Women Stories to Watch

Previous depictions of provincial living tend to paint the pastoral experience as idyllic, simple, and much more innocent compared to their city counterparts. Sound of Falling does the opposite. While it still beautifully captures the German countryside, this drama also acknowledges its terrible secrets– the ways the family maintains itself, and sidebrushes death, at the expense of the women in the family. Cutting across time and circumstance, the haunting narrative sees the rhyme in each story. Unbeknownst to each four women, their pain echoes in similar ways, even if their particular histories differentiate their extent. Sound of Falling captures how the past never fully fades, only passing down like a curse recalled in folklore.

Unlike the other documentaries depicting “Hollywood’s smartest dumb blonde”, My Mom Jayne takes on a different approach to Jayne Mansfield. Already the title tells you that it’s from the perspective of one of her children– namely, her youngest daughter Mariska Hargitay– so naturally, it takes a more respectful depiction than what’s been shown of her peers. Hargitay and her siblings present a different kind of retrospective, reassembling the remaining fragments with a more personal touch and an unexpected family mystery. My Mom Jayne is such an excellent portrait of Jayne Mansfield, one that opens surprising layers to the person behind the bombshell persona.

With the anonymity of the internet, it’s hard to trust that the stranger on the other side would be a good person. There’s catfishers and scammers and trolls, oh my! Once in a while, however, you do meet someone cool. Bob Trevino Likes It was inspired by a real life friendship writer-director Tracie Laymon had, and that lends to how personal the entire film feels. Bob and Lily feel real. It’s in part to how Laymon introduces their loneliness in a world that doesn’t treat them right, but the tender, pseudo-parental chemistry formed between Barbie Ferreira and John Leguizamo carries the writing in such a realistic way. The kindness that they share feels transformative, and it’s genuinely moving to see them work towards caring for themselves because of it.

Left-Handed Girl is titled after I-Jing, the youngest daughter of the Ching family, whose left-handedness puts her at odds with her more traditional grandparents. That’s because left-handedness used to be associated with the devil. The idea is clearly outdated, but it hints at this family drama’s greater theme of being on the margin, of falling short of expectations placed by others. Of course, I-Jing’s left-handedness is easy to reconcile. The notion is considered outdated, and she’s portrayed by precocious newcomer Nina Ye. But what makes Left-Handed Girl so special is the way writer-director Shih-Ching Tsou deconstructs other expectations, such as Sho-Fen’s unfortunate marriage and the rebellion of her teenage daughter I-Ann. As the film unfolds, slowly revealing the fractures between them, Tsou subtly critiques how women carry the burden of saving face.

In Sorry, Baby, an unspeakable act of cruelty disrupts Agnes’ ambitious rise to the top. Despite being a literature professor, she struggles to find the words to describe what happened to her. Likewise, the audience isn’t made privy to the details of the incident and relies only on what Agnes chooses to show. It’s a far cry from the sensationalist way trauma is often depicted in films. In place of sexy or valiant acts of revenge, Sorry, Baby focuses on the slow, circular, and confusing process of healing. It hides more than it shows, which, oddly, says more about the reality of assault than most post #MeToo films. Sorry, Baby is an unassuming film, but its honest writing, poetic cinematography, and rich expressions pack a powerful punch.

Given that this is based on a recent, real life case, and the defendant has chosen to remain behind the titular pseudonym, it makes sense why Belén doesn’t focus entirely on her. We don’t get to know much about the defendant other than the case reveals. That being said, what was given is already infuriating enough. Filmmaker Dolores Fonzi, who also stars as her lawyer Soledad Deza, gathers a compelling defense, starting everything off with the terror and confusion Belén’s hospital check-up turns into her arrest. It strengthens the somewhat standard legal proceedings that is to follow, but nonetheless effectively highlights the multiple ways Argentina’s institutions have failed Belén. But what makes Belén so compelling is the way it also celebrates the movement formed around her case. Belén strikes at the core of the injustice made, with the same determination that secured her freedom, and the rights of every woman in the nation.

In the 1970s, at the height of the women’s liberation movement, there emerged a publication that sought to bridge the gap between activists and everyday women. Led by Gloria Steinem, Ms. magazine brought the revolution to women’s doorsteps—it reminded them of their rights, empowered them to stand up for themselves, and encouraged them to live full, independent lives. Dear Ms. is a beautiful tribute to the magazine, as well as a timely reminder of how powerful women’s voices can be. The documentary is divided into three parts, each of which discusses iconic issues Ms. magazine has released over the years. The first part tackles race and intersectionality; the second, sexual harassment; and the third, pornography. The film welcomes both praise and backlash, celebration and criticism—there is nuance, yet it still feels incomplete at times. Dear Ms. sometimes feels like a visualized Wikipedia page, repeating what has already been said in the past. But its messages are so potent and relevant to today’s atmosphere, it’s quite easy to look past those gaps and just enjoy the documentary for what it is.

