This review was originally published on May 25, 2023 out of the Cannes Film Festival. We are recirculating it now timed to Close Your Eyes’s theatrical release.

Before this year’s Cannes, the Spanish director Victor Erice had made only three features in a 50-plus-year career. These happen to be three of the greatest films ever made. The Spirit of the Beehive (1973) is one of Spanish cinema’s most beloved treasures. El Sur (1983) had its production cut short and thus is considered something of a film maudit, but to my eyes, it’s even better than Spirit of the Beehive. And his 1992 documentary, Dream of Light, which won the Jury Prize at Cannes that year, is one of the most mesmerizing meditations on the elusive nature of art that anyone has ever made, anywhere.

That was 31 years ago, and the premiere of a new feature by the now-82-year-old Erice, a three-hour drama called Cerrar los Ojos (Close Your Eyes), was one of the most notable news items in this year’s Cannes lineup. The director was not present, however, for the Tuesday premiere of his film at the festival. Some suggested it was because he was too ill to make the trip, while others speculated that after so many years out of the limelight, he had taken on a Terrence Malick–style reticence. (It’s worth noting, however, that Erice has continued to make shorts and produce other work over the years; he also served on the Cannes jury in 2010.)

Two days ago, Erice published an op-ed in the Spanish paper El País explaining his absence. Turns out, he was just pissed. The director’s first feature in 31 years was playing out of competition, a fact Erice apparently learned only at the press conference announcing this year’s lineup. At Cannes, it’s generally understood that the main competition is where the best films are screened, though in truth the negotiations over who does and doesn’t get to compete are often filled with petty politics and starfuckery. (For example, you’re clearly guaranteed a competition slot if your film either stars or was directed by Sean Penn.)

To be clear, Erice wasn’t annoyed because he wasn’t in competition. He felt disrespected by the way the festival had communicated with him, keeping him in the dark about its intentions. This matters because other festivals — including Venice and Cannes’s own parallel fest, Directors’ Fortnight, which has in the past premiered many major movies from major directors — had offered Erice choice slots. These other venues all effectively got screwed over by Cannes’s inability to communicate properly with the filmmaker.

The good news is that one day all this nonsense will be forgotten but Close Your Eyes will remain. Erice’s fourth feature is a stirring tale about memory, identity, and friendship, and it feels deeply, almost alarmingly personal. It opens with tantalizing images from what turns out to be an abandoned project called The Farewell Gaze. That picture, we learn, was left unfinished when its star, Julio Arenas (Jose Coronado), disappeared under mysterious circumstances, seemingly walking away from the movie and from his whole life, never to be heard from again. The director, Miguel Garay (Manolo Solo), never shot another roll of film. Indeed, he now lives off the grid, in a trailer by a beach, growing his own tomatoes and catching fish. A TV investigation into Julio’s disappearance lures Miguel (who sometimes likes to be called “Mike”) back into the world, and he begins to make inquiries into what might have happened back then.

There’s enough of a mystery in Close Your Eyes that it makes sense to keep the rest of the story secret for now. The film proceeds in stylistically distinct movements. That opening scene, with its lush images of footage allegedly shot long ago, even looks like it could have been a part of a real movie called The Shanghai Spell that Erice spent three years preparing back in the late 1990s, only to have it fall apart. Some have speculated that this actually is footage Erice shot for that project, but that production appears to have stopped well before cameras started rolling.

Erice, however, remains heartbroken over the experience, and it’s clear that he sees a lot of himself in Miguel, an artist who’s withdrawn from the world. At one point, Miguel visits his old projectionist friend Max (Mario Pardo), who has a large, dusty archive full of film reels. Max talks about the fact that 90 percent of cinema history still exists only in celluloid form, even though almost nobody screens 35-mm. anymore. There is a sense throughout Close Your Eyes that everything Miguel knows is being taken away from him. The almost idyllically austere seaside abode where he lives is on the verge of being sold, meaning he’ll have to leave. Julio might have withdrawn from the world years ago — either by dying or walking away — but now, with his own world slipping away, Miguel understands something about vanishing.

Close Your Eyes soon settles into a very deliberate, matter-of-fact cadence, at first built around two-person dialogue scenes. The director even seems to be toying with the viewer’s patience here, with each scene ending on an almost excruciatingly long fade to black. (I definitely heard some gripes.) But the almost bland textures of this section feel relevant to the whole project, as Erice sets up a stark contrast between the magic world of cinematic make-believe and the humdrum nature of base reality.

Close Your Eyes is about cinema, too, though not in the way that we’ve become used to in recent years; it’s not a love letter or a poison-pen missive, but rather an exploration of cinema as memory and of the relative value of that memory. This is a film made by a man who has been unable to direct the films he’s wanted to for decades. You feel his frustration and regret in every frame, but you also sense a sort of acceptance. At one point, Miguel types out on a keyboard a statement about an artist who had decided that his masterpiece would not be his work, but his life. Is that an aspirational thought or a desperate one?

