Combining the pulpy nonsense of a Dan Brown novel with the sheen and polish of prestige television, Oscar-winner Edward Berger’s Conclave nearly fools you into thinking it’s a serious high stakes drama probing deep theological ideas. But for all the starry cast making the most out of the scenery-chewing screenplay, the latest awards season contender from the director of All Quiet On The Western Front reveals itself to be a fast-moving thriller as thin as a gilt-edged page of the Bible. Following on the heels of its Toronto bow, it is playing early in competition at San Sebastian.

The Pope is dead, and his body isn’t even in the ground when Cardinals start campaigning to take over the holiest seat of the Catholic Church. Cardinal Lawrence (Ralph Fiennes), the Dean of the College of Cardinals — or as he likes to call himself, “the manager” — is tasked with leading the titular conclave. The process will find the Cardinals completely sequestered to cast votes, only to see the light of day once a new Pope has been selected by a majority. Basically, it’s like jury duty, and in both cases, a man’s life hangs in the balance.

Lawrence himself commands the greatest respect of any of the candidates, but he doesn’t want the job. In fact, he’s not even sure he deserves to be part of the Church. Battling doubts about his faith, he asked the Pope to step down prior to his death, but his request was denied. Now, Lawrence believes the Pope wanted him to stay because he could be trusted to honorably lead the conclave after his passing. Certainly, there’s no shortage of scandal and skullduggery that Lawrence will need to navigate. Cardinal Tremblay (John Lithgow) is overshadowed by potentially career-ending rumors. The extremely conservative Cardinal Tedesco (Sergio Castellitto) wants to Make The Pope Italian Again, while Nigerian Cardinal Adeyemi (Lucian Msamati) threatens to ideologically pull the Vatican back decades. And then there’s the surprise appearance of Cardinal Benitez (Carlos Diehz), who arrives from Kabul claiming he was appointed in pectore (in secret) by the late Pope. As Lawrence ponders all this, he pushes for his best friend, the progressive Cardinal Bellini (Stanley Tucci). As for Lawrence himself, his excessively humble manner has some wondering if it’s not a duplicitous tactic to feed his own ambitions.

Power, Faith, and Responsibility are the capital letter themes that dangle like shiny sacramentals from the screenplay by Peter Straughan (Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy), but the writing never gets below the cassocks and ferraiolos the cardinals wear. Conclave plays like an entire season of House Of Cards smushed into a feature length running time. It’s a pacey, walk-and-talk movie that agreeably shuffles its pawns — there is literally an early scene centered on a chess board — around each plot turn. But as the film wears on, one suspects the the picture’s technical work is doing much of the heavy lifting.

There’s not a gleaming surface or sacred image that goes unnoticed by the smooth camera from cinematographer Stéphane Fontaine (Rust and Bone, A Prophet, Jackie). Whether gliding down hallways or lingering on frescoes, the photography is intent in letting the air inside the drama’s stuffy setting. It also manages to work around the clanging score by Volker Bertelmann, whose aggressively plucked strings heightens the tension, but threatens to overwhelm the performances that are working on an altogether different register.

Bringing an unflinching gravitas to the lead role, Fiennes is reliably impressive. His devout, yet spiritually shaken Lawrence delivers the film’s fortune cookie thesis in a centerpiece speech where he notes, “certainty is the great enemy of unity, and the deadly enemy of tolerance.” The actor’s equanimity works well alongside a similarly conflicted Tucci, and their scenes together are often the rare moments of serenity in a picture that rarely pauses to gather its thoughts. The rest of the ensemble are essentially avatars that represent different facets of church leadership, and while they don’t miss a step, it’s a shame that actors like Lithgow don’t have a bit more room to play. That’s not to mention Isabella Rossellini who appears in small, almost entirely dialogue free role as the film’s nun ex machina. Thankfully, the actress can do as much with her eyes as she can with any dialogue, and maybe it’s for the best she’s spared any ropey monologues.

Conclave winds and twists its way toward a staggeringly silly climatic reveal. The coup de grace won’t be spoiled here but it’s a serious misstep by Berger and Straughan, who try and steer the audience into a hamfisted statement about contemporary Catholicism and the world it operates in. More than any other move the picture makes, it’s the one that does the most to dissipate the drama like so much white smoke floating out of a chimney at the Vatican.

Director: Edward Berger
Screenplay: Peter Straughan
Cast: Ralph Fiennes, Stanley Tucci, John Lithgow, Carlos Diehz, Lucian Msamati, Brían F. O’Byrne, Merab Ninidze, Sergio Castellitto, Isabella Rossellini
Producers: Tessa Ross, Juliette Howell, Michael A. Jackman, Robert Harris, Alice Dawson
Cinematography: Stéphane Fontaine
Production design: Suzie Davies
Costume design: Lisy Christl
Editing: Nick Emerson
Music: Volker Bertelmann
Sound: Ben Baird, C.A.S., Valentino Giannì
Production companies: FilmNation Entertainment (United States), House Productions (United Kingdom), Indian Paintbrush (United States)
World sales: FilmNation Entertainment
Venue: San Sebastian Film Festival (Competition)
In English, Italian
120 minutes

San Sebastián has long been a reliably strong showcase for female film-makers. For the last four consecutive years, women directors have taken home the Golden Shell for Best Film: Dea Kulumbegashvili in 2020, Alina Grigore in 2021, Laura Mora in 2022 and Jaione Camborda in 2023. Which made this year’s big winner, Basque director Albert Serra’s bullfighting documentary Tardes de Soledad (Afternoons of Solitude), all the more controversial. This blood-splattered close-up portrait of champion matador Andres Roca Rey is undeniably a fascinating insider snapshot of the high-camp, high-stakes showmanship that underscores the glitter-suited machismo of bullfighting culture, but it is also features extended scenes of bulls being tortured to death for public entertainment. Despite protests from animal rights groups, Serra’s operatic orgy of violence still won the jury over.

Jointly awarded to two debutants, San Sebastián’s Silver Shell prize for Best Director also had a local flavour. It was split between Spaniard Pedro Martín-Calero for his visually striking psycho-horror thriller El Llanto (The Wailing) and UK-based Portuguese writer-director Laura Carreira for On Falling, a low-key but diligent portrait of an alienated migrant worker cracking under the pressure of her low-wage warehouse job. Meanwhile, the Best Screenplay prize went to François Ozon and Philippe Piazzo for Quand Vient L’Automne (When Fall is Coming), Ozon’s bittersweet depiction of a rustic French family torn apart by festering grudges and random tragedies.

Sadly, most of San Sebastián’s splashy, starry premieres were disappointing misfires. The much-hyped opening film, French director Audrey Diwan’s feminist re-imaging of the sleazy soft-porn classic Emmanuelle, was widely dismissed as a limp and pointless dud. Closing gala We Live in Time, a clunky romantic dramady directed by John Crowley, which stars Florence Pugh and Andrew Garfield as a young London couple facing a grim cancer dilemma, was also far less less witty or moving than it wanted to be. Meanwhile the European premiere of Joshua Oppenheimer’s all-star post-apocalyptic musical, The End, divided critics with its marathon runtime and overreaching ambition.

But the biggest stinker of the festival was unquestionably Johnny Depp’s, Modi´s Three Days in the Wing of Madness, a laboured and mirthless portrait of roguish bohemian artist Amedeo Modigliani, which played like a groaningly self-indulgent love letter to Depp himself. The reputation-battered actor-director did his messy second feature no favours by arriving late for press interviews, triggering a coordinated walk-out by journalists, part of a mass media mutiny over limited access to stars which began brewing in Cannes and Venice. If San Sebastián was intended to be part of Depp’s career-saving charm offensive, it proved far more offensive than charming.

Depp’s debauched debacle aside, this year was a good festival for comebacks. A special Jury Prize went to former Baywatch star Pamela Anderson for her revelatory performance in Gia Coppola’s heart-tugging indie drama The Last Showgirl. Riffing on her real public image in her meta-tinged role as a 57-year-old Las Vegas dancer facing the harsh rejection that comes with middle age, Anderson was honoured as part of an unusual full-cast award that also included co-stars Jamie Lee Curtis, Dave Bautista and more.

Another unlikely comeback kid was veteran British writer-director Mike Leigh. Defying a bizarre string of rejections from Cannes, Venice and Telluride, the 81-year old elder statesmen of contemporary social-realism made a punchy return to vintage heartbreaking form with the European premiere of his latest gritty drama, Hard Truths. Featuring a mostly black cast, this tragicomic London family portrait is powered by a wrenchingly emotional star performance by Marianne Jean-Baptiste, who previously worked with Leigh on Secrets and Lies (1996). Jean-Baptiste was a surefire candidate for Best Lead Performance prize in San Sebastián, but instead the jury chose a more delicate but equally devastating turn by Patricia López Arnaiz, playing a divorced mother struggling with grief and loss in Spanish director’s family tragedy Los Destellos (Glimmers).

Indeed, death and terminal illness were recurring themes across the festival program, from We Live In Time and Glimmers to the domestic premiere of local screen legend Pedro Almodóvar’s prize-winning assisted suicide drama The Room Next Door. The 91-year-old Greek cinema icon Costas-Gavras also turned his unflinching gaze on end-of-life care in his discursive series of medical case studies, Le Dernier Souffle (The Last Breath). And terminal cancer was a key plot thread of Chinese writer-director Xin Huo’s debut feature Bound in Heaven, a visually ravishing romantic thriller which won the festival’s main cinematography award and the critics-driven FIPRESCI prize.