Not everybody holds a good relationship with their sisters, but ideally, we get to reunite and repair things in a good time. Unfortunately, for some families, the only time they reunite is due to a parent nearly dying. This is the case in His Three Daughters, where the three sisters meet after years living apart. It’s a common plotline, mostly depicted in the feel-good, family friendly variation, but writer-director Azazel Jacobs makes the three sisters distinct by taking the easy assumptions many people would make about them, and naturally push them to reveal the opposite. Carrie Coon, Natasha Lyonne, and Elizabeth Olsen form a great trio, delivering equally excellent performances under the same roof.

For the longest time, television seemed to be the antithesis to reading– part of that belief still lingers to this day. However, just before the turn of the millennium, there was a show that didn’t find itself opposite to it, instead, it wanted to be its ally. That show was Reading Rainbow. Butterfly in the Sky tells its story. It’s quite nostalgic, as the show’s former cast and crew recall what it was like, and the way the film structured its sequences captures not just the show itself, but the cultural weight it represented, as it encouraged reading not just as a skill you need to learn, but as a way to interact with the wider world around us, which is worth protecting. Butterfly in the Sky believes in stories, and believes in the story that it wants to tell about Reading Rainbow.

Amidst the chaos that occurred when South Sudan split from the nation, a man is shot dead. To make up for the family’s loss, Northern ex-singer Mona hires his South Sudanese widow as her househelp, a widow unaware of her husband’s true fate, without an actual body. This widow is who Goodbye Julia is named after. Through this personal wrong, writer-director Mohamed Kordofani reckons with the religious and racial tensions that led to the division, a conflict that continues to displace millions of Sudanese to this day. While the ending pulls its punches, the film still works through the emotional tension and the compelling bond formed between actual singer Eiman Yousif and acting newcomer Siran Riak. Goodbye Julia depicts their sorrow with a graceful touch.

Continuing her fight to tell the world the truth about her sexual assault case, journalist Shiori Ito released Black Box Diaries. Like her book, it’s a powerful documentary. Filmed with actual CCTV evidence, with some witness accounts, and with recordings she made while investigating her case, Ito’s first foray into film is personal, vulnerable, and intimate, going through the events as it naturally unfolds. While it is depressing to witness the ways investigators, lawyers, politicians and other people have failed her, Black Box Diaries immediately reveals Ito’s resolve for the truth, and how taxing the toll was for survivors that chose to take the same path.

While the film is calm, contemplative, and never goes into histrionics, there’s a deep-seated anger in All Shall Be Well that powers every scene. Sure, most of the scenes revolve around estate planning, talking with lawyers, and hashing things out through civil discussion. And sure, Pat’s biological family calmly explain their reasons behind their decisions. However, while dressed up in logic, All Shall Be Well understands the real weight of what they’re asking for from Pat’s life partner Angie. Every request reveals the limit of the family’s acceptance of Pat, how willing they are to ignore Pat’s wishes just to take advantage of a financial deal, just so they benefit from the home Pat and Angie built. With Patra Au’s brilliant performance, the drama underlines how the system is stacked against Pat and Angie’s love, but also how their love still transcends past the material.

Given the original real-life story behind it, perhaps it shouldn’t be surprising that The Girl with the Needle was so bleak. Serial killing, after all, is bad. But rather than focus on the historical killer, writer-director Magnus von Horn hones the camera to focus on one such mother that would have sought for help from Dagmar Overbye, on the circumstances that would have pushed them there, and the terror that they felt once they realized the truth. With gothic black-and-white shots, impeccable framing, and an excellent performance from Vic Carmen Sonne, The Girl with the Needle is harrowing and heartbreaking, especially with how it still remains relevant to our time.

Before she captivated the film world with her performance in Scorcese’s crime drama Killers of the Flower Moon, Lily Gladstone starred in Erica Tremblay’s feature film debut Fancy Dance, earlier in 2023. It’s a tragic drama, wherein Gladstone portrays Jax, a lesbian woman dealing with the government that failed to find her sister, and that currently seeks to transfer her niece’s custody to her white father. But it’s also an uplifting drama, one that celebrates the connection between Jax and her niece Roki, the Cayuga culture and language, and the connection with their community and tribe that continues to persist despite state disenfranchisement. Pacing issues do make the film a tad rushed, but nevertheless, Fancy Dance is a subtle and poignant debut, made much more grounded with the excellent lead performances.

We’re familiar with dick jokes from stand-up comedians, especially male stand-up, but Jacqueline Novak’s 90-minute show about the blow job feels completely new. Get on Your Knees feels like casual storytelling from someone experienced yet distant enough to be a cool authority on it (say, your best friend’s older sister’s best friend), but funnier. It’s like a gossip session about a first experience, except the breathless, dizzying stream of thought is peppered with philosophical thought and points out the absurdity around the language and common attitudes about sex. And as she does so, and as she talks about self-conscious fumbling and unanswered questions, she strides back and forth, in an easy, self-assured way, the way we’d like to feel going into the act.

