Sound of Falling

Part of my coverage of the 61st Chicago International Film Festival

SOUND OF FALLING   ***1/2

Mascha Schilinski

2025

IDEA:  The lives of four generations of women are glimpsed across nearly a century in and around a farmhouse estate in east Germany.

BLURB:  Sound of Falling is a mighty, forbidding cataract of densely woven visuals and soundscapes as likely to leave one awed as flummoxed. Despite its periodization, it doesn’t so much narrate a history of reverberating domestic terrors as impressionistically embody their affects, which, perhaps, escape narrativization. Floating across time, inhabiting multiple points of view (including, often, a conspicuous 8 mm camera gaze), and slipping through an indistinguishable mesh of reality, memory, and imagination, Sound of Falling conducts an excavation of sedimented psychic pain in which all that can be recovered are the ghostly traces. With the source of trauma never seen or understood — obscured as it is by the inchoate, restricted POVs of the young female protagonists and the silence of their elders — Schilinski offers up strange, looping audiovisual effusions that suggest what can’t be made visible. These have a chilling, Gothic dream logic: a pale blonde girl clad in black, recreating an old photo of an identical forebear sitting limp on a sofa beside a pair of dolls; a lamprey clamping down between a woman’s index finger and thumb; all the titular falling, into rivers and on barn floors, accompanied by crackling vinyl (or film projector?) sounds. Schilinski refuses to moor us in this seething transhistorical miasma, even as we sometimes hear characters in voiceover poetically give shape to their thoughts and feelings (“It’s funny how something can hurt when it’s not there anymore”). This excessive fragmentation can make it a trying task to keep track of or even identify characters, timelines, and events. Surely, as well, this is part of Schilinski’s design, a deliberately discombobulating invocation of affects that seep across temporal boundaries and take ahold of you, like a woman who can’t control her smile (or gag reflex), with involuntary power.

Sirāt

Part of my coverage of the 61st Chicago International Film Festival

SIRĀT   ***

Óliver Laxe

2025

IDEA:  A father, accompanied by his young son, goes searching for his missing daughter amid a Moroccan rave.

BLURB:  Against the desolate, parched expanses of the Western Sahara, Sirāt stages the most austere of contemporary apocalypses. It’s preceded by, what else, a bunch of people lost in their own world(s), completely absorbed by the throbbing bass that has possessed their bodies on a desert dance floor. As Kangding Ray’s techno score booms from towers of subwoofers, Laxe shows us images of blissed-out revelers that could be straight from Burning Man or Coachella, with a majority white young coterie that has claimed a remote open land as their party ground. In Sirāt, it is Europeans in Africa and their attendant legacy of colonialism that shadow the film’s vague geopolitical catastrophe, a “World War III” that abruptly breaks down the rave and sends a ragtag group deep into the Saharan flatlands. On the perilous road trip, Laxe harnesses his considerable audiovisual talents to create a blanched nightmare from endless dust, rocks, and glaring sun, Ray’s techno music now a foreboding presence from beyond instead of a proximal glue for embodied fellow-feeling. Ultimately, the explosiveness of the bass becomes more than figurative, and dancing to forget is no longer an option. The final act of Sirāt is almost excruciatingly tense in its manipulations of movement, timing, and sound and the expectancy they build in the spectator. Laxe’s carefully controlled horror is, in the same breath, kind of crass, turning death into a game of chicken for the mortified First World subject. Once again, we have a European film largely about European sociopolitical myopia that centers European characters in a land that isn’t theirs. Muslim characters appear only on the periphery as nameless refugees in a mythical crisis of passage, which the film appropriates as its title. Sirāt is finally potent and problematic in ways not easily extricable. 

Miroirs No. 3

Part of my coverage of the 61st Chicago International Film Festival

MIROIRS NO. 3   **1/2

Christian Petzold

2025

IDEA:  After surviving a car crash in rural Germany, a young woman decides to stay with the elder woman who witnessed the accident.

BLURB:  Miroirs No. 3 is set in a small rural German town that simultaneously gives off the air of a fairytale idyll and a pastoral purgatory. Petzold holds these qualities in gentle dialectical tension, suggesting the murky space where emotional comfort morphs into psychological stasis. Can you go back home after a tragedy? Should you? Nothing is ever clear in Petzold’s taciturn story, in which his quartet of main characters float around each other tentatively putting up bridges — familial, possibly romantic — that never quite line up. There is a pointed gendered divide between the surrogate mother-daughter pairing, who are associated with housework, and the men of the family, who spend all their time in a garage fixing cars. Without necessarily reasserting stereotypes, Petzold indicates a fundamental rift in the ways women and men communicate, or don’t. His approach is spartan, at times recalling Bresson in its stark (albeit color-saturated) mise en scène and withholding of information. The issue is that he too-often confuses the mere act of reticence for human mystery, with silences and elisions that are more empty than pregnant. Miroirs No. 3 just doesn’t give the spectator much to hang onto, although its short-story-like nature at least lends it a pleasing brevity.

