It Lives Inside includes many of these tropes and fans of the curse movies noted above will find much to enjoy. Furthermore, Dutta, who co-wrote the script with Ashish Mehta, innovates with the central character’s background. While curse films do come from Japan and Korea, there is a long tradition of white women encountering these horrors, from Naomi Watts to Alison Lohman to Sosie Bacon, sisters of the Final Girl protagonists of many a slasher, from Laurie Strode to Laurie Strode’s granddaughter. It Lives Inside focuses upon Samidha (Megan Suri, “Missing”), the daughter of Indian immigrants to the US, Poorna (Neeru Bajwa, “Criminal”) and Inesh (Vik Sahay, “Captain Marvel”). An Indian protagonist is something different, not simply because of skin color but because Indian folklore is less familiar to western audiences, and the immigrant experience allows for other tensions.

The history of Samidha’s family is expressed efficiently without being heavy-handed. Poorna largely speaks Hindi and expects Samidha to attend traditional events, while her daughter speaks English with no Indian accent, and prefers to go by the name Sam, hang out with (American) friends and spend time with boys, especially Russ (Gage Marsh, “Riceboy Sleeps”). This context also highlights a tension between tradition and modernity, as different generations do not understand each other. The familiar trope of the teenager distanced from her parents is therefore refreshed by this cultural background, and as Sam grows increasingly frantic over something strange happening, her inability to discuss the matter with her parents is a logical extension of that. Sam’s relationships with her school peers also draws attention to the universal experience of feeling different and out of place, but with the added weight of being from an immigrant family and designated as “Other.” This might sound like too specific an experience for general audiences to engage with, but as described by the great film critic Roger Ebert, cinema is a machine for generating empathy. It Lives Inside highlights the feeling of being looked upon as “Other,” in such a way that any audience can get a flavor for this feeling, much like another very different film of 2023, “Joy Ride.”

In case this sounds like a social drama along the lines of “Blinded By The Light,” “Moonlight” or “The Florida Project,” it is important to note that It Lives Inside is also bloody scary. Sam’s former best friend Tamira (Mohana Krishnan) approaches her one day at school with a strange story that Sam dismisses, only to disappear in mysterious circumstances. Sam then starts feeling a presence and spotting an ephemeral figure. This malevolent shadow that appears in closets and mirrors has the right level of uncanniness, humanoid and yet identifiably wrong. Dutta paces the film carefully, drawing the viewer into Sam’s experience as she steadily becomes more fraught and frightened. Uncertainty over possible madness gives way to set pieces with vicious attacks, featuring precise gore which is all the more compelling. Seeing a person literally ripped in two can be more comical than creepy, but the sight of small wounds appearing in a forearm with no visual cause allows the viewer to focus on this injury and wince accordingly, as well as being placed in the character’s frightening position of not knowing what is happening. These sequences ratchet up the suspense and culminate in visceral jump scares, that may lead to gasps and even screams.

As is sometimes the case with these things, once ambiguity gives way to certainty the film becomes less scary, as the explanation into what is happening is a little pat and provides a solution that you can probably see coming. Some possibly overdone flashback editing in the climactic scene signposts the direction. The coda, while effective, has been done better elsewhere. That said, throughout the film the stakes remain high and the central conceit of having to balance the demands of family and tradition with being a contemporary teenager are played out effectively, as the route taken by Sam is interesting as well as arresting. Overall, It Lives Inside offers an effective take on an established formula, encapsulating various social and familial tensions along with some serious terror.

Director Federica Di Giacomo brings us this documentary straight from Italy, chronicling the day-to-day doings of Father Cataldo, a locally-revered exorcist who is seemingly always surrounded by either his parishioners or travelers from afar wishing to receive his blessings. Although the movie is filmed in the province of Palermo (which lies on the opposite side of the country to Vatican City), the long reach of the religious foundation is evident in the sheer number of people who show up for Father Cataldo’s group exorcisms and preachings.

