** Stars

Rumour has it that MTV producers-turned-screenwriters Paul Hupfield and Stewart Williams were challenged to come up with the dumbest, most commercial-sounding movie title they could think of. Their answer? Lesbian Vampire Killers, a lame attempt at creating a cult classic that gets everything but the concept wrong.

Let’s start with that title, because it’s a doozy. There’s only one type of person who’s going to see a movie called Lesbian Vampire Killers, and they are going to expect at least two of following three things: girl-on-girl action, vampire slaying and – possibly – plenty of tongue-in-cheek humour.

Sadly, these people – let’s just call them boys – are going to be sorely disappointed, because Lesbian Vampire Killers goes 0 for 3. It fails as a comedy, with nary a single one-liner worth a chuckle. It fails as a horror, with not a single scare you won’t see coming. Most glaringly, it fails to be even slightly titillating, an unforgivable flaw for a movie of this ilk.

Hundreds of years ago, a vanquished vampire queen named Carmilla (Silvia Colloca) placed a curse on a quaint English village, damning the village elders’ daughters, granddaughters and so forth to become lesbian vampires. When the last of the bloodline of the noble knight who slew Carmilla returned to the village, she would rise again, her army of lesbian vampires enslaving the world.

Fast-forward to present day and a couple of boozy, breezy English lads. Jimmy’s (Horne) girlfriend has just dumped him for the seventh time, while Fletch (Corden) is fired from his job as a clown after punching a seven-year-old.

In an effort to lift their spirits, the lads decide to take a holiday; but with no money, they have little choice but a quaint English village named Cragwich.

Upon arrival, they’re stunned to find a kombi van full of sexy Swedish students, who are on a field trip to study the legend of Carmilla. One of the students, Lotte (Buring), takes a shine to Jimmy, while Fletch takes a shine to everyone else.

On their first night together, the travelers bunk in a spooky cottage. All is proceeding nicely until vampires of a Sapphic nature show up, snatching the sexy Swedes one by one. Along with a knowledgeable Vicar (Paul McGann), Jimmy, Fletch and Lotte must hunt down the vampires and attempt to stop Carmilla’s prophecy from coming true.

Lesbian Vampire Killers starts promisingly enough, but soon it becomes obvious that this was a case of concept first, plot later.

As Horne is playing miserable mope Jimmy, James Corden is burdened with being the funny one, and he’s not up to the task. His whiny shtick feels like a cross between Nick Frost and Ricky Gervais (though he’s leagues from either), and it gets tiresome quickly.

Phil Claydon gets the irreverent style right – complete with comic-book titles and fun sound design – but his direction feels passive, as though he hopes the concept of ‘lesbian vampires’ will carry the film.

Sadly, the concept only goes as far as the title. As vampires they’re easily dispatched, and as lesbians they’re, well, kind of boring.

Above all, this should be a titillating film; but it’s just too immature to be sexy. Let’s face it, the writers probably wouldn’t know what to do with a lesbian vampire if they ever got their hands on one.

What this all boils down to is script, script, script. A cool idea is one thing, but films made on cool ideas alone rarely live up to their premise (Snakes on a Plane, anyone?). Sorry boys, but if it sounds too good to be true, then it’s probably too good to be true.

Blockbuster season is hit and miss at the best of times, and Night at the Museum II falls firmly into the latter category. A follow-up to 2006’s wildly successful Night at the Museum, numero duo is sub-titled Battle of the Smithsonian in the United States though this title has apparently been dropped in Australia.

While II is numerologically accurate, Battle of the Smithsonian gives a more complete picture of what audiences are in for. Specifically, a plot not dissimilar the first film but set in a different museum – the hallowed halls of the Smithsonian Institute in Washington.

A couple of years after the events of the first film, former night guard Larry Daley (Stiller) is now a successful entrepreneur flogging tacky wares like a glow-in-the-dark flashlight.

He’s so preoccupied he hasn’t visited the Museum of Natural History for months, and by the time he does he discovers that curator Dr. McPhee (Ricky Gervais) is sending most of his old friends to be archived at the Smithsonian in favour of fancy new digital displays.

