Jestem (I Am) – A Profound Coming-of-Age Masterpiece

Watching Jestem again, years after my initial viewing, I’m struck not just by the story but by how profoundly it can make one feel a child’s inner life.

In 2009, I wrote about this film, marveling at its visual poetry, the warm sepia tones, and Piotr Jagielski’s remarkable presence as the boy. Revisiting it now, I see even more clearly how the director of the film, Dorota Kedzierzawska, doesn’t just show us a boy navigating hardship—she pulls us inside his mind and soul.

From the very first scene, we are plunged into his world: a boy in a reform school, alone, trapped in systems that don’t care. When he escapes and returns to his home, only to find his mother indifferent, the emotional weight of abandonment hits fully. Her words—excuses, half-hearted affection—make us see why he asks the painful question: Who needs me? It’s heartbreaking, yes, but what affects me most as a viewer is understanding how a child comes to such a realization.

You feel the logic of his pain, the quiet accumulation of neglect, and it resonates deeply because Jagielski’s performance is nothing short of extraordinary. Every glance, every subtle twitch of emotion, is a window into a young life forced to reckon with loneliness far beyond its years.

You’re not just watching a boy experience hardship; you’re feeling the architecture of his mind and soul as he navigates neglect, longing, and fleeting moments of care. Every lingering shot, every subtle expression, every quiet musical cue is designed to pull you inside his perspective, so the film doesn’t just tell a story—it invites you to live it. A single look out from a broken window, a silhouette against the river, or the recall of a grandmother’s warmth can convey more than pages of dialogue ever could. Kedzierzawska’s direction, combined with Artur Reinhart’s cinematography, crafts a visual language that is intimate, immediate, and profoundly human.

The film is, of course, a Coming-of-Age story, but unlike more conventional entries in the genre, it doesn’t sentimentalize or soften hardship. It confronts it head-on. The scene where the boy witnesses other children sniffing glue and smoking in a cellar—children who live with their families, unlike him—is particularly striking. It illustrates how survival alone can sharpen a moral and emotional perspective, even in someone so young.

Jagielski’s portrayal of the boy carries the emotional core of the film. The camera often lingers on his face, letting us inhabit his experience directly. In scenes of fleeting kindness—a shared meal, a gentle conversation, a playful moment—his reactions are layered and natural, conveying a sense of self-awareness and yearning that no adult actor could replicate. It’s a testament to both his talent and Kedzierzawska’s skill in guiding young performers.

The supporting elements of the film—the musical score, the precise lighting, the careful pacing—serve not as decoration but as extensions of his inner world. Michael Nyman’s music subtly underscores the emotional currents, never overwhelming, always amplifying. Moments of silence, punctuated by environmental sounds—the river, a distant bell, a scuffing shoe—become part of the storytelling, embedding the viewer even deeper in the boy’s perspective.

Reflecting on my 2009 review, I’m reminded of the visceral reactions the film originally provoked: the sheer empathy for a child whose world is at once precarious and exquisitely observed. Revisiting it now, I am struck by the continuity in Kedzierzawska’s vision, which resonates through her later film, Tomorrow Will Be Better. Both films explore marginalized childhoods, the subtleties of human connection, and the quiet resilience of young protagonists. While Jestem confronts loneliness and neglect, Tomorrow Will Be Better focuses more on hope and adventure—but the through-line is unmistakable: Kedzierzawska immerses us in the emotional truth of childhood, in ways that are cinematic, poetic, and utterly human.

In the end, Jestem leaves one with more than admiration for craft or narrative. It leaves one changed. It reminds us of the fragility and strength of children, the consequences of adult neglect, and the surprising ways even small acts of care can transform a life. Piotr Jagielski’s performance anchors all of this—his boy is unforgettable, not just because of what he endures, but because he makes us feel it, as though we are walking beside him through every step of a difficult, fleeting childhood.

Jestem is a rare film: one that respects the intelligence of its young protagonist, the patience of its audience, and the subtlety of cinema itself. It is a story of survival, of longing, and of the complex architecture of a child’s mind—rendered with precision, empathy, and a profound emotional honesty that lingers long after the credits roll.

Jestem (I Am) – A Profound Coming-of-Age Masterpiece

In short

If you're seeking a profoundly empathetic and visually poetic film that immerses you in the resilient inner world of a neglected child, I highly recommend I am for its transformative portrayal of loneliness, survival, and human connection that lingers long after viewing.

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Peppermint(1999)

I watched Peppermint, a Greek Coming-of-Age film from 1999, mostly because of the young actor playing Stefanos — Giorgos Gerontidakis. His performance as the 11-year-old Stefanos Karouzos earned him several awards and critical acclaim. He’s expressive, charming, and carries the childhood story beautifully, giving the film much of its emotional weight.

The movie opens in the present, with Stefanos as a middle-aged man receiving a phone call that pulls him back into memories of his youth. The opening is quiet and observational — nothing grabs you immediately — but once it shifts into his past, the film comes alive. This reflective, observational style is characteristic of Greek cinema of the late ’90s. Directors like Costas Kapakas focused on everyday life, subtle humor, and small gestures that define human experience, rather than flashy cinematography or dramatic spectacle.

The childhood sequences are the film’s heart. Early on, Stefanos, at around five years old, experiences moments of pure imagination. A memorable scene has a crow chasing him through the house, capturing the boundless creativity and fear of early childhood. Later, as he grows a bit older, around ten or eleven, we see classic Coming-of-Age moments: trying to shave before he really needs to — funny for viewers, naive for him — hiding an adult magazine, and school moments like algebra numbers turning into Chinese symbols in his mind.

