Author: SceneByGreen

Billy Wilder | 2hr

In turning his pen and camera to the incarceration of Americans in World War II German prison camps, Billy Wilder, the master of many genres, crafts a mystery, comedy, drama, and war film all at once, effortlessly drawing us into a narrative that is as gripping in its suspense as it is comical in its escapades. Purely in terms of subject matter, Stalag 17 may be his heaviest film yet, as life-and-death stakes are immediately established in the failed escape of two prisoners-of-war. Not long after, we start getting bleak establishing shots of the captured men gather in large, muddy courtyards, revealing the full scope of the camp in all its desolate misery.

But being one of the few screenwriters who may lay genuine claim to being the greatest in film history, such overwhelming despair is no great obstacle to Wilder’s efforts in drawing out the light humour of these men’s lives. Pranks, games, gambling, parties, dances, and holidays – anything they can do to make this place feel like home is something worth holding onto, even as they face real wartime horrors.

Though David Lean’s 1957 British war epic The Bridge on the River Kwai might be one of the first comparisons to leap to mind in its prison camp setting, there is also a cultural gap between them that is difficult to reconcile beyond the presence of William Holden. Instead, it is Robert Altman’s 1970 war comedy M*A*S*H that might bear more fruitful parallels, as although its setting is an American medical hospital in South Korea, the irreverence, humour, and professionalism of its surgeons are qualities shared by Stalag 17’s captives. Wilder’s work with such a large ensemble here is commendable, even Altman-esque in an era before Altman, as he carves out several distinct personalities by attaching key traits to them – Animal the mischief-maker, Price the chief of security, Bagradian the celebrity impressionist, Joey the ocarina player, and of course, Colonel von Scherbach, their Commandant who positions himself as a “good” Nazi even as he actively works to foil their covert plans.

Not everything here meshes together perfectly, as the weak voiceover that runs through this story offers nothing that we can’t gage from the dialogue, and it certainly doesn’t help that it is narrated by one of the least memorable characters, Cookie. It is rather Holden’s dark turn as J.J. Sefton that makes the biggest impact in this cast, as he sets himself apart from the other inmates in his guarded, cynical, and manipulative mannerisms. When suspicion is cast on him for being a mole feeding insider information to Von Scherbach, his quest to clear his name sees him set out to unmask the real traitor, promising to see this person get the comeuppance they deserve – and when he delivers this threat, we believe every word of it.

It is exceedingly common for screenwriters-turned-directors to let their dialogue do the heavy lifting, and yet Wilder is one of the few who does not fall prey to such temptations, as the tensions which emerge within this tight-knight community of American soldiers take on new significance in his deep focus compositions. The barracks themselves are a handsome rustic set which always seem to feature some sort of obstruction hanging from the ceiling, whether they be draped clothing left to dry or Christmas lights bringing a touch of festivity. Most significantly, those few prisoners who wind up emotionally ostracised are isolated in Wilder’s thoughtful staging, at times through his layering of bodies across the frame, or otherwise divided by barriers in the mise-en-scéne – most notably a hanging lightbulb, which itself takes on extra significance in the communication between the mole and the Colonel.

And that isn’t the end of Wilder’s stylistic bravado either. Though he does on occasion indulge in the odd wide shot of the entire cast, such cramped conditions don’t always allow for such luxuries, and so it is in his tracking camera that he allows us to consider this community of prisoners as a whole without cutting. When suspicion is cast upon Sefton, the silence of their mistrustful gazes is drawn out as Wilder pans his camera across their faces, each one staring right down the barrel of the camera. But just as these tracking shots can be used to distance us, they are also just as effective at inviting us into their brotherhood, as during a Christmas celebration we are left to wander through this makeshift dance floor where these lonely men slowly rock against each other. In scenes like these, Wilder recognises the need to step away from the despair and hysteria of the prison camp, and let some quiet hopefulness bleed through. Above all else, Stalag 17 is a tender ode to the persistence of the human spirit in the worst conditions, whether that manifests as irreverent joy or a cosy, quiet peace.

Stalag 17 is currently available to stream on The Criterion Channel or Tubi TV, and available to rent or buy on iTunes, YouTube, and Google Play.

