“I still can't figure out if it's an office, a market place, or a boxing ring. And maybe I don't even need to.”

– Vittoria

Barbara wakes up believing a fireman entered her bedroom through the window. Her father reassures her there's nothing, just a children's story. Years later, the adult Barbara (Caroline Loeb), grown up, withdrawn, living with her father (Dionys Mascolo), tutor, half brother (Pascal Greggory), and a persistent longing for her fireman, sparks a scheme that forces the fire brigade to come to their house and climb through her window once again.

“It's you.”

Flammes has a strange, stilted quality to it which reminds me, not in the least because of the presence of Geoffrey Carey as the restless American who travels with his own firefighter suit, of Raúl Ruiz's staged cinematic language. As in Ruiz's The Territory (1981), the characters drift in and out of space, and as in its half brother Der Stand der Dinge (Wim Wenders, 1982) we're left with wonderfully lingering performers who seem detached from, yet devoted to, their raison d'être.

“We'll eat Chinese. OK?”

Synchronous to the screening of a film that wasn't, Derek Jarman's Blue was broadcast on radio and television. Those who tuned into the radio could request a special card printed in that most spectral of colours, International Klein Blue, a blue that according to its creator Yves Klein, has “a quality close to pure space” and “immaterial values beyond what can be seen or touched”.

“You say to the boy 'Open your eyes'. When he opens his eyes and sees the light, you make him cry out, saying 'Oh, Blue, come forth! Oh, Blue, arise! Oh, Blue, ascend! Oh, Blue, come in!'.”

– Nigel Terry

Submerged in #blue, seeing through what was left of Jarman's eyes, we live through the artist's life, and love, and loss. When you leave the theatre, put down that card, you're temporarily blinded by the physiological afterimage of a devastating disease. What remains is the voice of a filmmaker who lost his sight.

“It isn't Jesus. It's just a fella.”

– Charlie Bostock

In the barn of a remote Lancashire farmhouse, three children stumble upon a stranger. Confused, they conclude that the fellow must be the Second Coming of Christ. In the world of the adults, a man is wanted by the police.

“Good night, Gentle Jesus. Sleep well.”

– Charlie Bostock

“The five flavors dull all the tastes.”

Early 60s, Sweden. A social experiment. Six hopelessly criminal juveniles are packed in a guesthouse – cynically named Objectivity – and loosely supervised by social workers and a reverend. The public servants speak of a new lease on life, God's servant of how Jesus forgives; all speak on their own behalf. We follow the young men closely and sense their need to break out, to be young, to be out of that house. We learn that their world, in or out, is eternally equally irrelevant.

“Jesus Christ has promised to forgive you 490 times, whatever you have done… because those were his words. But about the 491st time… He has given no words. None at all.”

– Reverend Mild

Vilgot Sjöman's 491 is an extremely, bleak, aggressive, and hopeless depiction of youth in postwar Sweden. Forgiveness is a tool of power, a method of control. And as empty as a repetitive lecture.