Never once though, does Deliver Us try to convince the viewer it is something other than an informal spectator. It’s not particularly religious per se, nor is it scary. It begins and ends as a straightforward, fly-on-the-wall perspective towards the events unfolding onscreen. While certainly atmospheric at times, the film is mostly an intimate look at the parishioners and their assorted maladies. For most, religious consultation is all they need, regardless of how nonsensical or serious their ailment is. Outside of the three primary churchgoers the film gives center stage to, it is not always disclosed if the parishioners have optioned legitimate medical help for their issues, and the movie can sometimes be hard to watch if your empathy for their afflictions carries more weight than your ideological standards.

Di Giacomo never demonizes Cataldo’s or any other priest’s actions (if anything, it paints them as heroes) either, but their immensely powerful influence is on full display. The answer is always the same: Pray more, trust in your faith, etc. All the while, comparisons to animals are audibly made by religious officials during exorcisms, and there almost feels like a hair of condescension to it, especially as those affected hiss, curse and flail about.

The greatest strength of the film, however, is in how accessible it is despite its language barrier (Italian). Whatever side of the spiritual coin you fall on, you’re sure to take something away from the movie. Whether you’re bemused by the Father’s unorthodox practices (which include performing an exorcism over the phone and devoting a lengthy prayer to his car) or perturbed by the dogmatic nature of the Palermo’s religious culture, there is a different kind of offering for everybody to receive a separate experience from.

Deliver Us is one of the more captivating looks at devout faith that cinema has offered in years. Punctuated by the reality of the parishioners’ plights, the film avoids leering into horror-like traps or religious zealotry to keep the audience engaged. It’s character-driven and remains restrained, fixating on the human element rather than the exorcisms themselves. And yet, the film ends on a final note that, regardless of how you felt before, could cause you to question everything that came before (that is, if you weren’t skeptical already). Despite that, the film delves deeper into the subject than any fictionalized account likely would, which makes it worth a watch in my book.

Spoken almost entirely in Yiddish, Menashe (Menashe Lustig) is a widower who wants to live his own life and raise his young son Rieven (Ruben Niborsk) by himself. Unfortunately, the ultra-Orthodox community of which he is a part does not see it that way. In his opposition to Hasidic cultural norms, he risks his son’s expulsion from school and jeopardizes his status in the community. Menashe wants to do right by his son, but the Talmud says that a man needs three things: A nice wife, a house and dishes (presumably no paper plates). Without a wife Menashe has to allow Rieven’s gruff and super critical uncle Eizik (Yoel Weisshaus) to raise the boy. The burly, sloppy-looking Menashe fancies himself as a rebel, refusing to wear a hat and jacket required by Hasidic custom, but he is a rebel without a cause.

Weinstein, however, does not stand in judgment of his main character and tells his story in a straightforward, if not entirely sympathetic manner, but it is a hard sell. Menashe’s job stocking shelves at a local market is barely enough to make a living and his ineptness draws the ire of his boss when one thousand dollars worth of gefilte fish falls out of the van he is driving. In addition, the small unkempt one-room apartment is a dubious environment to raise a child. Menashe feeds his son junk food and sodas for breakfast, but the boy, though critical of the way he treated his mother, still loves him.

The stakes are high, but Menashe refuses to remarry, telling friends that his previous arranged marriage with an Israeli woman was filled with constant conflict and unhappiness and tells a beggar to avoid marriage because “it’s better for your health.” He goes on a date with a widowed mother with children who is not reticent about telling him what a fine husband he would make. When Menashe shows his reluctance to enter into a marriage of convenience, however, she condemns Hasidic men, saying that, “First your mothers spoil you, then your wives.” Menashe appeals to the rabbi (Meyer Schwartz) but he is unyielding. Eventually he takes pity and offers a compromise: Rieven can stay with Menashe for one month, but if he hasn’t remarried after the anniversary of his mother’s death, the boy must return to Eizik.