Here, the humor is for the audience, not Stefanos himself, highlighting the film’s subtle observational comedy. Giorgos Gerontidakis portrays this older childhood Stefanos wonderfully, his charm and expressiveness earning him awards and critical recognition.

A striking detail is the visual parallel between young Stefanos’ play with planes and his adult self as an engineer or mechanic. The film quietly links imagination and career, showing how childhood interests can echo into adulthood.

Then there’s his relationship with his cousin Maria. As children, it’s innocent curiosity — spying on adults, stealing kisses, learning about affection. As they grow into their teens, the bond continues, and even in adulthood it’s remembered with tenderness. The adult Stefanos reflects on these early feelings without judgment, giving the film a gentle, honest tone.

Trailer

The adult sequences themselves are quieter and less immediate, but meaningful. They show how the past shapes the present and how formative experiences linger. Personally, I found the adult sections less engaging than the childhood sequences, but the connections between past and present still add depth.

Visually, the film favors steady, observational camera work, again consistent with late ’90s Greek cinema. The music often comes from sources within the scene, like old radios the characters are actually listening to, which adds to the nostalgic feel — though occasionally it misses the mark. Overall, the cinematography and soundtrack serve the story rather than overpower it.

Who is this film for? Younger viewers might find it slow, but for anyone who enjoys Coming-of-Age stories — especially reflective, memory-driven Greek films — there’s much to appreciate. The subtle humor, everyday life details, childhood imagination, and Giorgos Gerontidakis’ performance make it quietly rewarding. Personally, I found it evocative and nostalgic, even if it didn’t grip me from start to finish.

Peppermint isn’t for everyone, and it knows it. But if you let it, this modest Greek memory-piece will sneak up and leave a faint, lasting taste of childhood summers on your tongue.

Peppermint(1999)

In short

Peppermint (1999) is a quietly nostalgic Greek coming-of-age film with charming performances, especially from Giorgos Gerontidakis, steady observational cinematography, and thoughtful direction that highlights childhood and memory. While the soundtrack, adult sequences, and production are modest, the screenplay and storytelling deliver meaningful, reflective moments that capture the innocence, imagination, and formative experiences of youth.

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The Reflecting Skin (1990) — Growing Into the Darkness

I first reviewed The Reflecting Skin back in 2007, when TheSkyKid.com was still finding its own identity as a space dedicated to Coming-of-Age cinema. Back then, I dismissed the film’s story as unimpressive and even called the adults “crazy,” like a small-town freak show. I praised the nature shots and young Jeremy Cooper’s performance but completely missed the depth behind Philip Ridley’s haunting debut.

In my old notes, I had written: “Nobody behaves like a normal person.” Rereading that line today feels almost naïve — I mistook metaphor for madness.

Eighteen years later, revisiting the film has transformed my perspective entirely. What once felt strange now feels profound — a dark rural fairy tale that the Brothers Grimm might have written before their stories were softened for children. Childhood innocence shatters quietly, and the film’s beauty slowly reveals itself as a mask for decay.

The film opens with a long shot: tiny Seth (Jeremy Cooper) walking through vast wheat fields. His smallness against the horizon establishes the tone — vulnerability from the very start. Ridley’s cinematography tints daylight with bruise-blue melancholy, making it feel haunted, while the saturated fields promise a fragile, almost deceptive pastoral innocence.

The production design adds to this atmosphere: a sofa left outside, teal boards flaking in the wind, candles flickering behind dusty windows. Every object feels lived-in, quietly symbolic, slightly off. Beauty here is always on the verge of collapse.

One image remains unforgettable — Seth sitting centered on a chair, a shark’s jaw gaping above him: half halo, half devourer. He is saint and prey all at once. Ridley’s framing often turns domestic spaces into lairs and familiar faces into threats, using static compositions that carry the stillness of a Western before a storm.

The pacing falters slightly past the one-hour mark, mirroring Seth’s emotional unraveling. The slowdown tests patience but also deepens the sense of dread, making the return of tension feel sharper and more intimate.

Jeremy Cooper embodies Seth with remarkable honesty — expressive, luminous, unguarded. His reactions make ordinary sights feel supernatural, the way children perceive the world before logic intrudes. His eyes carry it: wide, glossy, with steady catchlights that make him seem lit from within.

A small lift of the brows, parted lips, and relaxed jaw convey curiosity shading into awe rather than fear. You can see thought flicker across his face — emotion arriving unannounced and unforced. Ridley’s direction trusts him completely; there are no false notes, no exaggerations — only raw instinct.

Some scenes are quietly unsettling. Eye-level shots during Seth’s interactions with adults make the moments intimate and suffocating. The emotional dread builds slowly but relentlessly — you sense tragedy long before it arrives, yet you can’t look away.

At its core, The Reflecting Skin is about innocence corroded by fear and misunderstanding. Beauty lures; wonder conceals danger. The “reflecting skin” becomes both literal and symbolic — a polished surface that hides decay. Through Seth’s eyes, the ordinary world becomes charged with the supernatural, even though what he sees is painfully human.

Loss of innocence here isn’t sudden — it’s gradual, creeping, and inevitable. Howard Blake’s haunting score underlines that journey with tones that sound like a rural lullaby turning into a lament. And that final image lingers — sealing the film’s vision of trauma as a rite of passage.

When I first watched the film, I saw madness where now I see grief. Life since then has offered its own lessons in loss, and perhaps that’s why the story now cuts deeper. After hundreds of Coming-of-Age films, I understand these characters differently. They aren’t “crazy”; they’re broken, trapped, painfully human. The horror was never about monsters from myth — it was about the kind of people who make innocence their prey.

