avis de Rafa_halfeld
Cette page présente tous les avis écrits par Rafa_halfeld, partageant ses réflexions détaillées sur les films, les séries, etc.
5 commentaires
:::Watched at Scandinavian Film Festival:::
Joachim Trier's Sentimental Value is a deeply resonant family drama that eschews melodrama for emotional authenticity and psychological nuance. The film is centred on Nora, played with great restraint by Renate Reinsve, who is forced to confront her estranged filmmaker father, Gustav (Stellan Skarsgård), after the death of her mother. The family home in Oslo emerges as both setting and symbol-a container for memories and scars-which Gustav hopes to immortalise through his latest cinematic project.
Trier handles the motif of inherited trauma with tact, refusing to indulge in manipulative sentimentality. Instead, the narrative unfolds gently, through carefully observed interactions and silences. Nora, a stage actress paralysed by anxiety and divided loyalties, is caught between the burdens of family history and the demands of performance. Reinsve imbues her character with a delicate sense of unease that never spills over into theatrics, while Skarsgård navigates Gustav's arrogance and regret with a similarly subtle touch. The supporting cast, specifically Inga Ibsdotter Lilleaas as Nora's sister Agnes, adds depth to the film's meditation on the countless ways familial love and resentment can coexist.
The script delicately questions the ethics of artistic catharsis, as Gustav asks Nora to recreate painful family events on camera-prompting sharp consideration of the cost of using real trauma for art. Elle Fanning, as an eager Hollywood star parachuted into the family's drama, serves as both mirror and foil to Nora, further sharpening the film's self-examination of performance, legacy, and authenticity.
Visually, Sentimental Value is quietly gorgeous, its crystalline light and carefully composed frames echoing the story's sense of longing and the weight of the past. Trier's refined direction and restrained musical choices allow every emotional beat to register fully.
What endures is the film's generosity and honesty. It does not force reconciliation but gently suggests that understanding alone could be redemptive. Sentimental Value is demanding, reflective, and full of love for flawed people, confirming Trier as one of the most perceptive filmmakers working today.
Joachim Trier's Sentimental Value is a deeply resonant family drama that eschews melodrama for emotional authenticity and psychological nuance. The film is centred on Nora, played with great restraint by Renate Reinsve, who is forced to confront her estranged filmmaker father, Gustav (Stellan Skarsgård), after the death of her mother. The family home in Oslo emerges as both setting and symbol-a container for memories and scars-which Gustav hopes to immortalise through his latest cinematic project.
Trier handles the motif of inherited trauma with tact, refusing to indulge in manipulative sentimentality. Instead, the narrative unfolds gently, through carefully observed interactions and silences. Nora, a stage actress paralysed by anxiety and divided loyalties, is caught between the burdens of family history and the demands of performance. Reinsve imbues her character with a delicate sense of unease that never spills over into theatrics, while Skarsgård navigates Gustav's arrogance and regret with a similarly subtle touch. The supporting cast, specifically Inga Ibsdotter Lilleaas as Nora's sister Agnes, adds depth to the film's meditation on the countless ways familial love and resentment can coexist.
The script delicately questions the ethics of artistic catharsis, as Gustav asks Nora to recreate painful family events on camera-prompting sharp consideration of the cost of using real trauma for art. Elle Fanning, as an eager Hollywood star parachuted into the family's drama, serves as both mirror and foil to Nora, further sharpening the film's self-examination of performance, legacy, and authenticity.
Visually, Sentimental Value is quietly gorgeous, its crystalline light and carefully composed frames echoing the story's sense of longing and the weight of the past. Trier's refined direction and restrained musical choices allow every emotional beat to register fully.
What endures is the film's generosity and honesty. It does not force reconciliation but gently suggests that understanding alone could be redemptive. Sentimental Value is demanding, reflective, and full of love for flawed people, confirming Trier as one of the most perceptive filmmakers working today.
