If a script can be personified, Bullhead needs but one word: cruel. Not because it mistreats its audience—on the contrary, the film is as beautiful as it is miserable; dazzling as it is horrific. The sheer amount of sadness that writer-director Michael R. Roskam packs into two hours is so penetrating, so concentrated, and so visceral, that the experience is utterly exhausting. But I’m no masochist. So, it should also be said that Bullhead is assuredly one of the most raw, profound films you will see this year.

Set in Belgium, the story centres on a group of individuals involved in the trade and use of illegal growth hormones in the cattle industry—“the hormone mafia underworld,” as one ambitious reporter states. The subject is idiosyncratic, but the treatment is dead serious. A noir-ish atmosphere is maintained throughout, and the film opens with intimidation and murder.

Though a number of characters are involved in the plot, there is only one star of the show: Jacky Vanmarsenille (Matthias Schoenaerts). This is not because secondary characters were underserved by the script, nor because the actors portraying them were unskilled; rather, it is due to the breathtaking performance by Schoenaerts in the lead role. Channelling a mixture of brutality and vulnerability, and eliciting a contradictory combination of fear and concern, Schoenaerts utterly dominates his scenes and the film as a whole. The plot brims with originality and suspense, skillfully interweaving Flemish-Walloon tensions with memorable, dynamic characters. The fact that all this becomes a sideshow to Jacky’s personal narrative is a testament to Schoenaerts’ unbridled virtuosity.

The cattle are not the only ones juicing. Early on, we see Jacky injecting what we later understand as a cocktail of testosterone and various growth hormones. The reason for this is soon revealed via flashback, and in undoubtedly one of the most brutal scenes I’ve witnessed this year. The emotion one feels is nothing less than pure, unadulterated horror. What follows is scene after scene of wrenching pain, as the happiness forever stolen from Jacky is trotted out by the screenplay and paraded in front of his eyes. This is what is meant by the cruelty of the script. What must it feel like to be incomplete, broken, and condemned to perpetual deficiency?

Schoenaerts crafts a character reminiscent of the Minotaur: half-man, half-beast, trapped by circumstance, a creature for which one feels unspeakable dread and endless pity. On more than one occasion, Jacky snatches defeat from the jaws of victory; at these moments, the cosmic injustice permeating his storyline becomes unbearable. Right up until the end, the only happiness Jacky sees is that of others. It is a reflected living, which is not living at all. His is a life wholly devoid of pleasure.

Through Bullhead, Roskam and Schoenaerts gift the world with a modern day mastering of the tragic form. The story of Jacky Vanmarsenille ends as it begins: alone, abandoned, and in the throes of violence and pain. Bullhead paints a vision that is bleak and uncompromising, a dizzying array of sorrow and rage and anguish. At the same time, it is a cinematic triumph, a reminder of the raw emotional potential of the medium—for from suffering comes glory.

—Bullhead opens this Friday, September 14th at Cinema du Parc, 3575 Avenue du Parc.

A little under two years ago, four childhood friends started making music in a Toronto basement. They dubbed themselves ‘Topanga’ either after the character on the popular television show Boy Meets World, or a canyon in California—take your pick. They had few expectations and no goals in mind—just a shared love of punk rock. The band produced a four-track EP titled Lionheart in 2011 as a result of this common enthusiasm; though they describe themselves as a “punk band,” a pop influence is hard to deny. However, the band strives to differentiate itself from the whiny, power-chord ridden stereotype of punk rock, using the term “punk-pop” to break away from some of the former genre’s connotations.

“We like to play aggressive music and push the boundaries without losing that catchiness element,” says lead singer Stefan Babcock. “We try to use interesting time signatures and stuff like that, but also [try to] write memorable hooks that people can sing along to.”

For a while, Topanga remained just a group of friends without any concrete musical aim. They were serious about staying together as a band, but largely in order to satisfy their personal desires to play, rather than take their music to the next level. This all changed when producer John Drew—who has worked with the likes of Tokyo Police Club and Fucked Up—came into the picture, and gave the four the push they needed.

“We owe a lot to that guy [John Drew],” Babcock says. “He made us realize, maybe there is something there and we should maybe work a little harder, have a go at music as a career.”

The band sent Drew a few tracks, which he loved, and together, they produced a 7-inch record titled Oceans, released in early 2012.

