Author: SceneByGreen

The Only Son (1936)

Yasujirō Ozu | 1hr 27min

The Tokyo that Ryōsuke inhabits is not quite the bustling metropolis that his mother O-Tsune envisioned. His neighbourhood is a desolate wasteland of processing plants and garbage incinerators, raising chimneys high up above landscapes and imposing its industrial architecture upon locals. In fact, it isn’t terribly different from his rural hometown Shinshū, where O-Tsune worked hard for many years to send him to school and where she still toils away in her old age. Yasujirō Ozu regards the prospect of elevating one’s status through education with great cynicism in The Only Son, and given that the Great Depression was ravaging Japan’s working class at the time, it isn’t hard to see why.

This is not to say that the destitute poverty Ozu’s characters live in lacks his typical aestheticism. His trademark pillow shots introduce us to Shinshū by way of oil lamps hanging in front of street views, and when we arrive at O-Tsune’s silk production factory, rows of spinning wheels whirl in smooth, geometric harmony. Humility begets selflessness in this quiet town, constantly grinding away to build a future for the younger generation in the naive hope that they will be granted greater privileges. After displaying immense talent in crafting the meditative melodrama of A Story of Floating Weeds, this tale of parental expectations and disappointments confirms Ozu cinematic genius, underscoring the social realities of 1930s Japan through the muted, disillusioning tension between generations.

A delicate obstruction of the frame using this hanging oil lamp, setting the scene for O-Tsune’s quiet village.
Rows of spinning wheels whirl in smooth, geometric harmony – O-Tsune’s livelihood is built on the ceaseless momentum of these machines.
A mother’s hopefulness and her son’s ambition feed into each other, unaware of the real world troubles which stand in the way of success.

Adding to O-Tsune’s weight of responsibility as well is her single motherhood, having been widowed shortly after Ryōsuke’s birth. Sending him to school placed a huge financial burden on her, yet thanks to advice from his elementary school teacher Ōkubo, it also seemed to guarantee him a comfortable life. When she finally visits him in Tokyo as an adult then, not only is she shocked to find that he has taken up work as a lowly night school teacher to support a wife and child, but that the once-respected Ōkubo has similarly taken a step down the social ladder and become a restaurant owner.

Ozu keeps his camera low in this shot, funnelling the classroom desks towards the front where Ryōsuke commands the students.
Continuity in Ozu’s pillow shots, following his characters through the outskirts of Tokyo and exposing its dilapidation.
Ozu loves applying visual patterns to his compositions, here mirroring his upright characters in the smokestacks lining the background, and choosing this as the setting for their cynical confrontation with reality.

As O-Tsune and Ryōsuke sit and talk in view of Tokyo’s towering smokestacks, he is the first to admit that this was not the life he was expecting for himself. The city is simply too competitive, and he feels terrible for all his mother’s sacrifices, yet she initially remains hopeful. His life is only beginning after all, and she claims her only disappointment is in his readiness to give up – though later that evening, it becomes apparent that her regret is far more deep-seated. As Ryōsuke stands wistfully at the window of his classroom, gazing at the blinking city lights, Ozu’s mellow editing interlaces the scene with O-Tsune’s reflective, downcast expression back home. A narrow doorway confines both of them to a narrow frame as they finally meet and continue their discussion, though this time they are unable to reach as convenient a resolution.

Mother and son in separate locations, yet Ozu’s editing binds them together in disappointment, alternating between these lonely shots.
An extremely narrow frame even by Ozu’s standards, trapping O-Tsune and Ryōsuke in their shared, unresolvable tension.

“I worked hard because I wanted you to succeed,” O-Tsune laments, before finally coming clean that she has sold their house and mulberry fields for his education. “You’re all I have now in the world.” Ozu’s characteristic low placement of his camera proves particularly powerful here, levelling with them as their resilient facades drop for the first time to bare their bitterness and guilt. From the next room over, Ryōsuke’s wife Sugiko weeps, before O-Tsune and Ryōsuke join in. From there, Ozu sits in the lingering melancholy as it spreads through the house, cutting to their sleeping baby and an empty room. Within the stasis, Ozu imbues remnants of their sorrow, echoing pained, muffled cries while the unconscious child remains innocently unaware.

Sorrow and melancholy echoes through the house in these pillow shots, with each subsequent shot moving further away from its source, until we find ourselves beginning the next day.
From folded to hanging laundry – Ozu finds a logical progression between shots, establishing the relaxed flow of time within and around his narrative.

In moments such as these, the precision of Ozu’s pacing and composition become piercingly clear, as his montage seamlessly transitions to the next morning through shots of folded and hanging laundry. His characters may be wounded, yet life goes on, leaving them to pick up the pieces and keep showing the sort of love they themselves need in return. There is no long-lasting resentment on Sugiko’s behalf, as she sells her kimono to take them all out while the weather is nice, and Ryōsuke is proves his altruism as well when he instead uses this money to generously pay for his neighbour’s hospital bills. Plenty may change with the passing generations, yet the benevolence which is passed from elders to children paves the way for a redemptive union of the two. Perhaps it is good her son never became rich, O-Tsune resolves, lest he should have lost that graciousness she raised him with.

With Ryōsuke finally deciding to take one more shot at getting a licence to teach high school, it seems that O-Tsune is able to return home to Shinshū with some closure, though Ozu is not one to let his family drama subside so neatly. The enormous smile she wears back at the factory is bolstered by the pride she openly expresses in her son, and convincingly hides the sadness which emerges when she is alone. As she rests for a moment on a ledge, her forehead creases with weary dejection, revealing the impermeable regret which cannot be quelled in her old age. This factory has been her entire life, and as Ozu’s conclusive pillow shots move towards its giant, steel gate keeping her in, it is apparent that it always will be. And for what, we are left to wonder? Is one life lived in poverty worth another that is only slightly better off? Like an ellipsis at the end of a sentence, The Only Son’s final montage suspends its characters in an unshakeable discontent, striving for a prosperous, hopeful future they quietly recognise may never arrive.

A heartbreaking ending, wiping the smile from O-Tsune’s face as she pauses in solitude. Ozu’s pillow shots drift farther from this weary mother and closer to the looming factory gates that seem to imprison her, quietly casting doubt on the idealistic faith society places in a lifetime of tireless, unending work.

The Only Son is currently streaming on The Criterion Channel.

