Author: SceneByGreen

Josh Greenbaum | 1hr 47min

At their weakest, those comedy movies from Saturday Night Live alumni will string together sketches showing off little more than the improvisational talents of its actors, certainly entertaining but achieving little more. The pastel-coloured romp that is Barb and Star Go to Vista del Mar is automatically a step above most of those simply for not falling into the same trap of flatly shot, disjointed vignettes, but there is also promise from young 22-year-old director Josh Greenbaum that transforms it into a nonsensical visual treat. No doubt there are plot points here which don’t quite cohere with everything else, but with a Marx Brothers-style commitment to absurdly creative dialogue and gags, the collaboration between Greenbaum, Kristen Wiig, and Anne Mumolo pushes the film’s narrative logic in hilariously unexpected directions.

Barb and Star themselves are refreshingly original characters, amusingly naïve yet endlessly talkative. These two middle-aged Midwestern divorcees have never considered a world beyond their small-town retail job and suburban “talking club”, where conversation ranges from such trivial topics as the comfort of wicker furniture to character socks. Both Wiig and Mumolo play them as a pair of identically minded best friends with decades of rapport, effortlessly bouncing off each other’s comedic offers with light-hearted poise. In their introductions, as they move from one menial conversation to the next, we cut between close-ups of their short, coiffed hair, their plain heels, and their simple jewellery, each gently bobbing in time to Shania Twain, and in this playful piece of editing Greenbaum ties these frivolous characters to their meekest, most pedestrian qualities.

One could point to the flaws in the writing for the villainous Sharon Fisherman, also played by Wiig in a Dr Evil-type double role, as well as some of the scripted jokes which fall flat, but there is no denying the pure comic ambition in Greenbaum’s inventive staging of visual gags, frequently calling back to classic screwball conventions. They are present in those quieter comic beats, in which Barb drifts by on a pool float in the foreground to secretly meet up with the handsomely villainous Edgar while leaving an unassuming Star in the background, as well as in formal repetitions which see both Barb and Star go on virtually identical dates independent of each other, but Greenbaum’s vision especially shines in two musical numbers. The first of these excitingly jolts us into the blue-and-pink utopia of Vista del Mar, delivering an over-enthusiastic welcome much like that which introduces us to the Emerald City in The Wizard of Oz. The second is a soulful power ballad that submits even further to the self-conscious kitsch design of the film, complete with dramatic long dissolves and a hysterically overwrought performance from Jamie Dornan.

There is little here that adheres to a singular universal logic, especially as the narrative takes great pleasure in manipulating the laws of probability and physics so that everything aligns with Barb and Star’s ludicrously sunny dispositions. Whenever something vaguely troublesome or problematic is brought up, it is amusingly swept under the rug as a throwaway joke, and it is in this manner that we can accept the co-dependency of both women, which would certainly be addressed with more weight in a more serious film. As it is, Barb and Star Go to Vista del Mar is happy to tease us with its dark and bizarre tangents before defiantly snatching them away, aggressively sticking by its relentlessly bright temperament right to the end.

Barb and Star Go to Vista del Mar is available to rent or buy on iTunes, YouTube, and Google Play.

Clyde Geronimi | 1hr 15min

There is a slightly larger suspension of disbelief that Disney’s traditional animations asks of its audiences compared to many other films, as they often make leaps of narrative logic to draw from familiar archetypes, but few have managed to do so with the grace of Sleeping Beauty. As Disney’s second animation to be shot in a widescreen format following Lady and the Tramp, there is something distinct about the way director Clyde Geronimi uses the full scope of his frame to draw out this rich world of forests and castles. In the layers of depth in these images, where foregrounded trees form gorgeous frames around our characters, he effectively creates the textured look of Renaissance tapestries drawn on canvas, like artistic tributes to the history of human storytelling.

As was the tradition of these early Disney fairy tales, we are led in with the opening of storybook and a chorus of heavenly voices, acting like a backup to our primary narrator. Orchestrations run through almost every second of Sleeping Beauty, like a suite of program music complete with leitmotifs, and rhythmically tying in with the animation in remarkable synchronicity. Musical accents land on lightning strikes, and as thorny trees magically sprout from the earth, cymbals accompany each once, these instruments telling their own story parallel to the visual one. All throughout, ‘Once Upon a Dream’ is the musical lynchpin upon which many of these melodies revolve around, becoming the basis of the love theme that binds Princess Aurora and Prince Phillip together in all sorts of variations.

The notion of sleeping goes far beyond the obvious plot point in this film. It is infused within these lyrics, underscoring such dreamy images of the two lovers dancing by a pond that mirrors their reflections directly beneath them. It is also within this whimsical context that we accept perhaps the most remarkable coincidence of the narrative, in which this betrothed couple meet by chance and fall in love. In true fairy tale fashion, there is no great tension in this love story, but we instead find the real threat lurking in darker places.

It is there that a black and purple robed figure marked by demonic horns enters – Maleficent, the evil fairy who directly antagonises the three good ones. There is a reason that she has taken on such significant stature among all Disney villains, and much of it is her daunting yet simple character design, with that pointed, pale face and a magical green aura that seems to infest the world like a sickness. As she rises in power and lures Aurora in a hypnotic trance towards her fate, it lights the masses of dark, negative space that surrounds her with a mystical faint glow.