Having smuggled the life-giving Tablet of Akmenrah onboard, all hell breaks loose when the exhibits arrive at the Smithsonian. Among the newly awakened is Kah Mun Rah (Hank Azaria), Akmenrah’s evil older brother who plans to use the tablet to open the door to the underworld.

Assisted by aviation pioneer Amelia Earheart (Adams), American Civil War icon General Custer (Bill Hader) and a bunch of old and new faces, Larry must put a stop to Kah Mun Rah’s dastardly deeds before it is too late.

Night at the Museum II exists firmly in the franchise ‘sweet spot,’ being a similar enough take on the first film to please all comers while upping the ante with a number of new historical figures.

Amelia Earheart is the best of the bunch, with Amy Adams giving her a spunky, screwball edge. Hank Azaria is chafingly camp, and Bill Hader’s take on Custer as a cowardly, preening airhead is distasteful, if not woefully inaccurate.

It’s ironic that a film overtly criticising the impedance of technology on learning should be rife with historical half-truths and misrepresentations. The script takes the easy way out on numerous occasions, introducing wacky characters and distractions to paper over the barely-there plot.

About the only attention-grabber is Amy Adams’ skin-tight jodhpurs. Kids will probably enjoy it, but anyone under the age of twelve is hardly a trustworthy barometer. Neither is anybody else who likes this film, for that matter.

“With every year, the major goal for me is to break stereotypes,” says Natalia Ortiz, who founded the festival in 1998.

Natalia worked in Spain’s thriving post-Franco film industry before moving to Australia some sixteen years ago. Disappointed by Spanish cinema’s lack of presence in the land down under, she resolved to raise awareness.

“Back then, I felt that the representation of Spanish cinema in Australia didn’t really reflect what was occurring in my country at that time,” Natalia says.

What was occurring was the rapid emergence of Spain as a leading national cinema on the world stage. Today, Spanish films rival Hollywood for creative and technical excellence. Back in the early nineties, the seeds were being sown.

Acclaimed director Pedro Almodovar was entering a new period of maturity that would reap rewards with All About My Mother and Talk to Her. Antonio Banderas had moved to Los Angeles on his way to becoming a Hollywood heartthrob; and a little-known actress named Penelope Cruz was making her debut alongside Javier Bardem in Jamon, Jamon.

From humble beginnings, the Spanish Film Festival has grown to a national event, screening annually in Sydney, Melbourne, Canberra, Brisbane, Adelaide and Perth.

This year’s Perth contigent – “a celebration of the old and the new,” Natalia says – features a selection of 18 films and documentaries encompassing the best that contemporary Spanish cinema has to offer.

Tonight’s opening night film, Chef’s Special, forms part of a mini-retrospective of actor Javier Camara. It features some of Camara’s finest work, including Torremolinos 73, a hilarious film about a struggling salesman and his wife who become a sensation after appearing in erotic films exported to the north; and Blind Sunflowers, Spain’s official entry to the 2009 Academy Awards.

The balding, bespectacled actor is hardly your typical leading man, but his acclaimed roles in Almodovar’s Talk to Her and Bad Education have ensured his place among the elite; and Natalia describes him effusively as one of Spain’s most important actors.

“I think Javier is one of the most interesting actors working in our industry. He’s sensational in drama and comedy, which is very difficult. He’s sensational in theatre too. Unfortunately, he’s not as internationally famous as the other Javier [Bardem] yet. Hopefully he won’t go overseas and we can enjoy him in Spanish cinema for many years to come,” she says, grinning.

The feature film debut of director Nacho G. Velilla, Chef’s Special is a light-hearted farce about an openly gay chef, Maxi (Camara), whose quest for a coveted Michelin star is interrupted by the reappearance of his two young children.

Initially resentful of their presence, Maxi warms to his new role as a father, however a budding relationship with his son’s hero, soccer and TV star Horacio (Benjamin Vicuna), threatens to estrange his children from him once more.

An unashamed crowd-pleaser, Chef’s Special also touches on some challenging subjects. It seems an apt opener for the festival, a reminder of the dual strengths of contemporary Spanish cinema – depth of intelligence and breadth of appeal.

