Parky at the Pictures (DVD 16/1/2014)

Father Andrzej Chyra has worked wonders in his backwater parish after being transferred under something of a cloud from Warsaw a few years earlier. His most enduring achievement is the programme for delinquent boys he runs with teacher Lukasz Simlat, which offers them a chance to learn some useful life skills, as well as play some football and confess their sins. Every now and then, the local lads pick a fight with those living at the centre, but Chyra takes it all in his stride, as he does the efforts of Simlat's frustrated wife, Maja Ostaszewska, to cook her way into his affections.

One night, Mateusz Kosciukiewicz shows up on Chyra's doorstep after being beaten up. Despite still living at home with mother Maria Maj and his younger brothers, this handsome, but unpredictable youth has a reputation as a pyromaniac. But, even though he awakens the suppressed desires that caused Chyra to be relocated, he agrees to let him spend time at the centre and get involved in some of the manual labour projects. Shortly after Kosciukiewicz's arrival, Mateusz Gajko confides in Chyra that he has been in trouble in the past for sleeping with other boys. However, Chyra is so reluctant to discuss the subject that he consoles Gajko with platitudes and is appalled some time later to find him having sex with new inmate, Tomasz Schuchardt.

In confusion, Chyra gives the offending sofa to an impoverished family and tries to pretend nothing untoward has happened, as he goes for another of his early morning jogs in the forest. However, he starts drinking heavily and dances around with a portrait of Pope Benedict XVI and charges through a cornfield with Kosciukiewicz making bizarre simian noises. But Gajko hangs himself in shame and, within days of the funeral, Schuchardt begins spreading rumours that Chyra is gay. Kosciukiewicz beats him into silence, but Chyra is aroused by the graffiti and the abuse and he seduces Schuchardt in his car. Unfortunately, Simlat spies on them and informs Bishop Olgierd Lukaszewicz, who suggests it is better to let bygones be bygones. Yet, he reproaches Chyra and implies that a fresh placement might be in order.

Distraught, Chyra makes a Skype call to his sister in Toronto and breaks down into confessing that he may be gay, but he is not a paedophile. Soon after his departure, Kosciukiewicz sets light to the centre and runs away. He gets a job on a building site and tracks Chyra down. They sleep together. But Kosciukiewicz decides he has a vocation and, as the film ends, he enters a seminary.

In much the same way that Sam Taylor-Johnson defied the age gap to marry Nowhere Boy star Aaron Johnson, so Szumowska tied the knot with Kosciukiewicz after completing a picture that was photographed by her first husband and co-scenarist, Michal Englert. By giving Kosciukiewicz a beard and flowing Christ-like locks, Szumowska was evidently seeking to rattle some cages. But matters that might still disconcert in conservative Poland have considerably less shock value elsewhere and, for all its simmering eroticism, this is most notable for its exposé of small-town insularity and bigotry.

Reuniting after playing father and son in Jacek Borcuch's All That I Love (2009), Chyra and Kosciukiewicz lack the dangerous spark that Englert tries so hard to strike with his kinetic camerawork. However, the golden light in which much of the action is bathed and the wistful score by Pawel Mykietyn and Adam Walicki further diminish the intended aura of gritty authenticity. But, while the narrative is often a little wayward and too many secondary characters are sketchily drawn, Szumowska refuses to judge and she springs her closing surprise with admirable restraint.

Another director who has not quite fulfilled his early promise is the Turkish-born, Italian-based Ferzan Ozpetek and he doesn't quite recapture former glories with A Magnificent Haunting. However, this gay ghost story could easily have become coy and sentimental in lesser hands. Co-scripted with Federica Pontremoli, this bears a passing similarity to Antonio Pietrangeli's Ghosts of Rome (1961). But, while the tone is mostly comical, this typically deft ensemble piece also delves into the dark secrets of Italy's Fascist past in questioning contemporary attitudes to what many still consider taboo topics.

Leaving his native Catania to try his luck as an actor in Rome, Elio Germano hooks up with cousin Paola Minaccioni and starts searching for digs. She has misgivings when he finds cheap lodgings in the Monteverde district, but it's all he can afford while making ends meet as a croissant baker. Besides, he is confident all the apartment needs is a lick of paint. But, while he is decorating, Germano notices that belongings keep moving around and he is certain that immigrants are squatting in the building.

