Author: Julia Seraphim

The first scene of Caramelo already gives it all away: a hungry stray dog, a chicken on display, and Waldick Soriano singing “I’m Not a Dog.” It’s almost a synthesis of the country; the hunger, the improvisation, and the nostalgic soundtrack accompanying the chaos. Directed and written by Diego Freitas, the new Netflix film attempts to Brazilianize the “dog movie” subgenre by focusing on a national symbol. And although the titular stray dog ​​is the main draw, the film ultimately divides the spotlight between the dog and its owner, a chef who also has a lot to learn about survival.

Pedro (Rafael Vitti), a chef on the verge of realizing his dream of opening his own restaurant, has his life turned upside down when he discovers he has cancer. The turning point comes in the form of four paws and a pleading look: Caramelo, a stray dog ​​who changes the course of the story, and Pedro’s own outlook on life. It’s the kind of synopsis that could easily slip into sentimentality, but Diego Freitas balances emotion and social critique with some astuteness.

The film isn’t about a “cute” dog; it’s about what he represents. Caramel is a portrait of the real Brazil: abandoned, resilient, and yet willing to offer affection. According to recent WHO data, the country has around 30 million abandoned animals—half of them dogs. An estimated 10 million live on the streets, and public and private shelters are constantly overcrowded, with capacity far below demand. In other words, the scene of the dog stealing chicken isn’t fiction: it’s a snapshot of everyday life on every street corner.

Rafael Vitti finds a role here that escapes the “soap opera heartthrob” aesthetic, and it works well. He delivers a restrained character, stricken by loneliness and fear of time. The counterpoint comes from Amendoim, the real-life dog who plays Caramelo, who steals the film with pure charisma. Freitas succeeds in using the dog as a metaphor for the country: cheerful, resilient, and eternally improvised.

Visually, the film has one foot in realism and the other in advertising, perhaps a reflection of Netflix itself trying to domesticate precariousness. The soundtrack helps, the scenes in São Paulo are textured, and the supporting cast (including Paola Carosella, in a small but sympathetic role) sustains the tone of humanity.

But Caramelo’s greatest merit lies off-screen: the 60 dogs used in filming were rescued and adopted by the crew itself. In a country where a canine’s gaze begs for care on every corner, this gesture transforms fiction into action.

In the end, Caramelo is about what remains when haste and indifference pass: the gaze of a dog that still believes in us. And perhaps, amidst so much cynicism, that’s what Brazil needs most—a little loyalty, even after so many hardships.

You can find Caramelo on Netflix.

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There’s something very special about seeing a Brazilian comedy take center stage at a festival. Perrengue Fashion, directed by Flávia Lacerda and starring Ingrid Guimarães, represents this milestone; not only by opening up space for humor, but by showing that comedy can also provoke reflection, revisit feelings, and challenge us.

Paula Pratta (Guimarães) is a fashion influencer who lives in a world of filters, campaigns, and hashtags. When her son (Filipe Bragança) abandons everything to dedicate himself to a permaculture project in the Amazon, she finds herself forced to travel through the forest, and with it, through herself. The journey, which begins as a desperate search for her son to participate in a fashion advertising campaign, becomes a journey through what truly matters.

Flávia Lacerda guides the narrative with lightness, without losing sight of the characters’ humanity. Ingrid Guimarães, already recognized for her comedic prowess, delivers a mature, funny, yet sensitive performance. There’s a glimmer of vulnerability in Paula: the woman who had to be everything herself, who overcame social barriers, and who now tries to control her son’s future as a way to ensure her own emotional security. It’s in this control that the character’s silent drama resides, and the comedy emerges precisely in the friction between the fantasy of a perfect world and the inevitable collapse of real life.

The script, written by Ingrid, Edu Araújo, Célio Porto, and Marcelo Saback, strikes a balance between humor and critique. The dialogue allows laughter to turn into affection. There are genuinely funny moments, largely due to the chemistry between Ingrid and Rafa Chalub, who forms an unlikely and irresistible duo. Chalub, coming from social media, surprises with his naturalness.

