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The Best Films of 2021 … So Far

In a year of seemingly constant transition, cinema is shining a beacon to help point the way forward.

The Best Films of 2021 (So Far)
Photo: Dekanalog

As the world gradually begins to open up again and move toward something resembling the old normal, the global film industry is still licking its pandemic-induced wounds, and will likely continue to do so for the foreseeable future. The world’s largest movie theater chain, AMC, survived in part because of the unexpected market manipulation of Reddit stock bros, while many beloved institutions—most recently Los Angeles’s iconic Cinerama Dome—were forced to close up shop. But for all the upheaval and uncertainty in the film world, cinema continues to prove itself a malleable and durable art form, not only in reflecting the ever-changing reality that we’re living in but also distracting us from it.

Frank Beauvais’s Just Don’t Think I’ll Scream plunges headfirst into an experience many cinephiles came to especially relate to over the past year, exploring the double-edged sword of compulsive film viewing and cinema’s equally illuminating and, at times unhealthily, addictive properties. Theo Anthony’s essay film All Light, Everywhere examines how we see and process the world around us, while on the fiction front, Lili Horvát’s Preparations to Be Together for an Unknown Period of Time spins an existential mystery out of the inability to trust one’s own instincts when experiencing the world at large. The effects of the pandemic have rewired our brains in ways that we have yet to fully grasp, and maybe never will, but it’s clear that filmmakers are already tapping into new ways of engaging with the moving image and the world around us.

The most memorable films so far in 2021 were not all so deeply immersed in the mechanics of the mind’s eye, as evidenced by Jill Li’s stirring, boots-on-the-ground chronicling of cyclical corruption in Lost Course and J.P. Sniadecki and Lisa Molloy’s vibrant, sensorial account of a man’s life on the fringes of society in A Shape of Things to Come. But one way or another, these 20 films all manage to accomplish one of cinema’s most vital functions: challenging audiences to confront their own perspectives and experiences. In a year of seemingly constant transition, and an attempted return to so-called normalcy, cinema isn’t merely reflecting these countless changes, but shining a beacon of light to help point the way forward. Derek Smith


About Endlessness

About Endlessness (Roy Andersson)

About Endlessness bears Roy Andersson’s unmistakable aesthetic markings, but the setup-punchline formula that he mastered in his commercials and regularly employed in his features is downplayed here, complicated or bypassed altogether. Many of the discontinuous vignettes that comprise this concise feature—most of which occur in an unnamed Swedish city without clear temporal markers, Andersson’s version of Jacques Tati’s Tativille—have no overriding comic conception to speak of, or the joke is so understated that it elicits little more than a faint chuckle. A young man passes a florist on the street and turns back as she walks into her store. A woman stands in an empty meeting room admiring the cityscape outside the window. A man checks the money stash in his mattress before retiring for the evening. Calling these prosaic moments of life “scenes” feels imprecise, as Andersson is simply staging mundane situations that float free of the need for punctuation marks. In About Endlessness, rather than eliciting surprise and wonder, Andersson is channeling his full stylistic arsenal in search of something far more delicate: a recognition of the sublime in the prosaic, and of a kind of holy present tense that requires no petitions for insurance. Carson Lund


All Light, Everywhere

All Light, Everywhere (Theo Anthony)

Theo Anthony’s All Light, Everywhere follows several strands that are united by two themes: the encroachment of surveillance hardware and software into everyday life, and the fact that such developments are as riven with racist, classist biases as any other element of society. Two of the strands tackle the rise of body cameras in law enforcement from complementing angles, from the point of view of the Arizona-based company Axon Enterprise, which manufactures the Taser and has a near monopoly on body camera technology, and from that of Baltimore police officers taking a training seminar on how to use the cameras in the field. The film captures many paradoxes and biases of sight and photography, from the hellish to the transcendent, even deconstructing itself along the way to reveal its own omissions and selective emphases. Besides Anthony’s consistent presence in the film, in which he’s shown manipulating performances, shots, and editing rhythms, subtitled information and a ruminative, resonantly robotic narration by Keaver Brenai suggest alternate, haunting, almost ephemeral points of view, as if the film is at war with itself as an embodiment of all its critiques. All Light, Everywhere is head-spinning, serving as proof, in the tradition of Frederick Wiseman and Robert Greene’s cinema, that political works can also be beautiful. Chuck Bowen

