Film Reviews by PD

Writer-director Zeina Durra’s short but slow-burning film is a beautifully meditative, history-laden piece, one that asks us to consider how we reconcile our past experiences with our present state, and in turn how we wish our future to be.

Andrea Riseborough is pitch-perfect as the memory-haunted Hana; she's one who can decompress the present in the usual ways: rest, have a drink, commiserate with the friendly manager, even hook up with (and then avoid) a chatty American tourist, but on visiting Luxor’s temples and tombs, however, she feels the pull of past civilisations that struggled with life and death and sought to memorialise birth and rebirth. And when she runs into archaeologist and one-time lover Sultan (a suitably low-key Karim Saleh), their rekindling of a meaningful emotional and intellectual connection amid the beauty of ruins appeals to her past 'self' whilst at the same time bringing her reluctantly toward new choices.

Zelmira Gainza’s evocative location imagery is a bit predictable, whilst the soundtrack is an irritating distraction, but Durra is on solid ground in focusing on a psychological narrative in which the digging up of feelings is a gradual, contemplative journey, something sensed rather than made explicit. Riseborough is great at revealing her multi-layered personality, and her slow-walked reveal of a resilient woman’s vulnerabilities meshes well with Durra’s delicate attention to the antiquity and spiritual mystery around her. in a very modest, quiet mature way, this is impressive stuff.

French director Céline Sciamma's beautiful, very short piece deals with some profound themes with a light touch. It focuses on the connection between an 8-year-old girl, Nelly (the perfect Joséphine Sanz), and her mother, Marion (Nina Meurisse), through a simple leap of imagination. Nelly is a bright and empathic child whom Sciamma first introduces in the retirement home where her grandmother had lived until quite recently and where Nelly’s mother is also saying goodbye. Sciamma subtly — but very discreetly — conveys the change in this young family’s life and the individual healing that each of them do to move forward, and of course at a time when Nelly's identity is still in formation. Sciamma is remarkably skilful at banishing the intellectual noise of adulthood, prioritising sensation and the emotional intuition by which we steer as children, and a very clever magical-realist plot device (involving Sanz's real-life twin sister Gabrielle - also excellent) is very well used to evoke the act of wondering what our own parents went through when they were themselves children. Sciamma gives Nelly the chance to find out, and the plot device serves as both an extension of Nelly’s natural desire to understand her mother and a chance to work out certain things she can’t quite say to her, and to investigate where her mother’s melancholy may have originated.

Sciamma’s tone is playful but never twee, and by casting the sisters Sciamma benefits from the bond that already exists between these girls, which reads here as a kind of instant complicity: a messy crepe-making scene in particular is absolutely wonderful. We sense that Sciamma has asked them to participate in a very personal exercise, but one that’s open-ended enough for them to project themselves. In our children, we often see reflections of the children we once were, we just need a little magic to access those same memories. In doing so, “Petite Maman” definitely casts a very effective spell indeed.

I watched it. And then watched it again. An astonishing accomplishment. I love its intensity, its honesty; I speak as someone who has lived with deafness and the specific issue of Cochlear implants.

Ritz Ahmed is compelling as Ruben, and the film takes its time in revealing a humane portrayal of someone coming to terms with a radically new and unwelcome conception of self, and in doing so delves with some depth into the dilemmas involved in the prospect of a miracle cure - and, dare i suggest, the struggle to redefine oneself in the face of a massive and unexpected change that could be applied to many different situations. For our relationships define ourselves, and Sound of Metal is careful in expressing this, most notably by moving through the muffled, disorienting sounds of Ruben’s experience to the alienating clarity of his partner, Lou. The tragedy of Ruben is of course in chaining himself to his old way of being, for he remains set on the implants that he believes will restore his old life, even as he sacrifices everything in its pursuit: Blake: “He who binds to himself a joy / Does the winged life destroy / He who kisses the joy as it flies / Lives in eternity’s sunrise”. Without a trace of sentiment, Sound of Metal makes a case for acceptance and for embracing the inevitability of unpredictable change. Compelling viewing.

