Having survived six attempts on his life, wealthy industrialist Zsa-Zsa Korda is a man well-acquainted with death. His blasé attitude is somewhat reasonable given the circumstances, proclaiming “Myself, I feel quite safe” with nonchalant, deadpan regularity, and coming to expect peril around every corner. Nevertheless, he knows his days are numbered. After surviving a recent plane crash, monochrome visions of heaven have started raising far more existential questions than the comforts of his fortune ever managed, prompting reflections upon his soul, his legacy, and the immortality of both. Perhaps then Liesl, the daughter who he sent to a convent at age 5, is the most suited of his ten children to inherit his estate – if he can earn her trust while executing his most ambitious project to date.
Wes Anderson has frequently explored the redemption of estranged father figures through their reconnection with scorned children, and here Zsa-Zsa and Liesl fit nicely into this mould set by Royal and Margot Tenenbaum. Still, his work has never quite taken on such spiritual dimensions before, especially with the weariness of Benicio del Toro’s patriarch predisposing him to his daughter’s ecclesiastical influence. She does not approve of the slave labour required to overhaul the infrastructure of fictitious Middle Eastern country Phoenicia, but by accompanying him on his journey to win over investors, she sees the potential to do good along the way.
Anderson gathers a talented cast in this tale of redemption through family, with Benicio del Toro, Mia Threapleton, and Michael Cera leading its eccentric dynamic.
With Anderson’s last few films taking the form of ensemble pieces, The Phoenician Scheme returns to the focused character studies that defined his earlier work, recognising those contrived social pretences which exacerbate his protagonists’ loneliness. Del Toro thrives at centre of his second collaboration with Anderson, playing into the unexpected vulnerability of a businessman whose life has been built on the callous exploitation of others. Zsa-Zsa’s freedom to travel anywhere is virtually unlimited, though only at the expense of citizenship and personal rights – minor sacrifices for an affluent lifestyle, in his opinion. Belonging is an inherently submissive act, far out of reach for one so set on owning everything, and it is in this stateless void that the Korda family patriarch finds himself totally isolated from the world he wishes to possess.
Anderson’s first proper character study since The Grand Budapest Hotel, examining the peril that threatens a life founded on exorbitant wealth, and he conducts it with his usual deadpan wit.
Rather than Zsa-Zsa’s dominant character arc compromising the narrative scope though, his expanding actors’ troupe sprawls out across subplots and settings. The Phoenician Scheme briefly shines the spotlight upon veterans Bill Murray and Willem Dafoe, revels in the deadpan wit of recent additions Richard Ayoade and Benedict Cumberbatch, and invites two talented newcomers into the main cast. Kate Winslet’s daughter Mia Threapleton has clearly inherited her mother’s shrewd edge, carefully treading a narrow line between Liesl’s altruism and her cynical self-indulgence, while Michael Cera’s turn as Norwegian entomologist Bjørn simultaneously conforms to and subverts his awkwardly endearing screen persona.
So many of our best living actors are lining up to work with Anderson, and he knows how to make the most of their unique talents, giving them each a moment in the spotlight.
In painting out the imbalanced dynamic between our three leads, Anderson’s blocking proves to be particularly rigorous. The first meeting between Zsa-Zsa and Liesl establishes their disconnection through height, situating him upon the dais in the centre of his grey, austere dining hall, or otherwise seating him on a chair while she crouches on a footstool. Even more amusingly, Bjørn’s occupation as Zsa-Zsa’s administrative assistant often relegates him to the background and edges of the frame, comically underscoring his painfully polite presence.
Magnificent framing and blocking to illustrate the power dynamic between father and daughter, giving the powerful low angle to Zsa-Zsa, while Liesl is belittling pushed further back in the shot.Bjørn meanwhile is often framed as the third wheel in this dynamic, amusingly interjecting from the background or otherwise lingering on the edges of the shot.
Of course, this meticulous staging is crucially an extension of his exquisitely curated sets, shot by renowned cinematographer Bruno Delbonnel in his first team-up with Anderson. Zsa-Zsa’s palazzo-inspired manor of is almost entirely stripped of colour, making for a particularly stunning slow-motion, overhead shot in the tiled bathroom where dedicated staff attend to his every need, yet also lavishly embellished by marble columns and priceless art. Against these muted tones, the crimson rug upon which he organises his business plans appears all the more vibrant, and the shoeboxes that they are divided into strike an especially whimsical note.
Zsa-Zsa’s manor is an impressive and devastatingly bleak set piece, defining his character through harsh angles stony textures, and a monochrome palette.An overhead shot so perfect that Anderson hangs on it for the opening credits and returns to it again later – the sheer, minimalist precision is astounding.A vibrant blaze of colour announcing Zsa-Zsa’s bold business plans upon the grey tiles of his dining hall, but even the rug’s vertical and horizontal lines run at odds with the floor’s diagonal pattern.
True to Anderson’s offbeat formalist sensibilities, this is the system he chooses to structure The Phoenician Scheme around, representing each shoebox as a different investor to whom Zsa-Zsa must appeal. A train tunnel, a nightclub, a ship, and a dam become dioramic set pieces on his journey through Phoenicia, each hosting potential stakeholders who fall prey to his unscrupulous negotiation methods. Whether he is threatening blackmail or suicide bombings, it isn’t uncommon for these discussions to erupt into unintelligible uproars, nor for Zsa-Zsa to offer one of his many hand grenades as a gesture of goodwill.
Anderson’s narrative effortlessly sprawls across varied locations, giving him countless opportunities to flex his visual design.
