Author: SceneByGreen

Paolo Sorrentino | 2hr 10min

There is a Christian sort of mysticism woven very lightly into this coming-of-age memory piece, rising above the nostalgic realism which is often more present in other films of this kind. Roma had its fair share of transcendent scenes, and Belfast found wondrous flashes of colour bursting through its monochrome photography, but within Paolo Sorrentino’s gentle reflections on his adolescence in The Hand of God, fate and folklore are both just as real as anything in Italy’s rich, tangible culture. Fabio is our stand-in for the young director here, passing time in 1980s Naples listening to music, cheering for soccer player Diego Maradona, and dreaming of one day working in the film industry. Perhaps the clearest shared trait between the director and character though is their equal reverence for Italian filmmaker Federico Fellini, evident in Sorrentino’s exquisite compositions that add touches of spiritual surrealism to the boy’s otherwise ordinary life. The Hand of God is patient, joyful, and tragic, threading a theological sense of destiny through the vignettes that lead Fabio to adulthood.

We are initially introduced to Fabio via his family, but even before then Sorrentino sets the scene with a magnificent helicopter shot flying us along the gorgeous coastline of Naples in an unbroken three-minute take. Aunt Patrizia is the first character we meet, and right away she is whisked away from a street corner by a mysterious chauffeur claiming to be San Gennaro, the patron saint of Naples, to a grand palazzo where a magnificent, shining chandelier lays on the floor. Here, San Gennaro introduces her to the Little Monk, a sprite in Neapolitan mythology who may either bless or curse those who encounter it. When Patrizia returns home recounting her experience and claiming it has granted her a child, the rest of her family brushes her off as crazy, save for young Fabio.

Within this boisterous Italian family, Fabio is the only one who still holds onto some empathy for Patrizia, who among the others is consider an outcast for her erratic behaviour. Surrounding them is a huge ensemble of amusingly provocative relatives, many of whom don’t hold back in their vindictive judgements and taunts. They will happily call their overweight sister a “whale”, and merely hours after meeting someone’s disabled fiancé, they cruelly toss the battery of the electrolarynx device he uses to talk into the ocean. There is also an implied acceptance of each other’s iniquities though, as in sweet moments of fondness they all share lunch together along a table in the beautiful countryside, and idiosyncratically whistle to each other in an affectionate call-and-response.

Fabio himself is an image of idealistic youth, quieter and more observant than most of his family, and constantly wearing tiny headphones around his neck. The actor who plays him, Filippo Scotti, even bears a slight resemblance to Timothée Chalamet, and through this lens it is hard not to draw comparisons with Call Me By Your Name, which similarly follows a laidback coming-of-age narrative in 1980s Italy. Like Chalamet’s Elio, Fabio even has sex for the first time with someone many years his senior, experimenting sexually before being left to move on. But where Elio pursues music and academia as his primary interests, Fabio actively attends movie auditions and worships at the altar of soccer player Diego Maradona.

It is from Maradona’s legendary goal at the 1986 World Cup quarter final that The Hand of God takes its name, the scoring itself being an unpenalised handling foul. With seemingly all of Naples behind him, this goal sends Fabio’s entire neighbourhood of apartment blocks into a joyous uproar, every family pouring out onto their balconies to celebrate in unison. It will go on to be an unforgettable day for many Italians, but for Fabio, the “hand of god” also comes to represent what might as well be divine intervention. While he watches the game with his extended family, his parents fall asleep on their couch, unknowingly succumbing to a gas leak that will soon prove lethal to them both, and which might have killed him too had he been home. Sorrentino half-jokes in interviews now that when this happened to him in real life, Maradona was the one who saved his life. To Fabio though, his survival was no accident.

As we witnessed in the first scene, Christian mysticism isn’t entirely out of the question for these characters. It is present in both the narrative and Sorrentino’s transcendent visual artistry, especially in his tracking shots that move with quiet deliberation, like an invisible entity wandering alongside Fabio in his journey. Even more stylistically impressive though is Sorrentino’s ability to capture picturesque beauty across such a wide variety of Italian geography and culture, from its open coastal landscapes to the Mediterranean architecture and period-specific décor of 1980s interiors. He also stages his actors in quietly powerful formations in these spaces, using one such composition to mark the film’s tragic midpoint when Fabio breaks down at the hospital and is caught by the camera within the narrowed gap of a doorway.