Banned from filmmaking in Iran, director Mohammad Rasoulof returns to the great moral themes that underlie all his work in this generally powerful film, or should we say films - for we get four unrelated stories here, linked only by the central theme of the death penalty and to killing in general, each of which broadcast the message (with varying degrees of subtlety) that Iran’s authoritarian regime can be opposed and resisted, in spite of the powerful influence it exerts on people’s lives. Perhaps the four tales suffer from being narratively uneven, but it's compelling viewing nonetheless.

The first episode is a perfectly balanced and crafted little jewel that, by being the most understated, is perhaps the most hard-hitting of the four, and which might have done better as the culminating final tale. It concerns a day-in-the-life of Heshmat, an average middle-aged man with a well-trimmed beard and an impassive face. Beautifully acted without any undue emphasis, it makes its point with a shock of recognition. The second tale, titled “She said, you can do it”, is set in a prison dorm in which a soldier has been ordered to hang a prisoner the next morning by pulling the stool out from under him, but his conscience won’t let him do it. In this highly theatrical setting, he struggles to find a way out of killing, talks to his girlfriend on the phone, trying to find someone to pull strings and transfer him out. The various moral dilemmas he faces are portrayed quite well, but then this sequence veers off into a highly improbable resolution which rather ruined it for me. The third story: “The Birthday” also involves someone involved in military service, but this time he's on a three-day leave, the action centring around his meeting his fiancee and her family. Compared with the conscientious objector of the previous episode, this segment voices a more common attitude toward following military regulations, but once again the action feels a tad forced to me. Meanwhile, one would expect the final segment, “Kiss Me,” to build on and consolidate the previous three, but it rather fails to end the film with a satisfying conclusion, as sadly it’s the weakest of the four, involving as it does a 'big secret' which, by the time we get to realise what it is, the power of the premise is somewhat dissipated.

According to Amnesty International statistics, Iran was responsible for more than half the world’s recorded executions in 2017. The number has since dropped, but the country continues to kill its citizens at alarming rates. It’s significant that Rasoulof seems so unconcerned with charges against the film’s condemned criminals. They are humans, after all. Rather than agreeing with the soldiers, the film is a challenge to all those who passively accept their role in the machine, calling on them to question the sentences they carry out — as well as those levied against their neighbours. “I refuse to kill a living thing,” pronounces Darya in the last story (played by the director’s daughter, an interesting casting choice). But is she ready for the truth? Are any of us? The truth, the film clearly understands, is more complicated than its title: There is evil in the world, and it corrupts us when we don’t take a stand. What would we do in the characters’ shoes? Intriguing stuff.

Nir Bergman’s tender piece is a warm, multi-faceted look at how autism plays into parent-child co-dependence.

The set-up centres on dad Aharon , beautifully played by Shai Avivi, and his young adult son Uri (a thoroughly convincing Noah Imber). Aharon, separated from wife Tamara, has given up a lucrative career to become a full-time carer for Uri, who is on the autistic spectrum (it is never explicitly spelled out but it isn't necessary). Uri’s life is marked by unbreakable routines: watching Charlie Chaplin on a portable DVD player, eating only pasta stars, not stepping on the lines in the pavement, etc. The conflict comes when Tamara, realising that at some point Uri will need to fend for himself, enrols him in an assisted living facility. Although Uri is scared and reluctant to go, it is Aharon who cannot sanction the move and, convinced he is best placed to raise his son, the pair go on the run. The ensuing 'road trip' avoids the usual comedic cliches or schmaltzy father-son moments, and drawing inspiration from her own family, screenwriter Dana Idisis crafts an understated connection, keenly observing the realities of dealing with an autistic child, be it through the novel coping strategies employed to make life manageable, or simply by the need to stay quiet. It makes 'Rain Man' feel artificial and forced by comparison and that's quite a compliment to all involved, for Imber pays Uri as a rounded person, not just someone with a disability, and Avivi is superb as a patient, caring father who starts to realise the limits of his love. Whether it is his low-level but constantly on-guard state of alertness —his panic in a scene where Uri goes missing is palpable — or quietly delighting in his son laughing at City Lights, he gives 'Here We Are' a big heart without a trace of sentimentality, and that's quite something.

