces in Yoo Yeon-seok, Lee Dong-wook and Seo Kang-jun, to name a few. Others include Japanese actresses (Ko Ah-sung, Juri Ueno) and just about anyone else from a fading old lady to an active young boy. If this sounds ridiculous, it’s because it is, so give up now if the idea sounds insufferable. That said, it is an idea that grows as perspective is steadily shifted to a more reliable comprehension.

Although the film doesn’t directly deal with such momentous problems as the harsh reality of what it might be like to change appearance every day (for example, there are no journalists, doctors or even lifestyle problems apparent), it does reassure the audience that this isn’t intended to be a flat out fantasy by the introduction of Yi-Soo (a winning performance by Hyo-ju Han), the girl who will become the love of Woo-jin’s life. Once the relationship develops, the film begins to explore the agony of something that cannot be, namely a loving homogenous relationship. Yi-Soo is undoubtedly promiscuous in falling for this transformative man, but Han pulls it off with a curious and thoroughly admirable sentiment. She truly believes in this situation, and so it makes her journey (and ours) more agreeable.

Occasionally, it feels as if Baik is too hooked with the universal theme of love; lines like “They say love is the answer to every problem, but it also ruins everything,” can feel a bit trite. However, the likelihood is that without a growing pot of sentiment, any further interest in what can only be a fleeting concept (without a fantastical world to supplement it) is unlikely to prevail. In this sense, the story is trapped from the start. The first question to ask will always be: how could he/she ever find love? The love game might be considered a safe one to play, but then anything thematically serious would surely be rendered absurd or deceptive within a high-concept framework like this. The Beauty Inside can’t really be described as anything other than fun, warm and silly. It’s polished to technical perfection, of course, and littered with musical accompaniments, but ultimately the best word for it would be “watchable.”

This debut from British duo Luke Seomore and Joseph Bull is a heartfelt study of the begrimed contemporary landscape of Britain, yet the film suggests it could almost be set between the margins of any town or city, as it is through the dishevelled worldview of a single man that we identify with the struggles of everyday life.

Barry Ward is Adam, a man on a quest for a new direction, but clearly set back by miserabilism and beseeching feelings of guilt and melancholy. News from home sets Adam off on a journey that sees him revisiting ex-girlfriends, old friends, and finally, the family that he is expected to welcome back with open arms. The history of the family is a sour one, but what we do know is that turmoil set in after agricultural death with the rise of the Mad Cow disease crisis, which blighted Britain in the early 2000s. This section of the story is immediately told with striking visuals and a poetic touch reminiscent of Under The Skin, an earlier well-received British gem that also had its first outing as an official selection at the Venice Film Festival.

Barry Ward is exceptional at achieving psychological shades of grey in his performance. From a suspiciously pleasant evening on a pier drinking with two underage girls to an odd attempt at levelling self-harm, this character study is almost endearing in its uncompromising, yet altogether authentic and sincere, approach to mental health. Adam’s flight inevitably brings more fear and conflict, but also the courage to save his life. We only get glimpses into his past, but something is definitely missing, obstructing the path, perhaps a lack of existential purpose, a loving relationship, or a crippling anxiety. Either way, the ideas presented are deeply melancholic and ambidextrous.

The film’s images are compelling in their vast display of fractured landscapes and decaying beauty, but occasionally these moments can get lost in their own fever. It can be too unbroken. Overly permissive imagery sometimes cramps the film’s style. The script, however, remains loose and allows for a delirium of realities to float around discontinuously. The film is not essentially surreal, although it does have a few oddities, it has too much momentum in its storyline to fall under the absurdist label. The film remains at a crossroads, one wrong turn, and there is danger of being led down a hollow expanse. Undeniably, the depth of character and contemporary reflection on society is what this film achieves best, even if one can feel lost in it all.

The score is intense and unsettling, looping and whirring around like Adam’s disquieting state of mind. It is an unnerving experience and the film feels like it could come undone at any moment. It is not an uplifting tale of spiritual conquest or warranted redemption, but a bleak passage in the life of a washed-out man. Sometimes it feels healthy to witness glum material like Blood Cells, where emotional depths have something interesting to offer. The film certainly offers this as a film that caters for and beyond an arthouse audience. It is a good debut that establishes its directors as ones to watch, even if the material is bound to make one feel utterly miserable afterwards.

