Hexham Heads (Mattijs Driesen / Chloë Delanghe, 2024)

As far as northern English Forteana is concerned, the case of the Hexham Heads is right up there with that of the Solway Firth Spaceman; barely 40 miles separate the sites of these bizarre events, which occurred in 1971 and 1964 respectively.  While the Solway Firth incident focused on a picture of what may or may not have been a photobombing alien, the Hexham affair involved something more tangible, namely a pair of stone heads that were unearthed by young brothers Colin and Leslie Robson.  Following the boys' discovery in the back garden of their home, a series of strange goings-on affected both the Robson household and the neighbouring Dodd family; this continued until the heads were offloaded.

While the heads' next custodian, Dr Anne Ross, was able to bring an academic's eye to the party—she was of the opinion that they were artefacts of ancient Celtic origin—her family also experienced the joys of residual haunting; as was the case with the Robsons, domestic order was restored upon the jettisoning of the creepy crania.  The heads' whereabouts are currently unknown, which only elevates a mystery that is now explored in Belgian-British experimental effort Hexham Heads.  Screening today as part of the BFI London Film Festival programme Right in the Substance of Them a Trace of What Happened, this curious, striking work plays like a folk horror run through a filter of stone tape theory.

The medium-length Hexham Heads starts out as a fairly linear endeavour, with co-director Chloë Delanghe's measured voiceover guiding us through the story of the heads' excavation—and subsequent eventful stay—at 3 Rede Avenue, the Hexham property where the Robsons lived; it's a fine précis, one that appears to be setting things up for an investigation into the various paranormal phenomena associated with the noggins.  What follows, however, is a haptic, fragmented piece that conjures a needling atmosphere worthy of such a juicy slice of oddball folklore.  Via an eerie succession of 16mm, VHS and still images, all set to Sam Comerford's unsettling score, the film achieves a cumulative, nightmarish quality.

While the movie's title is undoubtedly prosaic, Delanghe and Mattijs Driesen's treatment of the subject matter is anything but.  Hexham Heads drinks from the same well as Mark Jenkin's Enys Men and Kyle Edward Ball's Skinamarink—arguably the two most prominent examples of experimental horror in recent years—and like the latter work, it contains a top-class jump scare.  As the film draws to a close, it takes us back to a near-deserted cement plant that was glimpsed fleetingly in the opening scenes, the implication being that there's a pretty mundane explanation for all this.  Still, such airy reassurances count for little in the preceding half-hour, when the fever dream that is Hexham Heads exerts its clammy grip.

Darren Arnold

Images: BFI 

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Soundtrack to a Coup d'État (Johan Grimonprez, 2024)

Dag Hammarskjöld, the erudite Swedish diplomat and economist who served as the second Secretary-General of the United Nations, was catapulted into global politics during a turbulent period of cold war tensions and decolonisation struggles.  Hammarskjöld established the first UN peacekeeping forces during the Congo Crisis, a proxy conflict that forms the basis of Belgian-Dutch-French documentary Soundtrack to a Coup d'État.  While Dag Hammarskjöld is indeed a key player in the film, the main focus of this highly compelling work is Patrice Lumumba, the Congolese leader who was assassinated in January 1961 (Hammarskjöld's own premature demise came a mere eight months later).

Curiously, the Swede's suspicious death in a plane crash isn't covered here, perhaps because that knotty subject is worthy of a film of its own.  Soundtrack to a Coup d'État—which screens today at the BFI London Film Festival—emerges as a thorough exploration of the complex relationship between jazz music and the political turmoil of the cold war, with particular emphasis on the events surrounding Congo's independence from Belgium.  Directed by the Belgian filmmaker Johan Grimonprez (Double Take, Shadow World), the documentary is bookended by the moment when jazz musicians Abbey Lincoln and Max Roach gatecrashed the UN Security Council in order to protest the killing of Lumumba.

Grimonprez's essay film isn't simply a dry retelling of historical events, but rather presents a narrative that splices the genre of jazz with anticolonialism.  It portrays how the music became a medium for expressing solidarity with the oppressed; the soundtrack, which features numerous legendary jazzmen and women (Duke Ellington, Nina Simone, Thelonious Monk), encapsulates both the spirit of resistance and the thirst for change.  The film also considers the roles of the US, the UN and others during the decolonisation process, noting the vagaries of geopolitics and the fight for control over the mineral-rich Belgian Congo—a country that supplied most of the uranium for the Manhattan Project.

