Kontinental '25

 

Writer/director Radu Jude

Jude with Silver Bear from Berlin

KONTINENTAL ’25             B                                                                                        Romania  (109 mi)  2025  d: Radu Jude                              

Premiering at the 2025 Berlin Film Festival, this is a satirical city portrait that evolves into a crisis of conscience film that won a Silver Bear for Best Screenplay.  From the maker of eight feature films in the last ten years, including I Don't Care if We Go Down in History as Barbarians (Îmi este indiferent daca în istorie vom intra ca barbari) (2018), Bad Luck Banging or Loony Porn (Babardeala cu bucluc sau porno balamuc) (2021), Do Not Expect Too Much from the End of the World (Nu astepta prea mult de la sfârsitul lumii) (2023), and a second release this year, DRACULA (2025), Jude describes this film as a tribute to Roberto Rossellini’s Europa '51 (1952), where the wealthy protagonist (Ingrid Bergman) is deluged by guilt after her son’s suicide, while the Italian elite has already forgotten the traumas of World War II.  In a distinct homage, a poster for the Rossellini film can be seen hanging in a movie theater bar.  Similarly, court bailiff Orsolya (Eszter Tompa) is besieged by that same guilt after a homeless man she tried to help committed suicide during a contentious eviction, leaving her overwhelmed by feelings of doubt and inadequacy, questioning her own role in such a horrible tragedy.  The film opens playfully in a forest, however, where the first realization that comes to mind is:  Who knew dinosaurs were living in the forests of Romania?  Radu Jude has a little fun adding this comical surrealist element, which comes as a major surprise, as he is a director largely known for his in-your-face social realism, part of a neorealist tradition where poverty is infused into the subject matter.  Stripped down to its bare essentials, the film was shot by his regular cinematographer Marius Panduru in just 10 days during a break in the filming of DRACULA on an iPhone 15, with no lights, no grips, and a miniscule budget, initially proposed to be a Romanian TV movie, as Jude relies entirely on long conversations and sharp situational humor, crafting another brilliant absurdist comedy-drama infused with his signature sardonic wit.  Once again dissecting Romania’s contradictions in its uneasy transition from socialism to capitalism, this is a continuation of a body of work that regularly questions the political and social conditions of contemporary Romania, though this time viewed through the lens of an exploding housing market in parallel with growing inequalities, exacerbating the question of economic injustice, leading to a conflicted middle class caught between past and present, bearing a close proximity to Haneke’s middle-class criticisms.  Part of the second generation of filmmakers comprising New Romanian Cinema, this is a testament to Jude’s ability to create something out of nothing, in this case a socio-political allegory, exploring the moral and spiritual poverty of these bleak times, where the goal is to make social reality visible in its harshness, without embellishment, with all roads leading to existential desolation, where there’s even a scene from Robert Aldrich’s apocalyptic nightmare Kiss Me Deadly (1955), along with a TV screening of Edgar G. Ulmer’s film noir  Detour (1945), another film shot in a week for next to nothing.  Yet another variation on Dostoyevsky’s Crime and Punishment, where we, as spectators, are never truly “innocent,” with Jude crafting a fascinating experiment that, while more austere than usual, still carries his razor-sharp commentary and biting satire, where the caustic manner and subversive tone always influence the overall vision.