But Perrengue Fashion goes beyond culture clash comedy. It talks about single mothers who bear the burden of raising children alone, about the generation that needs to relearn how to listen to their children, and about the discomfort of leaving one’s comfort zone, be it an Instagram feed or a middle-class apartment.

At its core, it’s a film about starting over. About when the forest, both literal and symbolic, forces us to take off our heels, step onto the ground, and remember who we were before everything became a performance, before everything was for the other, when it was for us.

Ingrid Guimarães proves, once again, that she knows how to laugh at herself and transform that laughter into something greater: empathy. Perrengue Fashion makes you laugh, but it also makes you think.

You can find Perrengue Fashion in theaters starting October 9th.

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Yesterday I watched In-I in Motion at the Rio Film Festival. Directed by and starring Juliette Binoche, the film begins with a courageous gesture: making oneself vulnerable in the face of art and one’s own limitations.

In 2007, Binoche decided to step away from filmmaking to create a dance performance with choreographer Akram Khan. The agreement between the two was simple and symbolic—she would help him become a better actor, and he would teach her to dance. From this exchange was born the show In-I, and now the film, which blends backstage, rehearsals, and performance in a single movement.

It’s intriguing to watch an actress of Binoche’s stature shed the security of acting to explore a new body. The documentary captures the raw process: long rehearsals, stumbles, exhaustion, frustrations, and moments of discovery. There’s something deeply human in watching her learn to breathe differently, fall and get up, find rhythm with her whole body. The dance born from error is, perhaps, the truest.

At many moments, In-I in Motion becomes a mirror of the relationship between Binoche and Khan—two artists trying to access what’s most authentic in each other. Between friction and partnership, the film finds its pulse. It’s art refining art.

During the festival, Binoche commented that she wasn’t completely satisfied with the final result and that the complete show at the end was a decision made by the distributor. She’s working on a new cut, thirty minutes shorter. And it makes sense: there’s a breath of fresh air the film still seeks, a lightness that better fits its purpose.

But what touched me most was what she said after the screening: that we all have an artist within us, and that the challenge is to overcome the fear of accessing it. In In-I in Motion, she does exactly that—she faces fear with her body, without masks, without control, without hiding.

As a spectator, I admired her courage. As an artist, I felt the urge to move too—to make more mistakes, try more, exist more. In-I in Motion isn’t just a film about dance; it’s about freeing the body from the demands of perfection.
In the end, the essential remains: the moment when fear transforms into movement.

You’ll find In I In Motion at Festival do Rio.Did you like the content? Then leave a comment to let me know!
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Some films don’t end when the screen fades to black; they linger within us, like a fever. Alpha, Julia Ducournau’s new feature, is exactly that: a film that burns, itches, and doesn’t heal.

Written and directed by the filmmaker who redefined body horror with Raw and Titane, Alpha is, above all, a dive into the flesh; but a flesh that rots and crumbles to dust, that doesn’t scream, but silences. A family drama that begins intimate and ends apocalyptic, questioning what happens when love and infection become blurred.

I saw Alpha at the Rio Film Festival and I confess: my expectations were enormous. Julia Ducournau is my favorite director. A while ago, when someone asked me who I admired most in cinema, I didn’t know how to answer. I only knew after seeing Raw and Titane. There, I understood that her cinema touches me in a rare way: it’s physical, feminine, and wild. She films the body as if she were filming the soul.

And Alpha reaffirms this. In the opening scene, a girl draws on the wounds of the man who cares for her, connecting scars as if trying to reconstruct a lost constellation. It’s beautiful and disturbing, almost impossible to look away. Ducournau’s camera has this brutal delicacy: making us look even when we want to look away.

“This is not a good time to bleed.”

