The Film Society of Lincoln Center’s Film Comment Selects Series runs from February 17 – 24 in New York City. Two of our writers, C.J. Prince and Michael Nazarewycz, got to preview some of the films playing in the series. First up is C.J., who took a look at some of the new films playing in this year’s series.

C.J.: If you’re a die-hard cinephile, you should already know about New York City’s Film Society of Lincoln Center. With plenty of series and festivals every year like New Directors/New Films and the New York Film Festival, FSLC combines mainstream, classic and experimental cinema into one big, unending celebration of great filmmaking.

So when Film Comment, the official publication of the Lincoln Center, put together their 16^th edition of the Film Comment Selects series, we wanted to see what they had to offer. Gathering a mix of new works hot off the festival circuit and older, underseen titles, the series unites through themes of discovery and rediscovery.

Opening the series is Terence Davies’ Sunset Song, which had its World Premiere last year at the Toronto International Film Festival. A passion project for Davies, the film is an adaptation of Lewis Grassic Gibbon’s novel about young Scottish farm girl Chris Guthrie (Agyness Deyn) as she tries to find independence and happiness in the early 1900s. For some reason Davies doesn’t get a lot of respect from the major fests (rumor has it that this film, along with the underrated The Deep Blue Sea, were flat out rejected by both Cannes and Venice), which seems baffling considering this is the same man behind The Long Day Closes and Distant Voices, Still Lives. Sunset Song doesn’t reach the same highs as those two films, keeping its focus on the source material’s sweeping narrative rather than providing the kinds of sublime moments Davies specializes in, but the film has a cumulative strength that’s undeniable. It’s less of a character study and more of a representation of how desires and ambitions can fall victim to forces beyond our control, whether it’s abusive family members (a subject Davies knows how to portray better than anyone else) or a war breaking out. It’s a reminder of how we can only define ourselves to a certain degree, and Davies expresses this message with just the right amount of humility and grace.

Even if one can’t go along with Davies’ style in Sunset Song, there’s still an earnestness with his approach that’s admirable. I can’t say the same for Benoit Jacquot’s The Diary of a Chambermaid, a piece of French prestige that sleepwalks through its adaptation of Octave Mirbeau’s novel. This is the third time Mirbeau’s story has been translated to the screen, with Jean Renoir and Luis Bunuel making their own versions in the past, and despite having seen neither of those versions (something I’m not proud of), Jacquot’s adaptation still feels pointless. Léa Seydoux plays Celestine, a chambermaid who gets hired on at a house in the French countryside. She’s a smart, beautiful woman who knows it, spending most of her time bitterly lamenting both her job and social status. Seydoux continues to show why she’s become such a revered actress in a short time, and Clotilde Mollet gives a great performance as her cruel master, but the screenplay is a total mess. Flashbacks to Celestine’s previous jobs attempt to flesh out her character when it actually paints her as erratic, veering between sensitive caretaker (in a strange sequence with other up-and-coming French actor Vincent Lacoste) and resentful grump. These sorts of sudden, inexplicable shifts happen across the film, with the most baffling one being Celestine’s crush on her brooding, anti-Semitic co-worker (Vincent Lindon). With Jacquot making no effort to provide any sense of coherency, it’s hard to give a single shit about Diary of a Chambermaid’s narrative. The abrupt, unsatisfying conclusion feels more like everyone just gave up, preferring to go take a nap rather than try and make an actual ending.

From one French “It Girl” to another, Philippe Grandrieux’s Malgré la Nuit (the English title is Despite the Night, but I prefer the original) stars Ariane Labed, who co-starred with Seydoux in Yorgos Lanthimos’ The Lobster. Possibly the most extreme film in this year’s line-up, Grandrieux takes a look at extreme emotions through two people living in Paris: Lenz (Kristian Marr), returning from England to look for a woman named Madeleine, and Hélène (Labed), a nurse who strikes up an intense relationship with Lenz during his search. Beyond its disturbing subject matter (involving an underground club specializing in sex, torture and murder), Malgré la nuit gets under the skin through its strange formal choices, whether it’s shrouding scenes in darkness—most exchanges look like they’re happening in an underground cavern rather than a room—or shooting close-ups with artificial lights that turn faces into overexposed blobs of light. Grandrieux operates through cinema’s ability to portray subjectivity and emotions rather than its ability to tell a story, so while the narrative may be flimsy, it takes a backseat to the film’s ability to provide a visceral knockout to the senses.

