Maori filmmaker Barry Barclay coined the term Fourth Cinema to describe Indigenous cinema, referring to films being shown more or less exclusively on the festival circuit. Besides Sundance's Native Program, started in the 1990s, Berlinale also launched its NATIVe programme in 2013, and several smaller film festivals choose to select exclusively Indigenous productions. Nevertheless, there is no real consensus on what Indigenous films really are. Scholar Houston Wood, author of Native Features, suggests positioning them on a continuum of non-Indigenous and Indigenous films, taking into consideration the crew members involved, the actors, the topics covered and the style used. Interestingly, the Canadian festival imagineNATIVE only accepts a title if a key member of the creative team, be it the director, the writer, or the producer, identifies as Indigenous; Jason Ryle, the artistic and managing director, would also prefer to treat Indigenous films as if they were German or Swedish and not as a genre, as it often happens nowadays.
Keeping all this in mind, Iranian-born Babak Jalali’s latest feature LAND comes across as a rather controversial case. In recent years, there has been an ongoing debate about who exactly should have the rights to tell Indigenous stories. Looking back at many classics such as Robert J. Flaherty’s Nanook of the North and Dances with Wolves by Kevin Costner, the outsider’s perspective has always been more prevalent, probably as a result of Native people being oppressed, and their homeland -- colonised. Thanks to the democratization of filmmaking, though, more and more Indigenous people are starting a career in cinema and bringing their own stories to life. Consequently, the number of Indigenous films, of various formats and genres, has increased in the past few years, and several of them have received recognition and/or prestigious awards. Yet, Babak Jalali’s film exemplifies how outsiders still dare telling stories without including Indigenous talent in the creative process.
As the title implies, LAND focuses on a territory co-habited by white and Native Americans today, and reflects upon the hardships of the latter group, which to this day is still facing discrimination. The film tells the story of Mary Yellow Eagle and her family, their everyday struggles, and their interactions with the local white community. It looks like the Yellow Eagle family is destined to serve the role of the ‘typical’ Native American family that mainstream audiences are taught to recognise. Just like them, many Native Americans live in reservations, are unemployed and addicted to alcohol or other illegal substances. Moreover, suicide rates are higher than for any other racial or ethnic group. Mary’s oldest son, Raymond, has left his alcoholic past behind and is now working to provide for his family. Mary’s youngest son has just been killed – or committed suicide – in Afghanistan while serving in the US military. Her middle child, Wesley, is unemployed and an alcoholic, whom she drops off at the local liquor store every morning. He spends his days with his girlfriend and pals, leaning against the wall or resting their elbows on their knees, showing little signs of life. This image can only be perceived as devastating and poignant, just like the fact that hundreds of Indigenous women go missing or are murdered every year. The film does not however explore this specific topic, electing instead to depict only one Native reality.
In this reality, verbal communication occurs solely to disseminate important information, as a reaction to conflict, or to express resistance and frustration. The main conflict emerges when the youngest son dies. The fact that Native Americans serve in the US military might surprise some people, as they are basically fighting on behalf of those whose ancestors took their lands away. As a matter of fact, Native Americans already fought on the US' side during WWII, and some Navajo veterans were in fact invited to the White House not a long time ago. Donald Trump's most-beloved national symbol, the American flag, indeed plays a crucial role in LAND. Despite the family's protests, the US Air Force insists on a military funeral for the youngest Yellow Eagle brother, so Major Robertson shows up with a coffin covered by that flag to remember him as a national hero who has died for his country. ‘He died for his work, not for his country’, says the mum to the Major earlier in the film, indicating her resistance to accept the USA as their homeland.
Mary Yellow Eagle and the rest of the women in LAND in general are either pulling the strings or outright leading their communities. As the conflict around Wesley escalates, the owner of the Bob’s Liquor Store accuses Mary of not being able to control her people anymore. She acts like a sheriff from an old Western, a genre openly referenced in the music of the film and in the typography of the credits as well. Considering the portrayal of Native Americans in Western films, the issue – and importance – of representation becomes crucial. Regardless of her age, Mary’s character demonstrates strength and faith in the future of her family and community. That is why it raises eyebrows that the family members speak English at home as if their Indigenous language has already disappeared. Similarly to other countries, the USA forcibly sent the Indigenous youth to boarding schools, separating them from their parents to assimilate them into the American dominant society. However, knowing that the actors acting as a family belong to different First Nations, the use of English makes perfect sense.