A Story of Floating Weeds (1934)

Yasujirō Ozu | 1hr 26min

Kihachi’s theatrical troupe would be the first to admit that there is no great honour in their profession, drifting aimlessly from town to town like the titular debris in A Story of Floating Weeds. They are the dregs of society, offering escapist entertainment to working class audiences yet never planting roots anywhere for the long term. So ashamed is Kihachi of this life that even his illegitimate son Shinkichi is unaware of their blood relation, believing that the man who visits every few years with his troupe is merely a friend of his mother, Otsune. When Kihachi’s mistress Otaka eventually discovers his secret family and seeks revenge, she even spitefully sends fellow performer Otoki to seduce his son, hoping to taint him by romantic association with an actor.

The contempt these entertainers hold for themselves may be extreme, yet the petty reprisals they vindictively stoke among themselves only further cripple their morale. “He’s cheap like you, playing around with actresses,” Otaka venomously spits at Kihachi after her ruinous plans come to fruition, and he responds in kind with a beating, letting her provocation get the better of him. Yasujirō Ozu may offer compassion to the lower classes of Japan, but this does not get in the way of recognising his ensemble’s character flaws, driving them towards a pitiful, entirely preventable self-destruction.

The quiet stillness of the train station precedes the kabuki troupe’s noisy arrival, and continues to linger after they exit.
Ozu sets his tale in small town at the foot of a mountain range, disturbing the humdrum mundanity with the excitement of travelling performers.

Most important of all, A Story of Floating Weeds marks Ozu’s first major leap forward as a visual artist, studying the subtle details of those smalltown locations which set the scene for this working-class melodrama. A montage of pillow shots introduces us to the train station where the kabuki troupe is set to arrive, flitting through the quiet interior before it is filled with chatty visitors, and sitting in silence again as the lights switch off. These moments of stasis are crucial to Ozu’s narrative pacing, developing steady rhythms in both his editing and mise-en-scène. When Kihachi goes fishing with Shinkichi, Ozu aligns their movements as they cast lines into the river, and later illustrates the undisturbed synchronicity between father and son while they eat corn and play checkers.

Visual harmonies – father and son cast fishing lines in perfect unison, and Ozu would later recapture this shot with even greater formal purpose in There Was a Father.
Art rooted in Japanese tradition, aimed at the lower classes of Japanese society.

When the time comes for the troupe’s opening night, a parallel tracking shot past the audience’s hand fans waving in rapid harmony continues to underscore the lively anticipation brought in the actors’ wake, only for a sudden downpour to cancel the performance and mark a dour turning point. With little else to occupy her time, Otaka goes poking around at Otsune’s watering-hole to investigate Kihachi’s secret, and Ozu begins to use his staggered blocking to reveal their fracturing divisions. As Otaka and Kihachi take their argument outside, he splits them between awnings on either side of the alley, separated by the torrential rain. Her jealousy and his protectiveness of Shinkichi are irreconcilable, and thus she sets in motion that aforementioned plan to corrupt the innocent young man, wielding Otoki’s wily seduction as a distraction.

Torrential rain brings the troupe’s performance to a halt, yet heralds greater dramatic tension, marking a dour turning point in the narrative.
Rain separates these two resentful lovers, first conveyed through cutting back and forth between them, before Ozu eventually lands on this incredibly composed wide shot.

Further pillow shots capture swaying lanterns and tiny flags flapping in the gale, mirroring that uneasy, brewing tension which the troupe’s imminent departure will not so easily put to rest. Love is not some uplifting, indomitable force that transcends class boundaries here, but rather an inconvenience to the status quo, complicating matters when Otoki confesses she has genuinely fallen in love with this man she was simply meant to fake feelings for. With seemingly no chance for redemption or reconciliation, Kihachi decides that disbanding the entire troupe seems to be the only option, and A Story of Floating Weeds captures their last moments together with grave solemnity as they sit and smoke in silence beneath a dim, hanging lamp.

Simmering tension in Ozu’s atmospheric pillow shots as lanterns sway and flags flutter in the wind.
Ozu imposes darkness upon the actors in their final moments as a troupe, mourning the end of their ragtag, makeshift family.

For a director who is so often praised by his humanism, Ozu doesn’t get quite enough recognition for just how cynical he can be, often letting characters sacrifice individual desires for what they believe is the greater good. For Kihachi, all his fears about how Shinkichi might react come true when the secret is finally put out in the open, though this evidently stems more from shock and betrayal than any specific prejudice against Kihachi as a person. After all, despite his father’s absence, this was the man who paid for all his schooling with no expectations attached – besides perhaps the hope of simply seeing his son succeed.

Stillness and emptiness in Ozu’s mise-en-scène as characters part ways, the tension between them shamefully unresolved.

Shinkichi’s change of heart comes far too late. By the time he is rushing to the train station to make amends with Kihachi, his father has already left town, giving him the chance to progress in society without being hindered by his shameful parentage. Fatherhood is a thankless job in A Story of Floating Weeds, and one that is only further complicated by the value this culture places on class and honour, seeking to segregate educated professionals from those who barely scrape by. Ozu’s ire is not aimed at any individual character here, as even Otaka and Kihachi wind up reconciling in the closing minutes, recognising the similarities in their suffering. It is rather those arbitrary social barriers that condemn his ensemble to lives of lingering regret that disillusion him most of all, undermining family for status, and trading self-fulfilment for cycles of deep, enduring sorrow.

Forgiveness between the bitterest rivals, ultimately accepting their lowly place in Japanese society, and cynically realising they have no one else.

A Story of Floating Weeds is currently streaming on The Criterion Channel.

Jean Vigo: The Dreamer’s Uprising

“Shame on those who, during their puberty, murdered the person they might have become.”

Jean Vigo

Top 10 Ranking

FilmYear
1. L’Atalante1934
2. Zero for Conduct1933
A delicate arrangement of bottles and crockery to obstruct this romantic frame in L’Atalante.

Best Film: L’Atalante

L’Atalante is a fable of ruptured innocence, jealousy, and temptation, tugging at the seams of a fragile relationship between a skipper and his newlywed wife Juliette. It is a seminal early work of France’s poetic realism, showcasing the sort of cluttered mise-en-scène that Josef von Sternberg was similarly innovating in the early 1930s, as well as gorgeous location shooting around the industrial docks of Paris. Jean Vigo’s storytelling is classical, but his fondness for the avant-garde also reveals itself in the surreal, underwater visions of Juliette, romantically escaping the cinematic conventions of the era.