When the film cuts to Alpha’s uncle taking drugs, I saw an echo of Requiem for a Dream. The needle, the skin, the desperation. But what struck me most was the next scene: Alpha, now a teenager, drunk at a party, letting someone tattoo a crooked “A” on her arm. In that moment, I found myself remembering what I watched at thirteen, like Me, Christiane F., and Skins. That mix of discovery and self-destruction, the desire to belong and the fear of losing oneself. Julia Ducournau understands this threshold like few others, the moment when the body wants to be free and ends up becoming a prison.

The film is a grand pandemic odyssey. The infection here is both literal and symbolic: bodies that turn to marble before dissolving into white powder. Fear spreads, and society disintegrates—a reflection of everything we’ve experienced: the isolation, the paranoia, the lack of touch. There’s a moment when Alpha’s mother, played captivatingly by Golshifteh Farahani, cleans up her daughter’s vomit and discovers the fresh cut of her tattoo, and I felt the lump in my throat of someone who loves and fears at the same time.

Tahar Rahim is splendid as the uncle, a frail, sick, and guilt-ridden body. The relationship between the three: mother, daughter, and brother, is the beating heart of the film. It’s where Ducournau transforms horror into tenderness, illness into bond.

And as always, the soundtrack is a character in its own right. When Portishead started playing right at the beginning, I felt that chill that only her cinema evokes, as if each beat were a drop of blood falling in slow motion.

“It must be hell to be a kid these days.”

Yes, the final act drags on too long, with somewhat confusing time jumps. But even there, there’s an emotional coherence: the chaos is part of the experience. Alpha is a film about collapse—of the body, of the family, of the world.

I left the screening feeling covered in the same white powder that dominates the screen. As a spectator, I felt the physical discomfort; as a screenwriter, I admired the courage. And as a woman, I recognized myself in that final gesture, trying to reattach someone’s torn flesh.

In the end, Alpha isn’t about viruses. It’s about the contagion of loving someone to the point of pain. And perhaps that’s why I keep thinking about it—and about Julia Ducournau—long after the theater lights have gone out.

You can find Alpha at Festival do Rio.

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Yesterday I watched GOAT. I slept with it and woke up with it—and perhaps that says more about the film than any technical analysis. Because GOAT resonates. It disturbs. It lingers. And perhaps it lingers precisely because it touches on a point that cinema rarely dares to confront with such brutality: the physical and symbolic pain of sport.

Directed by Justin Tipping and sponsored by Jordan Peele, the film follows Cameron “Cam” Cade (Tyriq Withers), a young, rising quarterback who, after a near-fatal injury, receives a second chance from his greatest idol, Isaiah White (Marlon Wayans). What begins as a dream turns into a ritualistic nightmare—a plunge into toxic masculinity, idolatry, and the boundaries between training, torture, and transcendence.

The title GOAT — Greatest of All Time — is more than an acronym for greatness; it’s a sentence. The quest for the “best of all” becomes literal and monstrous when the GOATs’ lineage is revealed as a succession of sacrificed bodies, transferred blood, inherited power. There’s something both religious and profane about this cycle: each generation of athletes devours the previous, an explicit metaphor for the society that consumes its heroes to the bone.

As a viewer and as a screenwriter, I found myself torn. There’s a powerful idea there—a body horror that speaks to the pressure of performance, to the body as a battlefield and the mind as a minefield. There are moments when the film finds this pulsating flesh, especially when Cam trains under the scorching desert sun, and sweat seems to blend with madness. But between the second and third acts, the narrative loses its way: the metaphors become too literal, the visuals repeat formulas, and the climax feels rushed—more concerned with shock than with depth.

As an athlete, I recognize what the film is trying to convey: the sacrifice, the pressure, the emptiness after glory. That place where only pain keeps you going. But as someone who lives for cinema, I missed rhythm, subtlety, and visual consistency. The photography and editing flirt with something interesting—the X-ray flashes, the shifting color temperatures—but end up becoming excessive and predictable.