The Reflecting Skin remains unsettling, poetic, and visually breathtaking — a meditation on innocence, fear, and beauty’s deceptive glow.

Readers familiar with TheSkyKid.com will recognize why it resonates so deeply here. The film pushes Coming-of-Age beyond nostalgia, into the darker, more complex territory where wonder and terror coexist.

This isn’t just a film you watch — it’s one you grow into. Eighteen years ago, I saw confusion; now, I see the fragile architecture of innocence and loss. Ridley’s vision hasn’t changed — I have.

See it on the biggest screen you can. Every frame breathes and bleeds. Yet what lingers isn’t the image, but the feeling — that quiet ache of growing up, of realizing that the world’s monsters aren’t always imaginary.

The Reflecting Skin (1990) — Growing Into the Darkness

In short

The Reflecting Skin endures as a haunting reminder that the true horror of growing up lies not in monsters of myth, but in the slow, human corrosion of innocence.

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Griffin in Summer (2024)

Griffin in Summer is an American independent film that immediately caught my attention. The quirky poster showing a young boy with a peculiar expression hints at a story about a confident, unique kid stepping into adolescence. Going in, I expected an indie Coming-of-Age story with surprises, and the film delivers from the very first moments.

The opening talent show sets the mood with anticipation and awkwardness, while Griffin’s confident yet unconventional performance immediately marks him as a distinctive young voice.

The close-up of Griffin on stage during the school talent show demonstates his skill and hints at his vulnerability early on. His monologue, touching on themes beyond his years, is both intriguing and a little uneasy, highlighting the gap between his insight and what others around him might notice. The establishing shots of American suburbia set the story in a familiar place, contrasting Griffin’s boldness with the ordinary world around him.

Dialogue with his mother shows how much Griffin loves theater and how he’d rather focus on it than do typical “boyish” summer activities. He’s an aspiring playwright, which drives his confidence and dedication. Interestingly, he mostly calls his mother by name instead of “Mom,” which makes their relationship feel a bit distant and shows how independent he is. He only calls her “Mom” later, in a moment when he really needs her, giving the scene a subtle emotional weight.

The concern in the household comes mostly from his mother, as his father is largely absent and not very involved, making Griffin’s individuality and self-reliance even more striking. This dynamic echoes the tension seen in Young Sheldon, with Iain Armitage’s character, where a parent struggles to understand a gifted child.

Later, Griffin notices the man his mother hired for repairs, Brad (Owen Teague), who becomes an older brother-like figure to him. Griffin even swears a little (“shit”) to sound more mature. The scene is funny and awkward — Griffin repeats himself nervously, trying to appear cool, while Brad mostly ignores him. There’s a quiet spark in the way Griffin watches Brad, a mix of admiration and curiosity that feels more personal than casual. Close-ups and tracking shots on Griffin’s face capture his tension and excitement, highlighting his emerging social awareness and experimentation with identity.

Everett Blunck carries the film as Griffin. On screen for most of the film, his expressive face keeps you engaged, making the character compelling. It’s interesting that he’s from Montana and mostly did Westerns before — quite a change from this artsy, Coming-of-Age role. Griffin reminded me a bit of Nate, Rueby Wood’s character in Better Nate Than Ever, both in confidence and individuality, and in how their personalities stand out in their world. He also shares qualities with Gil, P.J. Verhoest’s character in A Very Serious Person (2006), both in personality and in the overall feel of the story, adding another reference for fans of thoughtful adolescent films.

The film is full of Coming-of-Age themes, focusing on Griffin’s self-discovery but also touching nearly all characters. There are subtle hints and layered details throughout the story — little nuances and innuendos that keep you watching closely and noticing something new each time. The final close-up of Griffin is especially powerful, and the film often feels like a play he might have written — creative, layered, and reflective.

I really enjoyed the film. Its independent feel, quirkiness, and strong central character make it a fresh experience. Fans of Coming-of-Age cinema will appreciate the depth and character focus, but even those who don’t usually watch the genre will find something different and engaging here. Griffin’s story delivers a thoughtful, well-acted, and unique Coming-of-Age journey, with enough charm and subtlety to linger in your mind long after the credits roll.

Griffin in Summer (2024)

In short

Griffin in Summer is a luminous indie gem that captures the raw, whimsical poetry of growing up, leaving you with a heart full of quiet wonders and a grin that lingers long after the screen fades to black.

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A Father for Charlie (1995)

A Father for Charlie is one of those quietly emotional films that stays with you longer than you’d expect. Despite being made for television, this production is of high quality. Its simplicity allows the story and characters to shine, making it a delightful surprise for viewers.

Set in a racially tense Southern town, the story unfolds with gentle pacing and a clear moral compass. While the plot doesn’t try to surprise — and to be honest, you’ll probably sense where it’s going early on — the film makes up for it with sincerity and emotional honesty. Sometimes that’s all a story needs.

The heart of the film is Charlie, played by Joseph Mazzello, and it’s through him that most of the emotional impact comes. In one particularly powerful scene, Mazzello conveys pain and compassion so authentically that I found myself deeply moved. It’s rare to see such emotional depth from a young actor, and even rarer to feel it so directly as a viewer.

The cinematography is intimate without being intrusive. The camera lingers just enough to let emotion settle, especially in the moments between characters. And while this may not be the most memorable Coming-of-Age film I’ve seen, it certainly contains that spirit — a quiet journey of moral awakening, growth, and understanding.

All the actors deliver honest performances, with particular note of the one portraying Walter (Louis Gossett, Jr.) — whose quiet dignity contrasts painfully with the way he’s treated by others.