Given how much spirituality seeps into the small crevices of this film, we shouldn’t be surprised by the eventual return of the Little Monk at the end. It effectively bookends this narrative with two blessings, sending Fabio on his way to adulthood at the same point in time that Maradona’s team wins the World Cup, once again marking his journey with a parallel to the soccer champion. The surreal mysticism that subtly underlies The Hand of God is not just a private, spiritual treaty for Sorrentino, but a shared experience of community driven by the stories people share, whether those be historical sporting events, culture-defining films, or ancient Italian legends.

The Hand of God is currently streaming on Netflix.

Howard Hawks | 1hr 33min

While Howard Hawks can’t take full responsibility for initiating the gangster film, we can at least give him credit for solidifying it as a genre before the Production Code cut its legs out from under it in the mid-1930s. It wouldn’t be until the emergence of New Hollywood directors like Francis Ford Coppola or Martin Scorsese in the 1970s that there was any serious revival in the United States, and another decade or so before Brian de Palma directed his remake of this film. But for a long time, it was Hawks’ Scarface which reigned supreme as the peak of the genre, setting an early standard for the sort of anti-hero we so often keep coming back to.

Tony Camonte’s arc is less of a character study than that of Tony Montana’s in de Palma’s version, but instead Hawks is far more interested in the world and legend that is built around such a threatening figure as this. The two films hit similar beats in their character journeys, playing on Freudian archetypes of the Madonna-whore complex in Tony’s relationship with his sister, as well as the murder of his boss to become the new drug kingpin in town. But Camonte is ultimately a more cowardly creature than Montana. Rather than madly going out all guns blazing in his final moments after his sister is shot, he completely breaks down. As a final gut punch, she calls him out for this weakness with her dying breath.

“I don’t want to stay. You’re afraid.”

Of course, this is a side of Camonte that only comes out behind closed doors under extreme pressure. The word on the street and in the newspapers paints him out as a larger-than-life figure – loathed by some, revered by others, but feared by all. So much of the gang warfare we see carried out is in short, sharp bursts of gunshots that are over within a few seconds, and target victims who are often dead before they even realise what’s happening.

Between these spurts of violence, Hawks is patient with his narrative. In the very first shot of the film, we slowly roll from the dark streets of 1920s Chicago into a nightclub after hours. Inside, crime boss Louis Costillo is wrapping up some private business with associates, and Hawks is sure to clutter every inch of his mise-en-scene with furniture, plants, and streamers. As Costillo makes a phone call, we suddenly detach from him. Our eye is caught by a shadow, moving slowly and quietly across a wall, which then turns into a silhouette behind a screen. All it takes is three gunshots from this mysterious intruder to kill Costillo, and to pay off on the masterful suspense of Hawks’ three-minute long take which introduced us to this dirty underworld.

To rewind a little, it is worth noting that at the start of this tracking shot, Hawks opens on the image of a street sign forming a cross shape at its intersection with the post. Though we don’t know it yet, X’s are harbingers of death in this film, marking characters who are destined to die. Scorsese surely would have had Scarface in mind when he used the exact same motif in The Departed, and Hawks is at least his equal here in the creative ways he works it into his mise-en-scène. Everything from lights, shadows, wooden roof beams, apartment numbers, and even a strike at a bowling alley seems to ominously brand each of Camonte’s targets, building tension each time by warning us of impending murders. But of course, the greatest use of this motif lies right in the film’s very title – the small, X-shaped scar on Camonte’s left cheek, marking him for dead right from the very start.

With that small wound, slicked back hair, and wild, angry eyes, Paul Muni strikes an intimidating figure that any newspaper would surely milk to fuel their own fear-mongering parade. But as the Chief of Detectives points out, even with that tone of dread that is attached to Camonte’s name, there is also an awe that surrounds him.

“That’s the attitude of too many morons in this country. They think these hoodlums are some sort of demigods. What do they know about a guy like Camonte? They sentimentalise him, romance. Make jokes about him. They had some excuse for glorifying our old western bad men. They met in the middle of the street at high noon, and wait for each other to draw. But these things sneak up and shoot a guy in the back, and then run away.”

In drawing this comparison to the “bad men” of the previous century, Hawks paints out an America in decline. Violence has always been a mainstay in world history, but in this new era where a coward like Camonte can reign supreme, it is conducted with secrecy and treachery, thereby repressing our most honest expressions of humanity. In wrapping up these ideas into a patient, brooding narrative, and then intermittently rupturing it with acts of brutality, Hawks effectively cuts right to the menacing heart of the gangster genre.