Two boys on the edge of adulthood find themselves exploring their relationship. This is how the film describes itself, and it does exactly that. Directors Filipe Matzembacher and Marcio Reolon, sharing their feature-length debut, promise nothing more and nothing less. Anything more would evade our interest, and anything less can only elude to more. The aphorism “less is more” has never been more appropriate or even appealing. The film tends to sit on the shore and could easily be blown away, but the careful layering that builds on recounting old memories and building new beginnings is enough to surf a sea of tender waves. It is light, and light works for communicating this story.

The two boys are closer to adulthood than the naivety that possesses most teenagers. Martin (Mateus Almada) and Tomaz (Maurício Barcellos) both loom under an air of sadness, as it is clear that something is missing in their lives. They have reached an age where life suddenly gains authenticity, and one has to compensate by widening their eyes a little. Martin suggests Tomaz spend the weekend with him in an attempt to reawaken their relationship. However, the primary reason for the outing is for Martin to carry out a request from his father that involves a deceased grandparent. Any more information than this really becomes irrelevant. The family scenario is non-functional and the little aid it provides to the story is in highlighting the somewhat despairing tone of the whole piece. It even becomes melancholic, as desperation for something new hangs from the eyelids of these characters. It is the perfect launching point for an exploration into sexuality.

Once the feelings begin to blossom, then the film does become more optimistic and defines the agenda with more clarity. Unfortunately, the nature of such meditative and passive cinema can easily lose traction. The irony is that, once rolling off their last credit, these films actually hold an abundance of traction. The relationship is so introspective that revisiting the ambiguity and trying to discover what these characters are really thinking, or what it was that made them act in one way over another, is the only way to serve justice to the material. This is a tie of thought-provoking cinema—but not of the disquieting kind, such as a Michael Haneke film—rather the contrary, perhaps in line with the delicacy of Olivier Assayas or Claire Denis. This ‘cinema of introspection’ comes from a reverent way of working with non-actors, or those lacking experience, which often results in a more still and slight performance. This kind of performance allows space for an audience to think and works to the advantage of this pre-mature indie.

The most entertaining part of the film is the scene that literally has the most going on. It begins with a male guest recounting a horrendously embarrassing tale of a drunken endeavor and ends with everyone having sex, except for Tomaz who can’t yet relinquish a bi-curiosity for women. In between, there is everything you’d expect from spin-the-bottle to faces exchanging great big grins. Most importantly, Tomaz takes a dare and ends up dying his hair blue—embodying, on the level of allegory, Martin’s missing self from the previously told story of the lifeguard incident wherein the blue flag means “lost child found.” These symbolic gestures are in motion throughout, but they occsasionaly only seem to arise by accident, as according to the directors, they were not aware of the raucous blue hair that was to be cast upon Léa Seydoux as Emma in Blue Is the Warmest Color. I dare say it is becoming a rather fond look!

The ending features Martin striding out toward the sea and breaking into the waves, it is a beautiful sequence that is almost directly reminiscent of Antoine escaping the work camp and charging down the beach at the end of François Truffaut’s The 400 Blows. However, the cause behind Martin’s quest is entirely different and left largely anonymous. Felipe Puperi’s lingering score of chimes and long notes builds and echoes the hard-angled facial expression of Martin, which could suggest a far less appetizing outcome. João Gabriel de Queiroz never overexposes his shots and sticks to minimal framing, revealing nothing that isn’t in close relation to the characters. There is no shortage of watchful close-ups, but any character/actor worth watching deserves every moment they can get. It can feel awkward—but only because what we are watching is intended to be awkward. Any theme of self-discovery needs a deliverance of stubbornness.

Despite appearing rather empty on first sighting, if you let it, this film can deliver a powerful message. Let your wishes be free, and by the power of your own will, take the chance. And if all else fails, then you can start over again. It isn’t too constructive, but nothing in life ever seems to be. If you are a young male alone in this world that enjoys reflecting on desires, listening to the seashore, and watching beautiful independent films, then you categorically must see this film.

