Our stern, but honorable protagonist, who in similar films might be played by Daniel Craig, Matt Damon or Liam Neeson, is Father Quart, portrayed by Richard Armitage (“Ocean’s 8”). We are introduced to Quart in suitable tough guy pose — performing press-ups while stripped to the waist, which is not the only time that this male body is presented as a spectacle. Quart is a member of Vatican External Affairs — i.e., Vatican intelligence — sent to investigate a church in Seville. The church is up for demolition so that urban regeneration / gentrification can proceed, but the owner of the land as well as the resident priest are resisting the developers. Mysterious deaths in the church cause the Vatican to take an interest, an interest further fueled by a mysterious hacker who breaks through the Vatican’s firewalls to send a personal plea to the Pope. Eager to avoid a scandal, the head of External Affairs, Monseñor Paolo Spada (Paul Guilfoyle, “Spotlight”) dispatches Quart, who is struggling with guilt over his last assignment. Quart insists to all that he encounters that he is in Seville to “write a report,” but the various figures he meets, including landowner Macarena Bruner (Amaia Salamanca, “Despite Everything”), Padre Príamo Ferro (Paul Freeman, “A Fantastic Fear of Everything”), Pencho Gavira (Rodolfo Sancho, “Don’t Listen”), Gris Masala (Alicia Borrachero, “Terminator: Dark Fate”) and Comisionado Navajo (Victor Mallarino, “Bluff”) are, not unreasonably, convinced that there is more going on. Indeed, Quart quickly learns of heated marital disputes, local legends, blackmail and cover-ups.

The Catholic Church lends itself to this genre. Like intelligence agencies, it is presented as a large-scale institution with bureaucracy, multiple departments, an almost regal presence at the top, senior bigwigs, field agents plus high technology, and tensions with local authorities. Some might find it unrealistic that a priest is equipped with a handgun and remote tech support, running around like James Bond or Jack Bauer. Others might find it all too believable that the Church wields this sort of power. Ultimately, whether any of this is realistic or not is irrelevant, because the real question is does it work as a narrative? For the most part, the answer is yes, as screenwriter-director Sergio Dow delivers an intriguing and absorbing thriller with attractive Euro-locations and many ornate surroundings in which its colorful cavalcade of characters clash. Dow’s direction is unremarkable but functional, eschewing shaky cam stylistics or jarring editing like Paul Greengrass, or attention-grabbing long takes à la Sam Hargraves’ “Extraction.” The action sequences are punchy but contained, allowing us to see the action choreography and keeping gunshots to a minimum.

Unusually though, Dow manages to make hacking dramatic. An early scene in the Vatican’s cyber security center features inter-cutting between the priestly tech team (because that’s a sentence) and a mysterious hooded figure hacking into their systems with all the import of breaching the NSA. Fingers tapping on keyboards and various screens of rapidly appearing code are not inherently exciting, but with judicious cutting, Dow and editors Pablo Blanco and Miguel Angel Prieto evoke genuine tension more akin to Michael Mann’s electrifying “Blackhat” than the tedious “Live Free or Die Hard.”

Pleasingly, despite the slightly camp hacker figure, The Man from Rome features relatively little in the way of moustache-twirling villainy. A loose assembly of enemies demonstrates the globalized nature of finance, embezzlement, development and corruption. That said, Gavira makes for a convincing bastard, both in terms of his financial venality and domestic attitude.

In opposition to these shady characters, Armitage is an engaging lead, channeling an energy reminiscent of Clive Owen in “The International.” As Monseñor Spada, Guilfoyle is a tricky presence, appearing by turns both trustworthy and also less so. Carlos Cuevas as Padre Cooey provides a Q-like figure to Quart’s 00-Dog Collar, while Salamanca makes Macarena a suitable damsel who manages her distress quite well, thank you very much. Fionniula Flanagan (“Havenhurst”) makes a surprising appearance as a Spanish Duchess, who is perhaps used rather heavy-handedly. As this list may indicate, the film has a lot of characters, and it may be hard to keep up with them, but it does keep the viewer guessing, which is part of the fun with a film like this. And by large, this is a fun film, that effectively infuses the genre tropes with its religious conceit. Some elements are less effective: There is a romance angle that goes nowhere, so begs the question of what was the point? More grating is the constant presence of English dialogue. One character is Irish and two are American, the rest are Spanish, Italian or from Eastern Europe. Yet in Vatican City and Seville, everyone speaks English, with a variety of accents. With a largely Spanish cast and a clear presence of internationalism, the English is quite jarring, to the extent that when Quart orders a coffee in Spanish, it comes as something of a relief. For an international co-production between Spain, Italy and Colombia, it is strange and annoying that subtitles still seem to be a big problem.