Needless to say, The Phoenician Scheme is quite easily Anderson’s most violent film yet, and consequently one of his most darkly comedic. His immaculate formal control never descends into chaos even when characters find themselves blown up, shot, and poisoned, rupturing the cool distance of wide shots with grotesque reminders of the stakes at play. Though shocking in its frequency, this heightened brutality is rendered with a deliberate absurdity that feels right at home in Anderson’s miniature, mythologised vision of history, vaguely anchoring Zsa-Zsa’s dealings to the messy geopolitics and espionage of the 1950s. While globalist governments conspire, spies gather intel, and rumours swirl around the mysterious Uncle Nubar, our morally compromised protagonist boldly advances his imperialist ambitions, slipping between the cracks of warring powers with the elusiveness of a tycoon who’s made scheming into an artform.
Anderson’s most violent film to date, confronting life-or-death stakes with a dark sense of irony.Anderson’s take on 1950s global politics is vaguely adjacent to our own history, yet firmly set within his own curated, fictionalised world.
It’s little wonder then that this man who is so accustomed to dodging danger should find himself haunted by cryptic visions of the afterlife. Neither is it a surprise that Anderson draws so heavily from Michael Powell’s metaphysical fantasy A Matter of Life and Death here, similarly using the black-and-white photography of these ethereal scenes to set a stark contrast against the pastel palettes of Zsa-Zsa’s mortal endeavours, and equally weighing his soul in both worlds. In one, it is Liesl whose earthly judgement holds him accountable, illuminating the tangible impact of his selfishness. In the other, the jury consists of his grandmother, his deceased wives, the five-year-old Liesl he once abandoned – every loved one he has hurt now spurring a reckoning through obscure metaphors and exchanges.
Formal black-and-white interludes take us into the afterlife where Zsa-Zsa faces loved ones and God himself – of course taking the form of Bill Murray.Props play an important and whimsical role in all Anderson’s films, but are especially used in The Phoenician Scheme to illustrate Liesl’s journey as she adopts more worldly influences.
Still, reconciliation is a two-way street, most evident in Liesl’s gradual adoption of her father’s vices – a curious expression of empathy in its own right. As she embraces his world, emerald eyeshadow and red lipstick begin to colour her face, and so too does she swap out her old pipe, dagger, and rosary beads for bejewelled versions of each. This is not an abandonment of her religious principles, but rather an unforced harmony where she is met by her father, setting aside those trivial luxuries and grudges that fractured their family many times over. Amid epic entanglements of industrialists, assassins, and terrorists, this is the divine humility concealed within The Phoenician Scheme’s dysfunctional family reunion, cutting entrepreneurial egos down to size through the stylish, self-effacing manner of Anderson’s inimitable charm.
The Phoenician Scheme is currently playing in cinemas.
When Jeanne Dielman stops by her son Sylvain’s room to wish him good night at the end of each monotonous day, she has what may be the deepest conversations of her life – not that her standard is terribly high. Her mind is a clockwork contraption that sees no value in abstract discussion or personal growth, but which rather dedicates itself to a single, methodical task at a time, maintaining a stable household for the benefit of her offspring. She is a Sisyphus for the modern age, each day pushing that boulder up the mountain as she polishes shoes, folds clothes, and cooks dinner, only to find herself starting all over again the following morning.
Despite remaining largely ignorant to his mother’s endless toil, Sylvain is the sole stimulus for introspection in Jeanne’s life, gently piercing her insular, middle-class bubble. “You’re always reading, just like your father,” the widow remarks the first night we join them, prompting him to ask about the early days of their relationship. “I didn’t know if I wanted to marry, but that’s what people did,” she ponders, dispassionately reflecting that “sleeping with him was just a detail” like any other in her meticulous daily routine. This comes as no surprise to us, of course. Every afternoon a different male client visits her apartment to pay for sex, and although Chantal Akerman usually cuts away from the act, it evidently unfolds with about as much excitement as making the bed or washing dishes.
Jeanne’s life is in service of her son, who barely recognises her sacrifices. Through him, ideas from the world outside penetrate their bubble, considering notions of sex she would rather ignore.
On the second night, Sylvain’s topic of choice turns to his friend Yan, whose experiences with dating have sparked a deliberation on the nature of sex.
“He says a man’s penis is like a sword. The deeper you thrust it in, the better. But I thought, ‘A sword hurts.’ He said, ‘True, but it’s like fire.’ But then where’s the pleasure?”
Jeanne is not nearly as eloquent as her son, but her dismissive response nevertheless articulates the sexual insecurity she has been stifling for years. Sylvain’s confession that he hated his father upon learning about these bodily functions as a ten-year-old verbalises that Freudian relationship between them too, giving her even greater reason to shy away from the topic despite conforming to its associated gender roles. Sex is a messy, complicated thing, and its distillation down to a simple business transaction allows her to rationalise its functionality beyond childbearing – so anything which endangers the pleasureless system she has built her life upon may very well reach the magnitude of an existential threat.
Sex as a transaction is the easiest way for Jeanne to rationalise its functionality outside of childbearing, stripping it of pleasure and denying herself release.
Perhaps the only thing longer than the title Jeanne Dielman, 23 quai du Commerce, 1080 Bruxelles is the film itself, stretching out over three hours which force us to feel every passing minute. Its selection as the greatest film of all time according to the 2022 Sight and Sound list is no doubt an odd choice, but for those who deny its lack of artistic value, its lofty ranking has ironically proven to be the most common argument against it. Overrated it may be, but Akerman’s slow, laborious study of domestic anxiety is far from a failure, constructing this plotless narrative around rigorous formal patterns before incrementally eroding them with Jeanne’s psychological state.
Beginning on the afternoon of the first day and ending on the afternoon of the third, we watch every detail of her routine play out twice, with one major exception. The rendezvous she conducts with three men visiting her apartment mark the opening, midpoint, and conclusion of Jeanne Dielman, each one escalating in psychological impact and rippling out to the rest of her life. The delicate balance which Akerman cultivates in this character study attunes us to her habits, finding peace through meditative, dutiful repetition of familiar actions such as turning off the lights whenever she leaves a room.
Extraordinary form in the repetition of shots, familiarising us with Jeanne’s dutiful routine throughout the day.