Desperate to prove himself to be a worthy father, Menashe asks the rabbi if he can host a memorial for his deceased wife in his small apartment. Reluctantly all agree that “even a bear can learn to dance.” Menashe raises complex issues about the conflict between social acceptance, religious dogma, and human needs and desires. Unfortunately, the film’s running time of eighty-two minutes seems inadequate to explore the complex issues the film raises. Weinstein, however, does not want to go there. He said, “I was interested more in the non-plot elements than the plot of the film. It was about the texture, the anecdotes, faces, moments.” These poignant faces are moments we cannot forget.

In filmmaker Otto Bell’s soaring and beautifully shot first feature documentary The Eagle Huntress audiences are certain to become engaged by the true story of a gifted 13-year old Kazakh girl’s quest to explore uncharted territory by becoming the first female in many generations to earn the sacred title of eagle hunter . . . a distinction reserved for her older male counterparts. Refreshingly uplifting and revealing, Bell’s exquisite and challenging Mongolian-based documentary artfully juggles the perceptions of blossoming girl power, animal activism, familial norms/expectations and the jaw-dropping meditation of the world’s vibrant aerial landscape steeped in both picturesque tranquility and turbulence. Indeed, The Eagle Huntress is a rewarding character study particularly for the legions of young girl’s encouraged to explore their boundaries beyond the perceived societal confines of restriction.

As narrated and co-produced by English actress Daisy Ridley (“Star Wars: The Force Awakens”), The Eagle Huntress specifically spotlights Aisholpan Nurgaiv as she strives to achieve her ultimate goal in hunting game with the accompaniment of her trusty feral eagle. This goal, as it happens, will also override the gender barrier linked to the 12 generations in her Mongolian tribe’s backstory where only the males are allowed the privilege for intense gaming. Thankfully, the young gal is blessed with support from her family to pursue her huntress ambitions. Importantly, Aisholpan has the guidance of the male members of her family to supply the training foundation for her craft as it is known that Aisholpan has big shoes to fill in her eagle-hunting endeavors — her father has scored countless accolades for his hunting prowess.

The colorful journey that the courageous Aisholpan undergoes as a ground-breaking female trying the crack the untested Mongolian masculine code of dominance with the breathtaking backdrop of the Altai Mountains is certainly praise-worthy enough. However, what makes Aisholpan also so unique and cherished is that she is a mere child out on a very grown-up adventure. This crafty kid will accept nothing less than what she sets out to gain in her proud role as fierce huntress to be reckoned with at large. Still, we also see that despite Aisholpan’s eagle-hunting ambitions and her navigating around the so-called “girly” assigned duties (such as perfecting her homemaking skills in the manner of her beloved mother) she is very much a typical product of an impressionable youngster that probably would appreciate what her contemporaries crave — the attention of the opposite sex, applying nail polish and harboring reverence for her domesticated mother who serves as a role model.

Although it is clear that Aisholpan is the treasured and true centerpiece that resonates so effectively in The Eagle Huntress, the film produces other relevant elements worth the price of admission. For instance, cinematographer Simon Niblett’s sweeping and sensual camera captures the scenic crystal blue skies meshing so lyrically with the wintery white frozen surfaces below. The partnership between the resourceful Aisholpan and her trained eagle — an incredible specimen in its own right — is downright sweet in workman-like form.

The powerful message at stake in the film should not just be dismissed as simply a feel-good female empowerment spectacle even though this labeling is far from being considered derogatory. Bell musters up a solid and positive look at one young girl’s venture into womanhood by ironically tapping into the male ritual of eagle hunting en route to a revitalized self-discovery. This is definitely an important and intriguing story for children to duplicate, respect and learn from. Kids, however, are not the only audience that can benefit from Aisholpan’s perseverance for excellence in the male-dominated game of hunting. There are plenty of adults that should take a cue from this pint-sized, mountaintop over-achiever.

Sure, there are a few extraordinary girl-inspired entries that can compare to the telling triumph highlighted in the heartwarming The Eagle Huntress. Namely, Niki Caro’s 2002 New Zealand-based drama “Whale Rider” comes to mind. Hopefully though, viewers will hunt for this particular eagle that spreads its adventurous wings for all young girls (and even boys for that matter) who wish to embark on a difficult path to potential greatness. Hey, it certainly worked for the resilient huntress, Aisholpan Nurgaiv.

