FRED Film Radio - English Channel

We talk with Éric Peretti, one of the main programmers of the Hallucination Collective Film Festival, an event renowned for showcasing experimental and underground films. Celebrating its 19th edition, this festival in Lyon, France, offers a unique blend of new cinema and curated retrospectives, inviting viewers to hallucinate through groundbreaking visual styles and unconventional storytelling. With a focus on rare and restored films, the festival has established itself as a must-visit event for cinephiles seeking something truly distinct.

The Hallucination Collective Film Festival features a rich retrospective program that dives deep into niche film genres and underground movements. This year, audiences can explore two captivating themes: underground vampire movies from the 1990s set against the backdrop of New York City, and the vibrant world of Mexican exploitation cinema. These retrospectives aim to highlight forgotten or lesser-known films, celebrating their artistic and cultural significance while providing a comprehensive look into these underground film scenes.

The Mexican exploitation film retrospective at the Hallucination Collective Film Festival—another highlight of the programme—was curated thanks to recent restorations of classic works. Films like “Black Pit of Dr. M” (1959) and Lucha Libre offerings such as “The Batwoman” (1968) showcase the diverse range of Mexican genre cinema that often blends Gothic horror, Westerns, and wrestling culture. This segment underscores the festival’s commitment to unveiling cinematic gems that have often flown under the mainstream radar, offering audiences a fresh perspective on Mexico’s vibrant exploitation film heritage.

One of the core charms of the Hallucination Collective Film Festival is its vibrant community of volunteers and dedicated cinephiles. The festival attracts a diverse audience, ranging from passionate fans in their forties and fifties to younger viewers eager to discover underground films. Éric Peretti explains that festival organisers prioritise screenings of films that are rarely seen in theatres, with many titles shown with French subtitles for the first time on the big screen. This dedication creates an immersive atmosphere where attendees can hallucinate together through unusual, visually striking cinema available only at this festival.

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At this year’s Kinoteka Polish Film Festival in London, Maciej Sobieszczański presented “Brother” as the closing night gala: a quietly powerful coming-of-age drama exploring family, absence and resilience. Speaking to Fred Film Radio, the director reflected on the real-life inspiration behind the film, his approach to performance and visual storytelling, and the importance of leaving audiences with a sense of hope.

Maciej Sobieszczański traced the origins of “Brother”  back to a striking real-life moment: a young boy speaking to his imprisoned father through a prison wall. That encounter became the emotional foundation of the film, capturing a child’s desperate need for connection and the absence of a father figure. From this image grew a story about brotherhood, emotional survival and the quiet ways children process complex realities.

The film’s restrained style, where as much is left unsaid as spoken, was a deliberate creative choice. Working closely with cinematographer Jolanta Dylewska, Maciej Sobieszczański envisioned each character as living in their own “bubble”, struggling to communicate emotions they cannot fully articulate. This extends to the father’s presence, which remains partially obscured, reinforcing both fear and ambiguity before ultimately revealing something more human and ordinary.

Central to the film’s authenticity was Maciej Sobieszczański’s process with his young cast, built on trust and creating a safe, open space for naturalistic performances. He also highlighted the complexity of the mother’s character, shaped by both strength and darker impulses, resisting easy judgement. While “Brother” inhabits a world of tension and hardship, Sobieszczański was committed to ending on a note of hope, offering audiences a sense of light after navigating its emotional depths.

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At the Kinoteka Polish Film Festival 2026 in London, Agnieszka Holland presented “Franz”, her bold and unconventional portrait of Franz Kafka. Speaking to Fred Film Radio, the director reflected on her long-standing relationship with Kafka’s work, her decision to move away from the traditional biopic form, and the personal and political resonances that continue to shape her filmmaking.

Agnieszka Holland described “Franz” as a deliberately non-linear, “kaleidoscopic” exploration of Kafka’s life, rejecting the idea of a conventional biopic. For her, a chronological approach would have felt “dead,” unable to capture the complexity of the writer’s inner world. Instead, she embraced a structure built on fragments, shifting timelines and perspectives, allowing audiences to form their own interpretation rather than imposing a singular viewpoint. This openness, she noted, has led to varied reactions — from viewers returning to the film multiple times to others struggling with its form — something she sees as part of its design.

