By Jonathan Monovich.
On selections from the Snapshots (works showcasing the diversity of contemporary global cinema), Spotlight (award-winners and critical favorites), and New Directors Competition (U.S. premieres from emerging talents and new voices in international cinema)….
This year marked the 61st Chicago International Film Festival, featuring appearances by some of the world’s finest filmmakers. Notable guests included Gus Van Sant (recipient of the Visionary Award), Spike Lee (recipient of the Lifetime Achievement Award), and Kelly Reichardt (honored with a Career Retrospective). The festival’s lineup, with films from over fifty countries, included plenty of buzzworthy 2025 films like Paolo Sorrentino’s La Grazia, Radu Jude’s Kontinental ’25, Park Chan-wook’s No Other Choice, Joachim Trier’s Sentimental Value, and Jim Jarmusch’s Father Mother Sister Brother. As many of these films get their theatrical releases soon after, perhaps the most exciting aspect of the festival is in looking outside the main catalogue. Work from emerging filmmakers, titles that haven’t yet received global distribution, and films that challenge viewers always end up being some of the best experiences at the Chicago International Film Festival. Afterall, championing work outside the mainstream has been and continues to be a substantial part of the attraction of film festivals. Below are some discoveries and hidden gems from the Snapshots (works showcasing the diversity of contemporary global cinema), Spotlight (award-winners and critical favorites), and New Directors Competition (U.S. premieres from emerging talents and new voices in international cinema) sections of the festival. Like prior years, the Chicago International Film Festival remains among the greatest cinematic celebrations in the world. When asked about the importance of the Chicago International Film Festival, Spike Lee emphatically said it best: “do you know what’s a testament to what I think about this festival? The New York Knicks are playing the Boston Celtics tonight in the world’s most famous arena, Madison Square Garden, and I’m here! So, that’s your answer right there.”
Whereas Steven Soderbergh’s Kafka (1991) was more concerned with mixing Franz Kafka’s writing into his life, writer/director Agnieszka Holland’s Franz (2025) focuses on the man behind the writing and his inspirations. Franz’s narrative unfolds in a fragmented fashion, and Holland’s vision strays far from conventional biopic territory. Instead, Holland rides high on ambition. The story of the Czech production, Franz,spans Kafka’s childhood to his death, and the titular character, played by Idan Weiss, has a striking physical resemblance to the author. From the beginning, Franz lets it be known that the film you are about to watch wraps itself in abnormality; this abnormality is inclusive of fourth wall breaks, frequent bopping back and forth in time, as many quick zooms as a Shaw Brothers kung fu film, and even narration from tour guides in Prague’s modern day Kafka Museum. Known for the eccentricity of his writing, it’s understandable why Holland would want to experiment with the ways in which a biopic of Franz Kafka could be done. Holland’s vision begins with a young Kafka getting a haircut. It becomes revealed that Kafka’s father is unapproving of his writing, going so far as to call it “stupid” to his son’s face. A father’s words have great impact on a child, and Kafka’s sour relationship with his father reappears throughout the film as a source of his trauma. Naturally, as a writer, Kafka chooses his words thoughtfully, recognizing “all words have a unique, unmistakable weight.” These words don’t come without consequence for Kafka; at a public reading of his story, “In the Penal Colony,” its description of gruesome torture cause listeners to walk out in disgust. The walkouts do not seem to bother Kafka, but the lifeless response of his own parents after handing them a copy of his first novella, The Verdict, destroys him. Kafka’s father resents his son as he views his time spent writing misallocated; in the eyes of his father, the time would be better spent helping the family business.
Franz concerns itself with style, defined by quick cuts and an evermoving camera. At one point one of Kafka’s friend, Max Brod (Sebastian Schwarz) says “he [Kafka] can put into a single sentence what would take myself a dozen pages to express.” Clearly, Holland wishes to do the same in covering a lot of ground in little time with her many fast and disjointed scenes. Acknowledging that Kafka was “a writer who doesn’t like to talk,” Holland also focuses on Kafka’s psyche, his isolation, his constant internal battles, and his search for silence. The weight of Kafka’s words are later evaluated, and Holland focuses on his personal love letters and the problems they cause with his fiancée Felice (Carol Schuler). Brod also reveals that Kafka viewed himself as a failure as a writer, a son, and a man. Failure he was not, and Holland makes sure to note that the ratio of words written by Kafka to those written about him stands one to ten million. Furthermore, Holland claims “perhaps no writer has influenced the way of thinking and writing in the 20th century as deeply as Franz Kafka. And why is that? I suppose nobody really knows.” The word Kakfaesque is thrown around in literary studies just as much as Lynchian in film studies, yet the great irony remains that both Franz Kafka and David Lynch are artists whose work cannot be limited to a mere adjective. While this film’s creativity is commendable, Holland’s latest work becomes repetitive and borderline frustrating at times. Franz, like Kafka, will likely polarize audiences just as the writing that inspired the films continues to do.
