FILMS from AFAR

Three Films in Competition, a Thriving Box Office and the Envy of Europe: Spain Is Having Its Moment From Almodóvar to a new generation of auteurs, Spain has arrived at Cannes 2026 in historic fashion — and the industry behind it has never been in better shape: "Spanish cinema is in a very exceptional situation right now." Spaniards may not crowd the streets by the tens of thousands to celebrate their auteurs the way they do their futbolistas, but there has been a palpable sense of exuberance in the industry this spring about a historic moment for Spanish cinema. “I wish we lived it like that!” director Rodrigo Sorogoyen joked on the radio about the football analogy, after the April 9 announcement that his new film, The Beloved (El Ser Querido), would join Pedro Almodóvar’s Bitter Christmas (Amarga Navidad) and Javier Calvo and Javier Ambrossi’s La Bola Negra in an unprecedented three-film representation of Spain in this year’s Official Competition at Cannes. “There’s a certain movement in Spanish cinema,” Festival Director Thierry Frémaux affirmed at the announcement, pointing also to the French release the previous day of Spanish director Carla Simón’s Romería, a 2025 Cannes competition title. “This country has continued to produce formidable artists.” Spanish productions and co-productions can also be found in Un Certain Regard, Cannes Première, Special Screenings, Critics’ Week and Cannes Selection. The Croisette will be well stocked with the country’s most internationally renowned talents: Javier Bardem stars in The Beloved; Penélope Cruz and Glenn Close appear in La Bola Negra; and rising actress Victoria Luengo co-stars in both Beloved and Bitter Christmas, the latter alongside Barbara Lennie, Leonardo Sbaraglia, Aitana Sánchez-Gijón and Milena Smit. “It speaks to the great moment Spanish cinema is experiencing,” Almodóvar said following the April announcement — and he should know. He has had a hand in launching many of these talents, and his El Deseo production house co-produced La Bola Negra as well as last year’s Cannes Jury Prize winner and double Oscar nominee Sirāt. “It’s historical,” agrees Guillermo Farré, Head of Original Films & Spanish Cinema at Movistar Plus+, which co-produced Beloved, La Bola Negra and Sirāt and also backed Bitter Christmas. He notes that while Almodóvar has ensured Spanish cinema’s presence at Cannes at least every few years, this year’s three competition titles represent three different generations of filmmakers — proof, he says, that “Spanish cinema is in a very exceptional situation right now.” Spain is “in vogue,” affirms Elisa Carbonell, CEO of Spanish foreign trade institute ICEX, pointing to the country’s heightened presence at international festivals, markets and awards shows. “We are capable of bringing together craftsmanship, which I think is a luxury now, and innovation.” Spain has proved its creativity, its originality and its reliability. “We are so successful because there is an industry and there is talent.” Read the full feature on The Hollywood Reporter.

After 73 editions, SSIFF has quietly become one of the most respected names on the global film fest circuit, and as its longtime director prepares to step down, it has never looked stronger. If you’ve spent time on the film festival circuit, you’re probably aware of the “hidden gem” reputation of the San Sebastián International Film Festival. The “gem” part is easy to explain: global cinema, glittery stars, enthusiastic locals, a size that allows for real connections, world-renowned cuisine and the inimitable charm of this bay-set Basque city. It’s the “hidden” part of the equation that raises some eyebrows. After 73 editions, San Sebastián still remains slightly off the radar for some in the industry, shadowed by its bigger European counterparts. Despite its melding of international auteurs and A-list celebrities, SSIFF is sometimes pigeonholed as mostly focused on Spain and Latin America. Timing is also not in its favor: The September fest comes on the heels of Venice and sometimes overlaps with Toronto, meaning it battles titans for world premieres. “I think one of the San Sebastián Film Festival’s strengths is its awareness of its core characteristics and its refusal to try to be anything else,” says SSIFF director José Luis Rebordinos, who will retire after 15 years following this fall’s 74th edition (Sept. 18-26), to be replaced at the helm by current deputy director Maialen Beloki. “We can’t be a major market, but we can have interesting industry activities like the Europe-Latin America Co-Production Forum or the Investors’ Conference,” Rebordinos continues. “We can’t have the year’s biggest American releases as premieres, but we can showcase some of them with members of their teams in parallel sections.” In other words, the event has found its sweet spot. “We are a festival with a large enough audience to interest both the industry and critics, but small enough to feel human and welcoming,” Rebordinos says. “We work with humility, and our slogan is ‘We are the smallest of the greats.’ ” San Sebastián regulars agree: “Everybody thinks of Cannes and Venice and Berlin, but it’s the smaller festivals like San Sebastián that people will gravitate toward,” says Christine Vachon, co-founder of New York-based Killer Films. “Those are the festivals where you actually get to spend time with filmmakers, local artists and financiers.” Read the full article at The Hollywood Reporter. Cover image of Kursaal courtesy of SSIFF / Photo: Pablo Gómez.