Even so, GOAT touched me on a personal level: this intertwining of body and mind, faith and pain, the dream and nightmare of being “the best.” There’s a fine line between overcoming and self-destruction, and the film walks precisely that line—stumbling, at times, but leaving its mark.

In the end, the blood that flows from Cam’s body is the same blood that flows from anyone who has ever tried to be too perfect at something. GOAT isn’t a perfect film, but a cracked mirror—and sometimes it’s in those mirrors that we recognize ourselves most.

You can find The Goat in theaters.

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I watched Rabia at the opening screening of the 2nd edition of the Incredible Film Festival and left the theater in silence. With that heavy silence, full of thought. It’s a film that doesn’t shout. It murmurs. It presses. It leaves its mark.

Inspired by the true story of Moroccan Faitha Mejjati (the feared Oum Adam), Mareike Engelhardt’s feature film, in her directorial debut, delves into one of the least explored (and most frightening) aspects of the Daesh regime: the madafas, houses where young Western women, converted and indoctrinated, waited to become wives of the fighters.

We follow Jessica, a young French woman, who trades the promise of freedom for an invisible cell in Raqqa. Initially dazzled by the promise of belonging and faith, she soon finds herself in the hands of Madame (played by Lubna Azabal), a charismatic, fanatical, and cruel figure. A true ruler of silence, manipulation, and female erasure.

The film succeeds in avoiding sensationalism: it doesn’t show the violence directly, but it’s there: in the muffled noises, the locked doors, the averted glances. The staging uses the off-screen as an aesthetic and emotional weapon. Sound, silence, and the marks on the body and soul speak louder than any dialogue. Mereike Engelhardt understands the power of the unsaid, and it is in this unspokenness that the horror grows.

Agnès Godard’s cinematography is another highlight: claustrophobic when necessary, ethereal at times, it visually accompanies Jessica’s transformation (and deformation): from a young idealist to someone torn apart and shaped by pain. David Chalmin’s soundtrack, tenuous and unsettling, reinforces this dark spiral.

But perhaps Rabia’s greatest achievement is the script. It doesn’t explain, it doesn’t patronize, it doesn’t judge. It observes. It denounces. And it invites us to reflect. Women seeking a new life, an identity, end up finding the opposite: submission, surveillance, erasure.

And there’s a cruel twist: the cycle of violence perpetuates itself. Jessica becomes Oum Rabia (“rage”), and the victim begins to reproduce what she suffered. The turning point is dry, unassuming, and therefore so devastating.

Rabia is, yes, harsh. But necessary. An almost unprecedented portrait of these women-run prisons, where other women were trained, molded, and often destroyed. And it’s also a reminder: even today, many of these girls remain imprisoned in the Al-Hol refugee camp, living in the aftermath of extremism.

In the end, the film offers no easy answers, but a glimmer of hope. And the question that remains, echoing after the credits, is: how many other Jessicas are still out there, believing they are being saved, when in fact they are being silenced?

You can find Rabia in theaters starting August 21st.

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The Final Destination franchise has always had a pact with the viewer: to provoke existential chills through improbable accidents and inevitable deaths. Those who have watched the previous films know what I’m talking about — it’s impossible not to quicken your pace when you see a log truck in front of you or rethink the idea of ​​getting into a tanning bed. With Blood Ties, the sixth chapter in the saga, this pact is renewed with blood, fear and an unexpected touch of family emotion.

Directed by Zach Lipovsky and Adam B. Stein, and with a script written by Guy Busick (Scream 5 and 6), Lori Evans Taylor and Jon Watts, the new film surprises by leaving aside the groups of friends and betting on a narrative centered on a family haunted by a transgenerational curse. Young Stefanie (Kaitlyn Santa Juana) begins to have brutal visions involving the death of her loved ones. Seeking answers, she returns to her origins and finds in her grandmother Iris (played by Gabrielle Rose and Brec Bassinger, in flashbacks) the thread of a trauma that dates back to the 60s — an era in which fate also tried, in vain, to be fooled.

