Tag Archives: Drama

CAPSULE: ÉL (1953)

AKA This Strange Passion

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DIRECTED BY:

FEATURING: Arturo de Córdova, Delia Garcés

PLOT: A Mexican landowner seduces a woman into marrying him, but his paranoid jealousy quickly poisons the union.

Still from El (1953)

COMMENTS: The career of Luis Buñuel breaks cleanly into three periods: the avant-garde (or first French) period, the Mexican period, and the renaissance (or second French) period. He begins in Paris with the revolutionary experiments of Un Chien Andalou, L’Age d’Or, and Land Without Bread; moves to Mexico where he directs commercially-oriented films after an unsuccessful flirtation with Hollywood; and then, in the twilight of his career, returns to France to produce masterworks such as Belle de Jour (1967) and Discreet Charm of the Bourgousie (1972) with the assistance of new collaborators Serge Silberman (producer) and Jean-Claude Carrière (writer). Of these eras, the Mexican period, from 1947-1965, is the longest—and it can itself be split into early and late periods, as Buñuel again achieves international notoriety with Viridiana in 1961, and re-emerges into surrealism with 1962’s The Exterminating Angel.

The Mexican period is often overlooked, and it’s undeniable that Buñuel was far less experimental in this era, placing commercial realities above personal passions, and sneaking in surrealism and social commentary where he could. But Buñuel was honing his craft in Mexico, and these films are still fascinating to see the development of his aesthetic. Naturally, he also made some great movies in these years, among which the psychologically astute Él (which translates in this context as “he”) is a standout.

The film begins, without dialogue and somewhat mysteriously, with priests ritualistically washing the feet of young men on Maundy Thursday. The gaze of our protagonist, Francisco, scans a line of boys’ feet and priestly hands until it alights on a pair of high heeled shoes supporting shapely calves; his eyes then turn at a right angle to travel vertically up the body to briefly meet the eyes of a young woman, whom we will later learn is Gloria. What this opening means—with its nods to the director’s foot fetishism and his complicated relationship to Catholicism—is a point for academic debate. But no matter; the story immediately takes a turn for the melodramatic, following Francisco as he seduces the demure Gloria (stealing her from her fiancé, an associate of Francisco’s), while expressing his vain desire to recreate his ancestral real estate empire. Francisco’s irrational jealousy emerges as early as the honeymoon, where he gets into a fight with an old friend of his bride’s that the couple coincidentally encounters. Gloria quickly realizes she has made a terrible mistake. Things escalate through beatings, a dangerous scene in a bell tower (which anticipates Vertigo), and finally a disturbing and menacing bit where Francisco gathers up surgical equipment for purposes you can certainly guess. In the end, Francisco has a complete psychotic break, allowing Buñuel to deploy some light surrealism (via editing) to portray the triumph of paranoia over objective reality. (This climax occurs, naturally, inside a church.) An ironic epilogue shows Francisco, now convalescing in a monastery, his demons at least temporarily at bay, zig-zagging down a straight garden path.

Buñuel‘s own process during the Mexican period follows the same path: he follows the inevitable line of conventional narrative, but zigs and zags into his own obsessions. The director claimed that Él was one of his most personal works, and we know from his wife Jeanne’s autobiography that Buñuel himself suffered from irrational jealousy and sexual repression. Thus, he identifies with Francisco, but only in a masochistic and self-reflective way: he’s too perceptive to deceive himself, as his protagonist does, into thinking he’s always in the right. The source novel, by a woman speaking from personal experience, reportedly focuses on social critique of the Mexican patriarchy and its mistreatment of women; this subject interests Buñuel as well, but he leans into the character study aspect of the material. It is a way to exorcise his personal demons, and despite the conventionality of the approach, Él is at heart a typically vituperative strike by Buñuel at the hypocrisy of the human heart.

WHAT THE CRITICS SAY:

“…a dark, troubling, classily produced melodrama. It may not have the showy, surreal touches of Buñuel’s best known work but it still packs a punch.”–David Brook, Blueprint: Review (Criterion Blu-ray)

Él (The Criterion Collection) [Blu-ray]

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CAPSULE: THE THING WITH FEATHERS (2025)

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DIRECTED BY: Dylan Southern

FEATURING: , Sam Sprueli,

PLOT: After the loss of his wife, a widowed man comes in contact with a mysterious human-sized crow.

Still from The Thing with Feathers (2025)

COMMENTS: Dimly-lit interiors and catatonic acting clarify from the beginning that this will be a grim watch. And it is, as we follow an unnamed man, dealing with complex emotions after the passing of his wife, struggling with denial while trying to care for his two sons and to find comfort in his work as a comic artist. This is not a realistic tale, but an allegorical and elliptical one, with gothic flourishes as a human-sized crow gradually makes his appearance.

