On the rare occasion that a film is accurately described as one-of-a-kind, the world is usually gifted with a 2001: A Space Odyssey, Eraserhead, or Persona, pushing the boundaries of cinema pushed to new frontiers. Now in 2024, Francis Ford Coppola also accomplishes something quite unique in Megalopolis, though only to the extent that a chef who throws one hundred arbitrary ingredients into a dish might claim it to be truly original. There are drafts of compelling ideas floating around here, but when it comes to developing any into a coherent storyline or motif, this bewildering, regal mess is hindered by its own fanciful digressions.
On Megalopolis’ most conceptual level, its fusion of Ancient Rome and modern America into the setting of an epic Shakespearean fable is promising, and it is no wonder that Coppola held onto it for so many decades as a passion project. This anachronistic dystopia is so chaotically debauched, one might almost believe that Federico Fellini’s spirit has possessed him with demented visions of Roman fashion shows, chariot races, and spectacular circuses, paving the way for another Satyricon. The cityscape glows a golden luminescence that delivers some astoundingly surreal sequences atop towering clockface platforms, and abstractly considers the state of urban decay through living, monolithic statues physically bearing its brunt.
Even the notion that architect Cesar Catilina possesses the ability to freeze time is set up as a fascinating metaphor for all-encompassing power, though like every other conceit that passes through Megalopolis, Coppola is quick to discard it for whatever comes next. From a sex scandal, to a cataclysmic disaster, to an assassination attempt, there is barely a set piece here that carries weight beyond the moment it unfolds, often disappearing as quickly as it emerged. The visual style is also brimming with inconsistent flourishes of split screen montages, canted angles, and spinning camerawork, but these too give the impression of rambling experimentations more than a specific, coherent vision. As for the much-promoted ‘live fourth wall break’, Coppola delivers little more than an empty gimmick, facing a movie theatre employee towards the screen for half a minute while pre-recorded dialogue gives the unconvincing illusion that they are speaking to Cesar himself.
The deeper into Megalopolis one gets, the more it becomes apparent that Coppola simply can’t figure out the right rhetoric to express the ideas he has harboured for so long. “Only two things are difficult to stare at for long: the sun and your own soul,” his characters ponder, reaching for philosophical insight via awkward soundbites that lose meaning the more one thinks about them.
It doesn’t help either that the impressive gravitas Coppola occasionally manages to summon up is drastically offset by his campy attempts at humour. Given the talent present in this cast, it is hard to believe that Adam Driver, Giancarlo Esposito, and Jon Voight all happen to be botching line deliveries of their own accord, and so we must look to the director here as the guilty party. The death of a key player in the final act is especially diminished by this tonal jumble, robbing them of the send-off they have earned in its power struggle.
For the first time in Coppola’s career, we can’t fully blame his failures on not having the resources on hand or studio compromise. Megalopolis is inimitably the work of a filmmaker whose interests have always lied in the mad ego of man, though the precision and focus that he once poured into The Godfather and Apocalypse Now is completely absent here. In its place, we get a dazzling glimpse into the mind of an artist freed from commercial constraints and cinematic convention, yet tangled in his inability to carry a single line of thought through to completion.
Steven Spielberg’s take on Abraham Lincoln may spend most of his days in and around the White House, tactically orchestrating the passage of the slavery-ending 13th Amendment, though the terror of the Civil War is never far away. Muddy battlefields of fighting and fallen soldiers are washed out in muted, blue tones, thick with a smoke that can’t entirely conceal the blazing red and white stripes of waving Union flags. Within Lincoln’s house too, his own son Robert is incited by the brutal sight of mass graves to join the Union’s stand against the Confederacy, particularly concerning his parents who have only recently lost another child.
Most of all though, hanging in the balance is the recognised personhood of every Black man and woman who passes through this narrative – Mary Lincoln’s confidante Elizabeth Keckley, Abraham Lincoln’s valet William Slade, as well as those African American soldiers we meet risking their lives on the frontlines. The stakes are monumental, yet the legislative processes needed to pass the amendment are also painstakingly dense, and Lincoln does not spare us from the granular detail. This is not a film that merely glides across the surface of history, but studiously examines each political manoeuvre made by the 16th President of the United States during the last few months of his life, and the weighty consequences they bore.
The red and white stripes of Union flags stand out among the murky blues of battlefields, waving high as an icon of strength.
Tony Kushner’s screenplay is patient in its approach to this course of events, laying out Lincoln’s objective of winning over enough congressmen to pass the 13th Amendment, and then breaking it down into a series of smaller political battles. The opposing Democrats are his prime targets here, though difficulties also arise within Lincoln’s own party, including Thaddeus Stevens’ contentious backtracking on what the amendment represents – merely equality before the law, he proclaims, not equality in all things. With dialogue that is Shakespearean in its wit and grandiosity, Kushner turns what could have potentially been dry subject matter into a dramatic, occasionally even humorous treatise on the messy game of American politics.
An impressive turn from Tommy Lee Jones in support as Thaddeus Stevens, straddling the line between full-fledged support and dubious withdrawal from the spirit of the 13th Amendment.Kurosawa-like blocking along this hillside, spacing out silhouettes behind the foregrounded soldier in a display of militaristic strength.
Of course, much of this is also thanks to the casting of Daniel Day-Lewis – an incredible stroke of luck given that it arrived in an era where he worked relatively infrequently, yet made each performance count. His dedication to method acting delivers astounding results, lifting one of history’s most distinguishable figures out of books and photographs with moments of mirth, anger, and desperation. The visual accuracy in his transformative prosthetic make-up is remarkable, but he also matches that wrinkled, bearded face with a thoughtful demeanour and reedy voice that uses lengthy soliloquies to enrapture entire rooms.
A intensely studied performance from Daniel Day-Lewis, bringing the full spectrum of human emotion to this historic figure.Lovely deep focus across three layers – Lincoln in the foreground, his wife Mary further back, and then a mirror catching his reflection again behind her.Spielberg learned from the masters of Old Hollywood how to block a shot, using the full horizontal scope of his frame to arrange his actors, and the depth as well to draw our eye to the central subject.
Even beyond Day-Lewis, this is an ensemble that is loaded with fresh-faced and veteran actors alike, many of whom had or would soon have bright careers in Hollywood. Spielberg is a natural when it comes to capitalising on that extraordinary talent too, navigating their meetings in low-lit interiors through a dynamic camera that shifts, circles, and dollies with the natural flow of their discussions. The mise-en-scène maintains a painterly quality here, often using the natural light of lamps, fireplaces, and windows to shed a soft glow across the period décor and crowds. The total cinematographic effect is subtle but efficient, unifying the camerawork and impeccable staging of actors to guide our eye through each scene with organised purpose, and at times even urgency.
Beams of light guiding our eye through marvellous sets recreating 18th century America.Practical light sources in these lamps, shedding a dim, soft glow across the telegraph office.Immaculate chiaroscuro lighting and framing through the windows of Lincoln’s home.
Spielberg’s formal command of these cinematic elements proves to be especially crucial when the time comes in Lincoln for each congressman to pick a side of the fence and cast their votes on the nationwide abolition of slavery. The tension and release of each undecided voter lands with momentous gravity, while outside these walls envoys from the South are reportedly approaching Washington DC, seeking to postpone the vote by offering to end the war. When the news reaches Lincoln’s office, his written response possesses the guile of a crafty lawyer, while using his presidential powers to keep the Confederate delegation outside the capital’s borders.
“So far as I know, there are no peace commissioners in the city, nor are there likely to be.”
Honourable in his intentions he may be, though he is not above playing his allies and opponents for the greater good. For better or worse, this is what it takes to affect change in the United States, and Spielberg’s characterisation of Lincoln frames him as one of the few to smoothly navigate its political battlefield while holding firm to his moral principles.
The pivotal vote is a masterwork of tension and release, punctuated by a deft manipulation from Lincoln who smoothly navigates the political battlefield while holding firm to his moral principles.
The epilogue which follows the President’s resounding success drags on for a little too long, but by eventually concluding with his premature death a short few months later, Spielberg effectively immortalises him onscreen as a martyr of American democracy. An exceptional composition is formed around his pale, lifeless body lying beneath a bright light, surrounded by mourners whose black outfits are almost indistinguishable from the darkness which envelops them. By his bedside, a flame burns in an oil lamp, which Spielberg binds to the image of Lincoln himself through a long dissolve that slowly fades into his second inaugural address.
“With malice toward none, with charity for all, with firmness in the right as God gives us to see the right, let us strive on to finish the work we are in, to bind up the nation’s wounds, to care for him who shall have borne the battle and for his widow and his orphan, to do all which may achieve and cherish a just and lasting peace among ourselves and with all nations.”