For a young Spanish director to make her first feature film in English with a Euros 8 million ($9.4m) budget—more than double the Spanish average—and with internationally renowned actors like Rebecca Hall, Noomi Rapace, Gael García Bernal and Beanie Feldstein is unusual. For her film to be invited to premiere at the Cannes Film Festival is even more out of the ordinary. But that’s precisely what Maria Martínez Bayona has achieved with her debut feature, The End of It, invited to screen in Cannes Première this month. The Catalan screenwriter and director, who is based in London, has garnered attention with her short films Mia, Wake and Such Small Hands. Now, she is premiering her first feature-length film on the biggest international stage. AWFJ spoke by Zoom with Martínez Bayona (no relation to fellow Catalan director J.A. Bayona) prior to the festival, which runs May 12-23. Interview edited for length and clarity. Read the full interview at AWFJ.org.

Co-narrator Woody Harrelson promises “not another depressing documentary” at the start of this one, and he’s right. Don’t expect Groundswell to absolutely blow you away; its storytelling isn’t markedly innovative, and the basic science has to be explained like in any climate-oriented documentary. But this one does feel different in its sheer vastness. Filmmakers Joshua Tickell and Rebecca Harrell Tickell have put in the work, traveling to more than half a dozen countries and interviewing nearly two dozen experts on systems that work. It all builds up to a clarion call to consider regenerative agriculture as a macro solution to the climate crisis. And it’s a convincing call, considering the many ways it’s working on a micro level, which the documentary visualizes and explains very well. This film is the third in a trilogy and may be the best yet, thanks to its expansive ambition and globally inclusive framework. The message is clear, compelling, and convincing. What more can you ask of a documentary? Premiering as a Special Screening May 13 at the Cannes Film Festival 2026. Originally published by Common Sense Media. Images courtesy of Amazon Prime Video.

This tearjerker picks up steam in its emotional second half, thanks to skilled acting and an absorbing storyline—as well as a few surprises (at least for those who haven't read the book). Field and Pullman are well-matched as flawed, grieving outcasts in Remarkably Bright Creatures, which also benefits from likeable supporting actors such as Colm Meaney, Kathy Baker, and Sofia Black-D'Elia. It's not hard to relate to the characters, who capture the loneliness of modern American life. The Pacific Northwest setting provides a luxurious background as well as a moodiness that fits the story's tone. The octopus narrator is faithful to the book but arguably wasn't necessary in the screen adaptation, where his musings can come across as overly expository. The actors and script articulate the story just fine on their own. Then again, Marcellus is smart, loveable, and lives his own poignant story arc, so why mess with a best-seller? Originally published by Common Sense Media. Images courtesy of Netflix.

If you didn't already love Martin Short, you're going to after this loving profile, directed by longtime friend Lawrence Kasdan. Marty, Life is Short offers a close-up view of the actor's joy-infused and celebrity-filled life. Marty has loved and been loved by a big, happy family and a wide group of lifelong friends (the fact that those friends include figures like Eugene Levy, Tom Hanks, Steven Spielbergand so on doesn't diminish their genuine mutual affection). It's also a story about the contemporary history of comedy, particularly the troupe that came out of Canada's Second City and '70s and '80s-era Saturday Night Live, with Short as a through-line. His life mottos could serve anyone well—ideas like tragedy happens, and it's up to each person how we choose to handle it, or not to live with regrets. He's said to "maintain the merry theme of life," and the home videos and clips certainly show a lot of merriness. Marty is "good at life," a friend concludes. What a lovely way to be remembered, especially while still living that good life. This review originally ran on Common Sense Media. Images courtesy of Netflix.