Frida Kahlo is an iconic Mexican painter, not just because of her outstanding art, but also because of her outlook in life, despite her ill health and tragic accident. Because of this, she has been talked about in multiple books, movies, and exhibitions, but a new documentary has popped up, this time from her own words. Carla Gutierrez’s directorial debut is a revelation, voiced primarily in Frida’s native Spanish and paired with key archival footage, vivid animations of her paintings, and an excellent acoustic score plucked from classical guitar. Being a biographical documentary, fans of the artist would, of course, be familiar with her life events, but Gutierrez’s approach is still worth watching, mostly because it’s Frida’s own words driving the film.

All We Imagine as Light is a political film that has many smart and moving things to say about the loneliness of migrating from the country to the city, the double standards women face on the daily, and the ever-widening gap between the rich and poor. But thanks to director Payal Kapadia’s deft hands, these weighty themes don’t hit you like a brick in the face. Intertwined in the rich inner lives of the two Malayali nurses and the Marathi cook who lead the film, they come off as subtle and poetic, like everything else about the film. There’s a quiet power at work here, and it will entrance you till the end.

At two hours and nearly 30 minutes, Stonewalling is quite long. The third film from spouses Ryuji Otsuka and Huang Ji takes place in slow, slice-of-life moments, centered around a female lead that mostly doesn’t actively make choices for her own life, so it can feel frustrating to watch. But as the film unfolds, Lynn’s passivity turns out to be the tragically familiar surrender of today’s working class. Lynn tries to make choices to pay out her mother’s debt, to ensure that she’s not indebted herself, through jobs that commodify her youth, her beauty, and even her body, but each move consequently limits her next options. She tries to bargain for other solutions, but it turns out these solutions were never there in the first place. All she can do is quietly adapt, with each failed promise culminating into a baby’s cry.

There’s a degree of removal in Perpetrator which some viewers may find jarring: most visibly, in the performances, whose heightened sensitivity can seem unlikely for a horror film. That said, director Jennifer Reeder’s main conceit here is to entertain and make you think, and she doesn’t want you to get too comfortable. In the central concept of “Forevering,” a family curse spell that Jonny goes through, Reeder vests her character with metamorphic potential, and with that, ignites hope for a future that is better for women and for horror cinema as a whole. But the film is not overly intellectual. It’s rather intuitive in its world-building and celebrates horror’s final girl trope in a well-deserved way. A little gore, some slasher tropes, LGBTQ+ themes, and strong central characters make it a perfect pre-Halloween treat.

The Royal Hotel sees Hanna (Julia Garner) and Liv (Jessica Henwick) resorting to take up a dire live-in job behind the bar in a remote desert part of Western Australia. Although they’re warned that they’d “have to be okay with a little male attention” in the outcast mining town, their financial precarity overrides the potential fear. Curiously enough, the fiction film is based on a real story, already told in the 2016 documentary Hotel Coolgardie by Pete Gleeson, but The Assistant director Kitty Green pulls no punches when representing how suffocating it must feel to be encircled by such unmediated male aggression. The brawls, the spilled beer, the c-word as a greeting all form the unnerving paraphernalia of life then and there. For Australian independent film devotees, there is actor Toby Wallace, who reprises his bad boy role from Babyteeth, and he’s joined by the ranks of Herbert Nordrum (The Worst Person in the World) and an utterly terrifying Hugo Weaving (The Matrix).

Biographical documentaries tend to depict exceptional people– people who are so great that everyone wants to know about them, and people who are so terrible that they serve as a warning. Great Photo, Lovely Life depicts a serial sexual abuser in photojournalist Amanda Mustard’s family, able to get away with nearly all his crimes each time he skips over state lines. It’s not an easy film. It’s deeply uncomfortable. There are certain interviews that will trigger anger, despair, and bewilderment over how someone so evil can remain out of bars all his life. Great Photo, Lovely Life doesn’t provide any easy, comforting sequence as a balm to sexual abuse survivors around the world, but it’s an urgent reminder of the consequences of maintaining silence.

Given the genre being centered on a child protagonist, many coming-of-age stories sideline parents in the narrative, sometimes to the point they’re not mentioned at all. So when Andrea Arnold returned to fiction filmmaking with coming-of-age story Bird, it was surprising to see how true it delves into parenthood, albeit from the eyes of the teenager being parented. Maybe it shouldn’t have been a surprise, considering Barry Keoghan, fresh off of Saltburn, was casted as the protagonist’s single dad, but Arnold structures the entire story to fit in different stages of parenthood in a rundown town, through the strong way she characterizes the people Bailey gets to know in her journey and through the brilliant incorporation of magic in a not-so-magical place. The parents here may not be perfect, but Bird takes flight precisely because of the film’s empathy and understanding.