Scarface is currently available to rent or buy on iTunes, YouTube, and Google Play.

Matt Reeves | 2hr 56min

The line drawn between the identities of Bruce Wayne and Batman has rarely been hazier. There is an inherent dissonance built into the character between the rich, orphaned billionaire and the justice-seeking street vigilante, and although Matt Reeves certainly takes the time to explore this aspect in The Batman, there is often the sense that between the two, it is the quiet, floppy-haired recluse living up in Wayne Tower who feels more uncomfortable in his own skin. Robert Pattinson barely even changes his voice when slipping into his crime-fighting persona, as with this rendition of Batman comes a brutal explosion of fury that is only barely contained beneath Wayne’s angsty demeanour. Forget about quippy, tension-diffusing one-liners – Reeves’ vision of The Batman is one of the darkest comic book movies in years, both thematically and visually, landing with the sort of psychological weight we haven’t seen since Christopher Nolan’s Dark Knight trilogy.

But where Nolan took Michael Mann’s sprawling urban crime dramas as his source of inspiration, capturing epic establishing shots of Gotham and crowds of extras with crisp IMAX photography, Reeves opts for a far more oppressive, grimier vision of the city, illuminating it with the dim, yellow glow of street lamps and headlights. David Fincher is the major influence here in both narrative and lighting, and cinematographer Greig Fraser deserves a good amount of the credit as well for capturing that noir-tinted visual flair which similarly defines the dingy aesthetic of such crime procedurals as Seven and Zodiac. It is through that angle which Reeves thrillingly teases out the mystery-solving detective side of Batman, leading him along a nocturnal trail of puzzles and ciphers left behind at grisly murder scenes by the enigmatic serial killer, the Riddler.

It is with these mysteries in mind that Reeves and Fraser resolve to obscure our view of this city even further, letting backgrounds and sometimes even entire scenes disappear from the camera’s focus. With an incredibly shallow depth of field, our vision often only extends so far as to make out the vague, hazy outline of silhouettes and objects in the background, at times even moving them across layers of the frame to come into view or alternately fade away. This effect gives the same impression as those shots that Reeves masterfully captures through dirty, rain-glazed windows, obfuscating our perspective with a gritty filter that keeps the answers we seek just slightly beyond our grasp. Even when the camera does pull back to reveal massive set pieces or the Gotham cityscape, there is still a sense of claustrophobia or intimacy between smaller ensembles. Perhaps this is just the impact of filming during a pandemic, but the impact is still tangible – The Batman is contained and surprisingly patient for an action film, taking the time to investigate each new mystery and examine the internal lives of its clandestine characters.

On this level, Reeves’ interpretation often nods in the direction of Martin Scorsese thrillers like Taxi Driver, giving Wayne a voiceover and numerous point-of-view shots that turn him into an uneasy, Travis Bickle-like icon. One of his foes, bigwig mobster The Penguin, even bears striking similarities to Jake LaMotta from Raging Bull, with an unrecognisable Colin Farrell plastered in lumpy, scarred prosthetics drawing heavily from Robert de Niro’s loud, boisterous performance.

Though he remains behind a mask for much of the film delivering unhinged monologues over online videos, Paul Dano’s wild envisioning of the traditionally camp Riddler takes a drastic turn into toxic internet culture, and as the film progresses a unique three-way relationship between him, Wayne, and Batman emerges. We have frequently heard other villains wax lyrical about that inextricable bond between them and Batman, but in the Riddler’s disturbing methods of exposing the corruption in Gotham’s wealthy elites, a compelling contrast is set between the two vigilantes, equally steadfast in their vengeful convictions.

Because as terrifying as the Riddler is at times, Reeves doesn’t hold back on setting up Batman as an equally frightening figure, lurking in shadows like a horror monster. Michael Giacchino contributes to this with one of the greatest superhero movie scores in years, driving home a minimalistic, four-note theme for Batman that pounds each beat with ominous force as he furiously advances towards his targets. He is relentless in his pursuits, particularly thriving in the darkness of one thrilling, pitch-black fight lit only by the blast of his enemies’ point-blank gunfire. At his most menacing, Reeves goes on to flip the camera and gaze fearfully upon Batman’s upside-down silhouette closing in on his trapped prey, backlit by a bright, yellow blaze.