San Sebastián is also known for its excellent retrospectives – in fact, it is one of the few major festivals in Europe to still do in-depth work in that regard. This year was no exception, with a deep dive into the political history of Italy in the second half of the 20th century. Italia Violenta dealt primarily with the social and political unrest of the 1960s and 1970s, showing a series of films shot or set in those years, alongside precursors like Luchino Visconti’s Ossessione (1943) and a couple of more contemporary films. The audience responded enthusiastically (every screening TFV attended was packed), enjoying a range of moods and styles, from stark Neorealism to the populist and highly entertaining poliziotteschi, particularly an Umberto Lenzi-directed double bill featuring Tomas Milian at his most villainous.

From a user-friendly media viewpoint, San Sebastián has always been in the forefront of those festivals that segued from Covid seating restrictions into a permanent pre-fest ticketing system for press and industry, as well as for public film-goers. While no one has yet devised a perfect system, the Spanish festival is now one of the most advanced in automatically uploading all tickets to festival badges, requiring only that the viewer know his or her seat number. Top marks is also due to the organisers for allowing press and industry guests to select seats for the entire festival a full week before screenings begin. After a hectic summer of overcrowded festivals with frantic crack-of-dawn booking deadlines, San Sebastián offered a smarter, smoother, more civilised alternative.

Read more about our San Sebastián coverage

Golden Shell for Best Film: “Afternoons of Solitude,” Albert Serra

Special Jury Prize: The ensemble cast of “The Last Showgirl”

Silver Shell for Best Director: (ex aequo) “On Falling,” Laura Carreira; Pedro Martin-Calero, “The Wailing”

Silver Shell for Best Leading Performance: “Glimmers,” Patricia López Arnaiz

Silver Shell for Best Supporting Performance: “When Fall is Coming,” Pierre Lottin

Best Cinematography: “Bound in Heaven,” Piao Songri

Best Screenplay: “When Fall is Coming,” François Ozon, Philippe Piazzo

OTHER OFFICIAL AWARDS

New Directors Award: “Bagger Drama,” Piet Baumgartner

New Directors Award (Special Mention): “La guitarra flamenca de Yerai Cortés,” Antón Álvarez

Horizontes Latinos Award: “Kill the Jockey,” Luis Ortega

Zabaltegi-Tabakalera Award: “April,” Dea Kulumbegashvili

Zabaltegi-Tabakalera Award (Special Mention): “Collective Monologue,” Jessica Sarah Rinland

Audience Award for Best Film: “The Marching Band,” Emmanuel Courcol

Audience Award for Best European Film: “The Seed of the Sacred Fig,” Mohammad Rasoulof

Irizar Basque Film Award: “Chaplin: Spirit of the Tramp,” Carmen Chaplin

Irinzar Basque Film Award (Special Mention): “Replica,” Pello Gutiérrez Peñalba

Culinary Zinema Best Film Award: “Mugaritz. Sin pan ni postre,” Paco Plaza

Eusko Label First Prize: “Las Guardianas,” Borja De Agüero

Eusko Label Second Prize: “KM 0,” Jon Martija Leunda

RTVE Another Look Award: “All We Imagine As Light,” Payal Kapadia

RTVE Another Look Award (Special Mention): “On Falling,” Laura Carreira

Spanish Co-operation Award: “Sujo,” Astrid Rondero, Fernanda Valadez

HONORARY AWARDS

Donostia Awards: Pedro Almodóvar, Javier Bardem, Cate Blanchett

The award-winning work belongs to Patricia López Arnaiz, who continues to show her versatility with the role of Isabel, a woman whose life takes an unexpected turn when her daughter Madalen suggests she pay more regular visits to her ex-husband Ramón. Their split was not a happy one, and there’s resentment even fifteen years later, but the man is sick, and keeping him company when he’s at his most vulnerable makes Isabel look back on their shared history with a fresh set of eyes and at the same time think more clearly about her current situation.

The lead performance is quietly intense, gaining in emotional power as the narrative progresses, and Antonio de la Torre lends understated support as Ramón, whose ailment acts as a counterpoint to the energy Isabel would like to expend elsewhere. As in other family dramas seen at San Sebastián in 2024 (such as Denmark’s My Eternal Summer or Switzerland’s Bagger Drama, the latter of which also won over the jury of its section), there’s a third person and actor thrown in the mix, and Marina Guerola – in her film debut – acquits herself well as Madalen, the young adult daughter who wants to nurse old wounds at least partially, while it’s still feasible.

Palomero, ably assisted by cinematographer Daniela Cajía (who also shot 2022’s Berlin winner Alcarràs) captures the inner turmoil of her characters in a carefully balanced mix of close-ups and wider shots depicting them against suggestive backdrops (the color yellow is particularly important when it comes to Isabel), the beauty of nature serving as the ideal contrast for what once was a happy relationship now situated in an odd sort of limbo. Even when the script ventures into predictable territory, as is perhaps bound to happen with a premise like the one chosen by the director, there are always morsels of truth in the staging and the performances that make the off-kilter familial bond an interesting one, which never outstays its welcome across the film’s 101 minutes.

Is there still hope, as the title (correctly translated from the original Los destellos) hints? Maybe, maybe not. But it’s the journey itself that matters, rather than the destination, and the glimmers that lend the film its dramatic structure – based on the story of the same name by Basque writer Eider Rodriguez – provide an intriguing insight into the anatomy of a human connection that didn’t quite achieve the hoped for results. And while the trappings may be familiar, they still find a way to connect with the viewer, primarily through the pained eyes of the female protagonist.

Director & Screenwriter: Pilar Palomero
Cast: Patricia López Arnaiz, Antonio de la Torre, Marina Guerola, Julián López
Producers: Aubert Sébastien, Leslie Jacob, Alain-Gilles Viellevoye, Fabrice Delville, Elisabeth Senger-Weiss
Cinematography: Daniela Cajía
Music: Vicente Ortiz Gimeno
Sound: Leo Dolgan, Fabiola Ordoyo, Nicolas De Poulpiquet
Production companies: Adastra Films, Beside Productions, Elly Films
World sales: Film Factory
Venue: San Sebastián International Film Festival (Official Selection – Competition)
In Spanish
101 minutes

Shooting very much from a woman’s P.O.V., the filmmaker explores female sensuality and sexual desire perceptively and honestly, always in a realistic context and without making a big deal out of it. Filming eroticism without any blushing prudishness or leering prurience is never easy. Skin in Spring’s most striking quality is that it forefronts Sandra’s body in nearly every scene with delicacy and tact, thanks to the incredible naturalness of newcomer Alba Liliana Agudelo Posada in the role of Sandra.

Starting from her own body consciousness of being “fat” and overage (she reminds herself she’s the mother of a 15-year-old), the protag gradually moves into a different space. Her new friends at work guide her to a more youthful and sexy look that redefines her self-image as a curvy, desirable 30-something. And even if the men in her life leave much to be desired, she ends the film as a self-confident woman who can take pleasure by herself and who enjoys the feeling of spring air on her bare skin.

Sandra meets Javier as she rides the bus to her first day at work. She is dressed neatly and identically to other riders, in jeans with her hair pulled back. Yet the bus driver singles her out and invites her to sit up front in the shotgun seat beside him. Throughout their small ritual of invitation and acceptance, the camera concentrates on Sandra’s mini-reactions of surprise, pleasure and curiosity. The driver is kept out of the frame and the audience is left to form its own image of him, possibly attributing danger and dark motives to his interest in this woman passenger. But several scenes later, when we finally get a look at him, he has the sandy hair and honest face of actor Eduardo Arango, which dispels most of our doubts.

This is Medellin, Colombia after all, and the narrative expectation is that some unpleasant, dangerous or dramatic situation will soon develop to threaten Sandra. The surprise is that Uribe Alzate’s screenplay dispenses with the drama, yet still manages for the most part to hold interest in its ever-more-radiant heroine.

As she rambles around the mall in her well-fitting security uniform, Sandra finds a welcoming atmosphere. She soon makes friends with a smiling floor cleaner who sells discounted sex toys on the side, as well as lace push-up bras in eye-catching colors. A less savory encounter takes place when Sandra pats down a girl caught shoplifting (again, her face remains out of frame to keep the attention on the security guard.) As Sandra touches her, she gyrates her hips suggestively – an invitation Sandra declines with a look.

But most of the film’s eroticism is not for sale but a natural expression of being human, being free, and being happy. The soundtrack is laden with Latin rhythms coming from radios or just the people next door, in dance halls or in one scene on a parked bus, where Sandra moves sensually to teach Javier to dance. Colombian-Italian cinematographer Luciana Riso Soto, whose work has included a number of short films that bowed at major festivals, captures the local color effortlessly, while always keeping Sandra’s inner transformation center frame.

Director, screenplay: Yennifer Uribe Alzate
Cast: Alba Liliana Agudelo Posada, Eduardo Arango , Cristian Lopez, Julian Lopez Gallego
Producers: Alexander Arbelaez, Jose Manuel Duque Lopez, Rebecca Gutierrez, Campos
Cinematography: Luciana Riso Soto
Editing: Juan Canola Velez
Production design: Marcela Gomez Montoya
Music: Alekos Vuskovic
Sound: Romina Cano
Production companies: Monociclo Cine (Colombia). Pinda Productions (Chile)
Venue: San Sebastian International Film Festival (Horizontes Latinos)
In Spanish
100 minutes

In Maybe It’s True What They Say About Us, playing in the Horizontes Latinos section of the festival, Ximena (Chilean actress Aline Kuppenheim) is a divorced psychiatrist who has moved to Latin America with her two daughters, where she lives a comfortable life on a leafy street with the teenage Ada (Julia Lubert). She has had little contact with her elder offspring Tamara (Camila Roeschmann) since she joined a sect and became the girlfriend of its charismatic leader Raul, who is sadly never seen in the film.