Perth audiences can also take a tour of Spanish music with Viva La Musica. The programme consists of Septembers, a documentary about eight contestants in a Spanish prison’s annual singing competition; Old Man Bebo, a documentary about legendary pianist Bebo Valdes; and a special screening of Calixto Bieito’s controversial modern adaptation of Mozart’s Don Giovanni.

The festival also reflects the wider landscape of Spanish-speaking films, with Mexican and Argentinean co-productions like Insignificant Things (produced by Guillermo del Tero); and Mothers, a heartbreaking documentary about the ‘Mothers of the Disappeared,’ whose children were kidnapped during Argentine’s Dirty War.

Finally, Natalia has also programmed The Hairy Tooth Fairy 2, a sequel to the 2007 festival family favourite about Raton Perez (the Spanish version of the tooth fairy). 

Magical rodents, prison pop idol and Scandinavian sex starlets. It’s hardly the stuff of stereotypes. Will Perth audiences be surprised at this rich and varied portrait of Spain?

“Hopefully,” Natalia says.

“I want audiences see that our culture is much richer than the stereotypes might suggest. I mean, don’t expect to see a single film with flamenco,” she laughs.

Having cut his teeth making no-budget features Bloodlust and Redball in the nineties (“flaky, underground and oddly financed,” he describes them, tongue-in-cheek), Hewitt received international acclaim for Acolytes, which was selected to screen at the prestigious Toronto International Film Festival and genre tastemaker Fantastic Fest.

Producers Richard Stewart and Penny Wall initially approached Hewitt with a script by first-timers Shayne Armstrong and Shane Krause, a thriller about a trio of teens who discover a body in the woods, track down the killer and attempt to blackmail him into burying a dark secret of their own.

While it was still in the early stages, Hewitt was immediately struck by Armstrong and Krause’s evocative use of the landscape of their home state, Queensland.

“It just seemed a little different than a story set in the suburbs of Sydney or Melbourne,” he says.

“That Queensland milieu is quite different from anywhere else. One minute you can be in a million-dollar housing estate, and you can walk a couple of kilometres and be in the middle of the bush.”

The kids in question are Mark, James and Chasely, played by Sebastian Gregory, Joshua Payne and Hanna Mangan Lawrence. Mark and James have an undisclosed connection to a recently paroled thug named Gary Parker (Michael Dorman). One afternoon, the trio uncover the body of a dead Canadian backpacker buried in the forest bordering their town.

Their first instinct is to call the police, but James soon has another idea – track down the killer and blackmail him into killing Parker. The only problem is the culprit happens to be a creepy serial killer, played by a near-unrecognisable Joel Edgerton.

“I’ve always thought that Joel is the best actor of his generation, and for me he proves it in this film,” Hewitt explains.

“Joel’s relatively recognisable, in a good way, in most of the roles he does. Perhaps not onstage, but certainly he is on screen. But in Acolytes he transforms himself. He makes himself look at least a decade older, and really plumbs the darkness.”

Continuing his trend of setting new benchmarks (he was embracing digital filmmaking well before the medium became fashionable among the Hollywood elite), Hewitt and cinematographer Mark Pugh used the same high-definition camera David Fincher employed in The Curious Case of Benjamin Button.

“We were breaking new ground,” Jon says.

“Nobody working on the film – and we’re talking Queensland crews who are the only full-time crews in Australia – had seen one of these things before, and they were pretty intimidated.”

In an interview with Brad Miska of horror website Bloody Disgusting, Hewitt praised Pugh for achieving “one of the best looks of any digital film made to date.” Even David Stratton and Margaret Pomeranz praised his handiwork, noting in particular the gorgeous opening shot – a broad daylight pan across a forested valley.

“One of the reasons I opened the film with that shot is because, theoretically – and I’m sure you’ll still get people who will say it to you – that’s a shot you can only get on film,” Jon says.

“I just wanted to show everyone that if you treat digital properly and know what you’re doing then it’s as good as 35mm. In fact, it’s fucking better.”