Aim to throw away all cinematic preconceptions before seeing Pedro Costa’s latest and most profound addition to his exploration of desperate minds set amidst the shattered and malfunctioning Lisbon district of Fontainhas. Costa’s previous film, Colossal Youth, also featured the impoverished Cape Verde immigrant, Ventura, wandering in turmoil between places new and old, but in Horse Money Ventura’s adventures reach new-fangled metaphysical heights. A detailed plot is not provided, as Costa clearly thinks it would be inapplicable to the world that Ventura occupies. Horse Money is divided into scenes set among barely recognizable spaces, with their desolation and subterranean features being the only immediate correlation between them. The effect can be paralyzing and often unforgiving, but it never feels like Costa loses his strong command over the material.

The film may already sound very disturbing and the least bit entertaining (indeed, the film is both of these things), but it’s for the right reasons. Horse Money is enriched with poetic images, expressive sequences with a dated quality of precise staging and chiaroscuro lighting, which feels disquieting through its mythical and yet somehow matter-of-fact nature. The entire docu-fiction genre gets reinvigorated, and it becomes almost impossible to tell if Costa is documenting fiction, reality, or some intoxicated cyberspace. This esoteric quality is deep-seated and powerful, but has the danger of becoming too transparent. The dialogue (spoken, whispered, or chanted) comes mostly from the mind of Ventura, as projected by his fears, his vivid memories, or his fractured cognizance, and has the tendency to become pandering or overly excessive. Film is a medium of actions (show, don’t tell—the common aphorism in the filmmaker’s guide) and it can also be a language of poetics, but the limited movement and spelt out misfortunes of Ventura and his few cohorts quickly becomes a drag. The performances by non-actors are complimentary and deeply troubling, but there is only so much that a face and a trembling hand can show.

Vitalina (Vitalina Varela), a harrowing figure of a widowed woman, whispers in complete submission to Ventura about her misfortunes, telling him they are on a “road to perdition.” Costa is making Ventura (and his audience) reach a state of purgatory that leads only one way: hell on earth. “I wanted to kill him with an axe, but my brothers stopped me.” This line whispered by Vitalina is even more shocking than it sounds with the addition of stark visuals. Vitalina sits at a bare desk playing with a peculiar piece of jewellery, the camera stares at her intolerable expression of sadness, and it feels like any minute the spell cast by her delicate recital might just explode. Ventura listens in his underwear and slowly stands up from his derelict bed, seemingly unfazed, but clearly inundated by deep thoughts. Costa is able to deliver these glowing memories of his characters while sustaining a deep interest in their mind games. Such expression would be seemingly more suited to the novel, but it is as if the screen is the writing on the page.

Everything about Horse Money is intellectually stimulating: It is hypnotic in style, its narrative is cryptic, and the layers are as convoluted as the layers of our very own minds. A similar resistance to convention is felt in the works of Jean-Marie Straub and Danièle Huillet, the French filmmaking duo relentless in their uncompromising style. There are endless talking points or interpretations of such films and, occasionally, a line should be drawn in finding a mutual or direct understanding of what it is the filmmakers are getting at. The level of meaning they are able to put into their work, be it autobiographical or universal, is dependent on the director’s abilities. It is understandable that Costa was awarded Best Director at Locarno Film Festival in 2014 and has gathered a dedicated following. However, without a prior knowledge of the ins and outs of Costa’s oeuvre and his parallel personal activities, some may find it hard to navigate the underlying intentions of a film like Horse Money.

Regardless of Costa’s style, there is emotion to be felt and, though haunting, there is a tension in Ventura’s solemn encounters. Long takes of Ventura walking down the street in his underwear talking to himself may be funny or endearing, or both, depending on which way your senses swing. The secret to understanding such a perplexing director may be to hold on firmly to an open mind and be open to Costa’s desire to shock us with his open-ended convolutions of a society paralyzed by corruption, poverty and sickness. Brace yourself.

“A man with one watch knows what time it is. A man with two watches is never quite sure.” Bent Hamer’s latest tale of borderline absurdity builds itself almost entirely around that rational concept. 1001 Grams is a film based on attention to detail and an unparalleled obsession with metrology. Most of the film takes place between the actual Metrology laboratories in Norway and a rather divine Parisian dynasty that is home to the International Bureau of Weights and Measures (BIPM). In an age of quantum physics and nanoparticle research, one might wonder what all the fuss over metrics is for, but Hamer’s film approaches its subject matter with just enough seriousness to prevent it from tipping the scales towards the ludicrous.