One day Tamara reappears before her a changed woman: sharp-edged, secretive and more than a little crazy. You would think a psychiatrist could coax some facts out of her, at least an emotional outburst. But no, Tamara submits to her mother’s forty questions with downcast eyes and says absolutely nothing – much to the frustration of those members of the audience who would like to see the plot move on. They have to wait for the police to ring the doorbell and slowly but surely bring their net down around the girl. She is charged with a heinous crime: killing her newborn daughter by throwing her into a bonfire on Raul’s orders.

Maybe it’s true? Actually, there’s never any doubt Tamara played a role in the infanticide. What torments her mother is why she allowed it to happen. In court, all the extenuating circumstances are paraded before the judge – the young women in the sect were constantly drugged, raped, beaten and brainwashed. Witnesses testify that Raul was expecting the birth of an androgynous being who would change the world, as the Red Virgin was supposed to do in another film. When he saw he had a normal daughter, he had her burned alive as “the Abomination”. But none of this answers Ximena’s anguished question.

Co-directed by Chilean filmmakers Camilo Becerra (El último sacramento) and Sofía Paloma Gómez (Quiero morirme dentro de un tiburón), Maybe It’s True bounces the story off a juicy premise taken from reality, then hovers in a no-man’s-land between a mother-daughter drama and a horror film. In support of the latter is Pablo Mondragon’s haunting score that uses distorted choruses of female voices in a vaguely Gothic chant. Adding a bit of police procedural to the mix is a police reconstruction of the fatal bonfire, in which the members of the sect are made to reenact the murder at the place where it happened. For Tamara it is a harrowing experience that triggers a climactic confrontation with her mother and a well-turned surprise ending.

The three actresses are well-cast, particularly Kuppenheim who, very much in character, keeps wandering into intellectual theorizing when she talks about her daughter’s case. But the story as told has little momentum. At times it seems like a Simenon novel where the point is not to advance the investigation into a crime, but to describe the atmosphere around it and the details of the characters’ lives, while Maigret thoughtfully consumes a great deal of alcohol. In this case Ximena opts for large glasses of wine and downs pills by the handful. But she is no detective, and a tale as disturbing as this leaves a bad taste in the mouth.

Directors, screenplay: Sofía Paloma Gómez, Camilo Becerra
Cast: Aline Küppenheim, Julia Lübert, Camila Roeschmann
Producers: Gabriela Sandoval, Carlo Nunez
Cinematography: Manuel Rebella
Editing: Valeria Racioppi
Music: Pablo Mondragon
Sound: Juan Carlos Maldonado
Production companies: Storyboard Media (Chile), La Jauria Comunicaciones (Chile), Murillo Cine (Argentina), Morocha Films (Argentina), B-Mount Film (Spain)
World Sales: Meikincine Entertainment (Argentina)
Venue: San Sebastian International Film Festival (Horizontes Latinos)
In Spanish, French
95 minutes

The third feature from Coppola, who is granddaughter to Francis and niece to Sofia, The Last Showgirl makes a noble attempt to give Anderson the kind of elegiac midlife role that won Mickey Rourke a pile of awards in Darren Arofonsky’s The Wrestler (2008). It also feels like an unlikely sister film to Demi Moore’s current splashy comeback in Coralie Forgeat’s deranged horror-comedy The Substance, which addresses similar themes of middle-aged women being dropped by a brutally sexist entertainment industry for being deemed too old and unsexy.

Coppola’s minor-key drama is too slight to match either of these in impact, but it is a noteworthy, Carver-esque snapshot of the underbelly of the American Dream. Building on Anderson’s feted Broadway run in Chicago, and her well-received profile documentary for Netflix, The Last Showgirl will certainly boost the Canadian-born star’s range and respectability.

Anderson stars as 57-year-old Shelley, who has been dancing for 30 years in a vintage Las Vegas revue show called Le Razzle Dazzle. Shelly has a deep emotional investment in this old-school production, which she views as classy throwback to more innocent times, before the Strip became vulgarised by more flashy, sexually explicit acts. But to her younger cohort of fellow showgirls like Jodie (Kiernan Shipka) and Marianne (Brenda Song), it is just another booty-shaking, money-making gig. And to Shelly’s semi-estranged 22-year-old daughter Hannah (Billie Lourd), an aspiring photographer based in Tucson, this is the “lame nudie show” that her single mother ritually neglected her for when she was a child, an abandonment issue she is still struggling to forgive.

When stage manager Eddie (Dave Bautista) reluctantly breaks the news that Le Razzle Dazzle is finally closing to make way for a contemporary circus act, most of the cast see this mercy killing as painful but inevitable. But for Shelley, who has invested her whole life and personality in the show, the closure is an existential disaster. Not even the best efforts of her closest friend Annette (Jamie Lee Curtis), a well-intentioned but broke, boozy, sixty-something cocktail waitress, can help as the realisation slowly sinks in that her youth, beauty and career are all fading. When a bleak audition for a new stage job ends in rejection, Shelley’s desperation boils over: “I’m 57 and beautiful, you son of a bitch!” she bawls at the casting director, played by Coppola’s cousin Jason Schwartzman in a brief cameo.

With a scrappy script that relies too heavily on archetypal characters and on-the-nose dialogue, The Last Showgirl is far from perfect. Too any wordless sequences of Shelley stumbling around the grungy concrete fringes of Vegas in a daze, her face illuminated by symbolic sunsets and poetic bursts of lens flare, serve as flimsy connective tissue between a handful of substantial scenes. Drenching these freewheeling visuals with Andrew Wyatt’s perfumed ambient-rock score, Coppola’s dreamy, woozy, focus-blurring aesthetic often invokes that of her aunt Sofia here, not always successfully.

Anderson’s performance is also mannered in places, breathy and babbling, with Marilyn Monroe overtones. All the same, she radiates a compelling, brittle, nervy energy as Shelley, and sportingly submits to some very unflattering bare-faced close-ups designed to exaggerate her wrinkly, ageing appearance. She inhabits her character with conviction and empathy, smartly resisting cheesy sentimentality or tragic diva melodrama. Extra acting honours go to Curtis, whose wigged-out comic turn finds soulful authenticity in the depths of grotesque excess, and to action star Bautista for a rare, understated, quietly revelatory indie-drama role.

Director: Gia Coppola
Screenwriter: Kate Gersten
Cast: Pamela Anderson, Jamie Lee Curtis, Dave Bautista, Kiernan Shipka, Brenda Song, Billie Lourd, Jason Schwartzman
Cinematography: Autumn Durald Arkapaw
Editing: Blair McClendon, Cam McLauchlin
Production designer: Natalie Ziering
Music: Andrew Wyatt
Producers: Robert Schwartzman, Natalie Farrey
Production companies: Utopia Originals (US)
Sales: Goodfellas
Venue: San Sebastián International Film Festival (Official Selection)
In English
86 minutes

Hard Truths was famously rejected by the festivals of Cannes, Venice and Telluride, according to the film’s Wikipedia page, but found its artistic vindication in Toronto’s Special Presentations strand and now in San Sebastian competition, where it has met with strong support from critics and audiences. Its next big stops will be the New York Film Festival, followed by a U.S. release by Bleecker Street.

In contrast to his recent period films like the sprawling Mr. Turner (2014) and Peterloo (2018), Hard Truths is a small film marked by confinement. This domestic drama probes the very troubled psyche of an angry, depressed woman whose fears and anxieties about the world inside and outside her home cripple her relationship to her husband Curtley (David Webber) and son Moses (Tuwaine Barrett). This Black British family lives in a tidy white frame house on the corner of a residential street and is not struggling with money worries. Middle-aged and lower-middle-class, Pansy spends most of her time cleaning imaginary dirt off the furniture and yelling at the men of the house. Her voice is stentorian and its fury cows them into silent misery. Yet her endless stream of criticism is so outrageous, vituperative and unfair, as well as imaginatively couched, that it soon has the audience laughing out loud like it was a sitcom.

This is the first part of the story, when we are treated to Pansy yapping furiously at her doctor, her dentist, the saleswoman in a sofa showroom, the cashier at a convenience store (a dispute that soon spreads to the other customers in line behind Pansy). In the parking lot, she gets into a verbal fight with another short-triggered maniac who begins to look dangerous, and suddenly one sees how stories about drivers killed over a parking space could play out.

The backstory behind Pansy’s mental fragility is barely broached. Her paranoia and anxieties go unremarked at home, as though Curtley, a plumber, and Moses, who is unemployed at 22 and spends his days wandering aimlessly, had given up on her long ago. The atmosphere at home is horrible.

In contrast, there is the rich and joyous life of her sister Chantelle (Michelle Austin), a hairdresser whose good sense and empathy makes her popular with everyone. Her household is graced by her two well-adjusted daughters (played by Ani Nelson and Sophia Brown), one a trainee lawyer and the other a marketing assistant, who are shown encountering their first career obstacles in frustrating rebuffs and demands from their bosses. (This is the only place where racial discrimination may come into play, unlike Secrets & Lies where it was the whole story. Perhaps a reminder than Britain may have changed but still has a long way to go?) Yet these young Black women don’t give up and the implication is, they have the stuff to make it in their professions. Then why can’t Aunt Pansy be reasonable and find her place in society?

