THE LIBRARIANS (2025)—REVIEW

It was sometime in the 1990s that I first became aware of the Koch Brothers’ involvement in local school board races, often electing candidates who aligned with their education reform agenda; an agenda whose primary goal has been to promote alternatives to traditional public school systems, such as charter schools and private school voucher programs, as part of a long-term strategy to fundamentally change the perception of and reliance on public institutions, in favor of private, market-based solutions. 

Up until I became informed about the Koch Network’s investment in public education, I never paid much mind to who was elected to school boards; but, have become increasingly aware that such disinterest was misguided and that vigilance is requisite. Though national front runner politics tend to dominate the news cycles, it’s at the granular level of state and local initiatives that public education is at risk from this danger hidden in plain sight. 

Idaho has seen its own share of significant book challenges and bans, particularly driven by a 2024 state law (HB 710) that requires public libraries to move materials deemed "harmful to minors," including content about sexual conduct and homosexuality, to adult-only sections, allowing lawsuits against libraries for non-compliance, leading to removals of diverse and classic titles, despite legal challenges questioning its constitutionality and impact on free speech. 

Equally controversial and divisive has been a Parental Choice Tax Credit, signed into law in early 2025 (HB93), despite significant public opposition, with thousands contacting the Governor's office against it. A lawsuit is in place challenging that law’s state constitutionality. 

Most recently, a controversy over an "everyone is welcome here" sign displayed in the class room of a West Ada County school district centers on a new state law (HB 41) banning political/ideological displays in K-12 schools, leading to state officials and the Attorney General's office declaring the inclusive sign political and prohibiting it, sparking debate over free speech, inclusion, and the law's vague definition of "political". 

So, firsthand experience in my home state of Idaho underscores my appreciation for Academy Award® nominee and Peabody Award winner Kim Snyder’s The Librarians (2025), which had its World Premiere at Sundance, and has gone on to win an Honorable Mention for Outstanding Documentary at San Francisco’s Frameline Film Festival; the Victor Rabinowitz and Joanne Grant Award for Social Justice at the Hamptons International Film Festival; the Lena Sharpe Award for Persistence of Vision at the Seattle International Film Festival; and Jury Prizes for Best Documentary Feature at the Sarasota Film Festival, the Dallas International Film Festival, and Atlanta’s Out On Film Festival. With all those awards under its belt, and audiences choosing it as the best of their fests, The Librarians rolls out theatrically in the Bay Area at the Roxie Theater in San Francisco, Rialto Cinemas Elmwood in Berkeley, Rialto Cinemas in Sebastopol and the Smith Rafael Film Center, San Rafael. Snyder is accompanying most of those screenings, with several already sold out. Meanwhile, it’s crickets here in Boise, even at The Flicks. What with all the attacks on public education in force here in Idaho, you would think….? 

The film’s tagline—"America’s war on books is more than a war on words”—emphasizes the fascist undertones of a Christian Nationalist movement in the United States funding efforts to undermine and take over control of public schools and libraries. As synopsized by the filmmakers: “In Texas, the Krause List targets 850 books focused on race and LGBTQIA+ stories—triggering sweeping book bans across the U.S. at an unprecedented rate. As tensions escalate, librarians connect the dots from heated school and library board meetings nationwide to lay bare the underpinnings of extremism fueling the censorship efforts. Despite facing harassment, threats, and laws aimed at criminalizing their work—the librarians’ rallying cry for freedom to read is a chilling cautionary tale. Librarians emerge as first responders in the fight for democracy and our First Amendment Rights. As they well know, controlling the flow of ideas means control over communities.” 

Their bravery on display enforces The Hollywood Reporter’s assessment that The Librarians is “a different kind of superhero movie.” One such hero opposing the book bans is Weston Brown who travels from San Diego to his hometown of Glanbury, Texas to speak at a school board meeting against his mother Monica Brown’s relentlessly righteous crusade to repress LGBTQIA+ material in particular and to file criminal charges against librarians. Having been ousted from the Brown family once he came out, and forbidden to interact with his eight siblings, Brown’s depiction of his mother as a religious fanatic imprisoned in fear is especially heartbreaking, even as she weirdly insists on filming everything on her cellphone and makes no bones about photobombing her son when he is being interviewed by a local television anchorman.

