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A Serious Man (2009)

The Coen Brothers | 1hr 45min

Tormented by a lack of answers to his perpetual misfortune, Jewish physics professor Larry Gopnik meets with three rabbis in A Serious Man. The first is a young optimist fresh out of college, naively suggesting that Larry simply needs to shift his disposition. “The parking lot here. Not much to see,” he ponders, staring out his office window. “But if you imagine yourself a visitor, somebody who isn’t familiar with these autos and such. Somebody still with a capacity for wonder. Someone with a fresh… perspective.” Larry’s frustration with his frivolous metaphor is plain to see.

The second rabbi chooses to share an anecdote from a member of his synagogue – a dentist bewildered by the Hebrew scripture he finds engraved on the teeth of a non-Jewish patient. Driven to uncover what this could mean and how it got there, the dentist pursued the mystery to all ends, and eventually approached the rabbi to hear his insight. “So what did you tell him?” Larry eagerly asks, only to be met with curt indifference.

“Is it relevant?”

Still searching for a shred of guidance, Larry does not even make it all the way into the office of the final and most senior rabbi. He is busy, the secretary tells him, despite our view of the clearly unoccupied old man sitting at his desk.

*The first rabbi – a young, naive optimist with nothing to offer but shallow metaphors.*

*The second rabbi – a spinner of yarns who sees life’s mystery, yet lacks the curiosity to pursue answers.*

*The third rabbi – a shrivelled old man whose potential wisdom remains just out of reach.*

The fact that this seems like the run-up to a joke with no punchline is absolutely intentional on the Coen Brothers’ behalf, typifying their darkly ironic sense of humour. In these three rabbis, we find three answers that religion commonly gives to tough philosophical questions, including one total non-response. There is no grand revelation that inspires or consoles us. Instead, we find a mirror to the long, elaborate setup that is Larry’s life, prompting us to similarly ask – what is all this leading to? Is there a guiding hand behind the breakdown of his marriage to Judith, his brother’s legal woes, and his son’s troubles at Hebrew school? And if so, why must this suffering be inflicted on a man who by most accounts is a relatively good person?

*Surrounded by books in the mise-en-scène, and yet none of these volumes can answer Larry’s burning spiritual questions.*

A magnificent frame – Larry is quite literally overwhelmed by figures and vharts in his attempt to understand the cosmos. He is a man of science, yet he remains deeply unsatisfied by his worldly knowledge.

That Larry makes a career out of searching for meaning through numbers certainly complements this existential character study too, and is perfectly distilled in his lecture on the Schrödinger’s cat thought experiment, suggesting that two conflicting states of being may simultaneously exist until they are observed. He is a man of both science and faith, and as far as he is aware, God both exists and does not. The mise-en-scène surrounds him with books in his attorney’s office and shrinks him beneath a colossal blackboard of equations, but all the information in the world cannot point to a simple yes or no answer.

The film as a whole is no great cinematographic triumph from Roger Deakins, yet in moments like these he draws a clean minimalism through Larry’s cookie-cutter neighbourhood and local synagogue, then every so often tips it off balance with canted angles, hazy drug trips, and surreal nightmares that bleed into reality. The discomfort is pervasive, eroding our trust in the security of Larry’s day-to-day existence, and prompting us to adopt his tentative doubt. Perhaps it would be comforting to believe in God, but then why is he being punished so cruelly? If there really is no sense to it all, how can he reckon with the random whims of pure chaos?

*Oblique shots and high angles in the local synagogue, tipping the clean, orderly setting off-balance.*

*Much like his son, Larry turns to drugs, and Deakins’ visuals hazily shift with his reality.*

Although Larry’s journey from one tribulation to the next is not difficult to follow, the formal intricacies and allusions to the Book of Job place A Serious Man among the Coen Brothers’ most profoundly enigmatic works. We are condemned to the same ungratifying search for answers as our protagonist, so the decision to set the first scene of his story far outside his perspective is a bold one indeed. This prologue grounds the film in 19^th century Jewish folklore, recounting the tale of a married couple faced with a terrifying uncertainty. Is the man they have invited into their house truly human, or rather a dybbuk – that is, an evil spirit in disguise? After the wife stabs the visitor, he wanders outside into the snow, leaving this question frighteningly ambiguous. If these are Larry’s ancestors and the old man was indeed a dybbuk, then perhaps this is the source of the curse which would ruin his life over a century later. If the visitor was a living being, maybe our protagonist is just a very unlucky man.

*The Coen Brothers’ haunting prologue plays out an ambiguous fable foreshadowing Larry’s spiritual uncertainty, as well as his incredible misfortune.*

From there, the Coen Brothers weave a tapestry of subplots through A Serious Man that mirror Larry’s identity in others. In his wife’s lover, Sy, he finds the well-respected “serious man” he wishes he could be – albeit one who coincidentally perishes in a road accident at the exact moment Larry crashes his own car. In his brother Arthur, he sees an even more broken version of himself, to whom he offers the same impractical guidance that others try to give him. As for his son Danny who struggles to fit in at school, there the Coen Brothers model a smaller scale version of his own ethical dilemmas. Is Larry justified in sleeping with his neighbour and experimenting with marijuana, now that he has split from his wife? What about accepting a monetary bribe from another student in exchange for a passing grade? If he is already being unjustly chastened by God, surely crossing these moral boundaries won’t make difference – and if God doesn’t exist, then who really cares?

*Arthur’s brokenness reveals the true depths of Larry’s despair, as well as his inability to help either himself or his brother.*

*Danny wanders through adolescence without moral certainty or guidance, and as we see in his father, answers don’t come easily with age.*

It is along this line of thinking though that Larry lets his sense of accountability gradually wear away in A Serious Man, spurred on by a helpless passivity. Danny’s subscription to the Columbia Record Club under his father’s name isn’t exactly fair, yet Larry is still responsible for making the overdue payments anyway. He reasons that he shouldn’t be punished for not doing anything, but since new vinyls are automatically mailed without customer intervention, it is precisely his inaction that has landed him in this situation.