It’s very hard to describe what 1000 Grams is actually about. It is first and foremost about the kilogram and the importance in metrology of measuring just about anything, whether it’s love or other seemingly unquantifiable parts of our chaotic world. Marie (Ane Dahl Torp) is a Norwegian scientist dedicated to her task of carrying her national prototype of the kilogram back and forth to a prestigious seminar in Paris at the BIPM. Marie whizzes between Paris and Norway so often it’s hard to keep track, but one thing is certain for her: the kilo is sacred, truly sacred. A single scratch or bump to her prototype could change the weight by the tiniest percentage. There is really no explanation as to what destruction this could cause and, consequently, there is little tension to be had throughout this film. In fact, the entire plot is remarkably insignificant, making Hamer’s film more intriguing than anything else. It is a peculiar viewing experience, to say the least.

The seminar in Paris turns out to be light in content, except for the unveiling of the one and only international prototype for the kilogram. As a group of scientists huddles around the weight, their expressions look like they’re observing extra-terrestrial life when they’re really looking at the object by which all measurements of weight are governed. It sounds boring, but it’s interesting to think about what would happen if this prototype came into harm. Part of the film is made up of humourous debates around this concept, while the rest of the film focuses on Marie’s increasing misfortunes in her personal life. The recent loss of her father Ernst (played coolly by Stein Winge) is what’s mainly eating her up, which provides only a small amount insight into Marie’s character. Marie is consistently presented as isolated from the very beginning. She is infected by the solitude of her clinical lifestyle and, therefore, unable to let any deeper feelings rise above this sterile surface.

But in Marie’s restrictive world, her one source of freedom might come in the form of romance. Marie meets the young, handsome French “metric guru” Pi (Laurent Stocker), who asks Marie whether she is in favour of cleaning the prototypes of dirt (a question that’s uttered as if it’s a matter of life and death). Given Marie’s isolated nature, it takes time for her to warm up to this potential love interest, but Pi’s presence provides Hamer’s film with the chance for something joyous or, at the very least, human.

Hamer and director of photography John Christian Rosenlund do a good job realizing this unique universe with a boxed-in aesthetic. Piercing straight lines and various shades of melancholic blue appear in every frame, creating a striking canvas that’s accompanied by John Erik Kaada’s equally effective score. His sounds manage to make multiple meanings out of quirky and intriguing melodies. It is as if the film’s score came from some solitary faraway planet, one that perfectly fits Hamer’s distinct vision.

At times, 1001 Grams can feel too pessimistic, like when someone quotes the French poet Louis Aragon’s famous line “By the time we learn to live it is already too late.” Other moments are more hopeful, but Hamer still delivers them with a poker face to keep in line with his film’s tone. Hamer asks viewers to surrender to a number of his philosophical truisms, which will either generate curiosity or push viewers away. But Hamer’s look at the quantifiable and unquantifiable aspects of our existence is rich, and it gives the film an emotional core that viewers can connect to. It is a very particular film that mostly inspires curiosity but, in this case, curiosity can be a good thing.

Simone Weil, a left-leaning French philosopher, wrote, “There are three incomprehensible mysteries in the world. Beauty, justice and truth.” Desire for Beauty, Miguel Guadêncio’s documentary about four people undergoing plastic surgery, opens with this remark and picks apart the impenetrable truth of beauty and all its various meanings. It’s replete with ideas and empathy for a phenomenon that is the totem of our modern world and serves a great justice for its relentless honesty and intimacy with its subjects.

The unquenchable thirst for beauty and perfection is the primary concern of these four patients. A prologue introduces the viewer to the banality of their everyday lives, as well as their own unique ideological formations of desire. These introductions cement the will for perfection, which arguably plastic surgery will quite literally accomplish. But the question remains throughout the documentary: will a change in appearance really change one’s life? The answer is tackled in the epilogue, which casts a harrowing wave of deliberation and concern for all that has come before. Upon reflection, the film becomes more a meditation on life than anything specific.