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Atlantis

Atlantis (Valentyn Vasyanovych)

Valentyn Vasyanovych was inspired to make Atlantis by a visit to the Donbass region in the eastern part of his native Ukraine, which is the site of regular clashes between government troops and pro-Russian separatists, and which has been left environmentally ravaged due to the war there. The film is set in an imagined 2025, five years after the war has ended, with the Donbass area no longer fit for human habitation—as will likely be the case in reality. Vasyanovych’s use of scale to drive home the absurdity of his characters’ actions sometimes calls to mind Werner Herzog’s tragicomic existentialism, as well as early silent cinema. In a feat of resolve and improvisation that would make Fitzcarraldo proud (not to mention Charlie Chaplin’s shoe-eating tramp from a similarly barren locale a century prior), Sergiy (Andriy Rymaruk), a PTSD-addled ex-soldier who fought and killed for a place that wasn’t worth saving, cobbles together a hot tub for himself in the middle of the wasteland, filling a large digger’s bucket with water from a hose and burning petrol-soaked timber underneath it for heat. His soak in this makeshift bath is Atlantis’s most indelible image, a sight gag that also underlines his stubborn but admirable commitment to making a home where few other people dare to stay. David Robb


Beginning

Beginning (Dea Kulumbegashvili)

Dea Kulumbegashvili’s Beginning centers around a Jehovah’s Witness missionary, Yana (Ia Sukhitashvili), who lives with her husband, David (Rati Oneli), and young son in a remote village in the mountains outside of Tbilisi. The close-knit community they tend to faces extreme prejudice and persecution from the local Orthodox Christian majority, as illustrated in the film’s startling opening. Foreshadowing another shocking event late in the film, one that shows the imperceptible force of religious scripture weighing on the characters, this opening’s blurring of boundaries between spiritual imagination and reality reveals itself to be a key theme of the narrative. Though a strictly minimalist approach means that her visual motifs emerge organically from the action, Kulumbegashvili makes a few unexpected, rather Hanekian compositional choices that break with the film’s sense of naturalism to more explicitly wring allegorical significance from certain sequences. Demonstrating the extent of Yana’s resilience in facing the most extreme and personal tests of faith, and her willingness to sacrifice everything for her community, Kulumbegashvili vividly imagines powerlessness and despair being transformed into a supernatural, redemptive force. Robb


Come True

Come True (Anthony Scott Burns)

Cinemagoers have remarked on the dreamlike quality of film since the medium’s inception, yet commercial films about dreams that manage to capture something of their ambience remain few and far between. Dreams, after all, tend to repulse the coherence that’s the default mode of narrative cinema. Come True is among those few, but in contrast to Satoshi Kon’s Paprika, which revels in the anarchic freedom of lucid dreaming, Anthony Scott Burns’s film specializes in the sense of powerlessness that makes nightmares so terrifying, stressing the horror side of horror sci-fi. Burns trades jump scares for slow POV tracking shots, their inexorable drifting movement plunging us into shadows where Jungian archetypes hang upside down and the silhouette awaits with glowing eyes. This device reproduces the feebleness experienced by the angst-ridden Sarah (Julia Sarah Stone) during sleep paralysis, that state in which dreamers are, say, confronted by an incubus, and attempt to scream or jerk awake but find their muscles unresponsive. Rather than subjecting dreams to the logic of narrative cinema, which would neutralize their potential to both fascinate and terrorize, Burns allows his subject matter to suggest all manner of formal deviations from genre expectations. William Repass


The Disciple

The Disciple (Chaitanya Tamhane)

Like the destitute musician at the center of Ritwik Ghatak’s The Cloud-Capped Star, Sharad (Aditya Modak) sees singing as more than just a profession. For him, it’s a heightened state of being. And even as we see him become weathered and pudgy as time, along with a lack of success and, naturally, money, wears him down, he remains determined to teach raag at a local school, while still performing and trying to sell CDs of rare raag musicians on the side. Given the philosophical nature of the guru Maai’s interview snippets and the remarkably beautiful musical performances of Sharad and his guru, Sindhubai (Dr. Arun Dravid), writer-director Chaitanya Tamhane appears, for much of The Disciple, to be fully celebrating the asceticism and endless struggle that Sharad has committed himself to. But as time goes on, we not only see the costs of pursuing perfection, but also the isolation that results from his strict and limiting adherence to practicing and teaching only raag. It’s a single-minded focus that is, in large part, passed down from his own gurus, though when he berates one of his students for wanting to sing raag in a fusion band, it reveals not a love for the artform to which he’s devoted his life, but a domineering spirit that arises from his musical monomania. Smith