This isn’t a film trying to impress. It’s a film that tries to reach the heart — and succeeds. I heartily recommend it, especially to viewers seeking a heartfelt and thought-provoking cinematic experience. If a movie can move you, even to tears, then it’s earned the time you gave it. And A Father for Charlie certainly did that for me.

This film is a testament to the power of empathy and understanding — illustrating how human connections can bridge divides even in the most challenging circumstances.

A Father for Charlie (1995)

In short

A Father for Charlie may be a made-for-TV film, but its emotional honesty speaks louder than any big production. With heartfelt performances and a story that touches on themes of morality and compassion, it’s a quietly powerful film.

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Secret Delivery (2025)

Set in the final months of World War II, Secret Delivery, a 2025 Czech film, opens with soft narration and historical texture. Through the voice of a woman recalling her childhood—later revealed to be the sister of one of the central characters—we’re gently introduced to a time when the German Reich still refused to admit defeat, and danger loomed behind every village corner. The film’s tone is observational and restrained, with the camera allowing the viewer to quietly witness rather than directly feel.

The story follows a Czech boy who sneaks across the border into the Reich to spend time with a German friend. While playing in the forest, they come across a wounded French pilot. With limited assistance from the German boy’s father, they help hide and transport the injured man back to the Czech side. When German authorities learn of the pilot’s presence, they issue a chilling threat: anyone found aiding him will face execution, along with their family and friends. As the adults hesitate, unsure of what to do, the children take the bold initiative to act, risking everything to get the pilot to safety.

This plot, while effectively executed, treads familiar territory. Stories of children aiding soldiers during wartime have been explored in cinema before, and Secret Delivery doesn’t offer a particularly fresh angle. What makes it watchable is the way it avoids melodrama. The film’s cinematography and direction stay quietly observational throughout, lending a grounded realism to the events but also keeping the audience emotionally distanced.

While the friendship between the two boys adds warmth and a layer of cross-border humanity, it’s more a narrative device than the emotional heart of the film. The core story is about risk, fear, and bravery, as filtered through the hesitant gaze of memory.

Unfortunately, the film’s second half loses the intrigue and energy of its beginning. Even as the danger increases, the emotional pull weakens. The tension never quite escalates in a satisfying way, and the sense of danger feels more described than lived. The closing voiceover brings minor closure, but the final impression is one of detachment. There’s little here that will linger.

As a Coming-of-Age story, Secret Delivery has its moments—moral courage, quiet defiance—but doesn’t leave a strong mark on the genre. As an adventure, it has some tension, but not enough emotional force to make it memorable.

I enjoyed the film for its quiet craftsmanship and historical setting. But despite its strengths, it didn’t meet the high expectations set by its artwork and premise. It’s worth watching for fans of restrained wartime cinema, but unlikely to leave a lasting impression.

Secret Delivery (2025)

In short

Secret Delivery starts strong but stays emotionally distant. I enjoyed it, but it didn’t meet my high hopes.

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Marshmallow (2025)

I approached Marshmallow (2025) completely blind—no trailers, no cast list, not even a synopsis. All I had in mind was the hope for a chilling Coming-of-Age horror flick. At first, I was intrigued. The film opens with eerie confidence: a surreal, nightmarish sequence drenched in dripping water, thick shadows, and a haunting score.

We meet a boy—soon revealed to be Morgan—framed in claustrophobic close-ups, caught in a world where dreams and reality blur. It feels promising, disturbing, and visually bold.

The sound design stands out early on—subtle, unsettling, textured. But then something happens: the film slows down, moves into more grounded territory, and begins to fumble its way forward.

Kue Lawrence as Morgan in Marshmallow (2025)

Morgan, played by Kue Lawrence (an American actor born in 2011 with prior TV experience), becomes our near-constant focal point. He’s a lonely, introverted boy struggling to adjust after moving to a new home. His parents are emotionally distant. His grandfather, by contrast, shows concern and warmth. Other children reject him. The tone shifts from surreal horror to social realism, but the bleakness remains, making the viewing experience feel emotionally flat, even burdensome.

Where Marshmallow falters most is in its middle stretch. Scenes feel under-directed or improvised, with dialogue that lands awkwardly. The once-evocative soundtrack becomes overbearing—even during simple exchanges—distracting more than it enhances. The film begins to lose its footing, and by the one-hour mark, I found myself counting minutes rather than counting on redemption.

But then, unexpectedly, it redeems itself.

The final act delivers clever, well-placed plot twists that reframe what came before and ignite the very imagination that the rest of the film seemed determined to suppress. These twists, which I won’t spoil, add depth to the story and make you reconsider everything you’ve seen. It’s not enough to save the whole experience, but it’s enough to leave you with something.

Oddly, this should have been a short film. The premise is strong. The atmosphere works in moments. The ending is inspired. But stretched over a feature runtime, it collapses under its own weight. What could have been a chilling, unforgettable 20-minute story becomes a below-average horror thriller that tries too hard and says too little—until the very end.

Marshmallow (2025)

In short

Marshmallow (2025) begins with atmospheric horror and psychological intrigue but loses momentum in its slow middle act. While the film is saved somewhat by a clever and imaginative ending, it struggles to justify its feature-length runtime.

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The Good Son (1993)

When I first watched The Good Son, my age was not much different than that of one of its protagonists. So many years later, I decided to watch and review it from a different perspective.

The film follows Mark Evans, a boy sent to live with his cousin Henry after a family tragedy, only to uncover Henry’s sinister nature beneath a facade of charm.

The film offers a unique mixture of psychological tension and a dark Coming-of-Age tale, engaging my attention from its tense opening to its chilling climax.