This article was originally published by PROVOKED magazine. In a world engineered for distraction, living with intention isn’t a lifestyle choice. It’s resistance. Is your Instagram feed all Bridgerton, all the time? Well, of course it is. The algorithms have made it so. Social media companies profit off their “free” platforms by making us the product. Our attention is their currency. The more we engage with their content—the longer we scroll, the faster we click, the more rabbit holes we dive down—the more they earn. Our tech-necks are proof of a job well done. Our inability to focus is a feather in their caps. When the world is designed to keep us scrolling, the truly radical act is to stop and think for ourselves. In a culture driven by speed, social sameness, and algorithmic provocation, choosing to live artfully, with intention and discernment, isn’t indulgence. It’s resistance. It’s the new turn on, tune in, drop out. Women raised pre-internet have an advantage here—we remember what it is to think for ourselves. But in an age of digital slop, what does it mean to author your life instead of passively consuming it? Our Brains, Ourselves “Brainrot” is real when we’re constantly connected, bombarded with information and irresistibly inspired by likes and follows. To take back our brains, do we have to go offline entirely? Not necessarily. If the culture is engineered for distraction, then self-cultivation must start with self-control. Choosing what to consume, when and how, isn’t opting out. It’s leaning in—to yourself. The online world allows for far more personalization than the mass media monoculture of yore, you just have to approach it with intention. When you bypass “recommended” content, block over-sharers, replace doom-scrolling with the positive-seeking “bloomscrolling,” or commit to consuming long-form content in full, no interruptions, you curate your own online environment. You take back your attention span. Artful living interrupts the cycle. It gently fills in the rabbit holes. Don’t Take the Bait And the digital sphere could use more gentleness. When Oxford chose “rage bait” as their word of the year last year, they knew what they were doing. Want to get people to click more? Lure them in with deliberately outrageous, frustrating, or offensive content. The algorithms dangle the bait by amplifying misinformation and conspiracy theories, Oxford explained, in a practice called “rage farming.” Take one guess who the sheep are on that farm. The paradox is that we’re outraged, but we don’t quite know why. We disagree because our tribes and echo chambers say so. Hang on, let me Google it. Claude will know the answer. “Never have so many people had so much access to so much knowledge and yet have been so resistant to learning anything,” Tom Nichols wrote in The Death of Expertise. The antidote? Study. Learn. Gather knowledge. Develop skills. Read fiction. Engage in meandering conversations. Be open to other people’s opinions. And admit when you’re wrong or don’t know the answer. Intelligent conversation is artful living. Believing in facts and trusting the experts? Downright countercultural. Write Like You Mean It The other day I came across a Reddit thread that started: “Serious question. Why do people over the age of 40 use so many periods when writing things online?” Here’s my question: When did good grammar, spelling, and punctuation become so triggering? My index finger still twitches at the memory of early-era texting, back when you had to repeatedly punch each number on the flip phone to get to the right letter. No nostalgia here—I’d much rather text on my sleek iPhone—but artful living means caring about form, not just format. The medium doesn’t have to be the entire message. Living artfully is sending a friend a thoughtfully crafted email, or maybe even a handwritten note. It’s keeping a journal or travelogue for nobody’s eyes but your own. It’s leaving that great Gen Z burden, a voicemail, for a friend you’ve been thinking about. And, yes, it’s showing you cared enough to proofread, even in a text. Resist the Performance On Spain’s Mallorca island, there’s a gorgeous little cove known as Caló des Moro. After influencers started posting pictures from its pristine Mediterranean perch, the cove was inundated with thousands of visitors a day. There they stood, selfie sticks poised, waiting for their turn to catch their “individual” shot. Local authorities had to intervene. It’s time for a self-intervention. The attention economy thrives on our narcissism. Deep down, we know it’s true—even if we don’t want to admit it. The feed rewards performance and self-display. It injects us with emotional spikes. The opposite of narcissism is empathy. It’s generosity. Serving others is an exercise in gratitude and an investment in real-life community. It turns FOMO into JOMO (the joy of missing out) and replaces outrage with “helper’s high.” Living artfully means seeking deeper fulfillment beyond the superficial spikes. It means thinking about people other than yourself. Cultivate Your Garden When Voltaire famously wrote “We must cultivate our garden” in 1759, he wasn’t foretelling FarmVille. But he was onto something—the gratification that comes from nurturing our own corners of the world and those we share them with (what people now delightfully call “neighboring”). Living artfully is cultivating self, and cultivation takes time. It requires stillness and discernment. It means doing things at your own pace, far from the madding crowd. It means taking what you enjoy from social media, then moving on. We can be part of the world without posting every thought. We can shape our own tastes and edit our own rooms, wardrobes, and libraries. We can value our own experiences, realizations, memories, and relationships without the approval of others. No, it’s not easy in an age of connection, passivity, sameness, and self-absorption, at a time when we need tutorials on how to be bored. But it’s worth it. Because right now, the most radical thing a woman can do is care.