While he continues to eke a living working “schlep jobs” in Melbourne, the overseas success of Acolytes has finally given Hewitt the profile to make a tilt at the big time.

“I couldn’t think of anything better than taking on some lame-ass Hollywood genre film and trying to make a good movie out of it,” he chuckles.

“I see it as my place to marry those genre storytelling elements – marketable and easy to describe in a couple of words – with something more ambitious. I want to tell really cool stories that reach a broad audience, but push the envelope as much as possible both technically and thematically. That’s my dream.”

*** Stars

Six months ago I lamented the failings of Dying Breed, a rote Aussie horror flick that failed to capitalise on its unique and interesting storyline: the fate of travellers who stumble upon the descendants of Tasmanian cannibal Alexander ‘The Pieman’ Pierce.

Funnily enough, Acolytes is the opposite – a slick homegrown chiller that makes lemonade from one lemon of a premise.

Teenagers and best friends Mark (Gregory) and James (Joshua Payne) share a terrifying undisclosed connection to Gary Parker (Dorman), a recently paroled thug with a muscle car who taunts and threatens them at every opportunity.

Mark and James spend their days with Chasely (Hanna Mangan Lawrence), an uninhibited siren who dates James but is never far from Mark’s mind.

One afternoon, Mark witnesses a man hastily burying something in the forest that borders their hometown. The next day, James and Chasely accompany Mark to the same spot, convinced they are about to dig up a fortune in stolen cash.

That turns out to be extremely wishful thinking when they instead uncover a dead Canadian backpacker. Mark has a description of the killer’s vehicle, and his first instinct is to call the police. James, however, has another idea – track the killer down and blackmail him into burying Parker, and the secret that binds him to them.

It sounds formulaic, but director Jon Hewitt (Bloodlust, Redball) doesn’t put a foot wrong in the taut first hour, developing these intriguing characters and slowly but surely drawing them into violent confrontation.

Unlike horror films populated by patronising teens who seem born to die, Mark, James and Chasely are authentic, relatable characters with strong motivations. More importantly, they remain sympathetic even while engaging in some despicable dealings.

This strength in characterisation is matched by the acting, which is excellent across the board. Michael Dorman is effective as the outwardly aggressive Parker, while Hanna Mangan Lawrence is a standout as Chasely, who acts as a kind of emotional spirit level between the impulsive James and withdrawn Mark.

Joel Edgerton shows up halfway through the film as creepy suburbanite Ian Wright. Edgerton channels a 70s adult film star with his ‘stache and aviators, but his unsettling performance soon puts this temporary amusement aside.

Stylistically, Acolytes is proof of Australia’s ability to match it with the best. Cinematographer Mark Pugh makes HD digital look as warm and expressive as film, fooling me completely.

Shot on location in Queensland, Hewitt and Pugh inject a barely needed sense of malice into the Australian bush, making excellent use of the Sunshine State’s topography.

Acolytes is not without flaws. Hewitt makes the mistake of piercing the restrained pacing with wearisome ‘jump’ moments. The final act also lets the audience of the hook, throwing character development and logic to the wayside and becoming a routine slasher.

After showing such subtlety in the lead-up (soundtrack spikes not withstanding), Hewitt spoils his good work with an overcooked, unnecessary plot twist ending. As a ‘gotcha!’ it bites off more than it can chew, throwing up a number of implausible caveats. If anything it’s over-plotted, smacking of a lack of faith in the characters to engage their audience without resorting to shock tactics.

It’s a damn shame, but there’s still enough to recommend Acolytes as a better example of Oz horror. At the very least, it proves once again that our industry can consistently punch above its weight when it comes to genre.

With so many success stories already emerging in 2009, it’s looking like a great year for Australian cinema.

*** 1/2 Stars

Last week, it was an amnesiac mutant with indestructible claws. This week, starships are roaming the galaxy. In the weeks to come there will be transforming robots, cyborg warfare, wizards, gangsters, nazis and dinosaurs. Yes, movie lovers, blockbuster season is here again; and J.J. Abrams’ Star Trek is the first legitimate contender of 2009.