By titling the film “Franz”, Holland aimed to bring audiences closer to the human being rather than the literary icon. She emphasised Kafka’s sense of isolation, his inability to conform, and his ongoing struggle between personal desire and societal expectations — particularly in relation to his father. This fraught relationship, reflected in Kafka’s own writings, became central to understanding both his life and work. Agnieszka Holland was also keen to highlight his humour, sensuality and joy, pushing back against the familiar image of Kafka as solely a figure of suffering.

The film’s shifts into present-day Prague — including references to Kafka’s cultural afterlife — reflect Holland’s curiosity about how artists are remembered and commodified. While she imagines Kafka might have been both intrigued and unsettled by his global legacy, she humorously suggests his father would have been delighted by its commercial potential. More broadly, Agnieszka Holland sees the film as an invitation for audiences, particularly younger viewers, to project their own fears and doubts onto Kafka’s story. Presenting the film at Kinoteka held particular significance for her, not least as it continues to celebrate Polish cinema and the legacy of filmmakers like Andrzej Wajda, whom she described as a mentor and close friend.

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One of the highlights of this year’s BFI Flare Festival was a talk by Joss Morfitt, a passionate writer and researcher who recently completed his PhD at Durham University on the 40-year history of the United Kingdom’s longest-running LGBTQIA+ Film Festival. The talk explored the festival’s evolution, from a timid start in the 1980s to the internationally renowned event it has become. Dr Joss Morfitt highlighted the importance of diverse voices and the impact the Festival has had on London, British queer cinema and culture, and queer lives more widely.

A writer and researcher deeply engaged with the history of BFI Flare, Joss Morfitt has dedicated years to uncovering its origins and societal impact. The work leading up to this event involved analysing festival programming, visual identity and marketing, as well as research into community engagement in the festival’s four-decade history. By weaving together academic research, analysis of hundreds of films (mostly those selected for the opening and closing galas), and interviews with funding members and programmers over the years, the talk created a compelling narrative that captured the festival’s cultural trajectory and political shifts.

The journey of BFI Flare reflects broader societal changes. Joss Morfitt illustrated this journey with a selection of representative film clips and interviews. His focused approach involves incorporating diverse materials—such as press images, programme notes, and oral histories—to present a nuanced timeline of the festival’s programming choices and their sociopolitical significance.

The talk emphasised milestones in queer film history—such as pioneering works, moments of political activism, and shifts in representation—illuminating how the festival has responded to evolving social contexts, from the AIDS crisis to recent legal changes, including same-sex marriage and trans rights. A lively presentation packed with detailed documentation revealed how Flare transitioned from highlighting traditional gay and lesbian narratives to embracing fluid, inclusive, intersectional, and decolonial perspectives, shaping the current landscape of queer cinema.

Ultimately, the work presented at this year’s BFI Flare by Joss Morfitt contributes significantly to preserving and expanding queer cultural memory. Efforts like this ensure that the festival’s history is not lost but celebrated as a reflection of societal progress and ongoing struggles. By producing comprehensive scholarship and engaging multimedia content, the work empowers future generations to understand and participate in queer cinematic culture.

This ongoing project—potentially culminating in a dedicated book and video work—will serve as a vital resource for scholars, filmmakers, and audiences alike. As society continues to evolve and global politics influence queer spaces, the insights provided by this writer and researcher maintain the relevance and urgency of spaces like BFI Flare, highlighting the enduring importance of queer representation and community.

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Presented at the Bari International Film & TV Festival, “A War on Women” by Raha Shirazi reframes the narrative of Iran’s feminist uprising. Rather than depicting it as a sudden revolt, the documentary reveals a resistance shaped across more than four decades of struggle, repression and everyday acts of defiance.

Spanning the 1960s to the present, the film reconstructs a layered history that remains largely unknown outside Iran. Through archival material, clandestine footage and intimate testimonies, Shirazi connects past and present, showing how today’s protests are rooted in a long continuum of activism.

“The whole world has no idea about this movement and how long it has been in the making,” Raha Shirazi explains. The turning point that led her to the project was the death of Mahsa Jina Amini in 2022:“I was stuck to my phone, watching everything unfold. And I realized how little context there was globally”, said Shirazi.

At the core of “A War on Women” lies an intergenerational conversation. The film brings together women from different eras, each carrying distinct experiences of resistance, exile and survival.