There is something far creepier, or perhaps even spiritual about the Riddler’s justice-seeking ideals in comparison to Batman’s, rooted in his childhood at a rundown orphanage. Giacchino attaches the operatic ‘Ave Maria’ to this narrative thread, playing it diegetically a few times before weaving it into his score with subtle, minor variations, often in eerie anticipation of the Riddler’s murders. In these two primary musical motifs, he effectively captures two sides of violent retribution driven by deep-rooted beliefs, both of which form the basis of Reeves’ primary thematic concerns. And it is ultimately in those thoughtful examinations drawn out in a magnificently gloomy visual style and gripping narrative that The Batman emerges not just as a cinematic landmark of its franchise, but of the superhero genre in its entirety.

The Batman is currently playing in theatres.

Michael Sarnoski | 1hr 32min

Pig makes for a thoughtful, delectable debut for director Michael Sarnoski, but it would be wrong to not attribute a good portion of its success to Nicolas Cage’s patient, deadly serious performance of a man on a quest to recover his stolen truffle-hunting pig. For all of the jokes made about his overwrought line deliveries over his long career, it would be hard for anyone to pin down the standard “Nicolas Cage” character, but even with that in mind it is surprising that his portrayal of reclusive ex-chef Rob is so remarkably contained. When he speaks, his voice comes out in a soft, growling timbre, though all it really takes is his imposing screen presence and the disillusionment in his weary eyes to make visible the quiet pain of the character.

Rob’s relationship with his pig is less that of an owner and their pet, and more of a symbiotic companionship. We spend time getting used to their routine of sniffing out truffles, selling them off, and cooking up meals, and while Sarnoski relishes the wholesome beauty of it all through this largely dialogue-free opening, there is also a sadness hanging in the air. It is when Rob ventures back into the folds of Portland’s foodie culture which he dominated over a decade ago that, bit by bit, we discover more about his past, and any sense that this might be a John Wick-style quest for vengeance goes out the window. What Sarnoski delivers instead is a journey of grief, bargaining, and acceptance, in which his lost pig signifies something far more delicately personal than we might have assumed.
 
It is this deep sensitivity that Rob pours into his cooking, and it is through gentle montages that Sarnoski soaks in the artistry of the act. If John Wick’s superpower is his skill with weaponry and hand-to-hand combat, then Rob’s is the ability to evoke memories and emotions so powerful that he can move hearts with a single dish. This may seem an overly sentimental premise, but both Sarnoski and Cage’s dedication to the absolute honesty of the piece sells every tender minute of it.

The purity of Rob’s craft is felt even more deeply by its contrast to the foodie culture we witness elsewhere, in which high-end fine dining restaurants are stripped of their authenticity, and are founded on the corrupt exploits of dimly lit, underground crime rings. Sarnoski is just as in love with the sensual details of this world as he is in the emotional growth of his characters, and it his through his patience in building both from the ground up that Pig becomes a powerfully moving ode to the healing act of creation itself.

Pig is currently available to rent or buy on iTunes, YouTube, and Google Play.

Francis Ford Coppola | 2hr 55min

Did Francis Ford Coppola realise in 1972 what he was putting out into the world? Surely there was a sense that he was creating something that would be critically successful, but the reverence for The Godfather has become so much of its own beast that he himself has admitted to feeling dwarfed by his creation. To praise this any further would be to contribute to the discourse that has tragically sapped his stamina as a director, but regardless – it remains one of the greatest pure narratives put to film in its sheer economy, and that it manages this while unravelling such a dense and sprawling story speaks to the monumental ambition that underlies its cinematic execution.

Though The Godfather is based on the Mario Puzo novel of the same name, it is often Greek mythological conventions which feel more baked into its structure, with archetypes of sons replacing fathers, an overseas journey leading back home, and fatal flaws spelling out the end for several characters. In transposing such classical storytelling traditions onto a 1940s Italian American crime family, Coppola effectively creates an epic poem for the twentieth century, captivated by the details of an underworld established by men who did not find the equality or justice they were promised when they first immigrated to New York. Perhaps this complex interaction of dreams and values is most pointed in the scene of Paulie’s assassination that sees him driven out to a wheat field and shot in the back of the head, with Coppola’s wide shot catching the Statue of Liberty quietly rising up over the horizon like a silent witness to the mafia’s crimes. 

