FILM DIAGNOSTIC

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A Private Life ★★★★

There’s a quiet confidence to A Private Life a film that doesn’t try to grab you, but instead draws you in with patience and precision. It’s a deeply introspective French drama that trades conventional storytelling for something more subtle and immersive.

Rather than relying on big plot turns, the film builds its impact through small, carefully observed moments. It pays close attention to behavior pauses in conversation, shifts in body language, the things left unsaid. The central performance is especially striking for its restraint, revealing layers of emotion without ever tipping into melodrama.

Visually, the film leans toward naturalism. The camera often keeps a respectful distance, allowing scenes to unfold without interference. This approach creates a sense of authenticity, as if you’re quietly observing real lives rather than watching a constructed narrative. The pacing matches this style: unhurried, deliberate, and willing to sit in ambiguity.

That ambiguity won’t work for everyone. A Private Life resists easy interpretation and avoids clear emotional cues, which may feel frustrating if you’re looking for resolution or clarity. But that same openness is also where the film finds its strength it invites you to engage, reflect, and draw your own conclusions.

By the end, it’s less about what happens and more about what lingers. A Private Life leaves an impression through mood, performance, and the quiet tension beneath its surface, making it a rewarding watch for those willing to meet it on its own terms.

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Time Traveller’s Guide to Hamilton Gardens ★★★

Framed as a journey through the themed spaces of Hamilton Gardens, the film avoids the usual time-travel clichés. Each garden is treated as a living artifact. The Italian Renaissance garden expresses control and symmetry, while the Japanese garden favors impermanence and restraint. Moving between them feels less like narrative progression and more like a shift in perspective.

Visually, the film is its strongest asset. It leans heavily on composition and natural light, allowing the spaces to speak for themselves. There’s a patience to the camerawork that borders on indulgent, but more often than not, it pays off, inviting the viewer to sit with each environment rather than simply pass through it. This reinforces the film’s dreamlike tone, it also creates a certain emotional distance you admire the film more than you feel it.

Time Traveller’s Guide to Hamilton Gardens is slow, reflective, and largely unconcerned with conventional payoff. It offers something rare: a film that asks you not just to watch, but to notice and succeeds more as an act of observation than traditional storytelling.

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The Deb ★★½

The Deb is a musical comedy that blends teen drama, small-town setting, and broad humor. It has a clear energy and a distinctive style, with songs and performances that give the film much of its momentum.

The movie centers on themes of belonging, self-image, and social difference, and it presents them with a light, playful tone. Its strongest quality is probably its sense of personality, which helps the film stand out from more conventional teen comedies.

At the same time, the film can feel uneven in places. Some parts of the story are busier than others, and the pacing does not always feel smooth. The tone also shifts between satire and sincerity, which may work better for some viewers than for others.

Overall, The Deb is a serviceable musical with some memorable moments and a clear point of view. It may appeal most to viewers who enjoy energetic, character-driven comedies with a strong musical element.

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The President's Cake ★★★★★

The President’s Cake is the kind of film that sneaks up on you: tender, harrowing, and quietly devastating. Hasan Hadi’s debut feels both intimate and politically charged, using a child’s-eye journey to expose the absurdity and cruelty of life under dictatorship without ever turning into a lecture.

What makes the movie work so well is its tonal balance. It begins with something that sounds almost whimsical, a school assignment to bake a birthday cake but gradually reveals a world shaped by scarcity, fear, and small acts of survival. That contrast gives the film its pulse, and it’s what keeps the story emotionally alive long after the premise has settled in.

The performances, especially from the young leads, feel natural and deeply affecting. The direction is similarly restrained, letting the environment, the silences, and the obstacles do the heavy lifting rather than forcing emotion through melodrama. The result is a film that feels human first, political second, though the politics are never far from the surface.

As a piece of filmmaking, The President’s Cake is memorable because it trusts simplicity. It turns a small mission into a portrait of a country under pressure, and in doing so finds heartbreak, resilience, and a surprising amount of grace. It’s one of those rare films that feels modest in scale but huge in emotional reach.

