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Making history is something many of us dream of, but the circumstances of memorable acts are often tragic or escape people's recollection in their true form. Jake Paltrow's historical film focuses on a person who needs no introduction: Adolf Eichmann, the architect of the final solution to the Jewish question, who breathed his last in 1962 in an Israeli cell after a court had sentenced him to death for crimes against humanity. June Zero tells the story from the point of view of the people who, from the perspective of history as interpreted in the textbooks, played a much more subtle role. The narrative alternates between the perspectives of a young boy who, at his father's instigation, works in a lathe factory and participates in the production of Eichmann's cremation furnaces, a captain of the prison guard, and an Auschwitz survivor. Their intertwining lines paint the Eichmann trial as a definitive reminder of the Holocaust that continues to plague the hearts of Jewish people long after the end of the war. Although the script sometimes strays into descriptions that are meant to bring the subject matter closer to a global audience and ends up being unnecessarily literal, its point about the transience and at the same time the fundamentality of some historical acts is beautifully and floridly declaimed. "We must never forget" remains the slogan that best encapsulates the emotional Schindler's List, but June Zero is an engaging, more intimate alternative in which the nature of the memories, not just the acts themselves, is crucial. Evil and good never end and are not limited by dates, but by those who do them. 70 %

"You may find Lynch's mysterious work even more mysterious after the screening," director Philippe promised before the screening in Kalovy Vary, and he was right. The ninety-five-minute documentary offers a lucid and insightful whirlwind of theories that, from the perspective of scholars and avid fans of Lynch's work, discuss various thematic, stylistic, and pop culture parallels to the classic film that first took us "over the rainbow" in 1939. This uncommon reading of Lynch's poetics is extremely refreshing, especially for cinephiles, and although the documentary occasionally strays too far into the purely personal and subjective feelings of the narrators, it doesn't run out of supporting arguments and doesn't lose its power as an exciting ode to the endless process of creative inspiration. It connects the entire body of cinema into an intertwined cycle that is a joy to think about and unravel. Especially in the interpretation of Philippe and the various thought-provoking analysts, among whom stand out David Lowery (director of The Green Knight) with his sense of defining directorial hallmarks and especially John Waters, who even half a century after making Pink Flamingos has not lost his sharp wit and eloquence. After watching it, you immediately want to revisit most of the films or series discussed and find new things in them, following the documentary's example. And that in itself is a clear creative triumph.

The third feature film by Icelandic director Hlynur Pálmason is in many ways reminiscent of Werner Herzog's early work. At the end of the 19th century, Lucas, a Danish priest, sets out to build a church in a remote part of Iceland and encounters not only the untamed landscape, but also the flamboyant guide Ragnar and the specific mood of the local folk. Godland is shot in 4:3 format, which corresponds to the historical background itself – in the introduction we are told that the film is based on seven photographs from that time. It’s precisely the photographic nature of the image that is the strength of the film, which excels in the ingenious creation of contrasts. Lucas leaves the comforts of home and finds himself in an inhospitable land where he’s confronted by the harsh Ragnar, who in contrast is in harmony with his surroundings. However, Pálmason also emphasises the thematic differences with individual shots that also sound contrasting – a group of wandering people lose themselves in the foreground of majestic hills; a long shot of the tired protagonist lying down is followed by the eruption of a volcano. The film takes us to a fascinating land, at once beautiful and haunting, where nature reigns supreme and where priests have no place. Unfortunately, it’s 140 minutes long, often mired in compositions that have only a symbolic function, and completely detached on an emotional level. The development of the relationship between Lucas and Ragnar is inadequately portrayed, and compared to the aforementioned Herzog, the film also limps as a parable about the decline of the human individual. Nevertheless, it is a visually and spiritually stimulating piece that stands out in a quiet hall with a huge screen.

The story is set in 1938 in Leningrad, which is presented as an ugly industrial hotbed of Party doctrine. Captain Volkonogov helps coerce innocent enemies of the state into false confessions in the "inquisition trials", but his conscience catches up with him and he decides to take the radical step of fleeing and seeking forgiveness from the survivors to bring him to an afterlife paradise. As we watch, several sources of inspiration emerge: the redemption motif recalls the Hungarian film Son of Saul, while the chase line, with a ruthless Major hot on the heels of the Captain, is at times reminiscent of Jason Bourne's evasive skills. In its description of that crazy time, when everyone was a potential traitor with a bullet ready to pierce their head, the film is cynical, harsh and black-humored. At the scene where a local "legend" demonstrates how he can execute forty people a day with one bullet for each, we feel the urge to grin at the dark absurdity and shudder at the same time. It's a strange hodgepodge of genres at times, and the script has holes in its logic, but at two hours Captain Volkonogov Escaped has excellent pacing and offers a fresh alternative to its conservative Hollywood competitors.

The second feature film by Moroccan director Maryam Touzani is set in her native country, where husband and wife Mina and Halim run a clothing shop – caftans. Halim sews the intricate patterns with his own hands and approaches the work with the love and patience that characterize the production design of this heartfelt and emotionally powerful film. Although Halim loves his wife deeply, he has always been sexually attracted to men, which he tries to hide for his own and later his wife's sake. The film flows slowly and focused, reinforcing the bonds between the characters with silent shots of them exchanging glances or touching each other fleetingly. The young and handsome apprentice Youssef impresses Halim, forming a love triangle, which does not develop the motif of infidelity, but various forms of love and affection. Maryam Touzani doesn't depict overt sexuality and relies on us to fully put ourselves in the shoes of the protagonists, especially Halim, whose stoic and pure personality is torn between passion for work, sexual desire and his love for Mina, who falls gravely ill. The Blue Caftan is a testimony to the disappearance of traditional crafts in a time and country that still does not favour non-traditional human unions. It's a film you have to listen to and adjust to the seams of the subtle editing, and you'll be rewarded with a generous dose of natural emotion. Personally, I haven’t been so thoroughly "wrung out" by a film in a long time.