Although Jeanne treats her home like a palace, Akerman’s drab mise-en-scène of beige tiled walls and chequered floors tells another story of soul-sucking mundanity. The film may not possess the compositional precision of Yasujirō Ozu’s domestic dramas, but Akerman is his equal in long, static shots, distantly sitting as a neutral observer while Jeanne’s movements fill the frame and often leave it altogether. The camera primarily sits at square angles relative to whichever room it occupies, rejecting the disorder of diagonal lines and maintaining Jeanne’s systematic harmony in whichever perspective we take. Outside as well, Akerman layers each shot using her full depth of field, tunnelling the sidewalk outside Jeanne’s home between buildings and parked cars, while the green park bench across the road from her apartment building sets a firm boundary between the foreground and background. Of course, there is barely a shot in Jeanne Dielman which Akerman resists calling back to either, ingraining this perfectionist’s strict regimen within the very language of the film.
Lovely depth of field in Akerman’s tableaux, shot on location in Brussels and centring Jeanne as she walks the same sidewalks each day.Defined layers of the foreground, midground, and background – each segregated in the mise-en-scène, maintaining orderly perfection.
As a result, the first time Jeanne misses a crucial step in her routine and forgets to flick off the light switch after leaving a room, we are totally thrown. Akerman’s extratextual clarification that it was an orgasm with the second client which instigates this chaos seems a little lazy given that we never see any specific suggestion of it in the text, yet we can at least reach the conclusion that this encounter is somewhat responsible given how soon afterwards the breakdown begins. She has deeply internalised the idea that pleasure is a luxury that women are not allowed to experience, and the slightest breach of that doctrine may very well destabilise the life of tedious self-sacrifice that has been built upon it, setting off a catastrophic domino effect.
Because Jeanne must return to the bathroom and switch the light off, she accidentally lets the potatoes boil for too long, and is left wandering the house unsure where to place the pot. Eventually sitting down at the kitchen table to peel them, Delphine Seyrig’s performance shifts from mechanical indifference to silent frustration, slicing into the vegetables with harsh, aggressive motions. When Sylvain arrives home, dinner is served late, and his desire to go to bed early rather than head out for their evening walk is promptly rejected.
Seyrig’s performance is one of subtle variations, shifting from mechanical indifference to harsh, aggressive motions as control slips from her grasp.Jeanne arrives early at the store, and we must wait with her for the shutters to roll up, throwing off her perfectly timed routine.
Unfortunately, the start of a new day doesn’t exactly bring relief for Jeanne either. When she polishes Sylvain’s shoes in the morning, her strokes are just a little too forceful, causing her to drop the brush. When she wakes him up, she accidentally turns the light on, before quickly switching it back off in a panic. At the kitchen sink, she rewashes the same dishes several times in a row, unsatisfied with her work. Even when she leaves home to buy groceries, she arrives early at one of her regular shops, and must awkwardly wait for the shutter to be rolled up. This day is even more of a disaster than the one before, leaving Jeanne scrambling to adapt to what may be considered minor inconveniences in anyone else’s life, but which to her are cataclysmic acts of violence escaping her impeccable control.
It is here where Akerman’s recurring shots begin to pay off as well, instilling remarkable form in the disintegration of Jeanne’s strict procedures. In the diner that she visits for lunch each day, she has previously been positioned in the middle of the frame – though now she enters to find a stranger sitting in her usual seat. As a result, she may no longer occupy the centre of this once-balanced composition, but rather the humiliating, undignified seat on its edge.
Theme and variation in repeated shots – we expect to see Jeanne take her preferred place centre frame in this diner, so the discovery that another customer has taken her seat literally pushes her to the edge.
When the culmination of Jeanne’s frustration intersects with the arrival of her third client, Akerman no longer even cuts away from the intercourse as she writhes and struggles beneath him, holding on one of the few standalone shots that isn’t doubled anywhere else. Is this an assault, we wonder, or another orgasm, provoking intense discomfort as she tries to rid herself of this forbidden pleasure? Either way, her reaction is the most visceral we have seen from her at any point – not that it holds this distinction for long. The following shot catches the reverse angle in the dresser mirror, dissociating Jeanne from herself as she rises from the bed, retrieves a pair of scissors, and stabs the man in his throat.
The only time we watch a scene play out in a mirror is the climactic murder, as if to dissociate Jeanne from her own actions.
The dam was bound to break eventually, but never do we expect it to happen so violently, shattering the illusions of mundanity which conceal Jeanne’s mounting aggravation. Is this her escape from a limbo of domestic servitude? Is she trying to conquer an inconsistent world which has undermined her need for absolute control, or does the object of her forceful suppression lie within, secretly longing for pleasure? As Akerman’s final shot hangs on her at the dinner table, blood staining her blouse and hands, an ambiguous, peaceful smile makes its way across her face. Perhaps not even she has the words to express the gratification she has discovered, but with the boulder wilfully released from the top of the mountain, it is clear that this lonely, fastidious homemaker will never have to trek that torturous Sisyphean journey again.
Jeanne relinquishes control and accepts whatever comes next, escaping her eternal, Sisyphean punishment.
Jeanne Dielman, 23 quai du Commerce, 1080 Bruxelles is currently streaming on The Criterion Channel.
Fritz Lang | Part 1 (2hr 30min), Part 2 (2hr 11min)
As a new medium of storytelling emerged in the early 20th century, the appeal in reimagining those archetypal fables of centuries past grew with it, paying homage to heroes and monsters who passed through songs, plays, and novels. The 13th century epic poem Nibelungenlied was very familiar with such adaptations too, building an enduring legacy through Richard Wagner’s operatic cycle ‘Der Ring des Nibelungen’, though it took a visionary such as Fritz Lang to recognise its extraordinary potential as a work of cinema. The result is a five-hour fantasy saga of ambition so grand, it is surprising that it often gets buried beneath his better-known films Metropolis and M. Nevertheless, Lang’s majestic tale of greed, betrayal, and vengeance stands as a monumental achievement of silent filmmaking, lifting mythical kings and battles out of legend and giving them extraordinary, larger-than-life form on the silver screen.