***Watched at Scandinavian Film Festival***
Zinnini Elkington's directorial debut "Det andet offer" ("Second Victims") emerges as one of 2025's most emotionally devastating character studies, a film that strips away any romanticism from the medical profession to reveal the profound psychological toll of life-and-death decisions. Set within the claustrophobic confines of an understaffed Danish hospital, this 92-minute tour de force transforms a single, catastrophic shift into a masterclass of sustained tension and moral complexity.
The film follows Alexandra, a skilled neurologist whose unwavering confidence becomes her greatest liability when a routine case spirals into tragedy. Elkington's screenplay, inspired by the real-life psychological syndrome affecting healthcare workers after traumatic patient care events, steers clear of medical procedural conventions in favour of intimate psychological portraiture. The opening sequence-a remarkable long take tracing Alexandra through her morning routine-immediately establishes both her competence and the institutional pressures that will ultimately compromise her judgement.
Özlem Saglanmak delivers a powerhouse performance, anchoring the film's emotional heft. Her portrayal of Alexandra's gradual descent from professional confidence to paralysing self-doubt feels authentically lived-in, never tipping into melodramatic excess. Particularly effective is her interplay with Trine Dyrholm, whose grieving mother becomes both antagonist and mirror for Alexandra's guilt. The supporting ensemble convincingly creates an ecosystem of overworked professionals making split-second decisions under relentless pressure.
Elkington's direction demonstrates remarkable restraint and precision. The filmmaker uses the hospital's sterile corridors and fluorescent lighting to create an atmosphere of mounting dread, while the documentary-like cinematography heightens the raw authenticity of every encounter. Filming on location at an active hospital lends proceedings an unsettling realism that feels uncomfortably immediate.
Where the film truly excels is in its unflinching examination of systemic healthcare failures. Rather than scapegoating individuals, Elkington offers a nuanced critique of understaffing, time pressures, and institutional indifference-a message resonating well beyond Denmark's borders. A staff meeting scene, in which administrators allocate mere minutes to address harrowing events, quietly encapsulates the dehumanising side of efficiency.
"Second Victims" stands as a vital new entry in the genre of medical drama, refusing the easy comforts and neat resolutions typical of hospital stories. Instead, Elkington presents healthcare as a fundamentally human-and thus fallible-endeavour, asking confronting questions about blame, responsibility and the structures that shape both suffering and survival.
Zinnini Elkington's directorial debut "Det andet offer" ("Second Victims") emerges as one of 2025's most emotionally devastating character studies, a film that strips away any romanticism from the medical profession to reveal the profound psychological toll of life-and-death decisions. Set within the claustrophobic confines of an understaffed Danish hospital, this 92-minute tour de force transforms a single, catastrophic shift into a masterclass of sustained tension and moral complexity.
The film follows Alexandra, a skilled neurologist whose unwavering confidence becomes her greatest liability when a routine case spirals into tragedy. Elkington's screenplay, inspired by the real-life psychological syndrome affecting healthcare workers after traumatic patient care events, steers clear of medical procedural conventions in favour of intimate psychological portraiture. The opening sequence-a remarkable long take tracing Alexandra through her morning routine-immediately establishes both her competence and the institutional pressures that will ultimately compromise her judgement.
Özlem Saglanmak delivers a powerhouse performance, anchoring the film's emotional heft. Her portrayal of Alexandra's gradual descent from professional confidence to paralysing self-doubt feels authentically lived-in, never tipping into melodramatic excess. Particularly effective is her interplay with Trine Dyrholm, whose grieving mother becomes both antagonist and mirror for Alexandra's guilt. The supporting ensemble convincingly creates an ecosystem of overworked professionals making split-second decisions under relentless pressure.
Elkington's direction demonstrates remarkable restraint and precision. The filmmaker uses the hospital's sterile corridors and fluorescent lighting to create an atmosphere of mounting dread, while the documentary-like cinematography heightens the raw authenticity of every encounter. Filming on location at an active hospital lends proceedings an unsettling realism that feels uncomfortably immediate.