Aside from these two aspects, and a rather clunky title, The Man from Rome is an effectively intriguing conspiracy mystery that blends espionage, cyber thrills and religion into a rich concoction. It may not be worth devout worship, but no one involved in the film need say a Hail Mary.

The Breach, directed by Rodrigo Gudiño (“The Last Will and Testament of Rosalind Leigh”) and written by Ian Weir and Craig Davidson (based on the Audible Original by Nick Cutter) is a Canadian curio that relies on understatement amongst its performers as well as some gorgeous scenery. We open on this scenery as a solitary canoe drifts down a river, surrounded by trees and a stunning sky. As the canoe floats past a family picnicking by the river, we gather from their reactions that there is something unpleasant in that canoe, before the title of the film fills the frame and we launch into a title sequence that takes us through mysterious clouds and lights. These credits are reminiscent of the opening of “Event Horizon” as well as the end of “Wounds,” and that will not be the last recall that Gudiño’s film provides.

Once the object in the canoe is inspected by police chief John Hawkins (Allan Hawco, “Midnight at the Paradise”), the mystery deepens and John sets off to investigate further with his ex-girlfriend Meg Fullbright (Emily Alatalo, “Spare Parts”), who knows the river and forest and hires out boats, and her ex-boyfriend Jacob Redgrave (Wesley French, “Trouble in the Garden”), who is also the local coroner. Thus, the tensions between our central three characters are established, and the film mechanically reminds us of these tensions periodically. This is but the first of a number of unnecessary details in the film that demonstrate overwriting, detracting from the central premise that is itself overly complicated.

Our heroes find a grand old mansion in the woods, which initially seems to be isolated yet also remarkably well-equipped. They understandably ask, “Who builds a place like this in the woods?” and no answer is provided by the film other than “We want to make a scary house movie and cabin in the woods was too clichéd.” Clichés are fine when used well, as both “The Cabin in the Woods” and 2013’s “Evil Dead” demonstrate. However, when the attempts to avoid clichés mean recourse to others, it leads to a deeply unsatisfying experience. The mansion is described as older than it should be, but we do not learn why. The power systems of the house have been repurposed, but we do not understand how. A further family dynamic featuring Linda Parsons (Natalie Brown, “Blood Honey”) is introduced that includes undefined drama and such pet names as Tinkerbell. This family seem to have wandered in from another film, suggesting a lack of faith in the central three. Granted, they are quite dull, the performances perfunctory at best.

Also perfunctory is the over-plotting to explain a rogue scientific experiment — aren’t they all? — which recalls “From Beyond” as well as “The Mist” and even “REC,” but brings none of the atmosphere, menace or drama of any of these. There are some very gory moments with some admittedly creative designs, but the inclusion of gore seems more like compensation for a lack of commitment to the other aspects of the film. Gudiño’s direction is often flat and clumsy, such as fast cuts when John, Meg and Jake discover things that we know are weird because they repeatedly say, “No fucking way.” Worse are the rather feeble action sequences that feature little visual flair and indeed contradict earlier instances. Further contradictions emerge when the isolated aspect of the mansion is removed for reasons best described as plot; suggestions are made of a global conspiracy that is supported by discussion of peanut butter (seriously); the juxtaposition of both scientific and occult tropes adds to the irritating hodgepodge that the film increasingly collapses into.

The Breach is a victim of an affliction found in many horror films, as well as action and, perhaps to a lesser extent, science fiction. When you look at some of the most effective horror films, from “Shivers” to “The Shining” to “Hellraiser” to “Ringu,” as well as modern efforts like “It Follows” and “The Babadook,” they are simple stories creatively told. The Breach, however, is a convoluted assemblage of stories, tropes and clichés, jumbled together with little focus or clarity. We do not get drawn into the character dynamics nor indeed the (admittedly dangerous) situation, because the film expends too much effort on introducing new weird or gruesome things to maintain attention. The end result is an unengaging mess that recalls enough better films that you may well wish you are watching those instead. The unwieldy collection of different elements overwhelm each other, but the viewer is left thoroughly underwhelmed.