Undaunted, however, he arranges a dinner for Giorgio Marchesi, an assistant film director with whom he has long been corresponding. But the cosy supper goes disastrously wrong when Marchesi accuses Germano of being a stalker who has bombarded him with e-mails and texts since they spent barely an hour together three years earlier. He storms out in disgust (which leaves one wondering why he accepted the invitation in the first place). But the smell of the food lures the apartment's mysterious occupants out of their hiding place and they start to gorge on the feast.

Their leader, Giuseppe Fiorello, explains to an astonished Germano that they are members of the Compangia Apollonio theatrical company and he introduces sisters Margherita Buy and Vittoria Puccini, along with Cem Yilmaz, Andrea Bosca, Claudia Potenza, Ambrogio Maestri and young Matteo Savino. However, it soon becomes clear that the unexpected guests still think it is 1943 and that they are fighting with the anti-Fascist resistance. Moreover, they have absolutely no idea that they are dead. Yet the actors prove willing to help Germano learn his craft, while Bosca's dapper writer seems more than keen to help him get over his recent romantic fiasco Naturally, however, they want something in return, as they are intrigued to know the whereabouts of the leading lady who has vanished without a trace. Despite being distracted by a handsome neighbour, Germano agrees to do what he can and his investigation leads him to a clothing factory that is owned by Mauro Coruzzi and staffed exclusively by transsexuals. Here he meets the aged Anna Proclemer, who confesses that she betrayed her companions to further her own career and reveals that they suffocated because of a faulty heater in the apartment. She agrees to make her peace with the troupe and Germano is as surprised as he is relieved that his new friends take the news so well. Indeed, they seem liberated and bundle him on to a tram to the Teatro Valle, where they stage a farewell performance solely for his benefit.

Closing on such a bittersweet note confirms that this genteel drama is often as moving as it is amusing. But the plot strains plausibility in places, as only Germano can see the spirits and the scene in which Minaccioni forces him to consult pompous psychiatrist Massimiliano Gallo (who brands Germano a fantasist) is entirely extraneous. Ozpetek also avoids delving too deeply into the spectres' wartime experiences and the pace invariably slows whenever they are off screen, as the script struggles to interest viewers in Germano's personal and professional misfortunes.

Ozpetek and Pontremoli also overdo the Felliniesque aspects of the kinky underworld sequence. But Andrea Crisanti's production design and Maurizio Calvesi's photography are admirable, as are the performances, with Germano just about convincing as the country rube finding big city living something of an ordeal, while Fiorello, Puccini and the always excellent Buy ably convey both the `white telephone' elegance of their times and their steely resolve to defeat the Axis.

Another unlikely liaison is forged in Brussels in David Lambert's Beyond the Walls, which sees the debutant draw on past relationships for a tale of torrid romance that bears passing similarities to both Andrew Haigh's Weekend (2011) and Ira Sachs's aforementioned Keep the Lights On. Tumbling into bed together after their eyes meet across a wine bar, silent movie pianist Matila Malliarakis and older Albanian bartender Guillaume Gouix don't immediately seem well matched. But, when the former's seamstress girlfriend, Mélissa Désormeaux Poulin, realises what is going on and throws him out of their apartment, he persuades Gouix to let him stay for a few days and they soon become an item.

Initially, all seems well, as the blonde Malliarakis and burly Gouix explore the kinkier side of their passion and seem to make a solid odd couple, as the former knocks down the boundaries the latter tries to maintain between them. But when Gouix (who also plays bass in a band) goes away a couple of days, he simply fails to return and Malliarakis learns he has been busted for possessing drugs and jailed for 18 months. Thinking more about himself than his partner, Malliarakis makes himself the centre of the drama when Gouix makes it clear that he doesn't want any prison visits that might blow his macho cover. Stung by the rejection (which is hardly total, as Gouix wants him to keep sending cash), Malliarakis spends the stretch bouncing between Poulin and kinky middle-aged sex shop owner David Salles. But he still harbours hopes that he can pick up the pieces when Gouix is released.

