Author: SceneByGreen

Ridley Scott | 2hr 32min

It is crucial to the form of The Last Duel that its first act introduces us to what seems like a relatively standard medieval tale of love, betrayal, and vengeance, all told through the perspective of the noble French knight, Sir Jean de Carrouges. A hostile rivalry with his disrespectful squire, Jacques le Gris, is the driving force upon which his story progresses, especially when this entitled subordinate commits an act of treachery that pushes the knight to seek righteous justice. Though Matt Damon, Ben Affleck, and Nicole Holofcener’s screenplay intelligently draws out a complex power struggle between our main players in the first act, it is the turn that the film takes in its second which lifts its narrative up to a new level of intrigue, revealing an entirely different set of priorities altogether.

In this act, de Carrouges is not the honourable hero we were led to believe, and Marguerite, his beautiful wife, longs to escape their unsatisfying marriage. Or at least, this is truth according to le Gris, the playful womaniser who finds himself constantly covering for de Carrouges’ errors and shortcomings. History is written by whoever is in control of the narrative, and by traditional accounts, these are usually the men who win battles. As for those who aren’t men, and those who do not win battles – these are the alternate points-of-view which The Last Duel turns its attention to when de Carrouges’ version has run its limited course. They aren’t always grounded in reality or entirely comprehensive, but then again, neither is our conceptualisation of “objective” history which we so happily accepted without question at the start.

The Akira Kurosawa influence looms large here, certainly in Ridley Scott’s direction of exhilarating medieval battles and hierarchies, but most palpably in the Rashomon-style narrative structure which moves in chapters between three perspectives of a single story. Just as a court case becomes the centrepiece of Kurosawa’s 1950 psychological drama, so too does the trial of The Last Duel become a device through which Scott untangles the three messy accounts of the crime that has taken place – the rape of Marguerite, committed by le Gris.

It is the perfect canvas for a director as formally meticulous as Scott to examine our ever-shifting perceptions of history, as he goes about repeating the same events twice or thrice over with slight, barely perceptible variations between them. A modest kiss, shoes flying off in a frenzied panic, and desperate cries for help don’t just take on different meanings each time we witness them, but the perceived intent creates an adjustment in the action itself. In the mind of le Gris, that kiss lingers for a split second longer, those shoes are deliberately removed as an invitation, and those screams are sensual sighs, holding back a burning desire.

Such subtle discrepancies between each version pose great challenges for our main cast, as Matt Damon, Adam Driver, and Jodie Comer essentially play three different versions of the same characters, and pull each off with flair. But this formal attentiveness goes beyond the performances, also becoming a showcase for Scott’s camerawork, which continues to refresh the same plot beats in its detailed alterations. A low-angle hanging on le Gris in a dominant position versus a close-up levelled with Marguerite’s distraught face makes all the difference in how we read both sides of the rape, as does the choice to let le Gris’ gaze pick her out in a crowd from a distance, when this same scene has played out elsewhere with both leading men at its centre.

As for the complete exclusion of key moments from certain accounts, these are absolutely telling of how much import each narrator attaches to them, whether out of conscious or subconscious biases. Most significantly, the holes in de Carrouge’s perspective, initially assumed to be the “default”, only fully come to light when we have finally considered Marguerite’s version of the truth. It is here that her husband is exposed as a man not so invested in seeking to defend the vulnerable, but who has rather taken the rape of his wife as a slight against his own ego, and who now pursues personal vengeance out of blind, self-centred bitterness. The question of rightful ownership over material wealth has been a long-running feud between the men, and in Marguerite being given the opportunity to express herself, the addition of the rape to that list of superficial quarrels is revealed as the act of dehumanisation that it is, inevitably altering our judgement of every other character that suppressed her voice.

Such superb narrative form is not always matched by astonishingly beautiful compositions in The Last Duel, though Scott is by no means slouching off when it comes to his mise-en-scène either. There is a dedication to the sheer abundance of candles lighting up studies, dining halls, and throne rooms of medieval France, but it is in the exterior landscapes where we cower at the vast battlefields, castles, and grimy streets of this society that his world-building truly flourishes.