Winner of the Golden Lion Award at the 2021 Venice Film Festival, Audrey Diwan’s (“Losing It”) harrowing abortion drama Happening takes place in rural France during the 1960s, a decade before abortion was legalized in France. Based on the memoir by Annie Erma (“Les Années Super-8”), the film is a gripping and, at times, uncomfortable reminder of the inherent physical and emotional dangers of illegal, “back-alley” abortions, procedures that pose a danger to the unborn child as well as to the health of the mother. Co-written by Marcia Romano (“Peaceful”) and brought to life by the naturalistic cinematography of Laurent Tangy (“Mascarade”), the film dramatizes a young woman’s painful quest to terminate her unwanted pregnancy.

In a perfectly realized performance by Anamaria Vartolomei (“How to Be a Good Wife”), Anne Duchesne is an ambitious literature student in her early twenties with aspirations to become a writer. She lives at a school dorm with her best friends Hélène (Luàna Bajrami, “Portrait of a Lady on Fire”) and Brigitte (Louise Orry-Diquéro, “Occidental”), independent from her parents, Jacques and Gabrielle (Eric Verdin, “Faithful” and Sandrine Bonnaire, “Into the World”). While immersed in her studies to gain admittance to a top university, Anne discovers that she is pregnant, a situation that will threaten her continued education.

Diwan is unsparing in her depiction of the physical and emotional trauma a young girl had to go through to have an abortion, allowing us to see the graphic details that make Happening essential viewing for those confronting the Supreme Court decision to terminate Roe v Wade, the ruling that has protected abortion seekers and providers for the last fifty years in the United States. Until the moment of discovery, Anne is hard to distinguish from her immature roommates who spend their days studying and their nights looking for adventures at the local clubs.

Here, women who interface too much with boys are called “loose” or “sluts,” and their sexual encounters consist of acting out of fantasies within their own dorm. When her roommates discover that Anne is pregnant, the temperature in their room plummets to zero, and Anne finds only grudging support from her “best friend” Brigitte, who tells her coldly that “it’s not our business.” While Diwan shows us the humiliation that Anne must endure, we learn very little of her history or her background and neither do we learn much about the young man who impregnated her.

Aware of the possibility of jail for the patient and the medical practitioner, a doctor she has trusted (Fabrizio Rongione, “The Unknown Girl”) in the past tells her that she has to keep the child, reminding her that she cannot even discuss the matter with him. In addition, Jean (Kacey Mottet Klein, “Being 17”), a male friend, turns Anne’s plea for help into a sexual proposition asking “why not?” since she no longer has any risk of becoming pregnant. Ultimately, Anne finds a surreptitious practitioner, Madame Rivière (Anna Mouglalis, “The Salamander”) but that is only the beginning of her sorrows.

Yet, for all of its disturbing images, in telling this “horror” story, Diwan avoids melodrama, offering a tense, engaging, and realistic picture of what the world was like for a young woman who is carrying an unwanted child and what it could be again unless our collective voices are heard. Like events shown in Ursula Meier’s brilliant 2012 film “Sister,” life for an unwanted child may not be better than no life at all. Meier makes it evident that growing up in a world without love, even the most skillful and resilient child cannot fill the gaping hole it leaves.

In the opening of the film, The Power of the Dog, Peter Gordon (Kodi Smit-McPhee, “Dark Phoenix”), a Montana cattle rancher’s future nephew, whispers in a Malickian style voiceover, “What kind of man would I be if I didn’t help my mother?” The meaning of the statement, however, is not clear at the time. Directed by Jane Campion, the first female director to win the Palme D’Or in 1993 for “The Piano,” The Power of the Dog (the title borrowed from Psalm 22:20), is a provocative exploration of toxic masculinity and its effect on women and families, a theme that dominated the myth of the old West in American literature and films for half a century.