Although it starts well and wittily, this formulaic drama loses its way and its sense of humour once the flurry of curiosity and discovery ends and the focus falls on the needily neurotic and, frankly, unappealingly manipulative Malliarakis. Given its impact upon him, it might have been interesting to see more of Gouix's efforts at dealing with his incarceration, as he is by far the more enigmatic character. But Lambert is more fascinated with Malliarakis's struggles and it's only a shame he doesn't show the same emotional restraint that Victor Sjöström brought to The Wind (1928), which plays at the cinémathèque where Malliarakis works. Nevertheless, Lambert avoids any cosy conclusions as the lovers' roles reverse and, in addition to coaxing fine performances from his leads, also makes effective use throughout of Mathieu Poirot Delpech's widescreen imagery and the melancholic Valleys songs that counterpoint the action.

A more complex love triangle forms around a couple of German police officers in Stephan Lacant's Free Fall. However, this potentially intriguing story is handled in such a predictable manner that it quickly becomes difficult to empathise with the supposed hero, whose actions seem driven more by his hormones than his emotions.

Cop Hanno Koffler seems to have the perfect life. Doing well at work, he is expecting his first child with girlfriend Katharina Schüttler and has just been given the money to buy a new home by parents Luis Lamprecht and Maren Kroymann. However, everything changes when he meets the brash Max Riemelt on a training course. Initially, Riemelt offers to teach Koffler how to jog effectively and cut down on the smoking that has caused him to be short of breath on duty. But the more time they spend together, the more intimate they become and the seemingly straight Koffler finds himself succumbing to same-sex urges to which he never suspected he was susceptible.

Naturally, Schüttler knows nothing of his crush. But she becomes curious when Koffler starts making excuses to leave the house at odd times and comes back several hours later. Moreover, Koffler's colleagues have begun to put two and two together. Yet, even though Riemelt is targeted by homophobe Shenja Lacher, Koffler decides to come out and finally comes to appreciate the gravity of the situation his passion has caused.

This might have been more convincing had Koffler and Riemelt shown any sign of tenderness towards each other. But, instead, they are thrown together by lust and Koffler appears intoxicated by the new sensations rather than awakened to his true nature. Thus, Lacant and co-scenarist Karsten Dahlem struggle to convey the enormity of the consequences of a what smacks more of feckless indulgence than psychological liberation. The performances are better than the material deserves, although Koffler and Riemelt scarcely seem like lovers who can't get enough of each other.

The ménage at the centre of Constanza Fernández's A Map for Love is more compellingly complex, even without the tantalising references to Roman Polanski's unsettling debut, Knife in the Water (1957). Claustrophobically photographed by Cristobal Portaluppi and Tomás Yovane aboard a small sailing boat, this feels very much akin to more lauded Chilean new wave dramas and works so well because the emphasis is more on human nature than sexuality and prejudice.

Andrea Moro has always been a disappointment to her highly conservative mother, Mariana Prat. Now, her relationship with Francisco Pizarro Saenz de Urtury has broken down and he is pressing for custody of their six year-old son, Romano Kottow, because Moro has fallen in love with free-spirited Francisca Bernardi, who runs a `post-pornography' website. Disturbed by a nightmare, in which she pulls her bed through the streets of Santiago, Moro decides to risk all and confide in her mother. But rather than berating Moro for her folly in embarking upon a lesbian affair, Prat warns her how Kottow's father will exploit the situation and asks if she can meet the remarkable actress, dancer and philosopher who has seduced her daughter.

Keen to control the introduction, Moro hires a boat and invites Bernardi and Prat for a day-long voyage. Naturally, things are a little awkward at first. But, as the sun starts to shine and the wine begins to flow, Prat and Bernardi move beyond stiff politeness. However, as she watches them while swimming in the ocean, Moro begins to worry that they are getting along too well and that the unpredictable Bernardi is pushing her luck too far. As the clouds gather, the mood becomes increasingly tense and Moro convinces herself that she has made a terrible mistake.