This review was originally published by The Alliance of Women Film Journalists . “A director makes only one movie in his life. Then he breaks it up and makes it again.” The Jean Renoir quote captures the way many auteurs, Spanish filmmaker Pedro Almodóvar included, seem to chip away at the same ideas and themes over and over again. His entertaining new melodrama,  Bitter Christmas (Amarga Navidad) , is clearly carved from the same marble as his other globally acclaimed works.  Add to this the irony that celebrity can reduce a person’s physical world at the same time it expands their global reputation, as Almodóvar himself has acknowledged in interviews, and you may approach an explanation for why his films feel both increasingly centered around his own individual experience and immediately recognizable to viewers around the world.  Bitter Christmas  is just such a package. The film is widely expected to premiere internationally at Cannes, but since its March 20 release in Spain it has sparked debate about the role of autobiography in the director's films – and creative works in general. That is entirely the movie’s point.  Leonardo Sbaraglia (co-star of the also semi-autobiographical  Pain and Glory ) stars as Raúl Durán, a version of the auteur – an aging film director in a creative slump yet still peppered with international awards, tributes and lucrative invitations. His assistant, Mónica (Aitana Sánchez-Gijon, who has a riveting monologue in 2021’s  Parallel Mothers ), quits in an early scene to care for her partner Elena, who has fallen into a deep depression following the death of her son.  But we don’t meet Elena or know her story until much later in the film. Instead, we’re introduced to Elsa (a mesmerizing Bárbara Lennie), a filmmaker with two “cult” films to her credit and a career in advertising (“cult,” we’re told in a funny exchange, means just a few people liked it). Elsa is dating the strapping and good-natured fireman-slash-stripper Beau (a genial Patrick Criado), but she’s suffering from migraines and begins experiencing panic attacks on the one-year anniversary of her mother’s death.  On doctor’s advice, she takes a restorative trip to the Canary Island of Lanzarote with her friend Patricia (Victoria Luengo, who had a small role in  The Room Next Door ). Patricia has just discovered that her husband is cheating on her, and Elsa feels strongly that he’s no good for her. Later, Elsa invites her depressed friend Natalia (Milena Smit, co-star of  Parallel Mothers ) to join her on the volcanic island.  It takes a minute before you realize that the movie you’re watching about Elsa and friends is actually the film Raúl is writing. And thus begins a circular tale of filmmakers appropriating from reality to create fiction, which in turn provides a window into real life. More than one scene involves arguments about this creative process, as in a rousing climactic confrontation in which Mónica accuses Raúl of ‘vampirism.’ In response, with a gleam in his eye, Raúl scraps his original script and starts a rewrite – inspired by Mónica. Bitter Christmas  could have, and maybe should have, ended right here. Almodóvar has managed to evoke surprising tension out of the writing process in a montage that includes a blinking cursor on a blank screen. There’s also an earlier moment in the film where the words “FIN” (end) appear. Elsa’s story has ended, at least in Raúl’s first draft, but you’re only about two-thirds into the film you’re actually watching.  It’s all very meta and diverting, if you’re willing to go along for the ride. The advanced-age audience at the Madrid theater where I saw the film at an early evening screening last Friday seemed to be enjoying the ride, though I was surprised by how little they laughed. This film is lighter than others in Almodóvar’s recent oeuvre and has some comedic moments that I found very funny. His appreciation for the male physique, a welcome flipping of cinema’s traditional male gaze, could make some viewers uncomfortable. Everything is reminiscent – all part of Almodóvar’s “one movie” – the themes, actors, color palette, settings, music, framing, references and more. And some scenes and characters in  Bitter Christmas  feel directly plucked from earlier films. Compare Lennie’s Elsa in sunglasses and Hollywood waves with Angela Molina at the cemetery in  Live Flesh , or her red dress with Marisa Paredes’ iconic look in  The Flower of My Secret.  When Elsa offers to feed her dying mother, you might flash to Antonio Banderas tenderly assisting his elderly mother in  Pain and Glory  – or the dead/dying mothers in  Volver, All About My Mother  and more. Sbaraglia, meanwhile, channels Banderas channeling Almodóvar, who is also in Elsa’s DNA. It's not easy to write originally  about  Almodóvar’s movies either, compounded by the fact that he curates intricately designed packages around his premieres, from detailed production notes and omnipresent interviews to winking symbolism, easter eggs and self-aware dialogues. Still, in Spain, he enlivens debate.  Christmas  landed third at the Spanish box office on its opening weekend, with close to 100,000 tickets sold.  There’s at least one well-known local critic who pans Almodóvar’s every film, to the point that it’s become part of the premiere experience here. Another price of fame, or maybe prolonged familiarity. At this stage – well into the maestro’s fifth decade of cinema – it’s fair to conclude that you either like Almodóvar's movies (his “one movie”), or you don’t.  I do, and I liked this one more than others.  Images courtesy of Warner Bros.

