What does “political cinema” actually mean? This is one of the perennial questions in film history, sparking many related inquiries: for instance, how do you categorise political films? Are some films more political than others, and how is this status measured? Legendary American critic J. Hoberman offered one possible answer in his 2023 feature for The New Republic, The 100 Most Significant Political Films of All Time, using historical significance as his primary criterion. As he put it: “Not ‘best’. Not ‘favourite’. Not ‘most likeable’. Most significant.”

If, like the author of this piece, you subscribe to the not-so-underground notion that all films and forms of art/culture are political, the debate becomes even more complex. In a conversation hosted by Matca in June, I discussed political art with actress Katia Pascariu and noted that, in the context of the climate crisis, even an abstract short film that shows only trees feels highly political. We also touched upon the fact that political art isn’t exclusively the domain of those challenging the status quo, contrary to common belief, especially in Romania, where much of the country’s film history bears the influence of state-controlled production under communism. Even under dictatorship, subversive films emerged, like The Reenactment (dir. Lucian Pintilie) or Microphone Testing (dir. Mircea Daneliuc). It’s this perspective on cinema as a form of artistic expression, independent of monolithic ideological currents, that guided me in compiling a list of films that feel more urgent than ever in this world on fire we live in.

Unlike Hoberman’s exhaustive list, this selection focuses largely on a particular moment in the history of cinema and thus has its limitations. It’s relatively subjective (reflecting certain political sensibilities, including my well-known affinity for Latin American cinema) and makes an overtly political statement. Specifically, the aim is to highlight “marginal” and subversive perspectives instead of films created by the “world powers” (the decision to omit American cinema is entirely deliberate), whether that margin is geopolitical or represents a social periphery drawn to discriminate against particular groups (people of colour, migrants, women, sex workers – often in combination).

Black God, White Devil / Deus e o Diabo na Terra do Sol

dir. Glauber Rocha, 1964, Brazil

Nominated for the Palme d’Or in 1964, Glauber Rocha’s masterpiece, made when he was just 25 (!), captures the turmoil experienced by a poverty-stricken peasant and his wife after they leave the farm where they are brutally exploited. Their journey takes them through a world of religious fundamentalism, revolutionary groups, and bandits/assassins. The existential parable at its core feels as relevant today as it did in 1964 – unfolding with unbridled speed and force, Black God, White Devil is a true political masterclass. Few other films succeed in exposing so thoroughly the layers of violence inflicted on the impoverished classes of society: physical, social, economic, spiritual, and symbolic violence, predominantly propagated by men and ultimately falling back upon women (to quote John Lennon, “Woman is the slave of the slaves”), while exploring the intersection of religion and radicalism.

*

Memories of Underdevelopment / Memorias del Subdesarrollo

dir. Tomás Gutiérrez Alea, 1968, Cuba

Here is a rare example of a film that, upon its release, was deemed “outdated” by the society from which it emerged, yet created a stir worldwide: the superbly titled Memorias del Subdesarrollo, whose paradoxes do not stop there. This is a nihilistic leftist film in a hybrid formal structure that was still entirely atypical for its time: elements of classic and performative documentary mixed with essayistic sections and found footage sequences, layered over a fictional narrative with quite a few dreamlike and expressionistic moments. And who better to lead such a film than Sergio, a character who is both a charming intellectual and an abusive misogynist, an aristocratic writer with leftist leanings who views the world from his solitary ivory tower, a champagne socialist detached from both his family who emigrated to the United States and the society he remains in, obsessively theorising its “underdevelopment”. The film’s ending, set against the backdrop of the Cuban Missile Crisis, with its delicate balance between calm and apocalypse, feels as if it could have been shot yesterday.

*

Oh, Sun / Soleil Ô

dir. Med Hondo, 1970, France

Regarded as one of the most important African filmmakers of the 20th century, Mauritanian-French director Med Hondo held many odd and exhausting jobs after emigrating to France in the late ’50s. These experiences, combined with the discrimination and marginalisation he faced, set against the backdrop of the political revelations and upheavals of the 1960s, gave birth to one of the most electrifying debut films in history: Soleil Ô, winner of the Golden Leopard at Locarno in 1970. Made over four years with Hondo’s hard-earned money, Soleil Ô follows an African migrant searching for his place in a deeply racist France, even within its progressive circles. The film is the epitome of cinema made out of necessity – a film so subversive that even watching it feels like participating in a revolution. No other parable captures the plight of the African migrant so vividly: from modern forms of slavery and pervasive racism across all social layers, to the suppression of one’s culture and history, and the crushing of the Black emancipation movement. A manifesto film in the truest sense of the word.