What emerges, according to Raha Shirazi, is a striking continuity: “This new generation knows the story of their ancestors. They know where we came from, what we had, what we lost, and what they’re fighting for.”

The director highlights a shift in approach between generations. Earlier activists often believed in gradual reform within the system. Today’s youth, she observes, embody a different energy: “They are incredibly brave. There is a force in them that is undeniable.”

Balancing the intimate and the political is central to the film’s structure. Raha Shirazi rejects the idea of separating the two dimensions: “The political is very personal,” she says. “How we dress, how we speak, even what we eat, everything is political.”

This perspective shapes her filmmaking approach. Rather than constructing a purely analytical narrative, Shirazi foregrounds individual stories, allowing the broader political context to emerge organically. Her role during interviews was deliberately restrained: “I was there to listen. It wasn’t about me. I wanted them to take over the conversation and tell their stories in their own way.”

The documentary includes rare and often clandestine footage shot in Iran, collected through a network of collaborators who remain anonymous for safety reasons. This aspect posed both ethical and practical challenges.

“Of course, they are the ones taking the risk,” Raha Shirazi notes. “I tried to make sure everyone understood what they were doing and felt comfortable.” Despite the danger, many contributors chose to participate, driven by a sense of urgency. “For many, the future already feels uncertain. So they choose to risk something to change it.”

Images play a crucial role in the film’s language. In an era saturated with visual content, Shirazi reflects on their shifting impact. “We are becoming desensitised to images of war,” she says. “So it was important to carefully choose what to show and how to integrate it into the narrative.”

Working on the film also reshaped Raha Shirazi’s relationship with her own identity. The research process brought her closer to Iranian culture, language and internal political complexities. “It helped me understand different perspectives, both inside and outside the country,” she explains.

At a time when Iran is often reduced to geopolitical headlines, “A War on Women” insists on a human dimension, particularly a female one. Shirazi speaks with clarity about this tension. “We are a country everyone wants to have a say in, but at the same time, no one truly helps us achieve freedom.” Yet the film does not surrender to pessimism. Its emotional core is rooted in resilience.

For Raha Shirazi, hope lies in the younger generation. Not only in women, but also in men who increasingly recognise the centrality of women’s rights: “They have understood that until women are free, they will not be free,” she says. “They are willing to stand, to fight, even to die for that.”

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Presented in Berlinale Special Gala at the 76th Berlinale, “Heysel 85“ is the fourth feature film by Romanian-Belgian director Teodora Ana Mihai. On 29 May 1985, the European Cup Final between Juventus and Liverpool FC at the Heysel Stadium in Brussels ended in tragedy: hooligans went on the rampage before kick-off, dozens of people died, and amid the chaos a fateful decision was made to let the match go on. The film follows two characters caught in the middle of that catastrophe: Marie, daughter and press attaché of the mayor of Brussels, forced to step in for her father who is no longer capable of taking command; and Luca Rossi, an Italian journalist covering the match for television, desperately searching for his family while continuing to report.

Teodora Ana Mihai came to this project through her producer Hans Everaert, a long-time collaborator who approached her with a specific conviction: that if she were to make a film about Heysel, it would not be a film about football as a sport, but about football as a metaphor. “In many ways, I was an unusual suspect to take on this subject matter” Teodora Ana Mihai acknowledges, “and we both felt that was precisely why I should do it, it might go to places one wouldn’t necessarily expect.” The challenge and the opportunity, she adds carefully, though opportunity feels like the wrong word when dealing with such a tragedy.

What compelled Teodora Ana Mihai was not the match itself but what it symbolises, what the Heysel tragedy reveals about human nature under extreme pressure. “It’s a story about distraction in times of crisis” she says, “about how institutions and individuals sometimes choose to look away rather than confront the moral weight of their decisions.” The mechanisms at play in 1985, political and personal responsibility, fear of escalation, the temptation to preserve appearances feel, in her words, painfully current. The film operates on multiple layers: football is the backdrop, the arena, but on the second and third layer it speaks about existential issues and human nature. “We are always trying to say something about our current condition” she reflects, “to tell stories that echo what we’re living today.”