The more we begin to recognise this dysfunctional trait in Larry, the more we see how his inclination to dwell in self-pity is at least partly responsible for many of his other problems too. He did not need to move out of his family home without standing his ground, and neither did he need to give into the pressure of paying for Sy’s funeral. Michael Stuhlbarg’s sheepish demeanour embodies every bit of this unassertive meekness, barely pushing his soft, reedy voice past a moderate speaking volume even when he shouts. Instead, he focuses all his anger at a God whose old-fashioned retribution seems ill-fitting to his upstanding lifestyle, and who conveniently isn’t present to verbally retaliate.

*A Serious Man put Michael Stuhlbarg on the map, playing to his strengths as an immensely introspective actor who can communicate entire thought processes through a simple facial expression.*

If there is a divine message to be found anywhere in A Serious Man, then it is ironic that it should come from the reclusive senior rabbi who previously declined a meeting with Larry. Instead, it is Danny who is chosen to receive his cryptic wisdom, delivered in the form of song lyrics.

“When the truth is found to be lies,

And all the hope within you dies… then what?”

Even those who aren’t familiar with ‘Somebody to Love’ by Jefferson Airplane would recognise these words from the film’s recurring musical motif. Its urgent rhythms accompany Larry’s philosophical journey with a raw, driving intensity, yet still he overlooks his life’s missing purpose hidden plainly in the song’s very title. As if to answer the question he has posed Danny, the rabbi ends their brief meeting with a simple yet valuable instruction.

“Be a good boy.”

*Finally, we hear the esoteric wisdom from the third rabbi – though Larry is not the one to receive it, and its meaning is far from apparent.*

Living with such uncertainty, is this moral imperative not the best we can do? If every one of Larry’s trials has been a test of his integrity, then has he succeeded? The Coen Brothers rarely give us the endings we expect to their films, yet with the mighty coincidence that turns up at Larry’s doorstep the moment he takes his first truly sinful action, they once again prove why they are among their generation’s best screenwriters. Drowning in legal fees, the bribe his student left on his desk begins to look very attractive, and no more than a second after he decides to give into temptation does the phone ring with dire news on the other end.

*A turning point for Larry as he transgresses his own moral boundaries – pain, desperation, and self-loathing in his expression.*

The tornado which simultaneously approaches Danny’s school only compounds our suspicion that Larry is being punished for a relatively minor transgression, once again suggesting a visitation of the father’s sins upon his children, and referencing the Book of Job where God appeared to his tormented follower as a whirlwind. The Coen Brothers’ parallel editing evocatively binds both the fatal disease and natural disaster together as a chilling, fateful condemnation, yet still we must question – isn’t this totally disproportionate to the sin that was committed? Must Larry now endure the ultimate catastrophe for cutting a moral corner that anyone under similar duress would also disregard?

*Biblical symbolism as a whirlwind threatens to end the life of Larry’s offspring – retribution sent from the heavens.*

Or is this merely a convenient explanation we would like to apply to the chaotic winds of chance? After all, those with who listen closely may pick up on the phone’s muffled ring first sounding immediately before Larry changes his student’s grade, even though the sharp interruption of the second ring is the one we consciously notice. It seems a minor difference, but if we are considering cause and effect in broad ontological terms, then it bears incredible weight on how we view the universe. Maybe Larry was always going to meet this unremarkable end, and maybe living a moral life won’t save any of us from what’s coming. Without any firm assurances though, the Coen Brothers simply leave us to dwell in A Serious Man’s eerie, senseless ambiguity. When all is said and done, perhaps being a “good boy” is the best we can do with what little we’ve got.

A Serious Man currently available to rent or buy on Apple TV, YouTube, Amazon Video.

Queer (2024)

Luca Guadagnino | 2hr 16min

Early in Queer, we delve into writer William Lee’s nightmare of his friends in prison, an abandoned baby, and a naked woman bisected along her torso. The symbolism opaquely hints at the guilt harboured by William Burroughs, the real-life novelist who based this troubled character off himself, though it is his response to this woman questioning his sexuality which articulates the film’s most layered metaphor.

“I’m not queer. I’m disembodied.”

The separation between Lee’s self-loathing thoughts and pleasure-seeking instincts drives a wedge into the core of his identity as a gay man, and is further reflected in Luca Guadagnino’s dissociative direction, often letting the writer’s mind escape his physical being. Early in his relationship with the much younger Eugene, Lee’s yearning is often rendered as a transparent, ghostly version of himself reaching out to caress his face or lean on his shoulder, though it also manifests even more darkly in his indulgent vices. Drugs and alcohol offer easy escapes from the shame of his sexuality, and even sex too ironically satiates that desire for euphoric sensation as it simultaneously feeds that underlying guilt.

*Guadagnino calls back to silent cinema techniques with his double exposure effects, ethereally manifesting Lee’s longing.*

The 1950s was not a particularly hospitable time for the gay community, yet there was also a certain level of privilege that came with living as a white man in Mexico City which Lee and his similarly ostracised friends use as a social counterbalance. This circle of outsiders is relatively insular, so when Eugene arrives at their local bar flirting with both men and women, Lee is instantly drawn to his mysterious allure. This is a man who hides his emotions so well that others question whether he really is gay, striking an intense contrast against our verbose protagonist’s overbearing tendency to persistently chase interactions. When Lee leans in, Eugene often hesitantly pulls away, making the few moments of organic connection between all the more valuable.