Foreign filmmakers such as Jalali usually miss out on this kind of nuances, and therefore they falsely strengthen the existence of one cohesive group of Indigenous peoples. Sometimes even Indigenous peoples are forced to act on the stereotypes known worldwide to achieve commercial success in cinemas. Without a systemic change and Indigenous filmmakers telling their own stories as they see fit, Indigenous cinema will never be able to amaze the masses and showcase diversity in terms of their ethnicity, interests, life, genre, and style. Babak Jalali’s LAND sits somewhere in the middle of the continuum of Indigenous and non-Indigenous productions. The vast, never-ending landscape in static long shots illustrates the essence of the Indigenous peoples’ respect for nature. It also counts as a characteristic element in Indigenous films. On the other hand, close-ups and medium shots take turns to fully capture the emotions on the characters' faces, mostly confined to interiors. The sparse dialogue, the long takes, and restrained acting result in a film with a measured tempo that probably seemed suitable for the contemporary life of some but not all Native Americans.
Israeli Yona Rozenkier’s semi-autobiographical first feature is a take on culture of violence, militarism, and masculinity - not necessarily limited to the director’s home country. Having debuted in Locarno, The Dive follows three brothers reunited for their father’s funeral and their different approach to military service in the early days of the 2006 Lebanon War. A family drama borrowing from the western genre, the film never really comments on the military actions of Israel, but rather keeps the focus on the soldiers’ perspective, dealing with topics of PTSD, and the cultural impact of the conflict.
The Dive is set in a nearly empty kibbutz, with only a couple of families left, and around the vast deserted lands nearby. Here arrives a solitary hero with a nebulous past, Yoav, to bury the father who always found him a disappointment. Having lost touch with his family for years, he is reunited with Itai (played by the director himself), a rather bitter but proud brother, and Avishai, the youngest sibling about to be shipped off to war after only a few days of training. The cleverly structured script gradually adds layers to the conflict between Yoav and Itai, but it seems to always circle back and return to the issue of fighting for one’s country. Itai finds it a duty, while Yoav doesn’t see any value in it anymore. We never really learn what happened to Yoav during his previous deployment, but his anxiety attacks are telling, as are his attempts to persuade the youngest, scared brother not to return to his unit.
The film shows us how violence and militarism are embedded in our culture. More often than not, issues between the brothers turn into some form of aggression, like in the scene set in the old ruins of a building where Itai ‘kills’ Yoav with a paintball gun, or during their war-like hunting expeditions on the trail of a wild animal. The film suggests we are so used to various forms of aggression in our culture – even in ‘innocent’ games – that we can’t see how they are connected to those horrors of war that we are always quick to condemn. In the most explicit (and somewhat in-your-face) condemnation of (pop)culture, Yoav looks at a poster of Clint Eastwood in ‘western hero’ mode before concluding, “This is all your fault.”
Such a stand makes the film rather universal – it focuses on a soldier who is pushed into the service (because it’s patriotic, or manly, or just right) and on a society in which this common occurrence is deeply ingrained. At the same time, the Israeli setting, with its own specific history of military service, can’t be ignored, though the film never tackles the merits of the ongoing Lebanese War. It rather shows how military service and the constant threat of war influence relations within the family and in day-to-day life. Yoav had to run away from his family and from the military culture it represents, refusing to forgive his father even after his death. And apart from its bursts of violence, the film also shows us inconspicuous details about living as part of such a culture: characters carrying weapons, often advanced automatic ones, way too often; or being so used to a state of war that they can only resort to making cynical jokes about it.
Far from being a pacifist pamphlet, The Dive dissects a culture that takes violence as the norm. And with Yoav abandoning his family even in times of need, it questions his moral compass while refraining from portraying him as a flawless hero. This is another moment that suggests the complexity of the problem and the impossibility of easy answers – which the film never provides.
