'Dirty God' lays its cards on the table from the start. Director Sacha Polak treats us to an uncomfortable yet strangely sumptuous montage of her star’s facial burns, scored by a sanguinely poppy soundtrack. This is a film which places its focus squarely on the survivor of an horrific acid attack, never dignifying the assault itself or the perpetrator with undue screen time. It also pulls no punches in showing us the harsh realities of a young working-class woman living with trauma, whilst also allowing its lead to be a fully fleshed out, sensuous human being.

Newcomer Vicky Knight is resoundingly impressive as the steely yet fragile Jade, flung into an unfamiliar world where her one currency – conforming to classical beauty standards – is no longer available to her. Knight’s scars are her own, and she brings a wealth of lived experience to bear in this role, her quiet dignity and simmering anger infusing her audience to blood-boiling effect, and enabling her character to do some reckless, stupid and indeed utterly reprehensible things without ever losing our sympathy. By any standards it’s an impressive debut (for Polak too, her third feature but first in the English language), and Knight’s assured performance makes for an engrossing and affecting 100 minutes. She fares less well with her (admittedly very infrequent) soliloquies, occasionally struggling to make the words sound fully owned, but when bouncing off others she absolutely soars, and her physicality and world-weary expressiveness are mesmeric.

Similarly Polak’s use of dreamlike expressionistic sequences to pepper and break up her unflinching kitchen sink drama is deft and hypnotic, giving us a window into the hallucinatory realm of Jade’s mind post-trauma. In another director’s hands these might come across as incongruous, but here Polak’s keen eye and canny restraint ensures we are almost unaware of the tonal and stylistic shifts, suddenly finding ourselves immersed in a fantastical world removed from the grim reality of a few moments before, yet also inextricably linked to it.

Ultimately 'Dirty God' serves to remind us just how cruel the world can be to one to has already suffered unimaginable cruelty. Even those who are supposedly in Jade’s corner are constantly re-emphasising that her life is now effectively over because she’s lost her looks, and it could be said that the real villain of the piece is not her assailant but oppressive and ever-prevalent ideas of feminine beauty. Jade is presented as a fiercely sexual being, but any time she takes control of her own image, her destiny or her sexuality, she is roundly taken advantage of and punished for it. The real eye-opener is that the unthinking cruelty that is visited upon her again and again throughout the film could easily befall any female-presenting person who doesn’t conform to societal expectation, but her sudden newfound disfigurement allows her and us to examine this in sharp relief. Just when she’s most in need of love and validation, she has it cruelly snatched away by a society that is stupid and broken, far more than she is. “He destroyed you” her mother tells her ruefully. “No,” she responds defiantly, “He didn’t”.

Jade’s skin is innocent in all of this. We’re trained by our culture to see features such as hers as the problem, a taboo to be hidden or pitied. In fact the issue is within and without, her flesh merely a wall between two toxic wells of prejudice, one external, the other tragically internalised. Throughout the film she must find workarounds to enable her to partake in the things she enjoyed before her assault, even things as innocuous as walking down the street without being harassed. Then one remembers that as a teenage girl in South London she probably couldn’t do that anyway, and we are reminded that her facial scars really aren’t the problem here, and that the people who commit these crimes are only afforded their power to create long-lasting harm by a complicit populace who place a corrosive ideal of beauty over all else, including basic human compassion.

Review by Jenet Le Lacheur.

Ron’s upset that his mum, Olga, has nicked his cheese. Irate, he bundles her into his car in her pyjamas with the intention of making her buy more, but crashes into an open shipping container bound for Morocco, and when the pair awake they find themselves miles from home with no apparent means of returning.

​Writer-director Alberto Sciamma attacks his piece with energetic abandon, ensuring that this high concept comedy whips past at a sprightly pace, never allowing us to get bored. The cinematography by Fabio Paolucci is also sterling and endlessly inventive, which again valiantly manages to maintain our interest despite the film’s not inconsiderable flaws.