As promised, there is indeed a duel that takes place in this film, bookending its narrative with the pivotal moment upon which the fates of all three main characters rest. In building such tension to its lead-up, Scott makes ambitious assurances that this will pay off not just on the conflict between de Carrouges and le Gris, but Marguerite’s own struggle as well. Then, as it finally arrives, it is evident that this is a set piece entirely from the creative mind behind Gladiator. As the physical defences of each man are torn away, Scott’s exerts a fine control over his action editing and slow-motion, following this battle of horses and swords while it brutally descends into a visceral, muddy wrestle. Yet all throughout this physical violence, The Last Duel does not once lose sight of the female struggle and trauma perpetrated by the same men who then attempt to claim as their own through bombastic displays of strength and skill. In offering great empathy to these perspectives, Scott crafts a formally astounding interrogation of history as it is lived from moment to moment, and the inherent unreliability of any one account as the sole vessel of truth.

The Last Duel is currently playing in theatres.

John Ford | 1hr 58min

In transplanting his usual explorations of tradition and community from America’s old West into a rural Welsh village, John Ford finds a nostalgic beauty in the Victorian-era working class ideals of ‘How Green Was My Valley’. The saccharine adoration of the “olden days” comes with the territory of Ford’s films, though as usual it is also not so straightforward. As tight-knit as this fictional coal-mining town is, judgement and gossip run rife when someone steps outside its boundaries, and there is a hypocrisy to the small-mindedness of many villagers.
 
Nevertheless, the narration of an older, wiser version of our protagonist, Huw, reminisces on the idyllic peace of his childhood in this community, and the strength of the bonds between neighbours which got him through the roughest times. In Ford’s wide establishing shots of the town, people move and act in unison, singing, working, praying, drinking, and playing games like a single, cohesive mass. When they celebrate, the air is filled with hats being waved and tossed; when they hear the mine’s emergency whistle, they rush towards the site in common concern for their neighbours; and when one person is sick, the entire village walks down the main road in quiet solemnity to wish them well.

The townscape itself is an impressive set, with smoking columns, wooden structures, and triangular roofs rising up in uniform patterns from the modest, primitive village below. Gnarled trees with twisted branches line the edges of Ford’s frames, simultaneously confining the environments within which these characters interact with each other, and unifying the townsfolk in these quaint, natural spaces.

It is once the tranquillity and closeness of this blue-collar community is set up that Ford starts to reveal the forces chipping away its prosperity bit-by-bit. The first major threat is the wage cuts of the coal miners, with the ensuing strike only settling after many of them are made redundant. The industrial revolution is well underway by this point, and managers all over the United Kingdom are realising the expendability of loyal employees who demand more money than less experienced labourers.

Paralleling the significant cultural shifts of 19th century South Wales are changes taking place within Huw’s own family. Realising the poor outlook of the industry, Huw’s father, Gwilym, pushes him away from the manual work which formed the bedrock of the Morgan family’s modest success, and down the path of formal education. Even in this polished, refined environment, Huw continues to absorb the rough, confrontational values of his village, engaging in fights with peers who ridicule him.
 
Meanwhile, Huw’s sister marries a wealthy man and moves away, one of his brothers dies in a mining accident, two others lose their jobs, and the friendly local preacher who forms the spiritual backbone of the village is driven away by the vicious gossip of his own parishioners. In a climactic final church service, he confronts those responsible for the private attacks on his reputation, addressing their selfish imitations of faith which actively erode the community’s open-hearted ideals.

“Why do you dress your hypocrisy in black and parade before your God on Sunday? From love? No. For you’ve shown your hearts are too withered to receive the love of your divine Father.”

While so many forces eat away at Huw’s innocence, he continues to persevere in his faith right up until the final, most devastating personal blow. When Gwilym doesn’t return from a cave in at the mine, Huw goes down below to investigate, journeying through the dark depths of the mine in much the same way as his father. Upon completing his mission, he rides the elevator back to the surface with his father’s body, mirroring his rise up into the role of family patriarch, and thereby effectively marking his complete loss of innocence.
 
We learn through Huw’s narration that he has spent the vast majority of his life trying to recapture the kinship that he once shared with his town, and it is only now, decades later, that he is finally leaving. “How green was my valley,” he laments, mourning the loss of an era that saw neighbours share each other’s losses and wins as a community. John Ford’s adoration of bygone eras may be considered twee or sentimental, but it doesn’t make his portrait of an idyllic childhood in Victorian-era rural Wales any less charming.

