Month: February 2025

Peaceful green forests are streaked with sunlight, giving the air a golden colour. A scruffy-looking man, Ion (Gabriel Spahiu), enters the field. He mumbles profanities as he picks up empty plastic bottles and cans discarded in nature. A huge, colourful dinosaur appears next to the man, moving and making noises. For a second, the viewer is transported back in time to Jurassic Park, then everything becomes clear: the man is walking through a deserted theme park. He talks to a velociraptor, dives into the half-shelled egg of a diplodocus, and smokes a cigarette next to a spinosaurus. Before retiring to his hideaway, Ion’s day continues through the tables of the city centre’s outdoor cafés. There he asks the customers for money. Many are annoyed by his presence and give him some change, only to get rid of him, to make him disappear, as if his presence were ruining the image of the historic city. There is so much dissonance in this first sequence to promise what is yet to come: an alienating journey of redemption through guilt and hypocrisy that will leave you shaken from head to toe and with many questions in your head. Kontinental ’25 by Romanian director Radu Jude starts with one of the most astonishing opening scenes of this 75th Berlinale, where it premiered on Wednesday and is competing for the Golden Bear.

Orsolya (Eszter Tompa) is a bailiff. Her job is to evict Ion from the basement of a historic building bought by a German investment fund that wants to destroy it and replace it with a boutique hotel. When she arrives, Ion is not ready to leave, although she has given him an extension and even organized a van to move his belongings. Ion is given another twenty minutes to collect his things, and Orsolya and the law enforcement guards leave to get a coffee nearby. When they return, Ion is dead, having strangled himself by wrapping a metal wire around his neck and tying it to the radiator. Orsolya’s legal innocence is immediately declared, but guilt and remorse begin to assail her, as sexist and racist slurs on social media do when it is discovered that she is of Hungarian origin. Orsolya is so affected by the whole affair that she decides not to go with her family to holiday in Greece and stay at home to reflect on her life and “make some decisions”. In the days following Ion’s suicide, Orsolya meets with her cynical mother (Annamária Biluska), a good friend (Oana Mardare), a Zen ex-law student (Adonis Tanta), and an Orthodox priest (Serban Pavlu) to talk about what has happened. With each of them, she seeks absolution rather than honest exchange and confrontation.

In 2021, director Jude won the Golden Bear for Bad Luck Banging or Loony Porn, about the moral, and not only, the trial of a teacher whose homemade sex tape is leaked on the Internet. As director Jude put it at the premiere’s press conference, Kontinental ’25 is also a dramatic comedy “about a moral crisis, and I usually hate that kind of film, but I hope this is interesting because it is out of place” and “there is a comic side to everything”. Director Jude goes on to argue that issues such as gentrification, inequality, racism and sexism should be approached “from the field of economics and history, … and not from metaphysics”, as Orsolya, the protagonist in this film, actually does. In her life, she is at a very simple and obvious material crossroads. Through her work, she takes from the poor to give to the rich, and she could just stop, but she doesn’t want to. She refuses to face up to her responsibilities. Instead, she seeks empathy and solace. This is most evident when, without thinking, she donates 500 euros to a charity that takes care of a Roma family, or when she shows her friend how strong her sense of civic responsibility is by donating 2 euros every month to all sorts of charities. In post-communist Romania, money seems to fix everything, at least for those who have it. And those who don’t? Well, too bad, that does not seem to be Orsolya’s problem, although she is a good citizen and, at least to some extent, a compassionate human being, after all, she tries to avoid evictions in winter.

Kontinental ‘25 was filmed in just ten days. The sequences are shot from a fixed camera position, without changes in angle or depth, by Marius Panduru cinematographer and long-time collaborator of Jude. Articulated dialogues are interrupted by sequential plans of the city, its nature and architecture. Soviet-style apartment blocks alternate with contemporary skyscrapers and Austro-Hungarian buildings. The colours are vivid but realistic, as are the characters, who are incredibly lively but also resemble ancient archetypes. The mother, like all mothers, is the only one who seems to dare to tell Orsolya what she doesn’t want to hear. The friend is Orsolya’s mirror, because they live in the same comfortable bubble, and she is also looking for redemption for her cruel deeds. The former law student is a lost soul. He is an incredibly well-drawn symbol of a generation that has been screwed by its parents but is trying to hold it together by embracing neoliberal New Age bullshit and mindful nonsense.  Yet he is also pragmatic enough to write his ethnicity on his delivery rucksack in order to be respected by aggressive drivers. The actions of every single character are very precise, there is nothing superfluous in Kontinental ‘25, not a word, not a shot, a bit like in early cinema. As Jude himself said, in this phase of his production, he is trying to go back to the Lumière, to the essential, “and it felt very liberating!”.

