notesoncinema

There's a rare kind of magic in cinema when an animal's gaze becomes the camera's conscience. Good Boy (2025) pulls this off with an almost stubborn sincerity.

Told from the perspective of Todd's loyal dog, the film invites us into a world where tail wags and ear twitches carry more dramatic weight than any overwrought monologue could. The plot - supernatural forces menacing a rural family home - is genre comfort food. You've seen shades of it before. But here, the choice to keep human faces mostly hidden shifts the emotional burden squarely onto our canine protagonist. And he carries it. My goodness, he carries it. This isn't just "good dog" acting; it's soulful, reactive, deeply felt work that makes you believe in the stakes. If there's a shortfall, it lies in the narrative scope. The mystery at the heart of Good Boy remains tantalizingly thin-more a sketch than a fully fleshed-out puzzle. The supernatural elements, while effectively eerie, don't unravel in ways that surprise or deepen the story, leaving the plot feeling somewhat familiar and linear. I found myself yearning for more-more time to explore the shadowy corners of this rural home, more twists that would test our canine hero's resolve, more layers to the dark forces at play.

The film's brevity and focus mean that certain story threads are only hinted at rather than fully developed, which can leave viewers craving a richer tapestry. But what the story lacks in complexity and breadth, it more than makes up for in raw, heartfelt emotion. The quiet, intimate moments shared between Todd and his dog feel remarkably tender and lived-in, as though we are privileged witnesses to a long-standing, unspoken bond. These scenes are so warm and authentic that they invite us to linger in the spaces between words and actions, feeling the weight of loyalty, love, and protective instinct in every glance and gesture. It's as if we're quietly intruding on a friendship that has been nurtured over years-a bond so natural and profound that it grounds the film's supernatural thrills in genuine emotional truth. It's rare for a film to remind you that sometimes loyalty is the best special effect.

Good Boy might not reinvent the supernatural thriller, but through a wet nose and unwavering eyes, it makes the genre feel freshly, achingly alive.

There are few short films as quietly audacious as Zbigniew Rybczynski's Tango (1981). At first glance, it's just a room. A dozen or so characters. And a bunch of doors. But give it a moment, and you realize you're witnessing something that's less film and more a perfectly choreographed dance of chaos and control-shot, layered, and edited long before "digital" was a household word.

Rybczynski didn't just shoot a film; he invented a new way to bend time and space. Imagine dozens of characters performing their loops-slamming doors, reading newspapers, chasing a cat-all on the same stage, but none ever bumping into one another. The trick? Multiple exposures painstakingly composited together, frame by frame, before computers made such feats routine. It's a technical marvel that feels like watching a Swiss watch in motion: every cog clicking perfectly in time.

But Tango isn't just a showcase for wizardry. Beneath its mechanical beauty lies a sly commentary on the claustrophobia of everyday life-especially in Cold War Poland, where conformity was both demanded and defied. These repeated actions, these overlapping routines, capture the strange tension of living inside a system that prizes order but can't quite suppress human unpredictability.

And it's funny, too-in a deadpan, almost absurdist way. The film's title could easily be mistaken for a romantic dance, but this Tango is more about the push and pull of routine and rebellion, of isolation in a crowded room. The black-and-white visuals, coupled with a hypnotic score, make the whole thing feel like a fever dream of daily life seen under a microscope.

Watching Tango now, in an age where visual effects can create entire universes with a click, you appreciate just how ahead of its time it was. It's a film that demands patience, precision, and a willingness to be swept up in its looping world-a world that is as mesmerizing as it is oddly relatable.

In short: Tango isn't just a film. It's a reminder that even in the most regimented spaces, life finds a way to dance.