As the good fairies begin putting the kingdom to sleep in response, the green light fades to a stunning blue day-for-night wash, overtaking the film like a cold, sleepy dream until both spells are lifted. Such striking displays of colours were not exactly anything new for Disney in 1959, and yet there is a level of attention to detail in Sleeping Beauty lets it stand out far above other animations of the era. That it took six years to make is impressive on its own, but the results of such intense artistic labour also speaks for itself in the film’s stirringly picturesque quality.

Sleeping Beauty is currently streaming on Disney Plus, and available to rent or buy on iTunes, YouTube, Google Play, and Amazon Video.

Ryusuke Hamaguchi | 2hr 59min

In this story of terrible grief and long journeys of healing, Ryusuke Hamaguchi realises the need to take his time, for both himself and his characters. Perhaps there is a tighter, leaner version of Drive My Car out there than the three-hour version he presents us with, but that would simply not do justice to the complex figures at its heart, or their gentle processes of discovery – discovering oneself, discovering the true nature of those who have left us, and discovering others who share the same pain. In teasing out the mannerisms, insecurities, and quiet longings of his characters over such a lengthy period, an impression slowly forms of time being an unlimited resource to these men and women who have seen loved ones pass on, leaving them in a tranquil limbo of endless self-reflection.

Given its foundation within a Haruki Murakami short story of the same name, the compelling, elusive characters that make up the cast of Drive My Car are almost a given, though Hamaguchi’s collaboration with Takamasa Oe on this screenplay isn’t simply coasting by on its rich source material. This is a text just as much in tune with its dramaturgical influences as it is with its literary, centring widowed actor Yüsuke Kafuku as an artist with a sensitive love of the theatre, ranging from the absurdism of Samuel Beckett to the realism of Anton Chekhov.

For much of his married life, this artistic devotion has also rested precariously on his wife’s passion for scriptwriting. In an extended forty-minute prologue preceding the opening credits, Hamaguchi teases out their loving but difficult relationship, opening up many questions that we don’t find answers to until the final act of the film. During sex, she will often instinctively find the spark of inspiration to narrate a story, which he will then memorise and relay back to her the next day. For her, sex and stories are not only connected, but are necessary to healing the wounds left behind by their young daughter’s death many years ago. Loss has plagued Yüsuke’s life, and now without Oto by his side, it is not so easy anymore to find that wonder in the act of creation.

It is when we leap to two years later that the meaning of the film’s title finally emerges, as Yüsuke is hired to direct the play Uncle Vanya in Hiroshima on the condition that he is chauffeured in his own car by young driver Watari. It is within this vehicle that Hamaguchi crafts some of the most touching scenes of the film, elegantly underlining the trust that forms between the two. Though initially reluctant to hand his keys over, Yüsuke’s submission gradually becomes a silent acknowledgement of his own powerlessness, while Watari indirectly takes charge. Now whenever Yüsuke rehearses his lines against the tape recorded by Oto before her death, he must first ask Watari to play it, implicitly involving her in the process. She doesn’t ask questions to begin with, and he similarly keeps a distance between them in sitting in the back. But over time as their emotional barriers break down, he moves to the front seat and she begins to probe deeper. Conversely, he starts to learn more about her as well, and their relationship turns into one of equals, both eager to share and listen.

The formal construction of this screenplay must be praised, as it is within these car trips and the many theatre plays we glimpse throughout the film that Hamaguchi moves us into a meditative state, considering the profound sorrow of these characters. Perhaps the greatest flaw to be found here is in Hamaguchi’s resistance to offering an equally arresting aesthetic to their emotional journeys, opting instead for a regrettably plain style of shooting which fails to mesmerise us in the same way. Certainly those few splashes of visual style are worth appreciating when they appear, the very first shot of the film being one such moment where Oto’s naked silhouette imprints against a soft sunrise as she begins to tell a story. Another sequence worth noting is a moment of bonding between Yüsuke and Watari after a particularly therapeutic car conversation, both their hands rising up out the sunroof, holding cigarettes in the night breeze. But with such sparseness in this indelible imagery, Hamaguchi offers little cinematically to his particularly lengthy film.

Ultimately, Drive My Car is a far greater achievement in writing than it is in direction, so it is quite impressive that Hamaguchi is still able to hold our attention for so long without demonstrating a particularly active interest behind the camera. As we discover the vulnerability that lies in mysterious characters who we might have initially deemed unknowable, the film once again returns to a theatre play that speaks for their troubles in its final minutes.

In the multi-lingual production of Uncle Vanya that Yüsuke is directing and now performing in, one cast member communicates in Korean sign language, and as she delivers her closing monologue, she stands behind him, signing for both of them. “We live through the long days and the long nights. We patiently endure the trials that fate sends our way,” she tells us. Just as becoming a passenger in his own car has taught him the power in letting others take the wheel on his journey to recovery, so too does he now go forward with renewed humility, recognising how the emotional expressions and stories of others may cut to something deep within himself.

Drive My Car is current playing in theatres.