As the story unfolds, perceptions of Pansy begin to shift. The key scene is a visit to the cemetery with Chantelle to put flowers on their mother’s grave – it’s the fifth anniversary of her death. As usual, Pansy is foaming at the mouth with bile, hurling insults at the dead woman that Chantelle cannot accept. Then something happens to Pansy as she remembers (true or false?) that mother loved her sister best. In fact, “everyone hates me”, she says before lapsing into a deep, morose silence that is almost worse than her insults. Later, a small act on the part of Moses, coming out of nowhere, touches her profoundly; it is followed by a repulsive act of childish revenge by the passive-aggressive Curtley. But he will soon be forced to come to grips with his wife.

There is no great catharsis scene at the end, another rule of the genre that Hard Truths breaks. On the contrary, the critical final shots deliberately leave the audience in limbo with a totally open ending, where it is uncertain what Pansy will decide to do and whether one course of action is psychologically or morally superior to another. Not all viewers will enjoy being left holding the pen and asked to write their own ending. But in another way it makes sense to deepen audience involvement in the critical final scene, and the abruptly closed curtain feels modern and fresh.

The English-Spanish coprod was originally scheduled to film in the Covid years, and its story still carries a sense of physical confinement in Suzie Davies’ production design that emphasizes the smallness of rooms and closets, the narrowness of stairs and the limits of fenced-in yards. The cemetery is the only truly open space in the film, which D.P. Dick Pope’s camera roves over in relieved abandon. Leigh’s regular musical composer Gary Yershon is also on hand, echoing Pansy’s feeling of loneliness with a bouquet of melancholy compositions for single instruments.

Director, screenplay: Mike Leigh
Cast: Mariane Jean-Baptiste, Michele Austin, David Webber, Ani Nelson, Sophia Brown, Tuwaine Barrett, Bryony Miller
Producer: Georgina Lowe
Coproducers: Henry Woolley, Laura Fernandez Espeso
Cinematography: Dick Pope
Editing: Tania Reddin
Production design: Suzie Davies
Costume design: Jacqueline Durran
Music: Gary Yershon
Sound: Tim Fraser
Production companies: The MediaPro Studio (Spain), Film4 (UK), Thin Man Films (UK) in association with Creativity Media
World Sales: Cornerstone Films (UK)
Venue: San Sebastian International Film Festival (Official Selection)
In English
97 minutes

Fenced off from the outside world, the insular citadel society in Turn Me On is run by a corporate management team called Our Friends, who provide tastefully generic apartments, in-house jobs, life partners and even babies for all members. Everybody in this campus-like community ritually takes their daily “vitamin”, which suppresses all romantic and sexual feelings, as well as wiping away memories of their past lives. Human touch is forbidden, anger has been eradicated, and the TV screens broadcast smiley-faced graphics all day to help maintain the even-tempered mood. Nobody here is really living, just existing in a permanent state of comfortably numb semi-contentment. Citizens routinely greet neighbours and co-workers with the soothingly sinister refrain: “are you content?”

But discontent is brewing beneath the placid surface of this plastic paradise. Joy (British stage and screen star Bel Powley) is having medical treatment, which requires her to skip taking her “vitamin”, just for one day. Initially reluctant, she finds her curiosity pricked by the unfamiliar mood swings and hormonal urges that start flooding back when the chemical brakes are removed. After secretly suspending her daily pill, Joy persuades her cult-assigned life partner Will (Nick Robinson) to do the same. At first he is fearful, protesting “isn’t it better to be normal?” But he soon relents, after which the curious couple start having illicit sex for the first time. Spoiler alert: they love it. They then encourage their small cohort of friends to try swapping drug-addled celibate conformity for their thrilling new sexual hobby, which they cautiously christen “sync-ing” since the old vocabulary of lust has long fallen out of use.

Tyburski and Bourassa initially play these exploratory sexual scenes for maximum comic awkwardness. But they also become increasingly tense, as the return of erotic and romantic feelings ignite a dormant volcano of repressed emotion including violent jealousy, crushing heartbreak and previously hidden queer desire. Inevitably, enforcers for the Our Friends elite clamp down on Joy as the chief troublemaker, placing her in a tough moral quandary. A late plot twist, revealing the hypocrisy and cynicism of those at top of the community’s strict class system, adds an extra twist of sharp satirical critique.

Pitched by Bourassa as as a modern-day twist on Adam and Eve, Turn Me On is certainly more timeless fable than contemporary political allegory. Even so, the setting inevitably invites real-life parallels with numerous creepy New Age cults, not to mention Scientology-type religious groups and heavily controlled totalitarian societies like North Korea. In literature and cinema, dystopian classics like Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World, François Truffaut’s Fahrenheit 451 (1966), the early George Lucas sci-fi thriller THX 1138 (1971) and The Truman Show (1998) all come to mind.

Tyburksi and Bourassa leave a lot of questions unanswered in Turn Me On. They could have explained the origins of the Our Friends organisation much more fully, and delved far deeper into its sinister undercurrents, creating a kind of Handmaid’s Tale horror story. Instead they play a more teasing, ambiguous game with viewer expectations. In the real world, how many people would likely choose walled-off conformity over risky adventure, trading sexual abstinence for a trauma-free, emotionally stable, materially comfortable life? Probably more of us than we would like to admit.

Turn Me On is modestly scaled, and conventional it its own indie-drama way. All the same, it boasts a witty script, a fine ensemble cast and a charmingly quirky lead in Powley, who radiates the doleful, moon-faced magnetism of a live-action Vermeer painting. The upstate New York locations are also a terrific visual asset, with the abandoned Kodak headquarters in Rochester providing the perfect mid-century retro-modernist canvas, its majestic concrete contours mostly filmed in elegant static shots, and framed by lyrical cut-away views of the wooded mountain landscape around Lake Ontario. Nate Heller’s jaunty score, augmented by pre-existing classical and choral pieces, supplies an extra sheen of Lanthimos-lite mischief.

Director: Michael Tyburski
Screenwriter: Angela Bourassa
Cast: Bel Powley, Nick Robinson, Nesta Cooper, Justin H. Min, Julia Shiplett, Patti Harrison
Cinematography: Matt Mitchell
Editing: Matthew Hart
Music: Nate Heller
Producers: Sean Bradley, Zareh Nalbandian, Toby Nalbandian, Gregory Schmidt
Production company: Truant Pictures (US)
World sales: Film Constellation (UK)
Venue: San Sebastián International Film Festival (New Directors)
In English
99 minutes

El realismo mágico se une a un surrealismo que desafía los géneros de sexo en la última extravagante creación del escritor-director argentino Luis Ortega, El Jockey. Un cóctel embriagador de personajes estilizados, visualmente suntuoso y con salvajes giros narrativos, este frenético thriller ecuestre se disfruta sin esfuerzo como espectáculo camp, con ecos de Almodóvar en la mezcla, aunque su trama retorcida y descabellada ofrece más estilo que sustancia. Se proyectó en competición en Venecia, con un estreno norteamericano en Toronto y exhibición en San Sebastián.

En una actuación con cómica expresión tímida y vacía digna de Buster Keaton, Nahuel Pérez Biscayart (120 latidos por minuto) interpreta a Remo Manfredini, un jockey campeón de Buenos Aires que vive permanentemente drogado con alcohol y otras sustancias. En el pasado podía ganar carreras estando borracho, pero Remo ahora atraviesa una larga racha perdedora, y su turbio jefe, el gánster Sirena (Daniel Giménez Cacho), está perdiendo la paciencia.

Complicando aún más las cosas, la amante y colega jockey de Remo, Abril (Úrsula Corberó), gana más carreras que él, pero también está embarazada de su hija, lo que la obliga a sopesar las probabilidades entre terminar su carrera como madre o poner fin al embarazo. Mientras tanto, Abril es tentada por el interés romántico de otra jockey, Ana (Mariana Di Girolamo), dando un giro más explícitamente queer en los tonos de géneros fluidos y camp de la película. Un flirteo erótico en el vestuario entre las dos mujeres, escenificado como un enfrentamiento de danza disco-tango con floreos de torero, es una de varias deliciosas, tontas y destacadas secuencias de baile de la película.

Encerrado en un establo construido por los matones de Sirena, Remo se enfrenta a una última oportunidad para y redimirse y dejar el alcohol. Montando un semental japonés llamado Mishima, el nuevo caballo de Sirena, Remo parece inicialmente seguro de una victoria fácil. Pero está en un estado de ánimo alcoholizado y autodestructivo, lo que lleva a un terrible accidente, que Ortega registra sorprendentemente desde el punto de vista del caballo.

Despertando en el hospital, los recuerdos y la identidad de Remo han sido borrados. “Sus lesiones no son compatibles con la vida”, dice el médico. Pero la vida continúa, con nuevos pronombres, ya que el jockey, mentalmente fracturado, se pone un abrigo de piel y maquillaje, se autoproclama como Dolores, y sale del hospital para vagar por las calles de Buenos Aires en su nueva personalidad femenina.

Este salto de género sexual a través del espejo indica un cambio definitivo en los estándares mínimos del realismo narrativo, que El Jockey nunca recupera del todo. El acto final implica un tiroteo letal y una temporada tras las rejas, donde Remo habita su personaje de Dolores a la perfección, solo para dejarla abruptamente para volver a su profesión de jockey masculino, esta vez montando caballos para carreras ilegales clandestinas. Este último galope loco ofrece más florituras cómicas salvajes que cierre de la narrativa, dejando atrás demasiados cabos sueltos.

