(João Pedro Rodrigues; Portugal/ France; 2009)
This film seems to be an attempt to apply transgender themes and issues to the school of contemplative cinema, but it misses the mark. Essentially we see our transgender protagonist, Tonia, endure a number of tragedies - the fragile relationship with a much younger junkie-boyfriend, coming to the end of a career in drag through being upstaged by younger drag queens, the rejection by her son, and the slow rebellion her own body performs against her. The stillness and quiet that is evoked on a number of occasions is engaging, but the melodrama gets a little wearying at times, and moments wear characters are listening to music or singing themselves are protracted and hamper the film. You know a film is starting to flag when you find yourself more interested in the lead character's pet (in this case a little white Scottish terrier) than the lead character. The film brings to mind Fassbinder and Almodovar, two brilliant directors who have cast transgender characters in far more intriguing and lively ways. If you really want to see a tragedy based on a transgender character, then you're far better off sticking to Fassbinder's classic In A Year Of Thirteen Moons.
(Pedro Costa; Portugal/ France; 2009)
A fascinating document of a singer ceaselessly pursuing perfection of sound, whether its in the recording studio, in concert, or in vocal coaching. Pedro Costa is a consummate visualist, and has translated this talent into stark black and white, creating an interior environment that seems to be ceaselessly nocturnal, as if the subject of the film, Jeanne Balibar, and her musicians are forever locked in the embrace of creation. The film is at its most transfixing when Costa shows Balibar in close-up, and her physiognomy becomes a landscape of tiny, barely-perceptible moods and emotion. The repeated and protracted takes of a song never wear thin – on the contrary, Balibar's often frustrated search to find the rhythm, the cadence, the heart of the song is utterly compelling, as if the art of song has unpeeled for us to see. Costa's films are sublime, but I admit to having doubts about this one, unsure as to whether I would find the singer's music interesting and whether this might obstruct the film. However, all doubts are completely cast aside, and Costa remains one of the most arresting film-makers on the planet.
(Manoel de Oliveira; Portugal/ Spain/ Brazil/ France; 2010)
Still making films at 101 years of age, and still making great films at that. Following in line with so many of his other recent films, De Oliveira continues to show us how a man can be driven to distraction, illness, and madness through the mysterious charm of a woman. A photographer takes a photo of a young dead woman, she comes to life in the photo and he becomes increasingly consumed with desire as she continues to haunt him. Exquisitely composed and masterfully paced, there is such pleasure in drifting through the richness of colour, shape, texture of each shot. The interspersed shots of the city at night were especially memorable, with the distant city lights alluding perhaps to the distance evoked when one is yearning for something ephemeral, elusive, impossible. At 101, De Oliveira appears to be at the top of his game.
(Eugene Green; Portugal; 2009)
OK, I honestly cannot work out whether the director was taking the piss or not. The film is about an actress who is in Lisbon to shoot a film based on De Guilleragues's Letters of a Portuguese Nun, and goes through a slow journey of self-enquiry and self-discovery through her encounter with a Portugueuse nun. Sounds innocuous enough. But, for long tracts of this film, the whole enterprise seemed so contrived. It looked like a Frankensteinian concoction of other directors styles – Bressonian close-ups of feet and hands, Ozu-style direct-to-camera shot/ counter-shots, and the semi-hypnotic minimalist acting reminiscent of Green's compatriot Manoel de Oliveira. Just when it seemed that this highly mannerised style was pretentiously intentional, there would be deadpan moments where the thick fog of pretention was broken by dialogue clearly intended to expose this pretentiousness as amusing. Perhaps, then, this film is not that bad, although if you strip away the question of whether of not the film is critiquing the its own arty-farty-ness, the shape and arc of the narrative was still insufficient enough to really shake the attention awake.
(João Pedro Rodrigues; Portugal/ France; 2009) 