Of course, this being FSLC, the series wouldn’t be complete without some titles that will leave viewers completely baffled. Take, for example, Marco Bellochio’s Blood of my Blood, which premiered at Venice and Toronto last year to a small yet vocal chorus of raves. It starts in the 17th century with Federico (Pier Giorgio Bellocchio) arriving at the convent his priest brother resided at before killing himself. His brother had an affair with the nun Sister Benedetta (Lidiya Liberman), and in order to ensure his brother gets a proper burial, he must help prove that Benedetta is influenced by Satan (since that would prove that the suicide was an involuntary act and not a sin). This is all well and good until Bellochio abruptly ends this story halfway through, flashing forward to the same convent in present day where an old man named Count Basta (Roberto Herlitzka) resides. And oh yeah, Count Basta might be a vampire. How do these two storylines link together? It’s a question I can’t really answer after one viewing, and I’m sure most people will find themselves in the same boat. It’s a bemusing experience, although not everyone will feel like it’s worth the effort to try and understand what exactly might be going on in Bellochio’s head.

But, at the very least, I can say something about Bellochio’s film. Trying to talk about Andrzej Żuławski’s Cosmos is something that eludes me, and I’ll be perfectly fine admitting that a large amount of it probably went over my head. Adapted from Witold Gombrowicz’s novel, the film is Żuławski’s first feature film in over 15 years, and from frame one it feels like he’s unleashing all the pent-up strangeness he’s been accumulating over the years. Law student Witold (Jonathan Genet) escapes to a guest house where he befriends fellow guest Fuchs (Johan Libereau) and falls for the owner’s daughter (Victoria Guerra). At the same time, Witold’s discovery of a block of wood and a dead sparrow, both strung up by wire near the property, inspires him and Fuchs to figure out who’s responsible. All I can say about Cosmos is that it’s just one weird experience that, no matter how maddening it may get, never slows down for a second. It’s just unfortunate that Żuławski’s quirks start paying off far too late into the picture, with a final act and ending(s) that inspire laughter just by its sheer audacity. Fans of Possession, Żuławski’s cult classic, should not expect anything similar here, even though both films could be classified as unforgettable whatsits.

There are plenty more intriguing titles from recent years playing the series that I wish I could have gotten to see, like the essay Notfilm, a look into the making of Samuel Beckett and Buster Keaton’s avant-garde short Film (which screens with Notfilm). Also playing are Venice prize winner No One’s Child, Hirokazu Kore-Eda’s 2015 Cannes competition entry Our Little Sister, Aleksei German Jr.’s Under Electric Clouds, and the US premiere of 2012 Iranian film The Paternal House. But Film Comment has much more going on than a showcase of recent festival fare. Michael Nazarewycz took a peek at some of the archival titles playing this year, starting with Ray Davies’ Return to Waterloo.

Michael: The Kinks, formed in 1963 by brothers Ray and Dave Davies, were a British rock band that had critical success early (1964’s You Really Got Me) and late (1983’s Come Dancing) in their musical careers. On the heels of the success of Come Dancing, with its music video rich in bittersweet themes of melancholy and regret, Ray Davies clearly had more to get off his chest creatively and thematically. He did so, partially at the expense of an already strained relationship with his brother Dave, by focusing his artistic attention on directing a musical film. The result, along with an accompanying soundtrack of mostly new music written by Ray, was 1984’s Return to Waterloo.

In the film, veteran British character actor Kenneth Colley plays a man simply known as The Traveller. The Traveller is an otherwise unassuming businessman…until it’s revealed he might be a wanted serial rapist. He follows a blonde into the tube and, as he takes his train ride, his mind harkens to many different things, including thoughts of his recently-estranged daughter and his disenchanted wife, as well as his opinions of present-day youth and memories of a more promising career in his younger days.

