In Nanni Moretti's eagerly awaited The Caiman, there are all of four different Silvio Berlusconis. Though three of them are fictional and therefore subject to the whims and manipulations of Moretti's screenplay, the most frightening of the group is easily the real Berlusconi, seen in newsreel footage so completely outrageous that one can only chuckle in dismay. The media mogul/former Prime Minister is an obvious, easy target for any filmmaker as proficient and political as Moretti, so it's disappointing that his film is less a scathing indict of the Berlusconi regime than a resuscitation of his well-known violations and offenses.

The three fictional Berlusconis are all actors playing the starring role in a movie being made within Moretti's film, also entitled The Caiman ("Il Caimano" is a common media nickname for the former Prime Minister), and also planned as a crushing blow on its target. Schlock horror producer Bruno Bonomo (Silvio Orlando), who hasn't made a movie in a decade, falls into the film entirely by accident, and by default it becomes his comeback feature. The screenplay was written by Theresa (Jasmine Trinca) and, despite major concerns on the part of the only producer who doesn't run from the project because of its political nature, she's hired to make her directorial debut with the film. There are, needless to say, endless problems with the production, and in the end there's only enough money to shoot a single day in the life of the Caiman.

Despite the slot reserved for it in my personal (and beloved) "depressing Eastern European films" file, 12:08 East to Bucharest was in fact the funniest movie I saw in Toronto. The first feature from Romanian director Corneliu Porumboiu, it contains moments so hilarious they not only hurt when you experience them for the first time, but also keep the theater alive with laughter for the few minutes that follow, as everyone around you replays the scenes in their heads and finds themselves captivated again by the memories. At times, the laughter was so loud and so long that I was glad the film was in Romanian and had subtitles, because the dialogue was entirely inaudible.

Set in a small town outside of Bucharest on December 22, 2005 -- the 16th anniversary of the fall of Ceausescu -- the movie documents the efforts of Jderescu (Teodor Corban), a textile engineer/TV station owner, to assemble a panel for a live TV show on the revolution, and then to keep that show in order, once it goes on-air. When he's let down by the "prestigious" panel he'd originally lined up, Jderescu, out of desperation, digs up two last-minute guests: Manescu (Ion Sapdaru), a weary college professor who claims to have spear-headed the town's "revolution" in 1989, and Old Man Piscoci (Mircea Andreescu) who gets the call, it appears, mostly because he's old, and Jderescu happens to see a picture of him the morning of the show.

Late in Time, a character suddenly looks into the camera wearing a life-sized mask of her own face, complete with eye shadow and lipstick. Had the movie worked to that point, the moment would have been chilling, reducing the audience to a stunned silence. As it is, however, the scene is greeted by shouts of incredulous laughter; for viewers like myself, it's the point at which we realize there's no redemption ahead, and we're never going to make the emotional connection director Kim Ki-duk seems certain he's created.

Based on a fascinating topic -- the allure of plastic surgery, not for enhancement but for renewal -- Time is a story loaded with potential. As the film opens, Seh-hee (Park Ji-Yeon) and Ji-woo (Ha Jung-woo) have a terrible fight that stems from him having the temerity to lay his eyes on another woman. Later in bed, Seh-hee apologizes over and over for always having the "same boring face," and begs him to imagine one of the women they fought over as they make love. The next day, she's gone, ending a two-year relationship without a word.

As the Shadow's main character is Claudia (impressive newcomer Anita Kravos) a drifting, unfocused woman in her late thirties. She works at a travel agency in Milan, and is taking Russian in an apparent effort to improve her usefulness at work. Despite keeping her in frame for virtually the entire film, director Marina Spada refuses to let us get to know Claudia, holding us at a distance both physically and emotionally. On the rare occasions that we are allowed to see her interacting with her friends or spending time with a very casual boyfriend, we are always watching from across the street, through a window, or around a closed door. We can see their affection, but hear nothing. And when Claudia talks to her sister, it's clear they're close, but the words they exchange give us very little sense of what Claudia is like inside, apart from a bit cynical about the world around her (a trait she likely shares with much of her generation).

