As long there as there are young people living out their dreams in cities, there will always be young filmmakers eager and willing to follow them around churning out Bohemian anomie portraiture. Kids in urban settings constitute a broad enough arena of exploration that we’ll always have the good (Philippe Garrel), the bad (Joe Swanberg), and the indifferent (Christophe Honoré); the best we can hope for is that they arrive in something at least approaching equal measures. Alexis Dos Santos’s Unmade Beds, a prepubescent Godardian gambol of questionable impact, but unquestionable sincerity, follows the twinned stories of Axl, a Spaniard scouring London for the English father who abandoned him years before, and Vera, recently of France, now squatting in the same messy, overrun loft space as Axl while nursing wounds from a relationship recently dissolved back home. Separately, the pair drink, fuck, dance, listen to a lot of music, occasionally run their hands over banisters, railings, and other objects in close-ups that suggest a concrete tactility absent in their interpersonal arrangements.
Click here to read the rest of Jeff Reichert’s review of Unmade Beds.