For an hour or so, 'Dune' is mesmerizing, throwing off seductive glints of treachery as it presents the tale of Paul Atreides (an admirably restrained Timothée Chalamet), the gifted scion of the House Atreides, whose father is leading what looks to be an opportunity, though one that’s fraught with peril. This first section draws us into Herbert's world slowly but successfully, and hopefully will get many scurrying back to the books. There’s also much to admire in Patrice Vermette’s production design, particularly the Zen elegance of the aristocratic Atreides household on their beautiful oceanic home planet of Caladan and the Arrakis stronghold Arrakeen, a sprawling structure that combines ancient Egyptian and Aztec influences. The costumes by Jacqueline West and Robert Morgan also are full of eye-catching touches, from the gauzy gowns of Paul's mother Jessica and other women billowing in the desert wind to the utilitarian body-cooling “stillsuit” developed by the Fremen for survival in the desert, whilst the techy stuff is also really good, notably the giant Harkonnen harvesters raking the sands like desert beetles as monstrous sandworms tunnel up to the surface to swallow everything in their path, and the splendid wasp-winged choppers known as ornithopters, buzzing through the skies.

BUT. What the film doesn’t do is shape Herbert’s intricate world-building into anything really meaningful. For the history and complex societal structure that are integral to the author’s vision are condensed into a blur, cramping the mythology, whilst the layers of political, religious, ecological and technological allegory that give the novel such exalted status get mulched in a terribly thin, superficial screenplay (have these people actually read it all? or are they simply not clever enough to transfer it to screen?) - far too much of the dialogue could have been written by George Lucas, which is fine if you're 12 years old but I was hoping for so much more. Meanwhile, far, far too much of the latter stages of the film are dominated by Star Wars / James Bond style chase scenes which are both predictable and mind-numbingly tedious, whilst the sadly inevitable Lord of the Rings style portentous, subtle-as-a-flying-mallet score is among the most intrusive I've heard for many a moon. Only part one, of course, so jury out, and enough of interest to send me back for more, but if it's going to be more of the same then I'm afraid I'll probably be sensing a missed opportunity here.

This one's got all the trappings of a horror film - a cavernous old manor in the Surrey countryside with heavy wood panelling and enough space for a family of four to get lost inside it. And indeed, the place immediately creeps out Benjamin the younger of the two children, who seeks sanctuary with his older teenage sister Samantha at night until she kicks him out, then sprints through the darkened hallways to his room like something’s going to drag him off into the shadows if he’s not fast enough. But the horror on show is of an altogether different kind namely, the slow implosion of a family unit. And added to the mix is a horse, Richmond, a gorgeous black beast who just isn’t the same after he’s transported from New York to England - the scenes involving the horse and owner Allison (the superb Carrie Coon) are perhaps the film's strongest, although all four of the family members experience their own personal miseries.

Jude Law's Rory is a fast-talking commodities broker with a taste for luxuries he can’t afford (it’s the ’80s) and has been maintaining this facade for so long that he can't even be honest with himself about it, let alone anyone else. Yet Allison doesn’t confront Rory often, having served as co-conspirator and enabler in her husband’s games for a while now, but the way that Allison hoards and hides cash hints at how many times they’ve flamed out before and how she expects things to end up now. They’re well- matched as two people who’ve been drained by years of pretending to be something they’re not, chasing a dream they couldn’t entirely articulate, although Coon's performance for me is much the stronger. As a critique of a decade of consumerism, 'The Nest' is a little thin and predictable, but as a fable of familial dysfunction, it’s resonant and not a little frightening, without a ghost in sight.