From the outset, the interviewer, Agata Kulesza (heralded in Pawel Pawlikowski’s Ida), openly states the objective stance of the documentary toward the patients in question and, therefore, is able to present each subject bare. The patients open up entirely and speak of their personal reflections on beauty. This is cut with professional interviews featuring academics or experts in fields ranging from psychology to fashion. Guadêncio suggests that psychology and fashion are closely linked, likening the desire for beauty to a game of psychological warfare. The final scenes occur in flashback mode, highlighting the traumatic youth of each patient. These moments are stylistically potent with slow motion, invasive close-ups and dark tones that induce feelings of horror, even if the dramaturgy does slip into overdrive.

The imagery, photographed by Maciej Puczynski, resembles modern thought. It reflects instability and conflict in tonal range with areas of soft focus and warm depth representing nostalgia and dreams. The film embodies the dreams of these four lives. In an age where noses can be reshaped and breasts enlarged easily and with little disruption to daily life, these procedures give a sense of hope in the battle of self-image. But the question of desire-fulfillment is interminable, our mind’s eye will always find more to be improved on. These psychological insights are paramount to the film’s appeal and strength. From witty and innovative—one professor has the idea for what he calls “beautymats,” a machine equivalent to Photoshop but materialized for real life (a similar idea in concept to Woody Allen’s “Orgasmatron” for sex in Sleeper)—to the deeply metaphysical question of one’s sense of self, this film has a thought-provoking aptitude for everyone.

There is some joy to be had: marriage and parenthood are discussed in an optimistic light, religion and spirituality are suggested as strong paths for meaning and understanding, and love can be understood as the true benefactor of happiness. One might wonder how all these themes wind back to beauty; in fact, they are essential to one’s feelings and tolerance of beauty. The level of sadness one takes away is for the viewer to decide. For example, one patient, in conclusion, admits needing more time to work on the thoughts in her head. Is this troubling or progressive? It is both. This film is both.

After directing 200 videos by the age of 30 (according to IMDB), Desire for Beauty is Gaudêncio’s first feature-length documentary. It is no surprise, then, that this film could be divided into segments based on it’s formidable music and editing. From orchestral scores designed to fit a period drama set in the English hills, to crescendos suggesting Jack Torrance (The Shining) is behind the door with an axe, the compositional score of Jorge Quintela can feel a little stretched at times. One sequence plays out like a metaphorical nightmare for a patient while under anesthesia. She runs through the vast woods, crows’ overhead, and dark clouds approaching, as though the knife cutting through her and inserting the silicone implants is the savior she seeks. Desire for Beauty can be very busy, often spilling over the edge, but this is part of the attraction; non-stop energy, passion and thoughts layer the surface, it’s a preferable method of telling this story.

After such an assortment of ideas, it makes sense to formulate some closing opinion on the subject of beauty. In the cynic’s handbook, a concern for appearance is the icing on the cake of a superficial world reared on reality TV, fast food, and indirect communication systems. This cosmic illusion might have been an initial criticism, but after observing a deeply meditative film on the subject, it is not so easy to decipher. All must choose for themselves.

¡Que viva México! is the title of a Mexican film by the venerated Soviet filmmaker Sergei Eisenstein, a film that was reeled in by Hollywood executives in 1931 and never completed in-line with the prodigy’s own vision. Peter Greenaway, a contemporary and comparable director of artistic powers, charts the ups and downs of this epoch in film history, choosing to focus on Eisenstein’s sexuality and his search for cultural identity amidst the maligning of Communism in the West.

Elmer Bäck plays Eisenstein in full caricature, with bountiful expressions serving the eclectic life and work of the Russian eccentric. They also serve the work of Greenaway, who gives his films a life of their own by not wasting a single frame on mundane realities; every encircling camera movement or piece of exquisite art direction leads to an experience highlighting the freedom of cinematic expression. There is a dangerously high voltage felt throughout, transmitted by a profound irrationality and other traits of genius that Bäck and Greenaway perform with interminable virtuosity.

Scored with the ballets and symphonies of Russian musical cohort Sergei Prokofiev and complete with a vast heritage of classical Mexican architecture, this film is a feast on everything sight and sound. I even thought the image was going to pop out of the screen at one point; one shot is specifically skewed for such an effect, while others provide an estranged vantage point as if profiling an illustrous museum exhibit. Greenaway is never afraid to exploit such cinematic devices, and, in this case, rather than causing a distraction, they actually provide the viewer with an exciting history lesson.