The Message, the latest feature from Venezuelan director Iván Fund, is a skillfully realized meditation on love, hope, and the unexpected families we build for ourselves. Taking a naturalistic approach to a tale that flirts with the supernatural, Fund gently draws the audience deep into a landscape that he is intimately familiar with. Shot entirely in his home province of Entre Ríos, this intimate road movie is reminiscent of many classic American travelogues (Paper Moon comes immediately to mind) even as it presents us with something wholly different and very much rooted in the Argentinian context.

Following the seemingly aimless journey of a young girl called Anika (Anika Bootz) and her mysterious guardians Myriam (Mara Bestelli) and Roger (Marcelo Subiotto), the film leaves much to the audience’s imagination. Anika, we are told, is a pet medium, born with the ability to channel the thoughts of animals. The trio makes a meager living roaming the countryside in their van, selling the girl’s services to anyone willing to fork over a few thousand pesos. Whether or not her abilities are meant to be genuine is left to us to decide, though Anika herself clearly believes in the authenticity of her gifts. Whether Myriam and Roger do is another matter entirely.

The sessions the group holds with the various pet owners they encounter are brilliantly realized, and the non-human casting in the film is truly out of this world. At the first house call we witness, for a sickly cat named Junior, Anika reveals that he has been spying on his mistress and eavesdropping on her alleged indiscretions. One of the greatest (and funniest) shots in the film

comes as the cantankerous Junior (a cat with star power to spare) subsequently spies on Roger and his owner from behind a kitchen counter.

The film is full of such clever tableaux, at times simply humorous, and at other shrewdly satirical, communicating incisive social commentary and speaking volumes about its characters and the world they inhabit, all without uttering a single word. Shooting in gentle tones of black and white, Fund and cinematographer Gustavo Schiaffino take impressive advantage of the tiny world contained within the group’s ramshackle van. Whether lingering on every perfectly chosen detail of its contents, or keeping the vista’s sprawling landscapes framed in its windows, they nestle us firmly in the world of this unusual little family unit.

The trio lives on the fringes, but not unhappily. They clearly share a great deal of affection for each other, and watch out for one another. Myriam and Roger, whatever their relationship to Anika may be, appear to be diligent guardians. We collect few clues as to how the group came together, but when we do, they tend to raise more questions than answers. I would happily watch an entire film just about Roger’s past as a traveling circus performer, but find myself most fascinated by Myriam, and just what her true connection to Anika really is.

We gain some clarity when the group arrives at a sprawling psychiatric facility to pay a visit to Anika’s mother, Eloísa (Bettania Cappato). At the gate, Myriam identifies herself as Eloísa’s mother, but refuses to see her, hiding in the van as Roger watches over the tender reunion. While it would certainly be plausible, Myriam’s habit of bending the truth makes it impossible for the audience to be certain of her real relationship to her young charge’s mother. Closer to the film’s conclusion, however, Anika has been wandering a field alone when she suddenly rushes back to tell Myriam what a (literal) birdie has just whispered in her ear. Eloísa loves her very much. Myriam seems moved, and her reaction, if somewhat perplexed, is a tender one. Roger looks to Anika with love and gratitude in his eyes.

As pleasant as it was to spend time in this meticulously constructed world, I kept waiting for some kind of conflict to arise. It never did. Despite the gorgeous photography, the engaging score, the faultless performances of its leads … I kept wishing for something more. Nevertheless, I look forward to what Fund comes up with next.

The Message premiered in competition at the 75^th Berlin International Film Festival.  