The contrast between the expressions of Macaulay Culkin and Elijah Wood in this scene from The Good Son (1993) captures the film's central tension between good and evil — The contrast between the expressions of Macaulay Culkin and Elijah Wood in this scene from The Good Son captures the film’s central tension between good and evil

The opening scenes are heartfelt and deeply emotional, driven by an outstanding performance from Elijah Wood as Mark. The filmmaker skilfully expresses his anguish and sensitivity through close-ups of his face during a visit to his dying mother. As the story progresses, the introduction of Mark’s cousin Henry, played by Macaulay Culkin, begins to shift the tone. Mark emerges as a regular kid trying to navigate his circumstances, showing resilience and refusing to let Henry dominate him. Yet, Henry quickly establishes himself as a master manipulator.

Macaulay Culkin and Elijah Wood in The Good Son (1993) — Macaulay Culkin and Elijah Wood in The Good Son

By the time they appeared in The Good Son, both Elijah Wood and Macaulay Culkin had already achieved the status of child stars. Home Alone and My Girl were big hits, making Macaulay Culkin famous. At the same time, Elijah Wood impressed everyone with his poignant performances in Radio Flyer, Forever Young, and The Adventures of Huck Finn.

In The Good Son, their performances were the film’s driving force, bringing the psychological drama to life. Wood’s portrayal of Mark is heartfelt and vulnerable; his wide-eyed wonder slowly gives way to fear and moral conflict. In contrast, Culkin completely transforms his familiar Home Alone persona, presenting Henry as calm, calculated, and deeply unsettling.

The shadowy silhouette of Elijah Wood in the foreground, with Macaulay Culkin blurred in the background, intensifies the eerie tension of The Good Son (1993) — The shadowy silhouette of Elijah Wood in the foreground, with Macaulay Culkin blurred in the background, intensifies the eerie tension of The Good Son

The film’s visual style recalls family dramas from the 1980s-1990s, such as E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial, with its focus on suburban innocence disrupted by the uncanny. I have seen many European films, and The Good Son offers a more polished visual style contrasting with the raw observational approach typical for European Coming-of-Age narratives. Here, we have carefully composed shots and heightened suspense, enhanced by a score that amplifies the rising tension. The use of shallow depth of field and soft lighting focuses on the emotions of the young protagonists, creating a natural yet eerie atmosphere. Another difference from the European films is how fast the story moved along. Although the film’s duration is standard at 87 minutes, I didn’t notice how the time flew by. The pacing is remarkable, starting deliberately and then accelerating as the tension mounts.

Elijah Wood’s pensive look in The Good Son (1993) reflects Mark’s unease — Elijah Wood’s pensive look in The Good Son reflects Mark’s unease

While I didn’t form a personal connection with the characters (maybe here we can blame the pacing of the story), this isn’t the kind of film that encourages such relationships. Still, Mark’s emotional journey is at the heart of the narrative, and he is the character whose experiences give the film’s story its Coming-of-Age nuances.

The Good Son Trailer

The film’s finale, which I won’t spoil, offers a potent and satisfying resolution that left me wanting more. At its heart, The Good Son is an engaging, tension-filled Coming-of-Age story that balances psychological depth with sharp technical execution. If you have never seen the film, I highly recommend it. It is a film that can be enjoyed by just about anyone, unlike most of the European films that I usually review, which typically require a much more involved audience.

The Good Son (1993)

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The Devils (2002)

Some films leave an impression. Others leave a scar. The Devils (2002) is the latter. I chose it without knowing exactly what to expect, but from the very first scene, I was completely drawn in.

The film wastes no time in immersing the viewer in its world—two silhouetted children, a boy and a girl, sneak into a house under the cover of darkness. Their body language is tense, and their movements are cautious. There is no exposition, no setup—just raw, immediate storytelling that pulls you straight into their reality.

Vincent Rottiers as Joseph and Adèle Haenel as Chloé in The Devils (2002), captured in a tense, wooded moment that hints at the film’s raw, emotional intensity. — **Vincent Rottiers** as Joseph and **Adèle Haenel** as Chloé in *The Devils* (2002) are captured in a tense, wooded moment that hints at the film’s raw, emotional intensity.

The film carefully reveals details about their personalities—Joseph (Vincent Rottiers), the boy, is streetwise and protective, while Chloé (Adele Haenel), the girl, is different. She doesn’t speak, has nervous tics, and interacts with her surroundings in a way that suggests a condition like autism. And yet, Joseph understands her—not just in how he watches over her but in how he responds—his patience and reassurance.

The Devils (2002) – Trailer

One of the most striking moments early on is when Chloé rearranges scattered objects into the shape of a house with incredible speed and precision. It’s mesmerizing, almost unsettling—her movements are frantic yet deliberate, her mind working at a pace that others can’t match. Joseph watches, not with confusion but admiration. That admiration is reinforced in a beautifully framed close-up of his face—harshly lit, his expression caught somewhere between wonder and quiet understanding. What unfolds is a story that defies genre conventions, blending blistering social critique with heart-stopping intimacy.

Vincent Rottiers as Joseph in The Devils (2002), his face etched with a haunting mix of vulnerability and quiet intensity, eyes clouded with turmoil and lips trembling on the edge of despair.

Vincent Rottiers carries the film with a magnetic intensity. His performance is a live wire of contradictions: tender yet feral, protective yet self-destructive, resulting in one of the most emotionally raw portrayals of troubled youth I’ve seen in Coming-of-Age cinema. There’s a scene early on where he gazes at Chloé with admiration that flickers between brotherly devotion and something more unnervingly primal—a tension the film leans into without ever cheapening.