Spike Lee | 2hr

On a sweltering summer day in a tight-knight Brooklyn community, tensions are brewing. A small argument erupts between pizza deliverer Mookie and his girlfriend, Tina. Police patrol cars coast slowly down the main road, suspiciously eyeing off a Greek chorus of middle-aged men who casually philosophise about the world around them. Mookie’s verbose friend, Buggin’ Out, takes issue with the Italian-focused ‘Wall of Fame’ at the local pizzeria for its lack of African-American representation. Many of the conflicts we witness spark into embers, but are quickly doused by diplomacy or mutually silent disdain. But by the end of the one day which much of Do the Right Thing takes place over, some of these fires will spread through the community, continuing to escalate with neither side backing down. It certainly doesn’t help that this is the hottest day of the year, as almost every character present in Spike Lee’s ensemble seeks out shade or water to escape the burning sun. And with Lee himself stoking the flames in his frenzied cinematography and intensely warm colours, an all-consuming, fiery conclusion only seems inevitable.

Though controversy that has frequently accompanied Lee’s public appearances and films over the past thirty years, there is little that has topped the controversy that was ignited by Do the Right Thing upon its release at Cannes Film Festival in 1989. It is important to recognise though that his major breakthrough is as brazenly artistic as it is political, confidently wading into the murky waters of morality to pick apart the frustratingly tricky details of what “the right thing” actually is when it comes to addressing the horrific injustices perpetuated by the police on Black citizens.

For a film that deals with such complex issues as these, Do the Right Thing is surprisingly unafraid of indulging in humour. In fact, one might compare its first two acts to a Shakespearean comedy, complete with an ensemble of vibrant characters who trade barbs, play with contemporary slang, and deliver off-the-cuff soliloquys, with each one taking ownership of their role and status in this community.

Da Mayor, the cheery town drunk, is wiser than he appears, and gradually works his way into the heart of Mother Sister, a peevish woman who watches the world go by from her apartment window. Sal, the owner of the local pizzeria, is one of the few white men living in this predominantly Black suburb, but carries out his work with pride even as he mediates tensions between his bigoted sons and clientele. The mentally disabled Smiley walks around town selling pictures of Malcolm X and Martin Luther King, Radio Raheem carries a portable radio blasting “Fight the Power” wherever he goes, local DJ Señor Love Daddy is our narrator providing a running commentary from his broadcast studio – this community is alive and breathing, and Lee doesn’t hold back in his unabashed visual experimentations that turn even ordinary brownstone apartments into bright red architectural expressions of urban living.

At times, long tracking shots move between close-ups and wide shots of city streets, keeping an energetic momentum in the movement of Lee’s camera, but then just as we feel we have tuned into this pacing, we jump into montages and conversations made up of harsh cuts between canted angles coming from every direction. Even on the rare occasion that the camera is completely static for long stretches, there is always movement in the shot, whether it is the rotating shadow cast by a ceiling fan over an intimate encounter between Mookie and Tina, or character interactions spread across layers of the frame, with each of these boldly creative decisions bringing a restless joy to the mundanity of everyday living.

And yet when all is said and done, Do the Right Thing is not a comedy. It is the tension between its dualities of drama and humour, fire and water, and right and wrong where Lee’s central thesis emerges, and which is most accurately captured in Radio Raheem’s “right hand/left hand” monologue. His speech isn’t the first direct address to camera we have seen in this film, but here Lee demolishes the barrier between passive spectator and participant in swinging his camera round from a third-person to Mookie’s first-person perspective, then takes the time to let Raheem deliver his allegory of the battle between love and hate, where love ultimately wins out. If each of the characters in Do the Right Thing are grounded in some sort of fictional archetype, then Raheem is a vessel of innocence who believes that such clean dichotomies can be upheld with a clear victory of good over evil.

But such easy definitions and clear-cut conflicts have no place in the reality of this Brooklyn neighbourhood. Though there are characters and sequences which may make us laugh, Lee is not building this narrative to a comical punchline, but rather a climax which holds a dark mirror up against everything that has come before – the blessing of water from a fire hydrant in an earlier scene is inverted as a high-pressure hose blasts gathering crowds, the climbing temperatures throughout the day manifest as a vicious fire ripping through Sal’s pizzeria, and worst of all, Da Mayor’s rescue of a young boy from being ploughed down by a speeding police car is turned on its head when America’s forces of corruption, violence, and racial prejudice bring down the hammer of injustice upon the sweet, soft-spoken Radio Raheem. With this devastating loss of life, Lee lays all his cards out on the table, revealing Do the Right Thing to be a fatefully foreshadowed Shakespearean tragedy above all else.