Karim Aïnouz’s heartbreaking period family saga based in midcentury Rio de Janeiro is a real gem, with pointed feminist politics and sharp social truths neatly interwoven into an absorbing tale of two sisters separated for decades by deceit and shame. Stylistically it's also wonderful, being saturated in sound, music and colour to match its depth of feeling. Its length, at over two hours, may well put some people off, but I found it all thoroughly gripping, mainly because of the wonderful performances from the two leads - Carol Duarte as the initially stoic but steadily unhinged Eurídice and Julia Stockler as her initially tempestuous but progressively more zenlike elder sister Guida (although the supporting cast is also very strong). It's certainly not very subtle: the aching tragedy and dramatic irony of the sisters' situation is laid on with a trowel, assisted greatly by Benedikt Schiefer’s score — itself supported with evocatively chosen classical piano pieces by Chopin and Liszt. A few scenes stand out as worthy of some of the great directors: the lush, surreal opening scene immediately transports us into the sisters' bond and fears of separation, whilst by contrast Euridice's wedding night is shockingly explicit. And one superbly choreographed set piece, seeing the sisters miss each other by seconds in a Rio cafe, is totally agonising in a manner worthy of Thomas Hardy, and that's the highest compliment I can think of. But the film isn’t just a symphony of misery, with many flashes of joy and comradeship as Guida builds a new life for herself in Brazil’s slums, with wily, kindly prostitute Filomena (Bárbara Santos) as her new guardian angel; she may weather harder knocks than her sister, but finds her own kind of happiness. In this sense, Aïnouz has made both a testament to the resilience of women in a society stacked against them — there are no good men to be found in its vision of patriarchal oppression — and a moving celebration of the families we create when the ones we’re born into fall away. And just when you think you can't get any more heart-rending scenes, a final act involving 89-year-old Brazilian grande dame Fernanda Montenegro gathers all the film’s loose strands of feeling to powerful effect. Beautiful filmaking.

Phyllida Lloyd’s strong third film is part social-realism part heartwarmer, with echoes of Leigh or Loach but carefully avoiding all-out desolation. And in Clare Dunne the film has an exceptional female lead, one who spearheads the action superbly with a knife-edge performance of raw ferocity and fragility as Sandra, who's living with the fallout from leaving her violent husband, Gary.

The brutal altercation that prompts this escape is witnessed by one of her daughters just as the other runs to the corner shop with a note for the owner to call the Guards. Internal flashbacks of this horrific moment will replay in Sandra’s mind, to the panic-stricken thumping of blood pumping in her ears, at several points as its shockwaves persist. Cinematographer Tom Comerford’s initially shaky, roaming camerawork speaks to her petrified state of mind as daily life – the school run, working two jobs and sticking to weekend visits with dad – must go on, even if she and the girls are forced to live in an airport hotel. All this is very well-handled by Lloyd, thanks in large part to the tremendous performances given by Ruby Rose O’Hara and Molly McCann as the young siblings. The film also touches on the extent to which the children of a broken home are used as pawns by sparring exes and somewhat overlooked by a court system short of both humanity and a grip on reality. “Was there a reason you didn’t leave sooner?” a tone-deaf judge will ask late on in the film, demonstrating a lack of compassion and understanding of Sandra’s experience, and by extension the experience of many more.

After a rather implausible plot development involving a gift of land by Peggy (a wonderfully cantankerous, waspish Harriet Walter, who swiftly mellows), Herself focuses more on can-do spirit than it does on kitchen-sink hardship. And here lies the film's basic problem, for the the former is a lot less convincing than the latter, with the result that the film does feel rather off-balance dramatically. And then in the last 10 minutes or so, about three films’ worth of plot hit at once which make the picture’s ending a rushed feel that’s rather unsatisfying. It’s not that we want things to be harder for Sandra, quite the contrary, but her challenges—particularly her emotional conflicts—might have been explored in a little more depth.