*Vibrant set designs lifted a layer from the real world, saturated with colour yet often underscoring Lee’s loneliness.*

There was never any doubting Daniel Craig’s talents during his time as James Bond, though the performance he delivers here as the eloquently eccentric Lee is his most layered yet, leaning into the weariness of a middle-aged man whose existential insecurities are only amplified by his ageing. He inhabits a world that is one level removed from our reality, filling in the malaise with the bold, bright colours that often decorate Pedro Almodóvar’s melodramas. Within the lush purple and red lighting of a hotel bedroom and the yellow décor of his apartment, his inner life is given passionate outward expression, though Guadagnino’s stylistic achievement does not end there either. From a distance, the city is often whimsically rendered through miniatures, making cars look like toys and buildings like dollhouses. In an ending that thoughtfully borrows from the final act of 2001: A Space Odyssey, this visual motif pays off when Lee hallucinates another version of himself inside a diorama of the hotel where he is staying, further splitting his mind and his body between entirely different realms.

*Guadagnino’s use of miniatures feeds into Lee’s feeling of disembodiment – the world doesn’t seem quite right, driving a wedge between his mind and reality.*

*A dream sequence inspired by 2001: A Space Odyssey with multiple versions of Lee occupying the same space.*

*Inside the surreal dollhouse hotel, drenched in deep red.*

The height of Queer’s surrealism though arrives when Lee and Eugene venture into the deep jungles of South America, seeking a plant which is said to grant telepathic abilities. It is no wonder why Lee should be so obsessed with such a prospect – if the rumours are true, then perhaps this higher form of communication is a treatment for his emotional isolation, allowing a union of souls which regular conversation and sex cannot attain.

*A search for enlightenment through experimentation with hallucinogens, transcending the restraints of the physical world.*

Although Guadagnino largely maintains the novella’s literary quality through his chapter breaks, he takes creative liberties in departing from its depiction of the drug trip here. Where the source material saw Lee disappointed by its underwhelming effects, the film submits to the psychedelia, having him and Eugene literally vomit out their hearts before exposing their truest feelings. “I’m not queer,” Eugene asserts, formally echoing Lee’s earlier words as his body fades from view during their hallucinogenic drug trip. “I’m just disembodied.” Indeed, these two men have never been more detached from their physical beings, and have never been more in synchrony as their bodies grotesquely merge into one. Limbs move beneath fused skin as they dance, and for one precious night, Lee truly escapes his shame and transcends his loneliness.

*Body horror and surrealism as Lee and Eugene merge into a single being, making a euphoric yet fleeting connection between divided souls.*

This drug is not some portal into some other place though, their dealer Dr. Cotter is sure to warn them. It is a mirror into one’s soul, offering a glimpse at whatever desires and fears lurk beneath their consciousness. Its euphoria is short-lived, particularly for Eugene who wakes up the next morning anxious and eager to leave. It is a terrifying thing losing a part of oneself to another person, and when faced with the truth of his relationship with Lee, he sees its toxicity for what it is.

The recurring centipede is one of Guadagnino’s more cryptic symbols in Queer, and its unsettling appearance in Lee’s dream of Eugene many years after their breakup continues to hold him in an unresolved state of suspension. Just as it first appeared around the neck of a one-night stand, the centipede now marks Eugene as another fleeting lover, manifesting the real-life Burroughs’ self-confessed fear and cherished literary motif. Lee’s story is unfinished in Guadagnino’s eyes, leaving him a half-complete man torn between dualities – shame and indulgence, connection and independence, mind and body. As long as he strives to separate rather than reconcile these parts of his identity, he will continue to live in a world of dissociative nightmares, spiritually and psychologically divorced from himself. Through the colourful, eerie patterns that Guadagnino consequently uncovers in Lee’s character, Queer delivers an unflinching fever dream that denies easy answers to his internal contradictions, constantly unravelling his capacity for love by his fear of being seen.

*Guadagnino’s narrative is brimming with symbolic motifs, particularly borrowing the unsettling centipede from Burrough’s own works as a manifestation of Lee’s insecurity.*

Queer is currently available to rent or buy on Apple TV and Amazon Video.

Barton Fink (1991)

The Coen Brothers | 1hr 56min

The hotel that Broadway playwright Barton Fink moves takes residence in when he gets his big Hollywood break offers a deeply unsettling welcome to 1940s Los Angeles. The countless shoes lined up outside the doors of drab, low-lit corridors would suggest the presence of many other guests, as do the cries and moans that disrupt Fink’s sleep – and yet throughout his time here, most of these people remain entirely unseen. As he sits down to write a screenplay for the newest Wallace Beery wrestling flick, his room’s depressing palette of beiges and reds offer little in the way of inspiration, while the peeling wallpaper and whining mosquito only serve to distract his weary mind.

If there is any saving grace, then it is in that single painting hanging above his desk, depicting a woman sitting on a beach and shielding her eyes from the sun. It does not belong among history’s great works of art, nor does it serve as an all-important commentary on the average working man, which Fink so desperately strives to reflect in his own creative craftsmanship. Nevertheless, it is a vision of freedom beyond this Kafkaesque hellhole he has wound up in, bringing hope even as his patience, sanity, and motivation are agonisingly sapped into oblivion.

*A hotel straight from Franz Kafka’s absurdist visions – shoes lined up outside rooms, yet few guests are visibly seen.*

*Drab, beige production design, making an enemy of the writer’s imagination.*

*An emblem of freedom, taunting and inspiring Fink from above his desk as his patience, sanity, and motivation are slowly sapped.*

Not that Fink is necessarily a complete victim in these bizarre circumstances, even if he would like to present himself as an innocuous straight man. In this anxious writer, the Coen Brothers deliver one of their most idiosyncratic characters, fraught with all the arrogance and neurosis of a Woody Allen protagonist. His giant glasses and shock of frizzy hair distinguish him as a New York intellectual in this foreign land, and John Turturro’s agitated performance carries a haughty self-regard which sets him up for failure from the start. “I’m a writer, you monsters! I create! I create for a living!” he furiously brags at a dance when his pride is slighted, though a fellow partygoer is quick to shut him down with a blow to the face.