The matter of how one reacts to this devastation is another issue altogether, and one that Lee realises is just as complicated as the web of relationships within his sprawling ensemble. As Mookie picks up a garbage can and smashes it through the window of the pizzeria where he works, his face bears the look of resignation, with no resolute conviction of whether he is doing the right thing at all. As a result, this act of violence becomes something entirely pure: an unadulterated outpouring of rage and grief that renders all moralising irrelevant.

If the one day which much of Do the Right Thing unfolds over is a microcosm of contemporary American society, then the day which comes after is just a small glimpse of what lies beyond – a long, difficult healing process that may never erase the scars left behind by this sudden loss. A loss which might initially seem at odds with Lee’s stylistically bombastic colours, compositions, and rhythms, and yet which effectively becomes part of the fiery, expressive clash between righteous anger and profound joy, both of which will continue to burn in this community for a long time into the future, defining the lives of these rich, eclectic characters.

Do the Right Thing is currently available to stream on The Criterion Channel, and available to rent or buy on iTunes, YouTube, and Google Play.

Preston Sturges | 1hr 23min

Tamer than most Preston Sturges comedies, but also more overtly political, The Great McGinty marks the debut of a satirical filmmaker who, within just a few years, would go on to define an entire genre. Sturges isn’t afraid to hit dramatic beats here in the rise and fall of tramp-turned-mayor Dan McGinty, though pulling these off in any seriously compelling manner is not his strength. It is the lowbrow slapstick sprinkled throughout where we discover traces of the Sturges who would become one of Hollywood’s great comedic directors, especially as he capitalises on the running gag of fist fights between McGinty and his Boss, with these serious threats of injury gradually turning into petty eruptions of male egos, and eventually melding into the background as a natural part of the environment.

Sturges’ skill in the editing room is also on display here in his creatively efficient montages, passing time through long dissolves, double exposure, and even the use of a stop-motion effect to show shrinking piles of money. Later, he intercuts McGinty’s campaign for Governor with that of his opponent, contrasting a level-headed, virtuous candidate with the frenetic showmanship of McGinty’s endorsee. And of course, it is McGinty who comes out on top between the two – it only makes sense that a man whose political career began in voter fraud only continues reaching new heights by playing the part of a pawn.

Yet after playing the part of upstanding husband and democracy-loving family man for far too long, the artificial code of ethics he pretends to live by eventually settles in his conscience, giving rise to a self-loathing and disgust for his own lack of integrity. The irony of a corrupt political system defeating itself through its own artifice is not easily lost, especially as Sturges underlines how all it takes is a “moment of honesty” to send these institutions crashing to the ground, finding the humour in the unpredictability of public life. The Great McGinty may not have the formal or comedic brilliance of Sturges’ strongest works, but it is a modest effort at political satire from a director who would only go on to sharpen his artistic voice from here.

The Great McGinty is not currently available to stream in Australia.

David Cronenberg | 1hr 36min

It feels a little odd to separate the “pop art” end of David Cronenberg’s body horror spectrum from the other extremity which might more aptly be labelled “high art”, but it is not hard to see why The Fly ended up being his most commercially successful film when compared to something as cold and pensive as Dead Ringers. The terminal illness metaphor is not wasted in the subtext of this intelligent screenplay, nor does Cronenberg ever falter in intelligently picking apart the mad scientist’s disturbed psyche, yet in binding The Fly’s narrative so closely to the gripping, visceral decay of Seth Brundle’s body, it becomes a film that sticks in the mind for the sort of brazen, kitschy ugliness one can’t tear their eyes away from.

Also integral to The Fly’s status as piece of pop horror is how much it is in conversation with more classical entries into the genre, itself being a remake of the 1958 B-movie of the same name. The story of a scientist’s transformation into a human-fly hybrid after an experiment gone wrong is grounded in archetypes stretching back to 19^th century Gothic literature, when Dr Victor Frankenstein broke all laws of nature to create an ungodly creature. The 1931 movie adaptation of Frankenstein might be the better comparison to draw here though, especially given how much its mechanical laboratory set is evoked in the machines, steam, and pipes crowding out Brundle’s warehouse apartment. Howard Shore’s daunting symphonic score of dissonant strings and majestic horns feels especially evocative of classical Hollywood horror films, and in similar fashion to other such great mad scientist stories as Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde, Brundle becomes his own test subject, mutating his body in a gruesome manner to expand the boundaries of scientific knowledge.

