Pedro Fernandes

The Adventures of a Traveler in South Korea is one of those rare films that deliberately reject the classical structure of plot and, precisely for that reason, it both surprises and delights. There is no “story” in the traditional sense, no narrative thread that binds the viewer from beginning to end with predictable conflicts or resolutions. Instead, what we are given is something subtler and more daring: a celebration of the instant, of chance, and of the spontaneity of everyday life. At the center of this journey stands a French teacher about whom we know almost nothing. The film offers only fragments of her personality — gestures, words, small rituals. And it is exactly in this mystery that her power lies: we do not need a past or a detailed biography to feel close to her. She becomes a universal figure, almost a metaphor for the foreigner who discovers herself at the same time she discovers the world around her. Her teaching method — subtle, innovative, almost improvised — mirrors the very aesthetic of the film: teaching without rigidity, learning through the flow of conversation, and allowing the unexpected to drive the process. Like the teacher, the director seems to suggest that what matters most is not planning but being available to the present moment. Another fascinating element is the recurring presence of makgeolli, the traditional Korean alcoholic drink. More than a cultural detail, makgeolli becomes a symbol of companionship, of sharing, and of vulnerability. The gatherings at the table, accompanied by this milky and gentle drink, open the way for spontaneous dialogue, unexpected confidences, and silences full of meaning. In a sense, makgeolli is the liquid soundtrack of the film, reminding us that life is made as much of words as of slow sips between friends. The direction is minimalist but profoundly poetic. The camera observes more than it commands, accompanies more than it imposes. There is no rush to reach any destination, because the destination does not matter. What matters is the journey: the streets, the glances, the chance encounters that will never happen again. This refusal to follow a rigid script gives the film a rare freshness, almost documentary-like, yet with an aesthetic delicacy that distinguishes it from realism. In the end, The Adventures of a Traveler in South Korea is not just a film — it is an experience. One does not watch it to “know what happens,” but to learn how to remain in the present, to observe, and to listen. It is cinema that invites us to let go of our need for plot and to dive into the beauty of small moments. A film without a plot, yes — but full of life, humanity, and a strange lightness that lingers with us long after the final frame fades from the screen.

A Complete Unknown — A Great Film... But Times Have Changed A Complete Unknown is, without a doubt, a great film. Brilliant in its aesthetic construction, powerful in its performances, and absolutely magnetic in atmosphere. It captures a fascinating portrait of a time, of a generation, and of an attitude towards life shaped by excess, freedom, art — and risk. But times have changed. Today, we watch these films with different eyes. With the beauty of nostalgia, yes — but also with the clarity that time and science have given us. Cigarettes, once symbols of charm, rebellion, and mystery, we now know kill. Alcohol, once seen as a natural companion of creative bohemia, we now know destroys lives, families, and health. This isn’t about moralism — it’s about awareness. Art must always be free to represent its time. And A Complete Unknown does that beautifully. But we, as viewers in 2025, cannot look at these symbols with the same innocent or romantic eyes of the past. Growing as a society also means recognizing that the myth of the "artist lost in smoke and drink" comes at a price — and very often, it costs lives. This remains a great film. But the world has changed. And it’s a good thing it has.

Anora — A Necessary Film About Money, Power, and the Corruption of the Human Soul Anora is not just a film about human relationships. It is, above all, a necessary film — a provocative mirror held up to contemporary society and, in particular, to the mechanisms of power, abuse, and manipulation that thrive behind the scenes of politics and big money. What strikes me most about Anora is its subtle (but merciless) way of showing us how money — when absolute, when limitless — has the capacity to corrupt everything: feelings, values, loyalty, and even love itself. Nothing survives under the weight of capital when money becomes both weapon and trap. We watch the characters slowly transform, as if we were observing a laboratory experiment on the human soul under pressure — where little by little, everything that once seemed pure dissolves in front of the promise (or threat) of easy wealth. More than just an intimate story, Anora functions as a powerful parable of the political classes in countries ruled by despots — systems where power games are played at the expense of the fragile, the naïve, and those still daring enough to believe in human connection in a world dominated by greed. It’s impossible to watch this film without seeing echoes of very real scenarios: oligarchies buying everything, leaders treating people as disposable, systems where money is god and human values are cheap currency. Anora is an uncomfortable film. But it’s a necessary discomfort. Because it forces us to look at a wound we often pretend not to see: how easily human beings allow themselves to be bought — and sold. And in the end, we are left with bitter, essential questions: How much is our freedom worth? How much is our dignity worth? And how much of us is already owned — without us even noticing? Brilliant. Disturbing. Courageous. More than just a personal story, Anora is a portrait of our times. And like every powerful parable, it leaves us deeply unsettled — because we know it's much closer to our reality than we would like to admit.

Dalia and the Red Book — The Animation Film of My Life Rarely has an animated film moved me, enchanted me, and stayed with me like Dalia and the Red Book. Without any hesitation, I can say: this is, for me, the animation film of my life. I am deeply impressed by the way this story blends the lightness of fantasy with the emotional depth of reality. It's a stunning example of magical realism applied to animation — where the everyday and the dream world, the visible and the invisible, innocence and wisdom all merge naturally into something poetic, hypnotic, and unforgettable. Visually, it is breathtaking. The graphic universe is rich, creative, full of little details that speak quietly to the viewer. The soundtrack embraces us like a childhood story we never want to end. But what touched me the most was the heart of this story: a deeply human narrative that touches universal themes like loss, growth, memory, imagination, and the invisible worlds we all carry within. Dalia and the Red Book is a film for everyone — all audiences, all ages, all hearts willing to dream. Children will love it. Adults will be moved. And anyone with an attentive soul will, for a moment, feel like a child again. I recommend it with all my heart — a rare cinematic gem that stays with you long after the final credits.

Absolutely amazing series!!!! The struggle of Alex thought poverty and abuse and the characters in Maid....absolutely fantastic, you have to see it -a must see!