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Identifying Features

Identifying Features (Fernanda Valadez)

Identifying Features captures the mundane horror of a faceless bureaucracy going about the grim and clinical business of cataloguing the devastation wreaked upon people by vicious gangs and institutional failure. Throughout Fernanda Valadez’s feature-length directorial debut, the characters look for signs of the people they knew among lifeless things, the expressionless faces of the dead and belongings left unclaimed. In this way, the film is as much about the act of seeing and observing as it is about not seeing, about struggling to recognize that which might not clarify much at all. At one point, Olivia (Ana Laura Rodríguez) either cannot or refuses to identify a body presented to her as that of her son, and Miguel (David Illescas), a young man recently deported back to Mexico, can draw few conclusions about what might have happened to his mother from the emptiness of her home. Chuya’s (Laura Elena Ibarra) son is identified by his birthmark, but Magdalena’s (Mercedes Hernández) son, she’s told, may well have been burned beyond any possible identification. When she spots what appears to be his bag among some discarded items, its presence reveals nothing about where he might be. And so she continues to search for him, trapped in a holding pattern of uncertainty, her individual pleas for help and understanding drowned out among so many others. Steven Scaife


In the Heights

In the Heights (Jon M. Chu)

Jon M. Chu’s In the Heights brings monumentality to a work of infinite heart. It tells a sweeping story about how people find their way home when torn between the streets where they’ve grown up and the land whose flag, as Usnavi (Anthony Ramos) sings, “contiene mi alma entera,” his entire soul. And this story itself has come home, too, to a filmic nest that honors theatrical roots while offering a brighter, wider, more permanent illumination of the lives and legacies contained inside. In the film’s most stunning shot, Usnavi stares out from his shop window as the camera observes him from outside. In the window’s reflection, the passersby suddenly transform into a dance ensemble as Usnavi watches them. Up until that moment, perhaps 10 minutes into the film, Chu has shown us the physical life of Washington Heights as it really exists—people working, walking, sitting on stoops, standing on terraces. When the community springs into dance, it’s reflected through Usnavi’s imaginative gaze. Musical theater and its central conceits—people breaking into song and dance—have seldom made more sense on film than they do here. In the Heights surges with cinematographic empathy that matches its protagonist’s desire to recognize the dignity and humanity in everyone he meets: Usnavi, like Miranda, sees the artistry and grace in his neighbors and insists we see them that way too. Dan Rubins


The Inheritance

The Inheritance (Ephraim Asili)

Writer-director Ephraim Asili’s The Inheritance feels like a relic, composed as it is of representational strategies that can be traced back to the heyday of cinematic modernism. Julian (Eric Lockley), a young black Philadelphian who starts a leftist collective after he inherits a house from his grandmother, puts up an oversized poster for La Chinoise, Jean Luc Godard’s 1967 fragmented political film about Parisian Maoist activists, in the group’s kitchen, and his fastidiousness about keeping it from curling off the wall at one point indicates the importance of Godard’s didactic quasi-fictions both to Julian and, by extension, Asili. Given this deconstructive approach, it makes sense that The Inheritance’s attitude toward the line between fiction and documentary is best described as one of casual disregard. The Inheritance’s throwback elements, like a psychedelic montage during a jazz concert in the collective’s “Revolutionary People’s Reading Room,” are in sync with Asili’s interest in wanting to keep the legacy of black activism alive. The non-place quality of the collective’s home corresponds to a sense that we’re displaced in time. The sense of an alternate present created within the collective forms a part of Asili’s estranging technique, not only making us reflect on the different coordinates of the world on screen, but suggesting the dream of a society built on a different basis. Pat Brown


Just Don’t Think I’ll Scream

Just Don’t Think I’ll Scream (Frank Beauvais)