Even the very first words of the film set up these thematic aspirations, with Sicilian undertaker Bonasera’s immortal line, “I believe in America.” Though he is a minor character, he is our way into the world of the Corleones, coming to Don Vito on his daughter’s wedding day to ask a favour as per cultural tradition. Bonasera is a man who has drifted too far from his roots, though in realising how America’s institutions have failed him, he falls back on the Corleone family’s loyalty and sense of justice, both of which are far more powerful than anything the United States might offer.

Shrouded in darkness and delivering a monologue with hints of repentance, one might initially presume that Bonasera has come to a small chapel to confess his sins to a priest, but even when the actual context becomes evident, Coppola still maintains that air of religious authority and reverence around Vito. These pitch-black backgrounds pierced by pinpoints of lights and faces are typical of cinematographer Gordon Willis, whose moniker “The Prince of Darkness” is well-earned by his work here on The Godfather. Perhaps even more shocking though is its visual and tonal contrast to the bright, rambunctious wedding of Connie Corleone that lies right outside, its joyous festivities just as integral to the Corleone empire as their quiet, underhanded dealings. This nearly half-hour long sequence sets the stage for the film’s expansive ensemble of characters, each line and shot serving a purpose right down to Paulie eyeing off a purse of cash, tipping us off about his treacherous, greedy aspirations.

Michael Corleone’s place in this family is teased here before we even meet him, with Vito stopping a family photo from going ahead without his son. Just the sight of Michael arriving late with his military uniform and non-Italian girlfriend, Kay, tells us all we need to know about his semi-estrangement. Here is a model of American citizenry, reserved in his interactions and denying involvement in his family’s sordid affairs, though clearly not so ostracised that he has started an entirely new, separate life altogether. The cold-blooded transformation that Al Pacino puts into motion from this point on is simply remarkable. There are a multitude of scenes that could be picked out to exemplify his tour-de-force performance, from Michael’s first murder to his chiding of his brother, Fredo, though it is in the gradual progression from the quietly disconnected man we see at the wedding to the one ascending to the role of Godfather at the end of the film that the full force of his acting achievement lands with its full weight. 

Arguably the only other actor to outdo Pacino here is Marlon Brando himself, whose mumbling, bulldog-cheeked Vito Corleone stands powerfully above every other character, including those who try to cut him down to size. Though it is only really in the first scene where we see him at his full power before the attempt on his life, his presence and influence hangs over so many others as well, most of all those in which his children struggle beneath the weight of his legacy. Where the hot-headed Sonny lacks the wisdom of his father and the weak-willed Fredo lacks the nerve, we come to realise during Michael’s hospital visit that he alone carries the virtues necessary to lead. While Vito is recovering in bed, Michael uses his wits to fend off further attacks, and as he lights the cigarette of a trusted ally shaking in his boots, Coppola cuts to his perfectly still hands, revealing a cool, keen propensity for handling high-pressure situations. 

At this point in his arc though, he still has a long way to go to attain the same authority as his father. Long dissolves are often Coppola’s tool of choice in visually setting Vito up as the powerful man pulling the strings, with a particularly notable one landing after the scene of a movie producer waking up to find his prized horse’s head in his bed, fading from the exterior of his house to a close-up of the Don himself. There is a weighty implication in the merging of such images, as those shots of his face dominating landscapes and wides vividly turn him into a larger-than-life being. 

Michael also eventually receives special treatment in the editing room when he takes over the family business, though it is also at this point where Coppola’s style takes a sharp turn. His reign is not defined by graceful long dissolves, flowing gently from one shot to the next, but is rather brought in with a montage, cross-cutting between scenes of violence and religion with one thing in common – the birth of a new Godfather, both to Connie’s newborn son and to a community of Sicilians. 

It is here that Nino Rota’s sly, winding waltz of oboes, trumpets, and strings that has defined the Corleone family momentarily takes on an entirely new timbre – that of a deep, resonant church organ, adopting pieces of the main melody and twisting them into something truly ominous. Coppola’s style of depicting murders also dramatically shifts, taking a step back from the shocking bursts of violence which give us only a few seconds of warning, and instead drawing the suspense of multiple assassinations out over several minutes. As Michael confesses his belief in the Catholic Church, renounces Satan, and pledges his duty as Godfather to the baby screaming in the background, so too does he mark his ascent to the role with a vicious massacre of all those who underestimated him, solidifying his power with a single, devastating statement of his dominance.