In the city of Cluj-Napoca in Romania’s Transylvania region, a bailiff named Orsolya accompanies the local police in evicting a cantankerous, constantly swearing homeless man named Ion (Gabriel Spahiu), a collector of recyclables who had been temporarily squatting in an unused boiler room, where the building is scheduled for demolition in an effort to modernize the city (enriching a handful of developers who are described as mobsters), to make way for the construction of a luxury Kontinental boutique hotel.  Apparently she had some dealings with this man before, and while exposing the absurd cruelty of bureaucracy, in this case carrying out the interests of the rich, she graciously gives him some time and space, and a few minutes alone to collect his things, hoping to alleviate any unnecessary pressure, but she is thoroughly aghast to discover that he tragically commits suicide rather than be transported to an emergency shelter, where she ends up plagued by her own complicity in his death.  Ion actually introduces the film, seen amusingly wandering through a dinosaur-infested forest, an actual Dino-Park, a perfect metaphor for post-communist capitalism, before making his way into the city, establishing his presence as a curious character living on the fringe of society, seen dumpster-diving and begging outdoor restaurant customers for money, amusingly harassed by a ridiculously threatening robot police dog, where the plight of the poor contrasts mightily with the picturesque elegance of the city central square surrounded by dramatic European architecture from the beginning of the last century.  Much like Hitchcock’s Psycho (1960), the film begins with a victim and then shifts focus to the perpetrator, as Orsolya carries the rest of the picture, spiraling into a moral crisis, seeking solace from her husband, but his mind immediately turns to sex, forcing her to back out of a planned vacation to Greece with her family as her life is thrown into an emotional tailspin.  While hardly a criminal, she finds herself complicit in a mechanism that trivializes inequalities and places her on the side of the wealthy real estate perpetrators.  The film depicts the difficulty of living with or dealing with one’s conscience, where collective guilt is a societal byproduct of actions necessary for moral survival, as the middle class is required to serve the powerful elites without ever benefiting from the prosperity produced.  Told by friends that she did nothing wrong, and that she’s not responsible, yet no one seems able to understand her or relieve her pain, nonetheless she feels guilty, burdened by a guilty conscience, which only grows worse after learning from the media that Ion was once an Olympic athlete, a forgotten national hero.   As an ethnic Hungarian in Romania, she quickly becomes an easy target from far-right nationalist critics, vilified online through social media as the Hungarian woman who drove a patriotic Romanian to his death.  Fusing fiction and documentary, with election posters promising “honor and loyalty in the service of my country,” this is a reflection of the quiet collapse of empathy in modern Europe, and an uncomfortably accurate reflection of our modern-day malaise, and while the filmmaker refuses to be associated exclusively with so-called political cinema, this more accessible effort feels funnier, more uninhibited, freer, and more surprising.

Searching for understanding and moral clarity, Jude’s camera lingers in front of historical monuments, which evoke political lessons, while there’s an oppressive aspect to the almost documentary quality of expansive shots of construction sites, reflective of the rampant property speculation in the middle of a real estate boom, where old ruins and historic buildings are contrasted with new-build luxury developments with gated private residences, as the still-growing city advances into modernity.  Both Orsolya and her friend Dorina (Oana Mardare) appease their guilt by donating to charities, while also discussing the Hungarian-Romanian conflict, where Transylvania has been passed back and forth multiple times since the 19th century, resulting in a backlash of resentment from both sides, where we are told “Romanians stole Cluj and Transylvania from the Austro-Hungarian Empire.”  These are the words of her mother (Annamária Biluska), a self-professed Orbán supporter and proud Hungarian, who dismisses Romania’s so-called economic advancements, believing they remain among the more culturally backward countries in Europe, describing Romanians as “serfs” and “peasants,” as it remains an economic and political system rooted in inequality.  Even the food delivery drivers are nationalistic, with Orsolya running into Fred (Adonis Tanța), one of her former law students with an infectious charm who is now a food delivery cyclist, wearing a backpack that reads “I’m Romanian,” a survival tactic meant to distinguish him from others Indian drivers from Bangladesh and Sri Lanka who are easy targets for city drivers, who do not hesitate to run them over.  A failed academic prone to recounting anecdotes about long-dead Zen Buddhist monks, they spend a wild night drinking, debating, and eventually having drunken sex in a public park.  Meanwhile, the streets abound with slogans, posters, declarations of principle now devoid of all meaning, like the anti-communist altar where Orsolya and Fred idly sit drunk, carrying out discussions on Ukraine and Gaza, where ordinary citizens feel so powerless.  Afterwards she has a long discussion with an orthodox priest (Șerban Pavlu), hoping to clarify the suffocating effects of her lingering guilt, where he also reminds her that this is not her fault, as a reading of the scriptures concludes suicide is a sin against oneself and humanity, and no one bears responsibility but the person who took their own life.  While removed from the Roman Catholic Church list of mortal sins, the Church is now willing to look at the individual circumstances of each self-inflicted death, like what weighed upon the victim’s consciousness that led to such a drastic action, offering prayers and forgiveness, which are also extended to Orsolya.  In this maelstrom of misfortune the hollow words of the priest consulted by Orsolya seem a very meager consolation.  The film seemingly stalls near the end, yet part of what’s confounding is just how repetitious this becomes, with Orsolya spouting endless versions of the suicide episode ad nauseam, confessing her alleged sins at each and every turn, literally obsessed with her own personal failures, even as others repeatedly forgive her.  While she may be legally innocent, she still ends up feeling terrible, plagued by self-doubt, like she didn’t do enough, but what she ultimately discovers is that guilt is a relative concept in contemporary Romania.  Essentially a film about displacement, whether it be political, personal, or moral, Orsolya continues to search for clarity but finds only contradictions, yet ends up exposing the wider indifference of today’s society, where nationalist polemics, racist sayings, and aggressive misogyny serve as the norm.