And yet for all its grounding in familiar narrative and genre conventions, The Fly is unmistakably a sickeningly stylistic effort from Cronenberg to leave his imprint on pop culture. An early scene that sees one of Brundle’s experiments inadvertently turn a monkey inside-out is stomach-turning, but it is simply a warning for what is to come, as the plot continues down a path of escalating confrontations with conventions of good taste. Jeff Goldblum’s body is a canvas for Cronenberg’s own experimentations, as well as those of special effects artist Chris Walas and make-up artist Stephan Dupuis, who together visualise Brundle’s malignant decay through lumpy, discoloured prosthetics. Images of the scientist’s fingernails slowly peeling off and his acidic vomit dissolving food for consumption are scrutinised up close in tight frames, but such an intimate shooting style also allows us to look past the make-up and behold the disturbed sensitivity of Goldblum’s tragic performance.

Because yes, beyond all its practical effects and upsettingly visceral imagery, The Fly is ultimately a tragedy. This malevolent force is not only taking over Brundle’s body, but his mind as well, robbing him of everything that made him such a brilliant, intelligent scientist, and replacing it with something abhorrent, cruel, and selfish. Everything we witness, from the twitching to the hair falling out, is simply a manifestation of an internal deterioration taking place, and therein lies Cronenberg’s frighteningly primal reflection of terminal illness. In a largely silent finale of pulsating lights and atmospheric smoke, the frail vulnerability of the human body is on full display, as this flesh-obsessed director rips it apart to reveal the mutation’s final, repulsive form – the ‘Brundlefly’.

As Shore’s orchestra reaches a powerful climax, and the repugnant creature we see before us crawls pathetically along the ground, we recognise an agonising loss that has taken place. The loss of a great mind, a potential romance, and a passionate scientist, reduced down to a pale imitation of nature that can barely sustain its own existence. There is no need for any kind of wistful epilogue to follow up the abrupt, violent conclusion of The Fly, as in these final few minutes, Cronenberg ambitiously reaches into the jaws of disgust, and from its nauseating depths remarkably draws out pure, desolate heartbreak.

The Fly is currently available to stream on Disney Plus, and available to rent or buy on iTunes, YouTube, and Google Play.

Jia Zhangke | 1hr 53min

In some ways, Unknown Pleasures is Jia Zhangke’s spiritual sequel to Platform, immersing us in the materialistic, hybridised culture of Eastern and Western influences that emerged within China’s cultural landscape at the end of his sophomore film. The rallies we observed marching in support of the one-child policy have finally taken root, so much so that those babies born in the wake of the program have now grown up into the “birth control generation”, and become our focus here in Unknown Pleasures. They are isolated, passive teenagers, whose limited attention spans are dominated by television sets detaching them from reality. 
 
Jia has previously demonstrated his ability to work resourcefully on tight budgets, but as his first film shot on digital rather than film, there are moments here where the footage looks more like a home video in some clumsy movements and over-exposed images. That said, this switch to handheld digital also allows for more lightness and spontaneity in his unbroken tracking shots, and especially allows for more freedom in his panning camera, which still remains one of his best tools. He smoothly shifts between mid and long shots of his characters, letting our attention wander to an arrest taking place elsewhere on the street, or to one of many TV sets they silently watch together. Most importantly, the Rossellini-inspired neorealism seeps through in the derelict, industrial architecture, towering over the bleak landscapes through which these lonely teenagers wander. 

It isn’t until about forty minutes in that we witness the first major disruption to the lives of our three main characters. As Xiao Ji sits at home, drinking his soda while the news plays in the background the next room over, an explosive sound pierces the monotony. Not long after, we discover that a local textile mill has been destroyed, and the object of Xiao Ji’s desire, Qiao Qiao, is in need of his assistance to get her injured father to the hospital. Through this crisis, the two grow a little bit closer, and as they celebrate afterwards Jia draws parallels to the boisterous couples of Pulp Fiction. Xiao Ji first imagines themselves as Pumpkin and Honey Bunny holding up the diner, and then in an uncharacteristically energetic whip pan, Jia cuts to a discotheque where the two perform the famous Jack Rabbit Slim’s dance. 