Tommy French embraces his role of the put-upon Ron with gusto and impressive naturalism. Unfortunately the humour is too broad to put his performance to good use, and while technically impressive, he’s lumbered with a character so spectacularly unlikable that it is impossible, even in moments of pathos and vulnerability (of which, thanks to Sciamma’s swift plotting, there are frustratingly few) to invest one iota in his plight. The same goes double for his mother, realised with repellent relish by Kierston Wareing.

To say this undoes the film would be an understatement. Ron and Olga embody the very worst aspects of humanity; boorish, obnoxious, abrasive, arrogant, and impressively loud. Why we would want to spend ninety minutes in their company is a mystery which is not illuminated as the film progresses. There is no redemption, only one-note animosity. In the hands of a different writer or pair of actors there might be a nihilistic comic delight in these twin grotesques, but here they are merely exhausting. When the sometimes deafening score overwhelms their incessant arguing it is, frankly, a welcome respite.

If you can get past this and engage meaningfully with the central couple and the admittedly inventive plot, it might be possible to appreciate this film as an undemanding bit of quasi-comic diversion. But even here there are roadblocks, as inconsistencies in the dialogue loom large, and it slowly becomes horribly clear that pretty much every supporting character in this film is more interesting than the leads, and belongs to a more interesting film. Nowhere is this more apparent than in the cases of Aida Folch’s feline karaoke queen Paloma – her effortless screen presence and unforced honesty elevating every scene she’s in – and the French cast, who probably come off best out of everyone, an eight-year-old child and an elderly restaurant manager landing the film’s two laughs. There is also a particularly grating sequence featuring laudable work from Gabriel Andreu as a Spanish doctor. If I see a more justifiable violation of the Hippocratic Oath in a film this year, I shall be very surprised.

'I Love My Mum' is perhaps best enjoyed (like so much other material in this area, with a truly perverse pleasure) as an allegory for Britain’s current relationship with the EU. The Brits here are adrift and scared, frequently confrontational, aggressive or just plain impatient with the Europeans (who are for the most part entirely reasonable and genuinely trying to help them), and constantly scuppering themselves with their own blinkered infighting. With this reading, the film ascends to a bitingly perceptive satire, and the very last beat is absolutely perfect on about three distinct levels. I supremely hope this is what Sciamma had in mind, otherwise the journey on which he has taken us, like that of his lead characters, seems distressingly pointless.

Martin Richard’s science fiction effort 'The Bomb' imagines a violent post-Brexit where a leather clad maverick bomb disposal expert takes freelance diffusing gigs until he comes up against new challenge. The film’s main concept is an AI bomb defence system that preys on your emotional weakness by taking the form of someone you’ve lost. It’s an interesting thought experiment, although the script relies on the viewer to do too much of the work filling blanks. The final effect is a little flat and lacks narrative clarity, but the idea has merit and the effects are nicely done for an indie film.

The standout offering of the block is 'The Critic', written, directed by and starring Stella Velon. It delves into the psyche of an actor and questions the role of critics; their value and the casual cruelty of those paid to judge, rather than do. Velon’s actress faces down a shadowy interviewer who belittles her and tries to trap her in cunningly worded questions until you’re willing her to cut him down to size. Although the mechanism of the narrative isn’t novel, it is immaculately executed and as the only visible face on screen Velon ably carries the film. Her wealth of expressions do far more work than any dialogue could, admirable for anyone directing themselves. Understanding the form and purpose of a short story is just as important as screencraft and 'The Critic' succeeds on all fronts.

'Ghost Dance' by Emilia Izquierdo may have gone over my head. On the surface it is a bewildering animation which felt wildly out of place in the programme and offered little more than diverting shapes. Several minutes of wiggling colours and swirling figures may well have been a triumph of animated technique but within the context of a series of clear narratives, and especially following such a strong contender, there is little to remark on.