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I Swear ★★★★

Some films announce their intentions right from the first frame, and I Swear is one of them a quietly confident drama that builds tension not through spectacle but through emotional precision. Rather than leaning on big twists or explosive drama, the film lets its characters breathe, drawing viewers in with carefully observed moments and understated performances.

The direction is steady and intimate. Every shot feels intentional, with cinematography that favors natural light and close, lingering frames, the kind that make you feel like you’re eavesdropping rather than watching a constructed story. The pacing may frustrate those looking for faster thrills, but it serves the purpose: this is a film that rewards patience.

The cast delivers strong, layered performances. Even with sparse dialogue, the actors manage to communicate years of tension and unspoken history through glances and silences. The writing, though minimal in places, gives weight to each exchange, allowing subtext to take center stage. The sound design and score deserve mention too-subtle, restrained, but crucial in shaping the film’s slow-burn mood.

Still, I Swear won't be for everyone. Its emotional realism and leisurely rhythm may feel heavy for viewers expecting conventional drama arcs. But for those who appreciate nuanced storytelling and themes that unfold rather than announce themselves, it’s a deeply resonant experience that lingers.

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Pillion ★★★★★

Harry Lighton’s Pillion is one of those films that sounds niche on paper but feels oddly universal in the moment-to-moment experience of watching it. It’s a queer romance set in the world of London bikers but beneath the leather and protocol it’s really about loneliness, need, and the terrifying vulnerability of asking to be loved on your own terms.

Pillion follows Colin, a painfully shy parking attendant who still lives with his parents, and Ray, an imposing, self‑possessed biker who sweeps him into an intense Dom/sub relationship. The film uses that power dynamic not as shock value but as a lens on intimacy: who holds control, who gives it away, and what happens when both people quietly want more than the rules allow. It’s as much a coming of age for a late bloomer as it is a love story, and the film stays refreshingly nonjudgmental about kink while still acknowledging how messy, even bruising, this arrangement can be. Lighton threads humor through scenes that could easily play as pure discomfort, letting awkward silences and tiny misunderstandings accumulate into something bittersweet rather than grim.

Harry Melling gives Colin a fragile physicality of hunched shoulders, eager half‑smiles and that makes his craving for belonging almost painful to watch, while Alexander Skarsgård weaponizes his charisma as Ray, oscillating between tenderness, cruelty, and bureaucratic efficiency in how he manages his household of rules. Their chemistry is electric and tense, never quite settling into a comfortable pattern, which is exactly the point. From the outside, the relationship often looks like abuse, yet the film keeps forcing you to sit with the fact that Colin is choosing this, even as he fumbles for language to ask for more.

As a feature debut, Pillion feels remarkably assured. Lighton favors a clean, almost spartan visual style of unfussy interiors, drab suburbs, sudden flashes of biker swagger which often holds the camera in static frames that let the discomfort of conversations and sex scenes play out in real time. The intimate scenes are explicit but never voyeuristic; it’s treated as dialogue, another way these two men communicate needs they can’t verbalize. A delicate score and the recurring presence of Colin’s barbershop‑quartet‑singing family add a strange, almost cozy counterpoint, a reminder that this is still someone’s small, deeply human life.

Tonally, Pillion walks a tightrope between tender, very funny, and deeply uncomfortable. Certain scenes are designed to make you squirm; others play like a deadpan domestic comedy about the oddest couple in Bromley. It won’t suit viewers who want their romances cuddly or their kink coyly offscreen, but if you’re drawn to character driven stories that probe identity, desire, and power without offering release, this is one of the most provocative and oddly moving “love stories” of the year. Pillion is a must‑see: a bold, discomforting, darkly funny BDSM romance that doubles as a late coming of age tale, tracing Colin’s journey from passive passenger to someone tentatively reaching for the handlebars of his own life.

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Solo Mio ★★★

Kevin James leans into a softer, more grounded mode, playing a man who’s bruised but not bitter, and it suits him surprisingly well. His scenes with the main love interest have an easy, unhurried chemistry that feels like two adults carefully testing the waters rather than rushing into a fantasy. The supporting cast adds breezy comic energy and a sense of community, giving the film the feel of a cozy ensemble piece rather than a one‑man show, and while nobody is reinventing the genre, the performances are likable enough that you don’t mind following familiar beats.

