The Whaler Boy: A 30-Year-Old Russian Shoots His First Feature (No Whales Harmed, Libido Possibly Was)

 

The Whale’s Journey (or: 88 Kilometers, One Click, and a Lot of Libido)

There is a moment in The Whale’s Journey when a teenage boy stares at a map and realizes something that has haunted humanity since the invention of cartography: reality is deeply unfair to scale. 

Alaska is right there. A couple of centimeters. A short swim. A brisk walk, if you squint hard enough. And yet—tragically, bureaucratically, existentially—it might as well be Mars.

Welcome to Chukotka, Russia’s northeastern edge, a place so remote it makes Caspar David Friedrich’s Wanderer Above the Sea of Fog look like a cheerful tourist postcard. 

Replace the romantic mist with tundra, the sublime solitude with Wi-Fi, and the wandering philosopher with a horny teenager, and you’re getting close.

Our hero lives in a land of whales, whalers, and women who exist mostly as buffering pixels on a laptop screen. 

Real women are rarer here than a Tarkovsky joke, so the internet steps in, heroically and shamelessly, offering an endless loop of half-naked smiles that feel less like human connection and more like Andy Warhol’s assembly line of desire: same gaze, same promise, different time zone.

The distance between Russia and the USA collapses online faster than a cubist perspective. 

Zoom calls erase borders like Mondrian erased diagonals. 

Emotionally, Alaska feels closer than the next village. 

Physically? Not so much. The Bering Strait remains stubbornly unimpressed by broadband speeds.

Director Philipp Yuryev, in his debut feature, films this frozen libido-pressure cooker with a straight face that somehow makes everything funnier. 

The film watches these young men the way a Flemish painter might observe peasants: up close, unflattering, and deeply human. 

Faces are filmed in tight close-ups, pores and acne glowing like Renaissance chiaroscuro, libido practically leaking out of the frame.

Entertainment options in Chukotka include:

1. Whaling

2. Drinking

3. Possibly one bar (blink and you’ll miss it)

4. The internet, aka the Louvre of late-night loneliness

After encounters with sex workers—scenes that land somewhere between Buñuel’s deadpan cruelty and the emotional hangover of a bad Tinder date—nothing is resolved. Desire either goes numb or mutates into obsession. 

Love becomes less Romeo and Juliet and more Rear Window, except James Stewart had better heating and fewer whales.

Everyone dreams of escape. 

Some accept routine like extras in a Russian realist painting. 

Others stare across the water toward the promised land, imagining the USA as a glowing Hopper diner: neon, freedom, romance, and definitely no border patrol. Just 88 kilometers away—barely a brushstroke. 

Whales cross it all the time. Majestic, borderless, smug.

So why not humans?

Because this isn’t a fairy tale—it’s a quietly cruel joke. 

Those who manage to make the crossing (dodging guards, poachers, and reality itself) don’t find paradise. 

They find memory. And memory, like Instagram filters or impressionist painting, makes everything softer, prettier, and slightly fake.

 Reality flips into virtuality, and the dream retreats into the past, polished and replayed one last time.

By the time The Whale’s Journey reaches its dreamy finale, it feels less like a coming-of-age story and more like a melancholic art installation titled “Click Here to Escape”. 

A film where geography is the villain, Wi-Fi is the accomplice, and love is always buffering.

Now on French screens, I watched this film at the 61st Thessaloniki International Film Festival—online, of course. 

Which felt oddly appropriate. 

After all, distance has never looked so small. 

Or felt so impossible.

By Giulia Dobre

Paris, January 31st 2026/

Only Lovers Left Alive, or When Jim Jarmusch Was Still My Religion

 

Because the Night Belongs to Lovers

(and to vampires who read Byron and hate USB cables)

I have a problem with love words.
They tend to embarrass me.
Which is why I will talk about vampires instead.

Because the night belongs to lovers — as Patti Smith knew, and as Jim Jarmusch confirms, with the stubborn calm of someone who has already lived several centuries and doesn’t care what you think.

Only Lovers Left Alive tells the story of two vampires.
Which is already funny, because it tells it as if it were not a vampire film at all.

Adam lives in Detroit.
He is an underground musician, which is to say: a romantic ruin with guitars.
Eve lives in Tangiers.
She reads books, dances to forgotten ’60s rock’n’roll, and still believes in humanity — a position far more radical than immortality.

