By Jonathan Monovich.

The festival’s centerpiece was Nightbitch (2024), which included the presentation of a visionary award to director Marielle Heller. To close the festival, Chicago native Robert Zemeckis received the founder’s legacy award for his latest film Here (2024).”

When October comes around, there is a special feeling in Chicago. The city becomes united via cinema for the Chicago International Film Festival (CIFF) across venues including the historic Music Box Theatre, the Gene Siskel Film Center, and the Chicago History Museum. The CIFF is a grand, joyous occasion for those that love film. This year marked an impressive milestone for the CIFF, given that it was the festival’s 60th anniversary. To mark the occasion, a career achievement award was presented to comedian Mike Myers in collaboration with the iconic Second City improv theatre. A career achievement award was also awarded to revered Japanese filmmaker Kore-eda Hirokazu along with a retrospective of the many films of his that have played at the CIFF over the years, including Broker (2022), Shoplifters (2018), After the Storm (2016), Like Father, Like Son (2013), Nobody Knows (2004), and After Life (1996). The festival’s opening night was marked by a screening of The Piano Lesson (2024) with a spotlight award presented to actor John David Washington and a breakthrough award for its director Malcolm Washington. The festival’s centerpiece was Nightbitch (2024), which included the presentation of a visionary award to director Marielle Heller. To close the festival, Chicago native Robert Zemeckis received the founder’s legacy award for his latest film Here (2024).

The films that I was fortunate to see at this year’s fest came from Italy, Japan, Sweden, Finland, Austria, and Azerbaijan. Apart from the selections which I have reviewed below, Orkhan Aghazadeh’s The Return of the Projectionist (2024) was an enjoyable watch. It’s an uplifting documentary of an Azerbaijan man’s dream to bring back his glory days of film projection to his village while also helping a young film enthusiast to pursue his dreams of being a filmmaker. When watching, I was reminded of the beloved Cinema Paradiso (1988) for its similar premise. The festival’s retrospective lineup also included Aki Kaurismaki’s The Man Without a Past/Mies vailla menneisyyttä (2002). It was great fun to revisit this staple of Finnish cinema before watching his brother, Mika’s, new film Long Good Thursday/Mielensäpahoittajan rakkaustarina (2024). Long Good Thursday, which won the fest’s audience choice award for international feature film, is a heartwarming tale of an elderly curmudgeon (Heikki Kinnunen), his difficult relationship with his overbearing sons (Iikka Forss/Ville Tiihonen), and how his perspective on life changes upon befriending a carefree artist (Jaana Saarinen). Comedy runs in the Kaurismaki family’s DNA as does the ability to create films that tug at our heartstrings. Long Good Thursday is a great accomplishment that grapples with the importance of moving on, human connection, family, friendship, and sympathy for the elderly. Another notable film was Bernhard Wenger’s Peacock (2024). The Austrian film is a satire of identity that follows a human chameleon for hire, Matthias (Albrecht Schuch), and his company “My Companion.” Throughout the film, Matthias is hired to attend parties alongside anxious guests fearful of showing up alone, prepare a wife for arguments with her husband, appear at bring your father to school days, pretend to be the son of a social climber with hopes of becoming elected the president of his prestigious club, and appear knowledgeable of art to impress snobby socialites. Lost in the day-to-day of his eccentric career, Matthias becomes increasingly more out of touch with his own sense of self. Peacock is a clever outlook on contemporary society’s obsession with reinvention for gain, the facades that are created to appease others, and the farcicality of the modern art world. Peacock also feels indebted to several similar recently released films including The Hypnosis/Hypnosen (2023), Sick of Myself (2022), and The Square (2017) but doesn’t quite live up to their sharper scripts.