Sundance Prize Winner, Lemohang Jeremiah Mosese, pens a lengthy piece of personal poetry on a blank cinematic canvas, dreaming of his lost city, while his homeland struggles to recall the language of his dreams. In Ancestral Visions of The Future, he portrays a world beyond mere observation. He depicts the world of becoming. Since the very beginning, the expense of becoming blood appears in the different spots of the film, from meadows to the valley nestled into the water in the shape of a red fabric ribbon moving through the whole story, and we know that wound is going to hurt us, as he suffered from that hugely. His detailed poem resembles a requiem for death, as he wanders through the twilight of exile and belonging. He never serves a purpose on the silver screen but bewilderment in the frames of benevolent footages, symbols, and colours.

Ancestral Visions of The Future employs fragmentary storylines featuring a young boy, a market lady, and a puppeteer to examine the director’s childhood in the mountainous southern African nation of Lesotho and the exile that has characterised his adult life in Berlin. While the camera moves on the natural scenery, showing some ladies washing their clothes near the river, the narrator mourns with the first sentence of dislocating to a building confined to walls that never crumble. Since his mother is busy with her own achievements, the young boy stays with his grandmother. “We stayed behind with our grandmother: me, my brother, my uncle, and my cousins, seven souls bound together by blood and necessity,” the narrator said. He clarifies that their eviction from the only home he had ever known occurred when he was barely eight years old. But it was just the beginning of missing home.

Lemohang Mosese, Mosotho director and screenwriter, employs symbolic scenes to depict a young boy and an old man on land that requires planting and harvesting. Is it the stereotypical tale of father and son and the eternal earth of birth, death, and rebirth? The close-ups of youth and ageing portray the dual face of humans and the agony of farming via some slow filming techniques, like torturing in the moments to witness how hard our ancestors bear to pass on life to us—the generation of oblivion. The best description of the situation is what he reads: “We are no longer the earth dwellers; we are the material in the hand of a shaped world with cube building.”

From Berlin, all we see are a few marble statues and a brief glance at the European city that frames the depth of the narrator’s words: “In Berlin, a city sculpted from cold stone and steel, Baobab trees do not grow.” The philosophical reading of home is here in Europe, and the truth of origin is there beneath the land of ancestors.

Sobo, the martial artist, is one of the other important characters of the narrative. Dancing in a class while the sitting students are gazing at Sobo, we see a sentence written on the chalkboard: “God is good all the time.” For Sobo, the city is where people greet each other with subtle nods, not the buildings confining the unshaking walls. Here we see the huge flow of words coming through the scenes of streets, the puppet show, and the screaming mother in the market. Grasping them is like following a wild horse running in the meadow—never ever possible, so the best is to stand and see them as fast as time moves.

Lemohang Mosese, as he desperately strays from home and resides in a twilight between birth and death, explores the magic of forgetting and the path to remembering in cinema. Here, we deeply understand his personal philosophical poem on home, mother, father, and friend on the track of time on a land in which violence and warmth are living hand in hand, even after a father like Sobo sees the death of his sons or a mother in the market screams for her child. It seems the story of Lemohang Mosese’s ancestors and many others is the same narration of humans buried under the dust of time. But here we are, the grandchildren of necessity, to bring a new chapter of wisdom through the creation of cinema.

The home is gone, but Lemohang Mosese’s film  Ancestral Visions of The Future, coupled with masterful cinematography, leaves something unforgettable in our hearts—something we may remember in our dreams, even if we forget the language of the dream. Similar to the cinematic poet Andrei Tarkovsky, Lemohang Mosese delivers his poetry with a louder and more severe tone, as if each word pierces your heart without causing any bleeding.

Mosese is a co-founder of Mokoari Street Media, a production business and artists’ collective that created Ancestral Visions of The Future in collaboration with Paris-based Agat Films and in co-production with Germany’s Seera Films. Established in Lesotho in 2009, it exemplifies the camaraderie that Moses asserts is gaining traction among his generation of African filmmakers, which he characterised as “the greatest currency we possess.” Ancestral Visions of The Future premieres in the Berlinale Special strand on 20 February.