They will never die of old age.
They have seen cities rise and collapse, empires burn, fashions return.
They love each other deeply, but do not need to spend every second together, because when you have eternity, clinginess becomes vulgar.

Adam, however, is tired.

Tired in the way only someone who has known Byron personally can be tired.
So Eve does what any sensible immortal woman would do: she crosses continents to revive his spirit.

Yes, it is a vampire film:

• they drink blood

• they are dead and not dead

• they live at night

But it is also the reboot vampires desperately needed: less capes, more vinyl.

This film is not about vampires.
It is about:

• wandering through cities at night with the feeling that you know everything and nothing

• the slow decay of matter, which is the human version of destiny

• nostalgia as the raw material of art, especially music

Tilda Swinton’s Eve is a luminous vampire librarian.
She wears white, reads literature like oxygen, and dances with more energy at night than I do after three ristretti and a moral crisis.
She treats Adam’s depression with a compassionate yet firm: get over it.

Tom Hiddleston’s Adam is a prog-rock vampire.

Former ghostwriter for the great names of music history (because of course).
He collects antique guitars like reliquaries: Gretsch, Rickenbacker, and existential despair.
With names like Adam and Eve, they have no choice but to be archetypes.

Detroit and Tangiers:
two cities with imperial pasts, cultural density, and glorious decay.
Then — crash. Silence. Ruins.
Two ghost cities for two immortal ghosts.

Jarmusch films Detroit at night like a love letter to abandoned things:
cinemas turned into parking lots, exposed bricks, dying buildings holding on out of politeness.

In Tangiers, the lovers carry blood containers through the night.
And suddenly Jarmusch quotes In the Mood for Love —
another film about memory, impermanence, and wearing sunglasses at night because feelings are bright.

You can almost smell Morocco:
salt in the air, sand in the wind, the Mediterranean breathing nearby.

Ruins are beautiful.
This is not new.
The Romantics knew it. Jarmusch knows it. Adam and Eve know it.
Imagine witnessing the Punic Wars, playing chess with Byron, drinking bad wine with Poe — and still being here.

And suddenly you understand the weight of time.
The uselessness of objects left behind.
The melancholy superiority of immortality, which turns out to be just crepuscular boredom.

Yes, the film becomes heavy with existentialism.
These vampires take themselves seriously.
They are hipsters obsessed with vintage technology, ruin-porn, Orientalism, and Shakespearean plots.

And then — a poem enters my mind:

Our kiss is a secret handshake, a password…
My love for you is the only empire I will ever build.

This is the key.
Only Lovers Left Alive is a film about love as resistance against time’s logorrhea.

Love is building an empire around someone:

time travel, spy fantasies, reincarnations, blood-red mythology.

And then one day, the empire falls.
Because that is what empires do.

After that, there is nothing left to do but wash the dishes.

Adam and Eve are not dead.
They are the first lovers, the ones who destroyed Paradise and created life.
They still love each other even when they mess everything up.
Even when the engine breaks, they miss their connection in Madrid, and still take another flight — because Skype is not enough (yes, there are vampires on Skype).

Jarmusch’s love is watching empires fall and still imagining new ones.

Love is:

• thinking you are building a cathedral and discovering it’s a bungalow

• living in ruins and finding them beautiful

• resisting time

• cultivating a garden

• being surprised by mushrooms

The film has all of Jarmusch’s signatures: humour, music, culture.
And yet it spins in a void —
like a vinyl looping endlessly,
like the camera circling the lovers’ bodies, asleep and awake, distant and close.

Only love remains.
Only these two lovers survive, carried by Yasmine Hamdan’s Hal,
as if there were no tomorrow.

Only today.
Again and again.
For thousands of years.

Equally lyrical and pop, Jarmusch reminds us:

We own the night.
Because the night belongs to lovers.

By Giulia Dobre

co.2013

Father Mother Sister Brother: Jim Jarmusch and the Art of Emotional Hypothermia

 

The title, Father Mother Sister Brother, announces an itinerary. A journey, then.

We were hoping for a getaway; instead, we got a regional train ride on a strike day, in the rain, with no heating.

Everything unfolds exactly as promised: it’s long, it’s cold, and you find yourself staring out the window wondering why you ever got on board.