Where the film truly excels is in its unflinching examination of systemic healthcare failures. Rather than scapegoating individuals, Elkington offers a nuanced critique of understaffing, time pressures, and institutional indifference-a message resonating well beyond Denmark's borders. A staff meeting scene, in which administrators allocate mere minutes to address harrowing events, quietly encapsulates the dehumanising side of efficiency.
"Second Victims" stands as a vital new entry in the genre of medical drama, refusing the easy comforts and neat resolutions typical of hospital stories. Instead, Elkington presents healthcare as a fundamentally human-and thus fallible-endeavour, asking confronting questions about blame, responsibility and the structures that shape both suffering and survival.
Watched on Sydney Film Festival 2025
Jafar Panahi's Palme d'Or winner, It Was Just an Accident, isn't just a film; it's a gripping, morally fraught journey that grabs you and refuses to let go long after the credits roll. Forget a simple fender bender - this story ignites when a minor traffic scrape leads former political prisoner Vahid to believe he's cornered "Peg Leg," the man who brutally tortured him years before. Talk about wrong place, wrong time... or is it?
Panahi plunges us straight into the suffocating tension. Vahid gathers fellow survivors, each etched with their own raw pain and simmering rage, turning a car ride into a claustrophobic tribunal. Their desperate mission? To confirm the terrified captive Ebrahim Azizi's identity and decide his fate. It's here the film truly digs its claws in, forcing you to grapple alongside them: Where does the desperate need for justice end and the cycle of vengeance begin? Can victims ever be justified in mirroring their oppressor's cruelty? Panahi masterfully blurs these lines, offering zero easy outs.
The brilliance lies in the raw humanity. While exploring the primal pull of revenge - that fierce, almost instinctive reclaiming of power - the film never loses sight of the complex, painful possibility of forgiveness. It's not presented as some saintly virtue, but as a messy, agonising internal battle played out on the faces of a stunningly authentic, mostly non-professional cast. Their barely contained fury sits right alongside profound vulnerability. Can empathy survive such deep scars?
Don't mistake this for unrelenting gloom, though. Panahi weaves in moments of sharp, absurdist gallows humour that land perfectly, highlighting the surreal contradictions of life under the boot. Visually restrained but emotionally potent, the film relies on evocative camerawork and powerhouse subtle performances. The deliberate pacing makes you sit with every gut-wrenching dilemma and fleeting connection.
Ultimately, It Was Just an Accident transcends revenge thriller territory. A pivotal, unexpected third-act twist delivers a stunning gut-punch: a stark reminder that even amidst profound trauma, a flicker of human compassion can endure. The devastating climax and its haunting final moments linger, leaving you with a fragile sense of hope wrestled from the jaws of despair. Panahi crafts a defiant, unforgettable cinematic challenge - a film that doesn't just tell a story, but forces you to confront the darkest corners of justice, power, and whether healing is even possible. It demands your attention and refuses to offer simple answers. Fair crack of the whip, this one sticks with you.
Jafar Panahi's Palme d'Or winner, It Was Just an Accident, isn't just a film; it's a gripping, morally fraught journey that grabs you and refuses to let go long after the credits roll. Forget a simple fender bender - this story ignites when a minor traffic scrape leads former political prisoner Vahid to believe he's cornered "Peg Leg," the man who brutally tortured him years before. Talk about wrong place, wrong time... or is it?
Panahi plunges us straight into the suffocating tension. Vahid gathers fellow survivors, each etched with their own raw pain and simmering rage, turning a car ride into a claustrophobic tribunal. Their desperate mission? To confirm the terrified captive Ebrahim Azizi's identity and decide his fate. It's here the film truly digs its claws in, forcing you to grapple alongside them: Where does the desperate need for justice end and the cycle of vengeance begin? Can victims ever be justified in mirroring their oppressor's cruelty? Panahi masterfully blurs these lines, offering zero easy outs.
The brilliance lies in the raw humanity. While exploring the primal pull of revenge - that fierce, almost instinctive reclaiming of power - the film never loses sight of the complex, painful possibility of forgiveness. It's not presented as some saintly virtue, but as a messy, agonising internal battle played out on the faces of a stunningly authentic, mostly non-professional cast. Their barely contained fury sits right alongside profound vulnerability. Can empathy survive such deep scars?