*The hotel lobby too is a strange environment, like a forest of towering greenery.*

Perhaps then he will find a home among the producers and artists of Hollywood, though there too the Coen Brothers thwart him with an ensemble of eccentric egos whose objectives and principles rarely align with his own. The enormous expectations that overbearing executive Jack Lipnick places on Fink are far more burdensome than encouraging, and novelist W.P. Mayhew’s exploitation of his trusted secretary deeply disappoints his biggest fan. Audrey has been ghost writing her boss’ recent scripts, Fink is shocked to discover, while he squanders his gift with alcoholism and idleness. What once looked like a haven for America’s creative types now reveals itself to be little more than a corrupt, money-driven business, binding its idealists within chains wrought by unconscionable contracts and poor wages.

*1940s Los Angeles is a foreign world to Fink, rich with eccentric characters, bizarre obstacles, and soul-destroying exploitation.*

As peculiar as Fink’s neighbour Charlie Meadows may be, he initially seems the most down-to-earth of the supporting players in this film. Played by John Goodman with affable warmth, he befriends Fink early on, emerging as the only other hotel guest to reveal his face. Between the two, the Coen Brothers write dialogue that crackles with self-deprecating irony, seeing the young writer proclaim a desire to write about real issues while interrupting Charlie’s attempts to share his own apparently authentic experiences. Fink’s belief that art must reflect reality is not only at the core of his struggle in Hollywood, but a notion that is directly undercut by the very story he is living in, warping Barton Fink into a remarkably absurdist work of metafiction.

*An affable performance from John Goodman as Fink’s only friend – apparently.*

After all, the longer we spend in this hotel, the more it seems to become a harrowing embodiment of our protagonist’s own tortured mind. Roger Deakins’ camera spirals in overhead shots and romantically drifts away from Fink’s sexual encounter with Audrey, heightening every emotion that passes through this room. The biggest departure from the ordinary though comes when he awakes one morning to find her dead body next to him in bed, bleeding out onto the floor and implicating him in a murder he didn’t commit. Charlie’s assistance in helping to dispose the body should be the first clue that Fink’s closest friend is secretly a notorious serial killer, but once he disappears under the guise of visiting New York and kills Mayhew as well, it is far too late to escape accusations of collusion.

*Overhead shots as Fink grows paranoid in his hotel room – the nightmare warps and twists.*

*Turturro’s finest performance to date, agitated and neurotic like a self-loathing Woody Allen protagonist.*

It is somewhat ironic then that only in the wake of incredible tragedy does Fink’s writer’s block lift, unleashing a torrent of creative inspiration in a montage of quick dissolves – not that Lipnick is terribly impressed with the results. According to him, Fink’s manuscript is nothing more than a “fruity movie about suffering,” and the option to leave Hollywood altogether is rapidly squashed by a reminder of the unbreakable contract which brought him here.

“Anything you write will be the property of Capitol Pictures. And Capitol Pictures will not produce anything you write. Not until you grow up a little. You ain’t no writer, Fink. You’re a goddamn write-off.”

This paradoxical arrangement is the ultimate punishment for an artist such as Fink, whose greatest talent is now effectively rendered useless. All hopes for a prosperous career in the film industry are gone, and there is no more concealing the hellish underworld which lurks beneath Hollywood’s superficial dream machine, as the hotel finally transforms into a blazing inferno. Flames arc up behind Goodman as he returns to eliminate the detectives on his tail, and suddenly he appears more terrifying than ever, becoming a shotgun-wielding devil who menacingly booms Fink’s own pretentious words back at him.

“Look upon me! I’ll show you the life of the mind!”

*The devil reveals his true face, burning this infernal hotel to the ground.*

Within the spectacle and symbolism, the Coen Brothers reveal the damning truth of Fink’s intellectual hypocrisy that his socially conscious writing could never fully reckon with. To acknowledge one’s own ignorance is to find peace in life’s confounding puzzle box, and perhaps he begins to recognise this as he makes his way down to the beach in the film’s closing minutes, simply savouring rather than questioning the beautiful conundrum he encounters. He does not know anything about this woman other than the fact that she lives completely outside the hell that is Hollywood, and as she sits down on the sand, she inexplicably strikes the exact same pose as the painting from his hotel room. What was once a vision of freedom now manifests by fate before Fink’s very eyes, letting life mimic art rather than forcing its dull contrivances onto our creative escapes and dreams. There is a pleasing harmony found in the elusive formal patterns of Barton Fink, though it is in trying to conquer such mysteries that man’s ego ensures its own downfall, paving the way for a quiet, graceful acceptance of the ineffable.

*The Coen Brothers’ mystifying formal puzzle ties this image back in to Fink’s escape – beautiful, enigmatic poetry.*

Barton Fink is currently available to rent or buy on Apple TV, YouTube, and Amazon Video.

We Live in Time (2024)

John Crowley | 1hr 47min

Although the span of Tobias and Almut’s relationship in We Live in Time transpires in non-linear fashion, its overarching structure is largely governed by three interwoven timelines. The first begins with their unconventional meet cute after Tobias’ divorce from his wife, topping off a series of humiliating misfortunes that involve him wandering the city in a hotel robe and Almut eventually striking him with her car. It isn’t until he is taken to the hospital that the two properly introduce each other and, against all odds, hit it off. From there, we leap through the joyous and tumultuous first few years of their romance, seeing them fight over Almut’s resistance to having children before eventually falling pregnant.

It is there where the first and second timelines chronologically meet, though having watched scenes from both formally bounce off each other, we are already deep into those turbulent nine months by the time their younger selves are ready to conceive. Humour goes hand in hand with the anxiety of bringing a new life into the world, particularly when Tobias discovers his car has been boxed in their first rush to the hospital, or as Almut wanders to a nearby petrol station for snacks in the midst of labour. It is a miracle at all that she was able to conceive given her ovarian cancer and partial hysterectomy, but ever since going into remission, their lives have been flooded with hope for the future.