For a nation ravaged by war, these words are a promise to serve those who bear the scars of its trauma, as well as a moving summation of Spielberg’s character study. In the wake of the President’s historic triumph, a dedication to continue honouring the spirit of the 13 Amendment is upheld, even once it has been put into practice. If liberty and justice for all is the bedrock of the American republic, then these final minutes of Lincoln give reason to hope that they did not die with one man, but continue to be felt in his enduring legacy.
Death takes hold in this melancholy composition, laying Lincoln’s lifeless body beneath a bright light, and surrounding him with mourners who are almost indistinguishable from the darkness which envelops them.Spielberg dissolves from the oil lamp by Lincoln’s deathbed to his Second Inaugural Address – a flame of hope kept alive in his legacy.
Lincoln is available to buy on Apple TV, YouTube, and Amazon Video, and the DVD or Blu-ray can be purchased from Amazon.
Parallel blocking along these rural roads in My Little Loves, mirroring romance across children and teenagers as our young protagonist Daniel imitates his older counterparts.
Best Film
The Mother and the Whore. Jean Eustache’s epic drama lays out the Madonna-whore complex in simple terms, placing its young male protagonist in a love triangle between long-term girlfriend Marie and the promiscuous, free-spirited Veronika. As one of the great character studies of the 1970s, it captures this compartmentalisation with deadpan humour and biting cynicism, painting a stark image of manhood stifled by intellectual hypocrisy. Eustache’s mise-en-scène is grimly minimalist, and his camerawork intimate, often lingering on the three lead performances in long, static takes that dwell in the discomfort of their unusual relationship dynamics.
A fine frame of Alexandre and his ex-girlfriend Gilberte discussing marriage – Eustache’s mise-en-scène is minimalistic, but his choice to linger on shots like these during conversations is strong.
Most Overrated.
The Mother and the Whore. TSPDT’s ranking as the 105th best film of all time puts this in high masterpiece territory, which would suggest its visual or formal accomplishment rivals some of the all-time greats. As admirable as these qualities are, it is a couple of hundred spots too high.
The Mother and the Whore is a borderline masterpiece, but not entirely for its compositional beauty – as effective as this location shooting is.
Most Underrated
My Little Loves. At #849 on the TSPDT consensus list, it could easily move at least two hundred spots higher. The distant nostalgia that Jean Eustache composes here is not made up of particularly momentous occasions, yet it is in its mundane minutia that the self-discovery of a pre-adolescent boy moving far away from his childhood home unfolds, watching him grapple with the expectations of a restrictive society while seeking to understand his own nascent masculinity.
Eustache infuses the exteriors of My Little Loves with a summery warmth, lazily drifting days by as Daniel rides bikes with his older friends.
Gem to Spotlight
Santa Claus Has Blue Eyes. Before his two big features, Jean Eustache was laying the groundwork of his gendered character studies with this 47-minute study of identity and desire. Our protagonist Daniel only dons the Santa suit for a bit of extra money as Christmas approaches, but he soon discovers that it his greatest pickup tactic yet, intriguing women who are compelled by the anonymity of the costume – what handsome stranger could possibly be lurking beneath that cheap beard and hat? The moment he reveals his identity to a date amusingly undercuts his inflated ego, seeing them rapidly lose interest. It is a modest entry in Eustache’s brief canon, but nonetheless a fascinating precursor to his greater successes.
Santa Claus Has Blue Eyes foreshadows Eustache’s later interrogations of masculinity and sexuality, amusingly playing out one young man’s exploitation of his street job to hit on women who are intrigued by his anonymity.
Key Collaborator
Jean-Pierre Léaud. In a career as short as Jean Eustache’s, all it takes is a couple of films to be named in this category. Although Léaud is often far more associated with more prolific New Wave directors such as Francois Truffaut and Jean-Luc Godard, The Mother and the Whore features one of his finest performances, second only to his acting in The 400 Blows. He is given almost four hours here to tease out the insecure, narcissistic character of Alexandre and his toxic Madonna-whore complex. His role in Santa Claus Has Blue Eyes continues to prove the kinship he had with Eustache, who frames Léaud as a younger version of himself in both films.
Eustache uses close-ups masterfully to forge a connection with his actors in The Mother and the Whore, giving Jean-Pierre Léaud the platform to deliver one of his best performances.
Key Influence
François Truffaut. Jean Eustache picked up The 400 Blows’ conception of coming-of-age dramas and ran with it, even casting its star Jean-Pierre Léaud as a surrogate version of his younger self. The fleeting moment where Léaud’s character stops by a poster of that exact film in Santa Claus Has Blue Eyes is amusingly self-referential, though Eustache also very much emulates the naturalism and irreverence of Truffaut’s work, similarly taking his camera to the streets of Paris and experimenting with narrative form.
Cutting away to a vignette shot in Truffaut’s Shoot the Piano Player...…and Eustache integrates it here in My Little Loves, framing this random woman as the subject of Daniel’s dream.
Cultural Context and Artistic Innovations
Experimenting through Shorts (1963-66)
Jean Eustache was the little brother of the French New Wave, getting his start in the Cahiers du Cinema offices after marrying a secretary there, and soon finding mentors in Jean-Luc Godard and François Truffaut. He did not come out swinging with a culture-defining debut like Breathless or The 400 Blows, but rather spent several years honing his skills on smaller scale projects, even making a cameo appearance in Godard’s film Weekend.
There are two featurettes which stand out in this period, both interrogating the insecurity which lies beneath images of self-confidence projected by young men. The first is Robinson’s Place, following two male friends who are divided over their love for the same woman, compete for her affection, and ultimately unite in cruel revenge when she turns them both down. Their self-entitlement would carry over into Santa Claus Has Blue Eyes as well, introducing another protagonist desperately trying to disguise his total lack of integrity, though the pity that Eustache holds for these characters also points to himself as their prime inspiration. These are sad, lonely men who lack the capacity to properly express themselves, trying to project carefree attitudes that mask deep bitterness.
Eustache was a cinematic realist from the start, executing a handheld, reverse tracking shot down the streets of Paris here in Robinson’s Place.
Eustache adopted Truffaut’s distinct naturalism in these films, shooting on location throughout the streets of Paris to infuse them with an urban grit, and even using Kodak film stock donated by Godard to shoot Santa Claus Has Blue Eyes. This penchant for capturing authentic moments would extend to his work in documentaries as well, though it wasn’t until the 70s that he left his footprint on cinema history.
Eustache using the Christmas decorations and lights of Paris to set the scene here in Santa Claus Has Blue Eyes, offsetting the festive joy with stark black-and-white photography.
Developing through Features (1973-74)
Having drifted around the edges of the French New Wave for around a decade, Eustache eventually fell victim to creative block, before the idea for his first feature film suddenly struck him in 1972. There was no holding back his immense ambition at this point, using the nearly four-hour runtime of The Mother and the Whore to apply an intensive focus to the lives of three young adults and their juvenile struggles in love.
Eustache did not break the trend of French auteurs directly reflecting their own lives and philosophies in their films, though he did display an unusually perfectionistic streak. One of his girlfriends described an argument they had which ended with him immediately sitting down to transcribe it verbatim for The Mother and the Whore’s screenplay, using the real names of the women he based the characters off. Even the apartment which much of the film is set in is his own, drawing an autobiographical connection between art and reality.
Eustache uses his own shabby Parisian apartment as the setting for The Mother and the Whore, drawing the autobiographical link between himself and Alexandre ever deeper.
Although Eustache was clearly far more capable of self-examination than his character Alexandre, he freely admitted to their shared passions and anxieties. Smugness goes hand-in-hand with insecurity, and it isn’t hard to see how Alexandre’s loquacious brand of intellectual pretence would later go on to shape the characters of Woody Allen and Richard Linklater films, especially considering the gaping chasm that lies between his obnoxious ego and feeble masculinity. It is much easier for him to blame women at large for his romantic struggles than to turn a critical eye inwards, as he shallowly longs for an era with old-fashioned values while remaining ignorant to the fact that he still would have been just as undesirable back then.
The visual aesthetic of The Mother and the Whore is largely a continuation of the black-and-white realism Eustache established in the 60s, though far more ambitious in virtually every aspect. A year later in 1974, My Little Loves diverged significantly with its far less talkative screenplay and astounding colour photography, soaking in the summery warmth of small-town France. Its dreamy vignettes reveal the nostalgia of a man looking back to his formative years, re-examining those tiny moments that exposed him to the joys and complications of adulthood. Here, children are observers of the world who learn through imitation, and consequently reflect the lessons they learn back into it.
Daniel’s first kiss with Françoise is the moment where he stops being a child and begins taking charge of his own life, even though he openly admits that he has no idea what he is doing.Eustache’s camera slowly revolves around Daniel and Françoise’s heads, marking this pivotal moment of maturation in his childhood.