Dead Man's Wire

Part of my coverage of the 61st Chicago International Film Festival

DEAD MAN'S WIRE   ***

Gus Van Sant

2025

IDEA:  A fictionalized account of Tony Kiritsis's kidnapping of his mortgage broker, Richard Hall, in 1977 Indianapolis. 

BLURB:  You know social discontent is in the air when two American movies, debuted within the same month, end with Gil Scott-Heron’s single “The Revolution Will Not Be Televised.” First it was PTA’s One Battle After Another, and here it is again, like an echoing mantra, in Gus Van Sant’s docudrama. The sense of déjà vu is apropos; not only is Dead Man’s Wire based on a documentary, the true story it recounts from nearly half a century ago is a version of something we’ve witnessed in varied forms over the intervening years. It’s that queasily familiar molotov cocktail of class grievance, violence, and the media circus, set off by people who end up in extreme situations because the system has seemingly given them no other choice. There is satisfying no-more-fucks-to-give fury in Bill Skarsgård’s nervy and garrulous (albeit curiously prettified) Tony Kiritsis, and Van Sant takes great care to show him as a polite, well-respected, and at times comically clumsy guy. Dead Man’s Wire recreates the events of his kidnapping of Richard Hall with a nod to news-media verisimilitude, often using crash zooms and freeze frames and craftily toggling between film and video formats, with the occasional insert of real historical news footage. Van Sant covers all sides in his portraiture, emphasizing a news media prone to sensationalism and reductive banalities, a legal system of questionable efficacy, and a financial world where callousness reigns (in the memorable form of a slothful, southern-fried Al Pacino). Significantly, the points of light are the two major Black characters: Colman Domingo’s radio DJ and Myha’la’s up-and-coming reporter, who exhibit actual human interest rather than procedural calculation. Dead Man’s Wire is tense and funny, if familiar to a fault, and it poses the important question: if the beleaguered worker with a gun is considered insane, what about the rich executive willing to ruin more lives than the worker ever could?

Young Mothers

Part of my coverage of the 61st Chicago International Film Festival

YOUNG MOTHERS   **1/2

Jean-Pierre and Luc Dardenne

2025

IDEA:  A handful of young women living in a group home navigate their responsibilities as new mothers.

BLURB:  The typical Dardennes movie clings unwaveringly to the perspective of one or two characters, the narrative and visual focus so tight you feel by the end that you’ve become conjoined with them. Perhaps one of the problems with Young Mothers is that it lacks this sustained closeness, spread as it is among four protagonists who must share screen time without, strangely, spending very much of that time together. The Dardennes instead rotate between them, and as capable as all the young actresses are, they tend to blur together in their similar backgrounds and present situations. All are anxiously figuring out how, or if, to raise their babies as they variously wrestle with absent boyfriends, overbearing or absent parents, and legacies of abuse, poverty, and abandonment within their families. The cast is uniformly affecting, and there are individual scenes — a tussle with a selfish mom over her granddaughter, a boyfriend’s hospital visit to his drug-relapsed partner — that have the matter-of-fact immediacy and naked, disarming emotional force that are Dardennes hallmarks. In too many other instances, urgency and engagement are hampered by a script that is at once diffuse and obvious (“I don’t want to be like you,” explicates daughter to mom) and by images that don’t carry much visual interest. There will always be great use for media that empathically spotlights the oft-belittled experiences of young, vulnerable mothers, but it’s disappointing that Young Mothers doesn’t offer much beyond the commonplace.

The Secret Agent

Part of my coverage of the 61st Chicago International Film Festival

THE SECRET AGENT   ***

Kleber Mendonça Filho

2025

IDEA:  In 1977 Recife, Brazil, a former university professor goes undercover as he's hunted by a vindictive government rival.

BLURB:  The Secret Agent is an epic political thriller light on conventional thrills, but this is by design; Mendonça is less interested in linear narrative momentum than creating a socio-historical panorama brimming with intricate, lived-in detail. In this way, the 1970s-set film sometimes recalls those contemporaneous Robert Altman works with their sprawling casts, meandering plots, and percolating mood of epochal turmoil. There are no optical zooms here (missed opportunity?), but there are vibrant anamorphic PanaVision and split diopters to give life to a complex tale of political persecution and the survival of memory through blood and media — and bloody media! Indeed, one of the most delightful threads running through The Secret Agent is the intertext of Spielberg’s Jaws, which comes to mediate between the spectacle of popular culture and that of a violent, predatory reality, both of which capture the public’s imagination in ways Mendonça creatively imagines. With the exception of its most traditional “genre” sequences, though — a bit of outré grindhouse play and a climactic gun chase — The Secret Agent eschews any such ratcheting Jaws-like suspense. The slackness, while allowing ample room for a panoply of distinct characters to reveal their many sides, does not always serve the film; one wishes for a little more juice, whether through narrative action, tonal variation, or formal surprise. The power rests in the depth of Mendonça’s script, which, like last year’s I’m Still Here, flashes forward to the present to show how the preservation of personal and historical memory, forever entwined, is ongoing work that involves us all.