 

BLUE MOON (2025)—REVIEW

Blue moon, I saw you standing alone 

Without a dream in your heart 

Without a love of your own. 

What an apt description for legendary lyricist Lorenz Hart (Ethan Hawke) on the evening of March 31, 1943 when he arrives solo to Sardi’s Bar, first avoiding having to watch the entirety of the Broadway premiere of Oklahoma!, and then having to endure the musical’s unbridled success as his former collaborator Richard Rodgers (Andrew Scott) and Oscar Hammerstein II gather to celebrate, with an entourage of adoring fans. 

The script of Blue Moon, especially Hart’s acerbic monologues, mimics the theatricality—one might argue, the artifice—of the stage, sometimes seeming impossibly witty, but Ethan Hawke owns the words and delivers an intriguing performance rife with physicality (cleverly shortened and made bald) and unlike anything I’ve seen from him before, converting what might have been a stereotyped characterization of an effete discrete homosexual into a pitiable human being decimated by his own addictions and self-denials. Self-destruction has rarely been so poignant, if not honestly pathetic. 

 It's not only Hart’s alcoholism that has run him aground and lost him his professional associations, but an idealized infatuation with protégé Elizabeth Wieland (in a gangly yet boyishly attractive turn by Margaret Qualley) that has him untethered to reality, adrift in an unfortunate and embarrassing bout of internalized homophobia. 

With restrained compassion and a lean masculinity contrasted against Hart’s venomous and barbed tongue and exaggerated mannerisms, Andrew Scott’s portrayal of composer Richard Rodgers, earned him a well-deserved Silver Bear win for Best Supporting Actor at the 2025 Berlin International Film Festival. 

The film takes some dramaturgical license in creating the presumption that the conditions for Hart’s well-publicized death—his lying drunk and collapsed in an alley in the rain, resulting in his eventual death from pneumonia—occurred after the Sardi’s event when, in fact, it occurred months later after Hart and Rodgers had reunited and created a revival of “A Connecticut Yankee”, their successful musical from 1927; a negotiation suggested by Rodgers in Blue Moon. Regardless of the exact date, Hart’s loneliness and alcoholism determined his inevitable demise.  

Blue Moon screened at the 48th edition of the Mill Valley Film Festival and has since opened theatrically at multiple theaters around the Bay Area, and is now playing at The Flicks in Boise, Idaho.

ADDENDUM (10/29/25): Filmbud Lawrence (“Larry”) Chadbourne responded to this review with what I felt was an astute observation about shifting cultural styles. I thank him for his permission to post same here. Larry writes: 

I found the film to be an interesting companion piece to the director's earlier Me and Orson Welles (2008), which also charted a turning point in U.S. theater history. It heralded—despite some unseemly backstage goings-on—the welcome arrival of the Mercury Theater and the forward-looking anti-Fascist (ahem) interpretation of Shakespeare's Julius Caesar. 

Here, through the biting critique of Oklahoma by the brilliant wordsmith Hart, we get an inkling of the less welcome and backward turn the culture was taking. Despite fond nods to Casablanca, we sense the wartime mood turning away from the sophistication, the wit, the cynicism and the wisecracking that was Hart's forte and that many of us love in 1930s culture, and instead toward jingoistic Americana, schmaltzy sentimentality and a general dumbing down. (Yes there are exceptions to this, such as the numerous films noirs that had some kind of audience, even if they weren't sufficiently appreciated at the time and were more of an undercurrent.) 

I found this thought-provoking aspect of the script—which reminded me of criticisms of '40s kitsch made at the time by people like Dwight Macdonald and later by people like Pauline Kael—more interesting than the weight placed on Hart's misguided enthusiasm for the vapid young woman.

 

SCREAMFEST 2025—PITFALL (2025): REVIEW

“Into the woods, and out of the woods, and home before dark….”—Stephen Sondheim, “Into the Woods” (1986). 

If only it were as easy as in a Broadway musical. But no, no, the World Premiere of James Kondelik’s Pitfall (2025) insists on being much more grueling than that—both physically and psychologically—as five friends embark on a camping trip that turns into a wilderness full of booby traps, including the titular pitfall; a hunter’s trap flimsily covered or camouflaged specifically intended to capture animals or—in this gorefest—people. Did I mention that this pitfall has sharpened spikes as well? And did I mention that the hunter who set this snare is a relentless mentally-disturbed murderer? 