Rather than indicting any single male character, My Little Loves composes a thoughtful consideration of the society which defines manhood for boys at an early age, and so Eustache draws from further back in his life than ever before. Like the character Daniel, he too grew up in the French village of Pessac with his grandmother, before moving to Narbonne to live with his mother. As such, it is easy to imagine how Daniel might one day become the leading protagonist of any other Eustache film.
As quickly as The Mother and the Whore lifted Eustache into the public eye, the commercial failure of My Little Loves sunk him again. The late 70s saw him return to documentaries and short films with far less ambitious scopes and visuals, even as they experimentally blurred the lines between truth and fiction. In 1981, he was partially paralysed in a road accident, and shortly after committed suicide by gunshot at the age of 42.
Similarities to Eric Rohmer in the light narrative pacing and window shots of My Little Loves, framing Daniel through his bedroom window against long, dry grass as he leaves for school.
The television shows of our childhoods hold a special place in our memories. Quality is entirely irrelevant – to innocent minds, these flickering images are tactile, complex worlds inhabited by vibrant characters we subconsciously mould ourselves after. This is a common experience shared by millennials, and from within it I Saw the TV Glow extracts an unsettling horror, casting a Lynchian surrealism over the lives of two teenagers bonding over the same 90s young adult show.
The Pink Opaque is not for kids, Maddy defiantly claims, and Owen quietly bristles against his father’s passing insult that it is for girls. It feels “more real than real life,” allowing an escape from the insecurities of adolescence and the resulting malaise. They can see themselves vividly within the show’s telepathic characters and glimpse representations of their nightmares in its monsters, each manifesting as grotesque, Eraserhead-style abominations trapped behind a thin mask of lo-fi video grain. It is not the malformed Ice Cream Man or the bearded, lumpy-faced creep that poses the greatest threat though, but rather the largely unseen Mr. Melancholy, who warps time and reality with his mystical powers.
Beyond the titular glow of the screen that softly casts fluorescent magentas, greens, and teals across Maddy and Owen’s faces, Jane Schoenbrun weaves a psychedelic luminescence through their home and school, colouring in this world with shades of their favourite show. Along with the dissolve transitions and elliptical pacing that skip through years at a time, this lighting palette infuses I Saw the TV Glow with an eerie, dreamy quality, whimsically obscuring the boundaries between reality and fiction. Like our two leads, the source of our discomfort remains difficult to pinpoint for some time, until Schoenbrun gradually turns our focus to the truth of their identities.
For Maddy, this is first touched on when she explicitly states she likes girls and reveals her intention to run away from home. When she probes Owen on the matter of his own sexuality, he can’t quite pinpoint the word to describe his specific brand of dysphoria – nor does he seem to want to. Admitting that he feels out of place in his body and the world at large would be to accept that his entire life thus far has been a lie. While Maddy seeks to expose the mind-bending conspiracy behind The Pink Opaque, he shies away in fear of what its implications might be, despite understanding on a deep, intuitive level the exact feeling of imprisonment and disorientation that she is describing.
From there, Schoenbrun’s allegory for the trans experience flourishes, teasing out the horrifying effects of self-denial which keeps Owen from embracing the confidence and spirit of his actual self. His suffering is figuratively akin to being buried alive, forcing wheezing breaths from his chest that might easily be dismissed as asthma, and eroding his physical being into a pale, emaciated shell of his younger self. It is a poignantly clever use of voiceover that appears here too, granting Owen some subconscious awareness that he exists in a fictional world as he speaks to us through the fourth wall, even as he resists fully crossing that barrier.
Where the Wachowskis once called this simulated reality the Matrix, Schoenbrun labels it the Midnight Realm, both essentially representing the same false construct of identity within their respective genres. It is clear that I Saw the TV Glow prioritises its otherworldly atmosphere above all else, though perhaps Schoenbrun could have taken a few more lessons from Lynch in this respect, developing their overarching metaphor to completion while lingering in its ambiguous, wearying anxiety. Nevertheless, the psychological horror that is crafted here from distorted 90s nostalgia makes for an intoxicating examination of those artificial personas thrust upon society’s most vulnerable, and the insidious illusions of self-autonomy that maintain them.
I Saw the TV Glow is currently playing in theatres.
Marriage within the Kohayagawa family takes on multiple meanings throughout The End of Summer, always dependent on the individual in question. For younger daughter Noriko it is an aspiration hindered by her sweetheart Teramoto’s decision to move away for work, while her elder sister Fumiko performs her duty loyally, raising a son with her husband Hisao. The pressure for their widowed sister-in-law Akiko to remarry is also quietly mounting, even as she quietly resists with the sincere acknowledgement that her youth is long gone – not that patriarch Manbei sees this as an issue when he controversially tries to reconnect with his old mistress. A widower of his age should not be considering the prospect of marriage, his family proclaims, lest he should embarrass them all.
As is the case in most Yasujirō Ozu films, Japanese tradition is at the forefront here, merging The End of Summer’s rigorous form, style, and content into a gentle meditation on those longstanding cultural values that have ensured stability across generations. Where his penultimate film sets itself apart is in the astounding elegance of the execution, even by his own standards. In terms of pure visual storytelling, this competes with only a handful of his greatest works, while pushing his geometrically precise style forward through rejuvenating colour photography.
Ozu rpresents the entire Kohayagawa family through the brown, earthy tones of their home and sake bar – dark wooden flooring, furniture, and panelling are the dominant aesthetic in The End of Summer.An elegant frame beyond the crowded angles of the family home, gently imposing the tree trunk and branches on these characters as we join their conversation.
Ozu’s layering of frames through corridors and doorways remains one of his most potent visual devices here, often containing his characters within the spaces of work, leisure, and domestic duty which define their day-to-day routines. There is often an extraordinary graphic harmony between people and their surrounding décor, symmetrically dividing a table at one of Noriko’s work lunches by gender, while running a pattern of brightly coloured bottles beneath them parallel to their staging.
Extraordinary graphic harmony in Ozu’s mise-en-scène, symmetrically dividing a table at one of Noriko’s work lunches by gender while running a pattern of brightly coloured bottles beneath them.
The End of Summer’s mise-en-scène also transcends conventional blocking choices, often suggesting the presence of specific characters despite their physical absence. When we transition into a scene with Akiko at an art gallery for instance, Ozu gently delivers a montage of floral paintings in an art gallery, while on a broader level he represents the entire Kohayagawa family through the brown, earthy tones that encompass them. Within their home, dark wooden flooring, furniture, and panelling are the dominant aesthetic, complementing their light bamboo drapes and striking an extraordinary contrast against their exquisitely patterned wallpaper and textiles.
Ozu uses mise-en-scène to suggest the presence of specific characters despite their physical absence, delivering a montage of floral paintings in an art gallery when we transition into a scene with Akiko at an art gallery.Patterned wallpaper becomes a trend towards the end of Ozu’s career, delicately framing his immaculately blocked ensemble.Bamboo drapes weave light, organic textures through domestic spaces, complementing the dark wooden décor.
As for Manbei himself, his personality and power are most strongly signified in the family sake brewery, often seen with barrels leaning obliquely against its wall in Ozu’s pillow shots. Their contents are the foundation of his small business, though in this modern era its future is looking frighteningly uncertain, as the need to merge into a larger corporation seems more inevitable with each passing week.
Marvellous pillow shots set around the family brewery, leaning rounded barrels up against the outside wall when business is prospering.
When Manbei suffers a heart attack, these shots consequently draw a parallel between the health of his body and his company. As Noriko rushes to call an ambulance, Ozu cuts through a series of familiar locations in their home that are now gloomily dimmed and emptied, before returning to the brewery’s exterior where the absence of barrels is poignantly noted. The graveyard shot that is additionally inserted here isn’t to be passed over either – Ozu’s careful editing weaves a mournful foreboding in the wake of this sudden illness, quietly hinting at the tragedy that has already taken the family’s beloved mother, and which will soon claim their patriarch and business as well.
Immediately following Manbei’s heart attack, Ozu lingers in this melancholy montage of the empty doctor’s office and family home, now void of life.The family business’ health is tied directly to Manbei’s – no more barrels after he is struck down by illness.
Throughout Ozu’s career, the encroachment of the modern world into traditional Japanese spaces has steadily become more central to his narrative conflicts, even as he maintains a nuanced standpoint on the issue. With a piece of the Kohayagawa family’s identity at stake, the threat of post-war industrialism is felt especially deeply here, yet at the same time Ozu savours the incongruence of this cultural clash. The blinking neon lights of Kyoto’s cityscapes are searingly beautiful, while views of temples through Venetian blinds and pagodas peeking over tiled roofs further develop the uneasy interactions between Japan’s past and present.
Kyoto’s dazzling cityscapes look to Japan’s future, stripped of those family businesses which were once the economy’s lifeblood.Ancient temples framed through office windows, depicting a clash of eras and values.