Vincent Rottiers as JosephThe Devils (2002)

He reminded me of Robert Naylor in Dix et Demi and Harley Cross in The Boy Who Cried Bitch—both actors are known for their intensity—but Rottiers brings something even more layered. While each performance is distinct – Naylor’s with its raw authenticity, Cross’s with its psychological intensity – Rottiers’s performance is different—it’s more layered, driven by his relationship with Chloé, making him both heartbreaking and unpredictable. Somewhere along the way, Joseph’s tears came, which broke me wide open, the tears in my eyes echoing his as I watched the movie. When his character erupts into violence in some of the later scenes, his face contorts not with the shattered despair of someone out of options.

Adele Haenel as Chloé in The Devils (2002), trembling with anguished fury as she struggles against two authorities, her wild hair flying and fist quivering with confusion, a fragile, haunting image of youth’s vulnerability and rage. — Adele Haenel as Chloé in The Devils (2002), trembling with anguished fury as she struggles, her wild hair flying and fist quivering with confusion, a fragile, haunting image of youth’s vulnerability and rage.

Adele Haenel’s portrayal of Chloé is equally stunning yet entirely different. Watching her jittery, untamed energy spilling out in every restless movement results in a vivid and haunting performance that my chest tightened just watching her, marveling at how she embodies Chloé’s fragile fire with such aching precision. She barely speaks, yet her body language says everything. Her trust in Joseph, clear as she curls under his bed in one of the scenes, becomes the film’s emotional heart—a beautiful and devastating bond.

Vincent Rottiers as Joseph and Adèle Haenel as Chloé in The Devils (2002), captured in a moment of intimacy and uncertainty. — **Vincent Rottiers** as Joseph and **Adèle Haenel** as Chloé in *The Devils (2002)* captured a moment of intimacy and uncertainty.

Beyond its performances, The Devils is a film that refuses to offer easy answers. It explores the kind of bond that isn’t easily defined and doesn’t offer easy answers or clean resolutions. Instead, it forces you to sit with the discomfort, to wrestle with its moral complexities. The relationship between Joseph and Chloé shifts and evolves, leaving room for interpretation. Are they siblings? Are they something more? The film never gives a definitive answer, and that ambiguity works to its advantage. This is a story about two children trying to hold onto each other in a world that keeps pulling them apart. The film makes you question what home means, what love looks like without safety, and whether survival itself is ever enough.

The cinematography shifts between intimate close-ups—especially on Joseph’s face, where admiration for Chloé is often evident—and stunning wide shots like the aerial shot of Joseph and Chloé running through a lavender field—two small figures swallowed by a sea of purple. The contrast between these expansive shots and the film’s grittier, more confined moments adds a layer of emotional weight to their journey.

Vincent Rottiers as Joseph and Adèle Haenel as Chloé in The Devils (2002), walking through a lavender field, their silhouettes framed by endless purple blooms under a soft, natural light. — **Vincent Rottiers** as Joseph and **Adèle Haenel** as Chloé in The Devils (2002), walking through a lavender field, their silhouettes framed by endless purple blooms under a soft, natural light.

One of The Devils`s strengths is its screenplay. It’s unpredictable, constantly shifting in ways that challenge the viewer. The direction is taut yet poetic, the editing propulsive yet intimate, and the societal critique razor-sharp.

Having seen many character-driven Coming-of-Age films with intentionally slow story development, I enjoyed The Devils‘ relentless pacing. Every scene moves the story forward, developing both the characters and the questions surrounding them.

The film’s director, Christophe Ruggia, does not hold back. Some scenes are difficult to watch—not because they are violent, but because they are uncompromisingly real.

The film’s score is as dynamic as its storytelling. One moment, a delicate piano melody lulls you into a false sense of calm. The next, a sharp rap beat jolts you awake, mirroring Joseph’s restless energy. The music never manipulates—it amplifies, shaping the film’s tone without overwhelming it.

Vincent Rottiers as Joseph and Adèle Haenel as Chloé in The Devils (2002), locked in a tender yet tense embrace under the dim glow of city lights, their faces illuminated by a mix of vulnerability and unspoken longing, hinting at the fragile, ambiguous bond that defines their story. — **Vincent Rottiers** as Joseph and **Adèle Haenel** as Chloé in The Devils (2002), locked in a tender yet tense embrace under the dim glow of city lights, their faces illuminated by a mix of vulnerability and unspoken longing, hinting at the fragile, ambiguous bond that defines their story.

The Devils doesn’t just tell a story—it immerses you in an unrelenting emotional journey, daring you to look away but knowing you won’t. It’s rare to see a film that captures the beauty and brutality of growing up with such honesty. For fans of bold, emotional cinema, The Devils is a must-see. It is a Coming-of-Age story that refuses to romanticize youth. Instead, it stares unflinchingly at the cost of growing up in a world that offers no soft landings. Watch The Devils, let it seep into you, feel its raw, beautiful weight—I can’t recommend it enough.

The Devils (2002)

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The film makes you question what home means, what love looks like without safety, and whether survival itself is ever enough.

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5

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IMBD

Class Trip (1998)

I chose Class Trip to view because its synopsis promised a Coming-of-Age story. I knew both Claude Miller, the film’s director, and Clément van den Bergh, the young lead from another movie that is among my top favorites. But more on that later…

In Class Trip (or La Classe de Neige, the film’s original French title), a school trip to the snow-draped mountains becomes a quiet unraveling for 13 year old Nicolas (Clément van den Bergh). Director Claude Miller shapes a world heavy with unease. What starts as a simple getaway twists into something darker—a psychological spiral where reality frays and nightmares seep through the cracks.