Father Mother Sister Brother

 

Writer/director Jim Jarmusch

Jarmusch at Venice

Jarmusch on the set

MOTHER FATHER SISTER BROTHER                B+                                                         USA  Italy  France Ireland  Germany  (110 mi)  2025  d: Jim Jarmusch

If too many people like a film I make, I feel like I’ve done something wrong.

I don’t know where the hell she came from in this case, but I generally bring an idea with me for about a year, sometimes more than one, until I finally start writing, very quickly.  In this case it took me three weeks.

My favorite thing is to wake up and have no plan.
—Jim Jarmusch

This is Jarmusch’s version of an Ozu film, exploring the personality-driven intricacies of complex family dynamics, where it’s all about the silences between the characters, as the emotional weight of the film is the exploration of that undiscovered interiority, creating a quietly contemplative aspect to the viewing experience, which seems like an anti-action, puzzle-piece counterpoint to what we’re used to seeing, funny, tender, and astutely observed, yet more than anything it feels personal and refreshingly honest, told in a triptych style, a technique often used in both cinema and literature, and a device he has used before, which is difficult to pull off as invariably some episodes are stronger than others.  In this case they are brilliantly blended together by editor Affonso Gonçalves, while shot in New Jersey, Dublin, and Paris by two extraordinary cinematographers, Frederick Elmes, who shot the first chapter, and Yorick Le Saux, who shot the second and third.  Like all Jarmusch films, this is an experience where nothing and everything happens all at once, where the key is deciphering the many clues hidden between the lines, as there’s plenty of deception or hidden secrets with parents who are protective of their children.  Strangely rejected by the Cannes Film Festival, many have dismissed this as a minor film, in much the way Haiku poetry is derided in the poetry world, too small, abstract, yet it still paints a vivid picture, suggesting there is something noble about the power of art, which can also be terribly deceptive.  This is indisputably the work of a mature artist growing older, grappling with their own sense of mortality, as this is simply where the mind wanders when you get older, feeling spacious and ponderous and completely unpretentious, where there’s something so ordinary and believable about it, with the filmmaker stating his goal, “We wanted to make a small, quiet film.”  Among the earliest and more memorable discoveries of this filmmaker came with the hard-to-find Mika Kaurismäki documentary film, TIGRERO: A FILM THAT WAS NEVER MADE (1994), with Sam Fuller bringing Jarmusch deep into Brazil’s Mato Grosso rain forest jungle, interacting with the Indigenous Karajá people, a group Fuller met and filmed in the mid 50’s for a film that was never made.  The hip modernism Jarmusch brings to such an isolated and secluded region is hard to fathom, as this presents him in a uniquely different light, seeing him in such a remote area wearing a Ramones T-shirt, literally expanding our conception of an artist.  Singer Tom Waits has been part of Jim Jarmusch’s regular cast since the utterly hilarious jailbreak-on-the-bayou movie, DOWN BY LAW (1986), while other notable films include the three-act STRANGER THAN PARADISE (1984), an example of plotless, low-budget, independent filmmaking, Mystery Train (1989), another triptych, a musical pilgrimage to Memphis, Tennessee, home of Sam Phillips and Sun Records, Night on Earth (1991), with five interconnecting, chance encounter stories involving a taxi cab driver and passengers in five cities, Dead Man (1995), an acid western, and still, arguably, his best film, GHOST DOG: THE WAY OF THE SAMURAI (1999), a samurai assassin gangster flick, COFFEE AND CIGARETTES (2003), eleven vignettes connected by the titular theme, BROKEN FLOWERS (2005), a cross-country road trip reconnecting with former lovers, THE LIMITS OF CONTROL (2009), an immersion into the haunted, surreal atmosphere of a paid assassin, Only Lovers Left Alive (2013), a vampire flick, Paterson (2016), a tribute to New Jersey poet William Carlos Williams via a modern day bus driver, and The Dead Don't Die (2019), another absurdist zombie movie.