Saam Farahmand’s 'A Portrait of the Artist Angus Fairhurst', an homage to the least-known of the Young British Artists of the late 80s, is a little worthy, an art student kind of film in every sense. That said, the cast do well with the convincing dialogue, and the intercut snippets of Fairhurst’s underrated work is well-managed and thoroughly entertaining. Likewise, the shaggy dog story that the eponymous artist tells to his enfant terrible contemporaries works as a neat metaphor for the whole era of thoroughly commercial art. The sumptuous black and white film cements the effect, and the affect.
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Luke Bradford’s 'Risk' shows its cards early and what we expect to be the big twist is signposted a mile off, making the wait for the reveal a little tiresome. The true twist however comes in the closing credits when a few words reframe everything that has just passed. More of a PSA than an entertainment film it is nonetheless fully effective in its mission to shock and challenge. Confident direction shines through and the film easily stands up to much higher budget rivals. Perhaps a less obvious (and more contentious) consequence of the film’s proselytising is how it raises the question of how much right, and how much responsibility, others bear when a woman’s choices for her own body are potentially causing untold harm to another.

The titular pun aptly sums up the diverting subject matter of this affectionate documentary. Filmmaker Lloyd Ross takes a look at the sociopolitical landscape of post-apartheid South Africa framed in the unconventional (and uniquely South African) context of contemporary Nando’s advertising. Known for their daring and singular voice, they became one of the country’s best-loved and most archetypal brands. Made with the co-operation of the restaurant chain and talking heads from representatives of the marketing companies they worked with over the years, Ross’s film celebrates the moral stance and distinctive character of the little chicken shop that could.

The film’s narrative hangs on the television advertising campaigns for the company in the 1980s and 90s; Virtually unknown outside of South Africa, and entirely emblematic of the era, they were risky, of the moment and always a talking point. It is a fascinating insight into a company that has largely played it safe elsewhere in the world. Although Nando’s has a reputation for being “cheeky”; only in South Africa is it seen as defiant, a voice for the people, a chain with a strong social conscience. The film effectively illustrates the significance of the Nando’s rise to popularity and captures a lot of the spirit and energy now fondly remembered by South Africans who came of age in the era.

Ross’s film is a loving and informative slice of life inside the early years of the New South Africa and paints a rosy picture of a company that didn’t always get it right but had heart and was willing to make a stand. Perhaps too easily uncritical of the choices made by the commercial arm of the chain, it is nonetheless a charming and edifying watch that gives voice to the ordinary people and striving business owners of a country beset by assumptions and stereotypes from Britain, especially.

Guaranteed to raise a smile, and a few eyebrows, though it could have stood to dig a little deeper and present more substance alongside the confection. 'Pluck' is a pleasing watch and a worthwhile potted history of a distinct time and place.

'Woman at War' is a beautifully filmed drama with a timely theme of eco-activism, laced with love, family and humanity. Halla, played sensitively and sympathetically by Halldóra Geirharðsdóttir, is the 40-something fearless eco-warrior, hacking down pylons and sabotaging electrical power in the plight to save her Icelandic landscapes from hated corporate energy companies.

The opening scene sets the tone for her secret eco-activism: both fraught with danger of electrocution - even death, and the potential for discovery by the authorities who will most certainly prosecute and imprison this ‘terrorist’. But quiet choir master Halla is not an obvious suspect, and suspicion is diverted by a random and odd tourist, who manages to be in the wrong place at the wrong time… phew. It’s often a close shave as she races across difficult terrain and hides under mossy banks to avoid helicopters. At these points it’s a thriller, and you are willing her to remain undiscovered. With the help of a local farmer friend Sveinbjörn (warmly and gruffly played by Jóhann Sigurðarson), she repeatedly escapes detection and capture, mostly by a hair’s breadth!

However, the incongruous and comic presence of a trio of musicians, that appear in situ in the landscape, provide an odd light relief, as well as some appealing Icelandic folk music. There they are, playing the score to the action, and are joined later by a trio of traditionally dressed beautiful Ukranian singers. Occasionally one or more of the tuba, trumpet, accordion, piano and/or drums also appear inside, sympathetically accompanying her thoughtful daily activities. It’s an odd, but likeable, distraction and gives the film an eccentric additional comment to make you smile, as well as some rather haunting music.