‘How Green Was My Valley’ is available to rent or buy on iTunes, YouTube, Google Play, and Amazon Prime Video.

Jacques Audiard | 2hr 35min

In the lineage of epic gangster films stretching from the original 1932 Scarface, through the genre’s resurgence in the 70s, and all the way to the present day, Jacques Audiard’s A Prophet slots in neatly as a drama just as rich in character development and narrative power as any of its predecessors. The traditional rags-to-riches story arc finds new life in Algerian teen Malik El Djebena, whose six-year prison sentence lands him in the midst of a gang war between Muslim and Corsican inmates. Malik, being neither, is taken under the wing of the Corsican mob after carrying out an assassination on a Muslim prisoner, Reyeb, then later earns the trust of the Muslims as well after learning more about his own heritage.

Audiard’s stylistic approach to the raw grittiness of the piece emerges in his handheld camera and cool, blue wash all through the penitentiary, within which his detailed accounts of the gangs’ complex power structures unfold and root this narrative in a modern-day, multicultural France. The contained scope is captured in high-angle wide shots of the prison courtyard where the rival factions congregate on either side, the disdain hanging thick in the open, empty space between them. Though all the inmates speak French, the language divide of Arabic and Corsican serves to isolate them from each other, and it is Malik’s resolve to defeat his illiteracy and master all three languages that provides him the key to great power, becoming “the eyes and ears” of the prison. In playing both fields he gradually finds himself rising up the ranks of the mob hierarchy, this upwards trajectory bookmarked by chapter titles imprinted over freeze frames and slow-motion shots that temporarily remove us from the immediate action.

These formal breaks are further justified by the bursts of magical realism which make their way into Malik’s otherwise grounded journey, endowing him with a divine clairvoyancy. On a practical level, it is a reflection of his ability to reach further than his usual grasp through his learned multilingualism and sharp wit, and yet within his own mind it manifests as ghostly visions of Reyeb, acting as his spiritual guide. In this ethereal form, holy fire follows Reyeb whenever he appears, sometimes wreathing and burning his body, and at other times burning atop his finger as a flame. Through all of Malik’s loneliest moments, Reyeb is there offering wisdom and companionship, but also silently reminding him of the sinful act that set him on this path.

If we were to doubt the reality of such hallucinatory visions, then Audiard brings Malik’s two worlds together at just the right moment during a tricky business dealing, when his prophecy of a car colliding with a wild deer comes to manifest. At this point, as the deer is flung high up into the air, Audiard returns to the slow-motion photography we have witnessed in his chapter breaks, emphasising this manifestation of Malik’s spiritual gift. Just as he wins the astonished respect of those present to witness his prophecy, he similarly goes on to earn the esteem of high-level mafia operators with his insight and diplomacy, leaping over those who he once served. The model of reformation that Malik embodies might superficially point to the success of the justice system, as he does indeed come out from behind bars with an education, refreshed spirituality, and a new lease on life. And yet there is a distinct irony to the fact that in achieving these goals, prison has also incidentally turned a petty criminal into a drug kingpin. As Malik finally reaches the end of his six-year sentence and suavely leaves with a leather jacket and neat haircut, Audiard’s powerful final shot reveals an entourage of black cars silently trailing behind them. Now with a mass of allies and associates, endless opportunities await the Algerian prophet and crime lord as he continues to expand his empire into the society that once despised him.

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

Sergei Parajanov | 1hr 50min

It takes a story as rooted in convention and archetypes as this ‘Romeo and Juliet’ inspired plot to imbue Shadows of Forgotten Ancestors with solid narrative form, as Sergei Parajanov certainly needs it to hold together his wildly avant-garde experiments in style. Comparisons may be drawn to Mikhail Kalatozov, his Soviet contemporary of similarly Georgian origin, especially in the untethered camerawork swinging through scenes with reckless abandon, and the low angles framing faces against monochromatic skies. But where Kalatozov was an actively propagandistic filmmaker working for the USSR government and gently pushing the boundaries of socialist realism, Parajanov broke all the rules in inventing his own unhinged, magical realist style that would only serve to inflame national authorities.

In a Hutsul village nestled in a Ukrainian mountain range, a young man, Ivan, falls in love with Marichka, a woman who lies on the other side of a feudal divide. When she passes away shortly after their marriage, he grows depressed, unable to shake her ghostly memory. Even when he finally remarries, her presence continues to be felt, and gradually erodes his relationship with his new wife.