The Time It Takes/Il tempo che ci vuole

Writer/director Francesca Comencini’s The Time It Takes (2024; see top image) is a beautiful, precious film. An autobiographical exploration of her relationship with her father, filmmaker Luigi Comencini, The Time It Takes is deeply personal. It clearly had to be made for Francesca Comencini’s soul, yet The Time It Takes does not fall prey to being self-serving. Rather, the film operates as an appreciation of her father, the love for film that he passed down, and life in general. The Time It Takes starts with Francesca’s (Anna Mangiocavallo) childhood in Rome whilst Luigi (Fabrizio Gifuni) is working on The Adventures of Pinocchio (1972). Francesca is revealed to be a sensitive child, frightened by a shark in a popup book. Her fears become heightened when Luigi takes her to see a whale in a circus-like display. Regardless of the occasion, Luigi is always there to comfort Francesca whether it be in the city, at school, on the film set, or at home. They possess a special bond that is very charming to watch. The film’s first act offers a touching look into the purity of a child’s relationship with their parents. Quickly, the chaotic nature of filmmaking is revealed. Luigi is very pragmatic with his Pinocchio crew, professing “life first and then cinema… if you don’t understand, making films is pointless.” As the minutes pass, Comencini transitions to Luigi walking down the hall to Francesca’s bedroom; just as time flees in reality, with the blink of an eye, Francesca (Romana Maggiora Vergano) is now a young woman. It is a seamless and masterful Kubrickian transition. From here, chaos follows Luigi from the film set to his personal life as Francesca’s teenage angst spirals into a battle with addiction.

Francesca is seen to lack confidence with her art, though Luigi stresses “learn to complete things. Even if you fail, at least you’re aware of your failure.” She of course ignores her father’s wisdom and instead spends her time with young/dumb pseudo revolutionaries who enable her harmful habits. Francesca’s easily influenced personality paired with her youthful naivety leads to a lack of trust with her father, severing their cherished connection. The Time It Takes very suddenly becomes a troubled youth film. The key difference is that Luigi refuses to let the situation become one like Christiane F. (1981). Luigi insists the two move to Paris for “the time it takes” for her to heal. Why Paris? For le cinéma, of course! Luigi shares the power moviegoing had on his life, allowing him to escape via majestic films like L’Atlantide (1932). Francesca reluctantly agrees, the two eventually rekindle their love, and Francesca gains the confidence to pursue her own journey as a filmmaker. At its core, The Time It Takes is a poignant story of how cinema quite literally can save lives. It’s an ideology that was previously explored on screen in Hannah and Her Sisters (1986) and on the page in Walker Percy’s The Moviegoer, though it is the realism of The Time It Takes that makes the message hit harder. The film also includes stunning cinematography from Luca Bigazzi, the best use of Neil Young’s “Out of the Blue” since Dennis Hopper’s Out of the Blue (1980), a brilliant nod to Paisan (1946), and a magnificent finale reminiscent of 8 ½ (1963). The Time It Takes is a must watch for its sincere appreciation and understanding of the power of cinema as well as its significance in film history. The credits pridefully assert that “all of the silent movies in this film were rescued from a trash heap by Luigi Comencini and are among the holdings that brought to life the Milan Film Library.”

Cloud/Kuraudo

Kiyoshi Kurosawa [Cure (1997), Pulse (2001), Creepy (2016)] continues to be one of the leading directors in Japanese horror. Just as he was able to skillfully excel in atmospheric tension while simultaneously making powerful assessments of humanity with his prior work, Kurosawa’s latest film, Cloud (2024), does something similar. Tackling internet resellers and their scammer tendencies, Cloud follows Yoshii (Masaki Suda), a factory worker, in search of a get rich quick solution. Yoshii’s manager offers to promote him, but he would rather peddle “miraculous therapy devices,” “superior sewing machines,” and faux designer handbags on an online auction site for a quick buck under the alias “Ratel.” Overly concerned with status and how he measures up to his peers, Yoshii strives to make enough money through his reselling ventures so that he and his partner, Akiko (Kotone Furukawa), can make a comfortable living without having to work. The couple moves from the city to a comparatively remote village. Their new house, modern and equipped with a scenic view, is too good to be true. Upon arrival, Yoshii hires a local, Sano (Daiken Okudaira), to be his assistant. Yoshii quickly becomes suspicious of Sano for questioning the authenticity of the merchandise they sell and for looking at his computer screen behind his back. Yoshii’s paranoia intensifies when windows on his house are broken, people begin to follow him, and internet forums plagued with comments threatening Ratel arise.

The angered customers of Ratel devise a plan to kill him. They discuss their plan in person in an arcade. The setting makes the situation particularly deranged, as they say “think of this as a game. Let’s enjoy ourselves.” Kuroasawa steps on the gas, accelerating Cloud into an intense thriller. Cloud very clearly calls out the growing cesspool that is the internet. It becomes an unnerving watch as it becomes an account of hiding and hunting. There is also an examination of luck and chance interwoven within Yoshii’s fight for his life. As Yoshii runs from his enraged customers, the setting eventually becomes a confined space, offering an opportune setup for a chaotic climax. Amidst the madness, Kurosawa also has something to say about fate and comeuppance. Characteristic of Kurosawa, there is some ambiguity by the time the credits roll. What is most clear is that Kurosawa’s twisted and perceptive tale is about the value and attachment that humans tend to overemphasize in regards to merchandise and merchants. Cloud very cleverly approaches the subject matter in a satirical way, recognizing that this is one of the many pitfalls that plagues human existence.

