In Sitges, the tradition of applauding King Kong’s bedside is maintained, shaking off the insidious planes of reality before each film. Everyone here knows that it will continue to be so until the end of our days. Applauding the sacred gorilla will be the last thing we do before leaving this valley of tears that is life on earth, outside the cinema.
Reality is an invention, pure fiction. Quentin Dupieux knows this (Mr. Oizo for those who come to him from music), who these days has presented not one but two comedies that are known to him, French and quirky, very digestive in their particularity. both in Incroyable mais vraia domestic entanglement on science fiction table linen, as in Smoker fait toussera piñata of short stories that is in charge of hitting a group of superheroes trospiders, the director perseveres in the foreshortened humor that characterizes him. They are films that feel a bit slippery and very stimulating in those imbalances of reality, as well as in their assonant rhyme with satire and absurdity that giants such as Monty Python or Rik Mayall and Adrian Edmonson practiced before. In recognition of his search for the other side, Sitges has wanted to give Dupieux the Time Machine, one of the distinctions with which the festival recognizes souls related to the festival.
the fierce paradise
Not everything is laughter, fantastic cinema also comes to suffer for the human condition, to repair itself if possible. The French feature film the tour he places his allegory in a suburban bloc besieged by an unknown outside force. Nth apocryphal version of Skyscraper, the already classic novel by JG Ballard that began with the protagonist eating a dog on the balcony, Guillaume Nicloux details the collapse of the social racket detailing the marketing of pets for survival, the split in clans and castes and the height of violence as regenerating agent. Despite its somewhat atomized structure, the film ends up rising as a tremendous political bite, interested in driving to the limits and hovering over terrain where degradation will reinvent us into new and perhaps definitive monsters.
The harsh bulge of the haciendas and the inequalities caresses him too Sunday and the fog, a feature film touched by magical realism that lurks in the drama of a widower reluctant to hand over his land to highway contractors who intend to split his life in two. The Costa Rican Ariel Escalante Meza builds here a rigorous and very sparsely populated funereal film, where the characters go backwards a lot, they go into their sorrow until the story turns face on and hands over the predominance to the consequences.
our joyous youth
The festival faces its final stretch and the meninges do not respond as they should, the brain melts, the retinas creak and the criteria is foggy. And yet, the paradox is that the sloths are fewer, the mediocre films no longer find a place for us, we are fed up and we don’t pass a single one.
Here we are barely glossing thirty percent of what we see or remember. bone basket, for example, also very consistent with its own proposal, is a debut feature where the Mexican Michelle Garza Cervera dares with one of the happiest avatars of the genre, the emancipatory terror, the one that shakes off the darkness of ordinary life. The film has a cinema, its premise is as simple as encrypting a pregnancy in the tragedy and giving the development of the trauma. Governed by the spring presence of Natalia Solián, bone basket pays no more toll than the playful one and that due to an enthusiastic, young and frank understanding of existence, as well as a sincere love for terror. Because adult life, Lovecraft said, is hell.
Ti West, one of the big names in the genre, has returned to the festival with Pearl, southern and horizontal terror, without great scenes, which is just the bald portrait of a sociopath brought to life by a colossal Mia Goth. The actress grants herself, from the credit of co-writer, apotheosis moments, and in her stunned, beautiful and irresistible gesture, she holds the entire footage of a film that follows one another looking at each other in the tradition of other films, small films from a past time that does not we are clear if it could be better or even similar, but with which in any case we are indebted.
Art is the weathervane of the soul, you hear them say in the movie at one in the morning at the Prado cinema, the most dilapidated and charming of the festival. It is the seventh that we see today and there are plots that we already assimilate regularly. The ones we see at night dialogue with the ones we have seen in the morning and in each one there are echoes of the rest. In the drone shots they are all the same movie. The festival, as a quagmire of reality, has become a daydream.
Art is the weathervane of the soul. The phrase crosses the stalls and wakes us up in the seats while we suck on dehydrated ginger to distract from the sleep that always lurks. Walking back to our rooms in Sitges, we ponder the images of the day and understand that watching movies is as necessary as reading books or eating fruit, and that, as Caballero Bonald reminds us from the hotel bedside table, we are only the time that we have left