This interview was originally published by the Alliance of Women Film Journalists . Tangier-born writer-actor-director Maryam Touzani says that with her new film Calle Málaga , she wanted to “celebrate the beauty of aging and the freedom that can come with aging.” The story turns on a 70-something woman, played by Spanish veteran Carmen Maura, who insists on remaining in her home in Tangier—against all odds. In doing so, she remakes her life, finds new love and reinforces her connections with her Moroccan roots, the place where she was born and raised as part of a Spanish immigrant community. The subject was personal for Touzani, whose own blended Moroccan-Spanish family gave inspiration to Calle Málaga . I really wanted to pay tribute to the Spanish community that a lot of people don't know about,” she says. “I wanted to explore this theme of attachment, of belonging. What does it really mean to belong? What makes up who we are—the spaces, the people, our houses, our street.” Touzani has directed three feature films, and all three have been selected to represent Morocco at the Oscars—despite dealing with difficult and sometimes even taboo subjects in Moroccan society, like homosexuality ( The Blue Caftan ) and unwanted pregnancy out of wedlock ( Adam ). Her first two features premiered at Cannes, while Calle Málaga won the Audience Award at Venice last September. “I've always been attracted by characters that are made invisible, or somehow put aside or erased,” she notes. Her films feature women, like Maura's María Angeles in Calle Málaga , who take control of their own lives and destinies, often outside of society’s accepted boundaries. “The place of women in public… is not necessarily the same power that the women will have in houses,” Touzani admits. She conveys this duality in her frequent use of interior settings and chiaroscuro lighting, contrasting golden-lit interiors off the bright Mediterranean light outside. Now, Calle Málaga is the opening film at the Málaga Film Festival, running in the Spanish Mediterranean city from March 6 to 15. AWFJ sat down with Touzani in Madrid before opening night to talk about the film, her exceptional career and whether movies have the power to change society. Here is that conversation, edited for length and clarity. All of your films have been selected to represent Morocco at the Oscars. Does that surprise you, considering your films deal with difficult subjects? It’s not something that has anything to do with the filmmaker themselves. It’s the trajectory of the film. When you have a film that opens at an important festival and there is something positive happening around it, that makes it easier for the film to get selected to represent its country… It’s an independent committee that watches the films… But once you have a start in an important festival and there is good press around the film, it’s always helpful. You've taken your films to festivals all over the world. Do reactions differ in different countries? What I've noticed and what is very heartwarming is that, for instance talking about Calle Málag a, the audience response was warm in the same manner in countries that were very different and cultures that were very different. And that's heartwarming, especially with a film like this that's even more personal than the rest… Globally, what I felt is that at the end of the day, we are brought together by the same emotions, and reactions generally are quite similar. I think that when there is a human connection with a film, at the end of the day, that brings us together wherever we are from. One of the things that I wrote about this story is that it's a cliche that older women become kind of invisible when they age, and I thought the character of María used that invisibility as an asset. Can you talk a little bit about what it means to be a woman in Moroccan society, and if that invisibility is useful in some ways? I think that being a woman in Moroccan society is not very different from being a woman in any other society, honestly, when you bring it down to the core. I think there's something very common everywhere. But it's true that I've always been attracted by characters that are made invisible, or somehow put aside or erased. And it's true that here I also wanted to show and celebrate these aging bodies. His, and especially hers, because I think that women's bodies in cinema are really cast aside. We're expected to age in a certain manner, and the reality is not that. So, it’s just not shown. And I really wanted to show this woman celebrating her body. She’s the one that invites him into her life, undresses him, undresses herself. And it's really undressing herself physically, but it's also saying: this is who I am. I stand tall. I'm proud of my aging body. I'm proud of all these marks that the years have left on me. And my body is beautiful and I'm beautiful the way I am, and I'm proud to show it. I want him to look at me, but I want to show myself the way I am. To just be proud of that and not have to hide and not have to be what somebody else expects, and just really celebrate the beauty of aging and the freedom that can come with aging as well. because I think that aging can be something very liberating. Whereas in our societies, we put older people into boxes of how we're supposed to act, what we're supposed to be. All these expectations that are thrown upon us and that are just like shackles, right? And I really want María to break all these shackles and break free and say, no, I'm a woman. I'm almost 80. I choose to show my body. I choose to age the way I want to age. I want to have that freedom. Carmen Maura has actually said that in a lot of interviews, that she's ‘free’ now. She said if you had asked her five or 10 years ago to take her clothes off, she wouldn't have. Yeah, and I think that's a beautiful thing as well with aging. It’s the power that can come with it. It's the strength and the beauty that can come with it. I think the beauty in aging, we don't see that in our societies. For me, that was also why I wanted to film these skins up close, to show these wrinkles. Because for me, they're these beautiful marks that life has left upon us, a life that we've had the privilege to live. And not everybody has that privilege of growing old. As I grow older, and as I lose people that have maybe not reached that age, I realize how precious it is. Something that I see across your films, even your short films, is that you shoot a lot of interiors, and it feels like women kind of dominate those spaces. You often have women talking to each other from their balconies in your films. What you're saying is very interesting because it's true that we are, at the end of the day, in a very matriarchal society and women do dominate interiors. There's a lot of respect for mothers, for grandmothers. What a mother has to say in Moroccan society is extremely, extremely important… It’s interesting regarding the place of women in public, which is not necessarily the same power that the women will have in houses. Touzani went on to talk about her Spanish-Moroccan family, growing up in a “double culture” and speaking Spanish at home with her mother and grandmother. Is some of that in the character of María? It definitely is because my grandmother was a very rebellious woman with a lot of personality, a lot of character and quite a lot of humor. And this long white hair as well—she used to put up in a bun, but it was really long. I remember as a child—she passed when I was 12—I was very, very