May 2015: a multigenerational Cuban family is in the living room right in front of the TV, quarreling in an indistinct yet heated argument. An elderly woman interrupts at the highest point and points to the TV screen, where the news about the introduction of a new US – Cuba ferry line is being announced. This is a symbol of a new direction in the political course of the state, and at this very moment the film is setting its own direction as well, following in detail the absurd existence of the Cuban capital. From this second on, the city begins to live in the hectic anticipation of the ferry arrival, a historical moment of allowing “the capitalism” in, formerly depicted as the ultimate evil by the official state ideology during the entire lifespan of most of the film's characters.
The title speaks for itself – a collection of sketch stories connected through time and space portrays the nuances of Havana in BEFORE THE FERRY ARRIVES. There are three directors in charge of the camera, each contributing in a unique way, as the Spanish filmmaker Juan Caunedo Domínguez worked on the film concept together with his Cuban colleagues – animator Vladimir García Herrera and visual arts specialist Raúl Escobar Delgado. In their interviews, the team mentions they envisioned a film of many voices and many faces, never shying away from eclecticism but rather trying to embrace it at its fullest.
The film is under no illusion that life could ever run smoothly for Habaneros. The tour into their daily routine starts with a walk in the long concrete corridor of an imposing monument construction, scenting of communist heritage. Obstacles come up right away: the elevator doesn't work, the taxi car won't start, the driver tricks out more money than he should, but one should always stay calm. And in any case, are there really other ways to earn money in this city rather than getting involved with some monkey business? It is a reality that everyone seems to quickly get used to – swindle foreigners, sell drugs or come up with an original idea, like that bunch of young entrepreneurs. Theirs is the perfect business plan for the developing Cuban society: fooling a neighbourhood into paying for garbage disposition. “But they do like the garbage!”, skeptically remarks one of the aspiring stakeholders. “Some years ago you couldn't imagine any iPhones here, but here they are, and everyone is getting used to them.” Such answers sound reasonable and perfectly illustrate the film's attempts to paint the most popular attitude towards a bumpy period of transition, when iPhones appear before proper neighbourhood conveniences.
The time is ripe for a change, and in fact it has been for a while: Raul Castro took over the formal rule of the country in 2008, and since then Cuba's domestic policy has started the process of adapting the country to contemporary international reality at the sunset of Fidel's era. This did not result in freedom of speech for the Cubans, but at least it gave the people an opportunity to legally connect to the Internet and to start their own businesses. BEFORE THE FERRY ARRIVES keeps the record of this new emerging Cuba, where contemporaneity grows on soil that has been preserved in aspic for many decades. And yet the country doesn't have too much power yet. Moreover, being too far away in the future is of no help – an American tourist travelling a good hundred years back in time will not have any special privilege once he steps out to the city.
There aren't many opportunities in Cuban public space to talk about changes in a critical way. The film is rooted in the country's popular culture, which is constantly evoked through the over-presence of reggaeton music or by exploiting stereotypical anecdotal characters. It does not dig deep into the problems of society in any discernible way, despite the many hints – poverty, corruption, colonial heritage. The lack of instruments for discussion leads to quite an honest expression: a straightforward attempt to fix the absurd looks so unrealistic that it goes away from reality and into a superhero-cartoon sequence, ending up excluded from the “normal”.
BEFORE THE FERRY ARRIVES is packed with witty puns, the objects of its mocking all easily recognizable as familiar by audiences from post-communist countries. The many subplots framed by comical details create a somewhat chaotic experience, which contributes to another important feeling lingering around the film – the anxiety about an undefined future. Still, it is clear that even though the chaos might not be avoidable, humor remains the handiest tool in dealing with what the country is yet to discover.
Found-footage films have a very specific place in the history of cinema. Using pre-existent material in order to articulate a discourse about the present by referring to the past is as much paradoxical as it (still) is iconoclastic. Igor Minaiev introduces the public to the idea of found footage even from the title – he “found” Dziga Vertov’s ENTHUSIASM: SYMPHONY OF THE DONBAS (1931) and by connecting it to recent events turned it into THE CACOPHONY OF DONBAS. The reasoning behind this title comes in clear focus since the beginning with the apparently omniscient voice-over, deployed as a deconstruction of the Soviet propaganda between the 1930s and the 1990s.