Burhan Qurbani, the German-Afghan filmmaker who captivated audiences with his remarkable film Berlin Alexanderplatz—featured in the main competition of the 70th Berlin International Film Festival—returns with his latest work, No Beast. So Fierce. Premiered in the Berlinale’s special section this year, this film crafts another mad, chaotic world. Though it doesn’t match the power of his previous work, it still showcases a filmmaker who resists conventional storytelling, striving instead to create a distinct cinematic universe unlike any other.

In No Beast So Fierce, Qurbani transposes Shakespeare’s Richard III into contemporary Berlin, once again portraying the sprawling metropolis as a key character in the film. The first act immerses us in this vast, intricate city, where Shakespeare’s tale of power and betrayal transforms into a brutal struggle between two immigrant families controlling Berlin’s underworld. From the opening moments to the very end, an intense, terrifying tension pervades, confronting the audience with an unrelenting atmosphere of violence and horror.

The film begins with bloodshed—murders within and between the rival families. Soon, we are drawn into the complex dynamics of two brothers and their sister, Rashida. In a strange scene, captured with a camera that weaves through the crowd, an even more ominous conflict emerges: Rashida’s ambition to seize power from her older brother. As the film unfolds, it becomes clear that the tensions within the family are even more savage than their feud with their rivals.

At this point, femininity merges with Rashida’s ruthless quest for power, gradually leading to an escalation of explicit violence, which dominates the second half of the film.

The gritty realism of the first half—set in the everyday locations—morphs into an entirely surreal narrative in the latter part. The story abandons the urban landscape for a grim, decayed tower, a setting that better reflects the dark, twisted nature of the characters. Rashida’s inner world progressively manifests outwardly, and the familiar cityscape gives way to the ruins of human morality. Here, characters will stop at nothing—even fratricide—to achieve their aims. And then, the horror intensifies further: infanticide. Rashida orders the murder of her brother’s children, a command so monstrous that even her most loyal handmaiden refuses to carry it out, choosing to abandon her instead. Yet, Rashida finds another way to achieve her goal. Initially, it seems the filmmaker will refrain from depicting the children’s murder, allowing it to be conveyed through a killer’s confession. But we soon realize that Qurbani does not shy away from the full horror—he returns to the scene, showing us the gruesome act in all its brutality (undoubtedly the most distressing moment of the film).

Qurbani has no reservations about displaying violence. In a film fundamentally about brutality, he deliberately forces the audience to confront the darkest aspects of his characters. Even Rashida’s romantic and sexual relationship with a woman from the rival family does nothing to soften the film’s tone; rather, it serves only to propel the story toward its inevitable, nightmarish conclusion. The filmmaker constructs a hellish world of womanhood where love, sex, and traditional femininity hold no meaning. In such a world—devoid of affection and tenderness—there is no escape from violence, humiliation, suffering, and, ultimately, death.

Once again, Qurbani makes extensive use of music, which dominates most scenes. Likewise, his signature camerawork is ever-present—dynamic and fluid—heightening the tension of each moment. The camera not only intensifies the scene’s energy but also draws closer to the characters, penetrating their turbulent inner worlds.

History, as common wisdom would have it, is written by the victors. Unsatisfied with the determinism of this adage, however, scholars and storytellers alike have increasingly sought to redress the biases and omissions of the colonial archival record through the creation of speculative histories and imaginative documentary work – a practice that cultural historian Saidiya Hartman has dubbed “critical fabulation.” The Memory of Butterflies (La Memoria de las Mariposas) serves as a powerful exemplar of the genre, with Peruvian director Tatiana Fuentes Sadowski (The Imprint) seamlessly melding archival footage with newly manipulated footage to create a dreamlike reconstruction of the essence of historical truth.

Sadowski’s inspiration for this piece was sparked when she happened upon a century old photograph of two Indigenous boys in London, transported far from their homes to illustrate the crimes of the infamous Casa Arana, the infamously brutal company at the centre of the rubber boom in the Amazonian Putumayo. Their names were Omarino and Anderomi, and their unknown fate would plague the filmmaker for years to come as she combed through archives across the globe searching for any clue as to what became of them.