Robert Altman | 2hr 39min

It is difficult to think of a film as organically structured as Nashville, with its gentle progression from one narrative thread to the next carrying the impression that Robert Altman could point his camera in any direction and still find just as equally fascinating characters as those who make up his main ensemble. On the surface, the only thing that these people might have in common is their connection to the city’s country music scene, though as each storyline is teased out and interwoven around others, we discover a unifying motivation emerge in each of them – a simple yearning for recognition, whether through fame, respect, or love.

The concept of sprawling narratives that follow concurrent plot threads between large groups of strangers was still in its relative infancy in 1975, as it wouldn’t be until a few decades later that it would be dubbed hyperlink cinema, with the impact of the World Wide Web extending our understanding of lives beyond our own. Not only is Altman’s interpretation of this narrative structure fully matured before its rise in popularity, it also makes for a perfect fit for his own style of filmmaking, where the individual lines of dialogue matter less than the impression they collectively form in overlapping others. We can choose which conversation to listen to at any time, and his camera zooms often helps us in this decision as it pans through crowds and pushes in on individuals to pick out some above the others, but it is more often the holistic blend that gives each scene its own unique acoustic texture.

The impression we quite frequently get from this is chaos, though never to the extent that we doubt Altman’s loss of control. It hits us right from the first few seconds when a radio announcer begins reading out the opening credits over the top of several country songs fading in and out, mimicking the sound of a radio flicking through stations, each one a taste of what is to come. And true to its musical commitment, Nashville affords us the time to listen to each of these country music pieces in full, at times leading from one right into another like a concert. Not one to micromanage his cast, Altman let many of them write their own songs, allowing an authenticity into their performances that turns each number into a natural extension of their characters.

The most prominent of these country ditties is one that is formally repeated several times through the film, until it becomes an anthem for the city itself. “It Don’t Worry Me” is an assertion of freedom and the right to stay cool in the face of adversity, sung as a gentle reassurance in quieter moments, and every so often marking a significant disaster. Its first appearance follows a car pileup on the highway that we can assume almost certainly results in serious injuries, though as it plays in the background our attention remains on those who are only tangentially affected by the incident. BBC journalist Opal uses it as an opportunity to interview locals, in search for a decent story. Kenny Frasier, a mysterious traveller carrying a violin case, hitches a ride with Star, whose wife, Winifred, has taken the chance to run off, resolved to pursue her singing ambitions. All through the film, there is a pattern of unifying events like this, frequently bringing characters together in concerts, church services, and unexpected disruptions. It is within them that Altman’s editing is at its most finely balanced, relishing the interconnectedness of each individual narrative thread.

Perhaps the most fascinating part of seeing these characters evolve through shared experiences is realising how much these incidents take on separate meanings within each story. When Tom vaguely dedicates his song “I’m Easy” to “someone who might just be here tonight,” L.A. Joan, Mary, and Opal quietly smile to themselves, teasing the notion that it could very well be them. For gospel singer Linnea, who has been slightly more resistant to his charms, it becomes a sensual seduction. As she sits at the back of the audience, Altman slowly zooms into her mesmerised gaze of guilt, disbelief, and adoration, picking her story out above everyone else’s as the one worth paying attention to.

And compared to the rest of this wild ensemble of musicians and super fans, Linnea may be our most quietly grounding force. In the case of Sueleen, a humble waitress with a terrible voice, it is crushing to see her degrading humiliation in a room of chauvinistic men, who force her to strip when her singing proves unsatisfactory. In Barbara Jean, who represents the sort of musical success that so many other characters aspire to, we observe the pressures of fame crack open that charming sweetheart image she has spent years cultivating. The celebrity worship culture that pervades Nashville projects an idealism that almost every character is blinded by on some level, and through his ensemble cast Altman comes at it from several angles, trying to get at the social problems it smoothly glosses over.

Perhaps then we might find some sense of reality in the disembodied voice of presidential hopeful Hal Phillip Walker that echoes through the streets from a campaign van, although even his politics appear to be defined by the same populist appeal as that which underlies Nashville’s music scene. He promises a vague sort of change and throws out catchy slogans, but not once in the film does he make a physical appearance. As such, he might as well stand in for the city itself in all its cultural idealism.

His fundraising gala concert thus sets the perfect scene for Nashville’s epic finale, whereby each storyline arrives at a single location to find their resolution. Though we have followed the mysterious Kenny since the start, it is still a complete unknown as to why he chooses to shoot Barbara Jean. Perhaps he is seeking his own sort of fame, or maybe he harbours resentment towards the culture she represents. But Nashville is not the place to investigate why such bad things happen. The focus must always be on the aftermath. Not just in the rebuilding of this community, but in recognising how each affected individual in some way finds their own meaning in the tragedy.

There is an amusing irony that the last time we see the story-seeking journalist Opal she is asking around about what just happened, having missed the incident entirely. Meanwhile, Barbara Jean fan Pfc. Glenn Kelly is the first to disarm the shooter, Sueleen is fortunately denied the opportunity to embarrass herself again, and country superstar Haven quells the disturbance in the crowd, angrily affirming that “This isn’t Dallas!” In this sly reference to the assassination of JFK, still fresh in the minds of these Americans, there is also a reluctant acknowledgement of political woes existing out there in the world. But of course, Nashville is a city of music, and any politics that makes its way in must be filtered through its culture of bright idealism.

