NYFF '24: "Suburban Fury" tells the tall tale of a wannabee Presidential Assassin

by Cláudio Alves

On September 22nd, 1975, just seventeen days after Squeaky Fromme had attempted the same, Sara Jane Moore fired at President Gerald Ford. Neither of the 45-year-old woman's shots hit their target, though she came dangerously close. Had Moore noticed the sight on her revolver was 6 inches misplaced, she might have done it. Such violent actions came less than two years after this housewife from the San Francisco suburbs had been recruited by the FBI as an informant, going into militant groups and becoming radicalized in the process. Her thwarted presidential assassination led to much media hullabaloo, pithy dismissals of Moore as being "off her mind," and a life sentence, of which she served 32 years.

Nearly half a century after the shooting, director Robinson Devor puts her at the center of Suburban Fury, a new documentary where the would-be assassin is given ample opportunity to tell her own story…

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NYFF '24: "Afternoons of Solitude" is a Barbaric Beauty

by Cláudio Alves

When I was very young, I remember being besotted by bullfighting. Around where I grew up, the so-called art of the "tourada" was fundamental to the local culture, a noble practice to be celebrated. My parents were a tad horrified by my interest, and I was an ignorant child. For some reason, I had never realized what was happening in the arena, too blinded by the matador's glamorous figure, the dance-like spectacle, and the thunderous applause. But seeing it live and then watching TV recordings, I realized something. What I thought were theatrical tricks and mud were actual violence and blood splatter. Back then, I dreamed of being a vet, so the thought of all that animal pain made me feel nothing but revulsion for what I once found beautiful.

I was reminded of this while watching Albert Serra's Afternoons of Solitude, a documentary on Peruvian-born "torero" Andrés Roca Rey which earned the Catalan director the biggest prize at this year's San Sebastián Film Festival. For once, I saw some of the beauty again, along with the brutality and the horror. I felt tears in my eyes and nausea erupt from within. Quite the cinematic experience…

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NYFF '24: "bluish" paints post-COVID malaise in many shades

by Nick Taylor

A quick note of appreciation: I am so excited to have received press accreditation to digitally cover this year’s New York Film Festival. This is pretty amazing! Even if I’m sitting at home, nestling with my man and our cats for a good movie rather than sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with the likes of Payal Kapadia and Mati Diop, this is a version of a dream fulfilled. Honestly, being able to appreciate a film festival without being separated from the kids might even be the preferable option? Much to consider.

But enough about me! Instead let’s talk about bluish, the very first film I watched as part of this NYFF coverage. Directed by Milena Czernovsky and Lilith Kraxner, bluish follows two unnamed young women played by Leonie Bramberger and Natasha Goncharova, navigating life in an Austrian metropolis that should feel more lively than it is. The city and the protagonists are stumbling through a post-lockdown balance of intimacy and isolation. There’s still noise and color and motion, but it all feels so fragile now, so much harder to participate in. bluish is a sad film, but it’s also one of the most evocative portraits of trying to reintegrate into society and full personhood in the wake of COVID (which is still happening, by the way!!) I’ve seen yet...

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NYFF '24: Portuguese pastoral poetry in "Fire of Wind"

by Cláudio Alves

The first thing one notices about Marta Mateus' feature debut, Fire of Wind, is its striking look. A vineyard extends as far as the eye can see and the camera gobbles up every detail, crisp and razor-sharp in that way digital filmmaking so often is. The visual style is almost aggressive in how much texture it seeks to pack into every shot, a spin on haptic cinema that ensures the spectator considers each line in the grapevine and the rustle of plump windswept leaf. You can almost count the blades of dry grass below, far into the distance, as there's no artful shallow focus here, no anamorphic distortion or other trendy affectations of the cinematic image. It looks like little else out there – not even the films of Fire of Wind producer Pedro Costa...

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NYFF '24: "Viêt and Nam" finds heaven underground

by Cláudio Alves

In the darkness of the movie theater, filmmakers can conjure images the audience has never dreamed of. Sometimes, they reveal the impossible, dreams that only exist on the silver screen, that looking glass in endless molten metamorphosis. They can reflect the audience back to themselves and the world, too. Sometimes, they're the sweet secrets within your heart or fears you never even knew you had. The power of image-making cannot nor should it be underestimated. Watching Trương Minh Quý's Viêt and Nam, I felt such power, the wonder and awe. 

And it all starts underground, at the bottom of a mine. It starts somewhere where death waits, yet freedom blossoms. It's a trip down to hell that leads to paradise, temporary as it may be…

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