Clément van den Bergh as Nicolas in Class Trip (1998) — **Clément van den Bergh** as Nicolas in *Class Trip* (1998)

Having been captivated by Clément van den Bergh’s portrayal of Souplier in The Fire That Burns—one of my favorite films, which was released in 1997 (just a year before Class Trip), I was eager to see his performance in the role of Nicolas. And he did not disappoint. Van den Bergh delivers a poignant and layered performance, masterfully conveying a complex mix of emotions, from quiet sadness to resilience and contemplation.

Channeling the same vulnerability that made his role in The Fire That Burns so memorable, van den Bergh portrays Nicolas as a child both fragile and eerily perceptive, his quiet detachment masking a storm of unresolved emotion.

Van den Bergh’s Nicolas isn’t just a character; he’s a ghostly echo of every child who’s ever felt too much. He doesn’t just act vulnerable—he breathes it. His performance isn’t watched; it’s felt. For someone so young to articulate this kind of emotional weight is no minor accomplishment—it’s a testament to his extraordinary talent.

Clément van den Bergh in Class Trip (1998), delivering a performance that lingers like a whispered secret—fragile, raw, and impossibly real. — **Clément van den Bergh** in Class Trip (1998) delivering a performance that lingers like a whispered secret—fragile, raw, and impossibly real.

While some directors lean on melodramatic, tear-jerking moments to stir emotions, the director of Class Trip takes a quieter path. He lets the story breathe, focusing on Nicolas’s telling reactions—his expressive eyes and face. There’s a tension you can sense in the boy’s look, but it’s subtle, the kind that pulls you in to think rather than hitting you over the head. Intriguingly enough, the principal mentor of the film’s director, Claude Miller, was Francois Truffaut, whose name keeps resurfacing in my reviews of Coming-of-Age cinema and for a good reason. His work has inspired filmmakers from different lands and cultures – especially those focusing on character-driven narratives.

The film’s cinematography keeps things real but with a careful, deliberate touch. The lighting is soft and natural, and the colors are muted. This creates a subdued, melancholic mood, perfectly mirroring Nicolas’s shy and reflective nature. It’s not about flashy visuals; it’s about creating a quiet, raw space that contributes to the feeling of quiet realism that prevails in the movie.

Nicolas’s most significant relationship is the one he has with his fears and anxieties, as they seem to shape his perception of reality. Thus, a considerable part of the narrative focuses on them. A window into his inner world, his dreams and fantasies hint at unusual dynamics in his relationships. The filmmakers seamlessly blend Nicolas’s nightmares with his reality, using the same visual style throughout. His fears feel like a natural extension of his world rather than a separate, fantastical realm. This understated approach keeps the emotional tone consistent and immersive.

Trailer

Class Trip offers a masterclass in atmospheric tension. Its subtle emotional storytelling, combined with its intimate, character-driven approach and nuanced exploration of childhood anxieties, places it firmly within the tradition of classic Coming-of-Age narratives. Yet the film’s true power lies in what remains unsaid. The film provides numerous clues about the characters, some visual and others in the dialogue. Deciphering these clues is engrossing, even though what they reveal is deeply disturbing. The story told in Class Trip is undoubtedly a Coming-of-Age one, but with a twist as the eerie atmosphere that prevails in the film suggests that childhood is not just a time of discovery but also fear and vulnerability.

Clément van den Bergh's expression blends sadness, resilience, and contemplation. His pressed lips and distant gaze hint at inner turmoil. — **Clément van den Bergh’s** expression blends sadness, resilience, and contemplation. His pressed lips and distant gaze hint at inner turmoil.

Not that long ago, someone pointed out that if I mention negative aspects of a film in my review, that effectively discourages people from watching it. In the case of Class Trip, the film is a masterpiece of the Coming-of-Age genre, and I highly recommend it! Some people will dislike it, especially those who are looking for swift action and escapist entertainment. Still, for the rest, Class Trip delivers a haunting exploration of childhood’s darker undercurrents and I, for one, have not discovered a single flaw to point out.

Class Trip (1998)

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5

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King of Thieves (2004)

Can childhood innocence survive the most brutal of betrayals? You will relentlessly ask yourself this question while watching King of Thieves (original title = König der Diebe).

It’s a suspenseful and unsettling drama anchored by Iakov Kultiasov‘s heartbreaking portrayal of young Barbu, a 10-year-old from a poor Ukrainian village who is sold alongside his sister to Caruso (played by Lazar Ristovski), a German swindler promising a false escape into the circus.

Instead of the promised circus life, Barbu is forced into a criminal underworld while his sister, Mimma, meets an even crueler fate, shattering the illusions Caruso fed them.

In many ways, the story is a modern, darker version of Charles Dickens’s Oliver Twist. Like a real Fagin, Caruso performs the role of a caring mentor, masking his exploitative intentions and true motives. Initially, Barbu naively sees him as a mentor figure. At the same time, Caruso, in a twisted way, seems to view Barbu as the son he never had.

Iakov Kultiasov as Barbu in the opening scenes of King of Thieves (2004), sporting a carefree expression — **Iakov Kultiasov** as Barbu in the opening scenes of King of Thieves (2004), sporting a carefree expression

The stark contrast between Barbu’s once joyful life in Ukraine and his grim new reality in Berlin makes the film emotionally challenging. It is difficult not to feel devastated for Barbu as one watches the layers of his innocence peel away. What should be a Coming-of-Age story becomes something deeply tragic for Barbu—the brutal world he’s trapped in twists and darkens his entire journey. And because we see everything unfold through Barbu’s young eyes, the story truly hits you right in the heart.