To be honest, when the film starts out with all the usual Italian soundtracks and shots of Italian food, it felt like Nonnas was going to be stereotypical. To a certain extent, it is, with all the familiar story beats we’ve seen in other biopics. However, there’s a sincere understanding of what makes this real life story work. It’s not just all beautiful shots of Italian food placed for set dressing– It’s a celebration of the food culture that continues to survive through the craft of these immigrant women. While technically a biopic about Joe Scaravella, director Stephen Chbosky and screenwriter Liz Maccie clearly recognize these women as the community that helped keep their culture alive. It’s a delight to see the talented ensemble– Susan Sarandon, Lorraine Bracco, Talia Shire, and Brenda Vaccaro– let loose and have fun here. Nonnas isn’t the most unique biopic ever created, but it’s certainly warm and hearty enough to swallow.

It’s not often you get a female perspective on the USSR, much less a female artist with little means. Signe Baumane’s autobiographical My Love Affair With Marriage is one of the few ones, and not only is her story raw and refreshing, it’s also told through lovely animation and musical numbers. The result is something truly novel. Baumane analyzes ideas like love, marriage, gender, and society through an unapologetically feminist lens. But she’s careful not to be patronizing too. Instead of condemning her circumstances, she gives it context and shows empathy. Some parts are delightful, others distressing, but Baumane’s character (voiced by Succession’s Dagmara Dominczyk) is compelling throughout.

Nakedness has been demonized or at least, has been considered inappropriate outside of certain situations. One such situation is the sauna, as the steam and high heat is considered therapeutic, especially in colder regions. In her directorial debut, Anna Hints documents the Estonian smoke sauna, not just as a cultural tradition, but as a sanctuary for women to bare their bodies and their troubles. The women are, of course, naked, but the sauna’s smoke and darkness obscures and keeps identities hidden, focusing on their stories and allowing a glimpse of women’s bodies at their most natural, without the sexualization often placed with the male gaze. Smoke Sauna Sisterhood is a refreshing take, one where plenty of women can finally see themselves in.

The idea of representation in movies is often limited to superficial gestures of putting on screen people who look a certain way. Kokomo City is a reminder of cinema’s possibilities when one really tries to queer filmmaking itself, with genuine queer voices driving a production. This documentary is messy and incredibly playful in its style—in ways that might read to some as lacking cohesiveness, or as tonally inconsistent. But the way director D. Smith is able to capture the dynamic energy of a series of conversations makes these powerful, funny, tragic anecdotes and dialogues feel truly grounded in people’s everyday experiences, and makes the plea for protection of trans lives all the more urgent.

Throughout Kokomo City, this collection of individuals goes off on various tangents that never become difficult to follow. They speak about the nature of sex work, hidden desires felt by traditionally masculine male clients, and various degrees of acceptance within the Black community. And between these statements alternating from impassioned to emotional to humorously candid, Smith injects cheeky cutaway footage, layers text on screen, and plays an eclectic rotation of music throughout. It’s about as real and as three-dimensional as these trans lives have ever been shown on screen.

Many films have been made about that uniquely taut mother-daughter bond, but maybe none is as delicate as Janet Planet. The film, written and directed by playwright and first-time filmmaker Annie Baker, explores that relationship in a way that may jar viewers, initially. The pauses are heavy and long as Baker lingers on mood, expressions, and the tiniest of details, like a flicker of light or a sudden movement. There are more scenes without dialogue than with it. The plot is also nonexistent as it simply follows Lacy and Janet for the whole summer, and a little during the fall. But that’s not the point. The point is that we can feel that palpable love-hate tension between mother and daughter, and relate to it too. You only need to know where to look.

Inspired by the Spiniak case, Blanquita reimagines the infamous scandal through mirrored interrogations and disorienting viewpoints. Blanquita rewrites the original witness, whose fictional variant, in turn, rewrites the abuse faced by victims as her own. She is transformed from a clueless liar, into someone still a liar, but one that did so when every other possible witness has been discarded for being unreliable, for being too traumatized to go through the judicial process unflinchingly. The film takes on a provocative subject matter, at a time when real life sexual abuse allegations are treated with the same scrutiny Blanca faces. However, Blanquita does so in a way that gives its complexities the weight it deserves. It’s a fascinating thriller, a quandary that tests the idea of ends justifying the means… But it’s one that’s disturbing, given the consequences to each crime.

Based on the novel from writer, producer, and lead Micaela Wittman, indie drama Remy & Arletta is deeply personal. It’s partly because it’s based directly on Wittman’s own personal coming-of-age story, but it’s also because of how confessional it feels. Many scenes feel like uncomfortable memories, like the way Remy hides her real home from Arletta, but when Arletta doesn’t give up on Remy, and tries to make it right before graduation, the film crafts a beautiful connection that was life-changing even if it was fleeting. Remy & Arletta might have felt cut short in terms of runtime and in terms of the friendship itself, but it’s nonetheless a thoughtful, earnest drama that captures how important that love must have been.