It’s hard to address Frank Beauvais’s Just Don’t Think I’ll Scream without commenting on how uniquely of the moment it feels. Elegiacally recapping a four-month period of self-exile in 2016 during which Beauvais coped with personal and global horrors via a steady home-viewing diet of four to five films a day, this intimate found-footage memoir is driven by a frantic internal monologue, narrated by the director himself. Its most immediate appeal is the simple scavenger’s thrill of encountering so many tantalizing images in different formats from across film history in swift succession, a thrill that places the viewer in much the same consumptive role that Beauvais bemoans in a passage discussing the merits of communist films over Western ones. Of the heroes represented in these respective cinematic legacies, the director posits, with provocative broadness, that “one creates and produces, the other consumes.” At one point, Beauvais offers a fleeting glimpse of a rock thrown through a television set, which bluntly expresses the same revulsion to the idea of falling captive to the screen, of sacrificing a dynamic and reciprocal relationship with the outside world and becoming an “impotent spectator” to violence and unrest. That Just Don’t Think I’ll Scream both condemns and inhabits this spectator position is what gives it its piercing honesty and haunting relevance. Lund

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Lost Course

Lost Course (Jill Li)

Jill Li’s Lost Course documents a wave of protests in the Chinese fishing village of Wukan in Guangdong Province that resulted in a failed democratic experiment. In the film’s first part, “Protests,” the camera plunges into the thick of the action as Wukan’s villagers, reacting to the sale of communal land by corrupt government officials, engage in mass demonstrations and petitioning, backed by a general strike. Eventually, the protests force the government to grant the villagers’ demands for a free election, and the movement’s leaders are swept into positions of modest power on the village committee. Part two, “After Protests,” opens one year after the election. Bogged down in bureaucratic rigmarole, the new village committee has succeeded in restoring none of Wukan’s land. The film takes its time, not only to explore Wukan’s struggle as a process, in microcosm, of Chinese politics, but to develop a character study of those involved. Even as their passion and naïveté sour, and even as they abandon the fight, denounce one another, or cling blindly to past successes as their political movement stagnates, Li’s camera remains steadfastly sympathetic. Because her politics are only hinted at through that sympathy, she leaves viewers to interpret the situation how they will. It’s become a commonplace that the personal is political, but Lost Course serves as a reminder that the political is also personal. Repass


MLK/FBI

MLK/FBI (Sam Pollard)

Sam Pollard’s MLK/FBI is an impressive reassessment of an American icon, approaching sensational material in forthright terms and without devolving into sensationalism. Based largely on Pulitzer Prize-winning historian David Garrow’s 2015 book The FBI and Martin Luther King, Jr.: From “Solo” to Memphis, this knotty and compelling documentary threads together the story of the F.B.I.’s obsession with finding compromising secrets about King with an unusually frank accounting of what some of those secrets were. When Garrow published a blockbuster story in 2019 alleging that King had witnessed or potentially even taken part in a 1964 rape at a hotel, it caused a brief flutter but was largely overlooked in the mainstream media. Pollard handles this explosive issue with restraint and intelligence. The film shows no illusions about the extent of King’s affairs. But it also refrains from any dubious moral calculations by giving his personal deceptions the same weight as his public morality. Pollard also deals carefully with Garrow’s most damning allegation, giving the thinly documented charge its due but carving out space around it for uncertainty. While the film doesn’t try to elevate King’s pedestal any higher, it also doesn’t try to knock him off of it. Chris Barsanti


Preparations to Be Together for an Unknown Period of Time

Preparations to be Together for an Unknown Period of Time (Lili Horvát)

Throughout Preparations to be Together for an Unknown Period of Time, writer-director Lili Horvát makes room for the slow temporalities of subjective experience writ large, and feminine subjective experience in particular. This is a film that’s less about what a character wants and more about how she feels—one shaped and re-shaped by Márta’s (Natasa Stork) psychic particularities. It delights in wallowing in ambiguity, contradiction, and doubt, even when our protagonist is in therapy giving voice to her uncertainties. Horvát’s most unequivocal commitment to the cinematic contributions that a feminine gaze may yield lies in the way the madness inherent to remembering and loving from a feminine position don’t amount to a pathologizable character state. As a neurosurgeon, it’s Márta who gets to decide what counts as pathological. Even when she’s in the position of patient during her therapy sessions, she feels compelled to be the author of her diagnosis. Unrequited love occupies Márta, even consumes her, but it never disables her at any point. Diego Semerene