Aunque carece de coherencia o dirección en términos de narración, El Jockey es siempre divertido, inventivo y visualmente voluptuoso. Ortega fue apoyado por la productora de Almodóvar, El Deseo, en su última película, el thriller queer de un asesino en serie, El Ángel (2018), y su nueva película parece sentirse en deuda con la deslumbrante estética del maestro español: colores saturados, vestuario precioso, rica banda sonora retro. Ortega también trabaja aquí con el director de fotografía habitual del director finlandés Aki Kaurismäki, Timo Salminen, que aporta su gramática visual mordaz característica, toda simetría y geometría, un discreto humor visual, e interiores iluminados magistralmente.

Ortega salpica el amplio lienzo de El Jockey con tangentes surrealistas: un conejo en un microondas, un insecto entrando por una fosa nasal humana, personajes que inexplicablemente desafían la gravedad y suben por paredes verticales, una banda musical a caballo que recorre calles desiertas. Algunos de estos detalles sirven al tema central de identidad fluida – un bebé que misteriosamente cambia de color de piel a mitad de la trama, por ejemplo. Otros detalles se sienten como puros caprichos, lo que pondrá a prueba la paciencia de algunos espectadores, pero recompensa ricamente a aquellos con una mayor tolerancia para el slapstick – la comedia de los dibujos animados en vivo.

Director: Luis Ortega
Guionistas: Luis Ortega, Rodolfo Palacios, Fabián Casas
Reparto: Nahuel Pérez Biscayart, Úrsula Corberó, Daniel Giménez Cacho, Mariana Di Girolamo, Daniel Fanego, Osmar Núñez, Roberto Carnaghi, Luis Ziembrowski, Jorge Prado, Adriana Aguirre, Roly Serrano
Fotografía: Timo Salminen
Edición: Rosario Suárez, Yibran Asuad
Diseñador de producción: Julia Freid
Vestuario: Beatriz Di Benedetto
Música: Sune Rose Wagner
Productores: Benjamin Domenech, Santiago Gallelli, Matias Roveda, Luis Ortega, Esteban Perroud, Axel Kuschevatzky, Cindy Teperman, Charlie Cohen, Paz Lazaro, Nando Vila
Productoras: Rei Pictures, El Despacho, Infinity Hill, Exile Content, Warner Music Entertainment, Piano, El Estudio, Snowglobe, Jacinto Films, Barraca Producciones
Ventas mundiales: Protagonista
Sedes: Festival de Cine de Venecia (Competición), Toronto, San Sebastian 2024 (Horizontes Latinos)
En español
97 minutos

Puerto Williams el asentamiento humano más al sur en el mundo ha sido un reto de trivia para los aficionados a la geografía en todo el mundo. Cuando las nubes ocultan las sombras podría plantar firmemente esta pequeña población (poco menos de 3,000 habitantes) para los cinéfilos. Usando los impactantes paisajes del lugar, su compleja historia e intrigante aislamiento, el director José Luis Torres Leiva lentamente desenreda las emociones largamente reprimidas de una citadina angustiada a través de inspiradores encuentros con un grupo de locales.

Cuando las nubes... se estrenó en el Festival de Jeonju como parte del Jeonju Cinema Project.  una bien establecida iniciativa para financiar (o en este caso cofinanciar) tres producciones independientes al año.  Cuando las nubes ocultan las sombras está llena de imágenes cautivadoras y conversaciones contemplativas acerca de las efímeras cualidades de la existencia humana.

La actriz argentina María Elche da una conmovedoramente calculada actuación que contrasta con las naturales de los no-profesionales, en su mayoría residentes en el papel de ellos mismos. Esta conmovedora meditación de la vida flotará con facilidad a través del circuito de festivales después de su estreno en Corea del Sur y ahora San Sebastián.

Celebrada por su impactante actuación como una adolescente suburbana confundida en La niña santa de Lucrecia Martel (2004), Elche es ahora directora por derecho propio, aquí hace el papel de María, una actriz que viaja de Buenos Aires a Puerto Williams  por un rodaje. Todavía nerviosa por una desgastante jornada de 30 horas a través de aguas revueltas, llega y se entera que debe permanecer una semana antes de que el equipo de filmación llegue al pueblo.

Desde una conversación tensa con un compañero del barco y después en la lucha para adaptarse a su nuevo entorno María no parece estar en un buen lugar emocionalmente.

Las tomas alejadas del fotógrafo Cristian Soto refuerzan la buena actuación de Elche, empequeñecen su presencia entre las montañas coronadas de nieve y las aguas golpeantes. Los acercamientos acentúan la ansiedad y el vacío de sus ojos enrojecidos y su atribulada presencia.

María dice estar buscando un bálsamo emocional en la soledad de Puerto Williams, una idea que Torres Leiva expresa mostrándola dictando sus sentimientos en una grabadora que le confió el equipo de filmación.  Pero es a través de su inmersión en la comunidad en donde ella encuentra solaz: hablando con una joven madre que amamanta a su bebé, con el solitario vendedor de la tienda que vende desde souvenirs hasta medicinas y con adolescentes angustiados con los que arma un improvisado taller de actuación. Encuentra perspectiva en la forma en la que los aislados lugareños aceptan el pasado, disfrutan el presente y aspiran a mejorarlo en el futuro.

Los intentos de María para acabar con brotes de dolor físico (y posiblemente psicosomático) la ponen el contacto con otra parte del tejido social e histórico de Puerto Williams. Cuando recibe un tratamiento de medicina tradicional, que involucra azotar su cuerpo con hierbas y una conversación espiritista que se asemeja a terapia, la cultura indígena de la región al frente: los Yahganoa, quienes dominaron la región por milenios antes de ser avasallados por la violencia colonial que importó enfermedades y apropiación económica. Un poblador los describe como una existencia paralela a los “civilizados”, estos son los residentes de Puerto Williams con ancestros europeos, separados a su vez de los reclutas militares enviados a la base naval chilena en el pueblo.

Cuando las nubes ocultan las sombras solo reconoce la existencia del tema . En una escena, una pareja de jubilados educados y acomodados hace un comentario sobre lo inhabitado que estaba el sur de Chile antes de la llegada de los europeos; en otra María se queja del ruido de los rancheros locales y sus perros pastores. Pero esta película no trata de duplicar películas chilenas como Brujería o Los colonos que hacen una aguda crítica del oscuro pasado del país y el revisionismo actual. Aquí la batalla es otra, más personal que política. Lo que se insinúa durante el encuentro casual de María con un biólogo, experto en insectos diminutos con ciclo de vida de apenas días, se expande finalmente en una larga conversación entre María y una mujer devastada por el dolor que se dirige al hospital cercano para una revisión viral.

En esta escena  Torres Leiva y su coguionista Alejandra Moffat hacen notar como los humanos débiles como son, son también criaturas hechas de optimismo y pesimismo en varios tonos, una paleta diversa de vistas y sonidos como la película misma.

Director: José Luis Torres Leiva
Guion: José Luis Torres Leiva y Alejandra Moffat
Elenco: Maria Alché
Productora: Catalina Vergara
Fotografía: Cristián Soto
Edición: Andrea Chignoli, José Luis Torres Leiva
Música: Diego Noguera
Sonido: Ernesto Trujillo, Claudio Vargas, Peter Rosenthal
Compañías productoras: Globo Rojo Films
Exhibición: Jeonju International Film Festival; Festival Internacional de Cine de San Sebastián
En español
70 minutos

Much like fellow New Directors entry My Eternal Summer, this is the story of a family unit of three – mother, father, young adult son – dealing with loss and the communication problems arising from it, only this time no one is on the verge of death: the passing has already occurred (the couple’s teenage daughter succumbed to injuries sustained during a canoeing accident), and the plot kicks in one year later.

Everyone tries to move on, chiefly by pouring their heart and soul into the family business, which revolves around excavators (baggers in German). It’s hard work, albeit with some levity thrown in on occasion, courtesy of a performance that involves a dance routine between machines (a visual Baumgartner already dealt with in Through My Street, the award-winning music video he made for the artist Rio Wolka, who also composed this film’s score). And yet, there’s unspoken tension bubbling beneath the professional façade: the mother is increasingly depressed, the son would like to study in the US but feels dutybound to help his parents, and the father finds himself drawn to the village’s new choir director…

We catch up with these three on a yearly basis, each chapter introduced by a shot of the river where the fatal accident occurred: a fitting image for the passage of time, as everything flows (or at least is supposed to flow), as well as the family’s inability to move on due to failure of communication. This is perhaps best shown in a scene where the father, having mastered the local dialect after living in the area for years, still finds himself more comfortable opening up in his native English – and not to his wife or child.

The pained expressions of all three are captured in almost excruciating close-ups which highlight the nearly wordless chemistry between the actors: Bettina Stucky and Phil Hayes give a lived-in quality to a marriage that is silently eroding, while Vincent Furrer, in his first film role since 2010’s Stationspiraten, shot when he was a teenager, successfully transitions in to adult acting with a role that requires him to literally come of age on screen, delicately handling even the most overused tropes (the scene where the son comes out to his mother is a great example of laughter hiding great pain).

They may be in the excavation business, but they’re unable to dig below the surface when it comes to matters removed from the workplace. The metaphor is not subtle, but the emotional sincerity that transpires from every single carefully planned shot lends it a certain weight, beyond that of the machine itself as it tries to smooth out the remnants of a sorrowful past. Until the river shows up again, leading to a new year of repressed grief, and the memories start flooding the precarious family balance one more time.