What elevates Blood Ties among the best in the franchise in relation to the last ones is precisely the script: cohesive, well-paced and emotionally anchored. The deaths here once again have a purpose. They are not just miraculous accidents — they are carefully planned omens to play with the viewer’s imagination. You leave the theater thinking twice before having a barbecue or even going to the hospital. The feeling of vulnerability returns with force.

The soundtrack is another asset of the film. It acts as a foreshadowing, creating a tension that pulses like a heartbeat about to stop. The direction, although competent in managing the scares, is flawed by an excess of artificiality in its initial sequences — especially in the tower scene, where the computer graphics compromise the immersion.

But Blood Ties is not only about scares. It is also about legacy. By bringing back Tony Todd as the iconic JB — now with a revealed origin story —, the film ties up loose ends and offers fans of the franchise a belated reward: the understanding that Death, in this universe, is an impersonal but vigilant entity. JB is the link between generations of survivors and also a reminder that no one escapes forever.

By opting for a blood bond as its emotional core, Final Destination 6 reinvigorates its mythology and reaffirms its relevance. It is a worthy, bloody and, above all, effective return. Because what really marks a good Final Destination film is not just how one dies — but how much these deaths make us fear for our own lives and think about them in everyday life.

You can find Final Destination 6 – Blood Ties in theaters starting next Thursday (May 15).

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Adapted from the play of the same name by Renata Mizrahi, Os Sapos is a film that moves between drama and comedy with disconcerting ease. Directed by Clara Linhart, the narrative unfolds in a bucolic setting that, paradoxically, harbors suffocating tensions and relationships marked by emotional toxicity.

The plot follows Paula (Talita Carauta), a woman in her late 40s who travels to a reunion with friends from high school, only to discover that the party has been canceled. Stuck in the place until the next day, she lives with Marcelo (Pierre Santos) and his closeted girlfriend, Luciana (Karina Ramil), as well as the couple next door, Cláudio (Paulo Hamilton) and Fabiana (Verônica Reis). Paula’s unexpected presence ends up acting as a catalyst to expose the frustrations and conflicts that these relationships carry.

The film’s greatest asset is its sharp look at love and its invisible bonds. Here, we are not dealing with idealized romanticism, but with love that imprisons, that undermines self-esteem and that is often confused with emotional dependence. Through agile dialogues and an almost theatrical atmosphere, Os Sapos delves into the fragility of human bonds, without providing easy answers.

Talita Carauta is the heart of the film. Known for her comedic roles, the actress surprises us by carrying the complexity of Paula with subtlety and intensity, dominating each scene without needing grand gestures or lines. Her presence guides us through a plot that unfolds, allowing viewers to feel the growing tension between the characters.

Renata Mizrahi’s script is spot on when it addresses power dynamics within relationships. The couple Cláudio and Fabiana, for example, embody the caricature of toxic love sustained by manipulation and insecurity. Marcelo and Luciana, on the other hand, represent the gray area of ​​modern relationships, where the lack of commitment is not freedom, but rather a symptom of something deeper and more dysfunctional.

Winner of awards at the João Pessoa International Film Festival and recognized at international festivals, Os Sapos proves that a film doesn’t need major twists to be impactful. With a sharp cast and a script that provokes reflections on the emotional patterns we follow (often without realizing it), this tragicomedy establishes itself as an insightful portrait of human relationships.

Os Sapos is now in theaters. It’s worth checking out and reflecting on the relationships we choose (or accept) to live.

You can find Os Sapos at the biggest movie theaters.

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The Seed of the Sacred Fruit emerges as a richly layered work, reflecting not only the harrowing reality of contemporary Iran, but also the courageous determination of its director and screenwriter, Mohammad Rasoulof, who, with talent and creativity, managed to produce this film in an environment of oppression and censorship.