Quite unusually though, it is not just the younger generations subverting cultural customs in The End of Summer, but even Manbei himself. Every so often Ozu dismisses his characters’ polite reservations with glimpses of spirited humour, watching the elderly sake brewer play hide and seek with his grandchild, and elsewhere try to shake his employee’s tail while running off to his mistress’ home. His children’s concerns about this rekindled romance are understandable given its history, though now that their mother has passed, so too can we understand Manbei’s renewed desire for companionship.
Moments of levity in Manbei’s games with his grandson.Light comedy in Manbei’s sly escape to his mistress’ home, shaking the tail of his younger employee – even here, Ozu repeats shots to establish a sense of geography.
It is obvious upon meeting Tsune that we realise she is no wily seductress, but just another lonely parent seeking love, and ultimately proving her dedication to Manbei as she nurses him through his sickness. Happiness and fulfilment can clearly be found outside the family unit in The End of Summer, even if certain relationships are left ambiguous, such as the question of whether he fathered her daughter Yuriko. The rebellious streak that he and Yuriko both share only supports this speculation, particularly manifesting in her as a rejection of Japanese culture and adoption of a heavily Westernised lifestyle. Rather than the loose-fitting and slimming garb worn by Manbei’s daughters, she wears bright, eye-catching dresses that accentuate her curved figure, and her dating life primarily revolves around white American men.
Japan’s youth are adopting a Westernised culture, typified in Yuriko who dresses in bright dresses and dates primarily American men.
The two sequences where Ozu takes the Kohayagawa family outside the city and into the countryside thus mark a reprieve from this modern cultural conflict, even if it is exchanged for profound mourning in both instances. In the first instance, they hold a memorial service for their late mother in Arashiyama, where Ozu’s pillow shots turn their focus to forests and hills that have barely been touched by human civilisation. The second time they venture beyond their home though, the grief is far more potent, commemorating the passing of their beloved father.
Pillow shots as we transition to the countryside – note the formal rigour of these compositions, flooding the frame with greenery while running a brown, vertical beam through each shot.Foreground and background detail in Ozu’s compositions, running a line of gravestones diagonally across the frame while two lonely figures in mourning clothes keep their distance.
The small appearance of Ozu regular Chishû Ryû as a farmer observing the crematorium chimney with his wife is notable here, despite there being no direct interaction between them and our main characters. Judging by the crows gathering along the river where they work, they surmise that someone has died, and soon their suspicions are confirmed when smoke from that giant pillar begins rising into the air. “It’s not a big deal if an elderly person were to have died, but it would be tragic if it were somebody young,” the woman ponders, while the man takes a more positive spin on her indifference.
“Yes, but no matter how many die, new lives will be born to take their place.”
Chishû Ryû cameos as a farmer commenting on Manbei’s death from afar, bringing Ozu’s musings on mortality to a close.The crematory chimney is a poignant visual motif, marking Manbei’s final departure from the world.
It is merely the cycle of life, his wife acknowledges – a comforting assertion given the confirmation in these final scenes that the Kohayagawa brewery will indeed be sold off, ending an era in this family’s history. No longer do these adult children wear light colours and delicate patterns, but instead exchange them for pitch-black, funereal garments. Even after they leave the graveyard, the severe imprints they cast against the pale blue sky poetically resonate into Ozu’s sombre final shot, revealing two crows cawing upon a pair of headstones. They are the grief of the living that lingers with the deceased, but so too are they the souls of husband and wife joined in death, marking the resting spot where their bodies lay. Perhaps the celebrated traditions of marriage and family can secure a longstanding stability through this loss, yet The End of Summer does not underestimate the sorrow that it entails, composing wistful lamentations of life’s transient, bittersweet joys.
Manbei’s adult children no longer wear light colours and delicate patterns, but instead exchange them for pitch-black, funereal garments, imprinted against a light blue sky.Crows gather at the cemetery, and Ozu nails his final shot – these birds are the grief of the living that lingers with the deceased, but so too are they the souls of husband and wife joined in death, marking the resting spot where their bodies lay.
The End of Summer is currently streaming on The Criterion Channel.
Life is not measured by months or seasons during the year that Daniel spends with his estranged mother in Narbonne, but rather by memories drifting by in their own timeless dimension. “How long were we there? Two hours? More?” his voiceover ponders while lying next to Françoise in the long, dry grass after their first kiss, grasping at however many minutes they have left together. It is only now as he approaches the date marking his return to his hometown of Pessac that time becomes a tangible limitation in My Little Loves, threatening to halt his emergence into adolescence. How could his old childhood friends possibly understand all that he has experienced in Narbonne, and the dauntingly seductive glimpse of adulthood that has been endowed upon him?
Through the nostalgic, mundane minutia that Jean Eustache composes in My Little Loves, Daniel’s self-discovery gradually unfolds. He is a quiet observer of the world who learns through imitation, reflects its lessons back into society, and hopes to gain some admiration from his peers along the way. Before moving away from his hometown, this takes the innocent form of a magic trick he picked up from a travelling daredevil act, yet when he surrounds himself with the older boys in Narbonne his influences become far more adult orientated. At the local cinema where teenagers go to make out, Daniel uses the moves being performed by his peers and the actors onscreen to crack onto a girl sitting in front of him, before quickly leaving once he has successfully procured a kiss.
Delicate detail in the character building as Daniel recreates the daredevil act he watched at the circus. He is a quiet observer of the world who learns through imitation, reflects its lessons back into society, and hopes to gain some admiration from his peers along the way.Similarities to Eric Rohmer in the light narrative pacing and window shots of My Little Loves, framing Daniel through his bedroom window against long, dry grass as he leaves for school.
Although this film takes a far brighter, more languid tone than the highly verbose character study of The Mother and the Whore, Eustache’s admiration of François Truffaut’s avant-garde storytelling remains just as present. Much like The 400 Blows, My Little Loves dedicates its realism to the study of a boy on the verge of adolescence, grappling with the expectations of a restrictive society while seeking to understand his own nascent masculinity.
Quite dominant in this struggle is Daniel’s thirst for an academic education that his mother cannot afford, with his only lessons now coming from the moped repair shop where he is forced to work. The brown wall of tools become a recurring backdrop to his wasted days here, leaving the regular passersby glimpsed outside the window as his only entertainment – a woman who consistently visits the same corner to kiss different men, for instance, and a young mother who frequently strolls by with her pram. Daniel falls asleep thinking about her, his voiceover divulges, as Eustache frames her in a dreamy vignette effect that seems right out of Truffaut’s playbook.
The brown wall of tools become a recurring backdrop to Daniel’s wasted days at the moped repair shop, far from the liveliness of the schoolyard that he longs for.Traces of Truffaut in the avant-garde iris shots, dreamily narrowing in on the woman who passes by the shop each day and catches his eye.
Very gradually, this repetition of familiar elements develops a mundane, formal rhythm in My Little Loves, aided by the elliptical fades to black between scenes. Daniel’s matter-of-fact voiceover does not dwell too long on sentiment or poetry, but rather offers a reflective, Bressonian distance from his emotions, which even he frequently struggles to comprehend. There is no reason to rush into adulthood at his age, and so there is equally no need for Eustache to artificially raise the stakes with disingenuous plot contrivances. Character tension emerges organically as Daniel tentatively wades through uncertain waters, choosing to remain silent when a pair of customers complain about today’s youth, while elsewhere letting his actions speak loudly by stealing back his crush Françoise from his more audacious friends.
Parallel blocking along these rural roads, mirroring romance across children and teenagers.Strong depth of field as Daniel and his new friends eye off the girls approaching them down the street, framed perfectly in the dead centre of the shot.
This film evidently forms a crucial link between The 400 Blows and Richard Linklater’s plotless coming-of-age films some decades later, though within that cinematic lineage as well is Eustache’s contemporary, Eric Rohmer. There is an affinity between the colour photography of his post-New Wave work and the visual warmth of My Little Loves, giving each shot the impression of an old, faded photograph taken in the heat of a French summer. Their penchant for composing stylistic frames through windows and doorways further links both auteurs too, even if Eustache is clearly far more comfortable directing less talkative protagonists than Rohmer, often letting dialogue drop away to dwell on the picturesque scenery of Pessac and Narbonne. Tree-lined walkways bisect lush parks and rural roads run next to dry, yellow fields, hosting Daniel’s wandering journeys as he bikes and ambles through landscapes handsomely shot by Rohmer’s regular cinematographer, Néstor Almendros.
Painterly long shots revealing the town of Narbonne where Eustache sets and shoots his film, dwelling in the park, streets, and shops.Eustache infuses his exteriors with a summery warmth, lazily drifting days by as Daniel rides bikes with his older friends.