Within the chaos, it is Winifred who somehow ends up with the microphone and is told to calm the crowd, fate finding its way into her arc just as it does the others. Perhaps if we had heard her sing earlier in the film, we might have been able to guess that she would become the new Barbara Jean. In holding out until these final minutes to take on the final rendition of “It Don’t Worry Me” though, the song arrives in its entirety for the first time with both a fresh revelation and a biting indictment, cheerily underscoring the revolving door of celebrities that has now revealed a new idol to replace the one who died just mere minutes ago. Altman doesn’t cast heavy aspersions here, but whether we read this uniquely Nashvillian brand of optimism as the bedrock of a thriving community or a mass delusion, it still remains a powerful force of culture-defining magnitude in this sprawling city.

Nashville is currently available to rent on iTunes, or to buy on iTunes, YouTube, Google Play, Amazon Video.

Bob Fosse | 1hr 51min

There is something of Lenny Bruce’s rebellious, unorthodox style in Bob Fosse’s 1974 biopic of the comedian’s life which mirrors his own manner, shunning the usual biopic genre conventions to capture the same unruly wit which defined his controversial stand-up routines. Even though his style of black comedy influenced such famous comedians as George Carlin and Bill Hicks, his name is not one often heard today, perhaps since his career preceded theirs by a couple of decades. None of them ever had to wrestle with the same level of cultural conservatism though, and it is in this conflict that Fosse uses Lenny to confront the legacies left behind in the fight for free speech.

It is somewhat baffling that Dustin Hoffman’s performance here is rarely mentioned in the same breath as The Graduate or Rain Man, but evidently Lenny is a little more difficult to digest than either. There is a visible transformation in his physicality and energy, right from Lenny’s early days of bad celebrity impressions to his spiral downwards into addiction, and Hoffman falls into each stage of his life with ease. Most impressive of all is his pure verbosity, leaving audiences hanging on his every word through fast-paced joke setups and then delivering punchlines with a disarming laugh.

But Fosse is always sure to keep a distance from the comedian, looking in from the outside through staged documentary-style interviews with his loved ones and associates trying to make sense of his difficult legacy after his death. In this way, there is a lot of Citizen Kane present in Lenny, and Fosse wields a similarly steady control over this ambitious narrative structure as Orson Welles. What would have otherwise been a rather traditional rise and fall character arc thus becomes an examination of a person who might have always been destined for an early grave, simply due to his own self-destructive tendencies.

Interweaved among these two timelines is one specific stand-up show from the 1960s, in which a bearded Lenny turns his personal struggles into fodder for comedy. Fosse’s editing is a marvel here, as he deftly cuts between dour scenes from the past revealing a failing marriage and a future set that humorously picks apart his own flaws, notably analysing his Madonna-whore complex as well as his proclivity for cheating. There is no doubting his intelligence in the way he analyses his own weaknesses, but it is also evident that his attempts to use comedy as a coping mechanism does little to resolve them in any meaningful way.

Even within each scene though, there is an energetic rhythm to Fosse’s editing, turning each stand-up show into a sort of call-and-response performance between Lenny and his audience. Fosse’s background in movie-musicals is evident here, as is the influence he would have on Damien Chazelle’s own style decades later in Whiplash, as he ricochets all across Lenny’s stage and catches his laughing audience in close-ups, feeding off the man’s exuberance. After Lenny gets in trouble with the law at one point for public obscenity, the police who start lining the walls of the club become part of this dance as well, and the editing becomes a little more tentative in its velocity. That is, until Lenny takes back control of the room’s atmosphere, slyly pushing the boundaries of censorship while incisively deconstructing the very notion of it, and we find ourselves back at the comfortable, kinetic pace we have grown accustomed to.

The beautifully lit black-and-white cinematography from Bruce Surtees here shouldn’t be lost in amongst the praise for the editing though. In clubs and bars, pitch black backgrounds are pierced by spotlights centring Lenny as the target of everyone’s attention, bathing him in wafts of smoke floating languidly through the air. Whether he is caught in close-ups or wide shots, everything in these rooms directs all attention towards him, from the blocking of the audience to the framing of the room’s architecture.

This becomes especially important towards the end in what is certainly the longest take of the film, when a strung-out Lenny delivers a disastrously lacklustre set while high on morphine. No longer are we rapidly cutting around the room or watching excited reactions in close-up, but instead we sit back in a wide and simply observe this barefoot, coughing man in a trench coat mumble his grievances to an unreceptive crowd. The two minutes we remain sitting in this shot feels like much longer, as gradually we begin to notice the silhouettes of audience members get up and leave, and yet we can’t tear our eyes from him.

Given what we have just witnessed, his death that occurs not long after doesn’t come with any great revelation. It is a development Fosse has prepared us for all the way through in the post-mortem interviews, recognising that this bright spark of life could have only ever sustained itself for so long. At the same time though, it is also within this superb narrative structure that his animated verve is kept at the forefront of our minds, as Lenny never stops demonstrating the magnificent power of an act that can reconcile life and entertainment in moments of comedic harmony, no matter how transient they might be.