The narrative, based on Max Porter’s novel “Grief is the Thing with Feathers,” is divided into four chapters, each dealing with a different perspective. The first, focusing on Dad, remains close to typical horror conventions, with its slow-burning atmosphere culminating in a series of violent confrontations with the aforementioned crow. The intensity of one of those encounters is underlined by an excellent 360°  shot. The aggressive, grotesque bird mocks our hero for his self-pity, and evens becomes physically violent, while calling him generic names like Sad Dad and English Widower. At the same time jump cuts bring us back into reality to create an ambiguity regarding the nature of the crow, which could just as well be a figment of the protagonist’s imagination.

The next chapters focus on the bird, the kids’ perception of the events, and a new demon plaguing the family’s home, seemingly an enemy of the crow. Events are open to interpretation as different monsters come to symbolize different aspects of the mourning process, drawing, through allegory, a distinction  between grief, as a healthy way of dealing with loss, and total nihilistic despair.

We don’t have the most original and unique premise here. The central metaphor isn’t exactly something we haven’t seen before. However, thanks to a competent main performance by Benedict Cumberbach and an emphasis on dimly-lit interiors, the execution doesn’t completely disappoint. For fans of art-house psychological horror, in the vein of The Babadook  and similar movies distributed by A24, this is an okay recommendation.

WHAT THE CRITICS SAY:

“…the perfectly cast Cumberbatch effortlessly moves between fever dream, painful reality and apparent hallucination with every cell in his body present in the character… It’s a strangely beautiful, well paced and moving film…”–Annete Basile, Film Inc (contemporaneous)

CAPSULE: HOWLER (2025)

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Howler is currently available for purchase or rental on video-on-demand.

DIRECTED BY: Richard Bailey

FEATURING: , , Abel Flores, Blake Hackler, Laura Martinez

PLOT: A grisly hunter threatens the woods as Leni, an attuned poet, prepares to accept a life-changing award.

Still from Howler (2025)

COMMENTS:

“Your life is going to change.”

—”How do you mean that?”

“Oh, not in the sense you might hope.”

This exchange is intended more as a kindly tip-off than as a threat, but, as with most wisdom, it is not well received. The words here are talismanic; but then, in a way—and especially to a poet—all words are. Words are simultaneously weighty and evanescent. They are everywhere, and nowhere. And, from my vague understanding, one primary task of a poet is to nail them down and convey them—at least in their fleeting significance.

Howler is another meditation from director Richard Bailey on the nature of communication, perception, and the intersection of reality and unreality. Two earthly plot lines anchor the discourse: one concerning a poet, the other concerning the “grisly hunter” mentioned prior. But as per usual form, Richard Bailey the (word) poet and Richard Bailey the (image) poet are inseparable. Time and again the screen is just non-human sound and natural imagery. A triptych of floating blossoms recurs throughout as punctuation between conversational musings on vengeance, serenity, annihilation, and regrowth.

A poet’s lot is often an unhappy one,  toiling away at building spiritual insight using words, punctuation, and line breaks. But the joy it can bring, even to just one witness, makes their ordeal worth the sacrifices. Bailey dissects his vocation and that of his peers, through the lens of natural and human friction and coexistence. The ominous figure of the hunter is, I’d wager, symbolic: though I could not commit as to what. Perhaps he is our path toward ruination of self and surroundings; perhaps he is more tragic than malevolent.

There is much to misunderstand about humans and humanity. With Howler, Bailey takes another stab at capturing truth essence through the primitive tools of language, image, and sound.

WHAT THE CRITICS SAY:

Howler is not a horror film, despite what the opening 3 minutes suggest. While that will undoubtedly disappoint horror hounds, stick with it. The story is interesting, the characters engaging, and the direction dreamy.” — Bobby LePire, Film Threat (contemporaneous)

CAPSULE: ADAM’S APPLES (2005)

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DIRECTED BY:

FEATURING: Ulrich Tomnsen, , Nikolas Bro

PLOT: Priest with a troubled past tries to provide a way to redemption for a young neo- Nazi.

Still from Adam's Apples (2005)

COMMENTS: An aggressive man arrives at a chapel as part of a social reintegration program. Accompanied by two other ex-criminals, he will strive for personal redemption under the guidance of an enigmatic priest with some controversial methods and a tragic past.

Sometimes redemption is just an apple pie away. A trivial purpose, the baking of an apple cake, motivates the young neo-Nazi protagonist, and becomes his path. However, this tale is not really about him, or at least not only about him. He is mostly a vessel to introduced us to his mentor, the  priest, a tragic figure hauntingly performed by one of today’s most acclaimed European actors, Mads Mikkelsen (a close collaborator of director Jensen).