Despite taking a while to get some wind into its sails, this unerringly becomes a fascinating battle of wits, as Moro comes to regret bringing her mother and lover together in a confined space that seems to encourage the emergence of suppressed emotions. The debuting Fernández keeps things simmering and deftly finds plausible ways to make Moro feel like the outsider of the trio and for extraneous factors to impact upon the fractious relationships. She is also splendidly served by her leads, with Moro particularly impressing as an insecure thirtysomething, who is as ready to find an excuse to loathe her judgemental mother as she is eager to secure her approval. However, Prat and Bernardi also have their moments, as they let down their guards and force Moro to realise that she cannot have everything she wants without giving some ground herself.

Adapted from his own acclaimed stage play, Rikki Beadle-Blair's Bashment packs considerably more punch than his previous screen outings, Fit and Kick Off. However, this exposé of London's hip-hop and ragga scene is no less polemical and dialogue that might sound immediate and authentic too often rings hollow, as Beadle-Blair seeks to make complex political and cultural ideas accessible to a wide audience. Played with admirable brio by an inexperienced cast and capturing a palpable sense of place and mood, this is one of those films whose message is more important than its content and style.

Arriving in the capital from the West Country, Joel Dommett is determined to make it as an MC. But, while it's bad enough being a white outsider in outlaw country, Dommett is also gay. Furthermore, he makes the dreadful mistake of declaring his sexuality during the Urban Slam finals, just as boyfriend Marcus Kai is falling foul of Jason Steed and his Ilford Ilmanics, who have been disqualified for turning up late.

Many viewers will doubtlessly be repulsed by the brutality of the beating that leaves Kai with brain damage. But the sudden shift from throbbing beats and racial tension to domestic strife and climactic reformation is even harder to swallow. Dommett devotes himself to caring for Kai, while struggling to cope with the guilt of provoking the incident. But he is also tortured by the feeling of being robbed of his big chance to make something of himself. Consequently, he checks into a victim reconciliation programme for guidance and goes to see Steed in prison in the hope of achieving some sort of closure. But the Ilmanics are so aggressively unrepentant that he decides to take Kai with him for a last visit before they are released.

What is most impressive about this well-meaning film is its insistence on exploring the social circumstances behind the homophobic lyrics and lash-out prejudice. Yet, in seeking to present Steed and his crew as victims trapped in their own ghetto, Beadle-Blair resorts to stereotype and sentimentality and dissipates much of the story's power. That said, stand-up and MTV presenter Joel Dommett shows well in his first leading role and the film can only be commended for tackling such contentious issues.

Vogueing has already been captured on film in all its gaudy glory in Jennie Livingston's 1990 documentary, Paris Is Burning. But Sheldon Larry presents a new angle on the world of competitive costume balls in Leave It on the Floor, a musical with songs by screenwriter Glenn Gaylord and Kimberly Burse that explore the pain and pleasure of coming out, as well as the mix of hesitancy and exhilaration experienced by a young black introvert as he learns to embrace his exhibitionist alter ego. The pumping hip hop, house and techno may not be for everyone, but Larry ably captures the atmosphere of the scene in El Monte, California and the genuine sense of community offered by the `houses' that are often less mere rival teams than refuges for the outcast, the damaged and the lost.

Living in the back of the car he stole from his mother after she threw him out of the house for being gay, African-American Ephraim Sykes catches the eye of long-haired Andre Myers in a Los Angeles convenience store. As they flirt, each waits for the opportunity to pick each other's pocket and the intrigued Sykes decides to follow Myers to a downtown warehouse to reclaim his property.

Inside, Sykes discovers an unimagined fantasy land where drag queens in sequined frocks and foot-thick make-up parade along runways like models in an ultra-camp fashion show, while their butch counterparts seek to win prizes for the realism of their impersonation of suited and booted executives. The music pounds and so does Sykes's heart, as he realises this is somewhere he could belong. He is warmly welcomed by `face' artist Phillip Evelyn, who persuades den mother Miss Barbie-Q to let Sykes join the House of Eminence and he is soon finding an outlet for his pent-up frustrations. Moreover, he finds himself at the centre of a tug-of-war between Evelyn and Myers, as he prepares to enter the `sexy walk' contest at the upcoming Imperial Mini Ball.