As questions of keeping personal and business lives separate roil through this deft screenplay, the door that closes between Michael and Kay in Coppola’s final shot effectively severs the two in such a way that Vito certainly never intended. To him, business was inherently personal, inviting family members and friends into his inner circles with trust and generosity, though in Michael’s damning decision to lie to Kay about his work when she asks for the absolute truth, he carries on almost everything from his father’s legacy, save for his passionate Sicilian heart. The Godfather is a story of generations handing power from one to the next, but in the dynamic culture of mid-twentieth century America, these natural cycles are perverted by a new, corporate society, born from the same ancient traditions they inevitably end up destroying.

The Godfather is currently available to stream on Stan and Paramount Plus, and is available to rent or buy on iTunes, YouTube, and Google Play.

Joachim Trier | 2hr 8min

There is something novelistic about the way Joachim Trier lays The Worst Person in the World out in a series of chapters around our young protagonist, Julie, each one unfolding a different vignette of her wandering life. Almost like a contents page, we are informed right at the start that there will be twelve of these collectively bookended by a prologue and epilogue, the intent being that this structure will help us sort through her messy mistakes, ambitions, and relationships. As she tentatively navigates a modern world, moving from medicine, to psychology, to photography, and teasing out the possibility of motherhood on top of it all, Trier guides us through with an omniscient narrator that turns her into a sort of literary protagonist. The result is a playfully formal character study of uncertainty, thoughtfully building out what might as well be a coming-of-age film for those approaching their 30s.

The chapters that attempt to give Julie’s life some semblance of order vary in length and significance, though their titles always offer some sort of prism through which we can interpret each new stage of her development. “The Others” is the first, following a difficult weekend away her with her boyfriend’s family, and is succeeded by “Cheating” where Julie pushes the limits of her relationship after encountering a handsome stranger, Eivind, at party she spontaneously decides to crash. Trier lightly flits through their bizarrely intimate night together like an escape from ordinary life, blowing smoke into each other’s mouths, watching each other use the toilet, and discussing the most personal parts of their lives, treading dangerously close to infidelity.

Later in the film, Trier dedicates a short chapter to Eivind’s own history with his girlfriend, briefly coming at the complicated situation from an alternate angle. This is the sort of narrative freedom we are granted in his third person perspective, especially given the past-tense narration which comes at these characters’ unsettled minds and stories with a sense of comforting resolution, implicitly assuring us that everything will eventually be ok. It is in this voice that Trier’s storytelling is layered with compassionate contemplations of Julie’s journey, accepting the “impossibility” of such paradoxical statements as “I do love you. And I don’t love you.” It is evident in this empathetic voiceover and Renate Reinsve’s enchanting performance that such indecisiveness comes not from apathy, but rather a great amount of passion spread so far across conflicting interests.

It also when Trier’s deft screenplay takes a step back to let silent sequences of magical realism take over that the depth of Julie’s love and fear emerges in full force. Her daydream of leaving Aksel for Eivind might flash by in the space of a second in reality, but Trier delights in immersing us in this fantasy across an entire day. At the moment that she realises what must be done, the world around her comes to a halt, and she takes off running down streets of frozen people and vehicles to search out the only other man not affected by this shift in time. As their imagined date inside this utopian bubble comes to an end, she runs back home with a smile stretched across her face, and we come to realise the significance of such a dream where life-changing decisions do not rub up against the pressures or frictions of a complicated, ever-changing world.

Had Trier indulged in a few more formal flourishes such as these, The Worst Person in the World might be considered a more ambitious piece of cinema, though there is certainly no shame in the admirable accomplishment of writing and structure that he presents us with instead. We don’t always trust Julie to make the best choices, but that feeling of messing up and feeling a crushing amount of shame is fully recognisable, not just in Reinsve’s performance but similarly in those other young actors around her. The empathy that bleeds through this screenplay is huge, though it is most clearly in Trier’s Brechtian distancing that he lets us consider Julie not as the centre of a world she is prone to destroying, but rather as a single, flawed adult living in a society that is full of them.

The Worst Person in the World is not currently available to stream in Australia.

James Cameron | 2hr 17min

Few filmmakers can lay claim to making a movie sequel that matches its revered predecessor in pure cinematic audacity, and fewer have succeeded in doing so twice. If Terminator was James Cameron’s breakthrough and Aliens solidified him as a magnificent director of franchises, then Terminator 2: Judgment Day follows through on the promises of both, and this alone puts him in rarefied air. Those moments where the film slows down to pensively consider one character’s internal thoughts in voiceover are some of the weakest given the lack of setup or follow-through, but their mere existence also points to where Cameron’s strengths truly lie. It is in the spectacle of his action set pieces, dynamic camerawork, and his narrative’s creative basis in deep-rooted archetypes that Terminator 2 reveals itself as a raw cinematic experience, concerned less with musings over what it means to be human as it is with the immediate, visceral impact of such questions.