Don't mistake this for unrelenting gloom, though. Panahi weaves in moments of sharp, absurdist gallows humour that land perfectly, highlighting the surreal contradictions of life under the boot. Visually restrained but emotionally potent, the film relies on evocative camerawork and powerhouse subtle performances. The deliberate pacing makes you sit with every gut-wrenching dilemma and fleeting connection.
Ultimately, It Was Just an Accident transcends revenge thriller territory. A pivotal, unexpected third-act twist delivers a stunning gut-punch: a stark reminder that even amidst profound trauma, a flicker of human compassion can endure. The devastating climax and its haunting final moments linger, leaving you with a fragile sense of hope wrestled from the jaws of despair. Panahi crafts a defiant, unforgettable cinematic challenge - a film that doesn't just tell a story, but forces you to confront the darkest corners of justice, power, and whether healing is even possible. It demands your attention and refuses to offer simple answers. Fair crack of the whip, this one sticks with you.
The Coen Brothers' adaptation of Cormac McCarthy's novel stands as one of cinema's most uncompromising examinations of fate, violence, and the inexorable passage of time. Upon revisiting this masterwork through the lens of contemporary criticism, No Country for Old Men emerges not merely as a thriller, but as a profound philosophical statement about humanity's diminishing capacity to comprehend evil in an increasingly complex world.
Central to the film's power is Javier Bardem's Anton Chigurh, a performance that transcends typical antagonist archetypes to embody something far more disturbing: the personification of inexorable fate. Bardem's portrayal, described by critics as "eerily memorable", transforms what could have been a simple psychopath into a philosophical force. His famous coin-toss scenes function not as moments of suspense, but as moral interrogations that strip away the illusion of human agency. When he asks victims, "What's the most you ever lost in a coin toss?", he's essentially challenging the very notion that human choice matters in the face of predetermined outcomes.
Roger Deakins' cinematography provides the visual foundation for this existential exploration. His approach, characterised by static shots and natural lighting, creates what critics call "a masterclass in minimalism". The sun-bleached landscapes of West Texas become more than mere backdrops; they transform into visual metaphors for moral desolation. Deakins deliberately avoids unnecessary camera movement, allowing scenes to breathe and tension to build organically. This restraint mirrors the film's broader philosophical stance: in a world where violence erupts suddenly and meaninglessly, stillness becomes its own form of commentary.
The film's controversial ending continues to polarise audiences years after its release. Critics who dismiss the conclusion as anticlimactic miss the point entirely. Sheriff Bell's retirement and his final dream sequence represent the true heart of the narrative-not Llewelyn Moss's cat-and-mouse game with Chigurh, but Bell's recognition of his own inadequacy in the face of incomprehensible evil. The ending confirms what perceptive viewers suspected all along: this was never Moss's story, but Bell's reckoning with a world that has outpaced his capacity to understand it.
Sound design in No Country for Old Men deserves particular recognition for its restraint. The absence of a traditional musical score forces audiences to confront the stark reality of the narrative without emotional cushioning. The Coen Brothers' decision to rely on ambient sound-wind, footsteps, the mechanical click of Chigurh's cattle gun-creates an atmosphere of existential dread that no orchestral score could match. This sonic minimalism reinforces the film's central theme: in a morally vacant landscape, silence speaks louder than any dramatic flourish.
The film's exploration of violence deliberately subverts genre expectations. Rather than glorifying confrontation, it presents violence as sudden, meaningless, and ultimately hollow. Moss's death occurs off-screen, killed not by the relentless Chigurh but by random Mexican bandits-a narrative choice that emphasises the arbitrary nature of fate over the satisfaction of dramatic resolution. This approach frustrated some critics who expected conventional thriller payoffs, but it serves the film's larger philosophical purpose: demonstrating how traditional notions of heroism and justice collapse when confronted with pure, amoral force.