The impact of Lang’s creation did not fade with the passing decades and shifting cinematic trends either. Eighty years later, Peter Jackson would adapt the works of another storyteller deeply inspired by Germanic and Norse mythology – J.R.R. Tolkien, whose The Lord of the Rings series bear more than a passing resemblance to Richard Wagner’s cycle of operas, Der Ring des Nibelungen. Just as dwarven riches, fearsome dragons, and magic treasures are scattered through Siegfried’s quest for glory in the ancient legend, so too do Bilbo and Frodo Baggins encounter them in their own respective journeys, with archetypes reflecting humanity’s capacity for good and evil being deeply embedded in both.
High fantasy and incredible imagination in Lang’s visual creations, resting the Nibelung treasure on the shoulders of chained dwarves.Miniatures used for establishing shots, imparting a sense of wondrous grandeur.Imposing authority in the main hall of Burgundy, commanding a solemn air of medieval reverence.The wild mountain men are prototypes for Jackson’s orcs, tearing meat from the bone with their teeth.The Oscars were not yet established in 1924, but Die Nibelungen surely would have surely won Best Hair and Makeup for these feral, unruly wigs.
When Jackson eventually decided to take the reins and adapt The Lord of the Rings himself, we continue to see how his visual designs and staging drew influence from Lang’s own duology. The primitive mountain men who feast on hunks of meat look to be the prototypes of orcs, particularly with their unkempt makeup and hairstyling, while the imposing sets which comprise the Kingdom of Burgundy mirror the cavernous halls and fortresses of Middle Earth’s majestic cities. When Siegfried ventures to Iceland, Lang even uses magnificent castle miniatures upon steep mountains to personify Queen Brunhilde’s prideful, stubbornly independent character, laying the groundwork for similar architectural achievements three years later in Metropolis. Like Éowyn, she defies traditional gender roles as a powerful warrior, and yet the role she plays in ensuring Siegfried’s downfall alongside King Gunther’s devious adviser Hagen of Tronje reveals both to be cunning, Wormtongue-adjacent manipulators.
A castle perched on a steep, rocky mountain rising from the fire below, announcing Queen Brunhilde before we meet her.Brunhilde is a fiercely independent warrior queen, challenging traditional gender roles with her stubbornness and pride.The one-eyed hagen of Tronje is weaselly and treacherous, whispering in King Gunther’s ear and pulling strings for his own purposes.
Lang is clearly attuned to the archetypes of this text, bringing each together in service of an epic narrative following our hero Siegfried’s rise, betrayal, and the vengeance that his widow seeks for his assassination. As the son of King Siegmund, he is a valiant figure destined for greatness right from the start, mastering the art of forging under the reclusive blacksmith Mime and immediately resolving to marry the beautiful Princess Kriemhilde, brother to King Gunther. His adventure through towering forests and misty swamps sees him fight a dragon, astoundingly brought to life as a giant, mechanical puppet that breathes real fire, and gain Achilles-like powers of invulnerability by bathing in its blood – that is, except for one spot on his shoulder which is shielded by a leaf. Later, his encounter with the crafty King of Dwarves brings him to the heart of a mountain where he claims the trickster’s net of invisibility, the legendary sword Balmung, and the rest of his enormous hoard.
Towering forests emerge from and disappear into darkness, diminishing Siegfried in a daunting world.Danger lurks in misty swamps – an archetype found in fantasy tales from The Lord of the Rings to The Neverending Story.Magnificent practical effects with the life-sized dragon puppet, breathing real fire as Siegfried fights it one on one.The King of Dwarves, a hostile, covetous, yet tragic monster not unlike Gollum from The Lord of the Rings.Towering, fantastical rock formations in the dwarven cavern, inviting Siegfried into a new world.
By the time Siegfried arrives at the Kingdom of Burgundy, he has amassed enough power and influence to win an audience with King Gunther. Taken with songs of Siegfried’s conquests, Kriemhilde longs to meet the brave adventurer, yet portentous dreams also warn her of future misfortune. Lang’s decision to render these visions in silhouetted cut-outs is a formal masterstroke, enlisting the help of animation pioneer Lotte Reiniger who only a couple of years later would use this technique to create cinema’s first animated feature, The Adventures of Prince Achmed. Here, we witness a collection of shapeless masses morph into birds, setting two black eagles against a white falcon who perishes in the assault. Kriemhilde may not immediately understand the dream’s symbolic significance, but given that this first part of Die Nibelungen is subtitled Siegfried’s Death, it isn’t hard for us to foresee their intertwining of fates.
Lotte Reiniger is brought in to animate this dream sequence, morphing light and shadow with ethereal grace.Symmetrical blocking and magisterial mise-en-scène as Siegfried arrives in the Kingdom of Burgundy, flanked by his vassals.
Lang’s daring manipulations of special effects do not end here either. To make the beautiful Kriemhilde his wife, Siegfried must first aid Gunther in winning Queen Brunhilde’s hand in marriage, yet it is plainly evident that the King is not up to the physical challenge of besting her in the three tasks she sets him. Fortunately, Siegfried has a cunning idea – with his net of invisibility, our hero can help the King cheat in the stone hurl, distance jump, and spear throw. Manifesting through faint double exposure effects, Siegfried secures victory for King Gunther, and thus marries Kriemhilde back in the Kingdom of Burgundy.