The film includes fine archival footage of US jazz icons, and highlights how some of these artists were used as unwitting decoys as the CIA set about meddling in post-colonial Africa.  Perhaps the most infamous of these episodes, detailed here, saw "jazz ambassador" Louis Armstrong visit the African continent, where his performance in Léopoldville provided a smokescreen that allowed for intelligence to be gathered on Lumumba; while Satchmo was still on his tour, the man who had served as the DR Congo's first prime minister was killed by firing squad.  Soundtrack to a Coup d'État isn't always entirely successful in its attempts to conflate jazz with politics, but it is immaculately assembled and thoroughly absorbing.

Darren Arnold

Images: Flanders Image

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

A Traveler's Needs (Hong Sang-soo, 2024)

Hong Sang-soo's A Traveler's Needs—which screens today at the BFI London Film Festival—is the first of two films this year from the prolific Korean director, whose other 2024 effort By the Stream played at last month's Toronto IFF.  Hong also made a brace of films in 2023—the first of his releases last year was In Water, a work which caused a few ripples on account of it mostly being shot out of focus (moreover, it was barely an hour long—although some viewers may have considered that to be a blessing).  Those still traumatised by that blurry, hazy specatacle will be pleased to learn that A Traveler's Needs, in terms of its form, is much closer to orthodox filmmaking than it is to the (literally) opaque In Water.

A Traveler's Needs stars the incomparable Isabelle Huppert, who here reunites with Hong following their earlier collaborations In Another Country and Claire's Camera.  The film finds Huppert back in East Asia just one year on from her turn in Élise Girard's Sidonie in Japan, and while Girard brought her outsider's eye to that film, which followed the title character on an overseas book tour, Hong is firmly on home soil—both literally and figuratively—with his second-latest picture.  Hong's films are something of an acquired taste, with his low-budget tales of the quotidian as likely to bore as to enthral viewers, but he has a devoted fanbase and is a mainstay at several of the world's leading film festivals.  

Huppert's Iris is a Korean-based Frenchwoman who gives language lessons to locals, and she seemingly has no teaching experience or qualifications.  Her methods are unconventional, to say the least: a typical one-on-one session with Iris sees the student engaging in casual conversation (in English) with their teacher, before Iris homes in on a particular emotion the student has just experienced.  Once these feelings have been verbalised, Iris then proceeds to scribble down a French translation—often with a degree of poetic licence—on an index card.  The student is then instructed to repeat this phrase as often as they can, with the idea being that the recital of such a personal statement will help la langue française sink in.  

The inscrutable Iris has no backstory, and thus seems to exist only in the present; she spends much of what she earns on bibimbap and makgeolli, and her great fondness for the latter becomes something of a leitmotif.  Iris is at the same time present and absent, assured and uncertain, and her dichotomous nature provides no clue as to what her raison d'être might be—is she an agent of chaos, à la Huppert's Caterine in I ♥ Huckabees (who peddles "cruelty, manipulation and meaninglessness"), or up to something much more benign?  What I do know is that I could have watched this enigmatic character all day long; it is only in the moments when Huppert is off screen that the brittleness of Hong's setup is exposed.  

Darren Arnold

Images: BFI

IFF Rotterdam: New Head of IFFR Pro Appointed

IFF Rotterdam has appointed Marten Rabarts to the position of Head of IFFR Pro, effective immediately. Recently, Rabarts served as Festival Director at the New Zealand IFF. His extensive global career also has significant legacy in the Netherlands, both as Head of EYE International (now SeeNL)—where he was responsible for the promotion of Dutch film and film culture worldwide—and as Artistic Director of the ground-breaking development centre Binger Filmlab in Amsterdam. Rabarts will work closely with IFFR’s Festival Director, Vanja Kaludjercic, and Chief of Content, Melissa van der Schoor.

As Head of IFFR Pro, Rabarts will play a crucial role in building this sustainable programme, developing and implementing IFFR’s industry strategy, establishing new partnerships and delivering the festival’s industry programmes. IFFR will also feature an industry day dedicated to the Dutch film ecosystem. Another key focus for the upcoming edition is the Darkroom, IFFR Pro’s programme of work-in-progress screenings that takes place during CineMart. The projects presented are either supported by the Hubert Bals Fund or formerly presented at CineMart—bolstering support of projects across their lifecycle.

Vanja Kaludjercic, Festival Director at IFFR, said: "Marten has an incredible track record in both developing and implementing industry programmes and in elevating Dutch film culture on the global stage—making him the ideal person to spearhead and revitalise our industry offering. His strategic, entrepreneurial and curatorial vision is unparalleled and we are very proud to have him joining the team. IFFR has a history of trailblazing in artistic selection but also through creating vital spaces for the industry to meet and collaborate—and we look forward to building on that in our upcoming edition together".

The 54th edition of IFFR will take place from 30 January–9 February 2025, with the IFFR Pro Days running between 31 January–5 February 2025.

Source/image: IFFR