Now, let’s get one thing out of the way. Trekkies will want to know how this film compares to previous outings.

Honestly, I have no idea. Before seeing Abrams’ reboot, my knowledge of Star Trek boiled down to the following: Spock had pointy ears, and William Shatner’s ego knew no bounds. Throw Patrick Stewart into the mix somewhere and that’s everything I once knew about the most beloved sci-fi property of all time.

All of which makes me the perfect test subject, since Abrams’ biggest challenge is not pleasing the faithful but convincing a whole new generation that Star Trek is cool, sexy and not just for geeks.

I’ve seen it twice now, and I can quite confidently say: mission accomplished.

Chasing a distress signal, the USS Kelvin is attacked by a hulking beast of a starship led by Nero (Eric Bana), a Romulan warlord seeking revenge against a half-Vulcan, half-human named Spock no one has yet heard of.

With the captain murdered, first officer George Kirk takes over the Kelvin and initiates evacuation orders. In the ensuing battle, he sacrifices his life to save 800 others, including that of his newborn son, James.

Years later, James Kirk (Chris Pine) is a disaffected youth, his lengthy rap sheet concealing his natural abilities. Convinced by Capt. Christopher Pike (Bruce Greenwood) to enlist in Starfleet Academy, James’ brash, cocky personality clashes with Spock (Zachary Quinto), a brilliant but troubled young man whose mixed heritage is his only vulnerability.

When Starfleet receives a distress signal, James stows away on the maiden voyage of the USS Enterprise en route to a rendezvous with Nero.

More than anything else, Star Trek is two hours of high-energy fun. It has the spirit of great adventure, a rousing and greatly entertaining ride. Abrams gets the tactical derring-do of starship battles, but he also keeps the pace rollicking along towards a number of thrilling action sequences.

This is also a film with heart, particularly in James’ strained relationship with Spock and a weathered Leonard Nimoy’s poignant cameo. Pine and Quinto are terrific in their roles, the former displaying glimpses of a young Tom Cruise’s cheeky charm and the latter concisely portraying Spock’s inner struggle between logic and impulse.

The supporting cast all get their moment, but only Karl Urban as Dr Leonard “Bones” McCoy gets enough screen time to flesh out his character. Bana makes excellent use of his limited opportunities, but Nero’s motivations are too thinly sketched to make him more than a minor villain. His anger at Spock rests on a flimsy premise (basically, Spock was tardy), and much of the plot is similarly weak.

Black holes are a slippery logic at the best of times, and the screenplay (from the writing team behind Transformers) rests on convenient coincidences and a time travel scenario I suspect doesn’t add up.

There is also the unshakable sense that nothing is really at stake. As Star Trek needs to end where the Enterprise’s voyages begin, nobody is ever in any real danger because they’re a shoo-in for the sequel.

As such, there’s nothing especially memorable about Star Trek beyond a fondness for the experience and the recognition of familiar catchphrases. The film lacks something exceptional, a singular performance, sequence or storyline, to elevate it to the upper echelon.

That said, the franchise is clearly safe in Abrams’ hands; and Trekkies and newcomers alike will eagerly await his next adventure.

**** Stars

At the very least, Charlie Kaufman can be counted on for provoking a passionate response. The writer of kooky masterpieces Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, Adaptation and Being John Malkovich makes his directorial debut with Synecdoche, New York (pronounced sin-NECK-doe-key), a movie that demands patience and a quiet mind.

Caden Cotard (Hoffman) is a miserable theatre director locked in an unhappy marriage with Adele (Keener), a talented artist. Caden’s successful restaging of Arthur Miller’s Death of a Salesman fails to impress his wife, who doesn’t see the merit in reworking someone else’s art.

Caden’s health is also rapidly deteriorating. His doctor notices his pupils are failing to dilate correctly, sparking a steady neurotic decay. Adele, meanwhile, takes their four-year-old daughter to Berlin, and doesn’t appear to be coming back.