An inspired us of double exposure to reveal Siegfried’s invisible form, assisting King Gunther in his feats of physical prowess.A triumphant return to Burgundy with soldiers lining the horizon and standing in the moat, holding the bridge aloft for their king. Magnificent scale rendered in rigorous staging.A gorgeous garden backdrop of flowers as these lovers unite, bound by matrimony yet destined to be separated.Establishing shots inspired by D.W. Griffith’s Intolerance, revelling in the enormity of sets which dwarf the extensive ensemble below.
It is only a matter of time though before Brunhilde recognises her husband for the submissive weakling that he is, as well as the con which Siegfried has orchestrated, thus commencing Die Nibelungen’s political intrigue with her pursuit of retribution. Siegfried took her maidenhood, she lies to King Gunther, who is quick to turn on his friend. This “ravenous wolf” must be put down, he declares, and the duplicitous Hagen is more than happy to feed his madness.
An assassination treacherously disguised as a hunt, turning the high fantasy of Die Nibelungen towards political intrigue.
Kriemhilde meanwhile continues to be haunted by prophetic dreams of Siegfried being ripped apart by a boar and crushed by two mountains, yet even after she is tricked by Hagan to mark on her husband’s tunic the location of his sole weakness, still she remains naïve to the conspiracy which surrounds them. Only after Hagen has pierced Siegfried’s vulnerable shoulder with a spear during a hunt and brought his body back to the castle does Kriemhilde begin to grasp the treachery afoot in the Kingdom of Burgundy, and Lang once again draws from Georges Méliès’ playbook to visualise her love withering into grief. Recalling her dire dreams, she sees Siegfried standing with open arms in front of a blooming tree, which rapidly shrivels up before our eyes as he fades from view. Still the image continues to transform though, and through a skilful blend of lighting, editing, and production design, Lang menacingly morphs these dead branches into a large, sinister skull.
Kriemhilde’s last memory of her living husband is corrupted by his death, creatively symbolised in these dissolves transforming a withering tree into a skull.
Never again do we see the light return to the princess’ eyes, with this newfound bitterness positioning her as the vindictive antihero of Die Nibelungen’s second part, Kriemhilde’s Revenge. Her patience is deadly and her string-pulling merciless, outdoing even the late Brunhilde who took her own life with gleeful satisfaction after Siegfried’s death. The transformation we see in Margarete Schön’s performance is tremendous, her face hardening as she finds a new husband in King Attila of the Huns and twists his pledge of loyalty into sworn vengeance against her family. His pleas to forget Siegfried go ignored, while his one-sided, lovesick devotion draws mockery from his own people, accusing him of falling under the “White Woman’s spell.”
Kriemhilde is overcome by a cold ruthlessness stemming from grief, light leaving her eyes.An impeccably lonely frame, using the arches and towers of Burgundy to isolate Kriemhilde in her mourning.Rigorous blocking, movement in Burgundy’s symmetry……making a terrifically harsh juxtaposition against the chaos of the Hun kingdom.Wooden, tribal designs decorate Kriemhilde’s new home within a far more ferocious culture of warriors.
As we move deeper into the second part as well, Lang’s mise-en-scène notably shifts with it, distinguishing the immaculate symmetry and opulence of Gunther’s palace from the exotic, rugged design of the Hun kingdom. Instead of guards stationed in rigorous formations, Kriemhilde is greeted by hordes of barbaric warriors and gawking masses, while Attila’s primitive hall of scattered weapons and dirty floors chaotically illustrates his warmongering culture. As he ventures into battle too, tents made from animal hide host legions while campfires fill the air with black smoke. These people may be crude, yet in them Kriemhilde sees an opportunity to stir dissent, particularly when Gunther, Hagen, and the Burgundian soldiers eventually arrive on their steps as visitors for the Midsummer Solstice.
Crude leather tents and black smoke as Attila sets out for battle.Siegfried never truly loses Kriemhilde’s heart, yet Attila is besotted with her, making for tantalising power plays as she seeks revenge.Compare the Attila’s main hall against Gunther’s – these kings inhabit entirely different worlds, and Lang illustrates their differences through their shared traditions.
Although Lang swings away from the more fantastical elements of Die Nibelungen in Kriemhilde’s Revenge, the political manoeuvring only deepens. With Attila backing down from his pledge and asserting Hagen’s rights as a guest, Kriemhilde decides to take matters into her own hands, bribing the Hun warriors with gold to incite conflict during the feast. When the chaotic confusion ultimately leads Hagen to slaughter Attila and Kriemhilde’s son though, all civility is officially thrown out the window. In the final act of this five-hour duology, Lang stages an epic battle of sieges, hostages, and executions, simultaneously drawing inspiration from the fall of Babylon in D.W. Griffith’s Intolerance and setting a standard of cinematic medieval warfare that Jackson would later strive to match in The Lord of the Rings.
Fast-paced action editing kicks in as we head into the climactic final act, seeing the Huns lay siege to their own building where the Burgundy soldiers take shelter.Hagen Tronje remains as ruthless as ever fighting for his life, and Kriemhilde matches him in pure force of will.
Despite her success in stoking hostility and trapping the Burgundians inside the hall though, Kriemhilde is far from satisfied. “I died when Siegfried died,” she coldly laments, turning away from the sentimental innocence of her youth. With her son as the first casualty of this war, her soul blackens beyond redemption, callously rejecting her brothers’ pleas for mercy when they refuse to turn over Hagen. It is all too fitting that this woman who seeks the destruction of her family should order the Huns to attack their own infrastructure, and demand her most faithful vassal to kill his son. Heritage means nothing to a woman so twisted by rage that her only loyalty is to a dead man, and it is through her own selfish actions that she ultimately sets in motion the downfall of two great civilisations.
Confronted by the death of her own kin, Kriemhilde’s facade cracks a little, yet she remains firm in her merciless pursuit of vengeance.