Based on Thomas Savage’s 1967 novel of the same name, the focus is on the relationship between two brothers, both wealthy ranchers, the overbearing Phil Burbank (Benedict Cumberbatch, “The Courier”) and his laid back brother George (Jesse Plemons, “Judas and the Black Messiah”), his civility a sharp contrast with his brother’s brazen and bullying demeanor. Brother George is the steady and subtle foil to Phil, but the dark and brooding score of Jonny Greenwood heightens the tension and suggests that all might not be well under the surface veneer of normality. There are no truly sympathetic characters in the film, however.

Though Cumberbatch is a recognized British cultural icon, named in 2014 as one most associated with UK culture, his performance as a turn of the century Montana rancher for me was less than convincing, a barrier that ultimately kept me at an emotional distance. The expressive cinematography of Ari Wegner camera beautifully captures the inscrutable loneliness of the Montana landscape (filmed in New Zealand), however, and the far off mountains and isolated miles of empty space hint of an emotional emptiness and failure to communicate.

Stopping at the Red Mill restaurant, the brothers meet Rose Gordon (Kirsten Dunst, “Hidden Figures”), a widow who runs the restaurant together with her lanky teenage son, Peter. Protective and kind, George and Rose begin a relationship that leads to marriage, a union that also brings Peter to live with them on the ranch. Setting his sights on becoming a doctor like his father, (deceased under suspicious circumstances), the ultra-sensitive boy is home from boarding school, his looks and body language a strange fit for a frontier outpost in the 1920s, yet validated by the outstanding performance of the Australian actor McPhee.

Subject to taunts from Phil who calls him “Miss Nancy” and whistles from Phil’s rowdy cowhands, Peter reacts stoically but we are not sure if he is a willing victim or a shrewd manipulator who is biding his time. Honored by a shrine posted on his stable wall, Phil has tender memories of the long dead Bronco Henry, the man he refers to as his mentor who taught him the ins and outs of being a man. Jealous or pretending to be, Phil makes life miserable for both Rose and her son, mocking her attempts to practice the piano by whistling the song she is trying to play and labeling her as a “cheap schemer.” Unable or unwilling to defend Rose, sadly George watches as she falls into binge drinking and her deterioration is difficult to watch.

Even more noxious then before, Phil protects himself by telling dinner guests after he refused to wash before dinner that “I stink and I like it” and, in case anyone is put off by that, tells them that he is a classical scholar who studied at Yale University, a revelation that comes as a shock to the diners, not to mention the viewer. The banjo-playing loner who does not seem to have any friends, close or otherwise, has a private sanctuary near a lake in the woods where he strips, immerses himself in mud, takes a swim, and then lies half naked in the sun. Things suddenly seem to shift in his relationship with Peter, however, after the boy discovers Phil’s private place and stumbles upon the erotic male magazine “Physical Culture.”

They are drawn even closer after the rancher learns that Peter spots the image of a dog barking in the mountains, a talent of which Phil thought he was the sole possessor. Telling him not to let his mom “make a sissy out of you,” Phil takes on the role of Bronco Henry, training Peter in the subtle art of what he thinks will turn him into a man, showing him how to ride a horse, teaching him how to tie a rope, and sharing stories about his mentor, Bronco Henry. Unwittingly, however, he tells him that “obstacles need to be removed,” words Peter takes to heart.

These are words that foreshadow a twist ending in The Power of the Dog that is deeply unsettling.

Projections of the future in cinema have mainly foreseen a world where war, disease, and pervasive alienation are the norm. Korean-born writer/director Kogonada’s vision of the future, however, is not a dystopian world where only stragglers from a war or natural disaster remain, or a utopia where problems of climate, medicine, and crime have disappeared. In his remarkable science-fiction film After Yang, his second feature after the masterful “Columbus,” Kogonada sees a world where science is working to enhance the lives of people rather than to develop new tools of destruction.

Based on the short story by Alexander Weinstein, “Saying Goodbye to Yang,” robotics has developed to the point where families can select an android to help with specific challenges of family upbringing such as teaching children about their heritage (a cultural “techno-sapien,”) or a clone to assist in taking routine care of family members or household chores. While the stories that mark Kogonada’s first two films are vastly dissimilar, both films have the same sense of connection, intimacy, and empathy that makes them relevant and deeply affecting.

