In “Vanished,” premiering Friday on MGM+, Kaley Cuoco plays Alice, an archaeologist, a fact she repeats whenever she’s asked about herself, without particularly seeming like one, apart from passing mentions of Byzantine caves and “one of the earliest examples of Christian worship” to make her sound professional. Sam Claflin plays Tom, who works for a charity organization dealing with Syrian refugees in Jordan; in a flashback we get to see them meet cute on a dusty Jordanian road, where he has a flat tire and no spare. Alice gives him a lift to camp; they banter and flirt after a fashion. He does something heroic within her sight.

They have been long-distance dating for four years, meeting up, as Alice describes it, “in hotels all over the world” where they “actually want to have sex with each other all the time.” Currently they are in Paris (in a $500-a-night joint — I looked it up). But Alice, now working in Albania, has been offered a job as an assistant professor of archaeology at Princeton, which would allow her to settle down with Tom in a school-provided apartment and “build a life that’s mine, not just uncovering other people’s.” After an uncomfortable moment, he signs on, saying, “I love you, Alice Monroe.”

Would you trust him? Despite the script’s insistence otherwise, Cuoco and Claflin have no more chemistry than figures on facing pages in a clothing catalog. Fortunately for the viewer, Tom disappears early from the action — ergo “Vanished.” The couple are traveling by train down to Arles, where another hotel awaits them, when Tom leaves the car to take a call and never returns; nor can he be found anywhere on the train.

This happily makes room for the more interesting Helene (multiple César Award winner Karin Viard), a helpful Frenchwoman who steps in as a translator when Alice attempts to get an officious conductor to open a door to a room he insists is for employees only, and rules are rules. (Is he just being, you know, French, or is something up?)

They meet again when Alice gets off the train not in Arles but Marseilles; after she has no more luck with police inspector Drax (Simon Abkarian), who insists a person isn’t missing until 48 hours have elapsed, than with the conductor, she’ll turn to Helene again, who has the advantage of being an investigative reporter. (She’s also been made diabetic, which has no effect on the action other than halting it now and again so she can give herself, rather dramatically, a quick shot of insulin. Like Drax begging off because he’s late meeting his wife for an Alain Delon double feature, it’s a tacked on bit of business meant to suggest character.) Together they’ll ferret out and follow clues, as Alice comes to realize that it takes more than the occasional gauzy romantic getaway to really know a person, and Helene gets closer to nailing a big story.

Directed by Barnaby Thompson, whose credits are mostly in producing (“Wayne’s World,” “Spice World”), and written by his son, Preston — together they made the 2020 film “Pixie” — the series begins with a flash forward in which Alice flees for her life out an upper-story window, signifying action ahead. And indeed, there will be, leading to a climactic scene I don’t suppose was meant to make me laugh, but did, magnifying as it does one of the confrontational cliches of modern cinema. Many of the series’ notions and plot points (though not that particular one) may be found in the works of Alfred Hitchcock — who, you may remember, made a film called “The Lady Vanishes,” from a train yet — though they have been given new clothes to wear. But where Hitchcock never waited long to show you when a character wasn’t what they seemed, that information is held on here nearly to the end, with some added twists along the way to keep you confused.

Cuoco (unusually brunet here), has been good in many things, most notably her funny, winning turn as Penny across 12 seasons of “The Big Bang Theory” and more recently as the hallucinating alcoholic heroine of the “The Flight Attendant,” but she feels out of joint here. She’s not well served by the pedestrian direction and dialogue, but comes across as a person playing a person, rather than as the person she’s playing. Perhaps by virtue of their accents, the French actors feel more real; France, as usual, looks great.

Both everything and nothing happens in “Filipiñana,” the cutting, confident, and ultimately formally captivating feature debut from writer-director Rafael Manuel. The everything in question is the way structures of power are both maintained and reintrenched at a golf and country club outside Manila, Philippines, that serves as a synecdoche for the country itself. The nothing is the way everyone else just keeps going through the motions despite the continual sense that something is profoundly out of balance. 

One feeds the other as collective inaction allows for the inertia of a quietly sinister status quo to continue unrestrained in each beautiful yet haunting visual the film brings to life. This ensures that when action against this status quo is taken, no matter how small it may be, the ripple effects shake you out of the reverie in which it seems most of the other characters remain trapped.

Playing out almost as one grim extended fever dream over the course of a single stiflingly hot day, the film accompanies the 17-year-old girl Isabel (Jorrybell Agoto) on a seemingly insignificant journey to return a golf club. She’s meant to give it to the president of the club where she works, but her journey takes on a far more slippery significance just as she realizes she can’t continue down the same path she has been on until now. 

There are some other characters making their way through the purgatory-esque golf course, such as a rich industrialist and his niece, who is returning from America, as well as Isabel’s fellow workers who serve as effective contrasts to the absurdly wealthy club members. They all embody the contradictions and cruelties of their little world, with the visiting young expat proving to be most critical to revealing how easily supposed values can be compromised on. However, the film primarily hinges on the actions of Isabel as she begins to subtly disrupt the natural order of the club.