At the heart of “Heysel 85” is the question of what individuals do when history unfolds around them and how they struggle to remain on the right side of it. Marie and Luca are not decision-makers at the top of the chain of command, yet they are each pulled into the vortex of a crisis that demands choices none of them are prepared for. The politicians and police face the central dilemma: cancel the match, or let it go on? As fear takes hold that stopping the game could escalate the situation further, a questionable decision takes shape, one that continues to provoke debate forty years later. “The questions the tragedy raises feel extremely timely and relevant” says Teodora Ana Mihai, “within the socio-political and geopolitical landscape we are living in today.”

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Presented in Panorama at the 76th Berlinale, “Narciso“ is the second feature film by Paraguayan director Marcelo Martinessi, whose debut “Las Herederas“ won the Silver Bear Alfred Bauer Prize in Competition at the Berlinale in 2018. Set in Asunción in 1959, the film follows Narciso, a charismatic young musician who becomes a symbol of freedom at a moment when rock ‘n’ roll has just arrived in Paraguay and when the Stroessner dictatorship is tightening its grip on bodies, desires and voices. Inspired by Guido Rodríguez Alcalá‘s investigation into the real murder of Bernardo Aranda, “Narciso” is a film noir that moves between dance and discipline, between the illusion of modernity and the consolidation of repression.

Eight years have passed since “Las Herederas” brought Marcelo Martinessi to international attention. In the meantime, he has made theatre, opened a cinema in his hometown in Paraguay, and spent years developing a project far more complex and experimental than his debut. “I ended up exhausted after Las Herederas” he admits, “but I’m now weirdly eager to make a film faster because I’m older, and if I make one film every eight years, I won’t make many.” The wait, however, was worth it. “Narciso” is a film that takes creative risks precisely because the success of the first one allowed him to. “We said: let’s use this trust and this blank check to experiment, to do something we would never have been able to finance if we were starting from scratch.”

The genesis of “Narciso” lies in Guido Rodríguez Alcalá‘s novel about a real criminal case that shook Paraguay in the late 1950s, a case in which the Stroessner regime used the murder of a young man as a pretext to persecute not only the LGBTQ+ community but anyone who didn’t align with its values. What drew Marcelo Martinessi to the novel was its refusal of easy binaries. “He doesn’t blame only the dictator, he also blames the society” says the director. “Cinema hardly ever really goes into the social fabric around dictators, into the people that support the regime. It’s always very binary: the dictator and the victims. But there’s a lot of grey in between.” It is in that grey zone that “Narciso” lives.

“Narciso” is set in 1959, but Marcelo Martinessi is clear that it speaks directly to the present and to a future he fears. “Authoritarianism comes back with different shapes” he says. Coming from a country like Paraguay, small and vulnerable to the political winds blowing from Washington, he feels the weight of that observation acutely: “We didn’t elect Trump, but we are having a lot of consequences of what happens in America in the South American region.” One line from Guido Rodríguez Alcalá‘s novel struck him as almost uncannily contemporary: a character shouts at Americans “you come here and think you can do whatever you want.” “That is from the 50s” Marcelo Martinessi says, “That is from two months ago.”

A central element of the film is radio, the only mass medium in Paraguay in the 1950s, and therefore a contested territory. Nationalist folklore music, the promotion of Paraguayan identity, the most popular soap opera of the time, Dracula, all coexisted on the airwaves, reflecting a country that couldn’t speak openly about what was happening to it. And then came rock ‘n’ roll, foreign and unsettling, carrying with it the contradictions of American influence in Latin America. “America has supported dictatorships in Latin America historically” Marcelo Martinessi reflects, “and at the same time brought rock and roll, which contradicted everything they promoted. There is a tension there that is very interesting to think about.”

For Marcelo Martinessi, cinema’s power lies precisely in its capacity to hold multiple things at once, history and the present, the particular and the universal, the visible and the hidden. “Narciso” can be read through different characters, followed along different threads. That openness is intentional: “Cinema has the possibility of touching a bit of everything” he says, “in order to understand what could have happened and what could happen in the future.”

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Presented in Panorama Dokumente at the 76th Berlinale, “A Russian Winter“ is the new documentary by Austrian-French director Patrick Chiha.

Following the full-scale invasion of Ukraine in 2022, many people in Russia faced a stark choice: military service, prison or exile. The film follows Margarita, Yuri and their friends, young Russians who refused to comply with the regime and left their country in search of a new home. They no longer have a place to which they can return, nor one where they feel truly welcome.