Sven Bresser’s feature film debut, Reedland (2025), begins with unnerving sound design over pitch blackness. Lyckle de Jong and Mitchel van Dinther’s foreboding overture of sorts immediately signals something sinister at play. Bresser does not waste time in introducing Johan (Gerrit Knobbe), the film’s protagonist, but it quickly becomes evident that the film’s true lead actually happens to be the environment. Johan, a reed cutter, lives a minimalist life, and his labor, done by sickle, is highly manual. There is an implicit sense of pride that Johan takes in minimizing his reliance on technology. Dependent on the land and its resources, Johan holds a deep respect for the Dutch wilderness. After an intense day of bundling and burning the field’s reeds, magnificently shot by cinematographer Sam du Pon, Johan faces a life-changing encounter. The idyllic peace and serenity of the small marshland town becomes engulfed by smoke, and Johan becomes awakened to the evil that lies beneath the deceptive beauty of the reeds. Eventually, the darkness becomes literal as a tar pit presents itself to Johan and seemingly follows him home. Like Jeffrey Beaumont’s (Kyle MacLachlan) sighting of an ear in Blue Velvet (1986), Johan discovers the deceased body of a young girl. To make such a discovery would be repulsive to anyone, but Johan’s grandfather status makes the event even more traumatic. The tranquility of Johan’s life rapidly comes to a halt, and his composed demeanor begins to spiral into a state of hysteria.
Dialogue is scarce in Reedland. Bresser prefers atmospheric tension to spoken tension, and the film excels in its ability to show and not tell. For a first feature, Bresser exhibits strength in worldbuilding and aesthetics. Despite Reedland’sobvious Blue Velvet influences, down to the blue curtains, Reedland is very much its own film. Bresser offers a clear vision that feels distinctively local. Had the film not been set in the reeds of the Netherlands, the allure would dissipate. A deep personal connection to the land can be felt, and Bresser’s dark story allegorically expresses the natural world’s current frustration with humanity. Like the POV shots of The Evil Dead (1981), personifying the demon spirits traveling through the woods, du Pon shoots the wind slithering through the reeds like a snake to illustrate that the reeds have a life of their own. Bresser plays with several concepts, including man vs nature, man vs machine, man vs man, and man vs self, and the amalgamation of these many conflicts may become distracting at times, but Reedland is held together by its mundanity. The everydayness of Johan’s life is defined by routine, and the growing anomalies that upend the comfort of his familiarity drive him mad. Johan’s face rarely changes expression, yet his stoicism makes for a fascinating performance as a man defined by brewing anger. There is a parallel with the reeds who exhibit an unspoken disapproval of the evil that lurks in their shadow. Bresser’s exploration of nature’s disapproval of human disrespect of land extends to the school musical of Johan’s granddaughter. This scene comes as one of the film’s highlights, blending The Wicker Man (1973)and Moonrise Kingdom (2012).Having dedicated the film to his mother who made him “see the reeds,” Reedland clearly is very personal to Bresser, and the anger of Johan’s character likely comes from within. Overall, Reedland ends with more questions than answers, yet the film’s obscurity actually works in its favor. Allowing audiences to think continues to become rarer, yet Reeland breaks free from the barriers. Bresser deserves applause for his recognition that ambiguity best suits horror and his ability to create images that stick with you.