First stop: “Father.”
The United States. Tom Waits as a father who pretends to be more of a disheveled, fragile vagrant than he really is, while in fact being quite manipulative, squeezing a few bills out of his children, Jeff (Adam Driver—very good, as always, and therefore somewhat unnecessarily good here) and Emily (Mayim Bialik).
They know almost nothing about each other, even less about their father, and we, the audience, quickly grasp the concept: no one really talks, everyone is a little sad, and this is going to last.

Second stop: “Mother.”
Off to Dublin, with its lukewarm tea and carefully steeped unspoken tensions.

Charlotte Rampling plays a chic, distant, elegant writer, probably allergic to visible emotions.

Once a year, she welcomes her two daughters for a pastry and an existential malaise: Timothea (Cate Blanchett, brilliant even when playing boredom) and Lilith (Vicky Krieps, broke but cool).

Both pretend they’re doing fine, the mother pretends to care, and the film pretends that this emotional frigidity is moving.
Spoiler: it’s mostly freezing.

Final stop: “Sister Brother.”
Paris, the childhood home, dead parents, very fresh trauma.
Indya Moore and Luka Sabbat play twins who are very different, very beautiful, very silent, and very much in mourning. It’s delicate. It’s slow. It’s sad.

We get it. Truly.

Three episodes, three groups of characters, three settings, and to hold it all together: Rolex watches (because time passes, obviously), toasts with non-alcoholic drinks (joy is sober here), skaters appearing like rolling metaphors, and a few moments of gratuitous beauty—literally the only moments when you can breathe.

All of it orchestrated by Jim Jarmusch, who locks his film into a double paradox:
it’s intelligent, it’s controlled… and yet deeply depressing.

First paradox: telling us about the beauty of family bonds through dysfunctional, fractured families, riddled with resentment and frustration.
Second paradox: explaining that words never say everything, while filling the film with silences so heavy they could probably use a gym membership.

The film works by subtraction, yes—sometimes to the point of subtracting the desire to keep watching.

And yet, everything is there.

The Jarmusch style, unmistakable: elegant framing, deliberate slowness, marginal humanity, impeccable music, characters slightly out of sync with the world.

But in its relentless coherence, the film becomes a sealed object—cold, distant, almost clinical. A perfectly executed demonstration of auteur cinema, but emotionally anemic.

Universality, the film’s proudly claimed virtue, becomes its main problem.
Yes, family is universal.
Yes, it’s made of disillusionment, frustration, and unspoken truths.

But did we really need to be reminded of all this with such gravity, in a world already saturated with grayness, silence, and moral fatigue?

We would have liked a sidestep. A spark. A risk. Something. Anything.

Father Mother Sister Brother is not a manual on family life; it’s a summary.

A good summary—well written, well shot, well acted. But a summary nonetheless.

It teaches us nothing we don’t already know, doesn’t shake us, doesn’t surprise us.
It confirms. Calmly. Politely. Too politely.

And that may be the real problem: Father Mother Sister Brother won the Golden Lion, but it lacks that grain of madness, that boldness, that warmth that would make it memorable as anything other than “that very well-made, very intelligent, and very depressing film.”

It is elegant, yes. Lucid, certainly. Poetic, at times. But original? Not really. 

Necessary? Even less so.

By Giulia Dobre
Paris, January 12, 2026

#jimjarmush

#fathermothersisterbrother

Father Mother Sister Brother : Jim Jarmusch nous invite à un dîner familial sans chauffage

 

Le titre, Father Mother Sister Brother, annonce un itinéraire. Un voyage, donc. 

On espérait une escapade, on a eu un trajet en TER un jour de grève, sous la pluie, sans chauffage. 

Tout se passe exactement comme promis : c’est long, c’est froid, et on regarde par la fenêtre en se demandant pourquoi on est monté là-dedans.

Premier arrêt : « Father ». Les États-Unis, Tom Waits, en vieux père faussement clochard mais réellement manipulateur, qui joue les indigents froissés pour soutirer quelques billets à ses enfants, Jeff (Adam Driver, très bon, comme d’habitude, donc un peu inutilement bon ici) et Emily (Mayim Bialik). 

Ils ne savent rien l’un de l’autre, presque rien de leur père, et nous, spectateurs, on comprend vite le principe : personne ne parle vraiment, tout le monde est un peu triste, et ça va durer.

Deuxième escale : « Mother ». Direction Dublin, ambiance thé tiède et non-dits bien infusés. 