While Jia grounds Unknown Pleasures in real historical events such as the announcement of the 2008 Beijing Olympics, Xiao Ji and his friend, Bin Bin, seem to act in sharp opposition through their emulations of movies, even as their attempts fall humorously short. There is no fighting against the messiness of reality, which constantly forces them back into the helpless passivity they are so familiar with. While these young adults find some comfort in Zhuangzi’s philosophy to “do what feels good,” these ancient words ultimately become little more than a despairing assertion of what little agency they really have in the face of this constrained, globalised Chinese culture.

Unknown Pleasures is currently streaming on The Criterion Channel.

Apichatpong Weerasethakul | 2hr 16min

The silences ridden through Memoria could go on for thirty seconds, a minute, or five minutes, but at a certain point during these stretches, time begins to disappear altogether, and a realisation begins to dawn – these are not silences at all. There is an aural effervescence carrying through almost every second of the film, lulling us into a meditative state through the rustling of leaves or the trickling of a creek, and then every so often slapping us out of it with a sudden eruption of noise. Indeed, Memoria is a film obsessed with the dissection, manipulation of, and submission to sound, and its representation of… what exactly?

In the attempts of Tilda Swinton’s Scottish expatriate, Jessica, to trace the source of a mysterious sonic boom that only she can perceive, she is led down an enigmatic path. She describes the noise as “a rumble from the core of the Earth” or “a ball of concrete hitting a metal wall surrounded by seawater”, trying to connect it to the ground beneath her feet and material objects, much like those archaeologists working on a nearby dig site who pursue tangible, historical truths. Like so many of Apichatpong Weerasethakul’s films though, such concrete resolutions aren’t so easily attained, as the places we are taken to often remain in some liminal, psychological space that can only be manifested in delicate soundscapes, some depicting natural environments, and others entirely unearthly.

And then there is the third form of sound that manifests in Memoria – the artificial type, which is produced by sound engineer, Hernan, as he assists Jessica in determining the source of the loud, disruptive bang that continues to plague her everyday life. Together, the two spend a good length of time in his studio, warping, compressing, and equalising a sound until it is identical to the one Jessica hears. It is a lengthy scene, but it also might be the least challenging of the film, as we all too easily invest ourselves in this manufactured recreation despite it not actually offering any real answers. It is the attempt at taking back control over this sound which we admire in Jessica, and yet as if in response to her assertion of agency, the universe itself shifts around her – or is it perhaps that she is just remembering things incorrectly?

The first sign that something might be off is the discovery that a man she has believed to be dead for a year is in fact alive and well, a fathomable mistake for someone to make given how malleable and tricky memory can be. But then Hernan disappears off the face of Earth with no trace of his existence other than within her own mind. If this shift comes from exterior forces, then perhaps the introduction of another man also named Hernan who offers his own wisdom is a gentle push from the universe towards understanding the sound on a deeper level than mere artificial reconstruction.

Despite this being Weerasethakul’s first film shot outside of his native Thailand and his first in English, any notions that this is his grab at mainstream appeal are very quickly dispelled by his languid pacing and inscrutable narrative turns, challenging us to tune into the eerie, introspective frequency that Memoria operates upon. He has always employed long, static shots with such formal rigour, and here whenever he cuts from one of these it feels like its own tiny disturbance in the fabric of Memoria’s peaceful flow, much like the persistent sonic boom.

Although the story is far removed from the jungles of Thailand, there is still beauty to be found in his urban interiors and overgrown forests, with both aesthetics effectively dividing the film in two halves, separating the material from the spiritual. In the former, Weerasethakul often sets his camera at diagonals in his tiny dioramas, beholding the parallel and intersecting lines which make up these unyielding spaces, and then in one shot he lets us linger on an empty plot of glass inexplicably encased in glass, like a meagre piece of nature left for us to observe, but not interact with. Later, he fully relishes every second spent on a lush, verdant riverbank, the rustic furniture of the ‘new’ Hernan spread out through the intensely green palette made up of thick grass and foliage, providing a soothing setting for Jessica’s great revelation.