Lovely depth of field showing off the beauty of France’s canals and Jean’s playful personality, revelling in the innocent romance of young newlyweds.

Most Overrated – L’Atalante

L’Atalante is rightfully beloved by many cinephiles, but not quite the 20th best film of all time as the TSPDT consensus would have us believe. Its grand ambitions in mise-en-scène, editing, and characterisation can be appreciated without placing it upon such a high pedestal, still giving Jean Vigo his due as a pioneer of French cinema in the 1930s. Perhaps 300 spots lower would suit it just fine, treading the border between Must-See and Masterpiece range.

Vigo’s trademark high angles serve a practical purpose here, capturing the entire ensemble in close quarters while emphasising the ship’s claustrophobia. Frames like these reveal Vigo’s tremendous talent, yet don’t quite place L’Atalante on the same level as history’s most breathtaking works of cinema.

Most Underrated – Nothing

Zero for Conduct is also a little overrated at #219 on TSPDT, so there are no real candidates here. For a man whose filmography is so short, Jean Vigo’s reputation in the cinephile community is extraordinary – and perhaps slightly inflated.

Gem to Spotlight – Zero for Conduct

At 43 minutes, Zero for Conduct achieves far more than most feature films do in two hours. It isn’t too difficult to imagine how Jean Vigo might have flourished during the French New Wave some 30 years later, though given the impact that Zero for Conduct bears upon François Truffaut, perhaps this would also defeat the point of its influence. The young director is evidently far ahead of his time, crafting a coming-of-age tale which revels in its carefree naturalism and youthful outlook. Vigo is economical indeed with his nonchalant pacing, smoothly shifting between vignettes that progressively mount a rising disenchantment among a cohort of schoolboys plotting to overthrow their tyrannical teachers.

Zero for Conduct isn’t as visually gorgeous as L’Atalante, but still demonstrates formal rigour in Vigo’s recurring high angles – undoubtedly the mark of an auteur.

Key Collaborator – Boris Kaufman

The cinematographer who later shot towering Hollywood classics such as 12 Angry Men and On the Waterfront got his start here with Jean Vigo, filming everything from his short documentaries to his narrative features. The two were virtually inseparable, experimenting in tracking shots, crowded mise-en-scène, location shooting, and dramatic camera angles right up until Vigo’s untimely death at age 29.

Unlike Vigo, Kaufman would have a long and impressive career, eventually moving to Hollywood to become one of its most dependable cinematographers. In L’Atalante especially he showcases a mastery of shooting industrial architecture, here forging a perfect frame from steel beams.

Key Influence – Sergei Eisenstein

Jean Vigo possesses a clear affinity for Eisenstein’s socialist ideals as a filmmaker, seeking to break free of artistic constraints by similarly liberating his characters from their own metaphoric chains. This is clearest in the schoolyard revolution of Zero for Conduct, emphasising cohesive units over individuals in what Eisenstein labelled a ‘monistic ensemble’ – a sense of group identity achieved through complete visual unity. He was not quite operating at the same level as the trailblazing Soviet montagist, but when his editing turned towards the abstract, his crafty manipulations in the cutting room moulded the flow of time itself.

Eisenstein’s monistic ensemble accentuates group identity over the individual, and Vigo carries it through here in Zero for Conduct with similarly socialist sensibilities.

Cultural Context and Artistic Innovations

The story of Jean Vigo’s career as a director is tragically brief. Two short documentaries, a featurette, and a feature film make up his entire resume, and as mentioned before, L’Atalante does the heavy lifting for his critical reputation. He was an early pioneer of poetic realism, though where his contemporaries were concerned with notions of fate and morality, his films were pervaded by a revolutionary sensibility – no great surprise for the child of a militant anarchist.

Vigo established his sympathies for the downtrodden right from the start in À propos de Nice, creatively documenting the social inequalities among the people of Nice. It wasn’t until his featurette Zero for Conduct though that he found the narrative tools to give this theme cinematic form, turning a schoolboy rebellion into a scaled-down French Revolution. There is a tension between order and chaos in his blocking, often captured in high angles that frame the ensemble’s synchronised formations, and which would soon prove to be his trademark shot.

Order and chaos in the boys’ dormitory, mirrored in these twin shots.
Chaos and order in the classroom, once again using a high angle to formally contrast both states.

The revolt in Vigo’s final film L’Atalante is quieter and more psychological, with married couple of Jean and Juliette rejecting bourgeois ideals in favour of emotional authenticity and personal freedom. The boat which they turn into their home is a strong metaphor here, drifting along the canals of France without being anchored to any single port. The accomplishment of mise-en-scène is also a step up, making for crowded, claustrophobic interiors that deny these characters any chance of privacy, though at the same time Vigo possesses an almost utopian faith in the community they entail. L’Atalante is far more lyrical than it is playful, but this hymn to love’s endurance is just as impassioned as Zero for Conduct’s celebration of youth.

Michel Simon’s lively performance in L’Atalante is consumed by the assorted trinkets and souvenirs of his tiny cabin, obstructing the frame on every side.
Jean and his ship in the foreground, the industrial structures of the docks in the background – Vigo shoots on location along the rivers of France to ground this fable in a recognisable reality.

Both these films are lean, yet expansive in feeling. Vigo avoids redundancy, favouring vignettes and emotionally resonant beats that accumulate meaning rather than deliver it through exposition. As children tease each other in Zero for Conduct, the film itself becomes a prank on authority, while the eccentric antics of Père Jules in L’Atalante imbues its romance with whimsical comic relief.

Form-breaking playfulness as this caricature springs to animated life, mocking the school’s authority figures.
The highpoint of Vigo’s short career – the schoolboys joyously rebel in slow-motion, feathers floating through the air as they exit the dormitory in an exuberant procession.

Vigo often takes his spirited, formal experimentation a step further though, paving the path to freedom through brief moments of transcension when reality gives way to surrealism. Animated caricatures leap to life with form-shattering irreverence in Zero for Conduct, and at its most awe-inspiring, the schoolboys’ joyous mutiny revels in one of cinema’s earliest displays of slow-motion. Meanwhile, L’Atalante conjures underwater visions of love through surreal dissolves and double exposure effects, sinking us into Jean’s aching, disorientated mind as he dives beneath the Seine.