Director, screenwriter: Piet Baumgartner
Cast: Bettina Stucky, Phil Hayes, Vincent Furrer
Producer: Karin Koch
Cinematography: Pascal Reinmann
Production design: Marc Dörfel
Costume design: Linda Harper
Music: Rio Wolta
Sound: Nadja Gubser
Production company & World sales: Dschoint Ventschr Filmproduktion AG
Venue: San Sebastián International Film Festival (New Directors)
In Swiss German, English
94 minutes

After winning the World Cinema Grand Jury Prize in Sundance, it has been riding through festivals and making a name for its young directing duo, Astrid Rondero (The Darkest Days of Us, 2017) and Fernanda Valadez (Identifying Features 2020), who also wrote and coproduced. Their understanding of narrative cinema at its most mythic and instinctual gives depth and emotional reach to this story about innocent kids sucked into a killing machine because of who their parents are and where they live. The film names Sujo’s region as Tierra Caliente, Michoacan, where ferocious drug cartels battle for control of the territory. This specificity gives the film an underlying realism and raises the threat, much like Tatiana Huezo’s chilling Prayers for the Stolen, in which young girls are kidnapped, abused and killed by marauding gangs.

Here, however, the children are boys who have been born earmarked to become criminals themselves. But Sujo is special: his father was a feared killer who was so ruthless he was tattooed with the number 8, showing his high rank as a gunman, much like 007. In an overgrown field, he is murdered off screen in cold blood, while his 4-year-old son waits for him locked in his car. Found by a goatherd, he is spirited away by his brooding aunt Nemesia (the wonderfully witchy Yadira Pérez Esteban), whose courage saves him from the men out to murder him in a revenge killing. She creates a solitary life for the two of them in a concrete shanty buried in the countryside, where her tough love and caring keeps young Sujo out of harm’s way. His only contact with other people comes from the occasional visits of Nemesia’s in-law Rosalia (Karla Garrido), a boss’s abandoned wife, and her two boys, Jeremy and Jai.

This protected situation can’t last, of course. When Sujo is 16 (he is played with open-hearted innocence by Juan Jesus Varela), his half-brothers help him get his father’s car running and he makes his first foray into town to see a prostitute. Jeremy has already been tattooed into a gang and Sujo joins him as a mule, delivering drug packages in his rickety car. Shot largely at night in the open air, the scenes of Sujo’s involvement in the cartel have a frightening inevitability about them, heightened by cinematographer Ximena Amann’s deep black shadows and outlines against the horizon. The nights are so dark that the only illumination is a starburst sky, or the sickening flames of a burning building.

The film is divided into parts named after various characters, which along with its two-hour running time, penchant for symbolism and epic narration, often makes it feel like the sprawling adaptation of a novel, even though Rondero and Valadez are shooting their original screenplay. This family saga unfolds against a background that is mostly taken from the world of harsh nature, and needs little embellishments in the visuals that dominate the story.

In the final part, called “Susan”, we find Sujo tenaciously building a new life for himself in Mexico City with the help of his aunt’s checks and a back-breaking night job unloading trucks. He spends the daytime hours auditing free university classes, where a teacher (an utterly realistic Sandra Lorenzano) who fled the dictatorship in Argentine many years ago befriends him. The contrast between his physically challenging, low-paying night job and the airy intellectual world he aspires to could not be better presented. It seems designed to answer Sujo’s question, “Can a person change?”, in the affirmative. But that is too simplistic a resolution to this story, and he has to deal with the wheel of time and the cycles of family history pulling him back to Tierra Caliente.

The uneasy clash of cultures is perfectly illustrated when Susan invites him to a faculty party. At a certain point, he sees guests staring at a video on someone’s phone: it shows a man — we never find out who — being gunned down during a drug war in Michoacan. Sujo just walks on. How can he ever explain what his life was like to these insulated city folk? Only Susan doesn’t need to “hear his story”, because of her own experience of violence and loss.

Directors, screenplay: Astrid Rondero, Fernanda Valadez
Cast: Juan Jesús Varela, Yadira Perez Esteban, Sandra Lorenzano, Alexis Jassiel Varela, Jairo Hernández Ramírez, Kevin Uriel Aguilar Luna, Karla Garrido
Producers: Jean-Baptiste Bailly-Maitre, Virginie Deesa, Astrid Rondero, Jewerl Ross, Fernanda Valadez
Cinematography: Ximena Amann
Editing: Astrid Rondero, Fernanda Valadez, Susan Corda
Costume design: Aleja Sanchez
Music: Astrid Rondero
Sound: Omar Juarez Espino
Production companies: Corpulenta (Mexico), Enaguas Cine S.A. de C.V. (Mexico)
World Sales: Alpha Violet (France)
Venue: San Sebastian International Film Festival (Horizontes Latinos)
In Spanish
125 minutes

In the Fifties, a murder occurs in the dining room of the most elegant hotel in Santiago de Chile. It is a crime of passion in which Maria Carolina Geel (Francisca Lewin) shoots her long-time lover five times. Mercedes, a court clerk in charge of the case (Elisa Zulueta), becomes obsessed with Carolina from the moment she sees her leaving the crime scene. The judge, Mercedes’ boss, sends her to collect personal effects from the assassin’s apartment.

Of course, Depp has had a bumpy ride over the last six years, his superstar career imploding over accusations of domestic abuse from his former wife Amber Heard, and the subsequent legal battles over his tarnished reputation. All the same, he continues to work as an actor, producer and director, and seems to have found a sympathetic audience at European film festivals for his recent output of smaller indie projects, many of them interesting and worthy efforts. A regular guest in San Sebastián, Depp is back at the Spanish festival again this week with the world premiere of Modi, which screens out of competition. He will next take the film to Rome, where he will pick up a Lifetime Achievement Award. If this is what “cancel culture” looks like, we should all hope to enjoy this level of cancellation.

Modi is only Depp’s second feature following his poorly received debut The Brave (1997). But regardless of the director’s ongoing career struggles, even if you are a die-hard fan, this boorish biographical drama is a disappointing mess. Clumsy and witless, visually drab and tonally incoherent, it is far less roguishly charming than it believes itself to be. The best you can say about this self-indulgent misfire is that it is not even the worst film about Modigliani, coming a close second to the Mick Davis-directed Modigliani (2004) starring Andy Garcia.

Loosely adapted from the 1980 stage play Modigliani by Dennis McIntyre, but with its new extended title borrowed from Baudelaire, Modi stars the broodingly handsome Italian actor Riccardo Scamarcio, who makes the most of a thankless and unsympathetic role. The action takes place over three days in 1916, a febrile period when Modigliani was torn between painter and sculptor, low-life vagabond and emerging cult figure. Meanwhile, as the mass slaughter of the Great War slowly creeps into Paris, the sickly artist keeps hallucinating sinister crow-faced plague doctors, a portent of his own premature death.

Thronged by an adoring entourage of fellow artists, notably the hygienically challenged Chaïm Soutine (a painfully unfunny comic turn by Ryan McParland, sporting a terrible Borat accent) and the mentally fragile Maurice Utrillo (Bruno Gueri), Modi shambles around Paris, picking fights with all and sundry, including his endlessly patient Polish art dealer Léopold Zborowski (Stephen Graham). In between sex, hashish and poetry sessions, he also routinely declares his genius to his English poet-critic lover Beatrice Hastings (Antonia Desplat), who naturally worships him even more for being such a mansplaining diva: “you’re quite the bastard, aren’t you?” she tells him with an approving smile. Or is she addressing Depp?

Modi actually began as a passion project for Al Pacino, who has a producer credit and supporting role here. Pacino earmarked Modigliani’s story for the screen decades ago, first pitching it to Depp when they co-starred in Donnie Brasco (1997), but previous attempts to make a film with the younger star in the lead never came together. For this version, Depp remains firmly behind the camera, though he clearly identifies closely with his proto-punk anti-hero.

In case the autobiographical subtext is unclear, Depp has stressed in his promotional interviews that he views Modi as a personal role model. “Everything Modigliani ever stood for,” he said recently, “resonates deeply within me.” A recurring theme in the screenplay is that these towering, trailblazing, uncompromising artists can not be judged by the petty moral standards of mere mortals. Indeed, one of Modi’s final pay-off lines is “no more judgement.” The sense of him being a self-justifying mouthpiece for Depp recurs throughout the film.

With modern-day Budapest standing in for early 20th century Paris, not very convincingly, Modi gets almost everything wrong from start to finish, from hammy performances to leaden plotting, jarringly pretentious dialogue to mirthless slapstick clowning. There is much worth dramatising about the real Modigliani, who disguised his bourgeois roots to slum it as a proto-beatnik, fathered multiple children, partied with various Parisian demi-monde legends, and wilfully concealed his dangerously infectious condition. But Depp and his screenwriters are far more interested in rehashing that tired, self-serving, adolescent myth that great artists should be hot-tempered, intoxicated, sexually incontinent hellraisers unshackled from social convention. And, of course, men. In Depp-world, absinthe always makes the art grow stronger.

Dedicated to Depp’s friend, the late rock icon Jeff Beck, Modi only really succeeds in a few minor details. The screen switches from colour to flickering monochrome at various points, paying visually inventive homage to the silent comedies of the period. The soundtrack is also richly layered, from Sacha Puttnam’s period-pastiche score to vintage tracks by Tom Waits and The Velvet Underground. Late in the film, Pacino relishes his set-piece extended cameo as a pompous art collector who insults Modigliani by disdaining his paintings before offering him a huge paycheck for a single sculpture. Pacino is reliably charismatic but this performance leans very much into his accent-mangling, face-pulling, steam-belching late-career baroque style rather than the wired Method-era intensity of his classic roles.