Even so, Dunne—who has performed in several of Lloyd’s stage productions—gives plenty of dimension to Sandra’s particular brand of anxiety, optimism and determination. The sudden acknowledgement that a person you once loved doesn’t exist anymore can knock the wind out of you, and Dunne captures that breathless free fall beautifully. Well worth a look.

This one's a bleakly comic drama (definitely more drama than comedy, although the humour is never far away) about a group of misfit asylum-seekers stranded in surreal exile in a remote Scottish backwater town. Writer-director Ben Sharrock displays a winning flair for small observational detail and is generally successful at casting a refreshingly humane eye on a politically contentious topic that is often sensationalised by the media. A visually stunning landscape of treeless hills, deserted roads, wide-open sky and rocky coastline, the unnamed island location of Limbo is a key character in the story, serving both a dramatic and psychological function.

The episodic plot of Limbo centres on Omar (Amir El-Masry), a refugee from war-torn Syria, as he and the other migrants wait to hear whether the British government will grant them asylum. Omar shares a dingy cottage with the eccentric Afghani Farhad and two bickering brothers from West Africa. A skilled oud player in his past life, Omar now seems too depressed for music, haunted by guilt over the family he abandoned, especially older brother Nabil (Kais Nashif), who stayed behind to fight in Syria’s civil war - the scenes depicting the brief communication with his parents from a callbox are very powerful indeed.

Drawing on his personal experiences of living in the Middle East, including working in refugee camps, Sharrock depicts the migrant experience with a refreshingly light touch, although some of the more surreal elements, notably the absurd “cultural awareness” lessons hosted by their well-meaning hosts, don't really come off, and it strains credulity to believe that the casual racist abuse directed at these outsiders by the island’s young white natives quickly dissolves into mutual respect, as does a running joke in which Sharrock paints his refugee protagonists as obsessive fans of kitsch American and European pop culture.

Limbo takes a more serious turn in its latter stages, when painful secrets and unexpected tragedies darken the otherwise largely playful mood, as does a climatic surreal scene reconnecting Omar with his brother. This tonal shift is a brave one, but still jars a little, with Sharrock grasping at a profundity that is a little beyond his reach here, and in doing so also risks giving in to a sentimentalised melodrama that he has skilfully avoided up to this point. A pity also that a decision to just let the music speak for itself until the very end is denied us as Omar's playing gets absorbed into the vacuous drone soundtrack. Nevertheless, all in all a very watchable, thought-provoking piece.

This one begins as a social drama before revealing itself as psychological revenge-thriller - but for me the former (based on an the adoptee's right versus the right of the birth parent) is rather overpowered by the latter, and whilst the film is strong enough in performance and direction to survive the direction of events, much of the second half still feels to me like an intrusion on a better story.

At first, Rose's clumsy attempts to connect with her birth parent meets with resistance. But Rose is persistent in utilizing unethical methods that border on stalking to gain access. Indeed, we are concerned about Rose's mental state: Rose's trance-like stare revealing an internal pain that remains obvious even when she smiles. The film might have presented an intriguing dilemma—and a daring unsympathetic portrait of adoptees—should a child return to torment the birth parent? For adoption remains contentious - advocating for adoptees' right to confront their past, heritage, and history continues to put many at odds with family, friends, colleagues, etc; here we seem to be invited (generally speaking) to take Rose's side, and I found myself wondering whether the directors of the film are adopted or have adopted. As a thriller, however, the film is much less forceful, the story’s direction becoming increasingly predictable as it goes on, especially once Rosie's mother takes centre-stage. Nevertheless, taken as a whole, a highly watchable and distinctly unsettling piece.