Lenny is currently available to rent or buy on iTunes and Amazon Video.

Kenneth Branagh | 1hr 38min

There is a fluidity to the vignettes of Kenneth Branagh’s memoir in Belfast, reflecting on a tumultuous period of Irish history that set the scene for his own coming-of-age. After opening with a colourful montage of the modern city’s industrial sites, he gently nudges us into a black-and-white memory piece of childhood games, bible-thumping preachers, and political riots, gliding gracefully down the streets in superbly blocked long takes. Nine-year-old Buddy is the stand-in for Branagh here, who moves from one lackadaisical tableaux to the next, punctuating his story with bursts of violence from the 1969 Northern Ireland riots. 

It is a loose narrative that Branagh constructs here, prioritising character above all else in building out a close family of working-class Protestants reluctant to involve themselves with the escalating protests. Besides Buddy’s older brother, Will, the rest are given no other names then Ma, Pa, Granny, and Pop, their complex identities filtered through the bright eyes of a child. The long, static takes that Branagh employs to capture shots of the family layered across compositions evokes Alfonso Cuaron’s own touching memory piece, Roma, soaking its tight-knit communities within an air of nostalgia, though tinged with a bitter sadness. Through doorways and windows, Branagh shoots Buddy’s family in secluded frames, dealing with issues the boy can barely comprehend. More than anything though, it is the warmth and care they all hold towards each other that emerges in tender scenes of dancing, watching movies, and nights out at the theatre, through this lively ensemble affectionately invites us into their spirited dynamic.

Every now and again Branagh will also let through bursts of colour, transcending Buddy’s black-and-white memories with vivid renderings of his imagination. When watching a play of A Christmas Carol with his family, the golden lights of the stage pierce the monochrome darkness within the audience, bouncing off Granny’s glasses like sparks of wonder. Later, Buddy sits in front of his family’s television and gazes at the awe-inspiring Technicolor of Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, swept away by its visual majesty. 

But also included among Belfast’s many cultural and artistic references are two classic Hollywood westerns, both appearing in their original black-and-white. The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance and High Noon are the texts used here, captivating Buddy’s mind in a more thoughtful, considered manner than those other colourful pieces of entertainment. Just as questions of duty and honour test our heroes in both those westerns, so too does Pa face similar trials in Buddy’s world, frequently coming up against local demagogue Billy Clanton, one of the riot leaders. “The Ballad of High Noon” makes more than one appearance here, poignantly underscoring Pa’s reckoning of his own loyalties and identity like so many classical heroes before him.

Moving parallel to Pa’s arc is Buddy’s own pre-pubescent development, defined by his desire to find some sort of recognition and belonging among his own peers. After attempting to steal chocolates from a lolly shop and refusing to dob in his accomplices, he finds acceptance in a secret group, though much like his father this ultimately leads to a nuanced re-assessment of his own values. Tough choices are made between conforming to group ideals versus holding fast to one’s integrity, though it is in such adverse circumstances where character is forged, and eventually Buddy is set on a path to becoming the noble man he sees in his father. The personal self-reflections of Branagh’s own childhood that float through Belfast endows this story with a certain level of authenticity, but it is also the emotional nuance that he finds through his elegant camerawork and staging that fully consumes us in young Buddy’s journey, giving endless thanks to those who planted seeds of growth within such inhospitable environments.

Belfast is currently playing in theatres.

Peter Greenaway | 1hr 55min

A Zed and Two Noughts opens and closes with two pairs of deaths, its very structure marked by a symmetry that Peter Greenaway is compelled to tease out in meticulous detail. It is a fixation which extends to the pair of co-dependent twins at the film’s centre, both zoologists who bury themselves in their experiments to cope with the recent losses, attempting to reckon with the very nature of birth and death that spells out the fate of every life on Earth. The other obsession which carries them through is Alba – the woman whose car collision ended both their partners’ lives, and who is now recovering in hospital after having her leg amputated. It is a disturbingly twisted sort of love which forms between the three of them, driven by the same desire to understand that which has ruined their lives.

But for Oswald and Oliver Deuce, none of their studies or affairs are attempts to achieve some greater power over their own mortality. It is knowledge they crave, sorted by neat labels and classifications. The zoo they work at is the perfect setting for this taxonomical compulsion, where creatures are kept in cages and examined like objects. The zebra becomes a powerful running metaphor for Greenaway, representing the duality of all life in its black and white patterns, as well as in its very name reaching from one end of the alphabet to the other. Later in the film it falls victim to the twins’ experiments, embodying both life and death in its decay, but that isn’t before we watch several other living organisms suffer the same fate in the name of science.

Therein lies the basis of the Deuces’ primary experiments: observing the decomposition of organic matter through time-lapse photography. Greenaway returns to these sped-up sequences over and over, and beneath the decay of plants and animals Michael Nyman’s jaunty score of baroque strings, woodwinds, and harpsichord playfully underscores it all, like a crazed dance growing more frantic with the Deuces’ growing ambitions. Each new subject is a progressively more complex life form than the last, and thus Greenaway sets in motion a formal evolution that we anxiously anticipate will end with the most biologically advanced animal of all.