And yes, there is indeed an answer to the great mystery at hand, though it doesn’t come easily. It isn’t just surprising because of its genre-bending implications, but because so much of Memoria is spent focused on what lies beneath the Earth, that we hadn’t even begun to consider turning our eyes upwards. As for why this noise seems to be contained within Jessica’s own mind, it would be no great spoiler to point to the title of the film itself. Traces of the past manifest as echoes in the present, and Weerasethakul delights in immersing us even further into a soundscape where the soft patter of rain fades into the first true bit of silence we have heard in this film, before giving way to the aural evocation of a memory previously recounted in conversation. The second Hernan, the man who assists her along this road, is simply another enigma in this story, becoming a pure representation of memory in his rejection of new experiences, and his ability to recall everything that has happened in his life.

As Memoria hands itself over to a mesmerising montage of Columbia’s dense jungles and canopies in its final minutes, there is some relief to be found in the relative simplicity of these images compared to everything that has come before. Weerasethakul’s touches of magical realism are sure to mystify and perplex viewers, though the true test of patience is his slow-burn narrative, which simultaneously invites us into its quiet rhythms and challenges our desire for to keep leaping forward to the next big plot point. It is the past, not the future which he sets his sights on here, and in these delicate reflections our minds are lifted away from the artificial progress and constructions of the material world, and dropped into a serene sea of memory.

Memoria is coming soon to theatres.

Jacques Tati | 1hr 27min

The social satire of Monsieur Hulot’s Holiday is a little gentler than his later films, but that matters little – Jacques Tati is not a cynical intellectual at heart, but rather an artist with an adoration for the simpler things in life. If some cultural or political force comes along to threaten that innocence, he may bite back with good humour, but his focus never strays from the sweet, childlike love of beaches, dress-up parties, ice cream, fire crackers, and those long summer vacations where you briefly become best friends with total strangers. Monsieur Hulot’s Holiday is essentially the cinematic equivalent of a postcard, preserving a nostalgic moment in time where the rest of the world ceases to matter for a few short weeks.

Of course, at the centre of it all is Tati’s titular comic buffoon, Mr Hulot, who himself gets caught up in a series of slapstick hijinks. In carrying on the tradition of silent comedies, Tati maintains the importance of framing in his visual gags just as much as his physical performance, playing with our perspective by obstructing shots with doorways, furniture, and buildings all through this beachside and hotel setting. With a simple cut from one angle to another, a man who we suspect of peeping into a sauna is revealed to simply be taking a photo of his family, though without this secondary context Hulot takes it on himself to give the stranger a good kick on the backside.

Hulot is not a passive holidaymaker, as much of the time the situations he finds himself are set in motion by his own naïve actions, but once he is caught in a gag there is no escape until its final punchline hits. His own clumsiness leads to him accidentally snapping a boat in half in one sequence, but when he takes it out in the water and both sides fold up to consume him, he is forced into an awkward position beyond his control. As he tries to get out, it snaps its way towards the shore, and around him sunbathers run away shouting “Shark!” Of course, anyone with a good set of eyes can tell that it is not, in fact, any type of sea creature, but to apply such logic to Tati’s world is redundant. Later, a tyre covered in leaves is mistaken for a funeral wreath, and the mouth of a taxidermy fox rug improbably opens wide to latch onto Hulot’s spurs. Every object in this world is reduced to a vague impression and shape, with their actual functions overwritten by whatever comic purpose Tati decides might throw this tall, lurching mime off course. It all makes total sense when filtered through the mind of a child, and who is Mr Hulot if not an overgrown kid?

For all of his light teasing of Hulot, Tati holds the awkward man in great esteem, especially when compared to all the other vacationers around him. Among the other adults staying in his hotel are fat capitalists and self-absorbed intellectuals, and most of the dialogue we hear in this film comes from the amorphous background noise of their dull conversations. On a themed night, Hulot makes his way down to the lounge area dressed as a pirate, only to discover everyone else in ordinary clothing, playing cards, and listening to a political report over the radio, unable to switch their minds off to enjoy their holiday. For a brief moment, we feel a little pang of sadness that this evening will go to waste for Hulot. But just as he is about to give up hope, a young blonde woman and a boy also turn up in costumes, and suddenly a small family forms between them. Together, they dance to the music, so wrapped up in the moment that they are oblivious to the heads they’re turning.

The attention Hulot garners from others isn’t always so positive, as in a recurring visual gag, Tati sits his camera at a wide shot of the hotel while lights flick on one by one, disturbed by whatever commotion the bumbling man has accidentally created. Tati himself is as kinetic as ever in his performance, bolting away from stray fire crackers in one scene of utter chaos, but even in quieter moments, he maintains a magnetic presence in his lurching long steps and slight lean forward, naturally becoming the first thing our eyes are drawn to in any shot he is present.