The final section of the picture asks, in mesmerizing and unbearably touching fashion, what really makes a life. Is it memory and identity, the cumulative power of all our experiences, the knowledge of our friends and family? Or is it simply the ability to be happy and present? Those opening scenes of that film abandoned long ago feature a man who talks about how often his name has changed over the years, and he laments the fact that his estranged daughter, who is half-Chinese, has been given a different name by her mother. Everybody’s name seems to undergo multiple changes in this movie. What’s in a name? Why does who we are even matter in the grand scheme of things?

As Miguel’s search goes on, we might begin to wonder if he’s really looking for Julio or for himself. The man in the unfinished movie longs for one last glance from his daughter — that “farewell gaze” of the title — before he dies. Miguel needs Julio’s memory more than Julio needs his own. It’s in others’ gazes that we know ourselves. That’s something a filmmaker understands. And it’s something that a filmmaker who hasn’t been able to make a film really understands.

Vaazhai Movie Review: Vaazhai, based on true events from Mari Selvaraj’s life, is a film deeply rooted in his land. It tells a tragedy that unfolds through the eyes of Sivanendhan, a school kid living with his mother and sister in Puliyankulam village near Tirunelveli. Mari wastes no time introducing the back-breaking labour of carrying banana plantains, a task doubly taxing for Sivanendhan and his best friend, who juggle this work with school, leaving them without a single day off.

The film presents picturesque snapshots of the countryside, with affecting sounds that marry the harshness of their lives with the mud that they come from. From the outset, it’s clear we’re in for an earthly affair that’s firmly grounded in the backgrounds of its characters. It follows Sivanendhan (Ponvel), a young Rajini fan, as he splits his time between studies and weekend labour. His best friend Raghul (Sekar), a Kamal fan, works alongside him to help repay a loan left by Sivanendhan’s late father. Despite the constant pain from their heavy labour, the boy remains focused on his studies and finds moments of joy, like his crush on teacher Poongkodi (Nikhila Vimal).

Kani (Kalaiyarasan), a local, fights for better wages and clashes with the upper-caste landlord, showing the village’s struggles. As the story progresses, a missing cow leads to a confrontation with a broker. The narrative thus shows the consequences of missing a day’s labour, juxtaposed with the relatively normal childish joys that these kids find in school.

True to Mari Selvaraj’s style, the film dives into caste dynamics. It sets up a whole ecosystem: villagers breaking their backs in the plantation, a broker playing middleman, and when Kani tries to organise a strike, the big boss shows up to smooth-talk their demands away.

Mari tries to win the audience over with some neat little moments. There’s a hilarious debate between the kids about Rajini versus Kamal that’ll crack you up. Then, there’s Siva’s cheeky move of swiping his teacher Poongkodi’s kerchief, which turns into this sweet bond. Cue a breezy scene of Siva hitching a ride on Poongkodi’s two-wheeler to the rice mill, complete with a catchy tune. These lighter bits, sandwiched between the tough stuff, are meant to hit you right in the feels. When it works, it’s a gut-punch — both heartwarming and heartbreaking.

But there’s only so much sympathy to go around. The film’s so busy painting this black-and-white picture of the downtrodden versus the village bigwigs that it forgets to add some shades of grey. Sure, Siva’s a great kid with potential, and yes, the villagers have it rough. But when the baddies are just your typical moustache-twirling landlord types who seem to own people, it’s hard not to roll your eyes a bit. The film’s begging you to feel bad, but by making everything so cut-and-dry, it actually makes it tougher to stay connected.

The acting in Vaazhai is a standout. Ponvel and Raghul, the young leads, deliver stellar performances that keep you glued. Their on-screen chemistry is top-notch, with Ponvel especially shining as he carries the bulk of the emotional weight. Nikhila Vimal nails her role as the kind, sympathetic, and attractive village teacher. Kalaiyarasan and Dhivya Duraisamy round out the cast nicely, helping to establish the film’s social dynamics.

Craft-wise, the film holds its own. Theni Easwar’s cinematography is a highlight, capturing the countryside and banana plantations with an eye for earthy details like animals and insects. Santhosh Narayanan’s score complements the visuals perfectly, alternating between airy lightness and oppressive heat to mirror the story’s emotional beats.

Vaazhai has got heart and looks the part, but it could’ve used a bit more grey in its village tableau.

Written By: Abhinav Subramanian

“Pachinko,” a beautifully wrought historical melodrama, is back for its necessary second season, to fill in some holes, fiddle with loose ends and extend the story even farther beyond the borders of Min Jin Lee’s 2017 novel. It is a transitional season, which ends with little resolved and gaps still to fill, and while it offers all the sensual pleasures of the first season’s performances and production, its portion of love and death, it is very much the middle of a book.