In fact, there is very little at all separating these humans from the creatures they pick apart, but it is evident that the Deuces take great comfort in this, using their studies as a way they can understand themselves. It is with this in mind that Greenaway builds an artificially gorgeous world of colour and symmetry around his characters, where they live within perpendicular lines and patterns of duality like zoo animals in enclosures. It is worth drawing comparisons with Michael Powell, another British director who preceded Greenaway by roughly 40 years and who similarly innovated the use of colour in film to draw out the perverse fascinations of his characters, though Greenaway’s designs are a little more ostentatious with their confronting depictions of nudity and body horror.

The hospital is one such setting we return to frequently where Greenaway’s visions manifest on a grand scale, enveloping a one-legged Alba in a cavernous white room of clinical curtains and bare furniture, though breaking up the sterility with flower bouquets on a table directly in front of here. Often accompanying these florals are Oswald and Oliver, and even when she eventually moves back home into her spacious pink bedroom Greenaway continues to block them in similarly balanced compositions. Each time we return to this set it is always a little more symmetrical than the last, as these twins gradually merge their styles into one indistinguishable look and Alba eventually decides to have her remaining leg amputated.

Greenaway possesses the sensibilities of both a painter and a scientist, and although this strange mix often creates a cold distance between him and his characters, its precision allows for an intensified focus on their disturbed psyches. It is especially mirrored in the expressionistic laboratory where pulsating pink and blue lights create off-beat visual rhythms with the flashing cameras, each one illuminating an exhibit of decomposing organisms. In one of the few tracking shots present in the film, Greenaway speeds his own camera down a row of these displays, overtaken by the same frenzied excitement as that of our mad scientists.

To them, it is the observation of life and death which gives it meaning, and it is through this reasoning that they try to ensure that they do not live or die in vain, turning one of their cameras on themselves. Greenaway is sure to emphasise a contrarian position here in an ironic twist of fate that sees their camera destroyed, maintaining that while the rules of nature remain unyielding, they serve no spiritual purpose other than the propulsion of its own existence. A creature put on display in a zoo or exhibition is a lonely thing indeed, but as we come to recognise in the final minutes of A Zed and Two Noughts, even lonelier is a creature with no spectators at all.

A Zed and Two Noughts is not currently available to stream in Australia.

Joel Coen | 1hr 45min

In the very first shot of The Tragedy of Macbeth, three ravens soar through a thick, suffocating fog, their dark imprints set against an ethereal shade of grey that we will soon come to know very well. We might initially believe we are looking up at an overcast sky towards a sun just slightly concealed from our view, but then all of a sudden, the clouds part. As we realise that we are looking down from far above the earth, we are hit with a dizzying spell of vertigo. Below, the shrunken figures of two men trudge through a misty wasteland, diminished beneath the black omens of death that circle above, and which will continue to haunt the rest of this film.

As Joel Coen’s first solo film without his brother, Ethan, The Tragedy of Macbeth is also no doubt his most austere. The wit and black comedy often found in even their most serious works like No Country For Old Men is entirely absent, though in its existential questions of destiny, chaos, and violence, Shakespeare’s script also proves itself to be a perfect fit for Coen’s philosophical obsessions. After all, if their primary genre of interest can be described as “crime gone wrong”, then how much more classical can you get than Macbeth? Perhaps then we can single out the severe greyscale cinematography and stark production design as an unusual look for a Coen movie, and indeed this is no doubt his most visually accomplished film to date, but stripped-back simplicity isn’t entirely an entirely new choice for him either.

With all Coen’s usual artistic trademarks kept in mind, it is unavoidable pointing out how much this breathtakingly bleak take on the Shakespearean tragedy probes entirely new spheres of influence besides the usual film noirs, westerns, and screwball comedies that have made their mark on his oeuvre. Most notably, those grim psychological dramas of Ingmar Bergman appear in Coen’s rigorously precise blocking of his actors, and the Gothic minimalism of Carl Theodor Dreyer announces itself all through the unembellished mise-en-scène.

To draw this line of influence even further back than those mid-century European directors, the magnificently imposing sets that tower around Lord and Lady Macbeth on their rise to power would not look out of place in the expressionistic films of Fritz Lang, especially in the perfectly sculpted architecture of square-cut corners and rounded arches. The sound stages may be evident, but deliberately so, as Coen crafts a geometrically insular world of treachery and insanity ruled by its physical boundaries, further mirrored in the narrowed aspect ratio.

There is still little relief to be found in the film’s exteriors of overwhelmingly bleak courtyards and desolate fields, withering like those barren men and women at their centre who are now staring down the ends of their own lives. Behind them, backgrounds fade into a ghostly emptiness and walls of impenetrable fog obscure Macbeth’s vision of what lays ahead. The extreme high and low angles with which Coen captures his actors against canvases of negative space continue to lift this eloquent script beyond the realm of theatre and into something strikingly cinematic, where Macbeth’s madness is heightened to an all-consuming yet entirely hollow delusion of immortality. Time seems to fade between each scene with the graceful flurries of mist transitioning from one to the next, and where that does not suffice, gorgeous long dissolves serve a similar purpose in wispily combining multiple images which exceed either in their individual beauty. 