In a lazy, swinging theme of saxophones, pianos, and vibraphones, Hulot is encased in a gentle, unwinding motif, recalling an era that doesn’t so much belong to a specific point in history as it does to a period that can only ever exist in our memories, where moments of joy are associated with sweet nostalgia and humiliating accidents are simply turned into funny stories. In the very final shot, when Hulot and all the other vacationers have left, Tati freezes on an image of the empty beach, and at the same moment, the first bit of colour appears in this black-and-white film – a red postage stamp, stuck in the upper right corner. With this tiny, elegant touch, Tati effectively condenses everything that we have watched into a single snapshot in time, tying off this cinematic postcard as a charming ode to our reminiscences of long-gone, but deeply-treasured childhood vacations.

Monsieur Hulot’s Holiday is currently available to stream on SBS on Demand and the Criterion Channel, and available to rent or buy on iTunes.

Chloé Zhao | 2hr 37min

It isn’t Terrence Malick, but it is about as close to Terrence Malick as Marvel will likely ever get – Eternals is what happens when studios relinquish a tiny bit of control to a director as dedicated to the artistic side of filmmaking as Chloé Zhao. Auteurs such as James Gunn, Ryan Coogler, and Taika Waititi have also been granted such freedoms before with resounding results, and though the critical reaction to Zhao’s effort has been a little more dampened, it surely belongs up among the most ambitious efforts by Marvel to reinvigorate the mega franchise with a fresh, exciting voice, this one bringing a certain sensuality and expressiveness to its stylings.

Tasked with the heavy duty of introducing ten new superheroes, each with distinct personalities and powers, Zhao fittingly turns the entire Earth and all of its history into her massive canvas upon which the relationships between these immortal beings explode into fights, arguments, and yes, sex. The Eternals were sent here some millennia ago by the mysterious Celestials to defend us from demonic monsters known as Deviants, though these creatures unfortunately prove to be little more than superficial CGI threats that consume nothing but valuable screen time. As it turns out, the most compelling conflict of the film emerges between the Eternals themselves. This fragmentation may, on some levels, bear similarities to that which drives the tension of Captain America: Civil War, but clear-cut sides of “us vs them” are not a luxury which these aliens can afford. Each of them come at the same crisis of faith from entirely different perspectives, having spent the last few hundred years relating with humans in their own ways.

For Druig, the mind-controller, the potential to pacify humans into a forced peace is a real temptation, while the engineer of the group, Phastos, only finds devastation and heartbreak in humanity’s squandering of his gifts. Such variation in poignant experiences leads them to separate corners of the world, where some integrate into society, others set themselves up as idols to be worshipped, and the remainders go into hiding. As they reunite, hard decisions with world-ending stakes must be made, but even then there remains an uncertainty, as they come to accept that siding against humanity need not necessarily come from a place of evil.

The complexity and scale of such questions of utilitarianism and faith could only be explored in an ensemble of this size and against a setting this epic, spanning from ancient Babylon, through the Gupta Empire, and on to World War II. Zhao commands an intimidating narrative structure in her frequent flashbacks to these epochs, with each one posing an ethical quandary that hammers the wedge between the Eternals just that little bit deeper, but the most impressive achievement here is exactly what one would hope from the director of the gorgeous Nomadland – quite simply, her mastery over natural lighting, landscapes, and wide shots are unrivalled in the Marvel Cinematic Universe, and the Malick influence is palpable. Perhaps the Eternals’ ship is more evocative of Stanley Kubrick’s Monolith from 2001: A Space Odyssey, but the tranquil adoration which she heaps upon shots of the sun set against the pitch black vacuum of space might as well have been drawn from Malick’s The Tree of Life, and when we linger on a shot of Angelina Jolie’s Thena standing waist-deep in a lake reflecting the golden light of a sunset, Zhao’s love of The New World seeps through.

Such brilliantly elemental imagery erupts at the climax of the film in an explosive battle of lava, water, sand, wind, and ice, though one can’t help but feel that even as Zhao has appropriated the Marvel formula to a setting that plays to her strengths, she is still effectively bound by some conventional comic book plotting that she isn’t quite comfortable with. How many other directors though would cut away to a shot of the sun peeking from behind drifting clouds in the immediate aftermath of a battle though? It is evidently in these quieter, more pensive moments where she relishes the artistic freedom granted to her by the studio, and she makes each one count.