The title Home is somewhat ironic, as it is essentially a story of being homeless. Rather than being about life on the street, however, it portrays in stark and unflinchingly bleak detail the lack of options for women. Hava (Xheljane Tërbunja, “The Albanian”) is an unmarried woman in her thirties, whose parents have died. According to tradition, the estate is divided between her brothers, and she is entitled to nothing. Her role is to get married and have children, with her husband supporting her. Hava rails against these social expectations, but her options are very limited. She works in a restaurant with no apparent prospects for career progression, and her brother Qazim (Sunaj Raca, “Shok”) insists on finding her a husband. While other options briefly appear, contingencies and requirements decided by men continually press upon her, both directly and indirectly, until she is left with nothing.

The film could be considered a piece of Kosovan realism, as like British social realism, its focus is on social-economic reality, with no sudden opportunities or salvation appearing. For a brief time, something truly positive and hopeful appears, but it is quickly revealed to be another form of patriarchal oppression that Hava vehemently rejects. Pleasingly, the film is far from a piece of misandry, as rather than presenting all men as bastards, the antagonist to Hava is the institution of patriarchy itself, an endemic social issue rather than something limited to individuals.

The men in the film, including Qazim and a potential landlord (Veton Osmani, “The Forgiveness of Blood”), are operating within the strictures of long-held beliefs that they have no reason to oppose. Similarly, Hava is no activist, simply a victim of traditional and societal expectations. She may object to the demands that she marry and accept the judgment of her brothers, but she makes no concerted effort to resist other than telling Qazim she does not want to marry anyone and angrily wipes off the lipstick he insisted she wear. This scene between brother and sister is particularly powerful, as it is the most defiant Hava is in the entire film but, crucially, her defiance is in vain. Hava cuts a striking figure in this moment, as the image of her with lipstick smeared across her face gives her the appearance of a sex attack victim, and in a way she is. Qazim may not have physically assaulted her, but his attempts to marry her off and eventual rejection of her altogether are no less an attack upon her autonomy or denial of her identity.

Further adding to her outcast status, Hava appears to be a lesbian, as she meets clandestinely with a girlfriend (Florentina Ademi, “Donkeys of the Border”) who informs her that they cannot see each other any more because an unnamed man has returned. He may be the father or brother of the girlfriend, but her children suggest that he is probably her husband. Therefore, here is another woman trapped by societal pressures, unable to express her own sexuality except in secret and when her male overseer is absent. In one heartbreaking scene, Hava pleads for her girlfriend to run away with her, knowing full well that the girlfriend will not because of her children. Once again, options for Hava are closed off because of the restrictions placed upon women.

Despite all this grimness, the film is not an entirely dour experience. Raca and director of photography Latif Hasolli use deep focus long shots to capture the Kosovan capital, Prishtina, its towers and minarets outlined against the night sky in stark beauty. Indeed, much of the film is beautiful despite a lack of stylistic flair, as the steady camera and flat lighting convey the everyday as eye-catching. Even a train track in a rundown part of town is gorgeously rendered, the deep shadows contrasting with the pale bricks while shallow focus turns the lights of moving cars and trains into roving specters in the background. Within this bleak beauty, Hava’s face remains largely unchanged, a stoic look of long suffering fixed upon her features. Home is far from sentimental, but it is deeply sympathetic towards its protagonist, encouraging similar sympathy on the part of the viewer, who is as unlikely to come up with an answer as the film itself.

Bustamante’s stark narrative focuses its concentrated lens on the plight of a 17-year old Guatemalan girl earmarked for marriage by her poverty-stricken, working-class Kaqchikel parents living at the base of an active volcano. Ironically, the only true element that is systematically explosive about Ixcanul is not the proximity of the aforementioned volcano, but the voiceless and powerless minor that does not have a decent say about the psychological and physical loaning of her body to the highest child-exploitive bidder. Unconscionable and regrettably humanistic in tragedy and deemed practicality, Ixcanul is strikingly hypnotic and forceful among the nearby ominous alert of lava-spewing anticipation.

