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Pieles is cinema that dares to disturb-and it succeeds with perverse grace. Eduardo Casanova's feature debut is a fever dream of deformity, rejection, and radical empathy. Wrapped in candy-colored aesthetics, it peels away layers of social conditioning to expose something raw, absurd, and brutally human.

This isn't a film for the faint-hearted. It's confrontational by design-pop surrealism meets body horror-but beneath its shock lies tenderness. Each character, no matter how "grotesque," is portrayed with dignity and longing. They are outcasts not by choice, but by the cruelty of a society obsessed with symmetry, with normalcy, with perfection.

Casanova directs like a fashion anarchist armed with a scalpel. The visuals are pristine, almost sterile in their artificiality-bubblegum pinks, hospital whites, symmetrical compositions. And yet, the emotion bleeds through every frame. Pieles doesn't ask you to pity its characters. It asks you to see them.

It's a film about bodies, yes-but more importantly, about the unbearable weight of being trapped inside one. It questions our collective gaze, challenges the idea of beauty, and forces us to confront the violence of "normal."

Pieles is daring, disturbing, and deeply compassionate. A love letter to the misunderstood, told in scars and silence.

There are films that shimmer for a moment-and then there are films like Parthenope, which shimmer forever inside you. Paolo Sorrentino returns with a love letter not just to Naples, but to femininity, to myth, and to the radiant contradictions of youth. It is intoxicating cinema-melancholy and luminous in equal measure.

Celeste Dalla Porta is a revelation. As Parthenope, she doesn't just act-she floats, aches, and seduces the screen with a quiet force. Through her eyes, we're led into a world where beauty is worshipped, but also misunderstood. Where pleasure is fleeting, and memory-the real protagonist-is always a little blurred at the edges.

Sorrentino's Naples has never looked more dreamlike. The camera lingers like a lover: on sunlit courtyards, cigarette smoke curling into the night, bodies in motion, skin against the Mediterranean air. It's visual poetry-every frame drenched in sensuality, longing, and a reverence for the divine feminine.

But beneath its aesthetic splendor, Parthenope is deeply personal. It's a story of a girl becoming a woman in a world that gazes but rarely listens. It is about silence, solitude, and the power of stillness. And yes, it is Sorrentino's most emotionally mature work-a meditation, a memory, a myth made flesh.

Parthenope is not just seen-it is felt. Deeply. Quietly. Eternally.

Khook (Pig) is not your typical serial killer thriller-it's a wickedly strange, delightfully absurd commentary on fame, censorship, and the fragile ego of the modern artist. Mani Haghighi crafts a genre-bending fable that dances between dark comedy, psychological drama, and political satire, all against the backdrop of contemporary Iranian cinema.

At the center of the madness is Hasan-a once-renowned filmmaker now banned from making movies-who watches helplessly as someone begins decapitating Iran's top directors... and not including him on the list. The insult is unbearable. The narcissism? Delicious.

Hasan Majuni is phenomenal in the lead role. His performance is both tragic and hilarious-a man so consumed with his own relevance that he can't decide whether he's relieved or offended to be spared by the killer. He's every aging artist caught between rage and resignation, and the film turns his insecurity into a deeply human, often absurdist unraveling.

Haghighi's visual style is bold, even playful, often veering into surrealism. Neon-lit dream sequences collide with sharp social commentary. The satire is biting but never cruel-more melancholic than mocking. It's a film that embraces contradictions: it is deeply Iranian yet universally relatable, deadly serious and completely ridiculous.

Khook doesn't just skewer vanity-it roasts it over a slow flame and asks us why we're all so afraid of being forgotten.