Travelling parallel to these two timelines is the third and most harrowing of them all, beginning three years after the birth of Tobias and Almut’s daughter, Ella. The return of Almut’s cancer marks a turning point for this couple, bringing into focus the fleeting beauty of their life thus far, as well as the emotional justification for the film’s formal fragmentation. Even as flashbacks to earlier moments in their relationship colour their happiness with melancholy shades of grey, there is a strange comfort in the grieving process it prematurely initiates, savouring every celebration, argument, and tender reconciliation between these lovers.

Beyond its narrative structure, We Live in Time is a film which thrives on the attraction and friction between two personalities – one a self-reliant chef who keeps her emotional guard up, and the other an idealistic sales rep who leans on the validation of loved ones. The two bring out the best in each other when they are on the same page, but the more Tobias tries to plan out a future with children and marriage, the more Almut withdraws. Later when she refuses to let terminal illness impact her quality of life, we see this combative resistance emerge once again, compelling her to train for a prestigious cooking competition. Realising that Tobias would disapprove of her prioritising the Bocuse d’Or over her declining health, she decides to keep it secret for as long as possible, driving a wedge between them while guiltily grappling with this betrayal of his trust.

Were it not for Andrew Garfield and Florence Pugh’s natural chemistry, the love which persists through these tests of Tobias and Almut’s relationship would not be half as convincing either. They are a magnetic force onscreen, distinguishing each timeline by the stark physical and emotional changes in their performances, and revealing a shared interiority even when the screenplay short changes them. When Tobias finally proposes to Almut, his decision to let her read his journal rather than outwardly express his feelings aloud denies us deeper insight into their relationship, and is only saved by their non-verbal reactions smoothing over the lazy writing.

When it comes to the narrative pacing at least, John Crowley wields a fine control, occasionally even delivering a refined sense of style in the jittery editing and radiant lighting of montages that relish the richness of Tobias and Almut’s love. The extraordinarily unusual circumstances that surround her childbirth are given all the tension and catharsis that this pivotal beat requires, and when tragedy inevitably arrives, Crowley’s delicate omission of certain details leaves us to fill in the gaps with a pair of backwards tracking shots. In this moment, the space between these parting lovers speaks for the indescribable sorrow hanging in the air, gently laying their relationship to rest.

Within the splintered structure of We Live in Time, Crowley doesn’t simply evoke the act of recalling a person’s life. Almut’s desire to be remembered as more than just someone’s dead mother is granted by the layered manner in which her story unfolds, preserving memories of personal struggles alongside those of profound devotion, aspiration, and passion. Even before one’s physical being fades though, it is evident here that one’s legacy already begins taking complex shape, imprinted in the minds of those soon to be left behind and carving a quiet, enduring presence into the very fabric of time.

We Live in Time is currently available to purchase on Apple TV, YouTube, and Amazon Video.

Sing Sing (2024)

Greg Kwedar | 1hr 47min

Prison inmate Divine G may not have committed the crime he was found guilty of, but the shame and atonement which Sing Sing interrogates has nothing to do with the eyes of the law. Not once do we even learn what the other incarcerated participants of Divine G’s theatre program did to wind up here. Their rehabilitation is purely a matter of the soul, placing each on the same level regardless of their past. “We’re here to become human again,” one of them explains to the troupe’s newest member, Divine Eye, justifying the playful whimsy with which they conduct themselves in this safe space. “To put on nice clothes and dance around and enjoy the things that is not in our reality.”

So sincere is Greg Kwedar in humanising these inmates that many are played by the actual men of the story this film is based on. Not only did the Rehabilitation Through the Arts program at Sing Sing Maximum Security Prison provide them a means of self-expression, a supportive community of fellow Black men, and a path forward – it also honed their talent enough for them to effectively fill in the ensemble of this character-driven prison drama. Through the act of performance, Divine G and his troupe find realer versions of themselves beyond a criminal record or their public infamy. Emotional wounds are revealed beneath outward displays of anger, and in the case of the kind, intelligent Divine G, flashes of bitterness escape his sensitive resolve.

Among the few professional actors in this cast, Colman Domingo leads Sing Sing with calm composure, acting as the unofficial leader of his troupe. When Divine G isn’t leading productions of Shakespeare, he is writing original scripts and modelling emotional maturity as a mentor for his fellow inmates. He passes no judgement, and neither do his fellow actors, until the arrival of Divine Eye threatens the community he has carefully cultivated. Their theatre exercises are goofy, Divine Eye remarks, and Divine G’s dreary dramas are far from exciting – so why not consider a zany time travel comedy for their next show?

While most of the troupe supportively rallies around Divine Eye’s suggestion, Divine G can’t help but feel threatened by this shifting power dynamic. His theatre group is his life, and Divine Eye’s inability to take any of this seriously cuts to his core. As such, the friction between both personalities takes centre stage in Sing Sing, with both Domingo and the real Divine Eye thoughtfully navigating a pair of intertwined character arcs. Kwedar does not fare so well in letting us feel the span of time spent with these men, but the bumpy road they travel towards a lifelong friendship is nevertheless a compelling one, seeing both step in for each other at different points when they are at their lowest.

For Divine G, this support is delivered through the conquest of his own ego, understanding Divine Eye’s desperate need for someone to help him articulate deeply buried emotions. Bit by bit, we see his development as an actor, bringing intonation to monologues rather than falling back on the anger and aloofness that he knows too well. For Divine Eye on the other hand, it is that newfound ability to relate with others which motivates him to reach out to his demoralised friend. After all Divine G’s hard work building the theatre group, we can feel his frustration when it is barely considered in his clemency hearing, and instead gives them ammunition for their harshest, most insulting question.

“So are you acting at all during this interview?”