Solo Mio is very much about starting over, learning to receive kindness, and figuring out what “real” commitment might look like after you’ve seen how fragile relationships can be. The script is earnest and unapologetically sentimental, more interested in reassuring you than surprising you, and emotional conflicts tend to resolve cleanly as the film keeps things light even when it gestures toward heavier territory. If you’re looking for messy realism, you may find it thin, but if you want a gentle reminder that love can show up again, it scratches that itch.

Rome is the film’s secret weapon, shot in full postcard mode: sun‑drenched piazzas, cozy cafés, and golden‑hour streets everywhere you look. Solo Mio is not a game‑changer, yet as a safe, sweet, and decidedly old‑school rom‑com, it mostly delivers on what it promises, and if you want a low‑stress, feel‑good watch with a gently spiritual undercurrent, a charming lead performance, and lots of Roman ambience, it’s an easy pick for a cozy night in.

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Holy Days ★★★½

Holy Days is a gentle, quietly sharp New Zealand made comedy‑drama that feels like slipping into a familiar family holiday you’re not entirely sure you wanted to attend, but are glad you did. Directed by Nat Boltt and adapted from Joy Cowley’s much‑loved novel, it leans into that distinct Kiwi mix of wry humour, emotional restraint, and sudden, disarming sincerity. The story unfolds over a short, charged period of time, focusing on a family gathering where old habits bump up against new realities, and where faith, tradition, and everyday frustration share the same crowded table. There are no big twists or melodramatic blow‑ups, just a steady accumulation of small moments that say a lot about how families actually operate.

Boltt’s direction keeps things light on the surface without sanding off the rough edges. The comedy comes from recognisable quirks, awkward conversations, mismatched expectations, and generational misunderstandings rather than punchlines, and the drama sneaks up on you in the pauses and sideways glances. You can feel the affection for Cowley’s source material in the way characters are allowed to be contradictory: exasperating in one scene, disarmingly tender in the next. The performances, especially from the younger cast, have that unforced, naturalistic quality New Zealand films do so well, grounding the story in a very specific place and culture while still feeling relatable if you’ve ever weathered a tense family “holiday.”

Visually and tonally, Holy Days stays intimate and unfussy: ordinary houses, familiar local landscapes, and lived‑in interiors that make you feel like you’ve been there before. That modesty works in its favour, keeping the focus firmly on relationships and on the little rituals such ad meals, gatherings, shared chores that hold people together even when they’re driving each other up the wall. The film doesn’t push for big emotional payoffs or speechified lessons; instead, it offers a series of quiet recognitions about faith, family, and forgiveness. It’s a modest story told with warmth, humour, and clear affection for its characters, and if you’re in the mood for something heartfelt but not saccharine, Holy Days is a charming watch.

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No Other Choice ★★★★★

Park Chan-wook’s No Other Choice is a viciously funny, quietly devastating black-comedy thriller about a middle‑aged company man whose layoff pushes him toward a dangerously twisted idea of “taking control” of his future. Rather than treating unemployment as background detail, the film leans into the humiliation and anxiety of a man who has built his entire identity around his work, then watches that identity vanish overnight. The result is a story that plays like a Rube Goldberg machine of dread and dark humor, veering from office comedy to unnervingly tense set pieces, always with a nagging sense that you’re laughing at something you maybe shouldn’t.

Lee Byung-hun anchors the film with a performance that is unsettling precisely because it feels so recognisable: he’s not a cartoon villain, but an ordinary person whose fear and wounded pride slowly twist his judgment. Around him, Park draws sharp, painful contrasts between the protagonist’s crumbling inner world and the everyday normalcy of family life and job-hunting rituals, turning small domestic and workplace moments into sources of both comedy and discomfort. Visually, the film is meticulously controlled such as sterile offices, cramped apartments, and bland interview rooms are staged to feel increasingly oppressive, matching the character’s tightening emotional cage.