Parajanov has no pretences about the simplicity of this narrative. It is a folk tale, first and foremost, powerfully rooted in Hutsul customs and Orthodox traditions which remain unifying forces through the clashes and tragedies of Ivan’s life. When misfortune strikes, Parajanov sets up crosses in his scenery, a constant reminder of how this community turns to spiritualism when confronted by life’s hardships, especially marking occasions of weddings and funerals with their own uniquely Hutsul rituals. Having been raised in this culture of pervasive religious dominance, Ivan comes to depend on his connection to the divine as a manner to transcend the material world and maintain contact with his lost love. As we witness in a colourful, hypnotic montage dissolving between Ivan’s thoughtful face in prayer and Orthodox iconography of Christ, this belief is his saving grace, injecting a peaceful radiance in the middle of an otherwise entirely black-and-white sequence of the film following Marichka’s death. Though the montage is short-lived, colour does eventually return to Shadows of Forgotten Ancestors with the arrival of Palahna, Ivan’s new love, this time becoming a more permanent fixture.

With the introduction of pagan phenomena in the film’s final act, the Christian bedrock of Ivan’s life starts to destabilise, as restless spirits and sorcerers disrupt the Hutsul traditions that Parajanov has so painstakingly detailed. Still, this shift in focus does not even slightly signify a shift in momentum, as his camera continues to spin, whip, twirl, tilt, pan, and track characters across the village’s rocky rivers, snowy forests, and rustic interiors, finding strikingly surreal compositions in each of these settings. Not everything he does falls in line with the rest of the film, as at times Parajanov seems more invested in his erratic whims of visual artistry than tying it all together, but there is still powerful form to this fable. In clashing directly with the religious and cultural customs it is depicting, the disorientating, energetic experiments of Shadows of Forgotten Ancestors effectively shake off the stagnancy of this village’s repetitive lifestyle, instead settings its sights on the haunting mysticism which lies just beyond the boundaries of a narrow-minded society, and within the minds of its own characters.

Shadows of Forgotten Ancestors is currently unavailable to watch in Australia.

Julia Ducournau | 1hr 39min

It is not just the contents of Justine’s “snacks” that might cause one to cringe in abject horror; it is also the ravenous hunger with which she consumes organic matter, both living and dead, which churns the stomach. On its grotesque surface, Raw is a straight-up cannibal movie, albeit one that steps away from the arid American landscape of The Hills Have Eyes and instead lands us in an unruly French college campus. The Exorcist may in fact be the more apt comparison here, as Julia Ducournau’s psychological interrogation of Justine’s emerging demonic appetite turns the first-year vet student into the victim of a possession which can’t be expelled, but rather just temporarily satiated.

Ducournau’s provocative metaphor for a female sexual awakening underlies the formal strength of Raw’s narrative, pushing Justine down a path of increasingly horrific acts of consumption. With her vegetarianism and virginity both made explicit in early scenes, a link is drawn between the two – both states of being defined by the absence of something perceived to be a corrupting influence, either by society or Justine’s own family. She is a blank slate of purity for Ducournau to slowly corrupt over the course of the film, particularly challenging her in the rowdy college setting of hormonal young adults where, at least initially, she doesn’t fit in. When she enters a party early on, Ducournau tracks her for a full two minutes through flashing lights and scantily-clad bodies, the image of exposed flesh visually trapping her wherever she turns effectively setting up the inescapability of Justine’s budding sexuality in this hedonistic world.

Justine’s cannibalistic cravings are further tied to her budding sexual urges through the repeated emphasis of inserting another human’s body parts into oneself, underlining the feminine, carnal desire of these acts. In the broad light of day, both are considered extremely shameful, and so even as she discovers that these new impulses are not unique to her own journey, she simultaneously realises how those other women who are similarly affected learn to deal with them in secret. While one targets strangers, another treats her husband as a living charcuterie board, willing to let himself be mutilated to satisfy her needs. For all of them, the qualities of self-control and elegance which define traditional femininity makes their submission to primal urges all the more humiliating, especially as such traits are more akin to those of wild beasts.

“An animal that has tasted human flesh isn’t safe. If he likes it, he’ll bite again.”