That Divine G’s appeal should be rejected when Divine Eye is granted release seems totally unfair, and very gradually, we begin to see both men’s attitudes cross over. Where the mentor once guided the troublemaker into a welcoming community, he now rejects the brotherhood with biting resentment, broken by a system that is fundamentally rigged against Black people. Clearly Divine G is not immune to the repressed anger that so many of these incarcerated men reckon with, and the raw despair in Domingo’s performance makes for a particularly bleak contrast against his earlier self-assuredness. Nevertheless, the seeds that he spent years sowing into the community have finally sprouted, and in a rehabilitated Divine Eye, he finds his own compassion and wisdom reflected right back at him.

Each of these prisoners are fighting their own internal battles, and Divine G is no exception, learning to accept his place among peers despite his lawful innocence. What Kwedar lacks in visual style, he makes up for with delicate attention to character detail, demonstrating an inspired approach to casting which blurs truth and representation. Through this metafictional angle, Sing Sing merges its sensitive consideration of art’s healing power with its very form, producing a fresh, nuanced understanding of those disenfranchised by an institution specifically designed to break them down.

Sing Sing is coming soon to video on demand.

Blitz (2024)

Steve McQueen | 2hr

There are countless ways to die in Blitz-era London, and as nine-year-old George makes his way through train yards, thieves’ dens, and bombed out ruins to find his mother Rita, he tragically bears witness to many of them. The streets where children once played have become battlegrounds, and underground stations are now air raid shelters, prone to devastating flash floods that burst through brick walls like overflowing dams. Leaning on new friends may secure temporary relief from the horror, yet it becomes devastatingly apparent that this volatile, war-ravaged environment does not provide fertile ground for enduring companionship.

Besides, for a biracial child such as George, there is another insidious force to contend with in 1940s London. Prejudice has already torn his family apart once when his father was unjustly arrested by police and deported to Grenada. Now with citizens of all backgrounds being forced to shelter with each other, frictions spark heated confrontations, exposing that same intolerance which they are fighting against ironically ingrained within their own culture. What hope there is for a civilisation under attack both externally and from within seems meagre in Blitz, yet there’s a warmth to Steve McQueen’s visual storytelling which nevertheless keeps nostalgic memories of family alive in its survivors.

*Beautifully designed recreations of the London Blitz – McQueen captures the scope and horror with lighting that would make Roger Deakins proud.*

*The thieves den makes for a gorgeously dingy set pieces with the green billiards tables and low-hanging lights, exposing an underbelly of crime capitalising on the destruction of society.*

*Underground stations become air raid shelters, claustrophobic and teeming with life.*

That this handsomely staged war drama lacks the formal punch of McQueen’s previous works has more to do with the high bar he has set for himself than any specific failings here. Blitz does not possess the psychological intensity of Shame, the sprawling narrative of Widows, nor the euphoric intimacy of Lover’s Rock, so the tale of one child’s journey home to his mother after being evacuated from London seems a little straightforward in comparison. Nevertheless, the balance he strikes intercutting George’s odyssey with his mother’s lonely heartache anchors Blitz to their precious bond, even when they are at their most emotionally isolated. As this young boy follows the train tracks through England’s countryside with suitcase in hand, McQueen’s parallel editing delicately tethers them together, with Rita’s singing on the radio lyricising the cosy protection such an enduring love provides in difficult times.

“From sea to sea

I wrap myself in warm, sunny you

Fighting the blues

My winter coat is you.”

*McQueen’s parallel editing ties George and Rita together across long distances, consistently centring their relationship even as they are tugged apart.*

Pre-war flashbacks tease out nuances of this relationship in piano singalongs and elsewhere bask in the red lighting of a jazz club where Rita and her husband dance, though these are not quite consistent enough to establish a larger family portrait. That Rita plays a relatively passive role in this narrative doesn’t help her character development either, so it is fortunate that Saoirse Ronan’s performance embodies the Cockney fighting spirit with incredible tenderness and ferocity, proving a mastery of accents to rival the likes of Meryl Streep and Cate Blanchett. While George traverses dangerous urban landscapes in Blitz, she offers a reassuring emotional foundation, becoming the endpoint to the most treacherous journey he will ever make.

*Saoirse Ronan proves her versatility as Rita, adopting a Cockney accent and embodying London’s working class spirit.*

*Passionate red lighting in the flashback introducing Rita’s husband, far removed from the desolation of the present day story.*

McQueen is sure to land us right alongside him during each ordeal as well, vividly recreating scenes of wartime London with immense attention to detail. Tracking shots navigate restless crowds crammed into claustrophobic shelters, and later immerse us in a jazz club where life thrives in stubborn defiance of the terror unfolding outside. The blocking here is seamlessly coordinated as we descend from the ceiling to the dance floor, follow a waiter into the kitchen, and fluidly latch onto new characters in long takes, soaking up the vibrant nightlife before sirens bring the festivities to a chilling standstill. McQueen’s hard transition into the blackened ruins of this same club a mere few hours later is jarring – though the camera still floats, its panning through the dusty wreckage is deeply sombre, taking in the sight of pale corpses, a splintered piano, and gangs shamefully looting whatever valuables they can find.

*A devastating contrast between this lively, bustling jazz club and its total annihilation in the very next scene – McQueen juxtaposes life and death all throughout Blitz to chilling effect.*

Later when George himself is the one running through streets of burning buildings and emergency workers, Blitz’s blend of elegant camerawork and desolate mise-en-scène evokes similar scenery in the Soviet war drama The Cranes are Flying, drawing parallels between the uprooted, disorientated protagonists of both stories. Where Mikhail Kalatozov’s film threw a lifeline to Veronika in the form of a child though, George finds fleeting companions in the Black people scattered around London, with Nigerian air raid warden Ife and lowly thief Jess becoming a surrogate father and sister. Through them, he is taught crucial life lessons that he was denied the moment his only Black parent was cruelly taken away, enabling him to grasp the nuances of a hegemonic culture that savagely targets outsiders.