August 31st, 1935: Alexey Stakhanov, a miner who would become a national hero during the propaganda process imposed by the Soviet authorities in order to create a fake public image of the superiority of the socialist worker (the so-called “Stakhanovite movement”), breaks a world record by mining 102 tons in one shift. In the Soviet newsreels it is said that a miner’s salary is between 1500 and 7000 rubles per month, enough for a miner and his family to build a stable life in the USSR. When the miners’ problem with alcohol becomes public, the authorities declare everything under medical control. Minaiev disassembles old myths, propagandistic information and legends by contrasting them with the miners’ strikes from the 1990s. The record behind Alexey Stakhanov was made up, and so was the entire promoting apparatus of the Soviet miner and he eventually would die because of an alcohol-related illness – a series of vox-populi interviews with the miners who took part in the 1990s strikes under the Gorbachev regime show an angry, disappointed and fed-up category of the working class.
Sequences of newsreels, propaganda films, interviews and music videos are pieced together to highlight a certain discrepancy between the propagandistic discourse and the truth. And it’s not only the dramatic conclusions of his essay-like argumentation that is being highlighted by the compilation, but a certain type of humor betraying the ridiculousness of these materials to the contemporary public. The director eventually touches upon the subject of Donbas of the XXI century, but only after a transition between the brief intro to the dollhouse construction of Soviet propaganda and the appearance of more recent footage, namely an interview with the Ukrainian artist Arsen Savadov on his Donbass Chocolate project from 1997. What remains to be said about this considerably larger part of the film is that, even if the voice-over discourse moulds on the semi-academic essay and even if its strongest point is the usage of audio-visual material, Minaiev never actually brings up a source to empower his argument, and never shows any relevant audio-visual proofs that would 100% sustain his counter-propaganda observations.
The actual footage of the recent events from Donbas features interviews with two Ukrainian victims of the Russian separatists and home-movie type footage which presents a couple who organize their wedding as an ode to militarism. Minaiev never draws a socio-political conclusion but more of a romantic one regarding how much hate there is between people and peoples. Nevertheless, the thesis behind the usage of found-footage becomes apparent – after deconstructing and demolishing the roots of Donbas in Russian history, the events from 2014 suddenly seem pointless and unjustifiable, especially when the human element offered by the two Ukrainians is firmly established as the starting point in depicting the horrors of war.
Following its premiere at the Venice Film Festival, where it was awarded the Orizzonti prize, Phuttiphong Aroonpheng’s directorial feature debut was presented in Toronto, San Sebastian and Busan where it attracted the attention of both critics and audience with its subtle – yet challenging to fully understand – aesthetic portrayal of everlasting immigration issues in Thai society; a slow-core story of a fisherman who finds a shot-down foreigner, and that of an ex-wife struggling to find her place.
Having dedicated his film to the Rohingya people – a Muslim minority from Myanmar who often try to emigrate to Thailand or Bangladesh – Aroonpheng sets MANTA RAY to a decidedly social tune while the plot, slow pace and scarce dialogue resemble Tsai Ming-liang’s style, especially I DON'T WANT TO SLEEP ALONE (2006). This time, Kuala Lumpur is replaced with Mae Sot – a border town in Thailand populated by Thai and Myanmar people – and the symbolic, unrealistically big moths make space for local beliefs about the titular manta rays.
Just like in one of Tsai’s later works, the socio-political theme is depicted through relationships based on the unvoiced mutual understanding of two people: a wounded Rohingya exile (named like Thai popstar Thongchai), and the native Thai man who nurses him back to life – an immensely talkative misfit in shiny armor and blond hair, whose wife just left him. This monologue-based relationship revolves around situational humour, recurring magical realism and a certain romanticism. We follow them on a ride on a ferris wheel, and dancing together under fairy lights and disco balls. But beneath the surface of a sleek visual language (courtesy of acclaimed DP Nawarophaat Rungphiboonsophit), Aroonpheng actually lights up the metaphor of national belonging.