This pocket-sized comedy by newcomer Emma Seligman is by-and-large a successful, relentless parody of North American Jewish types (although quite a lot of the satire is universal) which will delight most and probably offend some (and that's a compliment). Dragooned into the event by her anxious parents, the drifting Danielle (the wonderful Rachel Sennott) attends a family shiva – the Jewish equivalent of a wake, albeit more decorous. The boasting 'bubbies' and meddling mamas would be bad enough, but Danielle also has to contend with the presence of both her ex-girlfriend and the older man with whom she sleeps for money. The film's humour is derived from an impressive range of social awkwardness, with some positively Woody Alleneque lines: a Gentile baby, complains Danielle’s mother, is “freakishly pale and has no nose.” Meanwhile, broken glass objects, a deafeningly screaming baby, a relentlessly suspicious wife and a shedload of prying relatives make the claustrophobic house a scene of excruciatingly beautiful tension. Seligman overdoes it occasionally – there’s a tableau of the older generation eating for example that just feels mean – and the premise, which began life as a short film, is stretched pretty thin, with an awful lot of implausible twists, by the end of 75 minutes. Still, the concept holds strong amid all the craziness because Seligman has such affectionate sympathy for her protagonist. Pleased I gave this one a go.

This one is set in a care home in 2020 and two thirds of the film is very effective at depicting the pressure-cooker anguish of dealing with Covid in this environment.

Jodie Comer is spot-on as 20-year-old newly qualified carer, Sarah, who proves unexpectedly good at the feeding, changing, cajoling, cheering and calming that makes up the average day of the residents / patients. The film centres around Sarah's relationship with Tony (Stephen Graham), who has young onset Alzheimer’s and a tendency to roam if not gently monitored. He is one of the more able residents and they form a friendship alongside her duty of care, fostered by games of 'Shithead', over which they trade stories of their respective misspent youths. There are lovely, funny, poignant scenes as they talk, laugh then suddenly have to negotiate the blanks in Tony’s memory and ride the mood swings his relentlessly advancing condition causes.

Sarah is still in her six-week probationary period when Covid strikes, brought in by one of the “bed-blockers” the hospital delivers to them to free space for the growing number of patients stricken with the new virus. The ambulance crew who bring them ask where the staff’s masks are. “We were told we didn’t need them.” Director Jack Thorne constructs a fine portrait of the interconnectedness of all things – or at least all chronically underfunded, under-advised things left to beg for help, piece together independent protocols and scrabble for PPE. However, when Tony becomes an indirect victim of Covid, the film moves into a much less convincing third act, one that seems even to come from a different drama - if the film had ended 20 minutes earlier, it would have been much more powerful, but as it is, the final section seriously undermines the character of Sarah we have come to admire, which is a pity. But overall, it's a timely reminder of some of our society's dark corners - a chilling reminder during the closing credits that care workers are, on average, paid £11.50 an hour says it all.

Jack London’s tale of Martin Eden - an unschooled sailor who wants to become a writer after falling in love with an upper-class woman, gets an engaging European makeover here from iconoclastic Italian director Pietro Marcello. Instead of Oakland, the titular character now lives in Naples, and Martin is played, in a solid performance, by an always-intense Luca Marinelli. While the geography of this version of Eden is extremely specific, the time frame is much harder to pin down, with various 20th century influences existing alongside even older material, with brief documentary excerpts woven into the main narrative to provide local colour or draw historical parallels. These are not only well-integrated — the colour grader deserves some kind of award — but add little daubs of contextual information that never intrude on the film’s fictional arc.