Tracking shots through streets in the midst of disaster, immersing us in the disorientating chaos alongside George, and demonstrating McQueen’s impressive talent for coordinating large scale set pieces.

*Ife the air raid warden becomes the father George never knew, guiding him through this complicated world with a calming wisdom.*

*Jess becomes an older sister to George, developing a protective fondness for him even as he is exploited by the gang she works for.*

From the perspective of this nine-year-old boy, what initially appears to be a survival drama gradually proves to be a coming-of-age tale in disguise, exposing him to life’s harshest realities on a historic scale. Like Odysseus returning to Ithaca or Dorothy realising there’s no place like home, George’s attempts to find his mother forge wisdom, compassion, and courage in the fires of war, eventually empowering him to undertake a heroic, character-defining rescue which in turn points him towards salvation. It is our bonds which keep us relentlessly persevering through harrowing times after all, and as Blitz draws together these broken family threads, McQueen tenderly illuminates humanity’s darkest hour with a loving, maternal radiance.

*War-ravaged urban landscapes captured on an epic scale in these establishing shots, shrinking Blitz’s characters within the widespread ruin.*

Blitz is currently streaming on Apple TV+.

The Apprentice (2024)

Ali Abbasi | 2hr

Not long after New York attorney Roy Cohn meets Donald Trump in The Apprentice, he imparts his three rules to winning. First rule: “Attack, attack, attack.” Begin the full-frontal assault early and take control of the situation. Second rule: “Admit nothing, deny everything.” Truth is irrelevant – no accusation can stick to you if you don’t let it. Lastly, he delivers the most important rule of all, assuring success even in the grip of failure.

“No matter what happens, no matter what they say about you, no matter how beaten you are, you claim victory and never admit defeat.”

These aggressive tactics should sound familiar to anyone who has paid the vaguest attention to American politics over the past decade, but director Ali Abbasi is not interested in retreading the well-worn ground of caricatures, insults, and superficial attempts to penetrate the president’s psyche. This Trump is still working for his father’s real estate business in 1970s New York, figuring out how to play the cruel game of capitalism and carve out his own legacy. There is no crossroads in his path to infamy here – with all the opportunities provided to him, he was always going to become the ruthless tycoon and bullish politician we recognise today. Instead, the onus lies with the cutthroat corporate culture which fostered his worst instincts, only beginning a serious self-reckoning once it falls under the shadow of its most profitable creation.

In The Apprentice, this establishment is largely personified in Cohn. Where Sebastian Stan plays a relatively passive role in the first act as young Trump, being guided through court cases and business lessons, Jeremy Strong often steals scenes with his gaunt face, beady eyes, and menacing presence. Even in their very first encounter, Abbasi cuts between a pair of slow zooms of their unbroken eye contact across a swanky New York bar, catching Trump in Cohn’s gaze like a shark locking onto its prey. With the added context of Cohn’s homosexuality, their silent interaction almost seems lustful, so it is no surprise that this device is reiterated later when Trump meets his future wife Ivana at another lavish club. This is a man thoroughly modelled in the image of his teacher, and Abbasi’s visual storytelling is efficient in tracing that striking formal comparison.

As Trump’s profile continues to grow across the decades, even the texture of the footage shifts as well, with its emulation of grainy 1970s film stock eventually giving way to the crackly VHS tape aesthetic of the 1980s. His favourite colour is pervasive in the golden lighting and production design, but within this worn analogue look, its shining opulence does not project warmth. Instead, it is gaudy, uninviting, and even a little smothering, complementing Martin Dirkov’s cold, domineering synths which pulsate with overbearing energy. By mixing real archival footage with staged reproductions of old newsreels too, Abbasi lays into a montage-heavy cinema verité style that marches persistently forward, setting a pace which Cohn realises is rapidly spiralling out of his control.

Quite ironically, there is enormous restraint in Stan’s depiction of this larger-than-life character, whose physical mannerisms and vocal patterns have been parodied to death. Although he disappears into the distinctive pout, hunch, and squint, these idiosyncrasies are relatively diluted in this youthful Trump, and only begin to intensify as his ego balloons over the years. What he lacks in Cohn’s subtlety and eloquence, he makes up for with a stubborn drive to succeed, trampling over his own family and undermining those who gave him a platform. When he explains what it takes to be a billionaire, he does not even possess the humility to credit anything other than his own innate ability.

“You have to be born with it. You have to have a certain gene.”

With dialogue this snappy, screenwriter Gabriel Sherman takes a great deal of inspiration from Aaron Sorkin, even as his philosophical underpinnings take a darker, more cynical direction. There are no idealistic soundbites here about heroes dying for their country, or decisions being made by those who show up. Instead, Sherman’s best one-liners succinctly expose the rotten foundation of American institutions. “This is a nation of men, not laws,” Cohn explains, encouraging Trump to throw out the old idiom about playing the ball, not the man. In fact, do the exact opposite, he instructs – “Play the man, not the ball.”

Of course, there is a level of hypocrisy to anyone who plays dirty, but who isn’t ready to have those same tactics thrown back at them. Behind closed doors, it only takes a few cheap jabs at Trump’s weight gain and hair loss for Ivana to get under his thin skin, provoking him to assert dominance through physical and sexual abuse. He simply can’t love anyone who can match him in boldness or business acumen, he confesses, and the cosmetic surgery he forced her to get doesn’t do it for him anymore. As for Cohn, vicious homophobic attacks serve as a shield, pre-emptively deflecting any potential persecution he might face for his own sexuality. It is a weak defence to say the least, naively trusting that those who see his vulnerability won’t exploit it, even after giving them a guide on how to do exactly that.