Unlike the novel, which proceeds chronologically, the series, returning Friday on Apple TV+, alternates between the “present day” — 1989 Osaka — and the evolving story that gets us there. Season 1 began in 1915 before the birth of main character Sunja (Minha Kim) in Japanese-occupied Korea, then followed her through her country-girl youth into a romance with handsome, dangerous Hansu (Lee Minho). An unexpected pregnancy led to a marriage of convenience, later affection, with Isak (Steve Sanghyun Noh), a Christian preacher; together they moved to Osaka to join his brother Yoseb (Junwoo Han) and wife, Kyunghee (Eunchae Jung), where they become Zainichi, the term for Koreans living in Japan — a population much discriminated against. (Incidents of prejudice dot the current season, almost as a reminder of what the first season firmly established.)

That storyline got us to 1938. The new season picks up in early 1945 (skipping much of the novel), and times are difficult as Japan fearfully braces for an American attack; Sunja and Kyunghee eke out a living selling kimchi, and the cabbage has almost run out. Sunja’s children, Noa (Kang Hoon Kim), her son with Hansu, and Mozasu (Eunseong Kwon), her son with Isak, have grown accordingly. Noa, who is unaware of his birth father and takes after his adoptive father, is shy and studious, Mozasu brash and unsuited to study. Isak is in prison, having been arrested last season for rabble-rousing; Yoseb is working in a munitions factory in Nagasaki, which should raise an eyebrow. But a friendly new character, Mr. Kim (Kim Sungkyu), is hanging around helpfully, and Hansu, keeping an eye on them from near and far, will be back and involved.

(The Nagasaki sequence, which opens the fifth episode, is shot in black and white in standard aspect ratio, before returning to color and widescreen when the bomb drops. The title credit that follows omits the usual cheerful shots of the cast dancing to the Grass Roots‘ “Let’s Live for Today” as inappropriate. Understandably.)

Nearly all the capital of the 1989 storyline having been spent in the first season, showrunner Soo Hugh has had to create fresh material to keep those characters busy while the earlier narrative catches up. (At the end of the season, they still have three decades to go.)

Older Sunja (Yuh-Jung Youn) is still living in Osaka with her successful son Mozasu (Soji Arai), who has grown up to own pachinko parlors — a sort of pinball cum slot machine — and, as a somewhat disreputable if popular business, one of the few avenues then open to Koreans. (Mozasu himself, a major character last season, is mostly absent from this one.) Mozasu’s son, Solomon (Jin Ha), college-educated in America, is in Tokyo, involved in high finance and real estate. In Season 1, he’d attempted to pry an old woman from her home in hopes of putting a golf resort on the land and impressing his bosses; in the end, he advised her not to sign the papers, but the current season finds him unfortunately back on that horse, in a complete moral backsliding. (I found the particulars of Solomon’s business dealings somewhat hard to follow, or perhaps just not worth the effort.)

This authorial trouble making might be expressed in the old Hollywood formulation as “boy meets girl, boy loses girl, boy gets girl, boy loses girl, boy gets (possibly a different) girl” and so on, whether or not we are actually talking about boys and girls. It’s a problem familiar to ongoing original series, where fresh conflicts must be created each year. One expects it will build eventually to another shot at redemption — the series is too sentimental, too good-hearted not to offer him the chance.

Older Sunja (Yuh-Jung Youn) in “Pachinko.”

(Apple)

And of course we get enough of Good Solomon to justify our interest, just as we get enough of Good Hansu to make up for his criminality. Parts of Solomon’s story, which brings in some unsavory characters, do feel constructed as a deliberate mirror of Hansu’s; perhaps not coincidentally they are played by the show’s best-looking actors. As to Sunja’s new, extra-textual adventures, she’ll strike up a friendship with a man at the supermarket that allows for an adorable scene in a Mexican restaurant, something seemingly new to 1989 Osaka.

Though historical events are acknowledged, what with World War II and the Korean War falling within the earlier timeline, and the Japanese asset price bubble and crash on the horizon in the later one, the current season focuses on family life and domestic detail, even as, or perhaps because it’s disrupted. In 1989, Sanju travels on her own from Osaka to Tokyo to check on her grandson, whom she senses is not all right. There’s a lovely scene in which she slices vegetables alongside Solomon’s Japanese love interest and former colleague, Naomi (Anna Sawai); I almost wrote “throwaway scene,” but, in fact, that naturalism is essential to the series, making something real out of the extravagant, even soap-operatic plotting.

And food, often in short supply in the earlier storyline, plays a part — making a meal, making a living, making a place at the table, making a home — most tangibly, out of a barn that Sanju, Kyunghee, Noa, Mozasu and Mr. Kim occupy at the end of the war. (Hansu’s tragedy is that though he provides support for the family, with or without the knowledge, he remains an outsider.) Characters speak of a “life well lived,” which is not at all the same thing as living well.

Obviously, this is not the season to start with “Pachinko,” but if you haven’t yet, it’s worth beginning at the beginning. Even if you watched the first season — which, given that you’ve read this far, I assume you have — it may be worth a look back to remember who all these characters are, what they have to do with one another, and what kind of trouble they got in and out of previously. And if the new season lacks the expositional energy of the first, if it’s more muted in tone, if Sunju is not quite the ray of sunshine she was, her older self will still have occasion to say here that hers was a life well lived.