Having confronted sexual bigotry in Fire (1996) and religious sectarianism in Earth (1999), Deepa Mehta set out to complete her 'elements trilogy' with Water in 2000. But she was forced to abandon the project after groups linked to the Hindu fundamentalist Bharathiya Janatha Party succeeded in destroying the sets in Uttar Pradesh, convinced that they were preventing an insult to Indian womanhood by denouncing the sacred Manu doctrine that a widow should either join her husband on his funeral pyre, marry his younger brother or subject herself to a life of isolation and penury.

In 2005, however, Mehta resumed production in Sri Lanka, which fortuitously led to the casting of the excellent Sarala, as the eight-year-old whose arrival at an ashram in the holy city of Varanasi in 1938 coincides with widow Lisa Ray's (pictured) decision to marry liberal-minded Brahmin John Abraham - an action that prompts devout Hindu housekeeper, Seema Biswas, to rethink her loyalty to both her religion and to Manorma, the community's hypocritical matron, who pimps Ray to the local bigwigs in return for drugs from gossiping eunuch, Raghuvir Yadav.

But Water isn't just a diatribe against a discriminatory custom that continues to exist (albeit in a less drastic form) today. Just as Abraham's Brahmin points out that the treatment of widows derived as much from economic pragmatism as scriptural veracity, so Mehta uses her story to discuss the wider contemporary problem of religions being used by extremists as a means of controlling the minds of believers and compelling them to uphold prejudices and practices that owe little to spirituality. The concluding encounter with Mahatma Gandhi, in which Seema Biswas is moved by his desire for people to see Truth as God rather than God as Truth, reaffirms this exceedingly courageous stance, which typifies the Toronto-based director's uncompromising attitude to her homeland.

However, this is less rigorously a work of Parallel Cinema than its predecessors, as Mehta has opted for a melodramatic narrative that would not be out of place in a conventional Bollywood picture and included a couple of A.R.Rahman songs to give the soundtrack a broader appeal. Moreover, she allows the romance between Ray and Abraham to deflect attention from Sarala's piteous plight, as well as Biswas's growing disillusion with Manorma.

Handsomely photographed by Giles Nuttgen and ably capturing the latter days of the Raj from an Indian perspective, this is a laudably committed piece of socio-political criticism. But it's also a rather disappointing conclusion to a triptych that had previously succeeded in shaking the subcontinent.

d=3,3,1Rolf de Heer and Peter Djiggir's Ten Canoes, on the other hand, succeeds throughout. Beautifully photographed by Ian Jones in Arnhem Land in the Northern Territory, the action shifts deftly between monochrome anthropological sequences inspired by the 1930s images of Donald Thomson and the lush, colourful vistas of a mythological time when the Aboriginal peoples lived in harmony with nature. The story often moves as slowly as swamp water, but those prepared to accept its novel approach to narrative(s) will be richly rewarded.

Our guide between the time frames is off-screen narrator David Gulpilil Ridjimiraril Dalaithngu, who mischievously mocks audiences who demand high-octane stories set 'once upon a time in a land far, far away'. Indeed, the leisurely pace of life and fantasy is remarked upon throughout, as Peter Minygululu uses a goose-hunting expedition to tell younger brother Jamie Dayindi Gulpilil Dalaithngu a cautionary tale to dissuade him from making eyes at his comely third wife.But there's more to this anecdote than Crusoe Kurddal's conviction that his brother (also Gulpilil Dalaithngu) is flirting with his own youngest spouse, as De Heer and Djiggar exploit the subplots and digressions to explore Aboriginal notions of eco-husbandry, justice, respect and loyalty. It's a touch chauvinistic in places, but the cast (drawn from the Ramingining community) revels in the self-deprecating humour and the chance to celebrate its ancient spoken culture on the screen.

d=3,3,1Although it fleetingly recalls the pugnacious social realism of the Philippines's finest film-maker, Lino Brocka, The Blossoming of Maximo Oliveros is an unexpectedly touching tale that tackles the taboo topic of adolescent sexuality with admirable restraint.

Director Auraeus Solito briskly conveys the poverty and cheerful criminality that makes the Sampaloc district of Manila so violent and vibrant, and its harsh realities create a stark backdrop for the campness of tweenager Nathan Lopez, whose cosy relationship with his shady father and thuggish brothers is compromised when he gets a crush on the new cop on the block, J.R.Valentin. The quasi-religious nature of Lopez's adoration tempers any innocent eroticism. But Solito does allow the action to become increasingly melodramatic as Lopez's loyalties become divided after sibling Neil Ryan Sese murders a student and Valentin is assigned to the case.