When two equally unscrupulous and insecure friends go for each other’s throats then, it is only a matter of time before it devolves into a shit-slinging contest. Cohn displays far greater self-awareness then Trump would ever be capable of, yet his remorse comes far too late. While this icon of America’s indomitable spirit rises to superstardom, the man who created him fades into obscurity, pridefully refusing to publicly admit that he has AIDs even when it relegates him to a wheelchair.

It is fitting that the final meeting between these former friends should take place at the cavernous monument to Trump’s cult of personality that is Mar-a-Lago, turning what initially appears to be an opportunity to bury the hatchet into one last kick in the guts. The set designs here are remarkable, continuing to weave through the entrepreneur’s trademark golden opulence, yet the sinister darkness which envelops them also calls to mind the similarly extravagant, cavernous Xanadu mansion in Citizen Kane. It is hard not to feel at least a shred of pity for Cohn as he weeps tears of remorse over his enormous birthday cake here, totally humiliated by the mocking, insincere charity of the monster he has created, yet at the same time we recognise the poetic irony in his downfall.

There is something almost Shakespearean in these dual character arcs, likening Cohn to a Julius Caesar figure who was ultimately assassinated by his own followers, and Trump to a Richard III ruler who reigns with terror, manipulation, and deceit. Quite notably though, this America does not punish such qualities in its leaders, but outright rejects those narrative conventions which dictate the necessity of moral consequences. Instead, The Apprentice earns a superb formal payoff in its epilogue which draws one final comparison between both men, revealing just how deeply rooted Cohn’s depraved ethos is in Trump’s being, and how easily he claims total ownership of it. This rising businessman and media personality will not suffer the same mistakes as his mentor, he decides, and as the haunting final shot reveals New York’s cityscape in his eye, it is apparent that his plans for total dominance do not end there.

The Apprentice is currently streaming on Stan, and is available to rent or buy on Apple TV, YouTube, and Amazon Video.

All We Imagine as Light (2024)

Payal Kapadia | 2hr 3min

“Evening is my favourite time of day,” Anu’s secret boyfriend Shiaz remarks one night as they wander Mumbai’s bustling markets. “In my village, this was the time to stop playing football and go home. But here, it feels like the day has just begun.” Indeed, there is a soothing liberation which comes with the setting of the sun in All We Imagine as Light, particularly for Anu whose controversial relationship with a Muslim man may only be conducted under the cover of darkness. Payal Kapadia relishes the delicate beauty of these scenes, blending the cool blues in her production design with the soft illumination of city lights, indoor ambience, and cloudy evening skies, while piano riffs tinkle away in the background. In this nocturnal urban environment, love flourishes without judgement, connecting souls in moments of sweet, uninhibited honesty.

For Anu’s roommate and fellow nurse Prabha, these warm Mumbai nights are not so comfortable. Her husband lives far away in Germany, and it has been over a year since they have even had any contact. Their arranged marriage is considered socially acceptable, yet unlike Anu, she is left to deal with total emotional isolation. When a German rice cooker is unexpectedly delivered to their flat one day, she becomes fully convinced that it was sent from her husband, even curling up with it in a tight hug one evening as though it were a lover. As she reads from his diary with nothing but a phone light, soaking up whatever private thoughts she has been denied, it is apparent that her nights do not signify a break from the pressures of ordinary life. In the darkness, her loneliness is felt even deeper, feeding a melancholy which intensifies with the fading light.

Kapadia’s narrative flows between these two women’s stories with lyrical grace, not only seeking to understand their interior lives, but also the friction in their own relationship to each other. To Anu, the prospect of marrying a total stranger is an unappealing and foreign concept, while Prabha observes her flatmate’s secret relationship from afar with quiet judgement. This is not to say her own eye never wanders, as there are visible sparks of attraction between her and a male doctor, yet her husband’s total withdrawal keeps her clinging to a hopeless fantasy of marriage.

All We Imagine as Light does not merely confine us to these two perspectives though, as Anu and Prabha’s friend Parvati offers a counterpoint to both women in her own subplot. After being ousted from Mumbai due to ruthless property developers, both these flatmates help her move back to her seaside hometown where she grew up. Here, the city’s bustling nightlife gives way to the calmness and clarity of a village where residents relax by the beach, indulge in the local fishing scene, and revel in the daylight. It is still no paradise, as the women quickly discover that Parvati’s new home does not even have electricity yet, but the change in scenery is nevertheless refreshing for these overworked nurses seeking a momentary escape.

Here, Anu freely explores the local mangroves and caves with Shiaz, making love in the daytime for once even as she continues trying to shield their relationship from Prabhy. Her concerns about potentially being forced into an arranged marriage by her parents don’t quite subside, but at least in this moment, she is afforded the freedom to openly express her love.

As for Prabhy, closure arrives unexpectedly one evening after saving a drowning stranger at the beach. Before leaning in to deliver mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, she hesitates for a brief second, perhaps realising this is the first time in years that she has been so close to a man. Later as she washes his body, she also seems to absorb another woman’s mistaken belief that he is her husband, turning that into a meaningful conversation with an imagined proxy. Returning to the melancholy blues of Mumbai’s nights, Kapadia delves deeper than ever into Prabhy’s lonely mind, filtering this world through a magical realist lens where identities are as malleable as plastic and long-awaited discussions may finally unfold between disconnected partners.

Kapadia fully understands the visual potency of her final scene, softly illuminating the beach shack where all three women gather under neon pink and green fairy lights. It is here where one narrow definition of love is finally relinquished, and where a broader understanding of its many versatile forms is born, nurturing a surrogate family that fills emotional gaps left by stringent parents and distant spouses. Through such quiet epiphanies as these, All We Imagine as Light delicately confronts the harsh realities of modern companionship, finding solace not in certainty, but rather the enduring resilience of mutual, unspoken solidarity.

All We Imagine as Light is currently streaming on The Criterion Channel, and is available to rent or buy on Apple TV, YouTube, and Amazon Video.

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