What makes No Other Choice stand out is how sharply it connects its dark humor to contemporary economic anxiety. It’s not just a stylish thriller; it’s a pointed satire about a society that ties human worth to productivity and treats long‑serving workers as disposable. Without ever turning into a lecture, the film keeps circling the question of what happens when someone can’t imagine a self beyond their job title and how dangerous that imagination gap can become. It’s furious, bleakly hilarious, and formally precise, the work of a director using genre fireworks to smuggle in a very modern kind of despair.

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It Was Just An Accident ★★★★★

It Was Just an Accident sounds simple on paper, but it lingers. A mechanic hears the creak of a prosthetic leg and becomes convinced the man in his garage is the one who once tortured him in prison. From that tiny detail, director Jafar Panahi spins a tense, darkly funny, and deeply unsettling story about what justice might look like after a dictatorship falls.

The film orbits Vahid, an Azerbaijani auto mechanic whose life never really left the prison where he was held for labour activism. When Eqbal arrives at his workshop with his wife and daughter, the story turns into a moral puzzle: Is this really the same man? What counts as proof when your memories come from behind a blindfold? And if he is guilty, what kind of punishment could ever feel like enough?

Scenes unfold in garages, on dusty roads, inside a van carrying a man in a wooden box, shifting between tense, tragic, and unexpectedly comic without ever feeling showy. A small, ramshackle group gathers around Vahid’s mission, and suddenly this “accident” becomes a collective attempt to judge one man in place of an entire system.

By the end, the story feels less like a revenge movie and more like a thought experiment about the “day after” the regime falls, when people finally have to decide what to do with their anger and grief. It’s a film about recognition of faces, of guilt, of history that refuses to give easy answers, and that’s exactly why it sticks. It Was Just an Accident is a sharp, nervy, and quietly devastating political thriller that turns one chance encounter into a full-blown reckoning with memory and justice.

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Nouvelle Vague ★★★★

Richard Linklater’s Nouvelle Vague feels like stepping into 1959 Paris, where movies are made on the fly, cigarettes are always lit, and everyone thinks they’re about to change cinema. It works both as a laid-back behind the scenes hangout and as a reminder of how a small, risky film can end up reshaping everything.

Instead of telling the story like a traditional biopic, the movie drops you into the messy reality of making Breathless. Critics are trying to become directors, producers are worried about money, actors are hungry for something lasting, and the filmmaker at the center acts unsure even as he pushes the rules of filmmaking forward. The story moves in fragment; days, nights, conversations, half-finished ideas are slowly showing how this "little" movie became a big turning point.

Linklater borrows the look and feel of the French New Wave without treating it like a history lesson. The black and white images, jumpy edits, and roaming camera feel loose and alive, matching a rhythm where people mostly walk around, talk, smoke, and argue about what movies are supposed to do. If you like Linklater’s talk-heavy films like Before Sunrise, this pace will feel familiar and comfortable.

The cast plays these future legends as real people. They are young, stubborn, funny, and unsure rather than untouchable icons. The Godard figure is both annoying and fascinating, and the people around him bring in clashing ideas about art, money, and ambition.

Underneath the period style, Nouvelle Vague is really about taking creative risks and how today’s rebels become tomorrow’s establishment. Casual viewers will see a stylish, easygoing film-set drama; movie lovers will recognize it as a warm, knowing hangout in the moment when modern cinema was just being invented.

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The Secret Agent ★★★★★

Kleber Mendonça Filho’s The Secret Agent is not your usual political thriller; it plays more like a haunted dream of Recife, where fear lingers in every hallway and laughter becomes a small act of rebellion.

What’s wild about this film is how it dances between terror and absurdity. You’ll be recoiling one second and snorting the next. Filho pulls off these tonal flips that shouldn’t work but do. There’s a scene with a corpse that’s both tragic and hilarious, the sort of moment that reminds you how surreal oppression can feel when you’re forced to live through it. The humor doesn’t undercut the pain, it’s a shield that keeps the characters (and the audience) sane.

Underneath the tension, The Secret Agent is really about memory of how people and countries rewrite their pasts to survive. Marcelo’s fragmented story mirrors Brazil’s own unease with remembering its authoritarian years. Everyone is wearing a disguise, literally or emotionally, and Filho keeps asking, who were you before survival made you someone else?