When modern systems like law enforcement and forensics fail to come up with definite answers to a murder, loved ones of the victim usually have no recourse, which is the fear at the heart of Irish horror film Oddity. To lose someone you care about, forever, hurts. So when Darcy takes more strange and esoteric means of investigation, and when writer-director Damian Mc Carthy slowly reveals through personal effects, psychic images, and an excellent pace, the hurt and the pain intensifies the murder mystery and the hope that she would receive justice for her loss. Oddity feels genuinely unsettling, because Mc Carthy understands what’s truly scary about losing a loved one.

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.

When vampires choose not to kill a human, it’s usually played up with so much drama, angst, and maybe a bit of romance. Humanist Vampire Seeking Consenting Suicidal Person on the other hand takes this choice as a comedic one. It may be a tad ludicrous for a vampire to refuse to drink blood on ethical grounds and trauma, but writer-director Ariane Louis-Seize takes this silly situation with a compelling sweetness, depicting Sasha with a familiar teen uncertainty made much more captivating with Sara Montpetit’s gothic ingénue charisma. Humanist Vampire does take a more quirky YA romance approach than expected from the title, but it’s funny, charming, and totally something new.

I love when a misunderstood woman reclaims her narrative with her own words, and that’s exactly what Pamela: A Love Story is too, a tell-all documentary told by Pamela Anderson herself.

The documentary bares it all—the scandalous sex tape, Anderson’s troubled past, the disgusting misogyny that continues to tarnish her career. She even touches on the Hulu miniseries made about her demise (which Netflix must feel so smug about). But this isn’t a pity party. Just the opposite, the documentary is a testament to resilience. “My life is not a woe-is-me story,” Anderson says at one point, and truly, this is an inspiring and humanizing story about a woman taking charge of her own life. An absolute must-see.

Sophie Compton and Reubyn Hamlyn’s British-American documentary about the harm of deepfakes won the SXSW Special Jury Award for its innovative storytelling and deservingly so. The two filmmakers use a clever and considerate way to let a young woman fictitiously named Taylor share her story of how she found deepfake pornography of herself online. With testaments, desktop form reconstructions, and lots of deepfakes, Compton and Hamlyn alert the audience to how terrifyingly widespread this kind of abuse is, and even more: how unregulated it is. Across the globe and 48 US states deepfake pornography is legal to make and spread, while victims remain helpless and unprotected. More than 90% of them are women. These chilling statistics are only part of the reason this documentary takes an activist stance and wants to raise awareness against the uncontrolled spread of face-swapping algorhythms amidst heated discussions around AI and ethics.

Led by Rosy McEwen’s commanding performance brimming with fear and self-loathing, Blue Jean pours all of the anguish and defiance felt by the LGBTQ+ community under Margaret Thatcher’s administration into a single character. Writer-director Georgia Oakley keeps her plot light, but through conversations with other beautifully portrayed queer women (especially those played by Kerrie Hayes and Lucy Halliday), she piles on one conflicted emotion after another about what this lesbian woman’s responsibility is toward herself and her community when they find themselves threatened. But even as the film takes a definite stance, it validates every response as authentic—borne out of a need to protect the people whom one loves.

After winning Oscars for their documentary work, filmmakers Elizabeth Chai Vasarhelyi and Jimmy Chin make their narrative feature debut with Nyad. The move to narrative fiction isn’t a monumental jump for the director duo, whose cinematic documentaries (among them Free Solo and The Rescue) play like nerve-shredding action thrillers and intense human dramas. Nor does Nyad’s subject — another extreme feat of human daring and endurance — make this feel a million miles away from their most famous works.

The most obvious departures from the directors’ documentary strengths — Nyad’s flashbacks and hallucination scenes, for example — do sometimes highlight their newness to narrative filmmaking, however. These scenes feel shallow and therefore disconnected from the movie’s otherwise deeper treatment of its subject, just as the performances dip into outsized cliches at times. Mostly, though, Nyad manages to float above the trap of trying too hard to be an inspirational sports drama thanks to its confrontation of Diana’s prickly personality. This flips the film’s perspective onto that of Diana’s team (including her coach and former girlfriend, played by Jodie Foster), who ultimately suffer the consequences of her stubbornness. That refusal to submit to hagiographic impulses gives the film a documentary-like edge of truth, making the rousing moments here feel genuinely earned.

If given the outline of this film, it might be easy to just call it poverty porn. But there’s a genuineness to Mambar Pierrette that keeps this film from sliding into melodrama, a certain subtlety that captures the everyday life in Douala, Cameroon. Filmmaker Rosine Mbakam, who made her start through documentary films, brings her naturalistic style here, placing the titular seamstress front and center as she responds to each and every difficulty that comes her way. And as the flood comes, and so too her troubles, Pierrette Aboheu Njeuthat shines with a subtle charisma, a performance full of dignity for the titular single mother that carved out a life through her craft. Mambar Pierrette might have a familiar neo-realist story, but it’s done well due to its excellent balance.

Judy Blume, the author behind enduring classics like Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret, Superfudge, and Forever, gifts us with her comforting presence and precise insight in Judy Blume Forever, a delightful documentary about a delightful woman.