Winner of the Golden Lion (1st place) at the 2025 Venice Film Festival, carefully constructed to allow small details to accumulate, reminding viewers just what it is to be a film poet, it opens with a hauntingly personalized, bass-heavy jazz performance of “Spooky” by British-German singer-songwriter Annika Henderson (aka Anika), Spooky YouTube (2:11), an original Classics IV song from 1967 that essentially establishes the mood and sets the stage for what follows.  Six years since his last feature, the first thing we notice is that Ozu’s pillow shot transitions (The enigmatic 'pillow shots' of Yasujiro Ozu) have been replaced by abstract flickering light passages between episodes, giving us some time to reflect upon what we see happening onscreen, with each of the three sections taking place in the home of a parent where their estranged children come to reconnect.  Opening on a windy, countryside road filled with bare trees and fresh snow on the ground, two siblings, Jeff and Emily (Adam Driver and Mayim Bialik, apparently catching the eye of Jarmusch as his favorite Jeopardy host) chat amiably on their way to visit their widowed and reclusive father at his lake house, sharing their assessment that he’s not a very trustworthy figure in their lives, turning out to be none other than a grizzled old, confusing-looking Tom Waits, who provides the film’s most powerful performance.  Jeff seems concerned about his financial situation since the death of their mother, wondering how he’s getting by, leading a hermetic life, where everything appears run down, offering assistance when he can, bringing along a box of groceries, while Emily is more skeptical about just how dire his situation is.  The setting of the house, situated right on a lake, is to die for, where anyone would dream of living in a house like that, with the camera lingering on the giant-sized window overlooking the lake.  Nonetheless, the father mentions there are a multitude of needed repairs, but suggests he’s doing as well as he can, but seems to be playing the sympathy card.  Jeff falls for it hook, line, and sinker, while Emily is rather amused by it all, pointing out that he’s wearing an expensive Rolex watch, which the father quickly claims is a fake, where the real drama comes only after they’ve left, placing everything we’ve seen before in a different light.  The truism that Jeff reveals is that you can pick your lovers and friends, but you can’t choose your own family, which more than ever rings true in these interconnected segments.  Written by Jarmusch, this episode sets the tone for spare, minimalist dialogue, with plenty of embarrassing and uncomfortable pauses in between to convey emotional distance, balancing wry, offhanded humor with a steady drip of information, while always remaining understated and moody, with something of an abstract, rhythmic flow about it.  A choreography of interpersonal relationships, pondering whether we ever really know the people closest to us, it shares the methodology of South Korean director Hong Sang-soo films, the maker of small, minimalist dramas, as both filmmakers rely upon the power of observation, with no sentimentality and no false drama, devising intimate scenes with powerful performances where awkwardness prevails, replete with lies, resentment, and love, where this is like the antithesis of a Mike Leigh film, where so much of this would otherwise be so wrenchingly despairing.  What’s most amusing is that Waits has always had something of a subterranean Beat poet vibe, where even at this late stage in his life (age 76), he’s still got a rebellious streak.    