Return to Waterloo marks the cinematic debut of writer/director Ray Davies and, with the exception of a few subsequent documentaries, it’s his only filmmaking effort. That’s a shame. Davies’ musical drama, while not perfect, is a wonderful blend of melancholy, music, and mystery, and it proves that the musician had greater artistic scope than just penning and recording hit records. His approach is bold; rather than create a linear narrative and tell a traditional story, Davies plays fast and loose with The Traveller’s timeline and his sense of reality. The character clearly exists in the now, but as he encounters people in his travels, those people trigger thoughts and images that slip in and out of reality, dancing a line between things that happened in the past and things he imagines are happening now. The creative approach, which ultimately relies on the viewer to do some heavier-than-usual lifting, works more often than it doesn’t, and at a lean and energetic 58 minutes, it’s a great time. Tthe film also marks the second onscreen appearance of a young Tim Roth, as well as an early entry in the career of legendary cinematographer Roger Deakins.

Film Comment has also chosen to screen a pair of Charles Bronson films at their Selects festival. Bronson, who began acting in the early 1950s, appeared in a collection of films that would go on to become classics, including John Sturges’s The Magnificent Seven and The Great Escape. In the 1970s, Bronson rocketed to superstardom, anchored by a star turn in Michael Winner’s vigilante classic Death Wish. Late in his career, Bronson was one of the biggest stars in the Cannon Films stable, appearing in a collection of ’80s action flicks for the notorious production company. But hidden among these famous films are two lesser-known entries from the action legend.

First is Tom Gries’ Breakout, from 1975. In the film, Robert Duvall plays Jay Wagner, a man wrongly imprisoned in Mexico for a murder he didn’t commit. The murder and incarceration were orchestrated by Wagner’s corrupt grandfather-in-law (played by John Huston). Wagner’s wife, played by frequent Bronson co-star and real-life spouse Jill Ireland, hires bush pilot Nick Colton (Bronson) to break her husband out of jail. Action ensues.

As a film, Breakout isn’t very good. While it allows Bronson to be a little less serious than the brooding characters he’s better known for, the plot is an utter mess and the rescue attempts (there are several) are nothing more than a string of haplessly assembled action pieces that only serve to illustrate what a terrible rescuer Colton is (as is his sidekick of sorts, played by Randy Quaid). Still, the film is notable and worth checking out for a couple of things. It’s loosely based on the book The 10-Second Jailbreak, which itself is based on actual events. The film is part of the Bronson canon, and one not usually mentioned in the same breath as the others, so Bronson completists should rejoice. It has quite a cast, as well as quite the producing team in Irwin Winkler and Robert Chartoff, the Oscar-winners behind the entire Rocky franchise (including 2015’s Creed). Most interestingly, though, Breakout is one of the titles bandied about when there are discussions about the “first summer blockbuster.” While Steven Spielberg’s Jaws is widely regarded to hold that distinction because of its wide release and its success, other films, including this one, had wide releases just as big.

The other Bronson film selected by Film Comment is an excellent choice, one that is part of the overlooked European portion of the actor’s career. Starting with Sergio Leone’s Once Upon a Time in the West  and ending with his return to the US as the star of The Mechanic, Bronson made about a dozen films in Europe including the 1970 film Rider on the Rain, which won the Golden Globe for Best Foreign Language Film. The French film is a sleek, slick Hitchcockian thriller, although the name of its femme fatale is more Bond than Hitch: Mélancolie Mau.

Played by Marlène Jobert, Mélancolie is a lonely woman in a loveless marriage living in a lifeless seaside town. One day, while her husband is somewhere else in the world in his role as an airline pilot (and philanderer), a creepy-looking man (Marc Mazza) with a red bag gets off a bus. The man makes incidental eye contact with Mélancolie. Later that day, when she is trying on clothes in a shop, the stranger leers at her through the outside window as she stands exposed in her underwear and stockings. That night, the stranger breaks into her home and rapes her. He doesn’t leave. Before he can repeat his act, there is a struggle that eventually affords Mélancolie the opportunity to shoot and kill him, but rather than report it to police, she dumps the body into the sea and keeps the incident a secret.