With Zero for Conduct facing censorship issues and the final edit of L’Atalante escaping his artistic control, Vigo never reaped the financial reward for his films. At age 29, he died of tuberculosis, a mere month after L’Atalante’s release. Nevertheless, his cinematic legacy was already cemented, romantically liberating cinema from convention in pursuit of emotional and political truth.

Long dissolves and double exposure effects as Jean sinks into the depths of the Seine, summoning surreal visions of his lost love.
Vigo chooses to end Zero for Conduct on a low angle instead of his characteristic high angle as the boys finally subvert the school’s authority, rising to the level of heroes.

Director Archives

YearFilmGrade
1931À propos de NiceUnrated (documentary)
1933Zero for ConductMS
1934L’AtalanteMS/MP

Woman of Tokyo (1933)

Yasujirō Ozu | 47 min

Secrets exist for good reason in Woman of Tokyo, maintaining the equilibrium which defines clear relationships between siblings, lovers, and colleagues. The first time Chikako encounters a threat to this balance though, it arrives in her office, where she has worked diligently for four years as a typist. The police presence is unexpected, as are their probing questions to her boss, asking for employment records and general opinions of her character. There is nothing to report there, the manager says. Her attendance has been impeccable, she is dedicated to her younger brother Ryoichi, and after hours she even helps a professor with his work.

At the mention of her extracurricular activity, the officer perks up, though it isn’t until later when rumours begin to spread that we find out why. Chikako works as a prostitute at a seedy bar, officer Kinoshita informs his sister Harue, who also happens to be dating Ryoichi. When this gossip eventually reaches his ears too, there is little that can hold back his destructive fury.

The fact that Woman of Tokyo lands among Yasujirō Ozu’s shorter films does not make it any less than a complete work, even if tends to skim the surface of its characters. Despite its brevity, this tragedy fully realises the melodrama of its premise, challenging the conservative cultural norms of the era represented in Ryoichi. Prostitution is so dishonourable that he initially refuses to believe the rumour, and impulsively breaks up with Harue for even entertaining its truth. “Anyone who disturbs our peaceful life is my enemy!” he imperatively declares, though the dialogue here comes off as forced to say the least.

Subtlety and suggestion are usually among Ozu’s most effective tools as a storyteller, so it is through his editing rather than his writing where these qualities flourish in Woman of Tokyo. His admiration of Ernst Lubitsch’s elegant ‘touch’ manifests directly in an early scene where Ryoichi and Harue watch If I Had a Million at the movie theatre, and it also takes cinematic form in the rhythms of his delicate montages, directing our focus to the domestic minutia of Chikako and Ryoichi’s house. The rotating cowl, chimney, and kettle become recurring visual motifs here, with the latter especially being used to illustrate steaming pressure and quiet tension between siblings. As Ryoichi’s thoughts darken with deeper consideration of Harue’s accusation, so too does the lighting dim, underscoring a brutal confrontation that ends with bitterness, heartbreak, and a regrettable slap.

Ryoichi’s sudden departure concerns both women, and for good reason. Still Ozu keeps track of that kettle, boiling with anticipation, and now the dripping water from hanging laundry joins in like a ticking second hand. When Harue takes the call to learn of her boyfriend’s fate, the clocks decorating the wall behind her build that steady rhythm to a chorus, counting down to irrevocable tragedy. He has taken his life, Kinoshita informs her over the phone, and Ozu’s cutaway to the shadow of a noose upon a wall tells us all we need to know.

Woman of Tokyo is not some ham-fisted moral lesson about honouring one’s family though, but rather dwells in Chikako’s mournful anger. “You had to die for this?” she laments over his body, tearfully calling out the futility of such an extreme response.

“You coward, Ryoichi.”

The epilogue which follows a pair of reporters into the street makes for a clumsy formal misstep, reframing Chikako’s grief within a capricious news cycle. For a young Ozu who was not yet at the top of his game though, such flaws are merely part of his awkward transition from genre films to humanistic dramas, where his graceful, restrained storytelling would soon blossom. Woman of Tokyo does not deliver the formal impact of his later masterpieces, yet there is nevertheless a precision in its dramatic tension and release, glimpsing the quiet devastation that lies beneath domestic stability.

Woman of Tokyo is currently streaming on The Criterion Channel.

The Fantastic Four: First Steps (2025)

Matt Shakman | 1hr 55min

Leading up to its release, The Fantastic Four: First Steps seemed to have all the right ingredients for a standout instalment in the Marvel Cinematic Universe, poised to defy the iconic superhero team’s history of poor movie adaptations. WandaVision and It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia have previously benefited from Matt Shakman’s direction, and even the marketing heralded a rare Marvel film with its own unique aesthetic, blending retro-futurism with mid-century modern production design. For the first act too, we’re given exactly what we were promised – a cosy family dynamic à la The Jetsons, set in an eternally optimistic, never-ending Space Age held together by these noble astronauts.

It is once the threat of the planet-devouring Galactus emerges that The Fantastic Four falters, shedding its kitschy 60s fashion and Kubrickian interiors for overblown digital effects rendered with far less imagination. Either Shakman suddenly forgot how to use colour at this point, or he was too distracted by the apocalyptic scale to carry through his commendable style, but either way there’s little which gives these climactic stakes any visual character. For what is effectively one of the most powerful beings in the Marvel multiverse, Galactus is disappointingly dull, only vaguely becoming a figure of interest when he carelessly treads through New York City like some cosmic kaiju. Even when Shakman does return to his inspired production design, it feels wasted, relegated to the background of conversations and denied any thoughtful framing.

This is a film which works best when its central cast is simply allowed to relax in each other’s company, letting Mr. Fantastic and Sue Storm work through their new roles as parents, while Johnny Storm and the Thing fill in as uncles to the newborn Franklin. Besides the insufferably forced running gag around one character’s cheesy catchphrase, their collective chemistry is organic, especially capturing the joys and concerns of raising a child in Pedro Pascal and Vanessa Kirby’s performances. With each core member of the team representing the four classical elements, they are firmly rooted in archetypes that shape and balance their relationships, yet are also given room to evolve beyond them.