Outlining the atrocities committed in the Putumayo by the Casa Arana, Sadowski lays out – in no uncertain terms – the nightmarish reality of the Peruvian rubber boom for the Indigenous population. Horrific in nature, the company’s crimes ranged from robbery and rape to torture, mutilation, and homicide. However, despite the existence of an official investigative record of their crimes, the only visual evidence of the company’s existence that remains is the propagandistic footage they themselves commissioned. As Sadowski puts it, “images of the unimaginable – those were never permitted to exist.” Taking on the task of dismantling the persistent power of the colonial images and archives created by the Casa Arana (and others) the filmmaker reappropriates and manipulates the company’s own propagandistic footage to great effect.

In her quest to ascertain the fates of the boys in the mysterious photograph, Sadowski (out of necessity) relies heavily on the letters and journals of Roger Casement, the British consul who came to the Putumayo to investigate the Casa Arana and took it upon himself to squire Omarino and Anderomi to London as living evidence of their crimes. Foregrounding the inherent bias of his singular point of view, she projects his words onto the screen in his own handwriting, describing them as offering an opaque doorway not only to what he decided to let us know, but also to what he decided to forget. Ironically, after they had served his purpose in London, Casement sends Omarino and Anderomi first to be “educated” in Ireland, and then returns them not to their home in the Putumayo, but to Iquitos, where they are to work as servants for a wealthy liberal family. As we learn from his correspondence, the boys yearn for their home, and eventually flee, presumably headed to the Putumayo.

With scant records to work with, Sadowski searches for the truth of Omarino and Anderomi’s experience in the subtext of peripheral histories, and in her attempt to ascertain their ultimate fate, connects with the communities they would have encountered on their final journey from Iquitos to the Putumayo. In truly collaborative fashion, she invites the members of these communities to create speculative fabulations based in their lived experience and knowledge of the land and its histories, reclaiming Omarino and Amerindo’s stories from the colonial annals of history in the process. Concluding in a peaceful and hopeful imagining of their successful return to their homeland, the film starts and ends with the unsullied sounds of the jungle.

It is telling that in the closing credits of the film, Sadowski names first the community members she worked with, before citing her official archival sources. In prioritizing their lived experience, she has meticulously and transparently built a counter archival work of tremendous power. By seeking to illuminate an alternative, speculative history informed by a multiplicity of perspectives, she crafts a commanding response to the legacy of colonialism in Peru, and confronts the fiction that documentary works are inherently objective.

The Memory of Butterflies premiered in the Forum programme of the 75^th Berlin International Film Festival.  

Change is a part of life and growing up happens. It happens even in the face of traditions and, at times, it can be very rapid. Writer and director Huo Meng’s Living the Land, which had its World Premiere at Berlinale, is a languid meditation set in 1991 in a small rural village in China as it and the people in it are changed by the socio-economic changes of the county at large. The film centers on Chuang (played by Wang Shang), a young boy who is living with relatives because the rest of his family went to the city to seek work.

Huo Meng’s film, despite being a scripted period piece, more often than not feels like he is just capturing moments of real people’s life as they navigate these changes. The way the characters, or the camera, move through the scenes, allows conversations to ebb and flow with natural rhythms and feel captured rather than staged, and speaks to the naturalism of the film. It’s also why the treatment of the Chuang’s cousin, who is not neurotypical and is constantly getting beaten by his parents and abused by other kids, becomes more and more uncomfortable to watch as the film progresses.

The film begins with preparations for attending a funeral. The actual funeral procession is met with lots of little firecrackers. Later in the film, there is a wedding, and once again, there are firecrackers, creating a symmetry linking weddings to funerals. The audience is aware that the bride does not want to get married, so while it is not an actual funeral, it is in the sense that she is being forced into something she does not wish.

The film lays out a series of events and lets you make your own conclusions, it neither advocates for nor against tradition. Huo Meng paints both in a negative light, as the aforementioned traditional wedding is not a happy occurrence and later the bride wishes she could get a divorce but is discouraged by her family, however, later there is a scene where they are making modern explosions (like the firecrackers) to reach oil in the town, resulting in a tragedy for the family. There is also a sequence where all the women are required to get checked for their childbearing capabilities, and bring their family planning material – as this was related to what people now commonly refer to as the “one-child policy.” The character shown is made to feel uncomfortable and sad, and the character shown to be very negatively affected by the whole experience. And yet, the film’s final moments have the family embracing and enjoying getting a tractor with the promise that it will ease their work in the future.