The starting point for the film was a specific image, one that many of us saw in September 2022: streams of men fleeing Russia through the Georgian mountains, on foot, by bike, by car, escaping the military mobilisation ordered by the Kremlin. For Patrick Chiha, those faces carried something urgent and unresolved.

“I had the feeling that these faces tell us something about our world, the dangers, the violence” he recalls. “And I had the feeling that the stories of these Russians could tell us something about our life right now and our questions in the western world also. What can we do? Maybe one day we too will have to flee. What is our power? How can we resist?”

“A Russian Winter” is, at its core, a portrait of exile, but not exile as movement. What Patrick Chiha captures is the opposite: a profound stillness, a suspension. His subjects left Moscow, left their identities, left their lives, the artistic jobs, the parties, the lovers, the normalcy and arrived in Istanbul, Paris, London, Rome. Places that are not really places for them. “They have no more past and no future” says Patrick Chiha. “There is this feeling of being in a permanent present, in a no space.”

It is this frozen quality that gives the film its title. A Russian winter: not cold exactly, but stuck. Immobile. Suspended between a past that cannot be reclaimed and a future that has not yet taken shape.

Patrick Chiha‘s camera stays close to his subjects, close enough to feel their uncertainty, their melancholy, their guilt, but never close enough to judge. It is a balance he has developed over years of filmmaking, and one he describes as inseparable from his own process of inquiry. “I do films because there’s something I don’t understand” he says. “I don’t have the answer. And if the people I film feel that I don’t have the answer, they also start to question.” The film becomes, in this way, not a statement but a space — for reflection, for the audience as much as for the subjects themselves.

This is particularly important given who these people are: Russians, in the eyes of a world that holds Russia responsible for the war in Ukraine. Patrick Chiha is acutely aware of that tension. His subjects have Ukrainian friends, feel shame and guilt, are divided among themselves. But he refuses to reduce them to a political symbol: “I don’t think like this when I make a film. I try not to judge things.”

The film’s central character, Margarita, was found almost by chance, through friends, during three weeks in Istanbul funded by a small development grant. She had worked in cinema in Moscow, and day by day Patrick Chiha understood she would become the main character. “She has something very special, her sensitivity, her intelligence, her emotion.” She introduced him to her group of friends, and the film grew from there. As Patrick Chiha puts it, it is always mysterious, like meeting people in life, a process of trust built moment by moment.

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Presented in Competition at the 76th Berlinale, “Salvation” is the new film by Turkish director Emin Alper, winner of the Grand Jury Prize.

The filmmaker whose work consistently explores how communities create enemies, how fear spreads, and how ordinary people legitimize extraordinary violence, sets his story in a remote village high in the Turkish mountains, where the return of an exiled clan reignites a decades-old land feud. At the centre of the story is Mesut, the local leader’s brother, a haunted man seized by unsettling visions he believes to be divine warnings — visions that push him to challenge his brother’s authority and unleash a spiral of religious conviction, power struggle and collective paranoia.

Emin Alper‘s films have always found in small, enclosed communities a mirror for larger dynamics. Salvation is no exception. The remote Turkish village at its centre is, in the director’s own words, “a kind of microcosmos”, a place where all the tensions, fears and power games that define much broader social and political realities play out in concentrated form. The film draws on a real event, and Emin Alper approaches it as an investigation: how do these conditions come together? How do people convince themselves that horrifying actions are justified? “I’m looking for answers throughout the film” he says, “to the question of how people got so crazy and how they legitimize their actions.”

The title itself carries a bitter irony. The men at the centre of the story believe they are saving their community, rescuing their nation, acting in the name of God or of a higher cause. It is precisely this conviction, Emin Alper argues, that makes them so dangerous. “The most horrible crimes are committed by people who believe they have a mission, a religious mission, a national mission but always a noble or sacred one.” The film becomes, in this sense, a study not just of individual fanaticism but of the mechanisms through which entire communities are drawn into collective delusion.

Central to the film is Mesut’s psychology, a man living a kind of neurosis, chosen by the people as an alternative to existing leadership precisely because of his visions and his apparent connection to something beyond the rational. What begins as individual delirium slowly becomes collective, and Emin Alper traces this transformation with precision. Dreams play a crucial role: in mystical Islamic tradition, divine messages arrive through dreams, and it is through dreams that the community convinces itself of its mission. “The dreams become almost collective at the end” says the director, “reflecting the collective paranoia.”