Out of boredom as much as anything else, she attempts to initiate a relationship with her Russian professor (Boris, played by Paolo Pierobon), a native of Ukraine who claims to have once taught Italian at a university in Kiev. Despite -- or, more like, because of -- his refusal to get involved with her (he is, he says, her professor, and it wouldn't be appropriate), the two nevertheless retain an indistinct closeness, and during the summer holidays Boris visits, seemingly interested in rekindling their nascent relationship. It turns out, however, that he wants something from Claudia: His distant cousin Olga (Karolina Dafne Porcari) is coming to visit and needs somewhere to stay for a few days. Utterly unpersuaded by Boris' embarrassingly transparent attempt at seduction, Claudia nevertheless agrees to take Olga in, mostly out of the idle hope that something interesting might happen as a result.

During the final scene of Shane Meadows' This Is England, I heard someone in the audience let out a violent, wrenching sob. The scene itself is actually quite lovely -- a young boy is standing in a field of green sea grass next to a rowboat, long-ago stranded by the tide; he's holding the St. George's Cross, the flag of England -- but it's infused with an almost inconceivable suffering and pain. Like most of Meadows' impressively accomplished film, the closing combines lush beauty -- the colors and compositions are often breathtaking -- with an incredible emotional punch, breaking our hearts with the inevitable tragedy of what we're seeing on screen.

Originally based on his own childhood, Meadows' screenplay underwent a metamorphosis after he met Thomas Turgoose, his young star. Combining his own childhood experiences with what Turgoose was going through nearly a quarter-century later, he revised his script and ended up with a heartfelt, tragic story of a boy desperate to belong. Set in the England of 1983, the movie is centered on Shaun, a 12-year-old boy whose father was recently killed in the Falkland Islands War. His pain over the loss of his dad is distancing him from his well-intentioned mother, and he doesn't fit in with the kids at school, all of whom are divided into distinct camps of fashion and ideology. Clad in bell-bottomed corduroys and a knitted sweater decorated with what look like squirrels, Shaun sticks out like a sore thumb. His inner agony gives him a hair trigger, and his explosive reactions immediately make him a target for the bullies at school -- they know they'll get a response, so they can hardly wait to wind him up.

Shot with a handheld camera, Prague is a film of faces. The majority of images are extreme close-ups of such intimacy that only parts of the faces are visible. Eyes and a nose, perhaps. Or a mouth and chin. Sometimes just eyes -- worn, exhausted eyes. The story of a disintegrating marriage, Prague pays such relentless attention to every look exchanged and each breath taken by the husband and wife that we, too, find ourselves seeking out meaning in the smallest actions and most insignificant exchanges. The film is one of those raw, heart-breaking stories of loss that we watch half-hoping it will fail and leave us emotionally whole. Thanks to the efforts of director Ole Christian Madsen and his cast, though, the searingly powerful Prague succeeds magnificently.

As the film opens, Christoffer (convincingly portrayed by Mads Mikkelsen) and his wife Maja (Stine Stengade) travel from their home in Denmark to Prague, to sign the papers required to get Christoffer's recently deceased father's body released from the morgue, and to arrange for the coffin to be sent back to Denmark to be buried in the family plot. The 42-year-old Christoffer has seen his father once since he left the family thirty years before, and is matter-of-factly disgusted by what he sees as the man's willful neglect. He goes through the motions of claiming the body without emotion, and is intent on getting the necessary paperwork filled out as quickly as possible.

There is a majesty to soccer that fans of the sport can find in all but the most pedestrian games; a grace and dignity to the flow and shape of the game, the discovery of which can spark a life-long obsession. Within the sport itself, there are certain players who embody those traits, through their styles of play and the way they carry themselves. These are not necessarily the greatest players -- as great as they are, Luis Figo, Andrei Shevchenko and Ronaldinho don't have the presence I'm talking about -- but when you see them play, you recognize the spark immediately. Italian icon Paolo Maldini has it. And, French god Zinédine Zidane, despite -- or maybe because of -- his ever-present temper -- has it too. There's an economy to his movements and an easy, natural poise to the way he watches the pitch that sets him apart from others, and makes it impossible to keep your eyes off him, despite his deceptively simple style of play.

In April, 2005, video artists Douglas Gordon and Philippe Parreno went a step further, training 17 cameras on Zidane for the length of a single La Liga game. The cameras were scattered all over the stadium, and recorded images ranging from intimate close-ups to beautiful long shots that take in the whole pitch; from unfocused collections of colors to more traditional, television-style action shots. Zidane: A 21st Century Portrait is the 90-minute compilation of those images and, for lovers of the game, it's awe-inspiring. More an art film that a sports documentary, Zidane is something that must be experienced on the big screen.