PVT Chat

PVT Chat (Ben Hozie)

PVT Chat is a wry, observational comedy that could have easily amounted to a condemnation of the darker side of beta-male misogyny, but writer-director Ben Hozie implicates his main characters in a broader critique of the way that the increasing normalization of the internet as a primary means of realizing an intimate connection has also heightened the extent to which people can project whatever version of themselves they want into the world. In an especially memorable scene, Jack (Peter Vack), a web blackjack player by trade, props his laptop on a copy of Ulysses so that he can more easily chat with camgirl dominatrix Scarlet (Julia Fox) while pleasuring himself, a seemingly throwaway moment that actually establishes an unlikely kinship between PVT Chat and James Joyce’s modernist novel. Both are roaming, blackly comic character studies in which a character’s repressed sexual paranoia reflects a more general social malaise. And if Hozie’s film is more narratively driven, complete with a second half that’s chockablock with reveals and betrayals, blending romcom and noir tropes, it nonetheless culminates in an ecstatic, hopeful release not unlike Ulysses, fully centering the woman in the story in a way that frees her from the male protagonist’s limiting gaze while also identifying his good traits better than his own narcissistic self ever could. Jake Cole

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A Shape of Things to Come

A Shape of Things to Come (Lisa Malloy and J.P. Sniadecki)

Much of A Shape of Things to Come is an engaging immersion into the day-to-day life of a man, Sundog, who lives alongside various animals in a makeshift ranch-slash-ecosystem in the Sonoran Desert near the Mexican border. The film offers a reminder of how fascinating the contours of various processes—in this case ranging from Sundog’s hunting and butchering of animals to his harvesting of toad venom in the middle of the night—can be when artists have the confidence to observe their subjects without having them fit a prescribed narrative. And this willingness to put aside traditional narrative parallels Sundog’s shunning of conventional society. Sundog’s life appears to be transcendently devoid of noise, of everything from the shrill constancy of advertisements to polarizing political discourse. Throughout, Lisa Malloy and J.P. Sniadecki invite us to read all kinds of deep, haunting meanings into their film’s title. It could allude to Sundog’s blossoming madness, or to the madness of a metal and plastic world we’ve constructed almost out of spite to the natural one we inherited, or both. In this rather disturbing light, you may feel as if Sundog will succumb to the machine of corporate modernity, as his understandable rage may destroy his ability to enjoy the remarkable little sanctuary that he’s managed to carve out in the middle of an unforgiving patch of earth. Bowen


Shiva Baby

Shiva Baby (Emma Seligman)

Adapted from her short film of the same name, Emma Seligman’s Shiva Baby is a refreshingly contemporary twist on the coming-of-age story. The fulcrum of the film is Danielle (Rachel Sennott), a liberal arts major who’s dabbling in both babysitting and sex work to support herself through her studies. Attending a shiva for a distant relative, her efforts to balance the professional and the personal are excruciatingly put to the test when she sees that her married sugar daddy, Max (Danny Deferrari), is also a guest at the event. The film’s action unfolds almost entirely within the confines of a few adjoining rooms, and the sense of overwhelming claustrophobia is enhanced by uncomfortably tight framing, along with a sparse sound design punctuated by minimal, ominous strings. But even as the tension ratchets up, the film mostly unfolds in a naturalistic manner. Its impressive tonal balance is also evident in the frequently hilarious dialogue, which is in the same uneasy register as some of the best cringe comedy of the past couple of decades, without ever feeling too self-conscious to be believable. And the centerpiece of this masterful high-wire act is Sennott, who captivatingly matches her accomplished comic timing and deadpan line delivery with a frazzled nerviness, convincingly showing Danielle teetering ever-closer to emotional and physical collapse. Robb


State Funeral

State Funeral (Sergei Loznitsa)