In the flames and black smoke which billow up from the burning hall, a blazing emblem of Kriemhilde’s barbaric legacy is born, before eventually collapsing beneath its own weight. “Loyalty, which iron could not break, will not melt in fire,” Hagen’s men staunchly proclaim, refusing to give up their leader even as they are crushed by the falling roof. Lang’s practical effects are as spectacular as ever here, yet tragedy reigns in the wake of such a daring set piece, with Gunther and Hagen emerging from the ruins to face their executioner.
Epic visuals as flames and black smoke billow up from the hall, marking one of the great set pieces of the silent era.
Although Kriemhilde finally delivers the vengeance she has long sought against her kin, there is no great reward awaiting her on the other side of this conquest. Die Nibelungen has few survivors, as even the tyrannical princess soon falls to the blade of her own disillusioned sword master. From the wondrous fantasy of this legend’s beginning, love withers into grief, and finally begets contempt, violence, and widespread devastation. Lang orchestrates legend with a composer’s precision, and through a finale as colossal as the stories which inspired it, he concludes an operatic spectacle that continues to reverberate cinematic fanfares, choruses, and cadences through the ages.
Die Nibelungen is currently in the public domain and available to watch for free on YouTube.
The lingering cadence which brings the film title I Was Born, But… to an open-ended ellipsis seems to raise a question. The simple innocence that comes with infancy doesn’t hang around for particularly long after we venture beyond our family homes – so as children, what might we expect from a world that contains power dynamics far more complex than our immature minds can comprehend? Through Yasujirō Ozu’s patient eyes, this deliberation only deepens with age, not so much granting answers as it reveals the sheer commonality of imbalanced relationships through all stages of life. With gentle humour and formal acuity, I Was Born, But… contemplates such social patterns across two generations of a Japanese family, and delicately ponders the potential to break its pitiful cycles.
Brothers Keiji and Ryoichi are virtually copies of each other here, disorientated by their family’s sudden relocation to the Tokyo suburbs and sudden enrolment in a new school, yet still finding the time to get tangled up in mischief. Still working in the realm of silent cinema, Ozu borrows the light-hearted deadpan of Hollywood’s early comedians to pace their story, pitting the two boys against a local gang and their leader Taro who scares them away from attending school. With their father Chichi setting high academic expectations, they spend the day forging homework and grades to escape his ire – so it is unfortunate indeed that he remains well-informed through his boss Iwasaki, Taro’s father.
At least with the help of older delivery boy Kozou, Keiji and Ryoichi are able to gain some ground against their bully, even forming somewhat of a friendly rivalry with him and his cronies. “My dad’s got lots of suits,” one boy competitively proclaims. “My dad’s car is fancier” and “My dad’s the most important,” the others pile on, trying to raise their own status through association with their fathers. At Iwasaki and Taro’s home video night though, it quickly becomes clear whose is most definitively not at the top of the pecking order.
At this gathering, a whole new world of office politics is revealed to the brothers. As adults and children sit down to watch Iwasaki’s recordings, Chichi’s stern, authoritative image dissolves in their eyes, replaced by that of a clownish buffoon sucking up to his boss. “You tell us to become somebody, but you’re nobody!” they rebuke, and all of a sudden Ozu brings into focus the incredible similarities between their respective worlds.
After all, the social and economic barriers which afflict one generation is not so easily cast off by the younger, particularly given the recent relocation both parents and children have been equally affected by. As they walk through their relatively barren neighbourhood, Ozu frequently passes trains through the background, breaking up flat plains with these huge, industrial icons of modernity. Class and status are not merely defined by human relationships – they are right there in their humble surroundings, ever-present in transitory cutaways to telegraph poles and hanging laundry.
The foundations of Ozu’s pillow shots are evidently being laid in I Was Born, But…, though even more pervasive is his subtle yet purposeful positioning of the camera, taking the perspective of a child by setting it no more than just a few feet above the ground. Adults tower over us from this angle, and when Chichi’s disillusioned sons destroy his ego, he too sinks low in the frame to meet us where we sit. His humiliation is felt even further in the Ozu’s visual divisions, isolating him in windows and doorways, and once again affirming the extraordinary artistic mind which would eventually perfect the art of developing character through mise-en-scène.
Much more unusual for Ozu is the proliferation of tracking shots on display here, rolling past workers and students alike as they write at their desks. The formal parallels between generations continue to reveal themselves in this stylistic device, trapping both in rigid institutions which require submissive compliance from their subjects, though it is also there where Chichi and his sons diverge in their responses.
Disappointed that their father does not model the same upstanding behaviour he preaches, Keiji and Ryoichi attempt a hunger strike, sitting in the garden and turning their backs to the house. Ozu’s comedy is not patronising, but nevertheless finds levity in the brothers’ endearing synchronicity, eventually giving in to their mother’s rice balls and even opening up to their father once again. “What are you going to be when you grow up?” he tenderly asks, taking a seat next to them. “A lieutenant general,” Keiji responds, reasoning that he can’t be a full lieutenant since that will be Ryoichi’s job. Even if Chichi isn’t the perfect image of a respected family man, still there remains a childlike hope that their spirits will not be crushed in the same way.
Then again, can we really judge a father based on the subjective opinions of their children? “Who’s got the best dad, you or us?” Ryoichi asks Taro, continuing their petty competition. “You do,” his new friend answers after some hesitation. “No, you do,” Ryoichi responds in confusion – but really, the different is negligible. These men and boys are simply doing their best navigating the pressures of families and peers, trying to find external validation while remaining true to themselves, and it is there where Ozu grants individuals of all ages equal understanding. Within the messy entanglement of power and status, the formal mirroring of I Was Born, But… reveals that conflict at the root of our common insecurities, as well as the sweet, liberating affirmation we never stop pursuing from infancy through adulthood.
I Was Born, But… is currently streaming on The Criterion Channel.