Here, Blume looks back and lets us in on the eventful private life that inspired her prolific work life. Each book has a behind-the-scenes story, which the documentary pairs with commentary from well-known fans like Molly Ringwald, Lena Dunham, and Samantha Bee. Additionally (and most memorably), the documentary also features the years-old correspondence Blume has kept with the children who wrote and confided in her. Whether or not you’ve read her work, watching this film is a heartwarming experience that will soon have you grabbing the nearest Blume classic.

If you’re hard working and well-situated enough, you get to chase and achieve and live out your dreams for your whole life. But if you’re lucky enough, you get to choose how you’ll leave. Swan Song is the journey Canadian ballet icon Karen Kain took to direct one last production of Swan Lake just before retiring as artistic director of National Ballet of Canada. Director Chelsea McMullan takes a fairly standard approach in her documentary, but to be fair, the subject matter is interesting by itself. The beauty of the ballet has long captivated cinema, so it’s unsurprising that the beauty is present, but McMullan effortlessly highlights the way Kain shaped her directorial style based on her own experience, with more humane and collaborative leadership that allowed the country’s troupe to shine.

Feminism has made plenty of strides in multiple areas, but even in the era of free love, talking about sex was difficult, and certain figures were dismissed just because of it. The Disappearance of Shere Hite reexamines the titular forgotten feminist figure that simply focused on the female orgasm, giving a second look at her immediate rise and fall in the American media, and the reasons for her leaving the country. With Dakota Johnson’s soft voice, an excellent selection of archival footage, and Hite’s deeply personal words, the film paints a portrait of a mild-mannered, self-possessed woman, but it also reveals the heartbreakingly repetitive vitriol that affects these open discussions today.

Huesera: The Bone Woman might not be the scariest film horror fans would see, but it does strike at the heart of the scary experience of motherhood. Through eerie sounds of breaking bones and weirdly contorted hands at the edge of beds, the film depicts new mother Valeria being haunted by the titular spirit, despite her prayer to the Virgin Mary. Valeria pleads for her husband and family to listen, though each time she does becomes proof of her faults as a mother. The terror in newcomer Natalia Solián’s face makes it all feel believable, but it’s the folk-inspired imagery of first-time feature director Michelle Garza Cervera that turns this film into a feminist masterpiece.

Partially based on the 860-page memoir, “A White House Diary”, and on the actual audio recordings Claudia Alta Taylor Johnson made during her time as first lady, The Lady Bird Diaries is an intimate reworking of a past we still know very little about. Told from the vantage point of First Lady Johnson candidly and in detail, the audio track shapes the whole film. All the archival footage is nicely complemented by hand-drawn animations to fit the missing images, but all the visuals are always in service of the narration. In this way, the documentary becomes a piece of history and an archive in itself, its illustrative functions – a crucial storytelling tool for posteriority.

The director of one of the few esteemed horror sequels (Wrong Turn 2: Dead End) adapting H. P. Lovecraft? Yes please. Joe Lynch reimagines “The Thing on the Doorstep” with the tropes of 90s erotic films and a tribute to classic possession horror cinema, meriting all our admiration for his effort. Suitable Flesh (even the title is erotic!) is fun, daring, very dark, and very horny. Heather Graham (Boogie Nights) delivers a strong lead performance, but Judah Lewis’s (The Babysitter) sleazy Asa is what stands out here. Because of the horror’s nature, all the actors will have a go at playing a demonic version of their characters and it’s mostly good fun, but Lewis channels a certain scary nihilism that fits in very well with the film’s attitude towards sex and possession… Without revealing too much hereafter, I must say that the film takes the phrase “an out of body experience” to the next level, when relating it to sexual pleasure.

Remember the creepy blind nun from the Spanish horror film Veronica? While many nun-related horror films have nuns as its horror element, this time it’s the nun that gets spooked in Sister Death. The new release expands on her backstory, taking the story back in history, in her start as a novitiate in the former convent, a location that’s been changed after the terrors inflicted towards the nuns during the Spanish Civil War. While the film doesn’t delve that deeply, focusing instead on the slowly building up the film’s terror, there is something here about the hidden violence and covered-up trauma that still haunt the Catholic church in Spain, especially to those that have taken vows. Director Paco Plaza meticulously frames each terrific sequence with the isolating doubt in one’s faith that Narcisa experiences.

Aspiring writer-director Vita of My First Film is insufferable. When she starts out making her first feature, she’s pleasantly surprised by the people who came to help her, but the repetition of the shoot, the scene not matching the idea in her head, which she tries to put into image and word, but can’t quite make the vision clear, the anxiety and pressure to be a professional filmmaker blinding her from the concerns of her cast and crew all combine to an inevitable failure of her first feature, which also happens to inspired by Vita’s actual life. Vita is insufferable, but writer-director Zia Anger manages to make her real in an eclectic meta multimedia patchwork that won’t work for everyone, but uniquely depicts an experience filmmakers, aspiring or otherwise, haven’t wanted to talk about.