Iakov Kultiasov as Barbu alongside Oktay Özdemir as Marcel in King of Thieves (2004) — **Iakov Kultiasov** as Barbu alongside **Oktay Özdemir** as Marcel in King of Thieves (2004)

The camera frequently lingers on Iakov Kultiasov’s face, capturing emotions ranging from unguarded joy to the painful reality of his bloodied features. The child’s wounded, glistening face evokes the raw vulnerability of a child I remember from the film Pixote (1981), another film that unflinchingly explores childhood suffering within a violent, exploitative world. These close-ups create an intimate, sometimes uncomfortable emotional connection – making it easy to be interested and care for Barbu’s fate.

The film’s aesthetic leans towards a naturalistic yet slightly heightened realism, typical of European cinema. The cinematographer employs tinted lighting—reds and yellows—to underscore the suffocating atmosphere of violence and lost innocence. As a whole, many scenes have low brightness and a cool color palette, which evokes a noir-like or thriller aesthetic.

Iakov Kultiasov as Barbu alongside Lazar Ristovski as Caruso in King of Thieves (2004). The scene is bathed in a distinctive yellow tint, adding to its atmospheric depth

Fans of intense Coming-of-Age dramas, particularly those drawn to the Oliver Twist-like elements in King of Thieves, may also want to check out The Children of Times Square (1986) and Dealer (2021). Like Oliver Twist and King of Thieves, these films feature vulnerable young protagonists navigating treacherous urban landscapes and encountering exploitative or morally ambiguous figures who mirror the Fagin archetype.

Unlike traditional Coming-of-Age stories that celebrate personal growth and discovery, King of Thieves presents a tragic version of this narrative. Barbu’s transformation is not one of empowerment but of forced adaptation to cruelty. This rough and unforgiving portrayal of childhood in distress is reminiscent of other films with gritty storylines, such as Lukas Moodysson‘s Lilja 4-Ever, Robert Glinski‘s Swinki, and Wiktor Grodecki‘s Mandragora. In all these films, the loss of innocence is not just a theme but an inevitable fate.

King of Thieves is a distinctive and unflinching film. Even if Iakov Kultiasov’s portrayal occasionally borders on exaggeration, that doesn’t diminish the film’s impact. I highly recommend it to anyone who appreciates gritty, hard-hitting Coming-of-Age cinema.

King of Thieves (2004)

In short

King of Thieves is a distinctive and unflinching film. Even if Iakov Kultiasov's portrayal occasionally borders on exaggeration, that doesn’t diminish the film’s impact. I highly recommend it to anyone who appreciates gritty, hard-hitting Coming-of-Age cinema.

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I Don’t Love You Anymore (2023)

In Zdenek Jirzsky‘s 2023 film I Don’t Love You Anymore, thirteen-year-olds Marek and Tereza, whose connection begins when Tereza intervenes in a bullying incident involving Marek (an act of pity, she claims, though her true motivations remain ambiguous), form an unlikely friendship and, each haunted by their own personal demons, decide to run away from home together.

While I Don’t Love You Anymore might superficially resemble a Coming-of-Age road movie at times, like A West Texas Children’s Story, the comparison ends there. The film defies easy categorization, blurring the lines between cautionary tale, love story, Coming-of-Age road film, drama, or social critique.

Daniel Zeman as Marek and Maisha Romera Kollmann as Tereza

It is impossible not to note the prevailing Eastern European style of the picture, shaped by its Czech, Slovak, and Romanian roots. It infuses every frame with a distinct visual texture. The result is an unmistakeable and unsettling toughness evident in its characters and settings, setting it apart from more conventional entries in the genre.

The film’s heavy use of technology, especially phones, is a recurring motif, creating a sense of detachment. It’s like a shield separating the characters from the harsh reality. The soundtrack adds to the urban feel, but the atmosphere remains cold and empty, starkly contrasting. This coldness is amplified by the film’s realistic, at times slow, pacing, which unfortunately makes the experience feel unnecessarily drawn out. Even Marek and Tereza’s decision to run away fails to inject much-needed energy into the narrative.

While the film features two young leads, Daniel Zeman as Marek and Maisha Romera Kollmann as Tereza, it’s Zeman’s performance, primarily through Marek’s perspective, that truly captivates. He delivers a compelling portrayal, making Marek the character the audience is most likely to connect with and care about. Marek’s relationship with his mom is complicated, and it seems he struggles with her having a new boyfriend. The movie does a great job of showing how he uses his camera to try to stay in control of his life, even though it probably isn’t healthy.

The relationship between Marek and Teresa is a confusing mix of friendship, manipulation, and awkwardness, making it difficult to fully connect with their dynamic. While there are a few positive moments, they are fleeting and ultimately overshadowed by the prevailing bleakness.

I Don’t Love You Anymore bears the apparent influence of the French New Wave, employing techniques like extended shots, a focus on individual experiences, and an acceptance of the absurdity of life. These stylistic choices, reminiscent of filmmakers like François Truffaut, contribute to the film’s distinctive and often unsettling atmosphere. The ambiguous ending, reminiscent of Truffaut’s The 400 Blows, leaves viewers with unanswered questions and a lingering sense of uncertainty. While potentially frustrating for some, this open conclusion invites reflection on the characters’ fates and the complex themes explored throughout the film.

It’s not easy to recommend a film like this. Yes, it features a Coming-of-Age tale with a talented actor, and that’s why I chose to watch it in the first place. But it has a distinct bleak atmosphere – not my favorite thing – and its story is not that memorable. If you are looking for something different, give it a chance, but you may just as well skip it altogether.

I Don’t Love You Anymore (2023) Trailer

I Don’t Love You Anymore (2023)

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3.1

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