The film works best when it concentrates on the protagonist’s personal journey from Parthenopean Nobody to a determined writer fully in command of his language who knows he’ll make it big and then finally (and tragically) does. What's very much weaker however is Marcello's desire to shoehorn in both more than a century’s worth of European struggles and sociopolitical thinking, and the full story of Eden’s downfall after he’s finally become successful. Indeed, these weighty concerns rather capsize the entire enterprise in the final stretch, where the story runs aground on an iceberg of undigested ideas, barely developed themes, and distinctly bad hair choices. Meanwhile, sadly, the subtitles make no attempt to differentiate between Neapolitan, Italian and French, which means that the linguistic subtext, and what it constantly says about class and education, is literally lost in translation for foreign audiences. And despite its length the film doesn’t have enough time to dig very deep into Eden’s growing and then gradually shifting philosophical thinking, and there is no way of knowing what the work of Eden as a writer actually contains — a few stray phrases said out loud notwithstanding — Martin Eden’s sociopolitical and literary considerations finally feel very superficial. Finally, when the last act starts it feels like the viewer needs to quickly run a couple of extra laps to catch up with what has happened during the ellipse and there's not nearly enough evidence to figure out whether what Eden has always preached has suddenly become true and no longer being misunderstood has made him unhappy — or whether it is simply impossible to talk truthfully about the poor and exploited once you’ve become rich and successful and this is what is causing his anguished expressions, bad hair and terrible teeth. How his Darwinian take on socialism, much of it gleaned from the works of Herbert Spencer, figure in all this is also not made clear.

There’s a telling scene in which Martin and Elena come out of a cinema with Elena saying she liked the film and Martin saying he didn’t. It gave her hope, she says, while he doesn't think it reflects the misery of reality or saus anything new. Harshly but perhaps not unjustly, he tells her: “Those who are always full can’t understand the misery of the hungry.” It feels like a moment in which philosophy, literature and the political and class struggles take the upper hand for Martin, and his idealised love for her starts to wane - indeed, not much later, he’s picked up a lowly waitress (Denise Sardisco).

Marinelli is a force of nature in every scene and doesn’t play Eden so much as inhabit him, ensuring that the titular figure is always credibly alive as a determined, foolhardily-in-love young man, an insatiable intellectual-in-the-making and a man bent on beating the odds and becoming a published writer however many of his manuscripts are returned to sender. We might not understand WHY Martin is unhappy when he becomes a success, but Marinelli at least communicates his despair very effectively indeed.

In his feature debut, American director Michael Sarnoski has come up with a highly original piece which is part revenge tale, part character-study, part satire on the meaning of value and social status . The result is certainly a bit hit-and-miss but is nevertheless gripping throughout.

The comparison with John Wick is an immediately obvious one – a brooding loner retired from the outside world has his beloved pet taken from him inspiring him to go on a single-minded quest to find what was stolen. Curiously, Pig also comes hot on the trotters of The Truffle Hunters, a romantic documentary about mushroom digger-uppers and their dogs set in Northern Italy. In terms of tone and form, Pig and The Truffle Hunters couldn’t be more different, but it’s a rather neat coincidence that in being released so close together, each offers a strange emotional juxtaposition to the other. Visually, too, Pig has more in common with The Truffle Hunters, its early scenes in particular awash in earthy brown tones and close ups that unify both Nicolas Cage's Rob and his pig’s perspectives and their relationship with the land.

Cage starring as former chef turned truffle hunter is the big draw here; brooding and contemplative, Cage gives a haunting, captivating performance, each encounter on his quest to find his pig layering pathos upon tension. Violence hangs in the air of every scene, yet with the exception of a couple of eruptions, it remains resolutely out of frame - indeed, Rob is like an anti-John Wick: just as relentlessly single-minded but with his pain turned inwards, not out.

Rob's quest brings him into the purview with the lower and upper echelons of Portland society, and he has more than a few pithy observations to make about the hypocrisy and pretension of the society he has shunned. In one of the film’s most effective scenes, Rob destroys one of his former sous chefs, now running a fancy but vapid restaurant, by reminding him of his former dream of running a pub. Later, in Pig’s emotional climax, Rob confronts the person responsible for the pig theft by simply cooking him a meal. Bloody retribution is hinted at but ultimately withheld, denying us the easy catharsis that screen violence often denotes. True catharsis comes – if at all – not through the barrel of a gun but from Rob’s ability to see through his adversaries .

Perhaps the film ends up being less than the sum of its parts, as it were, but it's a thoughtful and beautifully crafted piece.