She’s a character of few words whose actions are no less critical as she increasingly takes more and more quietly radical action. She seems driven by an unspoken yet powerful desire for something more for herself than merely setting up the tees for wealthy men. There is a grounding, deeply emotional care to how Manuel observes Isabel as she attempts to make sense of what exactly is going on in her world and how she can make it a better one.

Beautifully shot by cinematographer Xenia Patricia, who also worked on last year’s spectacular “Zodiac Killer Project,” “Filipiñana” frequently consists of largely static tableaus that are so perfectly, poetically rendered that they almost resemble paintings. Be it when a figure is standing alone in the tall grass looking down at the world with a slightly tormented expression, or the fantastic final shot that lingers for several unbroken minutes, Manuel takes his time in letting everything unfold before you. Life moves at a different, more intentionally laborious pace in his film just as the specter of death seems to increasingly be lurking just out of frame.

Though the film has drawn comparisons to Michael Haneke and David Lynch, Manuel also cites the late, great Jacques Tati, and it’d be easy to make the case for “Filipiñana” as the more reserved, mirror image of Tati’s classic “Playtime” in how it holds the rhythms of modern life up to the light. One other comparison that felt most relevant was the sublime recent “Universal Language,” both in the similarly wonderful way it was shot and in how it shifted into being a reflection on home and memory in his final act.

“Filipiñana” ends up being much more about displacement where the ongoing yet unseen violence has become just another part of the operations of the club. In one unexpectedly affecting monologue near the end, it makes explicit that the workers keeping things moving at the club are those who have been removed from their lives and histories. Just like the uprooted pine trees that keep getting brought in after the one before them died, life seems perpetually out of reach in this place.

It’s all part of the artificiality of the club that makes it feel like a simulacrum of life. We only begin to see reality for ourselves closer to the end, with Manuel pointedly holding us at a distance just as Isabel begins to get closer to seeing the cracks forming in this faux, oddly frightening world. That she is not always certain about what exactly is amiss only makes it that much more disquieting.

The way this unfolds will likely test the patience of those not accustomed to what can be broadly called “slow cinema,” but it was on a second watch that I found myself utterly and completely riveted by the deliberate, devastating way “Filipiñana” unfolded. It’s a film of restrained, yet no less shattering, unease that, for all the artificial beauty that exists in the club, also invites you to look closer and ponder what ugliness lies beneath that all have grown accustomed to.

It holds a potent, petrifying and poetic power that culminates in a breaking of the poisonous spell that, until this moment, had held the entire film in its grasp.  In these flooring final moments, it movingly ponders what it means to take a leap of courage and swim upstream against the casually cruel waters everyone else is swimming in. Everything and nothing has changed in the world of the film, though it remains a work of art that may change those watching it just as Isabel herself does in the end.

Check out all our Sundance coverage here

Bruce Springsteen released a new protest song Wednesday condemning “King Trump” and the violence perpetrated by his “federal thugs” — referring to immigration officers — in Minnesota.

“I wrote this song on Saturday, recorded it yesterday and released it to you today in response to the state terror being visited on the city of Minneapolis,” Springsteen wrote on his social media platforms, sharing his new song, “Streets of Minneapolis.” “It’s dedicated to the people of Minneapolis, our innocent immigrant neighbors and in memory of Alex Pretti and Renee Good.”

Good, a 37-year-old mother of three, was shot multiple times and killed by a U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement officer during an immigration raid on Jan. 7. Pretti, a 37-year-old ICU nurse at a VA hospital who had protested President Trump’s immigration crackdown and Good’s killing, was shot and killed by ICE agents on Jan. 24.

Both Minnesotans are memorialized by name in Springsteen’s new rock song, which describes the immigration crackdowns and the protests by those who live there. His scathing lyrics also denounce Trump advisor Stephen Miller and Homeland Security Secretary Kristi Noem for their statements following the killings, which were contradicted by eyewitness accounts and video.

“Their claim was self-defense, sir / Just don’t believe your eyes,” Springsteen sings with his familiar rasp. “It’s our blood and bones / And these whistles and phones / Against Miller and Noem’s dirty lies.”

Both Miller and Noem justified the shootings in the immediate aftermath. Miller called Pretti “a would-be assassin,” and Noem accused Good of committing “an act of domestic terrorism.” Videos later surfaced contradicting their statements.

Springsteen, who has long been an outspoken critic of President Trump, also calls out immigration officials for their racism and for claiming “they’re here to uphold the law” yet “trample on our rights” in his new song.

In a statement to the New York Times, White House spokesperson Abigail Jackson said that “the Trump administration is focused on encouraging state and local Democrats to work with federal law enforcement officers on removing dangerous criminal illegal aliens from their communities — not random songs with irrelevant opinions and inaccurate information.”

Multiple celebrities, including Olivia Rodrigo, Pedro Pascal, Billie Eilish and Hannah Einbinder, have also spoken out against ICE and the immigration crackdowns in Minneapolis.