Only a year and a half old, Topanga plans to re-enter the studio following their current tour and stay in Montreal to record a full length album. They will be collaborating with Dave Schiffman, who has worked with bands like The Bronx—a favourite of the four. The album is expected to debut in the spring of 2013.

As a testament to the group’s dedication, all four have recently quit their jobs. The band is still  fledgling; youthfulness permeates every aspect of their approach. This freshness, which comes out in their recordings, is ingrained in their style as musicians and is palpable in the atmosphere of their live shows.  They admittedly like to jump around, and rowdiness is encouraged at their performances.

“We started out pretty much exclusively playing house parties, so that has informed a lot of how we are on stage,” Babcock explained. “The four of us are best friends and we just try to have the best time ever no matter what we are doing, including playing shows.”

The group plans to play at POP Montreal again this year, performing with bands such as Hollerado and Born Ruffians. They will also be playing on October 16 at Casa del Popolo along with The Pack A.D., a garage punk duo from Vancouver.

Those even mildly interested in rip-roaring, youthful, and catchy punk-esque music will enjoy listening to Topanga’s newest single “Guilt Trip.” The band’s musical future holds a good deal of promise—check them out, and get caught up in the fervor.

Music and tour info are available at musicoftopanga.tumblr.com.

From terse, academic upbraidings by Richard Dawkins, to the wit and eloquence of Christopher Hitchens’ broadsides, the past decade has witnessed a surge in public cries challenging the power of organized religion. Amid the continual talk of misconduct and immorality in the halls of self-proclaimed holy men, several unbelievers simultaneously began a multi-pronged offensive against theism. Recently, a young filmmaker named Vikram Gandhi nimbly joined the campaign in the documentary Kumaré: The True Story of a False Prophet.

Gandhi, who plays Kumaré’s eponymous hero, is the real-life, religiously wayward son of devout Hindu parents. After skeptically observing the growing American love affair with yoga and its tinge of eastern mysticism, Gandhi decided to document the many gurus associated with the practice and assess their claims of transcendent power. Gradually, the project evolved. Unable to find support for this profusion of supernatural claims, Gandhi decided to see whether it was possible for anyone, even himself, a former Columbia University student with a minor in Religion, to gain followers as a guru. Thus Kumaré was born.

The documentary follows Gandhi in the role of the ever-smiling Kumaré, as he teaches his disciples that the answers they seek require no guru save themselves, while Socratically insisting on his own ignorance. Rather than preaching piffle, Gandhi simply tells those looking for guidance that they must act in accordance with the way they imagine their ideal selves: cookie-cutter self-help seminar ideas rendered occult—and therefore alluring—by means of a few yoga poses and an Indian accent. Ghandi’s prescience in choosing a valid gospel is central to the film, and the measured thoughtfulness with which he emphasizes the universal accessibility of self-improvement is apparent.

To his credit, and in no small part due to his own upbringing, Gandhi is a good deal more delicate in his treatment of mysticism and religion than some of his contemporary atheists. Throughout the film, he respectfully listens to self-proclaimed spiritual practitioners, ranging from psychics to proponents of the Law of Attraction. Rather than ridiculing these outlandish beliefs (“We are from different planets,” says one woman matter-of-factly when introducing her partner), Gandhi seems to adopt a kinder, almost paternal approach: if a belief doesn’t affect others, and gives some hope in the struggle with grief or substance abuse, what’s the harm? The point of the matter, then, is to demonstrate that the edicts of a gatekeeper, like Kafka’s fierce guardian in Before the Law, are a dead letter. Neither priest, nor rabbi, nor imam hold the sacred wisdom necessary for enlightenment. While it’s not evocative or insightful enough for a second look, this idea is certainly salient enough to deserve greater public attention.

Don’t expect cinematographic miracles­—the film consists of sober camerawork with the expected abundance of close-up shots, rightly making way for the discussion of the religious question. The score, which consists of Kumaré’s chants and drumming, is similarly forgettable. The final sequence, however, which deals with Kumaré’s unmasking, is impressive in spite of a modicum of cheesy slow-motion scenes.

Altogether, Kumaré is a sensible look at the cult of personality that invariably permeates all mystical traditions, suffused with Gandhi’s equable humour. Of all the gurus documented in the film, Kumaré seems to have the best approach.