For many great artists, the act of creation comes as second nature, treated like a grand experiment to be dismantled and reconstructed in different forms. For Yasujirō Ozu, it is a practice of intense deliberation and refinement, stoking introspection by mindfully sharpening the tools of one’s craft. This is not to say that he lacks playfulness or humour – one only needs to look at his earliest films to see the influence of Hollywood’s silent comedies after all. Nevertheless, Tokyo Chorus marks a shift in his formal focus. Starting here, he sets off on a journey towards meticulous, cinematic perfection, directing pensive domestic dramas which would define Japanese cinema in decades to come.
Gone are the broad genre strokes which marked Ozu’s prior efforts. In their place, we find the subdued melodrama of a family man whose sudden unemployment tests his personal relationships and wears away at his lively spirit. As it so happens, that streak of wayward defiance has gotten Okajima in trouble ever since he was a student, previously exasperating his schoolteacher Mr. Omura and more recently getting him fired for aggressively defending a laid off colleague. Clearly he never quite learned to demonstrate tact in disagreement, and now as he faces up to the consequences of his insubordination, he must also grapple with the responsibility he holds as a husband and father.
Debuting four years after the advent of synchronised sound in Hollywood, Tokyo Chorus stands as a lingering remnant of the silent era, demonstrating some of Ozu’s finest visual storytelling at this point in his career. His trademark pillow shots aren’t quite fully formed yet, but the cutaway of rustling trees and a torii gate marks a soothing transition away from the prologue, while a montage of typewriters, half-eaten lunches, and empty shoes introduce Okajima’s office momentarily absent of workers.
Ozu’s tracking shots certainly bring a sense of order in their straight, unbending lines, but it is very much his editing which sensitively studies the details of these home and work environments, particularly following the hospitalisation of Okajima’s daughter. After selling his wife’s kimonos to pay the bills, their quarrel takes place almost entirely through silent gazes as they playing a clapping game with their children, underscoring the tension with whimsical levity. Actors Tokihiko Okada and Emiko Yagumo must be credited here too for the emotional journey of their facial expressions, bouncing his shame off her disappointment, before uniting in shared joy over their son and daughter. Having separated them in isolating mid-shots, Ozu finally cuts to a wide shot of the entire family playing together, bringing resolution through a moment of forgiveness and understanding.
On a broader level too, Ozu builds Tokyo Chorus around these small cuts to Okajima’s dignity, particularly demoralising him when he cannot afford a bike for his son. The job he finds carrying banners and handing out flyers for The Calorie Café does little to ease his insecurity as well, seeing him bristle at the pity of others, though there is a sweet poetry to the fact that he gets it from a random encounter with his old schoolteacher. Even after retiring and opening a restaurant in his senior years, Mr. Omura still hasn’t quite let go of his fatherly instincts, taking Okajima under his wing once again and promising to help him find work. Ozu allows room for some light comic touches here as Okajima finds himself reliving the days of his youth, obediently marching to the beat of Mr. Omura’s drum, yet still he can’t entirely stave off the creeping depression.
“I feel like I’m getting old. I’ve lost my spirit.”
There is a moral lesson to take from Tokyo Chorus, though Ozu does not deliver it with the overwrought sentimentality of his Hollywood counterparts. Mr. Omura’s gentle, reassuring presence rather stands as a delicate testament to those teachers who don’t just educate us, but become extensions of our families, guiding us with wisdom and purpose through our lowest moments. This tight bond especially reveals itself in Okajima’s class reunion at The Calorie Café, making for a satisfying bookend to Ozu’s narrative, and the job offer which our protagonist finally receives during this gathering makes the moment all the more rewarding.
Still, even amidst the celebration of Okajima’s new vocation as a teacher, there is a lingering sadness in the air as they realise that he must move away from Tokyo. Such is the nature of a student-mentor relationship after all, seeing both men inevitably part ways once the job is finished. Much like Okajima’s silent reconciliation with his wife from earlier though, Ozu again plays out another beautifully edited conversation through nothing but facial expressions, this time between the two men whose eyes sorrowfully drift to the ground while everyone joyfully sings around them. Noticing Mr. Omura’s doleful expression, Okajima offers him a wide, sympathetic grin, and graciously receives one in return. Families of all sorts heal wounded souls in Tokyo Chorus, and as Ozu sharpens his own cinematic skillset, his tender-hearted tribute to those who bring them together marks a moderate yet gratifying step forward.
Tokyo Chorus is currently streaming on The Criterion Channel.
When Death hitches a ride into town with a pair of lovers, they do not quite understand the mark that is placed on their heads. They live in a world of joy so sweet, they cannot fathom a force that would tear them apart, yet destiny holds no regard for such romantic affection. What lies behind the walls that Death has erected next to a cemetery is a mystery to the local villagers, so when the young woman’s fiancé mysteriously disappears one evening and is later witnessed walking through the barrier with a procession of ghosts, she is left in devastating grief.
Still, she does not give up so easy on her lover. “Set me as a seal upon your heart, as a seal upon your arm, for love is strong as death,” she reads from the Bible’s Song of Solomon, and thus newly inspired, she sets out to win him back from the clutches of Death.
Murnau uses the negative space of this wall to great effect, dominating compositions with its vast height and breadth.Double exposure effects add a touch of the ethereal to this procession of deceased souls.
For Fritz Lang, this is merely the framework of his Gothic anthology film. Like the three other fables told here, the young woman’s bargaining with Death is grounded in archetypes stretching back centuries, underscoring the universality of her struggles, desires, and fears. It is rather through Lang’s haunting visuals where this film paints out astonishing visions of that eternal, incorporeal spectre which exists at the root of all human behaviours and, here in Destiny, takes eerie form with a black cape and gaunt, pale features.
A dissolve transfigures a pint glass into an hourglass, hinting at Death’s ominous presence in this town.German expressionism distilled in a single shot – dominant darkness, geometric shapes, and a claustrophobic sense of foreboding.The hall of candles makes for a magnificent set piece, each flame representing a soul that flickers for its lifetime, yet is inevitably snuffed out.