Armand

Descending from grandparents Liv Ullmann and Ingmar Bergman, two legends of Swedish cinema, Halfdan Ullmann Tøndel’s feature film debut as a writer and director, Armand (2024), came with lofty expectations. Armand has glimpses of greatness, and Tøndel exhibits budding potential as a director, but the film’s key limitations are in its overly ambitious screenplay. His award of the Caméra d’Or (best first feature) at this year’s Cannes Film Festival is deserving as Tøndel has a real knack for visualizing complex material in bringing out powerful performances. Even so, Armand struggles to maintain the same vigor that the thematically similar Carnage (2011) does. Like Carnage, Armand has a play-like quality, but it is not nearly as tightly written. Armand’s setting is primarily in a singular room, although it is an elementary school instead of an apartment, and the basic plot similarly follows two sets of parents arguing over an altercation between their children. Mediating the parent/teacher conference are the unfortunate Jarle (Øystein Røger), Sunna (Thea Lambrechts Vaulen), and Ajsa (Vera Velijovic-Jovanovic). They are given the incredibly stressful task of keeping peace while also attempting to arrive at a solution. On one side of the aisle is Elisabeth (Renate Reinsve), the mother of Armand. As expected, Reinsve brings her A-game and delivers another notable performance. Clashing with Elisabeth are Sarah (Ellen Dorrit Petersen) and Anders (Endre Hellestveit)—the parents of Jon. Neither children are present during this exchange. Instead, childish impulses are displayed by the parents and their inability to civilly engage in discourse.

The accusation at hand in Armand is a serious one. It is alleged that Armand assaulted Jon after refusing to play with him. Elisabeth’s rationale response to the matter is “do we simply accept this as a fact… we know nothing.” Understandably, Sarah and Anders want answers as their son was found in a bathroom crying with scratches on his face. It is said by the school’s staff that Armand has a history of having “been reckless with other pupils.” The question at hand is whether this constitutes as being enough evidence to definitely say that Armand did in fact assault Jon. It is later revealed that Elisabeth is going through her own struggles as her husband, Thomas, the brother of Sarah, has recently passed away. As the story progresses, it is also shown that Sarah/Anders’ relationship seems to be in turmoil and that their son’s bruises may not have been inflicted by Armand after all. Throughout Armand there is a dark, ominous feeling, yet there are also times when the scenario seems so absurd that the characters can’t help but laugh. This is the great difficulty of such subject matter. There are also occasional moments in which the camera moves slowly and hypnotically, distracting from the trial of sorts. Elisabeth engages in a strange, dreamlike dance routine with a janitor in the hallway during one break. There is also a moment in which teachers oddly caress Elisabeth’s face, offering an image somewhat reminiscent of the interpretive dance sequence from Luca Guadagnino’s Suspiria (2018). In the thick of it all, during another break, a teacher approaches Sunna, noting that some parents are offended that he screened Frozen (2013) for the class because it is rated PG. In a film that is deeply serious, this is clearly meant to be comic relief. This may also be the most telling moment of the film, exemplifying the growing threat to education that is parent interference. Overall, Armand is a film that takes big creative swings, and Tøndel’s debut is a bold one.

The Return

Odysseus’ voyage in The Odyssey is one of the ultimate examples of the “hero’s journey.” Whereas most tend to associate The Odyssey with the adventurous first half of Homer’s iconic story, The Return (2024) focuses on Odysseus’ homecoming twenty years after the Trojan War. Filmed on location in Greece, director Uberto Pasolini [Still Life (2013), Nowhere Special (2020)] brings a theatricality to The Return. The conversations are often had in close quarters between the characters, making the film feel like a stage production. This works quite well for The Return as the latter half of The Odyssey’s narrative is very Shakespearean in nature. Interspersed throughout the dialogue-heavy film are glimpses of the beauty of the natural world. Images of waves crashing and lizards on rocks are some standouts. Along with Pasolini, The Return’s script is written by John Collee [Master and Commander: The Far Side of the World (2003), Monkey Man (2024] and Edward Bond [Blow-Up (1966), Walkabout (1971)]. The film is a slow-burner, but it is Ralph Fiennes’ portrayal of Odysseus that makes The Return entrancing. Seeing his metamorphosis from a frail war hero washing ashore, unrecognized by his family and the island’s inhabitants, back to a totem of strength makes for an entertaining ride. Fiennes is quite convincing as Odysseus and his physical and emotional transformation feels realistic. Odysseus’ wife, Penelope, played by Juliet Binoche, also brings a strong, yet subtle, performance where her emotions speak louder than her words. The expression of her longing for her husband is believable, and the pain that she tries to internalize cannot be hidden.