The heroine of the film is Lilja (Rita Burkovska), a marine who had been held captive by Donetsk separatists and whose view of the world changed irrevocably when she returned home. At the front, she watched her surroundings from the bird's eye view of spy drones; after the horrors she experienced, she feels similarly distant in private. And so is the audience, which has nothing to grasp in this thematic tangle. Nakonechnyi, who introduced Butterfly Vision himself, uses a detached and partly documentary form to polemicise not only about female victims of war crimes, but about Ukraine as such. In his and Lilja's eyes, she’s internally conflicted and full of tension, which leads to tragic personal acts. The inexperienced director, who has only made short films with LGBTQ+ themes, throws a bunch of motifs at the audience based on different perspectives and his film desperately lacks clarity. He’s eager to comment on many issues, and in addition to the moral question of a mother considering aborting a child conceived after being raped by an enemy, he points out, for example, the disrespect of a failed state for its military heroes or the racial strife within the nation. All this is then wrapped up in a frame plot with flashbacks that tell us nothing and end with a short intense montage like in Requiem for a Dream. It's a challenging argumentative film, but it was selected for Cannes mainly for political reasons – it doesn't cut it on its own and leaves an aftertaste of an unfinished and incoherently procedural work.

Requiem for a Dream, Lilya 4-Ever or even the extreme Slaughtered Vomit Dolls... The list of films that have plunged us into the bleakness of the lives of prostitutes could be long and would include many works that have come up with creative formal ways to grasp this extensive subject matter. Unfortunately, the same cannot be said of A Far Shore, the feature debut of Japanese director Masaaki Kudo. He discusses a serious topic in the most shallow and literal way, and although he does nothing outright wrong, he does not excel at anything. It does have the wit and a certain enigmatic quality of Japanese cinema, but we follow a routine template where exactly what we expect from the first minutes happens. The film has some very nice shots and tries for a symbolic ending, with the ocean tide cleansing a severely tested young mother and her two-year-old son. Otherwise, however, it feels as if Kudo has seen several famous Hollywood films and compiled them into a universal muster, which he simply skims over and adds no personal value. And this applies to both the vacuous dialogue and the dysfunctional balance between the attempt at a more poetic approach on the one hand and naturalism on the other. A few decent nudes certainly don't simulate the journey to hell that the seventeen-year-old protagonist Aoi is about to experience. With a bit of cynicism, one could even write that the biggest positive is that such a dull film could give potential aspiring filmmakers the courage to realize their own festival projects.

On the surface, America is an enjoyable relationship drama about a love triangle that hinges on compelling actors and a strong starting point. In this respect, however, we can easily predict events, and the subliminal interpretation, which incorporates political themes into the game, appears to be more significant. Along with Eli, the United States arrives in Israel and causes a disaster (albeit indirectly) from which the local counterpart is rehabilitated for the rest of the film. This interpretation is not supported by the tragic portrayal of Eli's character or the sad ending, but if valid, it would at least partially elevate an otherwise mediocre drama. America is a safe emotional bet with a stylistic component that is not very distinctive and a mixture of various motifs, including hints of homosexuality and coping with a painful upbringing. After the award-winning The Cakemaker, this is a step backwards for Graizer.

For someone like me, who at the KVIFF watches three films a day, usually featuring serious themes and depression, Zoo Lock Down was a welcome respite. Horvath follows the local inhabitants with an emphasis on creating micro-stories, some of which are hilarious thanks to the cuteness of the animals. The lemurs, for example, are accompanied by quadraphonic music and there is no need for commentary, which the film does not have. Horvath also uses a distinctive musical score to evoke an unsettling, almost horrific atmosphere and several times surprises us with the movements of the animals – for example, when a caiman suddenly dives, the whole hall jumped. The sound, which in one part also accentuates the screams of the children present and makes us feel the perspective of the frightened animals, is the only stimulating element of the documentary. The footage otherwise lacks a clear scheme that would make the presented actions clearer and offer some climaxes, whether humorous or action-packed. It must be enough that we get a glimpse into those spheres of the zoo where we do not normally look, but otherwise we learn nothing new. That the animals in the zoo are primarily prisoners, whose lives were at least a little freer and more peaceful during the human lockdown, is not a revelation worthy of a documentary. But the Austrian filmmaker and the festival organisers deserve credit for the good intentions of including a film suitable for a child audience.

Beautiful Beings, co-produced by Iceland, Denmark, Sweden and the Czech Republic, is in many ways nothing new. Yet it doesn’t follow a trivial formula and the bullied, neglected and shy Balli is not the protagonist but the main symbol of youthful suffering in a broken family. The most space is given to his peer Addi, the only one of the group of four to have a loving, if slightly weird, mother. Through his perceptive lens, we see the bleak existence of 14-year-old boys from a poor suburb. The title group, which includes the loser Balli, is dominated by the burly Konni, who compensates for his strained family relations with his father with violent fights. The boys tease each other and entertain themselves with risky ventures and light drugs, but at the same time they stick together and try to find a bit of understanding in a world ruled by physically stronger and more mentally corrupt adults. Guðmundsson, the director, brings us closer to the characters precisely by casually depicting their childlike nature and by suggesting the complete absence of emotion on the part of the parents, and when they get into a fight, we understand their frustration. Moreover, the scenes are superbly shot, with dreamy existential sequences that meet the demands of a more accessible art-festival film, while the more action-packed moments are intense. Iceland is represented here only by a grimy city where a depressing future awaits the children if they cannot assert important values on their own. 80 %