As for Coen’s treatment of the narrative itself, The Tragedy of Macbeth does not shy away from the violent, desperate humanity of these characters, particularly in the depiction of the vaguely titled Third Murderer. Where the original script leaves this ambiguous figure as a minor role, Coen imbues them with the identity of one of Macbeth’s allies, Ross, grounding the evil of the story in a recognisable humanity. Coen’s newly defined character motivations are also evident in the casting of Denzel Washington and Frances McDormand, who are certainly among two of the older actors to take on the roles of Lord and Lady Macbeth. Both wield a skilful control over this weighty and loquacious material, though it is especially in the simmering, angry ambition of their characters that they transform these antiheroes from upwardly mobile youths into an ageing, childless couple making a last-ditch attempt to create a legacy. 

Underscoring their corruption even further is Coen’s visual depiction of Macbeth’s very first murder in a frighteningly tense and wordless sequence, manifesting what was only left implicit in the original without inventing entirely new dialogue. In emphasising the act of killing, Coen draws out additional layers of subtext to Macbeth’s merciless cruelty, capturing the horrifying recognition on both his and King Duncan’s face of what is about to take place. Just as the casting of Ross as the Third Murderer gives a human identity to evil, so too does the explicit depiction of this assassination accomplish the same objective, revealing the true, hideous face of Macbeth as an elderly man taking the life of others so that he may secure the immortality that he believes he was promised.

As for the source of this belief, it comes from nothing more than a twisted image of supernaturalism which both disturbs and intrigues our senses. Kathryn Hunter may very well deliver the most hauntingly memorable performance in The Tragedy of Macbeth as the prophetic Weird Sisters, divorcing the characters from whatever preconceived images of witches we might possess, and crafting an entirely new interpretation of a single, croaking contortionist, speaking with three voices through one mouth. When she stands up straight, a black cloak encompasses her entire body, associating her with those flying shadows of death that continue to make their presence known all through the film, and when she does finally split into three separate bodies, they remain very much identical parts of one whole.

In the constant manipulation of these witches’ physical forms, they effectively transcend all traces of humanity we might attach to them, and thus inspire mortal men and women towards similar unearthly ambitions. As Lord and Lady Macbeth find themselves caught up in the witches’ prophecies, manifesting their destinies in whatever malicious way they see fit, there remains a constant, heavy pounding in Coen’s sound design. It might sound like footsteps, or the steady advance of some unknown fate, but in the way it is often attached to light visual rhythms such as blood dripping from King Duncan’s hand or the tapping of a tree branch outside a window, it also offers a hefty weight to Macbeth’s vile actions.

This is but part of a collection of ominous visual and aural motifs that Coen so skilfully weaves into Shakespeare’s script though, each of which work in tandem to underscore that stark difference between the volatile viciousness of humanity and the unforgiving march of destiny. Through its magnificent performances, delicately wispy editing, and Bruno Delbonnel’s ghostly cinematography, virtually every minute of The Tragedy of Macbeth feels as if it is on the brink of mortality, ready to tip over into a terrifyingly dark and mystical realm. It is a wildly ambitious swing for Coen, and yet rarely has he ever been so in tune with his own fatalistic fascinations, attacking them with an artistic precision that he has spent decades honing.

The Tragedy of Macbeth is currently streaming on Apple TV+.

Alfred Hitchcock | 2hr 10min

Alfred Hitchcock was getting clumsy as he moved into the later stages of his illustrious career, or at least in the case of Marnie, inconsistent. One could also say the same for Tippi Hedren, though she never exactly reached the same great heights. The result of their collaboration here is a film that is certainly flawed, but which still successfully weaves a captivating mystery through Marnie Edgar’s traumatic triggers, all to discover why she compulsively steals, reacts viscerally to the colour red, and is shaken so deeply by thunderstorms.

She is first introduced to us as a sum of her actions and body parts – a stolen yellow handbag, a yellow key, hands ruffling through wads of cash, hair dye washing down a sink, the point of a heel, and of course, a gloriously dramatic face reveal as she whips her newly-dyed blonde hair back, shedding her old disguise. Hitchcock’s camera follows her around with a beguiled fascination, slyly tracking the back of her head through office spaces, lifting into magnificent crane shots as she loses control of her horse running across open fields, and in moments of panic, tracking in on her face as if to close the world in around her.

The first time we see Marnie’s aversion to the colour red, it is when she catches sight of some gladiolas in a vase. Later, she faints when accidentally dripping some red ink onto her white outfit, and each time Hitchcock flashes red across his frame, enveloping her in a mindset where there is nothing else but that which causes her deep terror. Its manifestation rarely takes a single form, but simply in associating the colour with different objects and ideas, Hitchcock layers Marnie’s aversion to it with implications of romantic passion, blood, and later when she hallucinates a thunderstorm flashing red lightning through the room, the presence of physical danger.