A well-worn scenario of young campers being hunted in the woods by a hooded madman is given a fresh run for its life through sincere performances, laminated and overlapping narrative tracks both in the past and present, and an insinuated theme that pitfalls, snares, and traps lie as much in unresolved traumas of the past as in the strategies used to overcome them.

 Siblings Scott (Marshall Williams) and Ashley (Alexandra Essoe) have become estranged after a horrific accident kills their parents. Scott—forced to make a choice between saving his mother or saving his sister—chooses his sister who cannot forgive him for his choice, which was—in and of itself—a form of pitfall, as in a hidden or unsuspected danger or difficulty. 

Guilty about his choice and blamed by his sister, Scott and his girlfriend Gwen (Jordan Claire Robbins) invite Ashley and her fiancé Charlie (Matt Hamilton), and Scott’s best friend Lars (Richard Harmon) on what they hope will be a conciliatory outdoor adventure to bury the hatchet. Little do they know that the hatchet will be hurled at them by a stranger in the woods seeking vengeance for the pitfalls of his own traumatic past. 

What makes this thriller succeed is its gruesome and torturous kills, inventively staged by Kondelik, with great outdoors cinematography by Robert Zawistowski intensely edited to breath-halting effect as our protagonists endure one savage pitfall after the other. Special effects by Yan Emond and Robbie McInerney, augmented by visual effects by Outlanders VFX and MOD VFX, add shocking viscerality to the wolfish pertinacity with which they are hunted down, one by one. 

Adding a supernatural note by film’s end, the Hunter (Randy Couture) appears to be unwilling (or unable) to die, though he can certainly inflict pain and certain death on others in perpetuity and adds a particularly grueling affect to his hunting by being perhaps one of the worst archers in cinema history. He ratchets up the tension by wasting more arrows that you can possibly count. The film’s closing credits offer up multiple kills that the Hunter has scored up over time if those specific to the film’s central narrative don’t suffice.

 

SCREAMFEST 2025: INTERNATIONAL (AUSTRALIA)—SHED (2025): REVIEW

Aligned with the subgenre of horror films associated with the Christmas holiday, an innocent game of hide-and-seek between siblings on Christmas Eve sets the stage for the survival of the youngest sister from a violent family invasion. Accidentally locked in a work shed while her family is being brutally murdered, 10-year-old Mia must first survive without food or water day after day, and then—when she is discovered by the murderer—must struggle to survive what seems an assured death at the hands of a deranged, dying madman. There are children-in-peril narratives and … then … there are truly mindblowing, horrific, nail-biting, cover your eyes children-in-peril narratives that have you on-the-edge of your seat, jaw clenched, dreading the worst. 

The World Premiere of Australian helmer Steven J. Mihaljevich’s Shed (2025) has at its intense center an incredibly nuanced performance by Mani Shanks, a young actress Mihaljevich has groomed and guided through two of his previous efforts (Violett, 2023; An Artist’s Curse, 2024) to remarkable achievement. As Mia, Shanks brings to life, and to heart, the ingenuity of a young girl facing and conquering fear and trauma to overcome inconceivable odds. Her harrowing performance was awarded Screamfest’s Best Actress Award. 

The ultimate multi-tasker, Mihaljevich not only co-produced Shed, he wrote the script, directed the film, and won Shed’s second Screamfest award for his editing of cinematographer Shane Piggott’s crisp and inventive cinematography. The ratcheted pace achieved by Milhaljevich’s editing skillfully strengthens Shanks’ breakout performance, melding terror with the tragic poignance of an undeserved loss of innocence. Both Milhaljevich and his protégé Shanks are rising talents to watch.

SCREAMFEST 2025: INTERNATIONAL (ARGENTINA)—THE DOLLMAKER (ENCANTADOR, 2025)

In its North American premiere at Screamfest 2025, Argentine director José María Cicala’s Encantador (The Dollmaker) has everything anyone could possibly crave from a horror film. As a collagist, I was delighted with its inventive and suggestive opening credits created from cut pieces of paper (including a collaged globe spinning on its axis). Bienvenidos (welcome) to the tranquil little town of Palacios donde nade malo puede suceder (where nothing bad can happen). That immediately had me salivating for everything bad that I knew was going to happen, kicking off with the abduction of three young women near a cornfield. 