What emerges from this examination is a film that operates simultaneously as genre entertainment and philosophical meditation. The Coen Brothers have crafted a work that satisfies neither viewers seeking conventional thrills nor those expecting easy moral resolution. Instead, No Country for Old Men presents a vision of America where evil exists not as something to be defeated, but as something to be endured or escaped. It remains, nearly two decades later, a singular achievement in contemporary cinema-a work that uses the language of popular entertainment to explore the most fundamental questions about human nature, moral responsibility, and the price of living in a world where, as Ellis tells Bell, "you can't stop what's coming".
Central to the film's power is Javier Bardem's Anton Chigurh, a performance that transcends typical antagonist archetypes to embody something far more disturbing: the personification of inexorable fate. Bardem's portrayal, described by critics as "eerily memorable", transforms what could have been a simple psychopath into a philosophical force. His famous coin-toss scenes function not as moments of suspense, but as moral interrogations that strip away the illusion of human agency. When he asks victims, "What's the most you ever lost in a coin toss?", he's essentially challenging the very notion that human choice matters in the face of predetermined outcomes.
Roger Deakins' cinematography provides the visual foundation for this existential exploration. His approach, characterised by static shots and natural lighting, creates what critics call "a masterclass in minimalism". The sun-bleached landscapes of West Texas become more than mere backdrops; they transform into visual metaphors for moral desolation. Deakins deliberately avoids unnecessary camera movement, allowing scenes to breathe and tension to build organically. This restraint mirrors the film's broader philosophical stance: in a world where violence erupts suddenly and meaninglessly, stillness becomes its own form of commentary.
The film's controversial ending continues to polarise audiences years after its release. Critics who dismiss the conclusion as anticlimactic miss the point entirely. Sheriff Bell's retirement and his final dream sequence represent the true heart of the narrative-not Llewelyn Moss's cat-and-mouse game with Chigurh, but Bell's recognition of his own inadequacy in the face of incomprehensible evil. The ending confirms what perceptive viewers suspected all along: this was never Moss's story, but Bell's reckoning with a world that has outpaced his capacity to understand it.
Sound design in No Country for Old Men deserves particular recognition for its restraint. The absence of a traditional musical score forces audiences to confront the stark reality of the narrative without emotional cushioning. The Coen Brothers' decision to rely on ambient sound-wind, footsteps, the mechanical click of Chigurh's cattle gun-creates an atmosphere of existential dread that no orchestral score could match. This sonic minimalism reinforces the film's central theme: in a morally vacant landscape, silence speaks louder than any dramatic flourish.
The film's exploration of violence deliberately subverts genre expectations. Rather than glorifying confrontation, it presents violence as sudden, meaningless, and ultimately hollow. Moss's death occurs off-screen, killed not by the relentless Chigurh but by random Mexican bandits-a narrative choice that emphasises the arbitrary nature of fate over the satisfaction of dramatic resolution. This approach frustrated some critics who expected conventional thriller payoffs, but it serves the film's larger philosophical purpose: demonstrating how traditional notions of heroism and justice collapse when confronted with pure, amoral force.
What emerges from this examination is a film that operates simultaneously as genre entertainment and philosophical meditation. The Coen Brothers have crafted a work that satisfies neither viewers seeking conventional thrills nor those expecting easy moral resolution. Instead, No Country for Old Men presents a vision of America where evil exists not as something to be defeated, but as something to be endured or escaped. It remains, nearly two decades later, a singular achievement in contemporary cinema-a work that uses the language of popular entertainment to explore the most fundamental questions about human nature, moral responsibility, and the price of living in a world where, as Ellis tells Bell, "you can't stop what's coming".
Watched on Sydney Film Festival 2025
Watching Kleber Mendonça Filho's "The Secret Agent" feels less like observing a story unfold, and more like stepping into the humid, throbbing heart of Recife during Brazil's 1977 military rule. Forget the usual spy thriller beats; this is something far stranger, richer, and ultimately more haunting. It wraps you in the feverish embrace of Carnaval, not as spectacle, but as a desperate refuge for Marcelo (a profoundly compelling Wagner Moura), a researcher on the run seeking camouflage in the very city that birthed him.