close to her. I had my bedroom, but I would sleep in her bedroom, sometimes even in her bed, cuddled to her. I loved her so much, but I remember I was just fascinated by her. I remember being fascinated by her skin, by her wrinkles… I just loved observing her. And her energy—she passed at 82, but she had so much energy. I never saw her take a nap ever in her life until the last month where she got sick… She had this energy, like María Angeles in the film, and I think that did really inspire me also for the writing of this character. So you were very familiar with the Spanish immigrant community in Tangier? I was very familiar with it because of course my grandmother had a lot of friends from this community… They were all very close. And in Calle Málaga, what was interesting as well… there was this mixture of Jewish, Christians, Muslims and they would exchange recipes, be together on the holidays, at feasts, and there was this kind of living together that was very, very peaceful. It was beautiful, and I always heard about this. That's why the film is called Calle Málaga [though it’s actually filmed on a different street]—I really wanted to pay tribute to the Spanish community that a lot of people don't know about… Some of her [my grandmother’s] friends whose kids had left—they were older, and they decided not to leave and wanted to stay in Tangier. I saw their attachment, this visceral attachment to their city. And as a child, as a young woman, it's something that really hit a chord inside me. I really was very sensitive to what made this attachment so strong. I think that's why I wanted to explore this theme of attachment, of belonging. What does it really mean to belong? What makes up who we are—the spaces, the people, our houses, our street. And it's also because I was so close to the Spanish community and I saw the Spanish community die off little by little—for the majority, because their children left, grandchildren are born abroad, etc.—and then this bond disappears… It was really also a tribute to these people. I think memory is very important… Through the film, I also wanted to keep these people alive somehow, because they are people that were there, that existed, that had feelings that were rooted in this land. Touzani spoke about the film being a way for her to maintain a connection with her mother, who passed away suddenly at the age of 72. “I really needed to feel that she was close to me. It was something soothing about the language and also the things that you see in the film,” like certain cultural aspects, foods María cooks, etc. They “represented home and going back home to Tangier without my mom.” Calle Málaga was her first feature film shot in Tangier and in Spanish. Your other two films were not filmed in Tangier, right? I think that I unconsciously wrote the film in Tangier because I knew it was the only way for me to force myself to go back there and face her [my mother’s] absence and face these beautiful memories, but without her, you know? And try to find peace and try to make sense and continue loving the city. So, it was very hard. Shooting was very hard because every street corner was a memory. It sounds cathartic. Yeah. What I'm living is still part of this whole process. When I go to Málaga in a few days, my Spanish family is going to be there and they're going to discover the film, and that's also part of it. So that’s why it was [filmed] in Spanish. And it was very interesting, very soothing for me to find myself on set surrounded by Spanish, because a big part of my team was Spanish and of course the dialogues were in Spanish. Just to be there and to hear Spanish around me was something that felt comforting. Do you ever face backlash in Morocco for the topics that you have chosen to make movies about? Have I ever? Yes, but from individuals that don't agree or that maybe don’t accept… For instance, in The Blue Caftan , if I did come across these kinds of reactions, which I did, it really made me realize even more how important and essential it was that this film exists in Morocco and that it be screened. It was opened in theaters, and this was the first time ever that a film that talks openly about homosexuality was screened in theaters… I think it means that there is a desire for an opening of dialogue, which is really what I want to do as well with the film. It's just being able to open a conversation, to be able to create a debate, to contribute in some way to making things advance. So, any backlash that I could have received, I never see it in a negative way. I always see it in a positive way because I always think that if there is some kind of backlash, it means that there is a necessity as well. Do you think film has the power to change society? Oh, I definitely think so. Otherwise, I wouldn't be making films. It's true! I think that it has a power to contribute, at least, to a significant change, because I think cinema is something that is accessible to everybody. It’s something that can reach you easily. And it gives you access, through your emotions, to a reality that is not necessarily yours, that you don't necessarily know, that you think maybe you don't agree with, but then you plunge into the life of a character for an hour and a half or two hours or whatever it may be, and you're in a completely different reality and your emotions take over. It's not your intellect. It's not your preconceptions, it's not all these barriers that you've necessarily created, and it can break through, in a manner, and… create a dialogue between your heart and your mind. And that can help change your vision. I've had a lot of people come up to me, for instance, after The Blue Caftan , and tell me things that were extremely touching about their preconceived ideas, about all they thought they never wanted or they were completely closed to, and how they saw things differently now. And for me, these are the biggest rewards… I think that cinema does have a way to contribute to changing things. And if you change just one person's perception, and then just one other person, and then one other person, at the end of the day, it can make a difference.   Images courtesy of Strand Releasing and Málaga Film Festival.

Informative, humanizing, and at moments downright scary, this eye-opening documentary is sure to make waves. Interviewees in The Plastic Detox  ask how it’s possible that industrial companies have been allowed to make such prevalent products without knowing or addressing the potential and proven harms. Viewers will want to know the same after this wake-up call, which explores the correlations between plastic chemical exposure and a huge range of illnesses, defects, and health problems. The film could inspire individual and societal action. Make this film required viewing – and then run out and buy your bamboo toothbrush.   What makes it so impactful is the combination of science, through engaging animated explainers and expert interviews, with human stories, including six couples experiencing unexplainable fertility issues and a majority-Black community in Louisiana that stands up to big industry. A barrage of proof is supplied to show that the chemicals in plastic are everywhere and have detrimental health effects on humans and the environment, while a lack of regulation at the government level has left us (and our planet) vulnerable. You’d be forgiven for not expecting a happy ending, but the documentary surprises there as well.  This review originally ran on Common Sense Media . Images courtesy of Netflix.