Charlotte Rampling incarne une écrivaine chic, distante, élégante, probablement allergique aux émotions visibles. 

Une fois par an, elle reçoit ses deux filles pour une pâtisserie et un malaise existentiel : Timothea (Cate Blanchett, brillante même quand elle joue l’ennui) et Lilith (Vicky Krieps, fauchée mais cool). 

Toutes deux font semblant d’aller bien, la mère fait semblant de s’y intéresser, et le film fait semblant que cette froideur est bouleversante. 

Spoiler : elle est surtout frigorifiante.

Dernier arrêt : « Sister Brother ». Paris, maison d’enfance, parents morts, trauma encore chaud. 

Indya Moore et Luka Sabbat incarnent des jumeaux très différents, très beaux, très silencieux, très endeuillés. C’est délicat, c’est lent, c’est triste. 

On a compris. Vraiment.

Trois épisodes, trois groupes de personnages, trois décors, et pour relier tout ça : des Rolex (parce que le temps passe, évidemment), des toasts à base de boissons non alcoolisées (la joie est sobre, ici), des skateurs qui surgissent comme des métaphores roulantes, et quelques moments de beauté gratuite — littéralement les seuls instants où l’on respire.

 Le tout orchestré par Jim Jarmusch, qui enferme son film dans un double paradoxe : 

c’est intelligent, c’est maîtrisé… et pourtant profondément déprimant.

Premier paradoxe : nous parler de la beauté du lien familial à travers des familles dysfonctionnelles, fracturées, pleines de rancune et de frustrations. 

Deuxième paradoxe : nous expliquer que les mots ne disent jamais tout, en remplissant le film de silences si lourds qu’ils pourraient demander un abonnement à la salle de sport.

 Le film travaille en soustraction, oui — parfois jusqu’à soustraire l’envie de continuer à regarder.

Tout est là, pourtant. 

Le style Jarmusch, reconnaissable entre mille : cadres élégants, lenteur assumée, humanité marginale, musique impeccable, personnages à côté du monde. 

Mais à force de cohérence, le film devient un objet sous cloche, froid, distant, presque clinique. Une démonstration de cinéma d’auteur parfaitement exécutée, mais émotionnellement anémique.

L’universalité, grande valeur revendiquée du film, devient ici son principal problème. 

Oui, la famille est universelle. 

Oui, elle est faite de désillusions, de frustrations et de non-dits. 

Mais avait-on vraiment besoin de se faire rappeler tout cela avec autant de gravité, dans un monde déjà saturé de gris, de silence et de fatigue morale ? 

On aurait aimé un pas de côté, une étincelle, un risque. Quelque chose. N’importe quoi.

Father Mother Sister Brother n’est pas un manuel sur la famille : c’est un résumé. 

Un bon résumé, bien écrit, bien filmé, bien joué. Mais un résumé quand même.

 Il ne nous apprend rien que l’on ne sache déjà, ne nous bouscule pas, ne nous surprend pas.

 Il confirme. Calmement. Poliment. Trop poliment.

 Et c’est peut-être ça, le vrai problème : Father Mother Sister Brother a gagné le Lion d’or, mais il lui manque ce grain de folie, cette audace, cette chaleur qui justifierait qu’on s’en souvienne autrement que comme « ce film très bien fait, très intelligent, et très déprimant ».

Il est élégant, oui. Lucide, certainement. Poétique, parfois. Mais original ? Pas vraiment. Nécessaire ? Encore moins. 

Par Giulia Dobre

Paris, le 12 Janvier 2026.

#jarmush #fathermothersisterbrother

Magellan, According to Lav Diaz: No Hurry, No Mercy

 

Magellan is the kind of film that looks you straight in the eye and says: “Sit down, breathe — we’re going to take our time.” 

And time, with Lav Diaz, is not a technical variable; it’s raw material, a belief system, almost a provocation aimed at our caffeine-fueled era.

A long, contemplative account of the irrational yet stubborn quest of one of history’s most famous explorers, Magellan moves forward like a slow but inexorable tide. 

Everything here is sumptuous: the breathtaking beauty of the images, the almost obsessive perfection of the framing, and above all the overwhelming sense that the tragedies are not meant to surprise us — only to fall upon us, inevitably.

We are in the sixteenth century. 

Magellan, a Portuguese explorer rejected by his own king (nothing feeds ambition quite like refusal), convinces the Spanish Crown to back his grand voyage eastward. 