Illusory special effects suggest Death’s presence to excellent effect here, manifesting translucent ghosts and the supernatural transfiguration of a pint glass into an hourglass, though Lang’s set designs are often even more impressive. Those who approach Death’s vast wall are dwarfed beneath its colossal façade which separates the living from the deceased, and when we finally cross to the other side with the young woman, we are met by a dark hall of long, towering candlesticks. Each one individually represents a life, Death explains, burnt up and eventually extinguished. The woman’s love for her fiancé is pure, yet no more so than all those other grand stories of star-crossed sweethearts which echo throughout history, and certainly not enough to overcome life’s natural limits. Nevertheless, Death strikes a deal.
“Look at these three lights flickering out. I place in your hands the chance to save them! If you succeed, even with only one of them, I will give your loved one’s life to you!”
Three fables, three candles – a tremendous formal motif giving weight to each individual tragedy.
From here, Destiny splits into three tales, presenting mirrored narratives of doomed lovers and poetically recasting our two main actors as reincarnated versions of themselves. There is a slight touch of D.W. Griffith’s Intolerance present in this splintered storytelling, distinguishing each thread by their diverse settings, and as such Lang’s accomplishment of mise-en-scène only continues to expand. Where the Islamic city of the first tale is a busy settlement of patterned textiles and sandstone buildings, Venice is defined by its lavish Renaissance architecture, while the Chinese Empire is a paradise of highly stylised gardens and ornate palaces. Even the fonts of his intertitles shift with each fable too, as if translated and handed down by scribes to modern audiences.
Clashing patterns, sandstone buildings, and busy crowds in the Islamic city.Majestic Renaissance architecture and art decorating the halls of power in Venice.Twisted trees and exotic gardens in the Chinese Empire.
In the ‘Story of the First Light’, the Caliph’s sister Zobeide conducts a secret affair with a European derogatively branded a giaour – a non-Muslim. After the Caliph almost catches him during the holy month of Ramadan, Zobeide sends her servant to find the European and tell him to meet her in the palace at night. When the servant is followed by the Caliph’s guard though, the European is ultimately sentenced to be buried alive, thus extinguishing the first of Death’s three flames.
A secret affair conducted in a Middle Eastern palace of lattice windows, fine drapery, and polished floors.
In the ‘Story of the Second Light’, a Venetian carnival sets the scene for a forbidden romance between noblewoman Monna and her middle-class lover Gianfrancesco. Her politically powerful and jealous fiancé Girolamo has no patience for such disloyalty, and so after hearing of her plans to kill him, he deliberately mixes up her letters and sends Gianfrancesco into her trap. With Monna tricked into accidentally killing the man she loves, the second flame burns out, and Girolamo’s earlier words ring painfully true.
“How near to death men often are without suspecting at all. They believe an eternity remains to them, yet they do not even outlive the rose with which they trifle.”
A sharp yet minimalist composition, using the architecture to frame a Venetian fountain in an archway.
In the ‘Story of the Third Light’, Lang’s special effects bend our perceptions of reality further than ever when the magician A Hi is summoned to entertain the cruel Emperor of China. Stop-motion animation unravels an extraordinarily long scroll, miniatures and double exposure effects whisk us away with a flying carpet, and forced perspectives make a horse appear to rapidly grow while an army of pocket-sized soldiers emerge from A Hi’s robes. Still, the Emperor remains unimpressed, demanding the magician hand over his assistant Liang and thus provoking her lover, Tiao Tsien. Still Lang continues to weave movie magic of his own when Liang steals A Hi’s wand to escape, ultimately turning herself into a statue and her lover into a tiger that is slain by their pursuers. As a tear runs down the statue’s cheek, the final flame dissipates, proving once and for all that love cannot conquer mortality.
The third fable is the most visually impressive of all three, set around the Chinese Emperor’s impressively ornate palace. Murnau’s double exposure blends images to give the impression of a magic carpet soaring over mountaintops.An abundant array of special effects and camera trickery in the third fable, using forced perspective to make these soldiers appear to be miniatures marching out from under A Hi’s robes.
Still, Death does not claim victory over the young woman with such finality. If she can take the life of another in the hour before midnight, then she can trade it for the life of her beloved, maintaining that balance which governs all creatures. Desperate, she beseeches an old man and a beggar whose lives she believes are inconsequential, though her misfortune soon takes a turn when a fire breaks out in the neighbourhood. Lang’s colour tinting thus far has reflected the warm yellows of interiors and cool blues of the evening, but now as this blaze lights up the town, its startled villagers are consumed in red hues. His editing is similarly effective here as they attempt to douse it, cutting between their noble efforts, a mother’s panicked realisation that her baby is still trapped inside, and the young woman’s anxious journey inside to sacrifice the infant for her lover.
Nevertheless, this pure heart cannot be so easily corrupted when the innocence of another is on the line. “I was not able to overcome you for that price,” she cries to Death.
“Now take my life as well! For without my beloved it is less than nothing to me!”
Red tinting sets in with the building fire, heavily contrasting against the town’s yellows and blues.Excellent editing in this sequence as the villagers take water from the fountain to douse the blaze, and the young woman is faced with a moral choice from inside the building.One life may be exchanged for another – Death is fair, abiding by a harsh set of rules existing outside the boundaries of human morality.
Just as like the candle motif marked the end of a life with a snuffed-out flame, the extinguished house fire signifies the loss of another, sending the young woman to meet her fiancé in the afterlife. Clearly no love, no matter how great, can loosen the grip of death – yet this does not mean that it too must perish, as we witness their ghostly apparitions ascend to the heavens. Within Fritz Lang’s Gothic compendium, love is immortalised across all ages through the very act of storytelling, bound to a destiny as timeless as the tales themselves.
Death cannot break love, but delicately embraces it as man and woman move into the afterlife together.
Destiny is currently in the public domain and is available to watch on free video sharing sites such as YouTube.