*

The Battle of Chile / La Batalla de Chile

dir. Patricio Guzmán, 1975-1979, Chile, Cuba

Patricio Guzmán’s monumental film – a trilogy released over four years in exile, The Insurrection of the Bourgeoisie (1975), The Coup d’État (1977), and The Power of the People (1979) – is perhaps the most illuminating viewing experience for anyone seeking to understand the extremely violent history of Latin America in the second half of the 20th century, reading as a detailed manual of imperialism and political-military interventionism. Built around a dense, in-depth analysis of the sabotage and eventual ousting of progressive President Salvador Allende, to install the brutal military dictatorship of Augusto Pinochet. (Under the new regime, tens of thousands were killed, sent to labour camps, or simply disappeared without a trace.) However, Guzmán’s most powerful gesture lies in his choice to end the third part with footage shot before the disaster: “Here is what was stolen from us!” he seems to scream as his images capture a society amid economic and educational transformation, in full development and cooperative, horizontal (re-)organisation. The feeling of this unfulfilled future is shattering – La Batalla de Chile is truly a film that divides its viewers’ lives into before and after.

*

Jeanne Dielman, 23 quai du Commerce, 1080 Bruxelles

dir. Chantal Akerman, 1975, Belgium

Ranked as the greatest film of all time in the 2022 critics’ poll by Sight and Sound – a historic turn for a film whose reputation has grown slowly over nearly fifty years – Jeanne Dielman is perhaps the most exemplary depiction of the famous feminist dictum: the personal is political. Chantal Akerman’s best-known film (released when she was only 25 years old!) meticulously examines the life of a widow (Delphine Seyrig, in the role of her career) who raises her son alone and supports herself through sex work. The film emphasises, through long takes, the repetitive and deeply alienating gestures of a housewife’s life. The cracks that gradually begin to appear in this mechanical routine are almost imperceptible at first but will lead to a breakdown that holds all the force of an anti-patriarchal revolt.

*

The Vampires of Poverty / Agarrando Pueblo

dir. Luis Ospina, Carlos Mayolo, 1978, Colombia

Luis Ospina and Carlos Mayolo’s cult film deserves a spot on any such list, if only for its essential contribution to film theory: it popularised the term “misery porn”, which has since become one of the most widely circulated concepts for discussing cinema, providing a framework to understand how images can themselves become a means of exploiting the most exploited in our society. This short film is styled as a mockumentary, following a German film crew as they stage sordid scenes featuring people living in abject poverty (see the iconic scene of a homeless man wiping himself with the money they give him). Shifting between colour and black-and-white when switching perspectives, The Vampires of Poverty confronts us with three essential questions: How do we look at poverty? How do we come to look at it? What satisfaction do we derive from looking at it? Mayolo and Ospina’s answers could not be more discomforting.

*

La Haine
dir. Mathieu Kassovitz, 1995, France

Mais l’important, c’est pas la chute, c’est l’atterrissage. (“What matters is not the fall, but the landing.”) This iconic line in French cinema, set over an image of a Molotov cocktail hitting the globe and engulfing it in flames, makes the stirring opening to the most political film of the 1990s, echoed again in its tragic, fateful ending. La Haine, a quintessential film about hip-hop culture, follows a day in the lives of three young men from the Parisian suburbs – Vinz, Sayid and Hubert – who belong to diverse racial and religious communities. Kassovitz’s debut is both a celebration of the underground culture born in these neighbourhoods (see the superb montage set to Nique la Police) and a scathing critique of the cycle of violence, police brutality, systemic racism, social exclusion, and the failures of the modern state, weaving real footage of Parisian riots into its stark black-and-white cinematography.

*

Pacifiction

dir. Albert Serra, 2022, France, Spain

Though overlooked by the Cannes jury, the enigmatic Pacifiction (Serra’s first film set in contemporary times) continues to intrigue cinephiles, as it is both cryptic, elusive, anxiety-inducing, and deeply political. The title Pacifiction hints at multiple layers, defying any single interpretation: a critique of colonialist narratives about Polynesian territories, of contemporary peace and war politics, as well as of the ambiguous ontology of narrative cinema. Centred around the mysterious High Commissioner De Roller (Benoît Magimel, in a masterful performance) and his endless negotiations and diplomatic discussions with community leaders in Tahiti (outraged by rumours that France plans to resume nuclear testing in the Pacific), Pacifiction is the perfect film for an era in which the arms race has been revived, and the military-industrial complex seems the sole winner in a world of losers. No scene captures this sentiment better than when De Roller, pretending as always to be in control, confronts the fierce, all-encompassing waves of the ocean.

Flavia Dima

Film critic & journalist. Collaborates with local and international outlets, programs a short film festival - BIEFF, does occasional moderating gigs and is working on a PhD thesis about home movies. At Films in Frame, she writes the monthly editorial - The State of Cinema and is the magazine's main festival reporter.