MANTA RAY is in fact the reworking of a short film directed by Aroonpheng in 2015 (FERRIS WHEEL), in which the symbolism of the amusement ride was used to grasp the meaning of the circle of life. In both films, the juxtapositions of reverse shots capturing the protagonists reflect the condition of human types in a modern world – the native outlawed by society and the trespassing, wounded immigrant who go up and down on the same wheel. No matter how high they get, eventually both of them will be taken back to earth to their identity conflict. The wheel represents the idea of going nowhere – like the war that has been collecting the souls of Rohingya people for decades. The reverse shots foreshadow an identity swap, allowing the director to seize an image of society in which the ‘stranger’ becomes its opposite. Therefore, there is some hope lurking in the corner.
Through this symbolic yet resonating depicting, Aroonpheng manages to create an ethereal voyage into his vision of modern Thailand, but the detour to the land of universal values certainly makes an appearance as well. Christmas bulbs and magical realism are the key to answering the brutality of everyday struggles, that is, reality - where on every corner there’s a subconscious feeling about committed crime. What is beautiful onscreen fails to prevail offscreen. While immersing into trippiness, one feels the disturbance of the pulsating bulbs worn by an enigmatic gunman who wanders through the graveyard of national identities. It takes time to lure a sea devil, but it’s rewarding when you actually see one, a manta ray.
To the outsider's view, Manila appears as a city full of disturbing contrasts. It is the midpoint of a densely populated agglomeration, homing state banking and commerce headquarters, tourist lures, international businesses and new media corporations including, ironically, centers for Facebook content moderation. All this is heavily seasoned with the remains of the colonial rule of Spanish, American and Japanese origin, the terrifying political course of infamous president Rodrigo Duterte, an incredibly high volume of child pornography, and the biggest population of homeless people in the world. Taking into account the local censorship rules, there is no surprise that Filipino cinema becomes more and more politicized. SCHOOL SERVICE (international premiere and competition contender at Warsaw Film Festival's 34th edition) by director Luisito Lagdameo Ignacio and the scriptwriter Rona Lean Sales does not go into radical activism territory, though it still has the confidence to expose the troubled reality of Manila's suburbs.
The film covers the 24-hour span after the 8-year-old Maya gets kidnapped on her way home from school and is brought to the outskirts of Manila to become a beggar. She is immersed in a completely new world and so are the viewers, even if the director refrains from using any explicit and shocking imagery. What becomes the film's key feature is the perspective of a child who is progressively losing its innocence.
The central character, a schoolgirl seemingly coming from a safe environment, enters the dusty city streets with an attitude as rebelling as it is ultimately useless. Escaping has got nothing to do with how hard you try: it is just impossible. Maya's attempts to run away leave room for optimistic expectations, playing with the conventions of children films, but as the story goes deeper, anxiety starts to take over. It would be easy to blame the kidnappers, but the film shines a light into a complex universe where oppressors are themselves oppressed, and enslaved to complicated social predicaments. With no right decisions available to make, violence becomes the only way out, and young beggars are quick to understand that they have to follow these rules to fit in.
There is an episode in which an outrageous dream built around the desire for things to be normal evolves into an animated sequence, echoing the opening titles and their idealized, crayon-drawn version of a family; an image impossible to chase, and impossible to escape. Meanwhile, the film's focus gradually shifts from Maya's individuality to the kids as a group, and eventually dusky Manila steps out as a threatening character of its own. The film employs a realistic visual style, and even though it is combined with children-focused storytelling, it is quite a sincere attempt to provide a take on poverty, prostitution and social stigmas.
SCHOOL SERVICE is a work that is inseparable from the context that inspired its creation. While it does not look as an immediate call for action, it is clearly intended to resonate with the audience and to engage the audience in public discussion. The film is produced with a clear aim at domestic release but it will also provide an emotional insight into the social issues for international audiences.
Emir Baigazin returns with his third feature, The River, which concludes his coming-of-age trilogy, consisting of Harmony Lessons (2013) and The Wounded Angel (2016). Consequently to his previous work, he decided to match the symbolism in which the dark times of modernity are presented in slow cinema form. The River offers not only an aesthetic experience, but also a check-up into the vitals of humanity from a contemporary perspective.
