75 Best Foreign Movies on Criterion Channel Right Now

We’ve seen anthology films with three, four, sometimes even five parts, but Songs from the Second Floor comprises forty six separate vignettes, quickly shifting in and out without any connecting thread inbetween, except for the dull gray color palette. Yet, even as the film abruptly transitions between vignettes, from tanning beds, construction sites, cars, trains, or buildings, writer-director Roy Andersson crafts meticulously framed breakdowns of modern day living, some of which works based on individual experiences, but all coming together as several miniature portraits of how absurd and depressing our lives have become. Songs from the Second Floor is a bold way to return after a twenty five year hiatus.

See, usually, when American violence in media is critiqued, it’s usually through analytic studies or overly exaggerated lectures stirring moral panic. Instead of doing this, however, auteur Michael Haneke decided to surpass the crime genre, playing with the form and emotions in Funny Games. It’s terrifying, not because it immediately delves into the violence, but because it starts off with an ordinary, innocuous visit, that gradually escalates into an unpredictable home invasion where two teenagers inflict needless violence in such a scary yet spectacular way, even involving the viewer into their shenanigans. Ironically, this led to Haneke creating a shot-for-shot American remake of this same story, but Funny Games’ break in form made Haneke a director to remember, as he started to film outside his native Austria after the standout thriller.

Like people, places have things that change and things that remain the same. Most of us keep our thoughts about our hometowns to wistful conversations and the recesses of our memory, but Brazilian director Kleber Mendonça Filho instead captures Recife in Pictures of Ghosts. It’s a meandering tour, shifting from topic to topic, place to place with not that much structure, but through the journey, Kleber shares so much of himself (his home, his film sets, the theaters he formed his taste in), and Brazilian society, combining archived clips, personal memories, and even a ghostly mystery into one interesting map of Recife.

Given the controversial subject matter, there’s something remarkably placid about the way About Dry Grasses proceeds. Amidst the snowy white steppes of Eastern Anatolia, writer-director Nuri Bilge Ceylan slowly lets the plot unfold through multiple conversations, where an accusation of inappropriate contact leads to a he-said, she-said investigation, all centered around a misanthropic protagonist Samet. By focusing the entire film on Samet, Ceylan takes the time to understand this difficult, exhausting character in a detached manner, with the camera oftentimes taking in the whole lived-in, rundown places where Samet lives and works in. It’s an interesting perspective, depicting the ways everyone’s fumbling around, trying to create boxes to understand one’s place in the world, but it’s not an easy one to explore. About Dry Grasses dares to do so, anyway.

While the market for animation is mostly dominated by American 3D and Japanese anime, once in a while, a film outside the two industries comes up with an entirely new style of its own, with the design inspired by their respective countries. European animation has garnered some interest with Loving Vincent, but Chicken with Linda! takes it further, taking a more vibrant than impressionistic approach to its art. Somewhat like a neon-colored Fauvist Madeline, the film proceeds with a series of hijinks that wouldn’t be out of place in a children’s storybook, but it charmingly captures the mother-daughter relationship healed through the power of homemade food. It’s sweet and chaotic, much like childhood and the art movement that inspired the film, and it’s undeniably human. Chicken with Linda! is an unexpected delight for both kids and adults.

In a few seconds, a mistake can change your life forever. Insomnia is centered on a Swedish detective trying to solve a murder while trying desperately to cover a mistake made from the difficult mix of the fog and human exhaustion, but in doing so, his guilt, shame, and suspicion that no one would believe him due to past mistakes, weigh down on him, twisting the police procedural upon itself. Stellan Skarsgård holds an incredibly restrained performance throughout the entire film, and it’s well-framed by writer-director Erik Skjoldbjærg, whose use of cold white light in this debut feature eventually became the staple of on-screen Scandinavian noir.

Written like a stage play, directed like the viewer is a fly on the wall, and shot with a love for deep shadows and warm candlelight, Flowers of Shanghai is about as immersive a chamber drama as one could ask for. Having most of the “action” take place off screen, director Hou Hsiao-hsien draws our eye instead to how his characters (including one played by an exceptionally stoic Tony Leung) continue to negotiate for their own freedom against patriarchal norms, pushing against cultural notions of proper decorum. It’s a film brimming with repressed emotion, but without ever raising its voice. The vibes, as the kids say, are immaculate.

When it comes to darker subjects such as suicide, an emotionally resonant, minimalistic film like this leaves an impression. The film follows Mr. Badii, a middle-aged man contemplating suicide, as he drives around Tehran searching for someone willing to bury him. Abbas Kiarostami’s meticulous framing creates a sense of intimacy and introspection, allowing the audience to delve into the profound existential questions raised. The sparse dialogue, breathtaking landscapes of Tehran, and the use of natural warm lighting enhance the visual beauty and contemplation of the film. Poignant and hopeful in just twenty-four hours and one car.

In modern day Europe, demonic possession seems to be a thing of the past, something most likely to be attributed to mental illness, and something that can be dealt with through modern medicine, not exorcism. Still, exorcisms are conducted in certain areas in the continent, and some instances don’t go the way they should. Inspired on the real life Tanacu exorcism, Beyond the Hills doesn’t depict the event through a horror or melodramatic lens– instead the film is stoic, naturalistic, with long single takes that linger uncomfortably and repetitively. As Alina pleads to Voichița to help her, to choose her and their bond, Voichița grapples with wanting the modern yet isolating freedom she knows Alina has found elsewhere, while still wanting the refuge religious tradition has granted her, but also has made her dependent on. It does take a while to reach its conclusion, but Beyond the Hills is a deeply unsettling and striking movie to watch.

When power shifts from one hand to the other, there’s a sense of possibility that can happen. It’s this sense of hope that drives Platform, and at the start, it seemed like the four teenagers of the Fenyang Peasant Culture Group had the world as their oyster, being free to play any new play, or even the new rock-n-roll that was popular in the era. However, Platform also depicts this shift as somewhat of a tragedy. Sure, it takes a while to get there, with writer-director Jia Zhangke taking jumps across years to check in on the troupe, and really, the lives the kids end up living aren’t terrible ones to live in. But, in contrast with the hopes the kids had, and knowing the slow pace that change came to their town, Platform reveals how lost and confused their generation felt, and how the train for freedom and liberation seemed to arrive too late for them.