As for all the other young students living on college campus, Ducournau leaves a faint suggestion that they too may possess their own guilty pleasures we will never find out. While lumbering back to their dormitories after a big night out, they cloak themselves in blankets like vampires hiding from the rising sun, lest it should expose whatever shameful acts they performed under the cover of darkness. The awkward transition of learning to live with uncomfortable changes in one’s psychological state is always lurking within the subtext of Raw, but Ducournau’s ability to specifically bring formal complexity in drawing out the visceral body horror of female sexuality makes for a confronting descent into parts of the human mind that are entirely untameable.

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

Martin Campbell | 2hr 24min

With a new era of James Bond came a re-invention of not just the character himself, but an entire sub-genre of action espionage films. Here is an actor throwing his body into a role like a Buster Keaton-type stuntman, building a full identity out of that visceral recklessness, and carrying it off with all the class we would expect from a character so notorious for his charm and seduction. When asked if he wants his vodka martini shaken or stirred after losing a round of high-stakes poker, his response is a sharp “Do I look like I give a damn?”, marking an abrupt departure from his cool, aloof predecessors.

This is the image of 007 that has become inextricably tied to Daniel Craig, and yet the success of Casino Royale goes beyond his central performance, oozing stylish elegance in Martin Campbell’s sleek camera movements that avoid harsh cuts where a simple pan, tilt, or rack focus would suffice. The latter in particular efficiently guides our attention between Bond and the subjects of his scrutiny, letting visual information emerge organically without the need to move away from his face.

Building up this character even further are Campbell’s spectacular set pieces, each one revealing different aspects of Bond’s identity. The first one, a chase across cranes, scaffolding, and construction sites in Madagascar, sees Bond pursue a bomb-maker with a knack for free running. While the target is sliding through tight spaces and leaping fences with ease, Daniel Craig’s Bond simply can’t keep up. Luckily his devil-may-care attitude and resourcefulness is more than enough compensation. He runs through drywall as a short cut, and he takes possession of a bulldozer to wipe out any obstacles in his way. The denouement in which Bond assassinates his target against official orders pays off on his established rebelliousness with a final stinger, uncovering a dangerous ego which lies beneath his otherwise quiet allure. And all throughout, Campbell’s camera never stops moving in agile, controlled motions, imbuing the scene with the same energy and momentum that makes James Bond such a dynamic character.

Facing off against Bond in this instalment is Mads Mikkelsen’s sumptuously wicked banker, Le Chiffre, a truly reprehensible villain to behold. A “derangement of the tear duct” causes him to weep blood, and with a scar slashing across a clouded eye, he is set apart as an inhumanly damaged force of malevolence. The scenes of Texas hold ‘em poker distils his conflict with 007 down to a game of wits, in which both foes are fairly evenly matched. Even then, Bond’s smarts aren’t enough for Le Chiffre’s dishonesty, who, after losing all his money, kidnaps, strips, and beats the MI6 agent. As superhuman as Bond seems to be at times, Daniel Craig’s vulnerability here reveals an exposed man with nothing to rely on but a smart-ass attitude. Though his fortitude remains, his elegant style isn’t inherent in his being. At his core he is a reckless, egocentric asshole, always wanting to get in the final word.

In the striking final set piece of a large building sinking into Venice’s Grand Canal, Bond displays his first true bit of selflessness in trying to rescue his associate and love interest, Vesper, from her doom. As they say goodbye beneath the water, he reaches through the bars of the elevator that she is trapped within, watching the life drain from the only woman he was ever willing to give up everything for. As much as James Bond is typically considered a standard action hero archetype, Martin Campbell’s masterfully efficient set pieces paired with Daniel Craig’s complex performance of a man fighting with his ego thrillingly rejuvenates this classic mainstay of British film, and together hold Casino Royale up as a remarkable piece of character-driven, action cinema.

Casino Royale is available to rent or buy on iTunes, YouTube, and Google Play.

Nicolas Winding Refn | 1hr 58min

In turning his provocative, neon-tinted stylings to Hollywood’s cutthroat fashion industry in The Neon Demon, Nicolas Winding Refn quite literally puts his cast of models and actors under the knife, carving out a hellish underworld of cannibalistic cultism kept hidden behind a façade of attractiveness. Elle Fanning is our entryway into this environment as newcomer Jesse, an underage girl from Georgia who quickly becomes the centre of attention in Los Angeles’ model community. In drawing the public’s gaze away from older, more experienced women, she disrupts a rigid structure that values “manufactured beauty” – a description usually worn as badge of diligence and personal sacrifice, but which is challenged by the natural beauty and relative innocence that she carries with pride.