It is eleven years after the events of the first film that Cameron picks his narrative back up, bringing us in with a ten-year-old John Connor living under foster parents. Once again, Skynet has sent back a Terminator to kill the future leader of the human resistance, and a protector has also been sent to save him. The setup of these figures calls directly back to the first film – both the T-800 we recognise as Arnold Schwarzenegger and another smaller man manifest around the same time, and immediately go about tracking down their target.

Where the T-800 invades a bikie club and steals an outfit of black leather and sunglasses, Cameron gives the other man the identity and appearance of a police officer, immediately setting up a conflict in archetypes. Almost everything about these characters is mirrored, from the T-800’s use of intimidation and blunt force to the more manipulative, covert strategies of Robert Patrick’s time traveller, whose use of facial expressions and vocal inflections to manipulate strangers displays a cold comprehension of humanity that Schwarzenegger deliberately rejects in his masterfully stoic performance.

This is a film so soaked into pop culture that it is hard to separate the twist from our foreknowledge of it, and yet even then it remains an astounding subversion of Cameron’s established archetypes. All at once, the man dressed as an authority figure is revealed to be a more advanced Terminator, a T-1000, and the ruthless hunter who we have already seen kill multiple people is now our hero. Even in Cameron’s character design of the T-800 as a robotic endoskeleton concealed beneath human skin, he is tied to a vulnerable humanity that the shapeshifting, metallic T-1000 can only ever imitate, remaining as deceptively flexible in its tactics as it is in its physical appearance. Meanwhile, the T-800 is bound by its word, serving the young John Connor like a loyal, unwavering servant, and through this tight bond he slowly grasps notions of sensitivity and casual slang until he himself begins to exhibit both in the film’s magnificently rewarding final act.

And then there is Sarah Connor, who has been arrested and sentenced to a mental hospital following the events of the first film which have left her with severe PTSD and, from the perspective of her doctors, wild delusions. There is a dramatic shift in Linda Hamilton’s performance between both films, turning Sarah into a hardened prisoner resolved to escape and save the world from the impending apocalypse known as Judgement Day. Beyond the T-800 and T-1000, Cameron’s archetypes begin to seep into her characterisation as well, as she too becomes a Terminator of sorts in her dogged pursuit of the man prophesied to invent Skynet’s world-ending technology, losing a bit of her own humanity along the way. Just as we will later see sensitivity become the saving grace for Schwarzenegger’s T-800, so too is Sarah pulled back from the edge by her own innate compassion, similarly building her character over the dangerously thin line that separates machines and men.

It is worth noting the innovative power of Cameron’s visual effects in Terminator 2 to construct these characters and much of their world, and yet this alone isn’t integral to his artistic success. He is a skilled crafter of action set pieces and images that reach deep and draw out instinctive responses from his audience, not so much developing a consistent stylistic device like Michael Mann does with his neo-noir lighting or George Miller with his rapid editing, but rather playing to whatever suits each individual moment. As the Terminators individually search for John in the local shopping centre, Cameron’s editing and camerawork skilfully move between both characters in a suspenseful balance, emphasising their hulking presences in weighty low angles. And then, at the moment of their confrontation, every movement lands with extra weight in Cameron’s absorbing slow-motion photography, bringing the opposing archetypes together in their first major stand-off.

From here, each subsequent struggle takes a step up from the last, until Cameron bombastically crashes a truck of liquid nitrogen through the gates of a steel mill at the film’s climax. He fills the air with a warm, orange glow emitted from the heat of the fiery sparks and molten metal, and in vibrantly clashing this against the blue vapor of the spilt liquid nitrogen, the lighting takes on the humanistic duality of both Terminators. On top of this, its colours also call back directly to those fiery flash-forwards of Judgement Day, within which Cameron crafts some truly devastating imagery of an obliterated playground, its darkness lit only by a few spring horses left burning by the nuclear wipe-out. With such a holistic approach to both visual storytelling and stylistic filmmaking, Cameron effectively crafts a blockbuster for an era, using his thrilling narrative urgency to arrive at surprisingly sentimental considerations of our own humanity.

Terminator 2: Judgement Day is currently available to stream on Binge and Foxtel Now, and available to rent or buy on iTunes, YouTube, and Google Play.

