I ngā wā o mua, I would take two weeks off work to watch hundreds of movies at the Festival, but over the last few years, a kind of retirement hōha descended and it seemed a bit (how do I put this?) … whakamā to try to rekindle that old passion.
Would it still be the same buzz? Would the movies reach the legendary heights of ‘The Travelling Players’ (4 hours long)? – or Kieslowski’s ‘Three Colours’ trilogy? – or Ōshima’s stunning ‘In The Realm of the Senses’?
This year, Robina brought the programme home and we decided to go old-school. That meant reading the blurbs, marking the wanna-sees, deleting the time-clashers, working out if we needed to stay in town if there was a late-night/early next day scenario.
Thirty-four films between us. The day after bookings opened, I took my trusty credit card to the Embassy along with the much-marked list. Fiasco. Most of the big socials… the Festival must-be-seens, were booked out already! Internet queue-jumpers.
So thirty-four came down to twenty-seven – just like that! And when they say “It’ll come back for commercial release”, you just know you’ll never bother.
First night. Ebony and Ivory at Massey. Why God, why? This would have to be the stupidest, clumsiest, least attractive movie ever made. Stevie Wonder rows across the Atlantic in a dinghy to verbally abuse Paul McCartney for a couple of days at his ‘SCOTTISHCOTTAGE’ in the Mull of Kintyre… seriously. Puerile dialogue, dangling-penis nudity, unnecessary close-ups of teeth, no music at all. Not even the titular world’s worst song. I absolutely loved it.
One to One: John and Yoko at the Embassy. We saw this together. I cried because I wasn’t there at Madison Square Garden when John performed his ONLY full-length concert after the Beatles. I cried because I was a student on the California coast at the exact same time as this film and the whole Jerry Rubin/Abbie Hoffman/Allen Ginsberg/Nixon/Vietnam madness thing was in full swing. I cried because I believed we were changing things… but just look at us now. All we are saying, is Give Peace a Chance.
Grace: A Prayer for Peace .Gaylene’s documentary about Robin White. Beautiful. Whakangākau. Triumphant. Demand to see this film.
The Shrouds. 84-year-old Cronenberg does what he does best: he makes you watch from between your fingers. Once again, David pushes our limits on grief, death and physical decomposition and… well, is it actually, love? I enjoyed (if that’s the word), but sorry, it wasn’t a life-changing experience.
What Marielle Knows. What a stunning concept! Meticulously performed. Frédéric Hambalek’s second ever movie is at once funny and daunting. What if your daughter (12 years old) could see and hear everything you’re doing and saying to anyone else even when she’s not there! And then use it against you! German Cinema at its finest. Bravo.
Mistress Dispeller. Freaked me out. It’s a documentary. Can’t explain it. China in 2025 with marital infidelity support services… go figure that one out! A really good film though.
Happyend. Well. You can always count on Japan to come up with something magical. Against growing State and School surveillance, our group of students struggle for freedom of self-expression and their feelings towards each other. Intense, heart-breaking performances from the young actors. Visually claustrophobic, politically outspoken. Maybe my pick of the Festival… but wait, there’s more.
Blue Moon. Richard Linklater got me with ‘Slacker’ way back in 1990. Then ‘After Midnight’ with Julie Delpy and Ethan Hawke got me even harder. Then ‘Boyhood’ smashed me. ‘Blue Moon’ is gorgeous. Ethan is extraordinary, Andrew Scott is extraordinary, Margaret Qualley is extraordinary… but the film isn’t.
Anchor Me – The Don McGlashan Story. Nice. That’s about all.
The Weed Eaters. Our kids grew up with Finnius Teppett two houses up Pirie Street from us, so seeing him starring in a movie he’s written is weird and thrilling. But OMG. Cannabis cannibals? I’m too old for this palaver! No really. What a hoot of a movie. Dark, horrible, hysterical. Loved the deadpan. Loved the script and the performances – especially Finn and Alice May Connolly – loved it totally but couldn’t eat meat for 24 hours.
Maya, Give Me A Title. Michel Gondry’s enormous talent can leave you flabbergasted or disappointed. This show-offy song to his daughter didn’t go anywhere – it just didn’t.
A Little Something Extra. I’m still laughing. Only the French can do farce on film like this. What a gem of a movie! The Director (Artus) plays the lead role in the company of Down’s Syndrome and otherwise disabled performers in a ‘heist-gone-wrong-love-will-triumph’ goofy, slapstick story that had the Embassy belly-laughing from start to finish. Unpretentious and adorable. My happy place in the Festival.
Not Only Fred Dagg. See this film. It’s about you.
Prime Minister. Okay. This is hard. Firstly, it’s not a hagiography – it’s personal (a lot of it is filmed by and directed by Clarke Gayford in the moments we’ve wondered about but never seen – their lives as new parents). Secondly, it’s not for New Zealand. It’s about New Zealand, produced for the rest of the world, where Jacinda Ardern has mana… nui te mana. And sadly, New Zealand comes off as a fuckwit nation. As Shakespeare described: a nation that ‘cast away a pearl, richer than all its tribe’. I felt shame. I’m angry. For both Robina and me, this is the pinnacle of the festival. It’s a powerful, disturbing film about a woman whose nation has rejected her. Imagine wanting to come home but not feeling safe to do so. Imagine that if you can. The only thing that could lift my spirits after seeing this film was that the audience was younger… much younger. There is hope. Somewhere. Maybe.
So that was the New Zealand International Film Festival 2025.
Yes, the buzz is still there.
I’ll book online next year and double my viewing count…