But I digress. Halla is herself distracted by a letter that is to change her life in a very different direction. Her long forgotten application to adopt a child has finally come to fruition, and a little girl is waiting in Ukraine. How does this sit with her guerrilla eco-activism? Will she reduce her campaign now she is to be a responsible and loving mother? Halla thinks of a solution to cease action, but maintain her presence. Not all goes to plan. Enter her identical twin Asa, a hippy yoga teacher (also played by Geirharðsdóttir). If ever there was a need for an identical twin, this is it. And as identical twin movies go, this is one of the best, by far. Geirharðsdóttir’s performances in both roles are beautifully drawn, but particularly as the compelling Halla, as she grabbles with her dream of motherhood and her fierce love of her planet.
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Not to plot spoil, but the last scene shows Halla dealing with life’s extremes and adversities in the pursuit of what you love and believe in. Do see this movie, it is a rewarding experience, both cinematically and emotionally, and it will quietly stay with you.
Icelandic with English subtitles, directed by Icelandic actor-turned-director Benedikt Erlingsson.

'Madeline’s Madeline' is a deep dive into the mind of, yes you guessed it, Madeline (played with raw frenzy by Helena Howard). She is a biracial 16 year old struggling with an unnamed mental illness who derives solace from her experimental theatre troupe as she waits to hear if she has been accepted into Juilliard. Railing against her soft-spoken but overprotective mother (Molly Parker) and finding creative encouragement in acting teacher Regina (Miranda July), she is both unpredictable in her sudden bouts of suggested violence and endearing in her intense imaginings. One sequence sees her pretend to be a sea turtle in a class exercise, and suddenly the camera cuts to place us on the back of a real sea turtle shuffling along a beach to the ocean. Moments like these are surprising and highly immersive, elevating the film beyond what could have otherwise been a standard teen coming-of-age tale of first kisses and creative discovery.

Instead, the film goes on to explore the blurry lines between authorship and exploitation in art. As the theatre troupe prepare their show, Regina shifts the subject matter from a story about prisoners to a devised piece that draws from and reenacts Madeline’s own struggles and relationships. What at first feels like a potentially therapeutic catharsis for the teen quickly descends into queasy appropriation. The title frames Madeline as a sort of Russian doll, full of inner twists and turns that she can’t quite reckon with. As an audience, we’re constantly uncomfortably close to her due to the sounds of breathing and body gurgles, and the way camera veers off to focus on banal details in the same way that eyes do. Sounds of other events or oncoming scenes bleed into the present like memories, as though we’re experiencing the narrative from Madeline’s perspective looking back.

It’s a bold and uncomfortable look at a character and director Josephine Decker’s own creative process, which often hinges on improvisation and real-life details from her collaborators as the basis for her scripts. 'Madeline’s Madeline' may raise more questions than it definitively answers, but it remains an entertaining and experimental piece with strong performances and a wonderfully strange dance sequence as its triumphant climax.

'Gender', directed by Aleksandra Czenczek and written by Gisele Mauvecin, depicts project manager Emma’s (Gisele Mauvecin), struggle to be seen as an equal and as viable candidate for a senior position in her company. We see Emma working all hours of the day to the detriment of other areas of her life, however despite all of this, her efforts are thwarted by an unfairly rigged system denying her due to prejudices based on her gender. The cinematography overall is very well executed and the film has the feel approaching that of a much bigger budget feature length film. The shots are clean and fluid and it is well woven together visually. The soundtrack is brilliantly composed and it is partially what sells the high end nature of the film. It is not over done and it is great at underpinning the action as it unfolds in a non intrusive sense, that layers it up and makes it fuller.

Performance wise, it is very naturalistic overall and there were only a few moments with the big boss (Jamie Lee-Hill) who verged on being a somewhat pantomimic caricature of a big bad sexist. However, there are some elements that feel as if they are missing. For one, their office is a very white environment. However, both our main character and her boss Anna (Yulia Romanova) have migrated from other parts of the world to work in this London branch, yet only their gender is mentioned as being a barrier to progression. However, as we are all coming to learn, the world is intersectional. So not only will they have to face gender bias, but also the potential biases that come from being a migrant. Both actors read relatively well and it is very refreshing to see two actors, who’s first language isn’t English, without having them be the “Other”, it’s just that within a film that seeks to address prejudice, it is short sighted to ignore the interweaving of these things.