As in most musicals, however, the plot is merely a pretext for the song-and-dance routines and this love triangle saga throws up few surprises. Indeed, a tragic car crash is more significant for the tuneful showdown between the victim's family and his house pals. But, for all its narrative deficiencies, this energetic entertainment more than compensates with ditties like `Ballroom Bliss', `Justin's Gonna Call', `This Is My Lament', `Black Love' and the show-stopping `Knock Them Motherfuckers Down'. The musical styles are admirably varied and Gaylord - aided choreographer Frank Gatson, Jr., who has worked with both Jennifer Lopez and Beyoncé - integrates the numbers into the action rather than confining them to the ballrooms.

Yet, while this is an easy film to like, it frequently betrays the meagreness of its budget and the fact that several crew members were inexperienced USC students. Moreover, Larry and editor Charles Bornstein spoil the first couple of vogueing sequences by opting for a frantic montage approach that prioritises conveying the manic vibrancy of the events over allowing the audience to gain an overview of the milieu and appreciate the effort and inspiration that has gone into the often outrageous costumes. But such rough edges are commensurate with the shamateurism of the scene under scrutiny and many more will remember the feisty quips of the excellent Miss Barbie-Q or the deliciously cornball lyrics than the occasional hesitancy of the leads or the odd moment of visual gaucheness.

Peccadillo reaches double figures with Boys on Film X, the tenth collection of gay shorts by emerging film-makers around the world. As in previous editions, the quality is as mixed as the choice of topic and tone. But, while there is only one must-see, there are plenty of guilty pleasures, including Jacob Brown's Blinders (2011), which chimes in with the triangle theme dominating this week's column. In this case, the photogenic Luke Worrall is the fine physical specimen who sends ripples through Nathaniel Brown and Byrdie Bell's relationship when they run into him in a bar.

Worral has become a familiar face through his modelling work and Gaëtan Vettier aspires to a similar lifestyle in Amaury Grisel and Antony Hickling's Little Gay Boy, ChrisT Is Dead (2012). However, his reality is more sordid, as he lives in Paris with English prostitute mother Amanda Dawson and endures humiliation at the hands of photographer François Brunet and homophobic abuse from Métro passenger Axel Sourisseau during a day that sees his dreams shattered and his fixation with the Crucifixion and sado-masochism becoming all the more disturbing. With dancer Bino Sauitzvy's blood-stained performance mirroring Vettier's journey, this shares a terpsichorean element with Belgian Lukas Dhont's Headlong (2012), which reunites two of the stars of Bavo Defurne's North Sea Texas (2011) in a dangerous liaison saga set on the eve of a ballet competition. Alone in a strange city, Jelle Florizoone can only think of the performance that could change his life. But his attention is deflected when Thomas Coumans bursts into his hotel room and urges the teenager not to follow him, as he is a bad sort on the run from the law.

A misjudged crush also proves crucial to Dominic Haxton and David Rosler's Teens Like Phil (2012), which flashes back from a desperate act to show why suburban high-school student Adam Donovan feels he has no other option but to end it all. Once close friends with Jake Robbins, Donovan finds himself cut adrift when he embraces his sexuality. But, while parents Margie Ferris and Bart Shatto, teacher Virginia Bartholomew and principal Domenica Galati have no idea what is going on, Donovan suffers in silence as Robbins bullies him mercilessly, in order to avoid confronting his own emotions and avoid the censure of brother Collin Leydon and new buddy Monty Geer. Despite being a touch melodramatic, this could not be more well meaning and it finds a companion piece in Till Kleinert's Boys Village (2011), which centres on 11 year-old Benjamin Thorne, who mooches around the ruins of a Welsh holiday centre for the sons of coal miners that was torched in the 1930s. As he wanders around the buildings, waiting to be collected, Thorne chats to dolls he has fashioned out of bric-a-brac. But his reverie is interrupted by the intrusion of Andrew McQueen and his pals, who intend smashing up the place and daubing it with graffiti. However, while McQueen is initially dismissive of Thorne, he slowly comes to realise that there is something disconcertingly strange about him and his fascination with the interlopers.