Utilizing the gorgeous cinematography of Benjamin Loeb (“Pieces of a Woman”) and Alexandra Schaller’s (“Little Voice” TV series) production design, we sense that in Yang’s world, life appears to be comfortable; the city air is clean and a sense of optimism prevails. Yang, a refurbished techno-sapien purchased from a shop that has gone out of business, has been brought into the household of Jake (Colin Farrell, “The Batman”), a tea shop owner, his wife Kyra (Jodie Turner-Smith, “Without Remorse”), and their adopted Chinese daughter Mika (Malea Emma Tjandrawidjaja, “iCarly” TV series) to school Mika about her Asian heritage. At the beginning, Yang is like a useful piece of machinery that is valuable as long as it is functioning then discarded and replaced by a new model.

Kyra is pleased that Yang is helpful in adapting Mika to her new cultural environment but that’s as far as it seems to go. Mika, however, has developed a personal bond with Yang and treats him like the brother she always wanted and feels it deeply when he suddenly ceases to function, even though she is comforted by the goldfish her father bought for her. The main focus of the film is on the attempt to repair the malfunctioning robot and the realization of the impact he had on the family. A visit to the repair shop underscores the complexity of Yang’s operating technology and the difficulty of restoring him to his former self.

With the help of Cleo (Sarita Choudhury, “And Just Like That” TV series) who works at a technology museum, a chip containing snippets of Yang’s memories is uncovered. Visualized through virtual reality glasses and displayed like a field of brightly lit pulsating stars in the heavens, the family connects with people in Yang’s previous interactions, even a possible romantic liaison with Ada, (Haley Lu Richardson, “Support the Girls”). Through these memories, the film brings us closer to what truly matters in life, but each discovery and playback of past relationships makes Yang’s absence harder to accept.

In a poignant flashback, Yang asks Jake how he got into the business of selling tea and what about tea is most important to him. Jake says it is not about the flavor but the process, the smell, the texture, and describes the feeling that tea gives him: a connection to a place and the sensation of walking in the forest after a rain. Yang knows about tea’s origins in China but wishes that this knowledge came with real memories of a time and place. In another memory, when Mika tells Yang that she was bullied in school because she was adopted, he shows her that, like the parts of two trees in an apple orchard that become one, her heritage is an important part of who she is.

Immeasurably strengthened by Aska Matsumiya’s score, an original theme by Ryuichi Sakamoto, and a lovely performance of “Glide,” from the Japanese film “All About Lily Chou-Chou,” After Yang is an Ozu-like meditation on our ability to connect with others. A work of empathy and compassion, Kogonada allows us to recognize that technology need not be a barrier to intimacy and that, despite the inevitability of having to deal with loss, joy is never far away.

Frank Herbert’s “Dune” offers this type of tale and scales. Herbert’s hero, Paul Atreides, heir to a major power within an intergalactic Imperium, comes to a desert planet where a previous substance will decide the future of his society and trillions of lives. Therefore, a cinematic adaptation must transport the viewer from the immense gulf of space to the infinitesimal specks of sand, dust and crucially, Spice. Famously described as unfilmable, and filmed, by all accounts badly, by David Lynch in 1984, Denis Villeneuve’s film arrives, after Covid-19 delays, with anticipation the size of a giant sand worm.

The question, therefore, is does Villeneuve’s film meet the anticipation that has grown ever since this adaptation was announced? The answer is a resounding YES, as Dune is a genuinely epic tale that thoroughly immerses the viewer in its world. Despite the advanced technology, bizarre and disturbing human enhancements, interplanetary politics, shadowy organizations and curious states of heightened consciousness, Dune offers clear storytelling, stunning visuals and well-delineated characters.

Villeneuve along with co-writers Jon Spaihts and Eric Roth streamline Herbert’s narrative, beginning with a prologue complete with voiceover from Chani (Zendaya, “Spider-Man: Far From Home”), that explains the exploitation of the planet Arrakis and the power players who compete for financial, political and military influence. This struggle for power, centered around a key heroic figure, is not an original story and the influence of “Dune” is evident on “Star Wars,” “Avatar” and many another space opera. When characters refer to “using the Voice” and “learning the Way,” the viewer might expect mention of the Force, while the Spice extracted from Arrakis is as much a McGuffin as unobtanium. Originality, however, is of little consequence when the world-building is realized so perfectly. Arrakis as well as the other worlds of the Imperium are brought to vivid life through a cinematic experience that induces awe and wonder in equal measure.