Moura is excellent and quiet. He is wounded, but never hollow. The side characters feel equally alive, from the lonely neighbor turned confidante to the cynical businessmen who thrive under the regime’s shadow. Recife itself feels like a character too, sun-bleached but still hiding bruises.

Filho shoots the film with swagger and heart using ’70s aesthetics, perfect needle drops, and cheeky nods to classic thrillers. It’s political cinema that doesn’t lecture; it just traps you in its atmosphere until you start feeling the paranoia yourself.

The Secret Agent is one of those rare political dramas that reminds you life doesn’t stop under a dictatorship but it just gets stranger. People still joke, flirt, and dream, even while history bears down on them. It’s unsettling, beautiful, and maybe the most alive film about fear I’ve seen in years.

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Not Only Fred Dagg ★★★

Not Only Fred Dagg But Also John Clarke stands as a heartfelt documentary that peels back the layers of John Clarke's life, from his roots as a New Zealand farm boy to his reign as Australasia's sharpest satirist. Directed by his daughter Lorin, the 103-minute film weaves together home movies, fresh interviews, and a goldmine of archival clips to spotlight the man behind the iconic Fred Dagg persona. The gumbooted everyman who captured Kiwi hearts. It's paced briskly yet intimately, with Lorin's narration providing a personal anchor that balances rigor and warmth, making it feel like a family story shared over drinks.

The film's strength lies in its nuanced portrait of Clarke's craft, linking his deadpan wit to formative brushes with authority and post-war family scars. It reveals a quietly radical figure who dismantled pomposity with logic and language, all while fostering kindness toward collaborators, especially emerging talents and women in comedy. Viewers get a front-row seat to his evolution through treasured footage: Fred Dagg's TV antics, the razor-sharp Bryan Dawe interviews, and cameos in gems like The Games, Kath & Kim, and Death in Brunswick, proving satire can bite hard without bitterness.

Ultimately, this isn't just a fan's scrapbook but a polished tribute that resonates universally, sparking laughter laced with melancholy for those who knew Clarke's voice from the telly. It celebrates how his humor held power accountable while staying playful, offering a fitting send-off to a genius who made smarts fun. Whether you're a devotee or newcomer, it's 103 minutes of comforting insight into enduring comedic legacy.

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Die My Love ★★★

Die My Love is a bold and immersive character study that invites the audience into the inner world of a woman in crisis rather than guiding them through a conventional plot. Centered on Grace, a young mother in rural Montana experiencing severe postpartum mental health struggles, the film uses an impressionistic, subjective style that turns her shifting emotions into the heart of the story. The result is a drama that feels intimate, immediate, and deliberately unconventional.

Jennifer Lawrence anchors the film with a fearless performance, capturing Grace’s humor, tenderness, volatility, and vulnerability with equal conviction. Robert Pattinson’s Jackson is portrayed with empathy as a partner trying, sometimes clumsily, to keep the family afloat, which gives their relationship a lived‑in, human complexity. Under Lynne Ramsay’s direction, the sharp visuals and enveloping sound design create a sensory experience that pulls viewers close to Grace’s perspective rather than keeping them at a safe distance

Die My Love has attracted attention for its ambition and emotional intensity, and it is likely to resonate strongly with viewers open to challenging, character‑driven cinema. Its loose structure and immersive style may not appeal to everyone, but they give the film a distinctive voice and a lingering impact. More than anything, it stands out as a daring, compassionate exploration of motherhood, mental health, and the fragile bonds that hold a family together.

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Christmas Karma ★★½

Christmas Karma is a lively but uneven Christmas musical that remixes A Christmas Carol with a British‑Indian, Bollywood‑style twist. It follows Eshaan Sood, a very wealthy, emotionally closed‑off businessman who spends Christmas Eve firing people and avoiding his family until a series of ghosts push him to confront how racism, displacement and his own decisions shaped who he has become.