The next day at a wedding, Mélancolie meets American Harry Dobbs (Bronson), a man who not only knows what she did but knows a lot of the circumstances surrounding it. Still, despite his prodding, she refuses to confess to her actions, and what follows is a tingling game of cat-and-mouse that showcases Mélancolie’s resolve and Dobbs’s downright misogyny. Of course things devolve from there.

Director René Clément certainly gets his Hitchcock on for this film. While Mélancolie is not your typical Hitchcock blonde, the redhead is no less icy and no less mysterious. Of questionable character, too, is Dobbs, whose knowledge of the facts and pursuit of the truth suggest hero, but whose methods suggest anti-hero at best. A beautiful resort, sexual energy to spare, and a slowly unraveling mystery make Rider on the Rain a compelling and, at times, unsettling watch in ways reminiscent of Hitchcock, but perhaps with more dazzling visuals and brutal realism (the rape scene is harrowing). Jobert is truly the star of the picture, but Bronson is excellent, with his perpetual cat-who-ate-the-canary grin beneath his signature mustache. The two couldn’t be more different than each other, yet their onscreen chemistry is excellent.

In addition to these fun catalogue titles, Film Comment’s lineup boasts several other classics, including a trio of films from Andrzej Żuławski to accompany Cosmos. That trio consists of a pair of 1972 horror films, The Devil and The Third Part of the Night, and the 1988 sci-fi/fantasy On the Silver Globe. Closing night offers a Chantal Akerman tribute with the screening of her 1986 musical Golden Eighties.

I’ve spent the last several weeks of December doing what almost everyone who writes about film does at the end of the year: compiling, ranking and showing off lists. The only thing is that, for almost every list I put together, everything on it needed to have a public release in 2015. That means every film needed distribution of some sort, disqualifying anything that might not be accessible or lucky enough to score some sort of availability outside of film festivals.

That’s why, like for 2014, I’ve decided to compile another list of great films that don’t have a US distributor. For some of these films, it might not be surprising to see that buyers aren’t clamoring for them (a perception that has nothing to do with the film’s quality); other titles are more surprising in that they still don’t have distribution, given their accessibility and/or accolades. Either way, all of the films on this list deserve the chance of being seen beyond the festival circuit, and hopefully with enough interest or demand that might happen for a good number of these titles. Last year, over half of the films profiled on our 2014 undistributed feature wound up getting distributed; here’s hoping that amount winds up being higher for these 15 films.

Best Undistributed Films of 2015

The Academy of Muses

José Luis Guerín (sort of) returns to narrative filmmaking eight years after his masterpiece In the City of Sylvia, creating an entrancing and dense work done on a micro budget. Starting out as a documentary, Guerín films lectures held by Italian Philology professor Raffaele Pinto (playing himself) about poetry and the role of the female muse as inspiration for male artists. The opening act can feel like a tidal wave of concepts and ideas, but Guerín eventually settles down once he brings in a narrative involving Pinto using several of his students as muses. Shooting on cheap DV with no cinematographer, Guerín pulls off images just as evocative as the ones in Sylvia, once again using reflective surfaces to portray emotions and sensations that could never be summed up properly with words. It’s a film that crackles with energy from beginning to end, and yet another example of great small-scale filmmaking.

Update: Grasshopper Film has acquired US distribution rights for The Academy of Muses.

The Ardennes

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Robin Pront’s directorial debut surprised me back when I saw it at TIFF, as its familiar story of a love triangle between two criminal brothers (one reformed, one just out of jail) and the woman between them sounded all too familiar. But The Ardennes is both sophisticated in its approach and more thematically rich than one would expect, focusing on its characters trying to move on from their past sins by working their way above the poverty line. That gives The Ardennes a powerful and tragic edge, acknowledging how much social, political and systematic factors can muddle the distinctions between good and evil. Combined with great performances from its three leads (especially Veerle Baetens, who works wonders with what could have been a thankless role) and a gut punch of an ending, it’s surprising that The Ardennes is still awaiting US distribution.