The most striking impression that Modi leaves behind is is how Depp, having worked with many of the greatest directors and screenwriters in cinema, appears to have learned almost nothing from any of them. Much like his fictionalised version of Modigliani, he seems to have made this film surrounded by craven yes men who left all of his bad decisions unchallenged. Imagine the movie equivalent of a boorishly drunk barfly pestering you with rambling, tiresome cliches he has mistaken for profound poetic insights. Eager to prove his serious artistic credentials at this shaky stage in his career, Depp once again proves that, deep down, he is pretty shallow. To steal a line often wrongly attributed to Abraham Lincoln, sometimes it is better to remain silent and be thought a fool than to speak and remove all doubt.

Director: Johnny Depp
Screenplay: Jerzy Kromolowski, Mary Olson-Kromolowski, based on the play Modigliani by Dennis McIntyre
cast: Riccardo Scamarcio, Antonia Desplat, Al Pacino, Stephen Graham, Bruno Gouery, Ryan McPartland
Cinematography: Dariusz Wolski, Nicola Pecorini
Editing: Mark Davies
Music: Sacha Puttnam
Production design: Dave Warren
Producers: Barry Navidi, Johnny Depp, Andrea Ilverino, Monika Bacardi, Al Pacino
Production companies: Modi Productions Ltd (UK), IN.2 Film (UK)
Venue: San Sebastián International Film Festival (Official Selection)
In English, French
110 minutes

Productores de Perú, México, Francia, Brasil, Chile, República Dominicana y Venezuela se unen en Zafari, una increíble coproducción entre 7 países centrada en un hipopótamo que llega para animar un zoológico despoblado, mientras a su alrededor los seres humanos pasan hambre. Las ironías son fuertes, pero las opciones que enfrentan los personajes son incluso más sombrías – saquear para comer o salir del país. La coguionista y directora Mariana Rondón, ganadora de la Concha de Oro de San Sebastián en 2013 por su drama Pelo Malo, vuelve al festival en la sección Horizontes Latinos con esta desgarradora fábula que pone al descubierto la situación de pobreza extrema, el hambre y la violencia que han obligado a tantas familias a abandonar sus hogares y buscar una vida fuera de su país.

El aire de irrealidad que envuelve a los personajes no puede ocultar lo cerca que están estos horrores de la vida real. Aunque el país nunca se nombra, parece más obvio que sea Venezuela, donde la ONU ha informado recientemente que el 82% de la población vive en la pobreza y el 53% en la extrema pobreza, sin suficiente comida para comer. Como resultado, casi 8 millones de venezolanos han huido del país. Pero Honduras, Nicaragua y El Salvador, que también aportan numerosos solicitantes de asilo a los Estados Unidos, no están muy lejos en problemas económicos. Zafari no es una película de tesis social – aunque algo tiende hacia el horror incómodo y los miedos a lo que se encuentra detrás de las puertas cerradas de apartamentos vacíos, donde se escuchan ruidos extraños – la visión de Rondón de su país natal, en declive social, económico y político, ofrece una oportuna mirada hacia un desastre del que muchos prefieren alejarse.

Ana (la actriz chilena Daniela Ramirez) y Francisco (el venezolano Francisco Denis) viven con su hijo (interpretado por Varek La Rosa como un adolescente impenetrable y egocéntrico) en un edificio de apartamentos bajo, elegante y moderno, insertado en la selva tropical. Su principal orgullo es una gran piscina comunitaria que ninguno de los rascacielos vecinos, más modestos, tienen. Para estos propietarios de clase media, la lucha comienza por el derecho a utilizar la piscina por sus vecinos de clase más baja.

Francisco, un hombre nervioso e inherentemente débil, observa con rabia la invasión de la “plebe” a través de sus prismáticos. Él marcha a su familia hacia la piscina para un enfrentamiento que termina, como un boomerang, en sonrisas avergonzadas. En un peligroso acto de demagogia política, parece que un funcionario municipal ha encargado a los pobres Romero el cuidado y la alimentación de un enorme hipopótamo que acaba de ser trasladado a un zoológico cercano; por lo tanto, tienen influencia y sus deseos deben respetarse. En una divertida concesión, las familias acuerdan compartir la piscina. Y sus hijos se llevan fabulosamente bien.

Mientras tanto, no todo está bien en la ciudad. Violentas pandillas de motociclistas corren carreras, sin ser vistos, cerca del edificio. Los apagones continúan prolongándose por semanas y hay tan poca agua (la mayor parte se va en llenar la piscina) que Ana necesita llenar contenedores de una fuente exterior. Nadie tiene trabajo y no hay comida en la casa. Y todos sus vecinos de buena posición están empacando lo esencial y yéndose del país. Ana recoge sus llaves en nombre de la “asociación de propietarios”; más tarde, ella hurga en los armarios a pesar de sentirse culpable, para encontrar cualquier cosa comestible, en una desesperación creciente. Está delgada por la desnutrición y la comida se ha convertido en una obsesión.

Rondón restringe la acción a un puñado de apartamentos, la piscina exterior y, poco más allá de una invisible barrera, una parte fangosa del zoológico donde el absurdamente superfluo hipopótamo disfruta de su propia piscina. Al principio le dan una generosa dieta de sandía y verduras; más tarde los Romero dejan de alimentarlo. Una astuta madre, con los pies en la tierra (interpretada con humor por Samantha Castillo de Pelo Malo), que a veces hace trueques con Ana, le da tres rodajas de sandía y le aconseja que retire las semillas y las prepare a la parrilla: así sabe como carne.

Directora: Mariana Rondón
Guionistas: Mariana Rondón, Marité Ugás
Reparto: Daniela Ramirez, Francisco Denis, Samantha Castillo, Claret Quea, Juan Carlos Colombo, Varek La Rosa, Beto Benites, Ali Rondon
Productores: Marité Ugás, Cristina Velasco, Juliette Lepoutre, Rafael Sampaio, Giancarlo Nasi, Sterlyn Ramirez, Mariana Rondón
Fotografía: Alfredo Altamirano
Edición: Isabela Monteiro de Castro
Música: Pauchi Sasaki
Sonido: Lena Esquenazi
Compañías Productoras: Sudaca Films (Perú), Paloma Negra Films (México), Still Moving (Francia), Klaxon Cultura Auiovisual (Brasil), Quijote Film (Chile), Selene Films (República Dominicana), Artefactos SF (Venezuela)
Ventas mundiales: Feelsales (España)
Lugar: Festival de Cine de San Sebastián 2024 (Horizontes Latinos)
En español
100 minutos

La sexualidad femenina vista desde el punto de vista de una mujer ha sido un “boleto caliente” en los festivales recientemente – considerando que San Sebastián abrió con una remake decepcionante de Emmanuelle que se jacta de un enfoque feminista del placer en la cama. Aparte de su título vagamente lúgubre, La virgen roja, de la directora Paula Ortiz, está muy lejos, en su asombroso relato de dos extraordinarias mujeres de la vida real: la niña prodigio Hildegart Rodriguez Carballeira, cuyos tratados adolescentes sobre sexualidad atrajeron la atención del sexólogo y reformador social Havelock Ellis, y de su brillante pero perversa madre Aurora, que deliberadamente la concibió como un experimento científico en eugenesia destinado a moldear a la niña en “la mujer perfecta”.

Filmado con humor como un dúo entre las dos mujeres principales, y salpicado de diálogo, música y cámara ingeniosos, la película se siente como un punto de llegada para Ortiz, que ha construido su carrera con sus primeras películas españolas Chrysalis y La novia y en la producción internacional Across the River and Into the Trees, basada en la última novela inconclusa de Hemingway. La Virgen Roja es una obra de arte en sí misma, y aunque el humor sigue siendo sutil, es increíble ver cómo se desarrolla la locura. Tras su presentación en el escenario de San Sebastián, esta coproducción hispano-americana de Amazon no debería tener problemas para encontrar público en festivales e incluso más allá.

Hay matices de Bella Baxter de la película Poor Things aquí, al ver cómo un progenitor abusa horriblemente de una joven vida humana en un experimento que inevitablemente va a salir mal, en este caso trágicamente. Como la madre maniática que cree – realmente cree – que es dueña de su hija, la actriz y cantante Najwa Nimri es un rayo de gélida electricidad, y su memorable contenida actuación como la madre infernal debe convertirse en un meme del género. La primera parte de la película se narra en la voz tranquila y razonable de Aurora mientras describe su desprecio por los hombres y su decisión de tener un hijo que era “todo suyo”. La mejor manera de hacer esto, razonó, era quedar embarazada por el párroco, porque él era el único hombre que nunca reclamaría descendencia. Sorprendentemente, esto sucede en Galicia en 1914.

Bajo el estricto y severo programa educativo de Aurora, la bebé Hildegart lee a los 2 años, escribe a los 3 y habla seis idiomas a los 8. También es increíblemente dócil y confía en su madre-maestra. Un día Aurora toma una enorme tijera y le corta las trenzas. Así aparece una atractiva joven de 16 años (interpretada con entusiasmo por la fresca y ya dominante Alba Planas) con una corta y abundante melena y un intelecto monstruoso que supera incluso al de su madre. Todavía sigue el horario de mamá, que incluye largas horas de lectura de filosofía y política sobre los derechos de las mujeres y la reforma social, alternadas con ejercicios físicos y ensayos escritos en una gran máquina de escribir – incluso en la mesa mientras come.

