Roma

I run out of superlatives for Alfonso Cuaron’s ROMA. It’s the best film of the year by a considerable distance – even though some old fogey from Gaumont in France this week deemed it to not be cinema because it’s debuting there on Netflix. 

Well, I’ve seen it twice now, both on very big cinema screens, at Venice and the LFF, and it looks like a masterwork of movie making to me, something Fellini would make in his pomp, every frame teeming with thought and activity, and with meaning.

It looks amazing, shot in burnished black and white by Cuaron himself, the perfect colour of memory for this story of a bourgeois family and their maid Cleo, played by Yalitza Aparicio – we witness the film partly through her eyes and partly through those of the children she looks after.

It’s a film perfectly pitched between madness, politics, family, cinema and love, a film composed of breathtaking shots and teetering emotions, one that takes its place among the great movies of this century.

It’s in cinemas this week (where you should try and see it, to take in the broad canvas of bustling Mexico City activity), but then it’ll be on Netflix for the world to see, and no one should  argue with the possibility of millions of people around the world being able to access – and connect to – a film this good.