The story follows a familiar redemption path, while adding threads about being forced out of Uganda, rebuilding a life in the UK and navigating a class‑driven, often prejudiced Britain, which gives it a slightly sharper edge than a standard cosy holiday movie. Kunal Nayyar makes Eshaan engaging enough to watch as he moves between cold and vulnerable, and the ensemble of Eva Longoria, Billy Porter, Boy George, Leo Suter and Pixie Lott. Altogether, it adds a mix of energy and warmth, even if not every performance or tonal shift fully lands.

Visually, the film leans on bright colours, busy Christmas streets and big musical numbers that blend tinsel‑covered London with Bhangra, gospel and pop; the songs are memorable in places, but uneven lip‑sync and obvious green‑screen mean some set‑pieces feel more noisy than affecting. The tone is openly sentimental, the melodrama is pushed hard, and several side plots move quickly or feel underdeveloped, though quieter moments around kindness and community work better.

Overall, the film combines appealing ideas with some frumexecution, and while it may not fully come together, viewers curious about a cultural mash‑up and a more socially minded take on the classic story might still find it worth a look.

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Keeper ★★★

Keeper is a psychological folk horror film centered on Liz (Tatiana Maslany), who travels with her boyfriend Malcolm to a remote cabin for their anniversary getaway. What begins as a quiet romantic retreat quickly descends into a nightmare, as Liz experiences strange visions, uninvited guests, and unsettling clues about the cabin’s sinister history and Malcolm’s past.

The story unfolds around Liz’s growing suspicion of Malcolm, whose behavior becomes increasingly erratic as the weekend progresses. The appearance of a mysterious caretaker’s cake, an unsettling cousin named Darren, and recurring supernatural phenomena all deepen the film’s sense of unease. Perkins layers these elements to create a dense, eerie atmosphere filled with spectral imagery and folkloric horror. As the plot unravels, it’s revealed that Malcolm and Darren are part of a centuries-old ritual, sustaining their immortality through human sacrifice, a cycle born from an ancient tragedy connected to the woods.

Maslany anchors the film with a nuanced performance, portraying Liz’s gradual shift from cautious guest to someone bound to the cabin’s dark mythos. The final act weaves folklore and psychological horror into a chilling conclusion where trust, love, and survival collide.

Keeper stands out for its deliberate pacing, shadowy cinematography, and unnerving score, inviting viewers to sink into its oppressive mood. Though its slow burn may test some audiences, the payoff is both haunting and emotionally resonant. The film ultimately succeeds as a modern folk horror tale about intimacy, deceit, and the secrets buried within relationships.

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Holy Cow ★★★★

Holy Cow, is a debut feature by Louise Courvoisier, a quietly powerful coming-of-age drama set against the bucolic backdrop of France's Jura region, renowned for its cherished Comté cheese. At its heart is Totone, an impulsive 18-year-old thrust into premature responsibility after the sudden loss of his father. Charged with caring for his younger sister Claire and preserving the family’s cheese-making heritage, Totone embarks on a turbulent journey to win a prestigious competition that could secure their future.

Courvoisier’s film excels through its intimate and unvarnished portrayal of rural life, filled with grief, resilience, and the tender chaos of youth. Clément Favreau’s portrayal of Totone is nuanced, capturing the character’s brashness and underlying vulnerability with a naturalistic grace. The director’s choice to cast non-professional actors and film on location imbues the narrative with gritty authenticity and emotional heft. The intricate process of cheesemaking emerges as a rich metaphor for Totone’s own transformation that is messy, demanding, and deeply rewarding.

Visually, Holy Cow is a lyrical experience, with cinematography that lovingly frames the Jura’s rolling landscapes and intimate domestic spaces. The film’s deliberate pacing allows its themes of family loyalty, personal ambition, and cultural tradition to unfold organically, avoiding sentimentality and easy resolutions. Subtle humor and moments of quiet reflection balance the film’s more poignant elements, creating an immersive emotional texture

Acclaimed at Cannes 2024 with the Youth Prize, Holy Cow is a fresh, authentic voice in contemporary French cinema and an evocative meditation on the ties that bind us and the rites of passage that shape us. Louise Courvoisier’s sensitive and assured direction signals a promising career ahead.