The film spans key moments of his life: Malacca, Seville, marriage, hope — and then the Philippine expedition, doomed from the start and sealed by death at the Battle of Mactan. 

But don’t expect a conventional biopic, complete with psychological arcs and emotional signposting. Lav Diaz has no interest in that whatsoever.

The Magellan Diaz portrays is gradually demystified, reduced to what he also was: an agent of colonial violence, a man hardened by conquest, faith, and a chilling certainty of righteousness. 

His intransigence and madness are embodied with striking restraint by Gael García Bernal, far removed from the feverish romanticism of Amores Perros. 

Here, his gaze is often empty, opaque, almost lifeless — a gaze that no longer doubts, which may be the most frightening thing of all.

The film is interested neither in psychology nor in spectacle. 

Instead, it presents the Pacific crossing as a slow bureaucratic and religious descent into hell: sentences, executions, famine, mutinies. 

At one point, Magellan condemns two men to death for “fornication” — colonial horror operates not only on a grand scale, but also in the intimate, in the body. 

Between these moments come the letters of Beatriz, a wife already spectral even before Magellan’s departure, haunting the film like a blurred memory, a trembling apparition in his arms. 

It is beautiful, sad, almost unreal.

Visually, Magellan is a feast. 

The cinematography, shared with Artur Tort (best known for his work with Albert Serra), turns every shot into a painting. One thinks of Zurbarán’s chiaroscuro, the mystical frontal compositions of Velázquez, or the vast landscapes of Caspar David Friedrich, where human figures dissolve into immensity. 

Even a branch swaying at the edge of the frame seems to possess a richer biography than certain historical characters. 

Wind, mud, jungle — everything speaks, everything insists.

Diaz is not a filmmaker of individuals — unlike Scorsese or even Herzog — but a filmmaker of History as mythological mass. 

And he understands that it would be absurd to strip history of its legendary cloak. 

Yet this mysticism is constantly fractured by emptiness and silence. 

Here, even the most manic scream cannot slow the march of conquest, territorial appropriation — nor that of resistance.

It is impossible not to think of Manoel de Oliveira, especially Non, or the Vain Glory of Command and The Fifth Empire. 

The same frontal engagement with the colonial past, the same refusal of simplistic discourse, the same way of filming History as a frozen theater in which humanity endlessly reenacts its own errors. 

Viewers expecting a neat, academic, postcolonial rant can move along: Lav Diaz trusts the intelligence of his audience — and that trust is refreshing.

The film clearly adopts a Filipino perspective, yet Diaz has the elegance (and courage) not to sanctify it. He dares to question the figure of Lapu-Lapu, national hero and symbol of resistance, suggesting that his myth may have been instrumentalized by Rajah Humabon to counter Christian conversion. 

When a filmmaker challenges both colonial narratives and national myths, you know you are in good hands.

Yes, Lav Diaz sometimes indulges in extremely long sequences. 

Yes, not everyone will endure them. But Magellan deliberately sails against the current of our frantic age. 

Radical, sumptuous, at times exhausting, often deeply moving, the film calls for a patience that borders on the spiritual in the face of human violence. 

This is not a cinema to be consumed — it is a cinema to be crossed.

I left the film drained, moved, slightly dazed — but profoundly grateful. Because films like Magellan, today, do not explain the world to us.

 They force us to look at it longer.

By Giulia Dobre

Paris, January 10th 2026.

Magellan selon Lav Diaz : trois heures, zéro compromis, mille fantômes

 

Magellan, c’est le genre de film qui te regarde droit dans les yeux et te dit : « assieds-toi, respire, on va prendre le temps ». 

Et le temps, chez Lav Diaz, ce n’est pas une variable technique : c’est une matière première, une foi, presque une provocation adressée à notre époque sous caféine.

Récit contemplatif de la quête aussi obstinée qu’irrationnelle de l’un des explorateurs les plus célèbres de l’Histoire, Magellan avance comme une marée lente mais inexorable. 

Tout y est somptueux : la beauté sidérante des images, la rigueur quasi maniaque du cadre, et surtout ce sentiment écrasant que les drames ne sont pas là pour surprendre… mais pour s’abattre, inévitablement.

Nous sommes au XVIᵉ siècle. 