What lingers isn't just the plot, but the film's insistent, almost physical question: what survives when history tries to erase itself? Mendonça Filho, a son of Recife pouring his own lifeblood into every frame, suggests memory itself is the battleground. He meticulously rebuilds a world - the textures of the time, the sidelong glances, the oppressive heat - not just for accuracy, but to etch onto the screen the stories official archives ignored. We feel the quiet terror faced by LGBTQ+ folk, witness the exploitation shadowing indigenous workers, see how the city itself becomes a living archive, a character pulsing with secrets and scars. Marcelo moves through it all with a fugitive's alertness, yet also with the weary, amused detachment of a tourist in his own collapsing world, adding a layer of profound melancholy.
The film possesses an extraordinary, unhurried confidence. It breathes. It pauses for moments of bizarre humour, startling eroticism, or pure, aching sadness. Mendonça Filho is a sensualist, weaving a tapestry of sound - distant drums, whispered conversations, the city's own rhythm - and texture. He isn't afraid of the surreal: a severed leg appears, sexuality is presented with startling frankness, and meanings shimmer just below the surface like heat haze, resisting easy capture. That deliberate pace, stretching towards two hours and forty minutes, isn't indulgence; it's the very fabric of the experience. It demands your presence, inviting you not just to watch, but to inhabit Recife's streets and Marcelo's precarious existence.
"The Secret Agent" isn't merely watched; it's absorbed through the skin. It's a challenging, deeply rewarding journey into the weight of the past and the fragile resilience of memory. This is filmmaking of rare courage, unafraid to linger in the uncomfortable spaces, to make us feel the ghosts whispering in Recife's humid air. It's a testament to the power of cinema to hold history close, ensuring some truths, at least, refuse to be forgotten.
Watching Kleber Mendonça Filho's "The Secret Agent" feels less like observing a story unfold, and more like stepping into the humid, throbbing heart of Recife during Brazil's 1977 military rule. Forget the usual spy thriller beats; this is something far stranger, richer, and ultimately more haunting. It wraps you in the feverish embrace of Carnaval, not as spectacle, but as a desperate refuge for Marcelo (a profoundly compelling Wagner Moura), a researcher on the run seeking camouflage in the very city that birthed him.
What lingers isn't just the plot, but the film's insistent, almost physical question: what survives when history tries to erase itself? Mendonça Filho, a son of Recife pouring his own lifeblood into every frame, suggests memory itself is the battleground. He meticulously rebuilds a world - the textures of the time, the sidelong glances, the oppressive heat - not just for accuracy, but to etch onto the screen the stories official archives ignored. We feel the quiet terror faced by LGBTQ+ folk, witness the exploitation shadowing indigenous workers, see how the city itself becomes a living archive, a character pulsing with secrets and scars. Marcelo moves through it all with a fugitive's alertness, yet also with the weary, amused detachment of a tourist in his own collapsing world, adding a layer of profound melancholy.
The film possesses an extraordinary, unhurried confidence. It breathes. It pauses for moments of bizarre humour, startling eroticism, or pure, aching sadness. Mendonça Filho is a sensualist, weaving a tapestry of sound - distant drums, whispered conversations, the city's own rhythm - and texture. He isn't afraid of the surreal: a severed leg appears, sexuality is presented with startling frankness, and meanings shimmer just below the surface like heat haze, resisting easy capture. That deliberate pace, stretching towards two hours and forty minutes, isn't indulgence; it's the very fabric of the experience. It demands your presence, inviting you not just to watch, but to inhabit Recife's streets and Marcelo's precarious existence.
"The Secret Agent" isn't merely watched; it's absorbed through the skin. It's a challenging, deeply rewarding journey into the weight of the past and the fragile resilience of memory. This is filmmaking of rare courage, unafraid to linger in the uncomfortable spaces, to make us feel the ghosts whispering in Recife's humid air. It's a testament to the power of cinema to hold history close, ensuring some truths, at least, refuse to be forgotten.