It is a cruel reversal of fortune which sees a proud hotel doorman demoted to washroom attendant in The Last Laugh, and F.W. Murnau’s liberated camerawork evocatively traces his tragic descent into deep humiliation, dwelling in the shame and indignity that comes with an earth-shattering challenge to one’s entire identity.
No single image in Songs from the Second Floor reveals the full scope of eternal traffic jams, nonsense bureaucracy, and apocalyptic senselessness that this city has descended into, but as Roy Andersson’s painterly tableaux come together with deadpan melancholy, so too does his landscape of surreal, urban decay take absurdist form.
When a man serving on a jury recognises his own unexpected culpability in Juror #2, moral turmoil begins to stir his conscience, offering a rich subject for Clint Eastwood’s study of stifled, agonising guilt.
Music is a supernatural force that can pierce the veil between life and death in Sinners, and it is through its bluesy harmonies that Ryan Coogler resonates a timeless riff between warring cultural ideals, setting one 1930s African American juke joint against an insidious band of vampires.
The perpetual misfortunes that plague one Jewish professor in A Serious Man often seem like the setup for a joke with no punchline, damning him to an ungratifying search for life’s answers through both science and faith, and thereby delivering one of the Coen Brothers’ most enigmatic, ironic works.
Through the colourful, layered motifs that Luca Guadagnino weaves through the life of American expat William Lee, Queer delivers an unflinching fever dream that denies easy answers to his internal contradictions, constantly unravelling his capacity for love by his fear of being seen.
Within the spectacle, symbolism, and absurd formal patterns of Barton Fink, the Coen Brothers expose one aspiring screenwriter’s intellectual hypocrisy, trapping him in a hellishly elusive puzzle box beyond comprehension.
There is a strange comfort in the grieving process that We Live in Time’s non-linear narrative prematurely initiates, looming the threat of terminal illness over a pair of devoted lovers, while savouring every celebration, argument, and tender reconciliation which ever defined their relationship.
Through Sing Sing prison’s rehabilitative theatre program, Divine G and his fellow inmates find realer versions of themselves beyond guilt and anger, as Greg Kwedar’s casting of the real men that this story is based on uncovers a raw, vulnerable authenticity.
What hope there is for a culture under attack from foreign enemies and its own internal prejudices seems meagre in Blitz, yet the bond between a lonely mother and her lost child perseveres, as Steve McQueen tenderly illuminates humanity’s darkest hour with a loving, maternal radiance.