Magellan, explorateur portugais recalé par son propre roi (rien de tel qu’un refus pour nourrir l’ego), va séduire la Couronne espagnole et se lancer dans sa grande traversée vers l’Orient.

 Le film embrasse de larges pans de sa vie : Malacca, Séville, le mariage, les espoirs, puis l’expédition philippine, vouée à l’échec et scellée par la mort à Mactan. 

Mais ne cherchez pas ici un biopic classique, avec progression psychologique bien balisée et musique qui souligne l’émotion : Lav Diaz n’en a strictement rien à faire.

Le Magellan que Diaz filme est progressivement démystifié, ramené à ce qu’il fut aussi : un agent de la violence coloniale, un homme rigidifié par la foi, la conquête et une certitude glaçante d’avoir raison. 

Sa folie et son intransigeance sont incarnées avec une sobriété troublante par Gael García Bernal, très loin du romantisme fiévreux d’Amores Perros. 

Ici, son regard est souvent vide, opaque, presque mort. 

Un regard qui ne doute plus — et c’est peut-être ce qu’il y a de plus effrayant.

Le film ne s’intéresse ni à la psychologie, ni au spectacle.

 Il préfère montrer la traversée du Pacifique comme une lente descente aux enfers bureaucratique et religieuse : condamnations, exécutions, famine, mutineries. 

À un moment, Magellan fait condamner à mort deux hommes pour « unzucht » — l’horreur coloniale s’exerce aussi dans le détail, dans l’intime, dans le corps. 

Entre ces scènes, surgissent les lettres de Beatriz, épouse déjà fantomatique avant même le départ, qui hante le film comme un souvenir flou, une apparition tremblée dans les bras de Magellan. 

C’est beau, triste, presque irréel.

Visuellement, Magellan est un festin.

 La photographie, signée avec Artur Tort (complice d’Albert Serra), transforme chaque plan en tableau.

 On pense aux clair-obscur de Zurbarán, à la frontalité mystique de Velázquez, aux paysages dilatés de Caspar David Friedrich, où l’homme n’est qu’un point perdu face à l’immensité.

 Même une branche qui vacille au bord du cadre semble avoir une biographie plus riche que certains personnages historiques. 

Le vent, la boue, la jungle : tout parle, tout insiste.

Diaz n’est pas un cinéaste des individus — contrairement à un Scorsese ou même un Herzog — mais un cinéaste de l’Histoire comme masse mythologique. 

Et il sait qu’il serait absurde de lui retirer son manteau de légende. 

Pourtant, cette mystique est constamment fissurée par le vide et le silence. 

Ici, même le cri le plus hystérique ne peut ralentir la marche de la conquête, de l’appropriation territoriale… ni celle de la résistance.

Impossible de ne pas penser à Manoel de Oliveira, notamment à Non, ou A Vã Glória de Mandar ou O Quinto Império. Même refus du discours simpliste, même manière de filmer l’Histoire comme un théâtre figé où les hommes répètent inlassablement leurs erreurs. 

Ceux qui attendent une charge postcoloniale universitaire, bien propre, bien soulignée, peuvent passer leur chemin : Lav Diaz fait confiance à l’intelligence du spectateur — et ça fait du bien.

Le film adopte clairement un point de vue philippin, mais Diaz a l’élégance (et le courage) de ne pas en faire un récit sacralisé. 

Il ose questionner la figure de Lapu-Lapu, héros national, symbole de résistance, suggérant que son mythe aurait été instrumentalisé par Rajah Humabon pour contrer la christianisation. 

Quand un cinéaste remet en cause aussi bien le récit colonial que le récit national, on sait qu’on est entre de bonnes mains.

Alors oui, Lav Diaz abuse parfois des très longues séquences. 

Oui, tout le monde ne tiendra pas. 

Mais Magellan navigue volontairement à contre-courant de notre époque frénétique. 

Radical, somptueux, parfois éprouvant, souvent bouleversant, le film nous invite à une patience presque spirituelle face à la violence humaine. 

C’est un cinéma qui ne se consomme pas : il se traverse.

Et moi, je suis sorti du film vidée, émue, un peu hagarde— mais profondément reconnaissante. 

Parce que des films comme Magellan, aujourd’hui, ça n’explique pas le monde : ça nous oblige à le regarder plus longtemps.

Par Giulia Dobre

Paris, 10 Janvier 2026.

Vu au Cinema le 104 Pantin