While named as a “how-to”, How to Have Sex is less of an instruction manual, and more of a collection of summer break moments presented as is. At the start, when Tara, Em, and Skye run to the freezing ocean water, the film seemed like it would have all the nostalgic coming-of-age moments that they would remember forever. But as the film progresses, and the girls meet other teenagers at the resort, there’s an eerie, foreboding feel that starts to build up, with every beer bottle, with every whisper, and with every insinuation Tara receives. And rather than preach about consent, writer-director Molly Manning Walker makes them fumble around without the concept of it, the same way teens tend to do, making it much more potent than a cautionary tale.

Freediving is a particularly cinematic sport because it taps into something beyond what the human body is capable of. Skilled divers hold their breath for long enough to reach more than 100 meters deep, and watching footage of that incredible feat is exhilarating, to say the least. The Deepest Breath capitalizes on that very spectacle—being exposed to death and conquering it—and banks on using archival footage of world records and training. It’s a smart move, as it keeps the spectator on edge, but it can also be a cruel way to put thrills over ethics. The editing is kept suggestive, but sometimes, shamefully, at the cost of misrepresenting Alessia Zecchini and toying with the viewer’s expectations to the point of callousness.

The film unfolds in the rhythm of a cow’s life: birth, mating, feeding, milking, checkups. Soon, these events become regular occurrences. Instead of showcasing the more ‘spectacular’ parts of these animal lives in order to build a narrative that’s engaging in a more conventional sense, British director Andrea Arnold opts for intimacy through banal instances. Even if female cows are symbolic of labour (reared for milk, meat, and reproduction), the actual cows in the documentary are not actors in a traditional sense. Yet, Cow opens up the dialogue about the on-screen role of animals beyond the call for activism. In it, the protagonists dictate the camera movements and positions just as any other human subject would, but since Arnold is an intuitive and sharp filmmaker, she embraces the opportunity to challenge cinema’s status quo. A beautiful addition here is the presence of pop music needle drops, through which the film jolts us into being more attentive, helping us to experience everything we consume in everyday life unperturbed (milk, meat, or pop songs) anew.

In 2017, the New York Times published a groundbreaking report by Jodi Kantor and Megan Twohey that detailed, for the first time, Harvey Weinstein’s atrocious history of sexual abuse. The New Yorker would release Ronan Farrow’s report five days after, prompting multiple survivors to share their own stories—and the rest, as you know, is history. Following Kantor and Twohey (played by Zoe Kazan and Carey Mulligan, respectively), She Said sheds light on how this pivotal moment in the establishment of the #MeToo movement came to be.

Based on Kantor and Twohey’s book of the same name, the film reveals the specific journalistic processes involved in writing this expose—a seemingly impossible feat, considering Weinstein’s hold over multiple industries, including the press. Because it’s a newsroom drama, there’s a lot of talking, but there’s also a lot of listening. Gripping, empathetic, and (even now) necessary, She Said makes for a thrilling watch.

Visual artist Ann Oren’s first foray into feature-length filmmaking is a sensual delight and a gift that keeps on giving. Oren approaches her film with sincere dedication to every single building block: Piaffe looks, sounds, and feels sensational while being a fairly modest production. A true indie film, Piaffe verges on experimentation as a young woman named Eva (Simone Bucio) takes over the job of a foley artist from her sister. Even though she’s under-qualified, she tries her best t0 come up with the sounds for a horse-themed commercial to no avail. However, in the process, she notices a bump on her lower back that grows into a horse’s tail. Piaffe is a tale of metamorphosis, not only of the flesh, but also of the heart, as the themes it explores are also directly related to sexuality, submission, and, of course, love as a manifestation of all those things.

Nothing Compares weaves a poignant story about one of the most misunderstood artists of our time, Sinéad O’Connor. The iconoclast first made waves in the ’80s with her catchy music, but she quickly reclaimed the reins of her own fame and used her platform to champion marginalized causes, long before pop stars were expected to do so.

The documentary zeroes in on this part of O’Connor’s life: what prompted her to music and how she used it as a tool of activism. The answers are multi-faceted and handled here with extreme grace. Like the many from her generation, O’Connor struggled with religion and abuse, such was the Catholic Church’s hold on Ireland at the time time.

The film contextualizes her once-shocking moments and reveals how they were all grounded on things she cared about. It’s a beautiful piece of work that reassesses and redeems a wronged artist who was ahead of her time.

Erin Lee Carr, the director of Britney vs Spears, returns with a scoop. Ringleader is not just another pop culture doc, because it features a first-time interview with the young woman at the center of The Bling Ring robberies in Hollywood, Rachel Lee. But this is not the kind of film that tries to pick the brains of a perpetrator. Instead, the director positions herself as a journalist in front of her subject and questions her frankly, an approach resulting in amusing frankness. However, the rest of the doc feels too formulaic in the way it stitches together personal archive footage that is more or less neutral. Banking too much on exclusivity when it comes to the interview, already clouds it with expectations. One is led to ask whether Lee is good, bad, repentant or sociopathic and project onto her such qualities—a move which invites a similar fascination with celebrity life the film tries to untangle.

