November (2017)

November is the kind of film that feels like it was dug up from the earth itself—an eerie, ravishing folk dream shot in stark black-and-white that turns mud, moonlight, and superstition into something hypnotically beautiful. Set in a wintry Estonian village where survival depends on petty theft, desperate bargains, and homemade magical creatures, it moves with the logic of a fairy tale told by firelight: funny in its deadpan cruelty, romantic in its aching yearning, and unsettling in the way the supernatural strolls through everyday life as if it owns the place. Rainer Sarnet’s imagery is so original and confidently strange that you don’t just watch it, you wander through it, catching glimpses of tenderness and terror in the same breath. It’s not for viewers who need tidy explanations or conventional pacing, but if you’re willing to surrender to its vibe, November rewards you with a haunting experience you won’t mistake for anything else.

November is clearly aiming for a grim, folkloric fever dream—part peasant survival tale, part twisted romance—shot with striking black-and-white imagery and a real commitment to myth and superstition. The catch is that the story can feel thin and emotionally chilly, with scenes that drift more like eerie tableaus than a tightly driven narrative, so if you need clear momentum and clean answers, you may get impatient. It’s also deliberately obscure and occasionally convoluted, leaning into allegory over straightforward character development, which can make the pacing feel slow and the focus scattered. If you’re in the mood for art-house weirdness, dark humor, and haunting visuals, it’s a memorable experience; if you want a satisfying romance or a coherent horror plot, this probably isn’t your winter comfort watch.