The polarising reaction with which Eternals has been met is baffling in the sense that there are aspects of Zhao’s filmmaking which are clearly leagues above so many others modern blockbusters, but it shouldn’t be all that much of a surprise given the massive swings she is taking here. Perhaps some complaints about lengthy exposition dumps aren’t too far off the mark, even if those sequences are still brilliantly rendered visually, and there are some forced gags where Zhao’s voice is momentarily lost. But if those flaws are the price we pay for Marvel films which are little more experimental with narrative structure and cinematography, or more ambitious in balancing several character arcs at a time, then one would hope that these are the risks the studio might take more of in the future.

Eternals is currently playing in theatres.

Xavier Dolan | 2hr 13min

Orson Welles was just 25 years old when he made Citizen Kane. Paul Thomas Anderson, only 26 with his first big masterpiece, Boogie Nights. This may not be on the same level as either of those films, but Xavier Dolan still has them beat when it comes to age – he was a mere 24 years old when he shot Mommy and launched to international fame. It may be just as surprising that this is his fifth feature film given his relative youth, but the years he spent refining his artistic voice as a young adult are evident. Even as Mommy tunes into the unsettled malaise that hangs over emotionally disconnected generations of parents and children, there is little self-centred angst to be found here, as Dolan instead foregrounds the anguish of both widowed mother, Die, and her troubled son, Steve, on equal planes of empathy.

The concept of a near-future society where problematic children can be placed in hospitals under state care is a little bit of a ham-fisted addition into a drama which could have otherwise unfolded in the present with some minor tweaks, but nevertheless, it remains a constant threat that looms over Die and Steve all throughout Mommy. There is an Oedipal layer to their relationship in his expressions of jealousy and possessiveness over her, especially as he develops an attraction to another woman who looks strikingly similar. His ADHD and violent tendencies frequently land them both in tricky and dangerous situations, and yet for all of these issues that keeping driving wedges between them, their interactions also contain an abundance of tenderness and joy, brought vividly to life in a volatile but sensitive performance from Antoine Olivier Pilon. It is this warmth which Dolan delights in expressing through vibrant colours and blissful slow-motion sequences, letting his narrative briefly step aside for moments where Steve, Die, and their new friend, Kyla, break free from the pressures and constraints of their difficult lives.

Whether or not one can fully get behind Dolan’s choice to let most of Mommy play out in the highly unusual 1:1 aspect ratio, it is hard to argue against the impact of its literal expansion in those moments of unhindered exuberance. Few filmmakers through history have experimented with shifting ratios in such formally exciting ways, so it is somewhat surprising that in 2014 we saw two directors at the top of their game literally push these boundaries, both here in Mommy and in Wes Anderson’s The Grand Budapest Hotel. Where Anderson uses it to signify different historical eras though, here it confines Dolan’s characters in literal boxes, keeping our focus largely on their faces more than their surroundings. The moment where Steve physically pushes against the edges of the frame in an embrace of pure freedom is transcendent, bringing with it a hint of a happy future for this small family.

This device returns again later in a poignant vision of an alternate future dreamed up by Die where such prospects actually exist, and where Steve is led down a more hopeful path than the one he is on. But all throughout this heartbreaking sequence, faces remain just slightly out of focus, and much like we saw earlier, the fantasy comes to a sobering end as those black edges of the frame slowly creep back in, once again jailing these characters within Dolan’s restrictive aspect ratio.

It is a wonder that Dolan is able to find fresh life in such overplayed songs as Wonderwall by Oasis and Eiffel 65’s Blue, and yet in using cultural touchstones for his soundtrack, Steve’s journey is grounded in a shared experience understood by teenagers between the 1990s and present day. As much as Dolan has shied away from audiences noting how Mommy’s aspect ratio and poppy aesthetic evoke Instagram videos, it is hard not to draw the social media comparison in his stylish depiction of Steve’s volatile journey. But of course, this film is far more artistically rich and moving than anything one might find scrolling through content feeds, as Dolan finds both profound joy and grief in the difficult, strained relationship between a mother and son who can’t quite find the long-lasting happiness they once believed was possible.

Mommy is available to stream on Stan, and available to rent or buy on iTunes, YouTube, and Google Play.