Lonely and desolate, Caden unexpectedly receives a Macarthur Fellowship (also known as a Genius Award), which more or less amounts to unlimited funding towards his next creative endeavour. Still stung from Adele’s criticism, Caden determines to record the “brutal truth,” a play as big and messy as life itself.

Beginning with just a few actors, Caden’s play expands until he is directing a cast of thousands on a set resembling a miniature New York. Caden obsesses over his replica world, allowing art to interrupt life; even casting an actor to play Caden Cotard, a miserable theatre director attempting to create a play as big and messy as life itself.

Synecdoche is going to be divisive, for sure. It’s narcissistic, confusing, bulging with questions and devoid of answers. It’s also frustratingly clever, and some will be put off by what they interpret as Kaufman lording his supreme intellect over others (an argument that has also been put to those who’ve praised the film).

But claiming to understand it is to miss the point. What’s so exciting about Synecdoche is that it represents the closest audiences have yet come to hearing Kaufman’s voice.

For all its philosophical wanderings, jaunts into the nature of consciousness and twisty-turny linearity, this is an intensely personal film. Kaufman is not just exploring identity, mortality and the inadequacy of artistic legacy; he’s exploring his identity, mortality and inadequate artistic legacy.

If you’re willing to brave Synecdoche, try this simple thought experiment: when Caden speaks, imagine it is Kaufman speaking. It’s narcissistic, yes, but also haunting and terribly powerful.

Adapted from the novel by John Ajvide Lindqvist, Let the Right One In is finally being released in Perth cinemas.

Anyone who follows movies will no doubt already be aware of this Swedish vampire film, which became the subject of intense online buzz after wowing audiences at Tribeca Film Festival and geekathon Fantastic Fest.

Thankfully, it’s hard to be indignant at the belated debut (it was released 5 weeks ago on the east coast and is already available on DVD in the US) because it is absolutely worth the wait.

Throw out all preconceived notions of a vampire film, because Let the Right One In is stunningly original. Oskar (Hedebrant), a meek 12-year-old boy living in Stockholm, meets and befriends Eli (Leandersson), a 200-year-old vampire in a 12-year-old girl’s body.

Oskar and Eli find a counterpoint in each other’s lonely existence. Oskar is bullied and friendless at school, and Eli is a constant threat to everyone around her. Their friendship blooms into a strange but wonderful kind of adolescent romance as they positively impact each other’s lives.

Eli imbues Oskar with strength to stand up to his bullies, and Oskar takes it upon himself to protect Eli in her weaker moments. However, with the number of suspicious deaths rising Eli is aware that she must soon flee, leaving Oskar behind with his tormentors.

What’s so clever about Let the Right One In is the way it juxtaposes the unthinking cruelty of children against Eli’s disturbing nature. There’s something poetic about the way Oskar and Eli are both undergoing growing pains, and Kare Hedebrant and Lina Leandersson are sweet and endearing together in one of cinema’s most unusual couplings.

In contrast to the blood-red narrative, Tomas Alfredson shoots in chilly whites and drab greys, creating a grim, still atmosphere. Thankfully, he forgoes the usual cheap thrills that plague the average horror film.

It’s not a scary film in the usual sense, but it’s compelling in a way too few horror films are these days. In a genre where the gory death of dislikeable characters has become the norm, how rare and enjoyable it is to actually be emotionally engaged.

Sadly, there is already an American remake on the cards, with Matt Reeves (Cloverfield) tipped to direct. There’s absolutely no reason to remake an already perfect film, and Reeves has wisely decided to adapt the novel again himself rather than work from Alfredson’s blueprints.

Still, let’s be blunt: it won’t be as good. It’s inevitable, and everyone knows it. See it now, the way it deserves to be seen.

The film, which collected six Goya Awards (the Spanish equivalent of the Oscars) earlier this year, is a heartbreaking story about the death and brief life of an 11-year-old girl named Camino.

Like most girls her age, Camino spends her days indulging fanciful dreaming and juvenile infatuations. When a recurring pain in her neck is diagnosed as an extremely aggressive form of her cancer, her mother, Gloria, is convinced it is a blessing from God.