“Are you sex, or are you food?”

Though this question that fellow models Sarah and Gigi pose Jesse upon their first meeting is in reference to the naming conventions of lipstick, it also suggestively boils down her identity into one of two carnal desires. If she is sex, then she is a woman who will engage directly in the ways others devour her beauty; if she is food, then she will be feasted upon and destroyed in the process. Either way, she is joining a community of women whose purpose is to satiate the appetites of consumers, and Refn fully recognises the body horror potential in mixing these two symbols within the setting of a menacing, erotic cult.

For those who decry Refn’s mixing of confronting violence, intense visual artistry, and self-serious, slow-burn narratives, this may not be the film to sway any opinions. What is harder to deny is his mastery over the fluorescent lighting and colours of every single scene, melding this audacious aesthetic with Jesse’s ascent to narcissistic glory, and her transformation into her “neon demon” alter-ego. Refn splits his palette and her identity into three Freudian segments – white representing her superego, a blank slate of innocence she presents to society; blue signifying her ego in its suggestion of reflective, watery surfaces; and red becoming the id, a primal force that embraces carnal sin and dangerous passion. The significance of the number three is echoed right down the recurring triangle motif, its repetition establishing it as a sort of occult symbol that underlies the identities of every woman who has entered this industry.

Yet even as Jesse becomes the attention-stealing star of Los Angeles, she never engages directly in the sorts of sexual acts that the other models do, instead choosing to uphold the untouchable, virginal image that sets her apart. Casting Elle Fanning in this role is a fascinating choice from Refn, as although she is indeed beautiful, she clearly does not fit the more conventional standards set by her co-stars. With such a discrepancy in their looks, Refn instead focuses on the ambiance that surrounds her, emphasised by his blocking of her centre-frame and often with a significant distance between her and everyone else.

When one of Jesse’s associates, the make-up artist Ruby, attempts to initiate sex and is turned down, both immediately go looking for their release elsewhere – Ruby in a horrific setting that truly underscores the carnal dominance of her sexuality, and Jesse on her own, attaining pleasure in her self-absorption. In a meditative, hallucinatory display of parallel cutting, Refn unifies these two women who fantasise about each other and could be together at this moment, but are held apart by Jesse’s own pride.

The disconnection that becomes evident between these vapid, self-obsessed characters further carries through to their detached, controlled performances, as Refn is sure to accentuate the pauses between each line of dialogue. It isn’t too dissimilar to how Carl Theodor Dreyer directs his actors, draining them of emotion so that the visual power of their environments may speak for them instead. After all, maintaining this stoic demeanour is the only way one can rise up the ranks of The Neon Demon’s cult-like fashion industry. As for whether one chooses to submit to its patriarchal agenda and become “sex” or to maintain one’s independence and become “food” – therein lies the crux of success for any of these women looking to profit off their beauty.

The Neon Demon is available to stream on Stan, and available to rent or buy on YouTube, Google Play, and Amazon Prime Video.

Destin Daniel Cretton | 2021

The efforts of the Marvel Cinematic Universe to keep refreshing itself by dipping into different genres at times seem more evocative of greater films than aiming to become one, and though there is certainly no shortage of artistically transcendent Chinese wuxia films to put Shang-Chi and the Legend of the Ten Rings in its place, there is an authentic delicacy to its style one doesn’t often find in typical comic book fare. At its centre is our newest superhero, the titular Shang-Chi, a Chinese immigrant whose shady family history remains largely secret from even those closest to him. After an attempted assassination on his life, he quickly finds himself drawn back into a world he had hoped was well behind him. Yet as his story progresses deeper into the devious Ten Rings organisation and the mystical village of Ta Lo, director Destin Daniel Cretton also turns up the elegant beauty of his landscapes and martial arts choreography, bringing a sensuality to Shang-Chi’s personal journey of self-discovery.