The film is slow, it doesn’t rush the story or its characters, its plot is more about the progression of the seasons and how they change the land and the people (the family) working it, and in this there are many rich moments captured. Even though at one point Chuang refers to their village as poor and them as the poorest people in their poor village, there are many beautiful shots of the land. However, it is the low shots from Chuang’s POV and those from his dreams that stood out and made me take notice while I was viewing the film.

Living the Land had its World Premiere at the 75th annual Berlin International Film Festival in the Main Competition.

The Portuguese director, Paula Tomás Marques, delves into the themes of time and space in her film as she unveils the tumultuous tale of a gender-nonconforming individual persecuted by the Inquisition. Through the character of João Liberada, whose existence is a labyrinth of struggles involving gender identity, love, and societal violence, Marques presents a narrative that resonates with contemporary echoes, bridging the gap between past and present. Described by Marques as a means of “writing history through cinema,” “Two Times João Liberada” serves as a poignant homage to the plight of marginalised individuals throughout history, shedding light on the enduring struggles faced by the LGBTQ+ community.

“Two Times João Liberada” delves into the life of João, a talented actress hailing from the streets of Lisbon who finds herself cast in the lead role of a biopic centred around Liberada, a historically significant figure known for defying conventional gender norms and subsequently facing persecution at the hands of the unforgiving Portuguese Inquisition during the 18th century. June João, with her deep acting, invites us to witness the enduring nature of humanity’s quest for acceptance and understanding.

Across four mesmerising chapters, Paula Tomás Marques unravels the cinematic tapestry of the film’s opening sequence, “Where Did You Come From?” Here, we witness João’s emergence from the depths of the woods, encountering curious villagers as she quenches her thirst with milk and recounts her harrowing tale of persecution during the Inquisition. The audience is seamlessly transported from the annals of history to the actor’s contemporary existence in a bustling city haunted by the spectral presence of Liberada, a spectral companion who extends her ethereal hand to lead João into the realm of dreams.

Among a swirling collage of documents and sketches, the narrative reveals the scandalous testimonies of neighbours and villagers regarding Liberada’s alleged liaison with shoemaker Franco. As the enigmatic figure grapples with questions of self-identity and societal perceptions, the director deftly employs cinematic nuances to evoke a palpable sense of the past brushing against the canvas of João’s subconscious. Within a compact runtime of an hour and ten minutes, a rich track of themes emerges, exploring the perennial concept of gender discord and the labyrinthine journey of self-discovery.

Under Edward Berger’s expert guidance in “Conclave,” the complex topic of transgender representation approaches the Vatican, a stronghold where traditionalists fervently uphold long-standing beliefs. Against this backdrop, a profound dialogue unfolds between João and two kindred sisters of the ecclesiastical flock, united in their shared voyage of self-discovery. As the trio embraces, a poignant tableau reminiscent of the divine Trinity emerges, inviting contemplation of higher truths. Can this cinematic opus wield its narrative alchemy to sway the mighty religious establishment towards an embrace of diversity and inclusivity, or is this mere wishful thinking in a realm resistant to change? Amidst the shadows of uncertainty and the suffocating cloak of anonymity, is there a whisper of liberation to be found—a pathway illuminated by the flickering flames of self-realisation and acceptance?

The film may intend to focus on violence and pain, but the subtle conflict between João and Franco in the heart of the woods draws our attention to something beyond—somewhere in the history of human creation and love and whether in the shape of sexual dedication or guilt. When the director succumbs to a mysterious paralysis, leaving the project in disarray, João finds herself adrift in a sea of chaos, grappling with unanswerable riddles that transcend the film’s uncertain future. In this whirlwind of uncertainty, João wrestles not only with the enigmatic narrative of Liberada but also with the profound ties binding her to the spirit of the enigmatic figure, unravelling a web of mysteries that defy easy explanation.

