It felt apt that Neil and I were both in London for this year’s edition of the festival. Over the years of The Cinematologists, we’ve covered a range of international events, always striving to capture not just our critical responses to the films, but something of the atmosphere, the resonance of the experience itself.

Living in London, I usually don’t feel that full, immersive festival bubble. There’s always the pull of everyday life at the edges. By contrast, attending an international festival abroad brings with it a heightened sense of dislocation—a kind of lived difference that reanimates the senses. That estrangement, combined with the charged intensity of being inside a self-contained epicentre of cinematic energy, somehow deepens both the viewing experience and one’s critical focus.

With Neil in town for what amounted to an extended long weekend, I resolved to pack as much into five intense days of screenings, conversations, and cinematic overload. Normally, I prefer to experience films alone, especially at festivals. The solitude seems to both sharpen my concentration in the watching itself. But after a decade of co-hosting The Cinematologists, Neil and I have developed an unspoken rhythm - an ease in conversation and, just as importantly, sit together in that post-screening quiet, letting the film settle before the dialogue begins.

We recorded the episode after our final screening together—François Ozon’s adaptation of Albert Camus’ L’Étranger. It proved an apt conclusion: gorgeously shot, restrained yet expressive, and, to my mind, remarkably faithful to the source material. Neil and I found ourselves immediately drawn into questions of form and aesthetics—recurring preoccupations on the podcast in recent years. How, and why, do filmmakers adopt particular visual modes to explore aspects of the human condition? And, more provocatively, is there an ethical contradiction in rendering violence, trauma, crisis, or poverty with beauty?

Across this year’s programme, that tension between sensuous visuality and political critique felt ever-present—a paradox that became the connective tissue of our conversations throughout the episode. Many of the films, often formally inventive and emotionally arresting, provoked questions about how cinema confronts and represents the cruel absurdities of contemporary experience, something I’ve been preoccupied with throughout this cinematic year.

Ozon’s film, of course, approaches this quite literally, but for me, so many of the works we saw continued a broader trend: filmmakers striving to make sense of senselessness through audio-visual forms that both frame the social and implicate the viewer. Themes of displacement, memory, alienation, and the ethics of representation ran through much of our discussion, as did a shared sense that contemporary filmmakers are consciously reconfiguring documentary, fiction, and hybrid modes to articulate a pervasive cultural unease.

We hope you enjoy the conversation, and as usual, we welcome any comments on the films or what we say about them.

As always, thanks for coming back or clicking for the first time on Contrawise. If you’re here for the first time, I’m an errant academic, writing and speaking about cinema, media, and art with a philosophical approach.

Films discussed on the episode

The Stranger (dir. Francois Ozon)

Ozon’s adaptation of Camus’ existential classic centres on Meursault, a detached and indifferent Frenchman in colonial Algeria who, weeks after his mother’s funeral, impulsively kills an unnamed Arab man on a sun-drenched beach. The subsequent trial becomes an inquiry not only into the murder but into the absurdist senselessness.

Starring the excellent Benjamin Voisin, embodying the character’s apathy, alienation, and refusal to conform to moral expectations. Shot with Ozon’s characteristically meticulous visual control, the film is gorgeously rendered—its romantic luminosity almost at odds with the bleakness of the material. In our discussion, we consider whether this sumptuous aesthetic intensifies or undermines the sense of existential ennui that lies at the heart of Camus’ seminal text.

Kontinental ‘25 (dir. Radu Jude)

Perhaps the most compelling film of the festival for both of us, Kontinental 25 cements Jude’s position as one of the most innovative criticially astute filmmakers working today. Shot on an iPhone 15 in just nine days, we delve into its structure: long, single-take dialogues that blur the boundaries between satire, social critique, and observational realism. Jude’s commitment to implicating the viewer in contemporary dilemmas - homelessness, inequality, liberal guilt - is both brutal and hilarious. A masterclass in how form and ideology intertwine.

The Mastermind (dir. Kelly Reichardt)

Neil’s solo review of Reichardt’s latest, featuring Josh O’Connor. We’ve always loved Reichardt on the podcast; an early live event focused on Old Joy (2006), and how her genre work and character studies are steeped in rich, observational minimalism. Neil explores how the film takes the heist genre and infuses it with her ongoing cinematic interests in economic precarity, disconnection, and quiet desperation.

It continues a fascination with the work of O’Connor for Neil too, following him finally ‘getting’ the actor in his favourite 2024 release, Alice Rohrwacher’s sublime La Chimera. With The Mastermind, Neil particularly liked how Reichardt plays with genre twists, from classic heist mode to something more reflective in terms of a character’s odyssey of reckoning on the road. Definitely a favourite from the fest, and the year as a whole.

It Was Just an Accident (dir. Jafar Panahi)

Jafar Panahi’s It Was Just an Accident, winner of this year’s Palme d’Or, is a deceptively simple film that unfolds into the profound. Unlike his more overtly meta-cinematic works, this is a relatively linear narrative, yet it bears all of the Iranian auteur’s hallmarks: moral tension, black humour, and an acute sense of the everyday as political theatre.

The story begins with a family driving through the Iranian countryside at night. A momentary lapse—a dog struck on a quiet road—sets in motion a chain of events that spiral into something far darker. When their car breaks down, they arrive at a remote garage run by a man named Vahid. Hearing the father’s prosthetic leg knock against the floorboards, Vahid becomes convinced he has found one of his former torturers from a prison camp where he was held blindfolded decades earlier. What follows is an unsettling, almost allegorical narrative of suspicion, revenge, and moral reckoning. Panahi transforms this familiar premise into a complex study of guilt, trauma, and retribution.

Rose of Nevada (dir. Mark Jenkin)

Mark Jenkin’s third feature - produced in association with Neil’s Sound/Image Cinema Lab - continues his commitment to the tactile, handmade qualities of cinema while venturing into his most expansive and narratively ambitious work to date. On the surface, Rose of Nevada employs a familiar conceit: two young fishermen, played by Callum Turner and George MacKay, are sent aboard a trawler that mysteriously reappears after having been lost at sea for thirty years. Once they set sail, time begins to fold in on itself, and what follows is a haunting, non-sci-fi exploration of memory, loss, and the persistence of the past.

Rose of Nevada is, quite simply, ravishing to look at. The colours - deep, saturated, defiantly un-digital - seem to breathe with the Cornish landscape and seascape. Abstract intercuts of bark, light, water, and surface give the film a kind of expressionist pulse; images shimmer between the material and the metaphysical.

We discuss Jenkin’s characteristic approach to performance - “Bressonian deadpan” - where actors deliver lines with studied restraint, becoming cyphers for ideas and emotional undercurrents rather than expressive psychological portraits. The film feels like a confluence of Jenkin’s earlier work - Bait’s class-inflected regional politics and Enys Men’s metaphysical strangeness - now realised at a larger scale and with bolder artistic confidence. It recalls the material realism of Leviathan and even the mythic textures of Jaws, though entirely on Jenkin’s own terms.

And, I share my “I went swimming with George MacKay” anecdote.

My interview with Mark from earlier in 2025 when he had just finished editing the film.