There are plenty of versions of the Cinderella story, but none as brutal and nauseating as The Ugly Stepsister. For one, it’s not a lovely fairytale that rewards the perseverance of good people through a royal romance. Instead, this European folklore inspired body horror takes the perspective of its titular character, a stepsister who is forced to undergo invasive procedures for the sake of her family. It’s absolutely gruesome. Every single terrible thing Elvira goes through eerily recalls today’s plastic surgery and diet culture except without modern-day tools and anaesthesia. Those new to horror, or those who would be triggered by these topics, would find the film hard to watch. Still, The Ugly Stepsister deeply understands the dark side of this oft-told fairytale, especially at how marriage used to be the only means to upward mobility for women.

To call Going to Mars a somewhat shapeless documentary isn’t a criticism. If anything, its flexibility of structure feels entirely appropriate for the woman at its center, who doesn’t necessarily defy categorization so much as she remains on the pulse of history as it continues to shift in unexpected ways. Nikki Giovanni is a person who knows who she is and knows that she stands for the essential dignity of Black people, and it’s inspiring to see how she not only remains hopeful and articulate through every critical moment, but that she insists on being ambitious for what Black people deserve to achieve in the future. As her son tells her at a speaking engagement, Giovanni doesn’t just dream of going to space; she feels that it is her people’s imperative to be there.

Directors Joe Brewster and Michèle Stephenson tell her (still ongoing) life story in a strikingly impressionistic way—cleverly playing with archival footage, but more importantly having Giovanni’s candid words blending seamlessly into her poetry. This is a credit to how connected to the milieu Giovanni’s work actually is, of course, but the film does a very good job defining her as someone who can bring beauty and grace out of every experience.

Funny, refreshing, and heartwarming, You Are So Not Invited to My Bat Mitzvah gives the seminal girlhood film Are You There God? It’s Me Margaret. a Gen Z update. Stacy and her friends are constantly on social media and watch each other for potentially politically incorrect terms, but they also struggle with period pain, crushes, and falling out with former friends. It’s a confusing time in a kid’s life, and  You Are So Not Invited, like Are You There God? before it, honors that. It never condescends, never strays far from the child’s perspective. It’s jubilant and heartwarming, and (to me at least) it’s always fun to see real-life families play themselves in movies. Judd Apatow experimented with this structure in his semi-autobiographical films Knocked Up and This Is 40, which first gave us a glimpse into his daughter Maude Apatow’s acting prowess. I feel You Are So Not Invited will do the same to its young star Sunny Sandler, whose effortlessly funny and charming performance will surely carve a path for a promising career in the future.  

As a crime thriller, Holy Spider is taut and terrifying, a modern noir that manages to unnerve despite the familiar moves it employs. The cat and mouse chase between serial killer and investigative reporter, for instance, is a classic tale, but that doesn’t make Holy Spider any less gripping. The film benefits from artful camerawork, considered acting (as the daring journalist Rahimi, Zar Amir Ebrahimi nabbed the Best Actress award at Cannes), and most of all a nuanced take on the situation in Iran. 

Despite having a clear stance against violence and corruption, nothing in Holy Spider is black and white. Contradictions abound, and even when presented with brief moments of justice, we’re left scratching our heads looking for more. Such is the case when the system, and not just an individual, is the true pest. 

We all know that remaining unmarried when middle-aged doesn’t mean one is lacking, but even when we can acknowledge how dated this idea is, for women, there’s still the societal pressure, the loneliness, and the feeling of having missed an opportunity to have children. Blackbird Blackbird Blackberry is centered on one such middle-aged woman living in a small town in Georgia, and she has a fairly peaceful life… until she nearly dies and shortly forms an attraction to another man. Director and co-writer Elene Naveriani takes her time to delve deep into Etero’s story, the complicated grief she has towards the men that have raised her, as well as the spite towards the arbitrary goals other women have reached and made fun of her for. The journey does take a rather slow burn, but it’s wonderful to see a film so empathetic and nuanced about this dilemma, and free from the judgment many women have encountered on this topic.

Normally, a film like this would be a straightforward documentary with archival footage and key interviews with experts in the issue. But instead of taking that approach in Four Daughters, writer-director Kaouther Ben Hania takes a more personal approach, understanding that the topic in question isn’t just about extremism, but that this is a tragedy experienced by the Hamrouni family. As such, the approach doesn’t try to mine the drama to make the film more engaging. Hania just tries to introduce us to the family, with the archival footage interspersed with conversations filmed behind-the-scenes of the documentary, and with the past recreated by both the real family and by actors. It’s because of this that Hania cedes unparalleled control for Olfa Hamrouni to tell her story. With this issue spreading throughout the globe, Four Daughters is a necessary documentary. The personal, compelling approach helps drive that home.