Update: Film Movement has acquired US distribution rights for The Ardennes.

The Brand New Testament

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In Jaco Van Dormael’s The Brand New Testament, God (Benoît Poelvoorde) is a mean old drunk who spends his days creating disasters, diversions and annoyances on his computer to toy with humanity. He locks his wife (Yolande Moreau) and 10-year-old daughter Ea (Pili Groyne) in his apartment, worried that if they get out they’ll end up like his son. But Ea rebels against him, leaking out everyone’s date of death before escaping to Brussels in the hopes of recruiting six new apostles. It’s a strange film to say the least, with a premise viewers will have to accept as is if they want to enjoy it. Luckily, Van Dormael is intensely committed to seeing his vision through, and the film is bursting with so many weird ideas it’s easy to get won over by its energetic style. It’s a light, humourous attempt by Van Dormael to confront some of the bigger questions involving existence, and probably the cutest act of blasphemy you’ll ever see.

Update: Music Box Films has acquired US distribution rights for The Brand New Testament.

Despite the Night

After being rejected by the major festivals, Philippe Grandrieux’s Despite the Night (Malgré la nuit) finally unveiled itself at Montreal’s Festival du nouveau cinéma in the fall of 2015, marking another disappointing treatment of one of the most interesting and consistent filmmakers working today. Grandrieux is a director more interested in the dark and insidious, finding unsettling ways to push the boundaries of cinema into new territory, and Despite the Night is more of the same. Lenz (Kristian Marr) returns to Paris searching for a woman from his past, and in the process he enters an intense, destructive relationship with Hélène (Ariane Labed), a disturbed nurse still grieving the loss of her son. Grandrieux has made what might be his most accessible film to date, although that’s not saying much considering narrative has never been of too much interest in his works (it’s best to just surrender to Grandrieux’s intense aesthetics). Few filmmakers are willing to venture into the darkness; Grandrieux dives in headfirst, leaving it up to viewers if they want to dive in alongside him.

El Movimiento

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“1835. Argentina. Anarchy. Plague.” That title card sets the stage for Benjamin Naishtat’s El Movimiento, which quickly establishes its chaotic world by opening with a man getting his head blown off by a cannon at point blank range. From there, the film settles into following Señor (a fantastic Pablo Cedrón) and his two lackeys as they travel the desert, convincing people to join what Señor calls “The Movement” in hopes of unifying the country. Naishtat never bothers delving into what Señor’s movement exactly is (and Señor’s talks are nothing more than vague statements delivered with intensity), a choice that puts the focus more on the quest for power and dominance than ideology. People familiar with Argentina’s history and politics will certainly get more out of El Movimiento, but those unfamiliar should find plenty to enjoy whether it’s the gorgeous black and white cinematography, Pedro Irusta’s aggressive score, or Naishtat’s ability to create such an engrossing sense of time and place over a brief 65-minute runtime.

Happy Hour

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With the distinction between cinema and television getting blurrier by the day, and binge watching becoming more common, along comes Ryusuke Hamaguchi’s 317-minute Happy Hour to show the unique pleasures cinema can bring when duration isn’t a restriction. The film follows four women in their 30s, close friends who discover one of them has been trying to divorce her husband for over a year. The woman’s decision to leave her husband, followed by her vanishing from the film altogether, throws the other three women’s lives into turmoil over their own relationships. Hamaguchi lets his film breathe considerably, dedicating large chunks of time to sequences like an art event all four women participate in, a hangout at a bar or a getaway to a resort, and by doing so takes full advantage of his runtime to provide a level of depth rarely seen in film or television. All four women transform considerably by the time Happy Hour’s credits start to roll, and Hamaguchi gives his characters enough time and care to make their changes deeply felt and all the more resonant.