Family is about having something bigger than yourself, we are told, though it’s hard not to wish their story engaged more closely with the moral dilemma which forces them to choose between their baby and the world at large. That it takes little agonising to decide which direction to take is fine, though even the social consequences are relatively muted in this utopia which elevates them to an almost unquestionable, godlike status. Their ability to unite every single nation against an alien threat is effortless, and as such, the story never truly tests our heroes beyond the superficial strength of their willpower. Shakman’s vision of the The Fantastic Four may gesture towards greatness, but it ultimately retreats into hollow grandeur, leaving behind a world rich in style and depth for a simulation that never dares to challenge its own ideals.

The Fantastic Four: First Steps is currently playing in theatres.

28 Years Later (2025)

Danny Boyle | 1hr 55min

The reports at the end of 28 Days Later suggesting that the ‘infected’ would soon die of starvation were wrong. These zombie-like creatures are no longer simply people driven to their most primal, aggressive instincts by the Rage Virus – they have effectively evolved into their own species by the time we join Lindisfarne’s remote island community in 28 Years Later, feeding off worms when more warm-blooded food sources are scarce. Extraordinarily, there even seem to be signs of culture developing among them, with rituals, family units, and social hierarchies giving structure to their otherwise chaotic existences. It is enough to make an observer pause in wonder at the sheer persistence of life, though not for so long that one might hang around and risk their own.

Danny Boyle’s return to the horror series which redefined the zombie genre is very welcome, shifting back to his cinematic strengths that were absent in the disappointingly milquetoast Yesterday. This is a filmmaker whose passion bleeds from his craftsmanship, building upon the gritty kineticism of the digital camcorders he experimented with in 28 Days Later, and turning to iPhones as the main tool to recapture that raw immediacy. Lightweight film technology has improved vastly since then, now allowing for a higher-resolution image, yet 12-year-old Spike’s journey to the perilous mainland is nevertheless well-served by this handheld, guerilla-style shooting. Through his coming-of-age, he must confront a broken world stripped of its humanity, but in that visceral chaos 28 Years Later also uncovers a melancholy beauty that so many survivors stubbornly reject.

Gone are lo-fi digital textures of the preceding films in this series, as Boyle turns instead to higher-resolution iPhones while maintaining a visceral immediacy in his cinematography.

Local scavenger Jamie has no reason to suspect that a father-son hunting trip to the infested mainland would inspire Spike to run away from home, but upon discovering his dad’s lies and selfishness, that is exactly what he does. His mother Isla has been sick for some time, and whispers of a reclusive doctor spark his desperate hope, so the young boy ultimately sees no other option than to seek him out with her in tow. Intercut with his initial departure are newsreels and clips of wars from throughout history, often featuring children marching in military units, and drawing parallels to his own abrupt transition into adulthood. Boyle does not rely heavily on any musical score here, but rather a passage read from Rudyard Kipling’s haunting poem Boots, transposing the bleak thoughts of a Second Boer War infantryman onto Spike’s expedition. Through the sheer force of repetition, the maddening, hypnotic monotony of the battlefield rises to a panicked urgency, yet never changes its relentless rhythm.

“(Boots—boots—boots—boots—movin’ up and down again!)

There’s no discharge in the war!

Don’t—don’t—don’t—don’t—look at what’s in front of you.

(Boots—boots—boots—boots—movin’ up an’ down again);

Men—men—men—men—men go mad with watchin’ em,

An’ there’s no discharge in the war!”

‘Boots’, Rudyard Kipling (1903)
Excellent location shooting upon the Holy Island of Lindisfarne, weaving its unique geography into the narrative itself.

This entire section may very well be the cinematic peak of 28 Years Later. Boyle’s bullet time effect is established here when the infected are killed, freezing the action as the camera rapidly hurtles through space around them, and jump cuts also imbue the action with a grating abrasiveness. Unfortunately, he doesn’t follow through on everything that he sets up, eventually repurposing the use of infrared filters from horrifying cutaways to dream sequences before dropping them altogether. The overall stylistic coherence is somewhat questionable, especially given the handful of other offhand embellishments that aren’t revisited at all, but the film’s dramatic angles and abrasive editing continue to flourish even when his erratic swings falter.

Boyle uses silhouettes effectively when shooting the infected from a distance, raising tension through these gorgeous long shots.

Boyle is often far more appreciated for his dynamic pacing than his mise-en-scène, and yet the cinematography of 28 Years Later still finds a wondrous beauty in the natural world, striking haunting silhouettes against the sky and revelling in its surreal aurora borealis. When Spike eventually reaches his destination and meets the elusive Dr Kelson, Boyle also delivers what may be the film’s defining set piece, revealing a forest of bone pillars constructed around a soaring tower of skulls. It is called Memento Mori, the doctor explains, Latin for “Remember you must die.” The sight of this macabre art installation may stoke fear from a distance, yet it also becomes the channel through which Dr Kelson expresses his immense respect for all life, incorporating the remains of infected and uninfected alike – “because they are alike,” he insists.

A wildly creative set piece at the film’s climax, paying immense respected to the cycles of life and death through this formidable forest of bones.

Ralph Fiennes is remarkably well-cast in this relatively small role, embodying a gentle eccentricity that has been deprived of human contact for many years, but which has made peace with things no one else dares face. He stands at the centre of the film’s entire ethos, nudging Spike forward in his journey to confront death with grace, birth with tenderness, and transformation with courage. Through the three characters who represent each, Boyle constructs an unusual trinity, echoing those natural rhythms of existence that persist in a world that has seemingly destroyed them.

As Spike reaches this milestone in his maturation, fires and memories intertwine through an ethereal montage set around the Memento Mori shrine, now illuminated as an icon of extraordinary hope and reverence. For all its pulpy violence and bloody horror, 28 Years Later is also surprisingly soulful in its lyrical contemplations, asserting a belief in the soul that transcends whatever version of humanity we abide by. With various references to a mysterious “Jimmy” scattered all throughout this film, the stage is set for an intriguing sequel which Boyle is unfortunately not returning to the director’s chair for, instead passing the considerable responsibility to Nia DaCosta. Regardless of where that future instalment goes though, Boyle’s return to his beloved, existential franchise stands as a fierce act of anthropological curiosity, not so much questioning if humanity can be saved than whether it is still worth defining.

The tease of ‘Jimmy’ laced through 28 Years Later makes for excellent foreshadowing, fully earning that cliffhanger as we head into the sequel.