Eustache’s camera is also notably freer than Rohmer’s, mostly tracing the movements of his actors through scenes, while only moving on its accord in two prominent instances. After briefly capturing Daniel lying in bed at his grandmother’s Pessac home in the film’s very first shot, a graphic match cut fades into the next morning, the bed now empty and unmade. Very gradually, it drifts past the patterned wallpaper to an open window, before cutting again to his dresser where it tracks across a small collection of framed black-and-white photos, a carved figurine, and a small painted chest. The motion is not directly attached to any character, but rather reveals the nature of Daniel’s living situation before we properly meet him – this is a child living in the home of an old woman, drastically contrasting against the dark, cramped apartment he will soon occupy in Narbonne.
Eustache’s opening shot fades to black, before fading back into the empty bed in the morning.A series of simple, elegant camera moves setting the scene – this is not a family’s house, but carries the musty, old-fashioned warmth of a grandmother’s cottage.
If Eustache’s meandering narrative can be said to have a climax, then the second unmotivated camera movement worth noting in My Little Loves delicately builds it around the kiss shared between Daniel and Françoise, letting us slowly orbit them as they freeze in their romantic embrace. For Daniel, this is the moment where he stops being a child and begins taking charge of his own life, even though he openly admits that he has no idea what he is doing. Upon moving back to Pessac, his attempt to act upon his newfound confidence results only in nonplussed rejection when he gropes one of his friends. Maybe he will one day learn the nuances of sexual consent, or perhaps he will grow up to be as cluelessly entitled as Alexandre from The Mother and the Whore, though that future escapes the scope of Eustache’s wistful ruminations in My Little Loves. This year spent isolated from familiar childhood comforts is a point of transition for Daniel, dense with formative experiences, and tenderly revealing the whiplash of a lonely, confusing, yet stimulating adolescence.
Eustache’s camera slowly revolves around Daniel and Françoise’s heads as they kiss, marking this pivotal moment of maturation in his childhood.
My Little Loves is currently streaming on The Criterion Channel.
When spoiled heir Dickie Greenleaf catches Tom Ripley trying on his expensive clothing, the assumption that his new friend might be gay is only half-correct. Queer readings of Patricia Highsmith’s novel The Talented Mr. Ripley are nothing new, and Steven Zaillian is not ignorant to them in his television adaptation, though the icy contempt and admiration that are wrapped up in Tom’s repression also paint a far more complex image of class envy. Tom does not wish to be with Dickie, but to become him, and the depths to which he is willing to sink in this mission reveal a moral depravity only matched by his patience, diligence, and cunning.
Of all the qualities that vex Tom about Dickie, it is his complete lack of personal merit that is most maddening, deeming him unworthy of the lavish lifestyle funded by his wealthy father. While Dickie admires the cubism of Picasso and even proudly owns his artworks, his attempts at recreating that distinctive, abstract style fall short, just as his girlfriend Marge displays little talent in her writing and his friend Freddie is no great playwright. Money might buy the bourgeoisie false praise, yet no amount of riches can endow upon them the ingenious intuition that history’s greatest artists naturally possess, and which Tom nefariously manipulates to earn what he views as his unassailable right.
Tom arrives in Dickie and Marge’s life as a looming shadow, ominously cast over their bodies relaxing on the beach.Few television series in history look like this – Zaillian draws on the expertise of cinematographer Robert Elswit to capture these magnificent visuals, making for some of their best work.
It takes the sharp, opportunistic mind of a con artist to conduct a scam as multifaceted as that which Tom executes here, murdering and stealing Dickie’s identity while carefully navigating the ensuing police investigations. Though Tom adopts his victim’s appreciation of Picasso for this ploy, Zaillian also introduces another historic painter as an even greater subject of fascination in Ripley. The spiritual affinity that Tom feels for Baroque artist Caravaggio is deepened in the parallels between their stories, both being men who commit murder, go on the run, and express a transgressive attraction towards men. Though living three centuries apart, these highly intelligent outcasts are mirrors of each other – one being an artist with a criminal background, and the other a criminal with a fondness for art.
A graphic match cut deftly bridges historical time periods, bringing Tom and Caravaggio’s formal connection to a head in the final episode.Gothic expressionism in the Caravaggio flashback, revealing the murder which has tainted his name.Caravaggio’s artworks are strewn throughout Ripley, most notably drawing Tom to the San Luigi dei Francesi cathedral where his three St. Matthew paintings are on display.
At the root of this comparison though, perhaps Tom’s appreciation may simply stem from the aesthetic and formal qualities of Caravaggio’s paintings, portraying biblical struggles with an intense, dramatic realism that was considered groundbreaking in Italy’s late Renaissance. When Tom gazes upon three companion pieces depicting St. Matthew at the grandiose San Luigi dei Francesi cathedral in Rome, they seem to come alive with the sounds of distant, tortured screaming, blurring the thin boundary between art and observer. With this in mind, Zaillian’s primary inspiration behind Ripley also comes into focus, skilfully weaving light and shadow through his introspective staging of an epic moral battle as Caravaggio did four hundred years ago.
Though the rise of cinematic television in recent years has seen film directors take their eye for photography to the small screen, one can hardly call Zaillian an auteur. This is not to take away from his impressive writing credits such as Schindler’s List, Gangs of New York, and The Irishman, but the spectacular command of visual storytelling in Ripley is rare to behold from a filmmaker whose directing has often been the least notable parts of his career.
An Antonioni approach to photographing Italian architecture, using wide angle lenses to frame these shots that raise structures far above the tiny people below.Immaculate framing and lighting in the canals of Venice, trapping Ripley in a labyrinth built upon his greatest fear – water.Tom’s wandering through labyrinthine Italian cities offers both beautiful mise-en-scène and excellent visual storytelling, applying a photographer’s eye to the detail of each shot.
Robert Elswit’s high-contrast, monochrome cinematography of course plays in an integral role here, rivalling his work on Paul Thomas Anderson’s films with superb chiaroscuro lighting and a strong depth of field that basks in Italy’s historic architecture. Elswit and Zaillian’s mise-en-scène earn a comparison to Michelangelo Antonioni’s tremendous use of manmade structures here, aptly using the negative space of vast walls to impede on his characters, while detailing the intricate, uneven textures of their surroundings with the keen eye of a photographer. The attention paid to this weathered stonework tells the story of a nation whose past is built upon grand ambition, yet which has eroded over many centuries, tarnishing surfaces with discoloured stains and exposing the rough bedrock beneath worn exteriors.
Lichen-covered brick walls fill in the negative space of these shots with visual tactility, giving each location its own distinct character.Visual majesty in the cathedrals that Ripley ventures through, captured with astounding symmetry in this high angle.History is baked into the discoloured stains and weathered stonework of Italian architecture, dominating these compositions that push Tom to the edge of the frame.
Conversely, the interiors of the villas, palazzi, and hotels where Tom often takes up residence couldn’t be more luxurious, revelling in the fine Baroque furniture and decorative wallpaper that only an aristocrat could afford. The camera takes a largely detached perspective in its static wide shots, though when it does move it is usually in short panning and tracking motions, following him through gorgeous sets tainted by his corrosive moral darkness.
Baroque interiors designed with luxurious attention to detail, reflecting the darkness that Tom carries with him to each hotel and villa.Divine judgement in the unblinking gaze of these historic sculptures, following Tom all through Italy.
In effect, Ripley crafts a labyrinth out of its environments, beginning in the grimy, cramped apartment buildings of New York City and winding through the bright streets and alleys of Italy. Zaillian’s recurring shots of stairways often evoke Vertigo in their dizzying high and low angles, with even the flash-forward that opens the series hinting at the gloomy descent to come as Tom drags Freddie’s body down a flight of steps. Elsewhere, narrow frames confine characters to tiny rectangles, while those religious sculptures clinging to buildings around Italy direct their unblinking gazes towards Tom, casting divine judgement upon his actions.
Tom emerges from the cramped apartments in New York City – a cesspool of grime and darkness before he heads to the bright, sunny coast of Italy.Zaillian’s stairway motif arrives as a flash-forward in the very first shot of the series, which returns in its full context four episodes later.Dizzying high and low angles of stairway litter this series, forming spirals out of rectangles, hexagons, and arches.Distant doorways and windows place Dickie and Marge under an intense, microscopic lens from Tom’s voyeuristic perspective.Precision in Zaillian’s framing, trapping Tom in confining boxes.
As oppressive as these tight spaces may be, they are where Tom is most in control, though Zaillian is also sure to emphasise that the opposite is equally true. The only place to hide when surrounded by vast, open expanses of ocean is within the darkness that lies below, and Tom’s phobia is made palpable in a visual motif that plunges the camera down into that suffocating abyss. This shot is present in nearly every episode of Ripley, haunting him like a persistent nightmare, though Zaillian broadens its formal symbolism too as Tom seeks to wield his greatest fear as a weapon against others.
The dominant aesthetic of static shots is broken up by this sinking camera motif, appearing in most episodes as a persistent nightmare of drowning.The dark, churning water beckons Tom as he sails between destinations, threatening to pull him into the abyss.