How Heavy This Hammer

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My heritage may make me biased, but 2015 was a good year for Canadian cinema (case in point: at least 3 films on this list are from the Great White North). And while a good amount of Canadian films blew me away last year, it was Kazik Radwanski’s How Heavy This Hammer that left me feeling excited for what the future might bring. Erwin (Erwin van Cotthem), a family man who spends most of his time playing computer games, makes a drastic shift in his life when he suddenly decides to leave his wife, yet finds himself in the same rut as before. Radwanski shoots almost entirely with handheld cameras and in extreme close-up, giving the film have a claustrophobic mood that emphasizes its protagonist’s feelings of being trapped that’s extremely effective. But Radwanski’s greatest skill here is his ability to get inside Erwin’s head without being judgmental, leaving viewers to make up their mind how to feel about him. Seeing something this formally interesting and empathetic come out of Canada only makes me hopeful that this is only the beginning of something much bigger for Canadian cinema.

Invention

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First off: kudos to Soda Pictures, who acquired both Canadian and UK rights to Mark Lewis’ Invention, a film that I never thought would get distribution of any kind considering it’s almost entirely silent. Other than a small piano number opening the film and a Fuck Buttons song used in the conclusion, Invention plays out with no sound whatsoever as Lewis’ camera swoops through three locations: Toronto, Sao Paolo and The Louvre in Paris. The film’s complex shots—using cranes, pans, zooms, tilts and just about every other possible type of camera movement—constantly redefines each space with every passing second, putting an emphasis on how cinema can influence our own perception. Taken on their own, Lewis’ shots are incredible works (the film is actually an anthology of a dozen films by Lewis), but Invention’s real power comes from the way it elegantly reminds viewers of how powerful of a tool cinema can be.

The Missing Girl

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A US indie about one of life’s “late bloomers” isn’t exactly unheard of (Sundance has made an industry of these kinds of films), but A.D. Calvo’s The Missing Girl is a shining example of how much good execution can make even the most familiar material feel fresh again. The film starts out as a mystery: comic book store owner Mort (Robert Longstreet) hires a new employee (Alexia Rasmussen), only for her to disappear shortly after someone connected to an old missing persons case moves back into town. Calvo, with the help of an incredible performance by Longstreet, sets things up to look like Mort taking on the role of amateur detective before deliberately abandoning all feelings of mystery in the film’s second half. It’s a surprising move that pays off well, letting the film’s terrific sense of character take over while making Mort’s character arc much more impacting. With no distribution deal announced as of this time, I hope that someone will come along to help make this hidden gem no longer stay hidden.

One Floor Below

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Radu Muntean’s follow-up to Tuesday After Christmas finds the Romanian director—one of the members of Romania’s “new wave” of cinema—dealing with material similar to Ruben Ostlund’s films (or, for a more specific comparison, Michael Haneke’s Code Unknown). Patrascu (Teodor Corban) overhears an argument between a man and woman in the apartment below his, eavesdropping until the man in the argument catches him listening in. Hours later, the woman from the argument is found murdered but Patrascu doesn’t tell the police about what he heard, and soon the man who caught him starts taking an interest in Patrascu. Muntean’s interests lie strictly with Patrascu and not the circumstances surrounding the murder, preferring to delve into how Patrascu, a successful businessman used to exercising control over everything in his life, deals with getting thrown into a situation where he no longer has the upper hand. It’s a slow boiler that’s hard not to get caught up in, with Muntean’s long, elaborately choreographed takes—a high-wire act in itself—feeding into Patrascu’s attempts to navigate the sticky situation he’s put himself in.

The Other Side

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After completing his Texas Trilogy, Roberto Minervini moves into darker and more political territory with The Other Side. It continues Minervini’s unique blend of documentary and fiction developed in his earlier films, except this time he’s moved from Texas to rural Louisiana, looking at two groups located on the furthest edges of society. The film’s first half dedicates itself to Mark and Lisa, a couple trapped by their drug addictions, before switching over to a militia group preparing itself for what they think is an impending war with the government. It’s impossible to tell between what’s real or staged, and Minervini’s camera remains unflinching in its observation of some of the uglier aspects of both lifestyles. Yet The Other Side always shows a care and understanding towards its subjects/characters, with Minervini exploring the context behind their intense dislike of their government rather than pitying or dismissing them based on their situation. It’s a perspective that, in a time when political divisions get stronger and more abrasive with each passing day, feels more necessary than ever.

