While lighter fare is always appreciated, I expect most films I see at festivals to be somber and heavy. It’s sobering and heartening to see how creators try to make sense of the world’s atrocities, from familial dysfunction to the loss of loved ones (to name a few recurring tribulations). These types of films feel more appropriate for CIFF, as the end of the festival also marks a transition where the cosiness of Autumn begins to give way to the harsher cold of Winter. The films in this post capture the disarming transformation from exhilaration and beauty to a deeper darkness lurking beneath the surface.

Directed by Maura Delpero “Vermiglio” Which to win The festival’s first prize, the Golden Hugo, is praised for how it makes freezing temperatures at high altitudes friendly and inviting. The earliest moments Delpero documents are those related to the family’s daily rhythms and activities: milking the cow, preparing meals, and doing laundry. There is love and insurance in these movements; These actions sustain society and bring joy. Knowing how to move forward when these activities are interrupted will become a significant burden for the family, underscoring one of the film’s central themes that the more things change, the more they stay the same.

The main characters of the film, which takes place in the last moments of World War II, are three sisters: Lucia (Martina Scrinzi), Ada (Rachele Potrich and Flavia (Anna Thaler). Pietro (Giuseppe De Domenico), a Sicilian soldier. Lucia, who escaped from the war, comes to the town and This change of rhythm allows everyone to break free and dream of a new reality. At the same time, the sisters’ father (Tommaso Ragno) was trying his best to maintain his strict and strict control over his family.

As “Vermiglio” progresses into its conclusion, it grounds many of its ideas, from how religious teachings can limit people’s ability to dream to how those whose countries are at war can never fully escape its influence, no matter how isolated they are. frequent return to showing the family routine. This prevents the film from getting lost in the weeds of everything it’s trying to convey; Delpero’s film is silent on depicting change but savors the increasing disruptions of power that can alter and disrupt the status quo. This particularly demonstrates how it frames this community as a people who are both empowered and constrained by the beauty around them. As we see Lucia, Ada and Flavia working in the field, we see how small they are compared to the vast nature around them. There is satisfaction in family comfort, but they also want to be free.

This novel by Ramon Zürcher is less a portrait of familial dysfunction than a message from the front lines of a family at war with itself. “The Sparrow in the Chimney” It’s a poison-soaked film, often hilarious and deeply disturbing, depicting families who don’t feel the need to hide their sarcasm behind pleasantries. One weekend, sisters Karen (Maren Eggert) and Jule (Britta Hammelstein) get together to celebrate the birthday of Karen’s husband, Markus (Andreas Döhler). Between various dinners, dance parties, and pool times, the tumultuous relationship between Karen and her three children, the eldest Christina (Paula Schindler), high school student Johanna (Lea Zoë Voss), and the youngest Leon (Ilja Bultmann), threatens to disrupt the fragile peace. To varying degrees, Christina, Johanna, and Leon cannot hide their disdain for their mother, and Zürcher forces the viewer to examine the fragments of their fractured relationship, pushing through the number of scenes filled with embarrassing behavior and social awkwardness. to take.

Karen is not at all blameless, as she often orders her children around, belittles them, and treats them more like servants than her own children. At the beginning of the film, her children, especially the fiery Johanna, argue with their mother and sneak verbal jabs in between the banter to avoid making time troublesome for Jule, her husband Jurek (Milian Zerzawy), and their daughter Edda (Luana). Greco), their war is rapidly becoming more intense. At the same time, Jule and Karen have complaints about each other, and Markus unsuccessfully tries to keep his relationship with the family dog ​​walker Liv (Luise Heyer) secret. As we witness all these doubts and secrets collide, first in hushed whispers and then in verbal and physical altercations, Döhler creates an unforgiving tale of what happens when bad habits dance with abandon.

A lot of the dark humor comes from how realistic (and violent) the dialogue is, especially from the parents to their children. “Don’t think I love you just because you’re my mother,” Johanna says to Karen at one point; This is probably the most tame interaction the two have ever had, and it goes much deeper when said nonchalantly than when shouted. Zürcher also disrupts this illusion of security and privacy by creating a palpable sense of claustrophobia in the otherwise beautiful home where the family gathers. There are many moments where characters privately reveal to each other their emotions or feelings about another family member, only to reveal that the person they are talking about is standing outside the frame, watching them.

While roughly the first half of the film delights in seeing how family members injure each other (or the animals and neighbors who dare to attack them), the second half transitions into a more fantastical and insightful examination of angst; This election further underscores the concern. how the anger and frustrations family members cause each other are both metaphysical and embodied; The emotions evoked are almost otherworldly. It is in these scenes where characters surrender to their hallucinations, visions, and desires that Zürcher composes some of his most disturbing images (sorry, “Principle” And “Evil Dead Rise,” but there is a scene involving a cheese grater, which is much bloodier and toe-curling than in the movies).

then there is “Super Happily Ever After” arguably the lightest of the three, but one whose glow emanates from a painful center. Director Kohei Igarashi divides his narrative into two timelines, 2023 and 2018, and the film moves seamlessly back and forth between them. In the present day, Sano (Hiroki Sano) travels to the coastal town of Izu, Japan, with his friend Miyata (Yoshinori Miyata); Here in 2018, Sano meets his late wife Nagi (Nairu Yamamoto) and falls in love with her. In the intervening years, the epidemic damaged a hotel that was of great importance to both Sano and Nagi, and Sano decided to check into the hotel for old times’ sake, hoping that this action would bring back memories and a renewed feeling. Even as he struggles with his grief, he has a purpose. In between Sano’s moments of remembrance, Igarashi tells the story of how Sano and Nagi fell in love; Their meet-cutes and relational developments are always colored by an air of tragedy, given that viewers know the destination of their romantic journeys.

Igarashi’s structure emphasizes and saturates moments with a complex range of emotions beyond what appears on the surface. He opts for framing that makes characters small and insignificant compared to the vastness of the beauty around them; As Sano walks back and forth along the same shoreline, the shots evoke a sense of determination and anguish; He is alone in his grief, and yet there is much beauty around him that he will later miss if he continues to be defined solely by his tragedy.

“Happily Ever After” uncannily demonstrates that memories exist in our bodies as well as our minds, and that visiting certain places opens the door to a richer understanding than dwelling on things in our heads. It encourages us not to be afraid to lose our experiences over time. Our memories are like waves crashing on the shore; It disappears for a moment but then it’s here.