This tragic, strange, beautifully filmed, hypnotic movie is both hard to watch and tough to take your eyes off. Sir ā t was a finalist for best international film and best sound design Oscars. That latter nomination recognizes the sensory experience of the film, which sets striking frames of the desert to the pulsating techno beats and haunting strains of rave music. The technical work on display from the sound team, cinematographer Mauro Herce, director Laxe, who co-wrote the script with regular collaborator Santiago Fillol, and the rest of the film’s creatives conjures a story that is limited in scope but meticulously developed. When tragedy strikes, you’re both unprepared and yet not totally surprised. Laxe has called it a spiritual film, a rite of passage, and a ceremony of death. It is also an exercise in realism, with many non-professional actors and actual raves.   The characters encounter military troops declaring a state of emergency and evacuating citizens, while radio reports refer to a war that will change the world. Do you notice World War III when you’re at the end of the world, a character asks? “We’ve been at the end of the world a long time,” another replies. Such cryptic messages and moments of suggested metaphor or deeper symbolism feel rife in this evocative film. Small humans face existential crises in the vast desert, the title signifies a path between hell and paradise, the alternative communal lifestyle is at odds with the individual drug trip, and a televised scene of a spiritual hajj pilgrimage is reminiscent of the ravers in communal trance (its melodic prayers fade into rave music). Like a hallucination or awakening, what it all means might be up to each viewer’s interpretation and experience. Review originally published by Common Sense Media Images courtesy of Neon

My answer is no, but maybe I need to "read the damn book," as the Columbia Journalism Review admonished. This article was originally published by The Alliance of Women Film Journalists . A lot has been written about the depiction of female journalists in "She Said," director Maria Schrader and scriptwriter Rebecca Lenkiewicz's adaptation of New York Times reporters Jodi Kantor and Megan Twohey's book about their Pulitzer Prize-winning investigation into sexual misconduct allegations against Harvey Weinstein. Reviewers have praised the film for offering what other investigative journalism movies (think "All the President's Men" or "Spotlight") have not -- the female perspective, especially outside the newsroom. Jodi Kantor and Megan Twohey (played by Zoe Kazan and Carey Mulligan) are seen juggling family life and work in the film. They're also covering a story that impacted women especially, so most of their sources are female. Their reporting helped invigorate the #MeToo movement, which empowered women around the globe to publicly denounce sexual misconduct and has resulted in some very high-profile men, like Weinstein, being held accountable for inappropriate and even illegal behavior, as well as some changes to workplace oversight (as end credits describe). Stating the obvious, as a journalist and a woman, I was excited to see this film and predisposed to like it. I am its target demographic: according to The Hollywood Reporter , almost half of opening weekend ticket sales went to people aged 45 and older, and more than 60 percent of viewers were "older females." Unlike many critics, I was surprisingly underwhelmed by this movie. I wasn't convinced by the depiction of the reporters' uniquely female concerns, nor by its portrayal of high-stakes investigative journalism. I do think the film does an excellent job of portraying the fragility of survivors and the potential long-lasting impacts of sexual violence. I'll try to explain here, knowing I'm treading into controversial territory. We are apparently so starved for these kinds of stories that critiquing the ones we get might be considered bad form. Juggling Work & Kids Never Looked So Easy The buzz about She Said is that we finally get to see female journalists at home, outside their work, and juggling motherhood and marriage. Woodward and Bernstein didn’t appear to have families of their own in their paper-cluttered apartments — work was their life, according to the 1976 film about their Watergate investigation. The same can be said of many on-screen journalists, including women, though three-dimensional depictions are out there, including recent ones like Danish series Borgen and the new ABC/Hulu show Alaska Daily . If only the portrayal of Kantor and Twohey’s home lives were more realistic. For example, both reporters are apparently married to saints. These are husbands who never appear to lose their patience, don’t mind at all when phones ring in the middle of the night and who are never, ever not available when the women need to work long hours or fly across the continent or ocean. It’s hard to imagine there wasn’t at least occasional tension or scheduling problems. Their Hollywood-ization diminishes the realism, in my opinion. Twohey struggles with postpartum depression in the film. Mulligan portrays this in an honest and understated way. Both Kantor and their female editor, Rebecca Corbett (played by Patricia Clarkson), are empathetic in talking to her about it. But the depression seems to magically disappear when Twohey gets back to work. I was left wondering if the book gave this more attention. Meanwhile, Kantor has two children, and her older daughter is precociously attuned to the subjects her mother is working on. As a mom, I know what it is to have a child’s watching eyes and listening ears at sometimes inconvenient moments. But a scene where Kantor breaks down after Facetiming with her daughter, who uses the word “rape” for the first time on their call, feels forced — and not just because of Kazan’s noticeable acting (for me, an issue throughout the film). The idea of showing her older daughter as aware of and impacted by Kantor’s work on the Weinstein story is commendable, but it’s done in a heavy-handed way in that it involves the daughter asking difficult and pointed questions about the investigation almost every time she’s alone with her mom on screen. It’s an issue of