Atmospherically photographed by Martin Hanslmayr and played out with little dialogue to Conrad Oleak's unsettling score, this mournful Gothic chiller benefits enormously from inventive art direction by Felix Coles and Malena Modéer and the eerie pacing of Kleinert's direction and editing. It's matched for reticence by William Feroldi's Inflatable Swamp (2010), which similarly owes much to Tom Wright's photography and Rea Kim's interiors. The simple story focuses on Francis Beraud, who enjoys chance encounters, but spurns intimacy with the pick-ups whose details he writes on cards that he attaches to the blue balloons that bob against the ceiling of his bathroom. However, when he meets Paul Huntley Thomas, Beraud feels a sensation that prompts him to break both his custom and his silence.

Filmed mostly inside a single room in Bethnal Green, Fabio Youniss's A Stable for Disabled Horses (2012) is considerably more loquacious, as it eavesdrops on the surprise going away party that Daniel Swan is throwing for Daniel Simonsen before he returns home to Norway. Until now, Simonsen had little idea how much he meant to his host. But there's a limit to how much of Swan's confessional eulogy he wishes to hear, especially once he turns to his father's boorish attitude to dancing. Wittily scripted and played with wince-inducing restraint by its stand-up stars, this darkly comic study in awkwardness is left teasingly open. However, it is still overshadowed by Evan Roberts's Yeah Kowalski! (2012).

Thirteen year-old Cameron Wofford is a late bloomer, but a fast learner. When he discovers in Consuelo Allen's sex education that the apple of his eye, Conor Donnelly, prefers a hirsute armpit, Wofford keeps the clippings from the haircut dad Chris Doubek gave him and attaches them to his underarms prior to Annamarie Kasper's pool party. The result is entirely predictable, but Roberts tells his tale with such affection that it is impossible not to be swept back into an innocent yesteryear when every bad idea seemed like a stroke of genius. Beautifully played by a knowing cast and shot and designed with an eye for colour and cartoonish simplicity by Patrick William Smith and Dustin Shroff, this contains one of the best montage sequences of recent times (cut by Roberts himself), as Wofford slips his vest over the locks dangling in the breeze. Finally, Jeffrey Schwarz plays handsome tribute in Vito to one of the most courageous and charismatic figures in the struggle for gay rights in America. Aware of his sexual orientation at an early age, Vito Russo moved across New York to Greenwich Village in the mid-1960s and ran the gauntlet of raids, arrests and beatings that was the lot of the homosexual minority before the Stonewall Riot in 1969. Ashamed that he had remained on the sidelines during this heroic act of resistance, Russo became an active member of the Gay Activists Alliance and did much to popularise the Gay Pride movement and the fight for equal rights.

In 1973, he found himself having to referee a stand-off between militant lesbian feminists and the drag queens they insisted were an insult to womanhood. He restored order with the help of Bette Midler and his love of show business led to him landing a job in the film department of the Museum of Modern Art. When not curating screenings for same-sex audiences, Russo started trawling through the archives to examine the representation of gay and lesbian characters from cinema's earliest days. He presented his findings in a series of lectures, which he illustrated with copious clips before collating his notes into The Celluloid Closet, which was published to international acclaim in 1981.

Schwarz served as assistant editor on Rob Epstein and Jeffrey Friedman's 1995 documentary version of the book and he reworks some of its finest moments in revealing how Hollywood switched from the open depiction of `queer' characters in the silent era to shorthand allusions once pictures were subjected to the Production Code. Epstein and Friedman line up alongside such friends and luminaries as actress Lily Tomlin, writers Armistead Maupin and Felice Picano and ACT UP co-founder Larry Kramer to pay their respects, while Russo's brother Charles and cousin Phyllis Antonellis recall how his parents were initially aghast at their son cutting such a high profile figure in a world they didn't understand. But they became fervently proud of him as he battled the Reagan administration and the Food and Drug Administration to take the AIDS epidemic seriously.

Having criticised Harper's for its homophobic reporting, Russo was fearless in denouncing the New York Post's callous coverage of a disease many considered payback for an unnatural way of living and loving. Four years after he was diagnosed HIV+, Russo appeared in Epstein and Friedman's 1989 Oscar-winning documentary Common Threads: Stories From the Quilt in order to commemorate his lover Jeffrey Sevcik. On 7 November 1990, Russo himself died at the age of 44. His achievements as a film scholar and gay activist are fully noted here, but what comes across loudest and most clearly is the personal magnetism and equanimity that enabled him to keep an often fractious community together through the most difficult periods in its history.