First off, let me digress momentarily to ponder cornfields in genre narratives, which I ordinarily associate with American horror films, but obviously shows up in Argentine horror as well. Under the subheading of rural horror, cornfields tap into themes of isolation, and a place where innocence can be corrupted or "harvested" by a malevolent force, which is clearly the case with these abductions. Palacios, with its hard-working citizens, suddenly seems sinister and dangerous for being so far-removed from civilization. 

Enter Tomás (charmingly and convincingly played by Rodrigo Noya), the titular dollmaker who wears nerdy Coke bottle glasses, works at a video store where he and his co-worker Arturo (Eduardo Calvo) dress up as Boy Scouts, and likewise helps out at the Clinica Filantropica making “resuscitation” dolls for emotionally disturbed patients and assisting the resident doctor during group therapy sessions. It’s during one of those sessions where Tomás meets Argentina, nicknamed Tina (Griselda Sánchez), a waitress at Trixies, the local diner run by a clutch of drag queens where sailors and policemen go to dance after hours. You know, the kind of diner you find in small, isolated Argentine towns where nothing bad ever happens. Sánchez, incidentally, plays double-duty in The Dollmaker, co-writing the film’s clever and intelligent script as well as portraying Tina. 

Tina is participating in group therapy because she is having morbid visions of dead people, including her father, as well as Death itself who, she confides, came to sit beside her when she was just a little girl. Tomás becomes instantly infatuated because he, too, has morbid visions of his ailing mother (Alejandra Baldoni) who he sees suffering gruesome scenarios. Needless to say, Tomás has mother issues, major mother issues, issues that would make Norman Bates blush. 

Tomás’s mother issues are deeply disturbing and disorienting as he shifts in and out of his morbid fantasies of her; fantasies that burn up like nitrate film. She keeps “letting loose” and tormenting him with a video of his fifth-year birthday, let alone making incestuous advances, which upsets and angers him. Did I mention that Tomás also has anger issues, major anger issues? Is it any wonder that he becomes the prime suspect in the disappearances of the young women? 

Inspector Porter (Alejo García Pintos) arrives in Palacios to investigate the disappearances and is irritated by the cavalier attitude of the police chief Comisario Sánchez (Mario Alarcón) and his bumbling deputy Marcos (Santiago Domínquez) who—in his bright yellow uniform and odd habits—consistently provides much of the film’s comic relief, which is necessary because horrific things are being done to the young women being held hostage. Held equally hostage by a family code that keeps them tight-lipped about a terrible secret from the past are the town’s triplet brothers who serve as cura (priest), doctor, and encargado (video store proprieter), all three versatilely portrayed by Arturo Puig. 

So against this backdrop of criminal inquiry, deeply-guarded secrets, and psychological maladies, Tomás pursues a courtship of Tina, but becomes agitated by her close friendship with a gay co-worker Robert (Guillermo Zapata) and the revelation that Tina is a single mother with an infant daughter Helenita. Because of his issues, Tomás keeps seeing Helenita as a doll, which seems credible because Tina has such a difficult time distinguishing what’s real from what she’s imagining, so it’s uncertain whether she’s carrying around a doll and pretending its her daughter. 

It's an unholy, but truly entertaining, satisfying, and perverse mess, with Nahuel Maeso’s grinding and buzzing score ratcheting up the uncertainty, and Martín E. Nico’s stylish cinematography unmooring the visuals so you never quite know what’s real and what’s not, all of which leads to the most beautiful and surreal ending of a film that I’ve seen in some time. 

And here I have to go out on a little bit of a political limb. Remember that I mentioned in the film’s opening credits that there’s a collaged globe spinning on its axis? This visual notion of a world that is made up of cut pieces of paper becomes unnerving when by film’s end we discover that Tomás’s childhood fantasy is to become the President of Argentina, as if to say the President of Argentina and the country he governs is all a constructed fantasy made up of cut pieces of newspaper where, yet again, knowing what’s real and what’s not is challenging. The Dollmaker works on so many levels, including this wry socio-political critique rendered in a brilliantly surreal flourish. 

I can’t recommend this film highly enough. It’s perfect genre. For a teaser trailer, visit the Jinga Films website.  