Made clandestinely, the work not only positions itself as a cry of cultural resistance, but also as a powerful personal account of his struggle against an authoritarian regime that persecutes him. Inspired by the tragic death of Mahsa Amini, which sparked a wave of protests for freedom in Iran, the film follows the life of Iman (Missagh Zareh), a judicial investigator whose world is dismantled by his paranoia and the corruption that surrounds him. When he realizes that his wife and daughters do not share his political views, Iman begins a spiral of distrust and family tension. As the conflict intensifies, the narrative transforms into a mirror of the social struggles that are taking place in the country.

What makes The Seed of the Sacred Fruit even more impressive is the context in which it was developed. Rasoulof, who has faced imprisonment and persecution for his works critical of the Iranian regime, devoted his efforts to making this film clandestinely, aware of the risks that this would entail. This courage is palpable in every frame, and the weight of his personal reality intertwines with the story he tells. Rasoulof does not simply narrate a fictional plot; he exposes the harsh realities of living in a state that persecutes and silences dissenting voices.

The script is meticulously crafted, using symbolism and metaphors that connect the family tragedy with the broader struggle for freedom in Iran. The interactions between the characters are nuanced, reflecting the psychological state of a nation facing oppression. The balance between fiction and reality is achieved with a sophistication that allows the viewer to experience the growing tension, where each choice the protagonist makes is a matter of life or death, not only for him, but for his family. Visually, the film is stunning, with shots that capture the beauty and agony of everyday Iranian life, creating an emotional connection that transcends culture and geography.

Rasoulof transforms a narrative of oppression into a profound exploration of family relationships. The disconnect between Iman and his daughters and wife represents not only the fragmentation of the nuclear family, but also how totalitarianism infiltrates and destroys human bonds. The struggle for freedom of expression and resistance to oppression are palpable in every scene, making the film an allegory of the human condition in times of crisis.

The Seed of the Sacred Fruit is a bold work that not only highlights the oppression faced in Iran, but also becomes a testament to creative resistance in the face of censorship. Mohammad Rasoulof’s courage in making this film is an act of courage that resonates with all those who defend freedom of expression. With a powerful narrative, the film challenges the audience to reflect on the fight for justice and the need for courage to resist.

You can find The Seed of the Sacred Fruit in Cinemas.

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Desde que Sean Baker surgiu no cenário cinematográfico com obras marcantes como Tangerina (2015) e Projeto Florida (2017), seu nome tem sido sinônimo de autenticidade e experimentação no cinema independente. Com Anora, Baker não só consolida seu status como um dos criadores mais ousados de sua geração, mas também abre caminho para a temporada de prêmios, posicionando seu novo filme como um forte concorrente ao Oscar de 2025 – especialmente após ser coroado com a Palma de Ouro em Cannes 2024.

Baker, que assina tanto o roteiro quanto a direção, prova novamente ser um exímio observador da humanidade, com um talento único para explorar e humanizar personagens marginalizados. Sob o pretexto de uma comédia romântica, ele constrói em Anora um filme que transborda crítica social, nuances emocionais e uma sensibilidade estética que é ao mesmo tempo crua e deslumbrante. O resultado é uma história que desconstrói o conto de fadas empacotado em Hollywood e entrega algo infinitamente mais real, mais doloroso e mais memorável.

O roteiro é um dos pilares mais fortes do filme. Sean Baker consegue equilibrar com diálogos naturalistas, momentos de leveza cômica e reflexões sobre poder, classe social e trabalho sexual. A protagonista Ani ou Anora, como é chamada ao longo do filme ganha profundidade e camadas como raramente se vê em personagens femininas. Interpretada por Mikey Madison em sua performance mais impactante até agora, Ani é uma protagonista complexa em todos os sentidos. Vivendo como trabalhadora do sexo no Brooklyn, Ani encara os desafios diários de sua rotina com uma mistura de pragmatismo e cuidado: fazendo piadas, comendo no meio do expediente e conversando com amigas, enquanto navega por um ambiente cercado de preconceitos.

