Lenoir Bittencourt

Lenoir Bittencourt, honestly, is just one of those names that keeps popping up if you ever end up down the rabbit hole of wild Brazilian cinema from the late ‘60s. The man’s attached to some of the weirdest, most fever-dream stuff you’ll ever see, and I mean that as the highest compliment. O Bandido da Luz Vermelha? Yeah, that’s not just a film, it’s a whole psychedelic trip dressed up as a crime story. You’ve got this chaotic, almost cartoonish bandit tearing through São Paulo, cops chasing him but they’re almost as unhinged as he is—everything’s loud, colorful, and a little bit anarchic. It’s not your average heist flick; it’s more like if Tarantino and Warhol had a baby in Brazil. Then there’s O Profeta da Fome, which is just—wow, how do you even describe it? It’s about a guy who turns starvation into a public spectacle. He’s literally starving for attention, and the city treats him like a sideshow. It’s grotesque, hilarious, and totally biting in how it pokes at celebrity culture before that was even a thing. Bittencourt’s vibe there is all about pushing boundaries and making you squirm even while you laugh. João Tem Medo? That one’s kind of the curveball—think childhood fears, nightmares, and that twilight zone between being a kid and facing the world’s monsters, both real and imagined. Bittencourt’s work just doesn’t play it safe, ever. His films are raw, experimental, and they stick in your head long after the credits roll. If you want cinema that punches you in the gut and then laughs about it, this is your guy.