SPOILER ALERT: I have to give mention to the film’s wickedly inserted cinematic citations and can only do so by undermining the film’s reveal, so don’t read any further if you don’t want to know things. First, homage is paid to David Lynch through Tomás’s mailbox on which is hand-painted La Familia Lynch. The mailbox becomes one of those objects in the film that questions what’s real and what’s not real because when Tomás checks it, it is empty, but when another character checks, it is overflowing with faded mail. As for Tomás’s mother issues and the ready comparisons to Norman Bates in Alfred Hitchcock’s Psycho (1960), not only do we eventually discover that Tomás is speaking both voices when he is arguing with his mother, but we see his mother’s leg drop over the edge of the bed in exactly the same way that Tomás’s leg drops over the edge of the bed, and almost incidentally Tomás bats an overhanging lamp with its single bulb much like Vera Miles does in Hitchcock’s film. I can’t help it. I love these kind of masterful—and, yes, affectionate—tips of the hat! Well-done!

ORWELL: 2+2=5 (2025)—REVIEW

“When you are on a sinking ship, your thoughts will be about sinking ships,” wrote George Orwell about totalitarianism in the 1940s; a statement that has regained relevance in our current moment, as righteously highlighted by filmmaker Raoul Peck in his latest documentary essay Orwell: 2+2=5 (2025), opening this month in select theaters—particularly art-house cinemas and larger metropolitan areas. Orwell: 2+2=5 opened last week in the Bay Area at the Roxie Theater in San Francisco (with Peck in attendance conversing with Jon Else), is now playing at the Rialto Cinemas Elmwood, Berkeley, and will roll out to the Smith Rafael Film Center in San Rafael on Monday, October 13, and the Rialto Cinemas Sebastopol on October 17. Meanwhile, here in Boise, our “arthouse” theater The Flicks is chirping crickets on the matter, electing instead to fill their Fall calendar with films to drink wine to or films readily available at the Edwards multiplex. So disappointing. 

I complain because Orwell: 2+2=5 is one of the most important films of the season, essential for its instructional perspective on the autocratic shift towards a totalitarian government being engineered by Trump and his syncophantic administration. Peck, no stranger to totalitarian regimes, fled Duvalier’s Haitiaan dictatorship with his family as a child and—much like Eric Arthur Blair (aka George Orwell)—crafts films that expose lies and draw attention to facts that deserve a hearing. “My starting point is always a feeling of partisanship; a sense of injustice,” wrote Orwell and I can easily imagine Peck saying the same. 

Peck utilizes Orwell’s biography as a means to explore authoritarian power both in the past and in the present by densely assembling diverse footage with what Manohla Dargis terms “a visceral urgency.” And what could be more urgent than to learn about and determine the forces that make dictatorships rise and fall? Peck succeeds at this by aligning events of the past with contemporary events so that their similarities are evident, and alarming. 

“A society becomes totalitarian when its structure becomes flagrantly artificial,” Orwell observed, “that is, when its ruling class has lost its function but succeeds in clinging to power by force or fraud.” Peck then shows that—to be corrupted by totalitarianism—one does not have to live in a totalitarian country. One needs only to follow the playbook. He parades General Min Aung Hlaing, Prime Minister of Myanmar and Acting President (2021-present); General Augusto Pinochet, “Supreme Head of the Nation” (1974-1990); Ferdinand Marcos, President of the Philippines (1965-1986); General Yoweri Museveni, President of Uganda (1986-present); Vladimir Putin, President of Russia (2000-2008; 2012-present); Viktor Orbán, Prime Minister of Hungary (1998-2002, 2010-present), and then-President George W. Bush and Secretary of State Colin Powell’s determined vilification of Iraq; comparable to Big Brother’s vilification of Eurasia in 1984. A more recent analogy? Putin’s justification to invade Ukraine as the propagandistic practice of “War Is Peace”. As for Trump? He’s targeting the American people as “the enemy within”!! He is labeling any criticism of his policies as terrorist activity!! 

Orwell understood: “This kind of thing happens everywhere, but it is clearly likelier to lead to outright falsification in societies where only one opinion is permissible at any given moment. The organized lying practiced by totalitarian states is not—as is sometimes claimed—a temporary expedient of the same nature as military deception. It is something integral to totalitarianism, something that would still continue even if concentration camps and secret police forces had ceased to be necessary. Totalitarianism demands, in fact, the continuous alteration of the past and in the long run probably demands a disbelief in the very existence of objective truth.” 