And what a personality this priest is! Even though he has been struck by many misfortunes in his life, he maintains a sense of confidence in himself and in God’s plan, while striving to remain a role model for others. Not everything is as it seems, though, and it is gradually revealed that his calmness is an effect of his constant denial to acknowledge burdensome tragedies. He will have to confront his demons, abandon hope, and embrace stoicism if he wants to obtain true happiness and find salvation. Shots of the priest in his car—either as a driver or as a passenger—masterfully convey the ups and downs of his mental state.

What we have here is not exactly a character study, however. Hints of the supernatural and the magically realist, like crows and worms that try to prevent the baking of the apple pie mentioned above, give this tale the sense of a religious parable. Moreover, the movie draws a comparison between Mikkelsen’s priest and the Old Testament’s Job, making this movie akin to a modern retelling of the classic tale.

From start to finish, this is a grim and haunting cinematic experience, an art-house oddity with parabolic tones and much religious symbolism. It is recommended mostly for fans of religious dramas in a contemporary setting; ‘s Calvary (2014) and the Danish series “Ride Upon the Storm” by Adam Price are similar, even when they stray away from the weirder aspects of this work.

WHAT THE CRITICS SAY:

“The performances are spot-on, as all play this darkly funny material as if they are in a deadly serious Shakespearean drama, highlighting the situation’s absurdities and asking us to consider how much our reality is shaped by our preconceptions, beliefs and, yes, faith.”–Dan Jardine, Cinemania (festival screening)

Adam's Apples

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(This movie was nominated for review by Mauser. Suggest a weird movie of your own here.) 

CAPSULE: THE MYSTERIOUS GAZE OF THE FLAMINGO (2025)

La misteriosa mirada del flamenco

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DIRECTED BY: Diego Céspedes

FEATURING: Tamara Cortes, Paula Dinamarca, Matías Catalán, Pedro Muñoz, Luis Dubó

PLOT: A family of drag queens raise an orphan girl in the shadow of a mining operation in Chile in 1982, but the miners blame them for a deadly plague they believe is spread by the gay men’s gaze.

Still from The Mysterious Gaze of the Flamingo (2025)

COMMENTS: The setting of Mysterious Gaze of the Flamingo is more than somewhat absurd. A house of cross-dressing men (they call themselves “transvestites,” in the lingo of the period, not “trans” in the modern sense) stands alone at the base of the mountains, at the edge of the village where the miners live. The family within is tolerated by the macho community, although disparaged with slurs. The men avert their gaze, superstitiously believing that the deadly plague spreading through the village is passed through the transvestite’s gaze. The half-dozen occupants of the house raise Lidia, an orphan girl of about 11, with the glamorous Flamingo serving as the girl’s surrogate mother. Other than the prepubescent Lidia and, perhaps, the ambiguously gendered older matron of the clan, Mama Boa (played by trans actress Paula Dinamarca), there are no (cis-)women in the community; even the miner’s children are exclusively male. Perhaps for this reason, the transvestite’s home also serves as the community bordello, with the women putting on evening drag shows and beauty pageants. The more intrigued, or desperate, miners opportunistically sneak into the girls’ rooms to sate their carnal needs. This creates an eternal tension, with the miners tolerating, fearing, and sometimes desiring the transvestites, leading to the ever-present threat of violence—and the girls aren’t afraid to get into a scrap, when their seductive charms fail to get them what they need.

The straight world, therefore, is halfway accommodating, but always harbors a threat. It’s a dynamic that may be familiar to modern gays, although appearing here in exaggerated form. In this fairyland, the transvestites are free to be who they are; but that freedom comes with a price. They are eternal outsiders. True love is hard to find in this desert. Flamingo nurtures her maternal instincts through surrogate motherhood, and Lidia is fiercely loyal to the queer clan, but death—from violence, or disease—always threatens.

The Chilean mountains and desert valleys, reminiscent of the mythical American west, are captured beautifully through Angello Faccini’s excellent cinematography—although the unnecessary use of the 4:3 academy ratio sadly robs us of some of the classic grandeur we might hope for. The film is not quite magical realism per se—nothing actually impossible happens, outside of a dream sequence or two—but it’s of course heavily influenced by the movement. Flamingo is, instead, a slightly dreamlike dramatic fable set in a highly improbable world. It is, perhaps, the world as seen by Lidia, a pre-sexual being who loves the only family she knows, but is on the cusp of learning about the wages of the sinful world.

WHAT THE CRITICS SAY:

 “Diego Céspedes’ gentle, funny, passionate, and occasionally absurdist debut drama packs an enormous emotional punch… [a key event] gradually nudges the film into surreal symbolic territory.”–Siddhant Adlakha, Variety (contemporaneous)