The film, as the director says, aims to grasp the complexity of representing bodies that never had agency throughout history. Marginalised people are only registered in history when they cross paths with power, as in the case of João Liberada, who crossed paths with the Inquisition. The film explores the representation of queer people in the film industry and the dynamics of production in the performing arts and cinema, particularly in the Portuguese socio-cultural context. “Two Times João Liberada” is based on the personal experiences of the director and main actor, as well as the team’s reflection on their work as crew members. “Two Times João Liberada” screens in the 2025 Berlinale Perspectives Program and will shed new light on the challenges queer people faced throughout history.

Richard Linklater returns to the Berlinale with Blue Moon, a film that marks another deep dive into the complex interiority of artists. Eleven years after winning the Silver Bear for Boyhood, Linklater delivers a wistful, chamber-like character study set on the opening night of Oklahoma! in 1943. But instead of celebrating Richard Rodgers and Oscar Hammerstein’s groundbreaking musical, the film focuses on Lorenz Hart, Rodgers’ former creative partner, played with remarkable fragility by Ethan Hawke.

The film’s narrative unfolds primarily in a bar at Sardi’s, where Rodgers (Andrew Scott) basks in the adulation of the Broadway crowd while Hart, dealing with alcoholism and insecurities, hovers on the periphery. The film also explores Hart’s troubled personal life with subtlety. Hart lived with his widowed mother, Frieda, and struggled with alcoholism, often disappearing for weeks on drinking binges. His erratic behavior created tension between him and Rodgers, ultimately leading to Rodgers’ decision to collaborate with Oscar Hammerstein II in 1942. Hart’s deep sadness and depression are palpable throughout the film, and his discreet homosexuality, though not explicitly addressed, is subtly woven into the narrative, adding layers to his complex character.

The film explores most of Hart’s troubled personal life, but these aspects are embedded beautifully in the script in very subtle ways. Through Hawke’s performance, we understand Hart’s deep longing for connection, yet his inability to sustain close relationships. His self-destructive tendencies manifest in his drinking, which isolates him from those who care about him. The film shows moments of Hart’s outward confidence masking inner vulnerability—whether in his witty, self-deprecating remarks or in his desperate attempts to regain Rodgers’ attention. His admiration for beauty, both in art and in people, is a key part of his character, but it is often tinged with sadness, as he recognizes the fleeting nature of what he cherishes most. In one scene, he wistfully watches Qualley’s character, captivated by her presence yet acutely aware of his own loneliness. In another, he delivers an impassioned critique of the commercial direction of Broadway, revealing his frustration with a world that no longer seems to have a place for him.

One of the most striking elements of Blue Moon is its intertextual dialogue with Casablanca. The film’s setting in a bar immediately evokes Rick’s Café Américain, and a pianist in the background playing melancholic tunes further cements this connection. Throughout the film, several references to Casablanca appear, including variations of its famous quotes that subtly comment on Hart’s own sense of loss and displacement. The film even begins with a quote from Casablancaand nearly concludes with an ending reminiscent of the iconic farewell scene. This interweaving of references adds a nostalgic, cinematic layer to Hart’s existential musings, reinforcing the film’s meditation on beauty, time, and longing.

This is a film that does not shy away from being controversial. Talking about human desire has become somewhat taboo in our time. Many male filmmakers show reservations about exploring male desire for a woman, but this is not the case here. There is a clear appreciation of physical beauty. The film’s exploration of beauty as something appreciated for its own sake, rather than for personal gratification, resonates deeply with the themes of Thomas Mann’s Death in Venice.

Like Gustav von Aschenbach, Hart is captivated by the pure essence of beauty, embodied in this case by Margaret Qualley’s character. Her performance adds another layer to the film, playing a bright-spirited yet melancholic muse reminiscent of a Jazz Age starlet. Just as Aschenbach is drawn to Tadzio in an almost reverential, aesthetic obsession, Hart’s admiration for Qualley’s character blends adoration with an aching sense of longing. It is beauty as a transcendent, unattainable ideal—something to be worshipped rather than possessed.