In a parched landscape, a family ranch of seven set in the middle of Kazakh, Baizagin paints a disturbing and almost dystopic picture of what it takes to become a man for these five boys. This image of patriarchy is biblical to say the least, because Aslan and the rest of the pack wouldn’t look out of place in an Old Testament story. In Baigazin’s version of one, on the 7th day God created the Internet, disrupting the lives of those down below. In addition to its commentary on the role of mass entertainment and its pervasive influence, it depicts a family living on the line of a pre-internet era - a bubble without consciousness of global events and a purer world that has yet to embrace the tempting power of digital media. When the stranger with a tablet appears, the bubble pops, forcing the family to re-assess the nature of their daily needs.
The Zygmunt Bauman-style concept of the stranger proves that modernity should be discussed within film as a medium, capturing the liquid essence of our times. The River becomes a statement on the descent towards abnormality, with the sudden intrusion of technology into the lives of these boys being contrasted with the panta rhei-esque fluidity of the river. In Baigazin’s world, this sacred body of water becomes an amusement park, a place to let your bad emotions float away, and an opportunity for shutting down your feelings. It adds a little mystery to the story that the other bank remains unknown for a half of the film. Due to the strong currents, crossing the river is the ultimate challenge, an act of transcendence.
One may say that Baizagin style revolves around minimalism, but in fact it is rather a maximalistic spectrum of symbolic references combined into a tale of disillusionment of modernity. On the opposite side of the river, the other is only imaginable through the lens of the media. What we care about is us and what revolves around us. Radio coverages from Myanmar or North Korea spice up the director’s commitment to conceptualizing an ideological point of view, simultaneously providing his characters (and the audience) with a form of counseling, and bringing up the topic of human viciousness.
Even the acting style, in particular those of the brothers, is performative; their dynamics and movements are carefully staged with an Ozu-esque eye for symmetry. On the one hand, they resemble primal creatures, as if the monkeys from Kubrick’s 2001 had finally evolved; on the other, you can’t shake the sense of how calculated it feels. An algorithmic nature and an exact mirroring evoke the contrast that modern society is situated in. We’re drifting between the primal and the mechanical. The condition of the individual illustrated in the film presents an alternative perspective on reality, one in which the media hasn’t influenced people enough yet, but it is progressively getting there. The wave of catastrophical information, sinking into a utopian bubble, irreversibly changes the biblical dimension of the brothers’ world. That’s when modernity kicks in: the intrigue starts, and the ‘black mirror’ of a digital screen invites people to be a god. Baizagin himself is worshipping it, delivering a profound, rich experience and an almost frightening re-envisioning of Lanthimos’ Kynodontas (2009).
Joost Vandebrug’s debut feature Bruce Lee and the Outlaw has its roots in his career as a photographer as well as in the very first representation of Romania as a “free country” in the international media back in the 1990s. The orphanages of horror, as the Romanian press called the shelters, in which thousands of children were kept in miserable conditions due to the chaotic state in which Romania found itself during the political transition, were much discussed in media and remain a stain on Romanian history. Nicu, also known as Haiducul/The Outlaw, takes Vanderbrug’s camera into the forgotten underground world of Bucharest.
This underworld is a home for homeless people. An extremely poor community is guided by the so-called ‘Bruce Lee’, a problematic paternal figure who shares everything with his ‘sons’, from love to drug abuse. The Jean Rouchian footage of the underground paint a shaky, unfocused and handheld picture of the out-of-this-world (or perhaps under) band of misfits and their day-by-day life.
Nicu is one of the many orphan children who found a home in the underground more than a decade ago. Vandebrug follows him around, a young boy în transition who ultimately turns out to be a success story thanks to a NGO activist (Raluca Pahomi) who tries to reintegrate him into society, with few of his companions sharing hopes of being so lucky. The material is tough, with Pahomi discussing AIDS and TB issues with the underground community, and Nicu visiting the grave of an 18-years-old girl, followed by footage of a scandalous TV reportage (“from underground to the ground”).