“Salvation” is, on the surface, a masculine story about fighters, feuds and power. But Emin Alper pays close attention to the women at its edges, and what he finds complicates easy distinctions. One female character reproduces militaristic and patriarchal values as fiercely as any man; another is more clearly a victim. “Sexual differences do not always mean what we think they mean” Emin Alper reflects. “Sometimes women can be more masculine than men, and they can reproduce these values more than men.” It is an uncomfortable observation, but an honest one.

Asked about the power of cinema today, Emin Alper offers a characteristically measured response. On one hand, the inflation of streaming content has diluted cinema’s impact, audiences zap from one show to the next without pause. On the other, moving images occupy our lives more than ever. “It is a paradoxical situation” he admits, while making clear that for him, as a filmmaker, the movie theatre remains irreplaceable as a space for cinematic experience.

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Presented in Special Presentation at the 76th Berlinale, “A Child of My Own” (Un hijo propio) is the new feature-length documentary by Chilean director Maite Alberdi, already known to international audiences for “The Mole Agent“, her Oscar-nominated work.

The film follows Alejandra, a woman whose profound desire to become a mother and the relentless pressure from her family and surroundings drive her to fake a pregnancy — a simple lie that spirals into a complex charade sustained for months, until an irreversible line is crossed and a media scandal makes the deception impossible to maintain.

Maite Alberdi returns to a festival she considers a natural home for her kind of filmmaking, one that privileges new narrative forms, social inquiry and human stories over spectacle. Her previous documentary Memoria Infinita screened in Panorama Documentary, and “A Child of My Own” feels equally at home in a space that, as the director puts it, welcomes films that look not only at politics but at people, at life, at the invisible pressures that shape it.

The genesis of the film was a real encounter. Maite Alberdi met Alejandra and listened to her story, a story so extreme, so unbelievable, that it immediately sparked both fascination and a deeper set of questions. “I always say that reality is stronger than fiction, but in this case it was really extreme,” she explains. Beyond the sensational events, what drew the director in was the emotional and social core of the story: the weight of motherhood, the absence of freedom in reproductive decisions, the way social pressure shapes and ultimately destroys a woman’s choices.

For Maite Alberdi, Alejandra’s story is nothing less than a modern tragedy. A woman who wanted only to be good, to fulfill her role, to meet the expectations of her husband, her family, her community and who, without intending harm, ended up at the very bottom of society, in prison. “It’s not a person in jail, it’s a woman in jail,” she says, pointing to the particular cruelty of that condition: a woman in prison breaks every rule of what a woman is supposed to be.

The failure, she insists, is not only Alejandra’s. The judge in the film spells it out clearly: a mother who lost two children and received no mental healthcare; a family that kept demanding a child; a doctor who granted maternity leave; a hospital that failed her; a husband who didn’t see what was happening. “There is a social responsibility here,” Maite Alberdi says, “and she paid her debt with society — 13 years in jail. But how is society paying its debt with her?”

The film resonates far beyond Alejandra’s extreme case because it touches something universal: the guilt that comes with motherhood, the impossible standard that society sets and that no woman can fully meet.

“You feel guilty all the time” Maite Alberdi reflects, “because you are not being the mom that society tells you that you have to be. You’re supposed to have your baby in your arms, give them food, be in a garden with flowers, happy and you only want to cry. And nobody told you that.”

It is a pressure, she adds, that never ends, from the desire to become a mother, through pregnancy, through every stage of raising a child.

Maite Alberdi is clear about how she defines the film: it is a documentary, not a docu-fiction. But it is a documentary that makes full use of everything cinema has to offer today: reconstructed scenes with actors, observational footage, interviews, real archive material.

“The great thing about documentary today is that we have so much freedom with materials” she says. The approach was, as always for her, character-driven: you find the person first, then you discover the best way to tell their story. In Alejandra’s case, every element was necessary.

“A Child of My Own” sits comfortably within Maite Alberdi‘s filmography: a body of work consistently drawn to fragility, intimacy and the spaces society doesn’t give us to speak about vulnerability. Each film, she says, grows from the previous one: “I need to learn something in each one that I want to explore in the next.“

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