While this is something of an actor’s showcase, with the filmmaker allowing plenty of empty space and room to breathe, remaining subtle and impressive, with a keen eye for detail, yet it begs the question, when was the last time we really talked to our families?  The moving presence of skateboarders is a recurring motif, seen in slow motion directly in the middle of the country road in the opening, while darting in and out of the streets of Dublin and Paris in the next segments.  A contrast between this youthful endeavor and ruminations on mortality is immediately evident.  Two sisters who couldn’t be more diametrically different, a punkish, pink-haired Vicky Krieps as free-spirited Lillith and the much more uptight, conservatively-repressed, almost invisible presence of Cate Blanchett as Timothea reunite with their imperial mother (Charlotte Rampling), a successful novelist who refuses to speak about her work, for their annual afternoon tea, the only time all year when they actually get together, though they all live in Dublin.  Their relations are nothing less than strained, where it all feels so terribly formal, as the host mother has impeccably arranged finger food with an assortment of delectable pastries in an immaculate house where everything is in place.  The conversation feels distant and camouflaged, a chamber piece of passive-aggressiveness, with each daughter vying for attention while struggling with insecurities in their personal and professional lives.  All dressed in the color red, as if pre-arranged, Father Mother Sister Brother Exclusive Movie Clip - Color ... YouTube (2:07), the domineering mother, offering a sense of cold authority, appears to be very high maintenance, while her children come to represent unfulfilled expectations, which may have led to uncomfortable childhoods, so they fidget around nervously at the table, expressing some disquieting tension, where the picture of perfect décors hides what’s simmering underneath, leaving viewers undoubtedly perplexed by what’s not being said.  The final chapter is notable for the parents not being present, as Indya Moore as Skye and Luka Sabbat as Billy are twin black siblings cleaning out a Paris apartment following the mysterious death of their parents in a tragic airplane crash.  Their closeness is immediately evident, seen hugging, kissing, and holding hands as they meet in a café before visiting a now-empty apartment that Billy has taken great care to save all the belongings, seen in an excursion to a local storage locker, but it’s unclear what they plan to do with it all.  These American émigré parents led extremely private yet unorthodox lives, perhaps involved in some spy stuff with multiple identities, and their unconventional lifestyle has left an imprint on their children, both raised in Paris, inquisitive and extremely well educated, where after going through some old photos, childhood drawings, and multiple fake documents, they both become aware of how little they actually knew about them.  There’s even a cameo appearance from the building landlord, Françoise Lebrun from Jean Eustache’s revered magnum opus The Mother and the Whore (La Maman et la Putain) (1973), who reveals that the parents died owing three months’ rent, and that she personally prevented the insurance company from seizing their belongings, an act of kindness that suggests she may have known more about them than her own family.  In their memories there is warmth and tenderness, still learning little secrets about their parents while browsing through their things, discovering small unexplained mysteries.  Blending humor and melancholy, capturing the frustrating yet essential nature of family bonds, the film relies heavily on subtext, recurring visual cues, and uncomfortable silences to convey deep-seated emotions and complex histories, with Dusty Springfield singing a riff on the opening song, Dusty Springfield - Spooky (Just Dusty) - 04 02 1971 • TopPop YouTube (2:39), while a musical collaboration between Jarmusch and Annika Henderson creates a haunting soundtrack, Father Mother Sister Brother | 2025 | Jim Jarmusch & Anika | Original Motion Picture Soundtrack | Original Score | OST, with the Jackson Browne song These Days YouTube (3:35) playing out over the end credits, with the delicate voice of Anika sounding like a reincarnation of The Velvet Underground’s Nico.