Perhaps this is why Hitchcock dresses her predominantly in cool colours, as she tries to maintain an icy distance from others. Serving a parallel purpose to this is her thieving, allowing her to indirectly interact with the world while keeping up a barrier. In an expertly composed wide shot within an office building, Hitchcock splits his frame down the middle with a wall that isolates Marnie through a doorway off to the right, trying to crack a safe. On the left-hand side, a janitor slowly advances towards the camera, leisurely mopping the floors, and with neither realising the other’s presence, the dramatic irony is thick in the air. Though she narrowly escapes in this incident, she isn’t so lucky when wealthy publisher Mark Rutland sees through the façade. In his intrigue, he decides to solve the mystery of her compulsive habits and bizarre triggers, becoming a bridge (though certainly a troublesome one) between her and the outside world that she has strived to avoid.

Mark is somewhat of our vessel down this winding path to discover the single, unifying explanation behind Marnie’s erratic behaviours, though Sean Connery also has no qualms about playing him as a bit of jerk. Despite this selfishness, Hitchcock frequently binds us to his observations of Marnie as a subject of fascination, and when she briefly goes missing on a cruise ship, his panicked run through its hallways and across its decks proves to be a great opportunity for Hitchcock to build out the intricate architecture of the space, shooting him against low ceilings and down narrow hallways that take on the appearance of a claustrophobic labyrinth.

And indeed, we do eventually get answers, though unlike so many of Hitchcock’s greater films these revelations leave us hanging on an unfinished note, as if he is not sure what to do with this information. It certainly isn’t helped by Hedren’s overwrought handling of Marnie’s final breakdown immediately preceding this moment either. It is rather Hitchcock’s ability to make us lean forward in moments of unbearable intrigue and tension that turns this film into an enthralling study of compulsive behaviour, rotating through visual motifs that come to define the troubled mind at its centre. There may be a great deal more consistent psychological thrillers out there, but the dramatic unravelling of one of Hitchcock’s greatest characters gives it a power that so many others barely even touch.

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

Sally Potter | 1hr 34min

Orlando slips through identities with nonchalant grace, about as effortlessly as Sally Potter flits through the centuries that her narrative is set over. Time barely leaves a scratch on our young protagonist, and so rather than marking years solely with numbers, themes are instead embedded in chapter titles as a means to separate one period of Orlando’s life from the next. “1600 Death” delivers a lesson in mortality with the passing of Queen Elizabeth I. “1650 Poetry” sees a blossoming interest in the writing of sonnets and verses. “1750 Society” is the period within which they fully comprehend the gendered politics of human civilisation, when they suddenly transform from a man into a woman. While it is a change that causes great confusion within the rigid boundaries of English society, Orlando’s reception of it goes by with little fanfare.

“Same person, no difference at all. Just a different sex.”

It isn’t hard to see why this particular Virginia Woolf novel was considered nearly impossible to adapt to the screen. The difficulty isn’t just in the need for intricate and elaborate production design that shifts dramatically with each new chapter, but also in the lead actor’s ability and confidence to convincingly pull off the many layers of Orlando’s characterisation, including that pivotal sex change. Potter accomplishes the former with magnificent flair, collaborating with costume designer Sandy Powell to curate the deep, royal reds of Queen Elizabeth I’s bejewelled court, as well as the many colours of Orlando’s dynamic self-expression. The achievement of the latter though belongs largely to Tilda Swinton, whose striking androgynous style has rarely found a better fit than it does here.

It is a wonder why so many other directors she has worked with haven’t recognised the great potential of close-ups in capturing her sharp facial features as well as Potter does here, as she always seems to find the most perfect meld of lighting, angles, and framing to form a direct connection between Swinton’s face and the camera. Every time she whips her eyes towards us, the impact is electrifying, as with each new incarnation there is a change in her iris colour that pierces the fourth wall with blues, ambers, browns, and greens. This fixation on Orlando’s physical appearance continues to extend to the rest of their body as well, as in one scene Potter’s camera traces the outline of their naked legs, hips, and torso in tight close-up against a black background, studying each curve with utter enthralment, as if trying to decipher the key to their eternal youth.

Perhaps we might find more answers in Orlando’s direct addresses to the audience though, which contribute addendums to their own voiceover, revealing a person fully conscious of their unique place in history, though lacking any desire to assert themselves as anything more than an open-minded human. They move through time like an embodiment of time itself, though one that is trapped in a human body and subject to the petty judgements of society.

Orlando’s journey through the film is largely defined by its restlessness and acceptance of an unpredictable future, forever living like a young person with their whole life ahead of them, and Potter’s energetic synth score blends tremendously with this characterisation, invitingly beckoning them into the future. As they run into a magnificent hedge maze after rejecting a proposal, her music propels them down its narrow, green trails, this set piece becoming a tremendous visual metaphor of their navigation through the complicated labyrinth of human history. They disappear around corners and into clouds of fog with great urgency, trying to find an exit, but even in the frustratingly limited options laid out for them there is a still joyous freedom in the ability to choose their own path. Orlando may be a being of fluidity with an indestructible youth and vigour, and yet through the ever-shifting annals of human history that Potter so smoothly flips through, they are also ironically the only constant.

Orlando is currently available to stream on Stan and Mubi.