When the Light Breaks (Rúnar Rúnarsson, 2024)

Directed by Rúnar Rúnarsson (Volcano, Echo), Dutch co-production When the Light Breaks (Ljósbrot)—which received financial backing from Revolver Amsterdam and the Netherlands Film Fund's Production Incentive—screens tomorrow as part of this year's BFI London Film Festival.  The film explores the complex theme of bereavement as it follows young art student Una (Elín Hall), who struggles to come to terms with the sudden death of her bandmate Diddi (Baldur Einarsson)—one of many people confirmed as killed in a catastrophic road tunnel fire (an agonising wait in a Red Cross centre precedes this news).

Bookended by sunrise and sunset—both of which are captured, quite beautifully, by Swedish cinematographer Sophia Olsson—the story unfolds over the course of a single day, one that marks a turning point in Una's life.  The film's striking opening sequence features late Icelandic composer Jóhann Jóhannsson's (Sicario, Mandy) haunting "Odi et Amo", which promptly establishes the tone for the tale of love and loss that follows (while one of the film's main characters wears a t-shirt sporting the logo of Jóhannsson's compatriots Nyrst, the black metal band are not heard on a soundtrack that tends to remain on the mellow side).

As the film progresses, we witness Una's battle to internalise much of her grief; unbeknown to anyone else, she and Diddi were much more than just bandmates.  This internal conflict is exacerbated by Una's incipient friendship with the openly bereft Klara (Katla Njálsdóttir), Diddi's long-distance girlfriend.  Given the knotty situation, Una sees her mourning reduced—at least in public—to a form of secondhand grief, as she attempts to downgrade her sadness so it appears to be roughly equivalent to that of Diddi's platonic friends, all of whom are navigating these choppy waters with the help of shots, pints, and old home videos.

Yet Una and Klara do form a real connection, with the former relating a thinly coded story about her most recent boyfriend; has Klara understood?  In any case, Una implicitly elevates her status to a level where both women experience a shared sense of loss.  Rúnarsson deftly avoids both melodrama and the obvious, preferring to focus on the fact that a day that began with Diddi in this world will now end without him; the finality of death is conveyed, most poignantly, in the setting sun.  The ending reminded me of that of Éric Rohmer's 1986 masterpiece The Green Ray, which, like this tactile film, was also shot on 16mm stock.

Darren Arnold

Images: BFI 

Skincare (Austin Peters, 2024)

Hollywood has long been fascinated with the concept of beauty and the lengths to which individuals will go to maintain it.  Austin Peters' feature directorial debut Skincare takes this obsession as a starting point for a cautionary tale which examines some of the cosmetics industry's often overlooked darker aspects, all the while considering the psychological impact of perceived beauty standards.  Elizabeth Banks plays Hope Goldman, an in-demand yet somewhat broke LA aesthetician whose life descends into chaos when another skincare specialist, Angel Vergara (Luis Gerardo Méndez), opens a salon just across the street. 

When Hope becomes the target of a smear campaign, she suspects Angel of being the perpetrator.  With the help of obsequious life coach Jordan Weaver (Lewis Pullman), Hope attempts to salvage her business and reputation, which have plummeted to the extent that several valuable clients have now deserted her for Angel.  Compounding the situation, an interview on a popular TV show where Hope was set to soft-launch her new skincare line has been cancelled due to the controversy; the resulting scheduling gap is filled by—you guessed it—Angel, whose latest snake oil comes with claims that it can reverse the aging process. 

Skincare is primarily a thriller, but it's also a commentary on the world's fixation with the superficial.  The script, co-written by the director, keeps things moving along at a nice clip, which helps some of the more far-fetched aspects fly under the radar (the film is loosely based on a true story—the case of Dawn DaLuise—that may be even more outré than what is presented here).  Peters is hitherto best known for making music videos, and he scatters a few well-chosen songs, including Queens of the Stone Age's "Millionaire", across a soundtrack otherwise dominated by Kuwaiti composer Fatima Al Qadiri's insistent score.

At once resilient and fragile, worldly-wise and naïve, Hope is a fascinating, compelling character, and Banks' well-judged performance brings a depth to the film that would otherwise be lacking; alas, the rest of the acting is pretty variable.  But there are other plus points, such as the superb cinematography by Christopher Ripley, which captures the sun-kissed locales of 2013 Los Angeles in a way that suggests this beauty is only ever skin deep; the slight but undeniably entertaining Skincare—which screens today at the BFI London Film Festival—invites us all to look beyond the surface as we consider the pitfalls of vanity.  

Darren Arnold

Images: BFI / Gage Skidmore

Eight Postcards from Utopia (Radu Jude, 2024)

The death of Nicolae Ceaușescu in December 1989—the disgraced tyrant and his wife Elena were tried and executed on Christmas Day—marked a significant watershed for Romania, one which saw the end of communist rule and the start of a tricky transitional period.  As the 1990s progressed, Romania's attempts to get to grips with democracy and market reforms were met with financial instability and widespread unemployment.  But the country weathered the storm and would eventually join both NATO and the European Union—alliances which signalled a new role for Romania on the geopolitical stage.

As directed by Radu Jude and philosopher Christian Ferencz-Flatz, documentary Eight Postcards from Utopia—which screens today at the BFI London Film Festival—is a coruscating exploration of Romania's rocky economic transition of the 90s.  The film consists entirely of post-communist Romanian television advertisements, with the resulting collage serving as a commentary on the changing consumer habits that emerged in this era.  As per the title, the documentary is split into an octet of thematic segments, each offering a snapshot of late twentieth-century Romanian life as seen through the prism of advertising.

The film's occasionally overlapping structure allows Jude and Ferencz-Flatz to delve into a number of topics, from gender representation to a country groaning under the weight of history as it navigates a new system.  It's a narrative that manages to be at once specifically Romanian and universal as it examines the effects of capitalism and consumerism on the construction of national cultural identity—all done with a complete lack of narration.  The decision to rely on commercials alone to tell the story is a wildly brave one, and it forces viewers to infer their own meanings from the barrage of sights and sounds presented here.

As a record of Romania's choppy passage through the post-Ceauşescu years, Eight Postcards from Utopia conjures up a wonderful sense of time and place, and its experimental form belies an accessible, intuitive experience.  Above all else, this critique of global commerce is wickedly funny, a trait we have come to expect from Jude's work; of course, from our 2024 perspective it's easy to snicker at the fashions of the 90s—just as, in three decades' time, the modish trappings of today will cause much hilarity.  But this fizzing documentary offers up something way beyond cheap laughs: it is a nexus of history, culture and media.

Darren Arnold

Images: BFI