A genialidade do roteiro está em construir sua trajetória sem didatismos ou paternalismos. Ani, com sua personalidade forte e vulnerável, não é apresentada como vítima absoluta nem como heroína, mas como uma mulher cuja humanidade é mostrada em cada cena.  Madison entrega uma interpretação recheada de nuances, mesclando força e ingenuidade. É impossível não se conectar com sua Ani, uma personagem cujas escolhas imprudentes têm consequências trágicas, mas que nunca perde sua dignidade. A relação da personagem com Ivan (Mark Eydelshteyn), o filho de um oligarca russo, revela a disparidade crua entre aqueles que sofrem com a desigualdade social e aqueles que permanecem acima de quaisquer consequências.

Sean Baker não se contenta em contar uma história; ele transforma Anora em uma experiência cinematográfica quase tátil. A direção é precisa, criativa e permeada por uma energia que captura tanto o caos quanto a esperança de sua narrativa. Baker sabe perfeitamente quando desacelerar para explorar os momentos mais íntimos – entre Ani e suas amigas ou mesmo suas interações mais vulneráveis com Ivan – e quando escalar a trama para o puro absurdo.

No segundo ato, quando a família de Ivan entra na história e uma comitiva de capangas chega ao Brooklyn para anular o casamento do casal, Baker eleva a comédia ao limite do tragicômico. O caos instaurado nas situações – tragicômicas e absurdas – que se seguem é um triunfo criativo, ao mesmo tempo em que serve como veículo para uma crítica contundente às dinâmicas de poder. Baker expõe o ridículo dessas situações, mas nunca de forma gratuita, usando o exagero como forma de intensificar o impacto emocional e crítico do longa.

A fotografia  é, simplesmente, espetacular. O filme transita entre momentos de intensa intimidade e sequências grandiosas embaladas pela vibrante estética neon do Brooklyn. A fotografia captura a pulsação da cidade: é ao mesmo tempo elétrica e sufocante, delicada e brutal.  Sean Baker sabe como usar a paleta de cores saturada para amplificar a viagem emocional de sua protagonista – seja nos tons quentes que iluminam uma noitada de sonhos com Ivan ou os tons frios e desolados que refletem as duras investidas do mundo ao redor de Ani.

A trilha sonora também brilha como um elemento-chave. Sua força vai além de complementar a narrativa; ela é uma extensão dos eventos do filme, capaz de carregar peso dramático em cenas silenciosas e intensificar o ritmo das sequências mais caóticas. A escolha precisa de cada faixa, como TATU na trilha sonora é um golpe de mestre: ao mesmo tempo nostálgica e provocativa, sua presença musical ressoa de forma poderosa, contribuindo para um ambiente que mistura o clássico e o moderno, o leve e o pesado.

Embora Anora seja vendido como uma comédia romântica – e, em determinados momentos, flerte com esse tom –, é na desconstrução do gênero que a obra realmente brilha. Baker utiliza as convenções do conto de fadas moderno para expor a disparidade de classes e as injustiças intrínsecas entre aqueles que têm poder e aqueles que vivem à margem.

Ivan, o filho de uma família rica que age com desdém sobre suas ações, é o completo oposto de Ani, que precisa lidar com todas as consequências de suas escolhas. Enquanto ele retorna para a Rússia sem nenhuma marca de sua experiência, ela é deixada para recolher os pedaços da vida que tentou construir. O filme não dá respostas fáceis nem oferece conforto. O final é desconfortável, porém autêntico, refletindo de forma honesta as desigualdades de um mundo onde poder e privilégio ditam as regras.

Anora não é apenas um grande filme; é uma obra que reafirma o talento de Sean Baker. Em um ano competitivo, é difícil imaginar que o filme não continue ganhando atenção na temporada de prêmios. É um filme que transcende os rótulos, ao mesmo tempo acessível e desafiador, comédia e drama, deslumbrante e desconfortável.

Você encontra Anora a partir do dia 23 de Janeiro nos Cinemas.

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