Una de sus primeras obras serias, escrita sobre el amor y la sexualidad femeninos, es publicada por el progresista de izquierda Eduard de Guzman (representado por un Pepe Viyuela de ojos chispeantes). Al principio sospecha que Aurora escribió el apasionado y erudito texto sobre los cuerpos de las mujeres (¿qué podría saber una chica sobre sexo?), pero cuando Hildegart abre la boca es evidente que la joven tiene todas las respuestas. El año es 1931 y la monarquía acaba de caer, allanando el camino para la fundación de la Segunda República Española. En un estado de ánimo triunfal, una enorme multitud de gente común sale a las calles mientras Hildegart y Aurora nerviosamente se abren camino entre ellos. Aquí surge una diferencia significativa en su pensamiento: Aurora es una progresista que prefiere teorizar sobre la libertad, pero que odia el caos de la política socialista, donde todos tienen voz. Para Hildegart, por el contrario, significa pasar de la teoría a la práctica.

La oportunidad aparece cuando un joven y encantador escritor, Abel Vilella (Patrick Criado), la invita a una reunión del partido socialista. Naturalmente, Aurora siempre está a su lado diciéndole qué decir y qué hacer. Pero cuando Hildegart sube al escenario frente a un mar de hombres y lanza un mordaz discurso sobre la ausencia de otras mujeres en la sala, es electrizante. Aurora está preocupada.

Aún peor, para su madre es la obvia atracción entre Hildegart y Abel. La ayudante doméstica, Macarena, ayuda a la chica a escabullirse de mamá – que le ha informado firmemente a su hija que el amor es una pérdida de tiempo intelectual. Representada por Aixa Villagran, Macarena es uno de los retratos más humanos y penetrantes de un sirviente que brinda el cine en mucho tiempo. Macarena, que no sabe leer las novelas románticas que ama, enciende un cigarrillo prohibido en la cocina y escucha mientras Hildegart se la lee. Se hace evidente que aunque la niña ha sido sometida a un lavado de cerebro a lo largo de los años, todavía hay un destello de rebelión en ella que Macarena alienta, a pesar de que ella misma es una esposa maltratada que sufre sus propios males en silencio.

El trágico final de la historia no solo ha sido prefigurado, sino que es confesado con calma por la asesina en la primera escena. De todas maneras es un shock indignante cuando Ortiz deja, lenta y metódicamente, que sus actores representen la escena. Permaneciendo fiel a sus ideas hasta el final, Aurora no muestra el menor arrepentimiento en su juicio, declarando: “El escultor, después de descubrir la más mínima imperfección en su obra, la destruye.”

La conmovedora escena final reproduce fotografías de 1933 del cortejo fúnebre de Hildegart, seguido por una gran multitud de personas que conocieron y admiraron a la joven que defendió la igualdad de las mujeres en 16 libros y 150 artículos de prensa escritos en los últimos tres años de su vida.

Directora: Paula Ortiz

Guión: Eduard Sola, Clara Roquet

Productores: Maria Zamora, Stefan Schmitz

Reparto: Najwa Nimri, Alba Planas, Aixa Villagrán, Patrick Criado, Pepe Viyuela Cinematografía:  Pedro J. Márquez

Edición: Pablo Gómez-Pan

Diseño de producción: Javier Alvarino

Diseño del vestuario: Arantxa Ezquerro

Música: Juanma Latorre, Guille Galvan

Sonido: Coque Fernandez Lahera, Alex F. Capilla, Nacho Royo-Villanova

Compañías Productoras: Elastica Films (España), Avalon Productora Cinematografica (España), Amazon Alternative LLC (EE.UU.)

Lugar: Festival de Cine de San Sebastián (Selección oficial)

En español, inglés y francés

114 minutos

Ser una mujer sin hijos se ha convertido en un tema de debate público que incluso afecta a la campaña electoral estadounidense. En Querido trópico, los personajes principales no tienen hijos que las acompañen. Mercedes (Mechi), la rica matrona, está sola a pesar de tener hijos grandes que mantienen su distancia. La otra, Ana María, es su cuidadora que anhela – o llora la pérdida de – un bebé.

La actriz chilena Paulina Garcia (Oso de Plata en Berlin por Gloria) destaca en su interpretación, que no oculta defectos, de Mechi. Su cuidadora, Ana María, interpretada por Jenny Navarrete (El otro hijo), que también destaca en un papel reservado sumiso, es una inmigrante colombiana con estatus laboral precario en Panamá. Su patrona Mechi está mostrando signos de demencia, pero mantiene un comportamiento altanero que se vuelve cada vez más irrelevante e incluso humorístico cuando intenta disimular su vulnerabilidad. Las sutiles tensiones entre estas dos mujeres solitarias impulsan la trama y ayudan a explorar cuestiones de lealtad, codependencia y encajonamiento social.

Querido trópico evita ser demasiado sentimental mostrando los caprichos y las tentaciones de Mechi. Ella se niega a usar un bastón; fuma cigarrillos a escondidas y se embadurna la cara con mermelada de fresa. Está perdiendo su razón mientras trata de mantener su dignidad. La chilena y su cuidadora colombiana comentan los excesos del clima tropical de Panamá: la nostalgia de Ana María por su nativa Cali se manifiesta con el sonido sutil de olas y campanas de viento. La cámara la muestra enmarcada a través de las ventanas de una sala de maternidad de un hospital o dentro del armario sofocante de su empleadora. Canaliza su anhelo y pérdida a través de un falso embarazo; es desgarrador escuchar sus conversaciones con mujeres embarazadas en salas de espera de médicos y encuentros casuales, donde palabras descuidadas hieren sus sentimientos.

Mechi está totalmente integrada en la alta sociedad panameña, pero sigue siendo una extranjera: exasperada por el calor húmedo de los trópicos, anhela el clima fresco de su Chile natal. Sus hijos han crecido y se han alejado, evitando responsabilidades hacia la madre. En la tradición de las sociedades machistas, los tres hijos varones de Mechi solo aparecen para su cumpleaños, mientras que su única hija mujer resuelve y administra los problemas domésticos de su madre. Los hijos siguen en una negación conveniente sobre el deterioro de su madre, y sus nietas huyen cuando Mechi arruina la celebración del cumpleaños con su incoherencia e incontinencia.

Las dos inmigrantes ilustran las paradojas de Ciudad de Panamá, que oculta una pobreza en medio de su lujoso estilo de vida. La difícil situación de los inmigrantes indocumentados se da en todo el mundo, pero las diferencias específicas de clase y riqueza de América Latina se expresan acertadamente en la decoración, el lenguaje y el vestuario de la película. Es divertido ver como esos símbolos de status se van gradualmente desvaneciendo a medida que la mente de Mechi se libera de convenciones, inhibiciones y prejuicios.

La experiencia de Endara como directora de documentales se demuestra en su atención a detalles que revelan estados de ánimo y mentalidad: el exuberante jardín de orquídeas de Mechi, las lluvias torrenciales, el calor sofocante, los ventiladores giratorios, los loros enjaulados y la proliferación de insectos. El frenético bullicio de la ciudad de Panamá solo se vislumbra cuando Mechi escapa descalza en medio del tráfico, rodeada de coches y rascacielos. Su jardín y el parque cercano se convierten en refugios para ambas protagonistas, donde pueden disfrutar de la naturaleza y nutrirse del agua de lluvia. El guion de Endara incorpora pequeños y elocuentes gestos: pintar las uñas de las manos de su cliente se convierte en un acto de amor y devoción para Ana María; compartir una sopa despierta los instintos maternales de Mechi. ¿Es demasiado santa Ana María? Demuestra una paciencia y resiliencia extraordinarias, pero también está motivada por la promesa de un permiso de trabajo (“mis papeles”). Su patrona, Mechi, resiente ser tratada como una tonta gagá, pero aun así, los lazos genuinos florecen gradualmente entre las dos.

La perspectiva feminista de Endara nunca se vuelve demasiado didáctica o pesada. La película podría haberse beneficiado de una edición más ajustada; pero su torpor tropical se convierte en una buena metáfora para el descenso de Mechi a la demencia. No todo es pesimismo y fatalidad, sin embargo, ya que hay sutiles ironías y pequeñas alegrías que marcan la trama, y las dos almas solitarias se conectan, comportándose como amigas de la infancia, acurrucadas bajo la lluvia y compartiendo confidencias. La demencia se convierte incluso en un escudo para las mentiras de Ana María, ya que nadie le cree a Mechi cuando dejar escapar alguna verdad.

Querido trópico se agrega a un número creciente de películas que tratan el declive mental, en un mundo cuya población envejece rápidamente. La sutil y convincente actuación de Paulina Garcia se une a las talentosas actrices que han retratado ese descenso, entre ellas Julie Christie, Julianne Moore y Glenda Jackson. Otras grandes actrices latinoamericanas han retratado la paradoja de la codependencia entre las criadas y sus patronas (como Norma Aleandro en Cama adentro). La directora Ana Endara puede reclamar con orgullo su lugar entre esos clásicos con su Querido trópico, una historia compasiva y compleja de dos mujeres dispares que se brindan consuelo y cariño.

Dirección: Ana Endara

Guionistas: Pilar Moreno y Ana Endara

Reparto: Paulina García (Mechi), Jenny Navarrete (Ana María), Juliette Roy (Jimena)

Diseño de sonido: Carlos García

Productora: Isabella Galvez, Coproductora Joan Gomez

Fotografía: Nicolás Wong

Edición: Bertrand Conard

Productoras: Mente Pública, Big Sur Películas y Mansa Productora

Ventas mundiales: FiGa Films

Eventos: Toronto 2024, San Sebastian 2024 (Horizontes Latinos)

Panamá/Colombia, 2024

En español

108 minutos