28 Years Later is currently playing in theatres.

Superman (2025)

James Gunn | 2hr 9min

For DC Studios, the stakes riding on Superman’s success are arguably higher than any superhero movie in recent memory. Not only must they reboot a cinematic universe, but also entirely rebuild it, paving a path forward that restores brand confidence after the collapse of the DC Extended Universe. On a broader level, Warner Bros. Discovery is also banking on a smash hit to ward off a potential merger, while James Gunn himself seeks to balance the character’s old-school sentimentality with cultural relevance. In the end though, all it really takes for this version of Superman to triumph is vision, dedication, and craftsmanship – not exactly a high bar to clear, yet nevertheless a meaningful one in a franchise so fragmented by directionless ambition.

It certainly helps that Gunn is now steering the ship, having earned his stripes overseeing Marvel’s Guardians of the Galaxy trilogy and gifting the DCEU its single strongest instalment in The Suicide Squad. Even if the resounding cinematic triumph of The Batman or the Spider-Verse series has somewhat eluded him, he has taken his place among the most creative auteurs in the comic book movie industry, resisting detractors with his curated brand of offbeat humour and colourful stylisations. Gone is the unsmiling stoicism of Man of Steel, and in its place is a lighter yet equally sincere idealism, giving us a Superman whose humanity is ironically his greatest power.

Gunn forgoes the usual hero origin story here, besides some text briefly explaining Superman’s heritage and the history of metahumans. We instead open in media res with him crashlanding in Antarctica, broken and bloodied after his first loss, and immediately subverting the image of physical strength that the character typically projects. It seems he has met his match against a villain apparently representing the tyrannical nation of Boravia, though as we soon discover, it is truthfully just one of many catastrophic distractions unleashed by billionaire Lex Luthor upon the city of Metropolis. Behind the scenes, commercial and government forces conspire to occupy the developing country of Jarhanpur, thus wrapping Superman up in the complex, sensitive arena of foreign affairs.

Clark Kent’s sympathy for the marginalised people of this nation is no trifling character detail. He himself is an alien who lost his home and has since made a new one in the United States, embracing its culture while wistfully holding onto remnants of his past. The immigrant narrative is easy enough for Luthor to twist using his immense media influence, leaving Superman to the ruthless scrutiny of public opinion and consequently clearing the magnate’s road to power. This is not the film to watch for sophisticated takes on global politics, especially seeing how it flattens complicated matters into straightforward wins and losses, yet the emotional clarity applied to Clark Kent’s moral compass stands out in Luthor’s world where so many others would rather sit by and watch.

Radiant hope is at the core of Superman, so it is fitting that Gunn should imbue it with a luminous vitality that diverges significantly from Zack Snyder’s desaturated DCEU. This is not to say it doesn’t fall into familiar traps of muddy CGI, particularly when the narrative enters a pocket universe with an “antiproton river” seemingly made from Minecraft blocks, but this is fortunately offset by far more imaginative uses of digital effects. The image of a giant, neon monster spraying fluorescent plasma across Metropolis isn’t out of place for Gunn, though here it also serves as an inventive backdrop to Clark Kent’s personal crisis, humorously sidelined while shining vivid purple and green hues through the apartment window.

The retro-futurism of Superman’s sleek production design also thankfully gives this far more aesthetic appeal than the standard comic book blockbuster, notably redesigning the Fortress of Solitude as a laboratory, observatory, and archive grown from ice crystals. Paired with Gunn’s signature use of long, fluid takes in both dialogue and action scenes, the result is a cohesive, formal throughline, avoiding any choppy post-production compromises. Piercing wide-angle shots and artfully deployed slow-motion only reinforce the film’s vibrant visual identity, lending the spectacle a clarity that elevates it beyond sensory chaos.

Gunn handles comic relief better than most directors working for Marvel or DC, though the tension between Superman’s banter and earnestness occasionally gives way to uninspired wisecracks, and some exposition-laden dialogue certainly doesn’t help the screenplay either. Nevertheless, his characterisation of these familiar characters is refreshing, establishing a version of Superman who half-jokingly lays claim to being “punk rock” yet truthfully embodies those countercultural ideals beneath his boy scout appearance. Radical kindness in a world of passive bystanders is its own rebellion, and David Corenswet approaches it with a sensitivity that stands in stark contrast to the conniving, corporate evil of Nicholas Hoult’s Luthor, focusing on rescuing individual victims from harm rather than directly preventing world-ending threats.

Though it is a little disappointing to see Gunn step into more of a producer’s role from here on, putting him in the pilot’s seat is possibly the best move DC Studios could have made. Superman’s blend of emotional sincerity and stylish flair offers a workable blueprint for future entries, proving that clarity of vision can be more powerful than scale. Comic book movies aren’t going anywhere, so perhaps the best we can hope from the DC Universe are these small, modest evolutions of the genre, nudging it towards stories that prioritise character over spectacle without sacrificing either.

Superman is currently playing in theatres.

L’Atalante (1934)

Jean Vigo| 1hr 29min

Life aboard Jean’s canal barge L’Atalante is not quite the romantic escape that his young bride Juliette dreamed it would be. The men who sail it up and down the Seine are clearly unaccustomed to female company – particularly the eccentric first mate Père Jules, whose horde of cats, hand-drawn tattoos, and uncouth mannerisms clash with her more refined sensibilities. She appears truly alone as the camera follows her in a tracking shot across the entire span of the ship, and there is barely room for privacy in the clutter of Jean Vigo’s interiors, as bottles, lamps, and tools crowd out every frame. His trademark high angles not only serve a practical purpose fitting multiple characters into the same shot, but from this vantage point, we also grasp the suffocating claustrophobia of Juliette’s new home

None of this is to suggest that the barge is an irredeemable prison though. L’Atalante is a fable of ruptured innocence, jealousy, and temptation, tugging at the seams of Jean and Juliette’s fragile relationship while illuminating a path to the marital bliss that has eluded them. Salvation does not lie in the city’s worldly flights of fancy, as alluring as they may be, but aboard that very boat which she longs to leave behind. For Jean as well, contentment is only found once the chains of insecurity and mistrust are shed, guiding him towards an appreciation of the woman he has married. Although this ship may feel like an oppressive enclosure at times, Vigo’s lyrical direction also reveals it to be a sanctuary of healing, freely drifting from port to port with no anchors to tether it down.