The film’s title is the name (or translation if you will) of the intimidating volcano that serves as the harrowing backdrop for timid teen María (María Mercedes Coroy) who is officially “put on the market” as the-bride-to-be nervously awaiting to be hitched. Currently, María — with the looming reminder of the volcano overshadowing her meek frame — works on the coffee plantation that her parents Juana and Manuel (María Telón and Manuel Antún) oversee routinely. The agenda is rather self-explanatory . . . María’s folks hope to wed her off to their wealthy businessman boss Ignacio (Justo Lorenzo) for obvious, opportunistic financial gain. María, curiously sexual in experimentation, however, has genuine affections for childhood sweetie Pepe (Marvin Coroy). Both youngsters fantasize about leaving their restrictive rocky surroundings behind for the preference of escaping to the United States. Soon, María’s dalliances with Ignacio create chaos and controversy (read as: Pre-marital pregnancy) that impacts her and her family’s monetary arrangements. Seemingly, the Ixcanul feels like a massive and menacing wall shielding María from the rest of the open, flexible world.

As much as María would like to desperately break out of her confining shell and buck all the traditional trappings that she is destined to follow, she is a necessary slave to the demands of her familial protocol. After all, how can María walk away from the enforced world of arranged marriages, agriculture and livestock, capitalism, unexpected pregnancy and assuming the reluctant role of a desperate family’s ready-made profitable commodity? When María is subjected to wearing her wedding garments in quiet protest we feel utterly helpless to rescue this child from inevitable turmoil and despair. The sadness and indignation states it all in Maria’s soft, dejected eyes.

In many ways Ixcanul is a harsh coming-of-age ancestral straight jacket for this young girl’s deprivation in experiencing her blossoming womanhood on her own gradual terms. Bustamante’s exploration and examination of his homeland’s antiquated Guatemalan cultural norms affecting the psyche of a demure highlands child wallowing in silent hopelessness is eye-opening on many levels. This candid exposition balances its tug-of-war topics with solid conviction. Perhaps Bustamante swings at too many sentimental dilemmas at once without narrowing down his angst-ridden meandering to where it truly belongs — on the fragile shoulders of his burdened farm girl? Nevertheless, the contrasting symbolism of ancient customs and modern-day curiosities and using the mighty Ixcanul as an interesting metaphor for the intimidating obstacle fending off worldly progression and freedom really captures the inner torment of sheltered societies that rely on historical belief systems.

Ixcanul is beautifully shot and the film’s exotic surroundings all possess the scenic wonderment highlighted by the spacious crystal blue sky scraping the volcano’s colossal peak. The colorful terrain, animals, religious superstitions, vegetation and of course the presence of humanity that reinforces the perceived ethnography are all cohesively stunning and surreal. The actors, at least the majority of them anyway, all make their on-screen debut in Bustamante’s visually stimulating and observational foray into the mesmerizing machinations of Guatemala’s Mayan community. Specifically, the film’s lively pulse belongs to the mother-daughter tandem of Coroy’s María and Telón’s Juana because there is supposed to be a sacred bond where a mother’s protection is constant. Actually, Juana is protective of her little girl and wants the best for her although María’s marital riches spells relief for the entire clan. Juana is just as disillusioned, but she is disciplined by her country’s local rituals and needs to ensure that Maria dutifully walks along the same traditional trail. As the monolithic mass that blocks our peasant girl’s (as well as her people) fascination with what is on the other side of the volcano oddly acts as its own beastly barricade of a supporting character essential to the foundation of the film’s turbulence and tenderness.

Thankfully, Guatemalan filmmaker Jayro Bustamante has crafted an impressive and introspective debuted gem that fuels honesty and a compelling brand of insight tip-toeing through the tunnels of cultural triumph and tragedy. Indeed, Ixcanul spreads its volcanic ashes with powerful, hypnotic aplomb.