It was a great twist, to have her boss who is a woman, be in some way complicit with the decision to promote her less accomplished male colleague (David Wayman) ahead of her. A great reminder that even if we come from an oppressed group, we can still be puppets of the system enacting those injustices out upon those who face the same hardships as us. However, it is very based in a narrative that there is one metric of success, and that we must all adhere to it, even though it was created and is upheld by those who would keep us out. So rather than redefine what success looks like, we mutilate ourselves in order to emulate and to get a approval from those above who will only allow individuals not in the “club”, just far enough to appease and cajole.

It was well executed and well performed, it just seemed as if it wasn’t saying anything wildly new or in a fresh way. We need more films to get people to think and to address their behaviours for sure and this will certainly act as a reminder, it just could have reached a little further in a more nuanced way for a 2019 audience.

We open with a voiceover from newlywed Elizabeth (Abbey Lee) describing her dream of meeting a brilliant man to take her away from the ugliness of the world. The man of her dreams is husband Henry (Ciarán Hinds), a scientist who brings Elizabeth to live in his sheltered mansion and encourages her to enjoy everything the estate has to offer - so long as she never enters one particular room. So far, so fairytale. Of course, after exploring her new home, increasingly shadowed by house staff Claire (Carla Gugino) and the blind Oliver (Matthew Beard), she does enter the forbidden room. What she encounters brings into question her identity, Henry’s motivations and the nature of the house.

Unfortunately, what follows is a mystery as clunky and obvious as the title itself. Part of the problem is the confused pacing brought on by multiple flashbacks and dream sequences that interrupt the flow of the plot. It also doesn’t help that these scenes are saturated by block colours which jar with the otherwise coldly lit present-day scenes. These strange bouts of high stylisation, along with Abbey Lee’s affected performance, result in an inconsistent genre piece whose central mystery is too predictable to stay engaging. While the rest of the cast try gamely to work with the stained dialogue they are given - at one point Oliver says, “You were the prettiest, strangest creature I ever saw,” to which Elizabeth replies: “How would you know…if you’re blind?” - their efforts can’t quite maintain the tension needed to keep us invested. The conclusion, aided by a lengthy period of reading a diary laden with explanations, has all the subtlety of shotgun fired by a blind man (something that actually happens halfway through).

'Elizabeth Harvest' has a lot of good intentions, but any statement it is trying to make gets lost in an uneven visual style and limp plot. It seems aspire to be a 'Gone Girl' for the #MeToo era; a subverted fairytale about a young and beautiful woman reasserting her power over an older wealthy man. While this could've been a timely thriller about gender dynamics, it is instead a muddled mystery that’s too stylised for its own good.

Family, truth, inevitability, time, loyalty. These are the precious strands of saffron running through this film which make it absolutely compelling.

'Everybody Knows' is a thriller, but not in a conventional sense. It's not about a heightened sense of fear, but an immersion in the realism of family and village life. So identifiable and human, that when disaster strikes for main character Laura (Penelope Cruz), it keeps you on the edge of your seat with compassion. Laura is on a trip back home to Spain from Argentina with her children, for a family wedding. Her 16 year-old daughter is played by Carla Campra, whose performance stands out, then lingers for being as riveting as it is natural.

Like the walls of the sun-bleached brick houses of the Spanish village where the story is set, this is a film built from many parts. It’s a puzzle film, a mystery to be solved by the viewer. It’s immersive, I could taste the dust in the wind and mouthfuls of the meals that Penelope Cruz’s character could hardly eat. I didn't want it to end. The chemistry between real-life couple Penélope Cruz and Javier Bardem (Paco) sizzles out from the screen and seems inevitable, befitting the script and sumptuous to watch.

Some of the early dialogue, action and cinematic choices early on in the film may feel a little heavy-handed in terms of plot direction to begin with. It could even feel as though the writer director, Asghar Farhadi, is underestimating his audience. But in a more subtle way, this is the genius of the film. This creates the sense of inevitability, that drives the film forward, told to the audience first with the with the clockwork mechanism of the village clock in the opening credit sequence. Family life, and love can seem inevitable. And with this Asghar Farhadi asks, is love inevitable? And it’s a fascinating question to ask. As such the symmetry of this film is perfect. Intellectually it's like a chewing gum that doesn't run out of flavour.