Trump’s pardoning of the January 6 insurrectionists on his first day of his second term of office presaged an alteration of the past, much as he is now conducting a campaign of retribution against anyone who does not agree with his election denial. He is reaching into our cultural institutions to recontextualize history to suit his racist agenda. 

“From the totalitarian point of view,” Orwell continues, “history is something to be created rather than learned.” Further: “A totalitarian state is, in fact, a theocracy and its ruling class in order to keep its position has to be thought of as infallible. Since in practice no one is infallible it is frequently necessary to rearrange past events in order to show that this or that mistake was not made, or that this or that imaginary triumph actually happened. Already there are countless people who would think it scandalous to falsify a scientific text book but would see nothing wrong in falsifying a historical fact.” Ignorance Is Strength, after all. “The friends of totalitarianism in this country usually tend to argue that—since absolute truth is not obtainable—a big lie is no worse than a little lie.” 

Orwell died from tuberculosis four months after he completed 1984 and so never got to see the tremendous influence he has had on future generations and the important cautions he has gifted us. Peck’s documentary pays tribute to that gift and applies it thoughtfully and forcefully as a lesson we need to get through these unprecedented times.

 

SCREAMFEST 2025: AFFECTION (2025): REVIEW

The World Premiere of BT Meza’s debut feature Affection (2025) served as the opening night film for this year’s edition of Screamfest, covering several bases of the horror genre. It begins as an unsettling psychological study of family trauma, loss, and grief, adds elements of body horror, and gradually morphs into a sci-fi narrative that proposes large ideas that I’m sure had at least a few people scratching their heads as they tried to wrap their mind around what those ideas implied. What better way to launch the largest and longest running horror festival in the United States? 

Timeloop narratives have become dirigeur in genre circles, but Affection expands that narrative device into what I can only call a replication loop and it does so with admirable economy, using only three actors to make its rounds. Ellie (Jessica Rothe) wakes up in bed beside a man she does not recognize, wanders through a home that is unfamiliar, and discovers that the man Bruce (Joseph Cross) professes to be her husband and that they have a daughter Alice (Julianna Layne), even though she angrily insists otherwise; that she has a different husband and a son, not a daughter. Bruce attributes her disorientation to an accident that has affected her memory and which causes epileptic seizures. He explains to her that cryptomnesiatic references are shaping false memories in her brain and causing her confusion. 

But why can’t she remember any of that? Or, more importantly, why doesn’t she believe him? 

It’s difficult to write about Affection without undermining its reveals, which I don’t want to do, so I will limit my write-up to what I believe is the moral and philosophical spine of this challenging sci-fi narrative. At 72 years of age, I have lost more than 30 friends, family and significant others, such that over the years I feel that wherever I go I am accompanied by a host of ghosts and—though equally over the years I have learned how sacred the altar of memory is to keeping my loved ones “alive”—there are nights shredded by dread when I ache for the affectionate touch of those I have lost, which reveals—as I have often said—that memory is an unreliable narrator who tells me a story I want to hear, a story that is often more beautiful than true, a story that in its own way tries to keep me in touch with those who have gone to that place where in some way they still exist, but which is undeniably a place where they are not physically present. Memory, therefore, is a narrative construction to guard the heart from despair and to compensate for irreparable absence. To what extent would I go to have back the physical affection of my mother’s caress, the hugs of friends, or the erotic touch of lovers? How far would I search for that physical affection? What available technologies would I use to recover it? 

In his press notes for Affection, BT Meza concurs that—although the past remains unalterable, and as much as he would wish to restore a past identity and, thereby, bridge the psychic disjuncture of physical loss—memory and/or creativity are the only tools at hand to suffice. Affection has given him the opportunity to create a story that fuses his emotions and childhood memories into a sci-fi horror narrative, where imagined technologies can create desired results, which is to say that genre at its best, and ideas at their largest, communicate essentially at their human core.