Despite the stacked cast and, let’s face it, weird names, Dune gives its characters time and space to breath. After the opening montage, we are quickly introduced to hero Paul (Timothée Chalamet, “The King”), his parents Lady Jessica (Rebecca Ferguson, “Mission: Impossible – Fallout”) and Duke Leto Atreides (Oscar Isaac, “Star Wars: The Rise of Skywalker”) and their entourage including advisers Gurney Halleck (Josh Brolin, “Sicario: Day of the Soldado”) and Thufir Hawat (Stephen McKinley Henderson, “Tower Heist”), pilot and scout Duncan Idaho (Jason Momoa, “Aquaman”) and Dr. Wellington Yueh (Chang Chen, “The Assassin”). We also meet the thuggish yet loyal Beast Rabban Harkonnen (Dave Bautista, “Hotel Artemis”) and his malevolent and scheming uncle, Baron Vladimir Harkonnen (Stellan Skarsgård, “The Man Who Killed Don Quixote”). The cast is further fleshed out with the ominous Reverend Mother Mohiam (Charlotte Rampling, “Red Sparrow”), Dr. Liet Kynes (Sharon Duncan-Brewster, “Rogue One: A Star Wars Story”) and the mysterious Fremen of Arrakis, including Chani and Stilgar (Javier Bardem, “mother!”). The characters feel fleshed out, all with their own agendas, and Villeneuve does not overburden them with expository dialogue. Despite the complexity of the world-building, the viewer often learns new details as characters do, these details tied to wider plot elements and given emotional weight as characters also learn of manipulation, ambition and betrayal.

This efficiency demonstrates Villeneuve’s consistent faith in the image. Villeneuve is one of the few modern directors who trust that the audience will fill in the gaps. We don’t need to know how the technology works or why the Spice has the effects it does, because when cinema is this enveloping it transports the viewer into the film’s world, thus we accept the material around us just as the characters do who are familiar with the world. Director of photography Grieg Fraser envelops the viewer through breathtaking visuals, including the sandscapes of Arrakis along with other planets that, by contrast, are drenched in rain. Combined with Hans Zimmer’s eerie, ethereal and often choral score, the film delivers a sensory overload, immersing the viewer in a sandstorm of cinematic magic. Production designer Patrice Vermette and co-costume designers Bob Morgan and Jacqueline West create costumes, buildings and space vessels that strike the balance between looking functional and futuristic, ensuring that this world feels lived in. Paul’s wonder mirrors that of the viewer as we take in murals, escarpments, training grounds and Fremen culture, all of which feel lived-in, organic and genuine.

Balance may be the central aspect that makes Dune work so well. For all its length and scale, the film is never ponderous and provides visceral action that balances choreography with pain, skill with physicality, plot progression with character development. The scale is balanced from the shifting of sand grains to the gargantuan sand worms, whose appearance carries an impact comparable to the Balrog in “The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring.” Interpersonal dramas are balanced with the political machinations of the Imperium, as while the Baron plots and Leto negotiates, Paul has a difficult relationship with his mother due to Jessica’s own relationship with her former sisterhood. Mother-son relationships are relatively unusual in epic narratives, so it is refreshing to see the trials that Jessica must endure. Villeneuve balances the different narrative strands perfectly, ensuring that we never spend too long with some characters to forget what others are doing. Stylistically, he balances prolonged takes with fast cuts, long shots of the landscape with intimate close-ups, turning the features of Chalamet, Ferguson and Momoa into landscapes in their own right. A judicious use of slo-mo never overstays its welcome, helping to convey the elevated experience of the Spice without becoming indulgent. Thanks to this balance as well as every cast and crew member delivering on all cylinders, Dune is a film that delivers on every level. It is an awe-inspiring, intense, dazzling and magnificent experience, its only shortcoming that it leaves the viewer wanting more. And since “Dune: Part Two” has been greenlit, Spice-hungry viewers can prepare to return to Arrakis…