What makes Blue Moon exceptional is how seamlessly Linklater integrates character development with the film’s musical and narrative structure. Hawke’s performance is a masterclass in portraying internalized turmoil, with his Lorenz Hart exuding a combination of brilliance and self-destructive tendencies. His transformation into the five-foot-tall, sexually ambiguous, and emotionally volatile lyricist is both theatrical and deeply human. The echoes of Mickey Rooney’s exaggerated portrayal of Hart in Words and Music are replaced here with a much more nuanced and introspective performance. Scott, as Rodgers, plays the perfect foil—grounded and composed, yet subtly haunted by his former collaborator’s downfall. Meanwhile, Qualley delivers a standout monologue about an unrequited romantic encounter, a scene that encapsulates the film’s themes of yearning and missed connections.

At its core, Blue Moon is also a film about the collision of art and commerce. As Hart rails against the mainstream appeal of Oklahoma!, arguing that art should provoke rather than placate, the film draws a direct parallel to contemporary Hollywood’s struggle between artistic integrity and market demands. Ethan Hawke, in a Berlinale press conference, emphasized that truly “offensive” or challenging art requires an audience that values and demands it.

Linklater, whose own career has largely sidestepped Hollywood’s commercial pressures, reinforces this perspective, acknowledging that filmmaking remains a balancing act between artistic vision and financial viability.

Ultimately, Blue Moon is an exquisitely crafted meditation on artistic struggle, the pursuit of beauty, and the inevitable passage of time. The film, like a Rodgers and Hart song, is beautiful, melancholic, and bittersweet. With an awards campaign likely in the works, Blue Moon may well secure recognition not just for Hawke’s mesmerizing performance but also for Linklater’s ability to capture the fragile brilliance of a creative soul at odds with the world around him.

The world is huge with nearly 250 countries, states with full or partial UN recognition, and territories all combined. As a result, people often are woefully uninformed about countries outside of their own. In Canada, we joke about how little most Americans know about even the basics of our geography. But, while Canada itself is vast, our population is only about equal to their most populous state (California). Unless their field/interest is global politics or something similar, most people are not paying attention to what’s happening worldwide. Most people are only aware of the loud global politics, the stories that are getting enough coverage to be mainstream. It’s why, regardless of location, many have a decent grasp on US politics, are aware of Brexit, understand the term, and now if you combine something else with ‘exit,’ they get the reference. There’s a good chance audiences watching Juanjo Pereira’s “Under the Flags, the Sun,” may be unfamiliar with the events the archival footage documentary uses, which is supported by the opening reels that speak of Paraguay as a mysterious place. Especially as the film is created using archival footage and documents that had formally been classified surrounding the years of the country during the longest dictatorship in South America. And further with the mystery quality, much of the films from this period have not been preserved, leading Pereira to utilize not only footage from Paraguay itself, but its dictator, President Alfredo Stroessner, global trips abroad, which further help illustrate the isolationist image and contrast between perception and reality.

The film leans into the grain and distortion of some of the clips, further distorting them at the ends, which helps emphasize what you’ve already seen and the idea that the film is a look into the country we were not supposed to see. The use of juxtaposition is strong, especially the sequence after it did a big set up about how they were building a dam between Paraguay and Brazil, with limited effects on the environment. It then follows that up saying how people were flooded and animals were displaced. But then as a very propaganda-y song praising Alfredo Stroessner plays, it shows the grimy reality of the dam build.

As previously mentioned, despite a later reveal in the documentary that Stroessner rarely left the country, the film gets a lot from this footage, particularly you get a lot in contrast from how we see him received in the film in the reel on his U.S. trip vs when he arrives in Europe many years later. The U.S. trip happened in the late 60s, at this point one should have reasonably presumed he was likely a dictator as there had not been a free election since he took the presidency, but the reel plays as propaganda for Stroessner and his party. However, during the later European trip, you see protesters waiting outside.

The film makes you want to look into the details of things it brings up, it does not provide all the answers, but rather a starting point. It asks you to dive in and do more to become engaged. Particularly, the ending. While Alfredo Stroessner is deposed, his legacy lives on in the people disappeared and the lack of answers they still have. The film’s ending asks you to stay engaged, because while the country is longer a dictatorship, Paraguay has still been governed almost continuously by the same party as Stroessner to this day (and only a few years back they tried to remove the safeguards put in place after Stroessner keeping Presidents to one term).

Cinaphil acquired the worldwide sales rights to “Under the Flags, the Sun,” ahead of its World Premiere at the 75th annual Berlin International Film Festival.