In terms of visuals, the film display a remarkable eclecticism, with the director mixing his own material with episodes shot by Nicu and his friends, Bruce Lee interviews, conversations between the children and Vandebrug, and striking moments of immediacy, like when the director has to stop observing from behind the camera to help Nicu who has fallen ill. The documentary author welcomes the pain of others, harking back to the cinéma-vérité experiments of the 1960s. The voice-over often comes by an older Nicu, chronicling his life in diary-like fashion. TV news footage alternates with documentary chapters to fully investigate the dynamic between the world and the underworld.
Nicu’s commentary on his past is helpful to also make questions regarding his consent essentially vanish. In the ongoing debate regarding the role of the director in observational documentaries, Vandebrug clearly takes a stand, letting his personal and social integrity overthrow his professional mission. It’s safe to say that his solution to the dilemma of whether you should ‘save a man who’s drowning, or film him’ (as Japanese director Kazuo Hara puts it in an interview with Film Menu) falls firmly in the camp of putting down the camera and diving in.
FIPRESCI Young Critics Warsaw Project
Călin Boto is a Romanian emergent film critic and the editor-in-chief of Film Menu, a film magazine edited by students of the Film University in National University of Film and Drama in Bucharest (UNATC). He has written articles for several cultural publications such as Dilema Veche,Dissolved Magazine, SUB25 and he coordinates Film Menu’s weekly cineclub. At the moment he’s working on a bachelor's degree on the films and film criticism of Jonas Mekas.
Barbara Majsa was born and raised in Hungary, but currently resides in Sweden and attends Stockholm University for Cinema Studies. She has worked as a journalist since 2009, and has covered several film festivals. Barbara is the managing editor at Cinema Scandinavia, where she interviews film-makers and focuses her work on artistic and cultural products that reflect upon society - films concerning social, societal, economic and political issues.
Yulia Kuzischina is a film journalist, based in Moscow. She studied visual culture at Higher School of Economics and later started to write for two film-related websites, RussoRosso and Kinomania.ru. Currently she also works at a film sales company Ant!pode Sales & Distribution. Her main field of interest is Eastern European cinema.
Tomáš Hudák is a programmer and a film critic based in Bratislava, Slovakia. Programming at independent cultural centre A4 – Space for contemporary culture, which focus on challenging and experimental art, is his main occupation throughout a year. He is also associated with IFF Cinematik in Pieštany, Bratislava IFF, and Film Festival 4 Elements in Banská Štiavnica. Regularly writing for film magazine Kinečko, his texts also appeared in other publications such as Senses of Cinema, Tess Magazine etc. In past, he worked as a film archivist at Slovak Film Institute and his archival research resulted in two papers on local film history.
Daria Badior is a film critic and a Culture Editor of LB.ua, one of Ukraine’s biggest online newspapers. Focuses on writing about contemporary Ukrainian cinema. Also she co-curates a project on LB.ua named Short-list about young Ukrainian filmmakers. Since 2017 takes part in selecting films for Kyiv Film Critics Week, a new film festival held at the end of October. A member of FIPRESCI.
Łukasz Mańkowski Half of the Asian Cinema focused blog ‘Referat Filmowy’, Japanese Studies and Film Theory graduate from Nicolaus Copernicus University in Toruń, specializing in Asian Film. Occasionally photographer, translator and theatre-film journalist who simply loves ramen. Previously member of 5 Flavours Film Festival People’s Jury, FEFF Udine Student Campus and EIFF Student Critics Competition.
TUTORS of FIPRESCI Young Critics Warsaw Project
Yoana Pavlova is a Bulgarian writer, researcher, and programmer currently based in Paris.Her field of work includes cinema, VR, digital culture, and the New East. She is the foundingeditor of Festivalists.com (a playform for experimental media criticism), with bylines fornumerous print and online publications in Bulgarian, English, and French. Contributor to thefollowing books: Cinemas of Paris (2016, St Andrews Film Studies), Eastern Promises (2014,Festival Internacional de Cine de Donostia – San Sebastián), The Bulgarian Nouvelle Vague(2012, Edno).
Tommaso Tocci is based in Italy, where he works as a film critic and translator covering filmfestivals across Europe for international publications. He has also worked for BerlinaleTalents and for the Edinburgh International Film Festival, and he currently serves as Co-Programmer for the Saas-Fee Film Festival in Switzerland.