A delicate arrangement of bottles and crockery to obstruct this romantic frame.
Vigo’s trademark high angles serve a practical purpose here, capturing the entire ensemble in close quarters while highlighting the ship’s claustrophobia.
A lonely tracking shot moving with Juliette from one end of the barge to the other.

Quite ironically, the character that L’Atalante affords the most personable qualities is Jules, who transcends mere comic relief and becomes Juliette’s closest friend aboard the boat. As subtly expressive as Dita Parlo’s performance may be, Michel Simon outshines both leads here, fully realising the endearing humanity in Jules’ idiosyncrasies. This is a man who joyfully dances around in a skirt that Juliette has sewn, and later on falls victim to a prank when he is astounded by his apparent ability to produce music by tracing a vinyl record, only for Vigo to reveal the cabin boy playing his accordion from the other side of the room. In his own time, Jules is also a collector of souvenirs from his travels across the world, ranging from a jar of grotesque, pickled hands to a mechanical puppet which conducts an imaginary orchestra. Wherever the camera sits in this wondrous cabin of curiosities, ornaments frequently obstruct our view, reframing what initially seemed to be a hoarder’s palace into a museum of exotic tales and warm conversation.

Père Jules’ cabin of trinkets and ornaments makes for a delightful set piece, displaying his eccentric personality via curious souvenirs amassed from his many adventures.
Cats and music – Père Jules’ identity captured in a frame, even without his literal presence.
Cluttered mise-en-scène worthy of Josef von Sternberg, impeding on the presence of this small ensemble.

Not that Jean is particularly happy about the hospitality which Juliette finds in his first mate’s quarters. It doesn’t take long after getting married for his envy to spike, smashing up Jules’ cabin upon catching them together, and glowering at flirtatious strangers when they journey into Paris. The camera glides with them into a dance hall where a handsome street peddler entertains Juliette with magic tricks, a song, and a dance, and even after Jean pushes him to the floor, he persistently seeks to lure her deeper into the city.

Lovely depth of field showing off the beauty of France’s canals and Jean’s playful personality.
Michelangelo Antonioni in the architecture – the harsh monstrosities of an industrial, modern society imposes on Juliette as she wanders without aim.
A decade before Italian neorealism would pioneer location shooting, Vigo was using the docks of France to ground his drama in a sense of authenticity.

And lured she is – just as Sunrise: A Song of Two Humans portrayed the city as a metropolis of excitement and danger a few years earlier, so too does L’Atalante tantalise Juliette with its urban thrills. Vigo’s location shooting thrives along the Seine’s industrial ports, setting his drama against warehouses, chimneys, and steam trains, while her journey into the shopping district of live bands and window displays carries a vibrant energy that her husband’s boat lacks. Still, the exhilaration can only last so long. Having been left behind, she tries to buy a train fare to reach Jean’s next stop in Le Havre, yet the dark reality of Paris is alarmingly revealed when a thief steals her purse and she is forced to find work.

The lights of Paris lure Juliette into its fleeting temptations, here reflecting storefront puppets in the window.
Perhaps the single strongest scene in the film, sinking Jean into surreal visions of his lost love beneath the Seine.

It doesn’t take long for regret to strike her jealous husband either, driving him into a deep depression. Wholeheartedly believing the myth that it is possible to glimpse the face of one’s lover in water, Jean impulsively dives overboard, and Vigo capitalises on the opportunity to sink us into his aching, dreamy mind through surreal dissolves and double exposure effects. There in the depths of the Seine, she floats like a doll suspended in the currents, and a light breeze ruffles her blonde hair as she lets out a silent laugh. Trying to cheer up his skipper, Jules plays a romantic melody on his phonograph, which Vigo further uses to underscore a montage intercutting their yearning search for each other. More long dissolves bridge match cuts between their restless tossing and turning, unable to get a good night’s sleep in each other’s absence, before finally ending this astounding sequence with a dishevelled Jean facing up to his displeased company manager.

Cross-cutting between both lovers as they longingly search for each other along the rivers of France.
Bound together by long dissolves and parallel montage editing as they toss and turn in their sleep.

Perhaps it is fate that ultimately draws friends and lovers together after their lonely parallel journeys, or maybe love really is that powerful a force in L’Atalante that it echoes across canals, calling them back home. After all, ‘The Bargeman’s Song’ not only provides comfort to Juliette during her visit to a music booth, evoking memories of her days with men who regularly sung this familiar tune on the boat. It also draws the attention of Jules, who happens to be passing by at the exact moment the melody is playing through a speaker on the street. In Juliette and Jean’s embrace, past misgivings are finally forgiven, rapidly dissolving all heartache. At last, their tiny vessel becomes a home where love takes root once more, and quiet freedom is found in its gentle, unanchored drift.

L’Atalante is currently streaming on The Criterion Channel.

F1 (2025)

Joseph Kosinski | 2hr 35min

Casual audiences would be forgiven for finding F1’s team-up between a cocky youngster and an ageing expert extraordinarily familiar. Given the plot similarities to Top Gun: Maverick, it’s certainly no coincidence either. In bringing motorsports to the cinema screen, Joseph Kosinski has chosen to brazenly run with the formula which granted his last soaring blockbuster both critical and financial success, charging this adrenaline-pumping sports drama with the same high-stakes camaraderie.

In simple terms of course, the setup looks very different. Instead of jets, F1 has race cars. Instead of striking an enemy base, the Grand Prix stands at the pinnacle of our characters’ ambitions. In the absence of Tom Cruise, Kosinski centres Brad Pitt, essentially swapping out one old-school movie star for another. With its fundamental elements laid bare, the shine has at least partially rubbed off Kosinski’s grand endeavour to recapture Top Gun: Maverick’s magic – but if anyone is going to run through old archetypes with flair, then he is certainly among the most adept modern directors at stylishly redressing them.

The struggling APXGP F1 team is at risk of sale here, potentially threatening the career of promising rookie Joshua Pearce, who suddenly feels greater pressure than ever to prove his value. The arrival of former Formula One prodigy Sonny Hayes should hopefully secure the team at least one Grand Prix win by the end of the season, though naturally the enormous egos of passionate and talented men stand in the way. Where Sonny sees a chance at redemption for the brutal collision which ended his career some years ago, Joshua strongly believes he must outshine his teammate to climb the ladder of success, and in turn publicly channels that aggression towards Sonny.