Most crucially, Tom’s murder of Dickie upon a small boat in the middle of the ocean marks a tipping point for the con artist, seeing him graduate to an even more malicious felony. Zaillian conducts this sequence with taut suspense, entirely dropping out dialogue from the moment Tom delivers the killing blow so that we may sit with his discomforting attempts to sink the body, steal Dickie’s coveted possessions, and burn the boat. From below the surface, the camera often positions us gazing up at the boat’s silhouetted underside with an unsettling calmness. Equally though, the sea is also a force of unpredictable chaos, threatening to drag Tom into its depths when his foot gets caught in the anchor rope and knocking him unconscious with the out-of-control dinghy.
Zaillian’s execution of Dickie’s murder is cold, calculated, and passionless, the entire sequence unfolding over 25 patient minutes.Daunting camera placement from deep within the ocean, calling upon Tom’s phobia at the peak of his brutality.
Even when Tom manages to make it out alive, his continued efforts to cover his tracks bear resemblance to Norman Bates cleaning up after his mother’s murder in Psycho, deriving suspense from his systematic procedures of self-preservation across 25 nerve-wracking minutes. Within a two-hour film, a scene this long might otherwise be the centrepiece of the entire story, yet in this series it is simply one of several extended sequences that unfolds with measured, focused resolve.
Unlike most commercial television, there are no dragged-out plot threads or over-reliance on dialogue to push the narrative forward either. As such, Zaillian recognises the unique qualities of this serial format in a manner that only a handful of filmmakers have truly capitalised on before – Ingmar Bergman’s Scenes from a Marriage comes to mind, or more recently Barry Jenkins’ The Underground Railroad. By structuring Patricia Highsmith’s story around roughly hour-long episodes, each scene unfolds with a patient attention to detail, unencumbered by the constraints of limited run times while maintaining a meticulous narrative economy.
Zaillian borrows this use of colour from Schindler’s List – a film he wrote – leaving behind evidence of murder in these red, bloody paw print, and breaking through Elswit’s severe, black-and-white photography.Exposition is brought alive as letters are read out directly to the camera.
Specifically crucial to the development of Ripley’s overarching form are Zaillian’s recurring symbols, woven with sly purpose into Tom’s characterisation. The refrigerator that Dickie purchases in the second episode is a point of contention for Tom, representing a despicably domestic life of stagnation, while the precious ring he steals is proudly worn as an icon of status. After Freddie starts investigating his mysterious disappearance though, the glass ashtray which Tom viciously beats him to death with becomes the most wickedly amusing motif of the lot, laying the dramatic irony on thick when the police inspector visits the following morning and taps his cigarette into it. Later in Venice, Tom even goes out of his way to purchase an identical ash tray for their final meeting, for no other reason than to gloat in his deception.
Tom eyes Dickie’s ring off early, and from there it becomes a fixation for him, representing the status he seeks to claim for himself.An unassuming ash tray becomes the murder weapon Tom wields against Freddie, and continues to appear in these close-ups with sharp dramatic irony.
This arrogant stunt speaks acutely to Andrew Scott’s sinister interpretation of Tom Ripley, especially when comparing him against previous versions performed by Alain Delon and Matt Damon. Scott is by far the oldest of three at the time of playing the role, and although this stretches credulity when the character’s relative youth comes into question, it does apply a new lens to Tom as a more experienced, jaded con artist. He does not possess the affable charisma of Delon or Damon, but he delivers each line with calculated discernment, understanding how a specific inflection or choice of word might turn a conversation in his favour. He realises that he does not need others to like him, but to merely give him the benefit of the doubt, allowing enough time to review the situation and recalibrate his web of false identities. After all, how could anyone trust those onyx, shark-like eyes that patiently scrutinise his prey when they aren’t projecting outright malice?
Andrew Scott’s take on Tom Ripley is far from Alain Delon’s and Matt Damon’s, turning in charisma for sinister, calculating discernment.
Scott’s casting makes even more sense when considered within the broader context of Zaillian’s adaptation, leaning into the introspective nature of Tom’s nefarious schemes rather than their sensational thrills. The question of what exactly constitutes a fraud is woven carefully through each of Ripley’s characters, mostly centring around Dickie’s class entitlement and Tom’s identity theft, though even manifesting in the police inspector’s passing lies about his wife’s hometown. The rest of society wears false masks to get ahead, Tom reasons, so why shouldn’t he join in the game?
It is no coincidence that the disguise he wears when pretending to be the ‘real’ Tom Ripley so closely resembles the representation of Caravaggio that we meet in the final episode. If anything, this is the truest version of Tom that he has played thus far, and Zaillian’s magnificent conclusion brings that comparison full circle with a dextrous montage of mirrored movements and graphic match cuts. Our protagonist is not some demon born to wreak havoc on the world, but rather a man who has always existed throughout history, seeking to climb the ladder of opportunity with a sharpened, creative impulse and moral disregard. As Ripley so thoroughly demonstrates in studying the mind of this genius, there may be no profession that better captures humanity’s enormous potential than an artist, and none that sinks any lower than a charlatan.
Zaillian sticks the landing with this tremendous montage of match cuts between Tom and Caravaggio, their weapons, and their victims, clearly inspired by The Usual Suspects while integrating his own sinister flair.Tom’s disguise as the ‘real’ Tom Ripley bears striking resemblance to Caravaggio, authenticating the connection between artist and criminal.
So tragically naïve is aspiring painter Maurice Legrand’s tale that Jean Renoir does not even let his demeaning fall from grace speak for itself in La Chienne, but rather frames it within the humiliating confines of a Punch and Judy puppet show. “The play we shall perform is neither drama nor comedy,” our wood-and-felt narrator explains. “The characters are neither heroes nor villains. They’re plain folk like you and me.” Indeed, the super-imposed images of Maurice, his mistress Lulu, and her pimp Dédé take their place upon this tiny stage like figurines playing the roles assigned to them by some invisible force – perhaps a cosmic power that has already written out their fates, or maybe a humble storyteller who lingers just outside the frame.
Either way, there are some inevitable misfortunes that simply have no regard for whether one might consider themselves a good person or not. Maurice is a laughingstock among his peers, so timid that he is even overshadowed by the portrait of his wife Adele’s seemingly deceased first husband on display in his home. Nevertheless, a crack in the moral fortitude of a righteous yet weak-willed man is an opening for corruption to plant its seed. There are simply no winners to be found in Renoir’s adaptation of this French novel, especially when the storyteller deems all characters to be equally undeserving of happiness.
Maurice is introduced a puppet on life’s stage – a hapless fool whose story is already written out by fate.The apparently deceased husband of Maurice’s wife hangs on the wall, overshadowing his replacement.
With La Chienne kicking off Renoir’s magnificent 1930s run, this moral fable set the wheels of France’s poetic realism in motion, weaving lyrical musings on romance and despair through Maurice, Lulu, and Dédé’s love triangle. Besides a few effective uses of stark light and shadow, it does not possess the visual harshness of German Expressionism, but rather bridges the gap between that cinematic movement and Hollywood’s film noir with its brooding fatalism and seductive femme fatale. Fourteen years later in 1945, Fritz Lang would even adapt the same literary source material in Scarlet Street, shooting in darkened studio sets modelled after New York rather than around the bright streets and buildings of Paris.
Renoir uses camera movement and his deep focus in tandem, constantly reframing his camera to catch new details through windows.The bright streets of Paris are the primary setting of La Chienne, shot on location – an entirely different aesthetic to the expressionistic studio sets of Hollywood film noir.
The transitory nature of La Chienne’s production is only further underscored by the recent advent of synchronous sound in film, though one wouldn’t guess this was an issue for Renoir given the way his camera completely disregards the cumbersome audio equipment, preferring to glide into new frames rather than cut away. These delicate movements demonstrate a boundless creativity, rising with a dumbwaiter into the dining hall where Maurice’s tale begins, drifting past a row of laughing guests, and settling on the pouty face of our milquetoast protagonist. When we later visit Lulu and Dédé plotting how best to take advantage of this poor fool during a lively waltz, Renoir conversely distinguishes their passion with a kinetic burst of energy, displaying an early instance of handheld camerawork as we rock and sway with their dance.
Creative camera movements, introducing us to Maurice at a party by travelling up a dumbwaiter.Brisk elegance as the camera dances with Lulu and Dédé, participating in a lively waltz.A smooth camera motion separating Maurice from Lulu when he discovers her affair, looking through the window with her on one side, and him on the other.
The plan to milk Maurice of his money is thus set in motion, seeing Lulu claim his paintings as her own and remarkably find far greater commercial success. The trust that he places in her is pitiful, compelling him to look past the light that is suspiciously turned on in her apartment when she isn’t home, though we can’t feel too sorry for him either. Within the meekness of Michel Simon’s performance is a self-serving cowardice that particularly emerges when he breaks up with Adele, choosing to stage a cruel reveal that her first husband is in fact alive, rather than simply owning up to his infidelity.