Odysseus, on the other hand, is a master of deception, a trickster, and a spy of sorts. He rationalizes the concealment of his identity as a wise leader’s test of his people’s loyalty. Seeing Odysseus, robed with shoulder length hair and a beard, telling fireside stories of the war to his men, unbeknownst that he is Odysseus, feels like a sly Jedi mind trick of sorts. Odysseus’ reasoning for his secrecy also stems from inner questioning of his worth. Since his absence, Ithaca’s men have been fixated on attempting to woo Penelope to marriage. She remains the only person loyal to Odysseus as she persistently resists. Odysseus’ own son, Telemachus (Charlie Plummer), even pressures his mother to find a new man. Overtime, Odysseus becomes a ticking time bomb. Throughout The Return, Odysseus is incredibly patient, but his anger and disappointment can only be suppressed for so long. He is like a hawk waiting for the perfect moment to pounce on its prey. When that moment presents itself, it is one of epic proportions. Like Itto (Akihiro Tomikawa) in Shogun Assassin (1980), Odysseus leaves all compassion behind and goes demon mode in the moment. The Return just as well could have been titled “The Revenge” as the story arc truly is a tale of payback. Pasolini excels in making it one worth retelling.  

Sicilian Letters/Iddu

Fabio Grassadonia/Antonio Piazza’s [Salvo (2013), Sicilian Ghost Story (2017)] Sicilian Letters (2024) begins with the statement “reality is a point of departure not a destination.” Based on a true story, the duo wrote and directed the film together. Opening with a flashback, Sicilian Letters introduces Matteo, a future Cosa Nostra boss (Elio Germano), as a child. Matteo’s father forces him to kill a sheep, signaling a transition of power in the family and foreshadowing the development of his ruthlessness. Moving back to the present, Sicilian Letters takes place during the early 2000s amidst a politician, Catello’s (Toni Servillo), release from prison. In the car ride home, it is said that “everything will go smooth as oil.” Soon after, the car breaks down. This is just the beginning of the long and bumpy road that lies ahead for Catello. Catello’s wife, Elvira (Betti Pedrazzi), declares him “dead,” his daughter is revealed to be pregnant, and his future son-in-law, Pino (Giuseppe Tantino), keeps referring to him as dad to his displeasure. Sicilian Letters is surprisingly comedic at first before delving into a dramatic secret service operation.

Toni Servillo is one of the great actors of Italian cinema. His performances in the films of Paolo Sorrentino for The Hand of God (2021), Loro (2018), The Great Beauty (2013), and Il Divo (2008) are among the best in recent years. The direction in Sicilian Letters is not as visually appealing as Sorrentino’s eye candy, though Servillo still offers a captivating performance due to his commanding acting prowess. What makes Sicilian Letters most interesting is its writing, centering on the premise that Catello’s past mob ties make him a subject of the Italian secret service’s interest. With hopes that it will help revitalize his career, Catello agrees to aid inspector Mancuso (Daniela Marra) and officer Schiavon (Fausto Russo Alesi) with their pursuit of Matteo. Knowing of Catello’s allegiance to Matteo’s father, their plan is to get to Matteo via handwritten letters penned by Catello. The scheme works surprisingly well with little effort, and Catello/Matteo become odd pen pals of sorts. Expectedly, suspicions eventually arise and Matteo becomes privy of Catello’s involvements. The overall concept at hand in Sicilian Letters is an intriguing one, yet the film’s pacing is a little too slow at times. Grassadonia and Piazza bring frequent Sorrentino collaborator, Luca Bigazzi, aboard for the film’s cinematography, whose choice of color seems more emblematic of a 70s film than one set in the 2000s. Despite its 70s look, the stylistic bravado commonly associated with comparable mafia films of that era by filmmakers like Martin Scorsese and Francis Ford Coppola is unfortunately absent in Sicilian Letters.

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.

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