In State Funeral, Sergei Loznitsa cobbles together archival footage from the various grandiose celebrations that followed the death of Joseph Stalin in order to paint a portrait not of the Soviet politician himself, but of the theatrics that prop up totalitarianism. Crowds gather in Poland, Czechoslovakia, Azerbaijan, East Germany, and beyond, all the various places collapsing into a single mourning square. Statesmen disembark from their planes. Uncountable wreaths are laid. Everyday folk carry larger-than-life photographs of their leader. Some stand still in front of shops, as if unmoored by the news, waiting for guidance on how to go on without “the greatest genius in the history of mankind.” There’s enough certainty in this communal trance to transcend physical distance and the finality of matter itself. Even if, or precisely because, it’s that irreversibility that Stalin’s unresponsive body announces. The images that Loznitsa deftly assembles feature astonishingly consistent angles, mise-en-scène, and gestures: gentle camera pans, stern visual compositions, and people marching along in freakish unison. The shots have also been restored to such uncanny crispness it seems impossible to believe them to have been “found” as fragments devoid of an original vision captured by the same light, with the same film stock, and signed by the same cameraperson. Semerene


There Is No Evil

There Is No Evil (Mohammad Rasoulof)

The four shorts that comprise writer-director Mohammad Rasoulof’s Golden Bear-winning There Is No Evil complicate the declarative nature of the film’s title in fascinating ways. There is evil in the world, of course. More specifically, there’s evil in a nation that forces its young men to enlist in military service that may require them to execute their fellow citizens. There’s evil in choosing between killing just one person or many, and in killing some so that one can love others. There’s evil in bureaucracy, in family secrets, in selective rectitude. And there’s evil in selfish refusals masquerading as ethical stances. In fact, for Rasoulof, evil seems to be the most significant organizing force of daily life—the evil of past actions, present decisions, and atemporal structures—in a culture such as Iran’s that accepts murder as a legitimate form of punishment. There Is No Evil, then, doesn’t try to facetiously dispel the statement that its title makes by asking whether or not evil exists. It ponders, instead, how citizens position themselves in relation to the inevitable evil that runs through their country’s core, architecting its every corner and generations of people. Semerene

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This Is Not a Burial, It’s a Resurrection

This Is Not a Burial, It’s a Resurrection (Lemohang Jeremiah Mosese)

Lemohang Jeremiah Mosese’s This Is Not a Burial, It’s a Resurrection explores the impossibility of mourning. Mantoa (Mary Twala Mhlongo), an 80-year-old widow living in a rural village in Lesotho, learns that her last surviving son, a migrant worker laboring in a coal mine in neighboring South Africa, has just died. She has thus lost all of her loved ones and decides to plan her own funeral. She wants a simple coffin. No golden angels or other gaudy nonsense. Mosese’s mise-en-scène and camerawork are breathtaking. This is a story told through the gracefulness of the camerawork, the stunningly lit tableaux, and, most remarkably of all, through fabric. Not many films, especially ones with a documentary sensibility, use texture—wool, mud, cement, ashes, and cloth specifically—as a storytelling device the way that This Is Not a Burial, It’s a Resurrection does. In one of the film’s many unforgettable scenes, Mantoa gets up from the chair where she usually sits to listen to the radio and dances with her dead husband, raising her arm as if holding an actual body that isn’t there, a voice in the background telling her to take off her “cloak of mourning.” And she certainly takes it all off in a bewildering final sequence when Mantoa simultaneously surrenders to loss and spurns it. Semerene


Two Lottery Tickets

Two Lottery Tickets (Paul Negoescu)

In a key scene from Paul Negoescu’s Two Lottery Tickets, Sile (Alexandru Papadopol) dismisses his country’s big-screen output as “doom and gloom,” citing as evidence a touted recent production whose title he can’t recall (he’s referring to Christi Puiu’s 2001 film Stuff and Dough). If this overt intertext weren’t enough, the next layer of structural in-joke in the film is that it’s blatantly composed of the formal DNA of this critically lauded movement: one-shot-equals-one-scene composition, drab realist lighting, and a seldom-budging camera. Two Lottery Tickets’s mission is to find new possibilities in these (in)expressive tools—or rather, in its mining of the time-tested fundamentals of screen comedy, to restore old possibilities not yet fully exploited in the Romanian lexicon. The story concerns three friends who take to the road after misplacing a winning lottery ticket. The uncertainty around the exact circumstances of the ticket’s disappearance is the fuel for hilarious set pieces. Jokes often emerge from the background, as in the best and last punchline in a string of yuks triggered by a dispute with a policeman about a car’s paint job. And in the most striking detour from Romanian New Wave habits, Negoescu eschews determinism and a fixation of logic problems to surrender instead to the forces of chance, saving his funniest expression of this theme for the film’s throwaway postscript. Lund

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