Joe Wright | 2hr 3min

The tale of Cyrano de Bergerac, the 17^th century French cadet, duellist, and writer, is one that is rooted deeply in theatre tradition, with adaptations spanning back to the original staged dramatisation of his life in 1897. There is a classical power to its pure simplicity, telling a fable of unrequited love between the disfigured man and his distant cousin, Roxanne, who longs for Christian, a handsome soldier, while also being sought after by the cruel Duke De Guiche. But Joe Wright has also proven previously that it is in these adaptations of period pieces where his elegant style flourishes, using their archetypal narratives as a canvas for his sumptuous production design and fluid camerawork, calling back to Max Ophül’s swooning mid-century romances.

The differences in this interpretation are strikingly evident from the start, particularly in the casting of Peter Dinklage whose dwarfism replaces Cyrano’s traditionally long nose, and the anachronistic, folk rock musical numbers composed by American band The National. Where Wright’s version falters is in its clumsy attempts to reconcile these songs with its narrative pace, occasionally hitting on pieces of contrived sentiment. Rather than building scenes towards an organic emotional outpouring, many of the songs here rather land in the middle of ordinary conversations and end with awkward deflations, jarringly returning to plain dialogue almost immediately. It isn’t easy handling some of this material without letting it come off a little forced, and it takes everything in Peter Dinklage’s power to smooth over these bumps. His co-stars Haley Bennett and Kelvin Harrison Jr. don’t always fare so well, who in comparison to his weighty screen presence float by without making as much of an impact.

From a literary perspective, direct comparisons can be made between Cyrano’s traditional narrative and that of Victor Hugo’s The Hunchback of Notre Dame, both being rooted in French history and strikingly similar archetypes between its four leads. Perhaps the most significant difference though is in Cyrano’s assistance of Christian, helping him win over Roxanne with his romantic poetry. Much like his Hunchback counterpart Phoebus, Christian is a handsome simpleton, though he uniquely possesses his own insecurities in seeing how Roxanne falls for Cyrano’s words, all the while claiming them as his own. While we wonder whether it is Christian’s looks or Cyrano’s words that Roxanne loves, both continue clinging to her affections, realising that without each other they cannot be the full person she desires.

The exquisite style that Wright brings to such a delicate tale of longing very deliberately recalls the graceful long takes he used in Pride and Prejudice, though in his staging of gorgeous dance numbers and even one thrilling piece of fight choreography, there is an added complexity to its movement. As it manoeuvres between rows of duellists fighting in synchronicity to the music and lifts above crowds in sweeping crane shots, Wright plays into his greatest strengths as a filmmaker, exploring this splendidly detailed piece of history with his restlessly intrigued camera.

As for the period décor, costuming, and lighting which it studies with such fascination, Wright captures a rare sort of Baroque beauty in evoking the painterly mise-en-scène of Stanley Kubrick’s Barry Lyndon. The natural lighting of candles spreads through theatres, manors, and hovels with a warm, dim glow, but there is also a striking allure in the way he diffuses sunlight across a cavernous fort of sandstone walls and scaffolding in the last scene too, lending a holy aura to Cyrano and Roxanne’s final interaction. Perhaps the most outstanding visual highlight to be found here comes as our three leads musically swoon and ruminate over Cyrano’s poetry, and Wright sends his letters fluttering down across Roxanne’s bedroom and Parisian streets in a display of aesthetic brilliance.

The film’s sudden shift to the frontlines of war where Cyrano and Christian both serve within the French military is as harsh as it is devastatingly awe-inspiring, hitting us right away with a gorgeous snowy landscape pierced by dark, rocky outcrops and French camps. Without the delicate splendour of 17^th century Paris at his disposal to dazzle us, wintery mountain ranges become the foundational beauty of these war scenes, pushing our male leads to the brink of physical and emotional exhaustion. It is also in these severe conditions though that we can feel the sweetness of Cyrano’s love for Roxanne persist even beyond Christian’s, his affection taking on an air of tragic fatefulness in the number Wherever I Fall where we watch the army’s dark silhouettes march from view into the thick, white mist. It is somewhat disappointing given its jaw-dropping style that Cyrano so often falls into forced sentiments, but Wright still at least proves his stylistic flair for handsome period pieces in his ingenious cinematography, using its visual majesty to engage with classical questions of poetry, war, and love.

Cyrano is currently playing in theatres.