adaptation. It’s one thing to try to condense months or years of lived experience into a 320-page book, and yet another to adapt that to 129 minutes of screen time. Things get lost, and many experiences must be concentrated into far fewer emblematic moments. That seems to be the case with the reporters’ home lives and families in this film. Journalists Take Better Notes It’s also the case with their work lives. The movie has to condense a ton of reporting legwork into bits and pieces, crafting an ultimately disjointed portrayal of investigative journalism based as much on trying to create suspense and elicit emotion from viewers as on representing the actual work of journalists. It makes me think that the most qualified writers and directors for films about journalists might be former journalists themselves. For example, we see a lot of interactions between the journalists and Weinstein’s alleged victims, but Kantor and Twohey rarely record conversations and barely take notes in these scenes. The implication is that more thorough, on-the-record interviews take place off-screen, but these aren’t shown. Will every viewer make that assumption? The film builds up to a final scene where multiple people are painstakingly editing the final draft of the story, but the grunt work beyond the tracking and initial meetings with sources and off-the-record conversations — the recording and triple-checking of facts, the call-backs, the sifting through documents — is, again, more suggested than shown. Twohey also seems to conduct an awful lot of very sensitive phone calls while walking the busy streets of New York City, according to this movie. Of course journalists have to take calls while on the move, but I find it difficult to believe this reporting veteran would choose to make important calls herself while out walking among noisy crowds and city traffic. My guess is the filmmakers wanted New York City to feel like a character in the film — it’s the setting where Weinstein reigned supreme and, of course, home base for the paper, one of the few left with the resources to support investigative work like Kantor’s and Twohey’s. This could be a stretch, but I wonder if the treatment of the setting isn’t also related to the fact that the director and scriptwriter are both not originally from the US? NYC represents a lot of things and is often tasked with representing America as a whole. Weinstein & the Women The filmmakers also make the odd choice to use an actor to play Weinstein but only have him heard on calls or seen from afar or from behind. Maybe the idea was to make him seem more menacing by showing him less? Was the actor necessary, in that case? Same for the recreated flashbacks of some victims’ stories. The film does include what appears to be the actual recording of Weinstein taped by a woman who wore a police wire. Will audiences unfamiliar with the details of these individual cases understand what’s real and what’s reenacted/acted? Does it matter? One aspect I think the film handles very well is the portrayal of the female journalists as extremely patient and notably empathetic with their sources. A scene where a man offensively tries to hit on the journalists at a bar and Twohey (Mulligan) lashes out at him hints at the reality that many female journalists may have a more lived empathy than their male counterparts for female victims of sexual harassment and assault. The film also shows how both journalists themselves received or perceived threats for their reporting. By far the most compelling part about this screen adaptation, for me, isn’t the female journalists but rather the victims/survivors. It’s hard to take your eyes off Samantha Morton and Jennifer Ehle, playing two former Weinstein assistants, as they waver between tears and steely resolve in recounting past experiences with him. Ashley Judd, another Weinstein accuser, makes a surprising and powerful appearance as herself in the film. Their stories lay out how a powerful predator can get away with abusive behavior for decades, and how his actions can have devastating and long-lasting effects. “Read the Damn Book” I found myself wondering constantly during the movie just what She Said was leaving out in its adaptation of the book. A Columbia Journalism Review (CJR) critique of the film subtitled Read the Damn Book reminded me to put this tome back at the top of my to-read list. I gather that in their book, Kantor and Twohey describe in detail the steps involved in piecing together their story and convincing women to go on the record. The film attempts to show this too, but it leaves a lot out and expects audiences to make connections and fill in blanks themselves. On the recent recommendation of a friend, I’ve been reading Ronan Farrow’s book, Catch and Kill , about his own investigations into Weinstein for NBC and The New Yorker, which shared the Pulitzer with Twohey and Kantor. So I’m up on the details of the multiple allegations that broke this story open. I honestly had to rely on that reading to keep track of names and events alluded to or mentioned in passing in She Said . My teenage daughter watched with me and we had to pause regularly so I could explain what was going on. The problem is, the film should stand on its own without requiring viewers to read the book or know the details of the investigation beforehand. Again, it’s a matter of adaptation — selecting what to include and what to leave out. I think the film relies too heavily on viewers knowing the ‘story’ behind the story and takes audience investment (particularly among its target demographic) for granted. On its opening weekend, even despite positive reviews, the film had “one of the worst starts in modern times for a major Hollywood studio release,” as The Hollywood Reporter put it, sending analysts into a tizzy trying to explain why. Kantor and Twohey’s reporting deserves continued attention and praise. Flawed or not, the film could reach more and different audiences than the book, and it has the potential to inspire renewed interest in the power of journalism as well as the importance of holding the powerful accountable. And that would be a good thing. Images courtesy of Universal Pictures and Penguin Press.