Renoir’s blocking of this pivotal moment arrives with a gorgeous flourish as Adele and her astonished neighbours direct their eyes towards a doorframe bordered with patterned wallpaper, within which stands a living-and-breathing Alexis. This pairing of deep focus photography with structural frames continues to mark significant plot beats from there, notably including one devastating turning point that leaves a sliver of Lulu and Dédé visible through a doorway largely obstructed by Maurice’s body, frozen in shock at discovering them in bed together.
Superb use of wallpaper, blocking, and framing, layering the shot with detail as Maurice reveals Alex alive and well.Maurice blocks the doorway that reveals Lulu and Dédé in bed together, uncomfortably crammed into a tight frame.
The window of Lulu’s apartment also makes for a series of stunning compositions in La Chienne, delicately framing her and Maurice’s romantic encounters behind a row of flowers sitting just outside, and delivering a Brechtian reminder of the puppet stage that this entire story is staged upon. When it appears in the first two instances, it is formally associated with Maurice’s tender devotion, though when we return for the last time it is tragically corrupted. As the camera climbs up the side of the apartment building and continues through this frame, Renoir’s camera finally settles on a truly horrific scene – the brutal distortion of Maurice’s love into a murderous rage.
In a magnificent demonstration of film form, Renoir returns to this flower bed outside the window three times, each time framing a development in Maurice and Lulu’s romance.
That this failed painter so easily escapes suspicion throughout the police investigation that follows is a testament to the community’s total disregard for him, unable to even tease the idea that he is capable of such a vile act. Despite Dédé being innocent for once, it simply makes far more sense to pin this crime on the widely-loathed pimp, especially since he was unlucky enough to be witnessed coincidentally visiting the murder scene around the time of Lulu’s demise.
Just as Lulu’s fate led her to the end of blade and Dédé’s to a public execution for a crime he never committed, Maurice is doomed to suffer a humiliation greater than he has ever known. Death would be preferable to this personal hell living as a haggled tramp on the streets without any work or wife, and even he acknowledges as much when he learns of Adele’s passing some years later. Having lost all dignity, there are few people who believe the words of a madman claiming responsibility for a murder that has already been solved, and those who do care little anyway.
Bitter irony follows Maurice to the end, designating him a pauper while his own paintings become tremendously valuable in the art community – wealth that could have been his had he been honest from the start.
Meanwhile, the artistic greatness that Maurice was secretly capable of is being sold for a fortune just down the street, still being attributed to the woman he killed – a prodigious painter whose life, in the eyes of the public, was taken far too soon. With his matted beard and tattered clothes, he is unrecognisable in the old self-portrait now being carried away by a customer dropping a measly 20 francs behind them as they leave. As Maurice scrabbles to pick it up, he barely even considers that this is the first and only time he has effectively received money for one of his artworks, and neither does he register the meagreness of the sum compared to what it has sold for. The meal that it will secure is good enough for our humbled antihero, now effectively rendered more invisible than ever as Renoir draws the curtains on this fable, and accepting his place as a mere puppet on life’s stage of poetic irony.
The puppet show lowers its curtains on this tragic farce, bookending the narrative.
La Chienne is currently streaming on The Criterion Channel, and is available to purchase from Amazon.
In the Les Deux Magots café where intellectuals and artists of Paris gather, Alexandre tries a little too hard to blend in with the crowd. He speaks eloquently of the May 68 protests, classic filmmakers, and the state of modern relationships, yet he never quite drops the tone of cynical self-importance, barely masking the lack of substance in his political philosophising. When invited to dance at a club, he justifies his refusal with two excuses – “It bores me, and I have no money” – though it is plain to see the self-consciousness which underlies his haughty indifference. As long as he is in control of his environment, then he can maintain the hypocritical pretence that compartmentalises his misogyny, sexuality, and desperate desire to be taken seriously – an effort which is severely threatened by the meeting of his two girlfriends.
Sigmund Freud’s infamous Madonna-whore complex is baked right into the title of The Mother and the Whore, calling out the male psychological desire to pursue both love and sex, but never with the same woman. To Alexandre, Marie is the reliable caretaker who he shares a small, shabby apartment with, spitefully tolerating his affairs. Meanwhile, Veronika is the promiscuous paramour whose no-strings-attached attitude fools him into thinking she lacks any greater depth than what she presents on the surface. Where both women overlap is in Alexandre’s flattening of their identities, believing they only exist to serve his conflicting desires for stability and excitement while rendering their emotional needs inconsequential.
“You don’t love me. You love Marie. You live and sleep with her, you wash with her, you shit with her. You love a woman and fuck another.”
Alexandre frequents Les Deus Magots café, trying to blend in with its intellectual clientele yet clearly lacking the substance to hold a thoughtful conversation that isn’t hinged on his ego.
The extent to which the director based this character study on his own youth is clearly defined by Jean Eustache himself, who openly named the real-life people that these women were based off. Though he admitted more freely to his weaknesses than Alexandre, he nevertheless shared similar passions and anxieties, drifting around the edges of the French New Wave during its peak with featurettes and documentaries before falling victim to creative block. The concept for The Mother and the Whore struck him very suddenly in 1972, at which point there was no holding back his immense ambition for his first feature film, using its nearly four-hour runtime to apply an intensive focus to the lives of three young adults and their juvenile struggles in love.
Like Truffaut before him, Eustache shoots on location through the streets of Paris, often with a handheld camera that underscores the film’s raw naturalism.Grim, shabby minimalism in Alexandre’s apartment, which also happens to be the same apartment where Eustache lived – the autobiographical connection is strong.City lights bounce off the Seine, forming a muted backdrop to this conversation between Alexandre and Veronika on a park bench at night.
Production for Eustache’s epic drama lands firmly outside the span of time that the French New Wave covers, yet it still couldn’t be more aligned with the movement’s subversive ideals. Shot in the streets and cafés of Paris on grainy black-and-white film stock, Eustache achieves a gritty, urban naturalism in his compositions and handheld camerawork, and even lets the noise of passing cars occasionally drown out his characters’ conversations. City lights bouncing off the Seine become a muted backdrop to Alexandre and Veronika’s meeting on a bench, and their threadbare apartments are completely empty of shelves, bed frames, and decorations, leaving clutter to gather on the floors instead. Eustache’s long takes prove to be crucial in appreciating the minimalist beauty here, as well as the dedicated performances of his actors, whether it is Bernadette Lafont crying to the entirety of Edith Piaf’s song ‘Les Amants de Paris’ or Françoise Lebrun commanding a powerful close-up in Veronika’s climactic eight-minute monologue.
The entirety of Edith Piaf’s song ‘Les Amants de Paris’ plays through this static shot as we sit with Marie in her misery, drawing a deep melancholy from the mundanity.Françoise Lebrun commands an eight-minute close-up with a shattering monologue, shedding her carefree image to lament the emptiness of her sexual pursuits.
Ultimately though, Jean-Pierre Léaud’s thorny portrayal of our two-faced hero marks the greatest acting accomplishment in The Mother and the Whore, with his casting nodding to Eustache’s colossal influences Jean-Luc Godard and François Truffaut. As insufferably verbose as he may be, it is telling that the only thing he listens to other than his own voice is his vinyl collection of French classics and British rock, offering those artists a respect that he never affords anyone else. When Veronika notices his fondness for music and sings a poignant love ballad in a rare moment of vulnerability, it is comical just how jarringly he changes the topic by turning on his favourite radio station, landing right in the middle of a segment railing against the laziness of modern society.
Eustache uses close-ups masterfully to forge a connection with his actors, giving Jean-Pierre Léaud the platform to deliver one of his best performances.
Smugness evidently goes hand-in-hand with insecurity for Alexandre, and it isn’t hard to see how his loquacious brand of intellectual pretence would later go on to shape the characters of Woody Allen and Richard Linklater films, especially considering the gaping chasm that lies between his narcissistic ego and feeble masculinity. It is much easier for him to blame women at large for his romantic struggles than to turn a critical eye inwards, as he shallowly longs for an era with old-fashioned values while remaining ignorant to the fact that he still would have been just as undesirable back then.
“I wish I had known the days when girls, in the streets of our cities, on our country roads, swooned over soldiers. The prestige of the uniform. These days they swoon over sports cars. These days, young businessmen, young executives, professionals, have replaced the military. I’m not sure we’re better off.”
Eustache’s screenplay is introspective, using Alexandre as a surrogate to put all his anxieties and shortcomings on display – and then tear them apart.Eustache’s camera especially loves this brief shift to a high-end establishment in Paris, relishing its fine décor and lighting.