SCREAMFEST 2025: INTERNATIONAL (MEXICO)—A FISHERMAN’S TALE (UN CUENTO DE PESCADORES, 2024): REVIEW

For its U.S. premiere at Screamfest, Edgar Nito’s A Fisherman’s Tale (Un Cuento de Pescadores, 2024) offers a slow burn narrative introducing audiences to the Mexican legend of La Miringua. Comparable to the perhaps better-known La Llorona, and similar to Mayan legends of the Xtabay in Guatemala and the Yucatan, La Miringua is a legend from Purépecha culture, also known as the Tarascan culture, an indigenous culture of Mexico, primarily located in the state of Michoacán, known for its pre-Columbian empire that rivaled the Aztec empire in size. La Miringua is an evil spirit who lives in, presumably, Lake Pátzcuaro, and lures fishermen to their deaths by appearing as a beautiful woman in the water. This mirrors pre-Columbian reverence and fear of the lake, which was central to Purépecha life. The lake was considered a sacred place, a gateway to the afterlife, and was personified by the goddess Cuerauáperi. The legend says that La Miringua, whose name means "forgetfulness," causes people to lose their sense of time and space, ultimately leading them into the lake where their sins are punished. It punishes sinners by drowning them, particularly men who are drunk or driven by greed, though in Nito’s filmic version La Miringua punishes women as well (equal opportunity retribution!!). In some versions of the Miringua story, the spirit can also cause a state of madness, where a person wanders great distances unconsciously. This aspect of the folklore likely connects to older shamanistic beliefs in which spirits could inhabit or influence a person's consciousness. Nito incorporates both aspects of the legend into his film. 

Watching A Fisherman’s Tale reminded me of comments made by Taiwanese director Hou Hsiao-hsien at a December 2002 seminar and published in Rouge magazine. His concern was about finding new directions and new genres for Taiwan's film industry and he approached that issue from various angles. One such angle was the effect of J-horror on Asian cinema. He stated: "We can now approach the issue from another direction after the success of the Japanese film Ring (Hideo Nakata, 1988), which was the ignition point that brought about an explosion of ghost movies. Just like Shiri was the ignition point of Korean cinema, Ring started the Asian frenzy for making ghost movies. The crucial element of their success lies in the use of local elements. The films are firmly rooted in local culture." 

I read that to say that ghost stories particularly benefit from the use of local elements, which is to say local superstitions and fears, and A Fisherman’s Tale comports with that benefit. Nito’s film falls within a realm of ethnographic horror (for all effects, elevated genre), less compelled to jump-scare its viewers (though there are one or two startles) and oriented more to a sense of brooding dread and consequential sufferance. Situating his tale in a small fishing village on the shores of Lake Pátzcuaro, Nito weaves four associated stories of villagers whose “sins” lead to their falling prey to La Miringua. Awarded a Special Mention for Best Ensemble Performance when the film had its National Premiere at the Morelia International Film Festival, roughly a dozen actors play out four doomed narratives. 

 Federico (“Fede”), portrayed by Jorge A. Jimenez, is a lonely fisherman who becomes entranced by Aurora (Renata Vaca), a beautiful young woman who appears in his fishing boat. Her taunting seduction mocks him into unhinged madness, especially as it gradually dawns on him that Aurora is a ghost, presumably drowned by La Miringua in the late 1800s. Regardless, he can’t reconcile his reason to the facts before him and continues to be lured by his hallucinations. Alejandra Herrera portrays Berenice, a young woman whose ambivalent sexuality attracts both a lesbian Alicia (Daniela Momo) and Carlos (Hoze Meléndez); an erotic triangle that dooms all three. Alex (Augustin Cornejo) lives with his grandmother and sister Karen (Bibiana Godínez) and is in the conflicted position of being attracted to Estefi (Anna Díaz), the sister of Karen’s despised rival Estela (Myriam Bravo). Admittedly, it was a bit difficult to track who was who at first as the ensemble all fall relatively within the same age group, but this served as a purposeful indication that La Miringua was cursing the entire village, something observed early on by Jesús (Andrés Delgado) who tries to warn his fellow fishermen that the lake is cursed and the fish rotten. Rather than believe him, they suspect he is trying to disrupt their livelihood so Artemio (Nóe Hernandez) takes it upon himself to eliminate the threat to their business, and ends up being eliminated in turn. 