Gloria is a member of the Opus Dei, the secretive Catholic organisation said to be incredibly powerful and influential. Under instruction from her priest, Gloria insists that Camino face her death with serenity and grace, causing tension with her husband, who only wishes for his daughter’s passing to be as comfortable and painless as possible.

Javier Fesser was inspired to write Camino after reading a book about the life of Alexia Gonzalez Barros, who died at the age of 14 in 1985 and is currently being considered for sainthood.

The story led him to research the lives of similar children, all of whom apparently felt privileged to offer their suffering to God.

“In these cases, all we know is the version from the child’s parents and the church, and they are always talking about this extraordinary life, as though they were already saints,” Fesser explains.

“And reading this I thought, ‘we are talking about normal children, not saints’.

In the case of Alexia, this was a girl who died happy. I asked myself, ‘how is this possible? What is in the heart and mind of a girl in that situation?”

While Camino is not outwardly critical of Opus Dei, Fesser still attracted considerable negative attention when the film was released in Spain. When asked about the church’s reaction, he is blunt.

“Opus Dei said ‘don’t see this movie,’ without having seen the movie,” he sighs.

“I’m trying to open an interesting dialogue, but to talk about the movie you have to spend at least two hours watching the movie first.”

Incredibly, Nerea Camacho makes her acting debut as Camino, handling a very difficult role with courage and assuredness. Described as “absolutely intuitive” and “a huge talent” by Fesser, Camacho is luminous, endearing and possessed with ability beyond her years.

“In the moment that I met Nerea, after several months of searching, I thought ‘the movie is already done. I only have to shoot it and put some music to it now,’” Fesser laughs.

After such a personal odyssey to bring this tale of love and faith to cinemas, talk inevitably turns to Fesser’s own religious beliefs.

“A lot of people ask me if I am a ‘believer,’” Fesser says.

“I’m not a religious person in the way you are asking me, but I believe in love. And that’s what Camino is, a story about a first love that is able to move mountains.”

***** Stars

Winner of six Goya Awards (the Spanish equivalent of the Oscars), Camino is every bit a masterpiece and the best film of the year thus far.

It’s a tour de force for writer-director-producer-editor Javier Fesser, whose meticulous research into the secretive Opus Dei and devotion to his characters is evident in every moment of this haunting, terrifying and beautiful film.

Inspired by the story of Alexia Gonzalez Barros, who died from cancer at the age of 14 in 1985 and is currently being considered for sainthood, Camino spends a captivating 5 months in the brief life of Camino (Camacho), an 11-year-old girl living in Madrid.

Camino is, like most girls her age, preoccupied with the miniature catastrophes of daily teenage existence, prone to fanciful dreaming and infatuated with a cute boy she has barely spoken to.

She is also very, very sick, having been diagnosed with an extremely aggressive form of cancer. The illness inevitably causes friction between her parents, who disagree fundamentally in their religious beliefs.

Her mother, Gloria (Elias), is a strict disciplinarian and Opus Dei member who is convinced her daughter’s death is God’s will. Her father, Jose (Venancio), is hesitant to place Camino’s life in the hands of anyone but her doctors, and struggles against his wife’s immoveable faith.

This is such a taut, controlled, textually rich film. Fesser’s script wastes not a single line of dialogue, and weaves together references from diverse narratives like Cinderella, the life of Saint Bernadette and children’s book Mr. Meebles.

Fesser also keeps such a steady hand over the potentially inflammatory material, maintaining critical distance and allowing the characters to condemn themselves through their words and actions rather than inviting scorn.

Every character, right down to the minors, is brilliantly realised, with every motivation outlined carefully and convincingly.

The performances come across effortlessly, from the heartbreaking Venancio to the bloodcurdling Elias; but Camino belongs to Nurea Camacho, who is so endearing in an incredibly demanding role.

Camino is also a demanding film, and audiences should expect to feel despaired, drained and disorientated by the futility of the entire proceedings.

There is, though, a vein of ghostly beauty that ripens in the last act, and the juxtaposition of Camino’s innocent impulses against the desires of an oppressive doctrine that seeks to canonise her is breathtaking. See it, and see it now.