The cognitive dissonance needed for a radical leftist like Alexandre to make such a conservative statement is staggering, though clearly his politics are as fickle as his choice in women. Neither Marie nor Veronika have entirely figured out who they are yet either, but at least within The Mother and the Whore they develop a self-awareness that their common boyfriend never quite finds the courage to face. When the three of them enter a polyamorous relationship, Marie and Veronica are united in a mutual understanding that leaves Alexandre deeply discomforted, helplessly watching his psychological division between love and sex slowly erode. As it turns out, these women are far more complicated than the neat boxes he has designed for them. With Marie’s façade of stability fading, she not only finds the freedom to explore her sexuality, but also unleashes a pent-up rage she had previously contained. Similarly, Veronika’s claim that she is only after sex from men completely disappears when she reveals her jealousy towards Marie and tearfully laments the emptiness of her carnal pursuits.
“If people understood, once and for all, that fucking is shit. That the only thing that’s beautiful is to fuck because you’re so in love you want to a conceive a child who looks like you, or else it’s something sordid. We should fuck only if we’re in love.”
Alexandre gets exactly what he wants – both the mother and the whore – and yet it is at this point that he also unravels, helplessly watching his psychological division between love and sex slowly erode.
Alexandre is lucky to have two girls who love him and like each other, Veronika declares, but still happiness eludes him. After all, if he were to accept this state of affairs then he must also relinquish control of a dynamic that preserves his simplistic world view and protects his ego. Perhaps this is why Veronika’s unplanned pregnancy spurs such a rapid, uncharacteristic change of heart, sending him impulsively running back to her apartment to propose, and hopefully reduce this complicated love triangle to a traditional two-way relationship.
Predictably, his regret is almost instantaneous. For as long as his arrogance keeps him from addressing his own inhibitions, he will never find fulfilment in romantic intimacy, especially when it is contained within an institution as rigidly traditional as marriage. As Alexandre sinks to the floor in the final seconds of The Mother and the Whore, he has no lengthy monologue or deflection to steal back control. Eustache simply concludes this film of endless verbal debate with bleak, dampened silence, cynically anticipating the birth of a dysfunctional family, and its fathering by an infantile egoist who cannot understand the fundamental virtue of selflessness.
A foolish snap decision that would be framed in any other film as a romantic gesture, and an ambiguous resignation to the bathroom floor as he realises what he has done. Eustache’s ending is both dryly funny and totally hopeless.
The Mother and the Whore is currently streaming on The Criterion Channel.
After assassinating his boss, staging the scene to look like a suicide, and stealthily exiting the office building after hours to run away with his victim’s wife, all it takes is a single loose end to trip Julien up. The rope he used to scale the wall still hangs from the balcony, and the only way to retrieve it is to get back up, remove the evidence, and take the elevator down before making his getaway. No one will be in until Monday morning though, so surely all of this shouldn’t be too much of a setback?
Unfortunately for Julien, the fatalistic pull of destiny has other intentions in Elevator to the Gallows, playing malicious games that intertwine his tale of love and crime with a younger, more reckless couple. Louis and Véronique are a Bonnie and Clyde for 1950s Paris, but not nearly as clever in their spontaneous rebellions. Just as security turns off the building’s power and unknowingly traps Julien in the elevator for the night, these foolhardy lovers impulsively decide to steal his car, possessions, and identity, found tucked away in his wallet. After a friendly German couple they have been drinking with call out their fraudulence, Louis is similarly driven to homicide, though it is fortunately not his name that was written on the motel registration. As a result, a manhunt begins for one Mr. Julien Tavernier – just not for the crime he has actually committed.
Julien’s seemingly straightforward plot to murder his boss to run away with with his wife lands him in the titular elevator – an expressionistic box of shadow and light that Malle’s camera is endlessly creative with.A pair of criminal lovers in parallel, both committing murder and seeking to escape the consequences of their actions.
With such sophisticated formal patterns knitting together these parallel plotlines in Louis Malle’s narrative, it isn’t a stretch to imagine a more comical version of this film that possesses the dry, morbid humour of the Coen Brothers, contemptuously observing amateurs botch and cover up murders. As an off shoot from Classical Hollywood’s film noir and a precursor to the French New Wave though, Elevator to the Gallows is as deadly serious as can be, prioritising a dark, seductive atmosphere over intricate plot machinations. The melancholic score warrants priority in such an analysis, typifying the jazzy musical style that many falsely associate with American noirs, even though the inspired innovation first occurred here with Miles Davis improvising trumpet lines over a steady accompaniment of piano, saxophone, double bass, and drums. Never has there been a greater sound to match Jeanne Moreau’s dour, brooding expression than this, reverberating a sombre loneliness as she saunters past streetlamps dimly illuminating her rain-drenched face, before sinking her back into the shadows of Paris’ wet, gloomy streets.
Moreau’s face in the rain, the bleary lights of Paris behind her, Davis’ sultry jazz score accompanying it all – Malle lays the noir atmosphere on thick with tremendous results.Shooting on location in Paris, bouncing lights off wet pavement and shrouding actors in darkness.
As Julien’s lover Florence, Moreau is merely one player in Malle’s ensemble, but every scene she shares with a co-star inevitably sees her intoxicating presence dominate the screen. After working in the film industry for almost a decade, Elevator to the Gallows marked her true breakout, and would propel her on to fruitful collaborations with other French directors including François Truffaut, Jean-Luc Godard, and Jacques Demy. Her introduction here through extreme close-ups and hushed whispers over a telephone line is treacherously intimate, inviting us into a shady urban world our gut is telling us to steer clear of, yet which nonetheless piques our curiosity. Despite her direct implication in her husband’s murder, our heart still breaks when she is led to believe she has been betrayed, while Malle’s breathtaking location shooting sets her morose depression against bleary backdrops of Paris’ lights and vehicles.
Moreau is only one player in this ensemble, but she singlehandedly walks away with the film’s best performance, earning Malle’s close-upswithher disillusioned expression.Malle possesses an extraordinary eye for composition and lighting, resourcefully using headlights and street lamps in his mise-en-scène.
Alongside Malle, credit must also go to the expressionist photography of Henri Decaë as well, who in 1958 was already on a trajectory towards greatness through his collaborations with Jean-Pierre Melville. The Venetian blinds, chiaroscuro lighting, and skilfully blocked compositions are evidently signs of two visual artists well-acquainted with film noir conventions, and how they can be manipulated to breed suspense. At the same time, the lack of studio polish in Elevator to the Gallows also signals a purposeful engagement with cinema’s avant-garde potential. Malle is clearly looking to its future here just as much as he is calling back to its past, and isn’t afraid to let his narrative wander off on tangents that we trust will eventually tie back together, paying off on the intriguing formal mirroring between these couples.
Venetian blinds calling back to the Hollywood noirs of the 40s.Harsh lighting and shadow thrown across this close-up, highlighting Julien’s scheming eyes while the mouth is blacked out.A superb use of deep focus to build tension, centring Julien in these shots that draw multiple sets of suspicious eyes to him from all across the frame.
By the time Julien manages to free himself from the elevator the next morning, his picture has already been posted in local papers for the crime committed by Louis and Véronique, who in turn have attempted suicide back home to avoid capture. Time passes slowly in the black void where Julien is captured and interrogated in a black void, drifting by on long dissolves while Florence works desperately on the outside to absolve him of his false accusation. Just as Julien’s rope had ruined an otherwise flawless murder and cover-up, so too are Louis and Véronique incriminated as the German couple’s killers by the roll of film they had stolen from Julien’s car, and carelessly left behind at the motel. Unfortunately for Florence though, so too does it contain photos revealing the truth of her affair with Julien, and thereby expose them as her husband’s executioners.
Dissolves in an empty void of an interrogation room, as time slowly drifts by.
Not only that, but Florence’s own future seems far rockier now that she has been implicated too, while the death sentence that Julien was previously facing seems to be downgraded to a few years in prison. As Davis’ wistful trumpet croons, Malle’s camera sits on those photos of Florence and Julien slowly developing in the rippling water, just barely catching the upside-down reflection of her sombre face. “No more ageing, no more days. I’ll go to sleep. I’ll wake up alone,” her voiceover murmurs, resigning to a destiny she still hopes will one day set her free.
“Ten years, twenty years. I wasn’t indulgent. But I know I still loved you. I wasn’t thinking of myself. I’ll be old from now on. But we’re together here. Together again, somewhere. You see, they can’t keep us apart.”
If fate can find its way back to the perpetrators of two near-perfect crimes by unexpectedly converging both, then surely it can also one day reunite these sweethearts whose love must be similarly preordained, Florence reasons. Given how much destiny seems to have a mind of its own throughout Elevator to the Gallows though, it is not so easy for us to rely on the faith of a condemned, lovesick woman, desperate to find hope in a perilously mischievous universe.
Moreau’s face distorted in the rippling photographic chemicals, her guilt exposed.
Elevator to the Gallows is currently streaming on The Criterion Channel, and the Blu-ray is available to purchase from Amazon.