Pure self-interest is not an effective strategy in a team sport, and it doesn’t take a huge stretch of the imagination to predict how this rivalry is resolved through compromise and cooperation. The repetitive structure which constantly moves from one race to the next wears a bit thin as well, but F1 is simply not a film of clever genre subversions. Kosinski’s set pieces are extraordinarily polished, smoothly mixing the sharp sound design of cheering crowds, roaring engines, and live commentary with propulsive editing that builds tension through both driving and pit stops alike. On occasion he will even throw to a rhythmic montage, split screen, or slow-motion shot, though no cinematic technique is so consistent as to develop into a formal motif.

Like Top Gun: Maverick, F1 is primarily a bold, sensory experience built on the work of its craftsmen, with Apple especially playing a notable role in pioneering camera technology that uniquely situates us in the cockpits themselves. On a more emotional level, Hans Zimmer’s score offers dynamic layers with his typical blend of electronic and orchestral instruments, while Kosinski’s actors viscerally throw themselves into the heart-pumping action. The pairing of Pitt with rising star Damson Idris reflects the generational struggle of the sport itself, constantly balancing its historical traditions against technological innovations, and underscoring how their synergy elevates veterans and rookies alike to new heights. Humility is certainly a virtue, but it is also a strategy cultivated through injury, resilience, and discipline, setting both on a mutual path to victory.

The ”racing ballet” metaphor given to Sonny and Joshua’s teamwork may be elaborate, but it isn’t too far off nailing the elegance that F1 attaches to motorsports. Fluidity and momentum are one in Kosinski’s action, choreographed with absolute precision, and imbued with a visceral energy that builds to rumbling crescendos. Like a duet performed at breakneck speed, F1 finds its soul in the synchrony between rivals, and is is there where friction finally gives way to steady, hard-won trust.

F1 is currently playing in theatres.

Zero for Conduct (1933)

Jean Vigo | 43min

The rule of law is little more than an arbitrary imposition of authority in Zero for Conduct, and it is up to no one but the roguish schoolboys of its French boarding school to restore the natural order. For Caussaut, Colin, and Bruel in particular, a revolt is sorely needed for the students to counter that titular disciplinary punishment, condemning them to detention on Sundays. As such, they spend lunchtimes plotting against their teachers, planning a mutiny for commemoration day when staff and alumni gather to celebrate the school, and hoping to reclaim their liberty in a scaled-down yet equally impassioned French Revolution.

These three students are certainly not the only disenfranchised members of their cohort though. It is only natural that boys this age should seek to satiate their curiosity through play and pushing boundaries, so Jean Vigo often gathers them into what Sergei Eisenstein once labelled a ‘monistic ensemble’ – a sense of group identity achieved through complete visual unity. High angles are often used here to frame them in systematic formations, lined up along their dormitory beds or sitting at classroom desks, but so too do these same shots often capture them running through amok with gleeful abandon.

The high angle is Vigo’s trademark shot, often put to good use in wides that capture his ensemble.
Visual form in the high angle of the dormitory, mirroring order and chaos among the students.
This comparison is a running motif for Vigo, studying how the boys’ wild urges are restrained by authority.

Together, these children pass time with pranks and games, only really pulling themselves into line when ordered. Even then though, little can truly quell that stubborn streak of independence which interprets commands as challenges. When the oddly affectionate science teacher questions Tabard on why he isn’t taking notes, the student viciously bites back, and the arrival of a spirited class supervisor who does Charlie Chaplin impressions certainly doesn’t help to keep them under control.

Chaplin impressions from class supervisor Huguet, sympathising with the children’s playful spirit.

It isn’t too difficult to imagine how Vigo might have flourished during the French New Wave some 30 years later, though given the impact that Zero for Conduct bears upon François Truffaut, perhaps this would also defeat the point of its influence. The young director is evidently far ahead of his time, crafting a coming-of-age featurette which revels in its carefree naturalism and youthful outlook. Its brevity matters little with a director who knows exactly how long his story needs, and Vigo is economical indeed with his nonchalant pacing, smoothly shifting between vignettes that progressively mount a rising disenchantment.

Vigo does not focus on individual characters so much as he does the group identity, blocking them as a single unit in his high angles looking down from above.

This is not even to mention the form-shattering irreverence that comes with Zero for Conduct’s brief dip into animation, bringing to life a caricature the childlike supervisor Huguet draws while performing a handstand to impress the students. Its resemblance to the their tall, moustachioed teacher is no mistake, entertaining the children for a short time before its subject arrives and discovers the drawing. Taken by surprise, the lanky cartoon leaps into the air, before transforming before our eyes into a stout, potbellied figure of Napoleon. Vigo is harsh in his comparison of the school staff to iconic tyrants, though given the role these students have taken as revolutionaries, his political metaphor falls cleanly into place.

Mischief and irreverence as this caricature leaps to animated life, satirising the tyrants who rule this school.

Especially once we reach the boys’ day of emancipation, it is impossible to deny that their rebellion is anything other than a repeat of history. “Liberty or death!” they cry in their dormitory, raising flags and declaring war on the staff. Those glorious high angles return as the young insurgents form a procession, before launching an assault on their teacher using bed frames, blankets, and pillows. In this moment of euphoric anarchy, Vigo also initiates one of cinema’s earliest and greatest displays of slow-motion, revelling in the joyous mutiny. Feathers float through the air as the children carry their leader out on a chair, their elation blissfully stretched out in time and spurring them on to the next phase of their revolution.

Pure elation as the boys prepare for war and Vigo captures it all in slow-motion, spurring them on to the next phase of their revolution.

From atop the roof, the boys pelt guests visiting the school for its commemoration day with junk, much to the staff’s humiliation and displeasure. With the pomp and circumstance dissipating and Huguet cheering them on below, it is apparent that Vigo cares little for whatever consequences should arrive after Zero for Conduct’s final shot of the boys victoriously reaching the top of the roof, finally earning a heroic low angle. Their voices sing a proud anthem as the screen fades to black, and in this single, fleeting moment of their stifled youth, the taste of freedom is the purest they will ever know.

A heroic low angle as the boys joyously proclaim victory, standing atop the school building.

Zero for Conduct is currently streaming on The Criterion Channel.