Ever wonder what Kojak (1973-1978) would have been like if Telly Savalas was a kid? Cara Loftus’ inventive screenplay for Spilt Milk (2024) has somewhat answered that question, following the story of a young Dubliner, Bobby O’Brien (Cillian Sullivan), who idolizes and lives his life around the ideals of Kojak. Set in 1984, Spilt Milk explores the effects of economic distress on a working-class family. The O’Briens struggle to make ends meet, yet Bobby’s innocence and his dreams of becoming a detective shield him from the harsh situation. Bobby’s father (Laurence O’Fuarain) frequently fights with his older brother, Oisin (Lewis Brophy), and Bobby’s mother (Maura O’Brien) often cries from the stress that plagues her household. Despite the yelling and arguing that surrounds Bobby, the reruns of Kojak and his imagination help give him comfort. When Oisin breaks the family’s television and gets kicked out of the house, the shield becomes broken. The parents’ exhibit a sense of relief when Oisin leaves, though Bobby instantly misses his big brother. When Bobby receives a birthday card in the mail from Oisin, he interprets his message as a sign that he is in trouble. Like Kojak, Bobby starts to put the pieces together and connect one clue to the next. Spilt Milk starts off as a cutesy adventure/mystery film, following the escapades of Bobby and his friend Nell (Naoise Kelly), but reality sinks in quite swiftly. Though the opening credits sequence displays Bobby’s spread of notebooks, magnifying glasses, and detective gadgets to the tune of a joyful synthpop beat, the tone becomes much darker over time. Bobby comes to realize that the streets are no place for children, and being a detective comes with great responsibility. Bobby doesn’t have the privilege of a fedora or a lollipop, but he remembers what Kojak would say—“quit your bellyaching.”
Brian Durnin’s direction of Spilt Milk has no room for nonsense as the film clocks in at just over ninety minutes. Paired with Colin Monie’s editing, Spilt Milk’s pacing is efficient and succinct, like a Kojak episode. Early on, Oisin tells Bobby “you’re the kid who can do anything.” Durnin does a swell job in making this seem believable; Bobby stands out amongst his peers and even has his own business, helping classmates retrieve their stolen toys. When Oisin doesn’t come back home, a part of Bobby feels absent. Spilt Milk has something special to say about the bond that brothers share and the pain that comes when that bond becomes broken. Despite the difficult circumstances that face the O’Briens, it is Bobby’s grandmother, or Nan (Pom Boyd), who helps keep the family together. She reaffirms Bobby that “being a good guy isn’t about solving every mystery” and reaffirms her grandson that “you remind us that there’s hope.” Bobby takes these words to heart and sets out to find his brother and make things right again. The mission proves to be a dangerous one and Bobby’s eyes are opened to the city’s underbelly and its troubled youth. Like Dennis Hopper’s Out of the Blue (1980), Spilt Milk is at times difficult to watch due to the raw honesty of its approach. Spilt Milk comes as a shocker given its sharp tonal shift, but the film succeeds in its ability to effectively tell a meaningful family drama.
With animation in a rut, Arco (2025) arrives like a rainbow in the sky—a joyous surprise. French animator, Ugo Bienvenu transitions from shorts, music videos, and his Ant Man (2017) series, to the big screen with Arco. The film, also written by Beinvenu, makes for a lively cinematic experience due to its combination of lively visuals, vibrant colors, and, most importantly, a well-crafted story. Set in the future, Arco begins in the year 2075. The film’s protagonist, Arco, wishes to time travel with his family, but he has two years to go before he is deemed old enough by his parents. Like a child too short to enter an amusement park ride, Arco, hears stories of how fun it is to time travel without being able to experience it himself. As sea levels have risen to unlivable heights in the future, Arco and his family live in the clouds; cleverly, Bienvenu suggests that as a species our heads too are in the clouds, ignoring the inconvenient truths that await us. With that being said, Arco does not exist to get audiences down or to preach. When Arco takes a leap of faith, attempting to time travel to see dinosaurs, he falls from the sky like Icarus and lands in 2030. Imaginatively, Beinvenu proposes that rainbows are actually time travelers. Arco’s arrival occurs shortly after another ten-year-old, Iris, makes a wish. The two befriend one another at first site. Whereas Arco confesses he sees too much of his parents, Iris wishes she saw hers more. During the week, Iris and her baby brother are raised by a robot caretaker; they are read bedtime stories by holograms of their parents, who commute home from the city on the weekends, but the separation affects the children. The rest of the film follows the bond that brews between Iris and Arco, and the friends’ effort to help Arco reunite with his family.