'Everybody Knows' doesn’t have the subtlety of Asghar Farhadi’s other films, like 'A Separation', for instance. This is a more glamorous and melodramatic beast. But even with a large serving of Hollywood glamour, it’s still peppered with the realism of messy interiors and tired decor, which makes the imperfect lives of the characters seem even more real.

'Blood Runs Down' delivers memorable miasmic aestheticism within its Louisiana setting and monochrome design. Candlelight spills from every surface and Jesse Ray Guillory’s production design guiles us into a tapered tapestry of white linens and gentle luminescence. While a southern storm rages outside, psychological possessions are padded with whispers and piano chords inside, creating a delightful undercurrent of distress. The atmosphere is brilliantly set thanks to Sultana Isham’s soundtrack and Zac Manuel’s cinematography but sadly Zandashé Brown’s screenplay falters in its progression of a compelling storyline.
The image of a small girl in a white dress wielding a baseball bat is a wonderful reclamation of girlhood as something other than delicate candlelit delights and the overall attempt at addressing intergenerational trauma and the long lasting effects of loss is a poignant one but the film fails to arrest its audience with anything other than scintillating visuals. 'Goodnight', directed by Diane Michelle, features an exploration of psychosexual nightmares and gender in the family unit. Its jump scares and picture perfect family place it firmly in the realm of Hollywood horror, yet the disturbing direction the piece takes in exploiting childhood fears and twisting them into a thing with carnivorous connotations shows there’s more to 'Goodnight' than meets the eye.y

'Luna's Revenge' is a tense story of heartbreak and discovery. Luna’s family are murdered in cold blood during their holiday in the mountains and the killers will stop at nothing the take her out too. As she runs for her life Luna uncovers the truth about her family and her father’s secret life as a Russian spy, but instead of leaving the country and heading for safety she decides that she wants revenge instead.

Lisa Vicari is fantastic as Luna and draws you in with her performance as you go on her journey of grief and fear with her. The film is tense and while it doesn’t do anything greatly surprising with the story, what it does do it does effectively and with great cinematic style. Based on a true story it is a brilliant portrayal of the subtleties of real life espionage.

While there are action scenes, this is not you typical action packed spy movie. It is much more personal than that and is very much about Luna and how the events change her, and also how they don't. As she discovers that her whole life has been a lie we see the childlike innocence stripped away as she becomes a determined young woman with resolve. 'Luna's Revenge' questions where the line is between duty and morals. It also makes a very strong political comment about Russian spies in Germany.

The only downside to this film is that it is essentially straightforward. The story is very well executed but it doesn't do anything surprising or clever, which is the one missing piece of the puzzle that would make it exceptional and a lot more memorable. But otherwise it is a great story and a great film.

Eight teenage friends play games of discovery to alleviate the boredom during a hot summer in a Belgian-Dutch border village. 'We' (original name 'Wij') is a striking and very graphic story about a group of young people who lose their innocence while discovering, exploring, and then exploiting their sexuality in the quest for fun and money. They push the boundaries and challenge themselves and each other, but pretty soon their sexual curiosity begins to blur the lines between right and wrong.

The story is told in chapters through the eyes of different members of the group and we find out what happened while awaiting the outcome of a trial. ‘We’ is a great example of how things can quickly escalate and spiral out of control and the film is very well shot and directed. The chapter based style of storytelling works very well and ensures that things are revealed at the right moments to progress and build the narrative.

The acting was great all round and Aimé Claeys was particularly memorable as Thomas in the way that he showed so many different sides of the character throughout the film. He is definitely the most representative of the teenagers becoming predatory through games and sexual exploitation, and the conclusion to his story is one that will hang in the air once the film ends. What was most interesting was the motivations and reasons why the members of the group do the things that they do, and they all have different reasons.

The film questions responsibility, remorse and accountability and is both a great and somewhat shocking watch.