In other words, as confusing as all these intersecting plot lines might sound, what’s being said is that a village that once thrived in harmony with the lake falls from grace as villagers blinded by their dark desires bring fear, hate, and eventual death into their community. A viewer could make a game, I suppose, out of guessing whose sins are whose—is Alicia’s lesbianism more of a sin, let’s say, than Berenice’s impressionable ambivalence? Is Fede’s unbridled, if unhinged, passion more of a sin than Jesús’s fear and paranoia, or Artemio’s greed? Their sins—either directly or indirectly—create a collective curse, whose retribution is administered by La Miringua, chillingly enacted by Ruby Vizcarra, as a pale white amphibious creature with scaled skin and sharp teeth lurking in the water weeds; a testament to the film’s tagline “Ya nada se puede hacer ... solo esperar la Muerte” (“there’s nothing anyone can do … except wait for Death”).

 

SCREAMFEST 2025: INTERNATIONAL (POLAND)—DEAD BY DAWN (2025)

Dead By Dawn (Martwi przed świtem, 2025)—Hailing from Poland, Dawid Torrone’s Dead By Dawn had its world premiere at the Brussels International Fantastic Film Festival, where the question was posed: “Who’d have thought the true heir to the Italian giallo maestri Argento, Bava, Martino and Lenzi would hail from … Poland?” Such praise is misguidedly premature since it takes more than being the first giallo filmed in Poland (wryly referred to by the film’s creators as a giallo pollo) to deserve such presumptuous praise. Better to take the film on its own merits without saddling it with more than it’s achieved (it’s easier to enjoy it that way). After subsequent screenings at SxSW London, and Poland’s own Octopus Festival, Dead By Dawn has landed stateside for its North American premiere at Screamfest. 

For what appears to be his first full-length feature (IMDb only lists three episodes of a Polish television anthology series Let Me Tell You About the Crime under his belt), Torrone has had fun with his budget, draping his set with Christmas lights to hint at a holiday atmosphere, and to rhyme with Michal Pukowiec’s luridly-lit cinematography, oversaturated with deep reds and blues (a recognizable reference to Argento). You know how sometimes you turn off all the lights in a room just to watch a colorfully-lit Christmas tree? That contrast between darkness and primary color seems to be Pukowiec’s optical strategy here, and it’s effectively destablizing. 

So, after setting up the film with an execution performed on the stage of a baroque—and now-established—cursed theater owned by the Heissenhoff family (reputedly associated with occult practices), the story shifts to a stormy Christmas Eve when a troupe of young actors and actresses have been summoned by the renowned but reclusive playwright Heissenhoff to his family’s theater to rehearse his next play, which—unbeknownst to them—is intent upon turning the beloved nativity scene on its head. Not only have they been personally selected for their sacrilegious views and/or bad habits, but the script itself is laced with black magic incantations (let alone hallucinogens), and their rehearsals provide the ritual space for necessary sacrifices to effect the playwright’s satanic ends. Structuring his film in chapters provides sequentiality to the rituals, one building upon the other, blood upon blood, towards the film’s unholy climax. 

Pukowiec’s frenetic hand-held camera work not only observes all this ritual activity but—now and again, true to giallo conventions—takes on the point of the view of the murderer who stalks and kills the members of the acting troupe one by one. Like the film’s truly seductive theatrical poster (five stars!!), the murderer wears a fiercely memorable head mask composed of staring eyeballs. I’m presuming credit should go to production designer Agata Lepacka for this iconic costuming flourish, which links in well with the film’s best kill: the eyeball trauma of the “nail” sacrifice. My attitude towards independent genre films has always been that if they get even one scream or one major ICK out of me, they deserve a tip of the hat and the “nail” sacrifice deserves a resounding yelp for set-up, execution and prolongation. I was squirming in my seat!  

Though I have to agree with previous reviewers that Dead By Dawn lacks a desired restraint that would have communicated its narrative better—there’s a whole lot of overly-enthusiastic running and screaming and scantily-clad women and barechested boys and throbbling lights and indeterminate musical choices and everything but the kitchen sink—still, I can’t deny Torrone’s evident potential to envision such mayhem in truly artistic ways, primarily through the film’s choreography, most notably Monika Frajczyk’s hypnotic, erotic, and drug-fueled dance sequence filmed in reverse that elicits impending dread and supernatural compulsion. On the basis of his experiments with Dead By Dawn, I look forward to seeing what Torrone accomplishes next.