The English dub of Arco was screened at the festival, featuring voicework by Natalie Portman and Mark Ruffalo as Iris’ parents, America Ferrera and Roeg Sutherland as Arco’s parents, and Will Ferrell, Andy Samberg, and Flea as three stooges in pursuit of Arco. Unsurprisingly, the latter trio provides the film’s comedic relief. There are some depressing moments in Arco, hearing children say that mailboxes are only used now when there is really bad news, that houses were moved to higher ground to give the earth a rest, or a library makes for a good hiding spot because no one goes there. Even so, Beinvenu’s climate change allegory also offers glimpses of hope by its end and a touching tale of the importance of family and friendship. Arco will likely be compared to Hayao Miyazaki oeuvre, both visually and narratively, though the film also feels reminiscent of fellow Frenchman Moebius’ illustrative artwork. For its artistic accomplishment, Beinvenu’s film should be an awards season contender. By the time the film’s beautiful original song, “Clouds Away,” performed by November Ultra and Arnaud Toulon, plays it will become apparent that Arco is among the best animated films in recent years. I look forward to eventually having the opportunity to see the French dub, featuring the voicework of Alma Jodorowsky, Vincent Macaigne, and Louis Garrel.
Italian Writer/director Carolina Cavalli’s The Kidnapping of Arabella (2025; see top image) sounds like a horror film by title, but don’t let its name fool you. Cavalli’s offbeat sense of humor merges well with the road film genre and its confined spaces of conflict like cars and hotel rooms. Seeing Chris Pine in an Italian-speaking role should be enough of a selling point to see The Kidnapping of Arabella, but the film’s leads, Benedetta Porcaroli and Lucrezia Guglielmino, steal the screen. Porcaroli’s portrayal of Holly, a disappointed twenty-eight year old, makes for an entertaining misanthrope. Her performance won her Best Actress in the Horizons section of this year’s Venice Film Festival. Holly’s adolescent partner in crime, Arabella (Guglielmino), depicts an attention-seeking troublemaker who can’t stop getting on her father’s (Pine) nerves. When Arabella refuses to behave during her father’s speech, whining about how she would rather be at her favorite restaurant, he loses his patience and delegates supervision to his chauffeur. The driver obliges and takes Arabella to Taco King, a miserable fast food establishment, but he gets more than he bargained for. Leading up to this outing at the Taco King, Holly has had a rough day in her dead-end job at the town ice rink and falls victim to a prank by a group of malicious boys. Looking to get some French fries, Holly crosses paths with Arabella in the restaurant’s parking lot. Holly believes that coincidences are not just merely coincidences and immediately sees purpose in locking eyes with Arabella. The two strike up a conversation, and based on her voice and gestures, Holly soon becomes convinced that Arabella possesses a strong resemblance to her younger self. When Holly asks Arabella her name, the mischievous toddler spots Holly’s badge on her uniform and claims that the two are one in the same. In shock, Holly agrees to take Arabella with her when she suggests that she has come back to visit her older self. From this point forward, the road movie begins and the shenanigans escalate. Meanwhile, Arabella’s father grows more despondent. Seeing Pine have a meltdown, Italian style, while looking like Vincent Vega of Pulp Fiction (1994), makes for one of the most unexpected, yet funniest, roles of the year.
The Kidnapping of Arabella is a strange film, seeming to aim for the feel of a quirky Jared Hess comedy. Many of the supporting characters, including a man who says he dances like a frog, and their run ins with Holly/Arabella are extremely awkward, furthering the film’s overall weirdness. Sometimes the humor feels forced; other times, it works. When Holly/Arabella begin descending into Bonny and Clyde territory, stealing cars and pointing guns at motel owners, the film loses some of its charm. Eventually, it becomes clear that Holly’s inspiration to set off on this irrational journey stems from a childhood dream left behind. As the duo goes off the rails, it somewhat diminishes the sentimentality of the film’s overarching theme. The Kidnapping of Arabella could have benefited from more tonal consistency, yet the film exemplifies that Cavalli understands how to creatively fuse emotions. When the duo realizes that Arabella has been reported missing, the joy ride begins to take a different turn. Just as Holly begins to open her eyes and understand the brevity of the situation, the film’s elements of fantasy dwindle. Overall, The Kidnapping of Arabella centers on maturation and assimilation into the adult world. While there are laughs along the way, these laughs end up being a defense mechanism in deflecting the emptiness of Holly’s life. By the end, there are plenty of regrets, yet Cavalli recognizes that an obsession with the past can be more of an impediment to progress than one’s own failures.
Jonathan Monovich is a Chicago-based writer and a regular contributor for Film International. His writing has also been featured in Film Matters, Bright Lights Film Journal, and PopMatters.