Update: Film Movement has acquired North American distribution rights for The Other Side.

Our Loved Ones

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When talking about Anne Émond’s Our Loved Ones, the word ambition springs to mind immediately. For her second feature, Émond creates a multigenerational family story dealing with grief, loss, fatherhood, depression and mental illness among many other big themes, nailing almost all of them with a grace and honesty even some well-established filmmakers might envy. Opening with the suicide of a family’s patriarch, the film hones in on eldest son David (Maxim Gaudette) over the years as he gets married and has two children. It’s only later on in the film that Émond’s elliptical and deceptively undramatic approach pays off, as David begins suffering from the same feelings of melancholy that led to his father’s death. Émond’s portrayal of depression is remarkable in its precision, and when the narrative transitions from David to his daughter Laurence in the film’s final act, Our Loved Ones feels like a true epic done on a human scale. Our Loved Ones’ subject matter will be a tough sell to most audiences, but it’s a powerful experience viewers should have the chance to see for themselves.

Paulina

Winner of the top prize at Cannes’ Critics’ Week in 2015, Santiago Mitre’s Paulina is only further proof of how Argentina has a knack for producing some seriously good directors. Paulina (Dolores Fonzi), a lawyer with a promising career, throws it all away when she decides to finally pursue her passion, moving away to teach high school students in one of the poorer parts of the country. Not too long after starting her job, a group of men (some of whom include her own students) beat and rape her as she travels home one night after visiting a friend. It’s a grim set-up that turns into something more frustrating and complicated as Paulina decides to keep teaching, baffling and infuriating everyone around her. Revealing any more of the story’s twists and turns would be a disservice to what Mitre has crafted, turning Paulina from a captivating drama into a fascinating look at what happens when personal interests clash with ideological ones. Forzi, along with Oscar Martinez (playing her father), both give great performances that help steer the film away from feeling too provocative or contrived.

Tag

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Only one of six (!) films Sion Sono made in 2015, Tag should prove to be a delight for fans of the director’s gonzo works like Why Don’t You Play in Hell? or Tokyo Tribe. Anyone familiar with Tag already (it won several awards at Montreal’s Fantasia Film Festival) should know about its opening sequence already, a kind of deranged remake of The Happening that’s more surprising and entertaining than anything M. Night Shyamalan has done in more than a decade. After that, Sono just keeps the strangeness coming at full force, as the film’s lead transforms into three different women while avoiding death at every turn, whether it’s from gun-toting teachers, malevolent gusts of wind or pig men. Sono, a master when it comes to pacing, never slows things down for a second, and his ability to throw out as many insane ideas he can think of means it’s impossible to guess what will happen from one second to the next. Hopefully, Tag will be the first feature of Sono’s six from last year to score US distribution, and help further expose Western audiences to one of the most prolific and singular directors in the world right now.

Uncertain

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Uncertain fell off people’s radars after winning an award at Tribeca in 2015, a shame considering it was one of the best documentaries of last year. The title comes from the town directors Ewan McNicol and Anna Sandilands profile, a small city with a population of 94 sitting on the border between Louisiana and Texas. The film profiles three men ranging from 21 to 74, all of whom have their own present hardships or tumultuous pasts primarily dealing with addiction. At the same time, the film periodically looks at a crisis happening in the town when an invasive weed spreads throughout the local lake, wreaking havoc on the ecosystem and threatening to end people’s ability to fish for food and income. McNicol and Sandilands tie together both the aquatic weed’s stranglehold on the town with the vices and conditions of its three subjects, creating a metaphor so perfectly intertwined with the film’s themes it gives Uncertain’s final moments—a brief glimmer of hope amid a grim reality—an emotional resonance that lasts long after the credits roll.