There is a visceral impact to casting stuntman Simu Liu in the lead role, as his ability to carry fight scenes without the manipulation of rapid-fire editing allows for some truly impressive choreography to shine through. The first we see of him in combat is on a moving bus, a set piece which, while being a thrilling exertion of bombastic visual effects and choreography, is later topped by more emotionally loaded hand-to-hand contests of precision, strength, and manoeuvring. Eventually, these martial arts encounters transform more into cooperative dances than vindictive, bitter clashes, each combatant working in unison to craft beauty from the collaborative motion of their bodies.

This tension between conflict and coordination is the key to unlocking the complex nuances of Shang-Chi’s relationship with his absent father and master of the Ten Rings, Wenwu. It takes a lot of effort on Liu’s part to not be blown off the screen every time Tony Leung appears alongside him as the family patriarch, providing a performance that certainly makes for one of the most compelling, nuanced Marvel villains we have seen. What could have been a rather dull objective for Wenwu, to recover his deceased wife from another dimension, takes on extra poignancy in the consideration of his entire, centuries-spanning life. Here is an immortal who had effectively given up all power and world-dominating ambition to start a family, only to lose that hope and blame himself when that new life was shattered.

Cretton’s frequent flashbacks bring a real sense of historical weight to the world being built in Shang-Chi, but they also offer Wenwu more depth and empathy than the traditional comic book supervillain, revealing a man whose journey to treachery isn’t as clear-cut as one might expect. Carrying a dangerous mixture of grief, shame, regret, and rage, Leung turns Wenwu into the sort of unpredictable antagonist who isn’t quite sure whether he wants to protect or exact vengeance on his own son, and as such can’t find peace in his internal conflict.

And therein lies the power of this film’s use of martial arts – the paradox of cooperative movement and friction is echoed predominantly within those fights between Shang-Chi’s core family members, as we first witness during the opening prologue where Wenwu meets his future wife, Ying Li. With him dressed all in white, her in a flowing green dress, and their elegant combat set against a gorgeous backdrop of vivid red leaves, an alluring connection emerges between them, underscored even further by the glimpses of eye contact we receive in moments of stunning slow-motion. Cretton calls back to this later in a fight between father and son, this time using the same aesthetic techniques to reveal a mutual recognition of their broken relationship, and which can now only be expressed through a collaborative act of violence, regret, and every so often, a display of genuine compassion.

At a certain point, Shang-Chi and the Legend of the Ten Rings does turn into the sort of predictable, weightless CGI-fest one might expect from a superhero movie fixated on world-ending stakes. Immediately preceding this though is another epic battle of sorts between two rivalling factions of fighters, one side dressed in black, the other in uniform, deep reds, and it is just slightly disappointing that this striking display of ambitious, large-scale combat made up of awe-inspiring stuntmen and women doesn’t play out for longer.

It would be a disservice to simply label this movie as “beautifully shot” and leave it at that, as the level of attention which goes into the colour palettes and designs of the ancient Chinese village where this battle takes places deliberately evokes the style of more traditional wuxia films. In a particularly exquisite shot towards the end, Cretton lets us linger on an array of glowing, golden lanterns floating atop a lake at night, as the red-clad villagers stand in the background and watch these spirit-like lights drift away. There may be patches of weakness here which keep Shang-Chi and the Legend of the Ten Rings from transcending its comic book movie trappings, but when it comes to using precisely choreographed action as a means to develop character arcs and relationships, the emotional resonance is powerful.

Shang-Chi and the Legend of the Ten Rings is currently streaming on Disney Plus.

Jane Campion | 1hr 54min

There are few films that one could justifiably open a discussion about by praising its score, but when the movie itself is titled The Piano, there aren’t many better places to start. Michael Nyman’s classical score revolves around a central theme played by Ada McGrath, a mute Scottish woman whose arranged marriage sees her sent to New Zealand with her daughter, Flora, and her piano, shipped all the way from her homeland. When her new husband, Alisdair, abandons it on the beach claiming there is not enough room in his house, it is picked up by another local, Baines, who lets her earn it back in exchange for sexual favours disguised as music lessons. 

Though Flora acts as a link between Ada and the world as her sign language interpreter, this form of communication has its limits. The music she plays is the purest manifestation of her real voice, carrying through a rich, full-bodied expression of her restless soul as her fingers glide up and down the keys, the slight details of its shifting tempo, dynamics, and pitch shaping our perception of her fluctuating emotional state. Nyman’s theme “The Heart Asks Pleasure First” is often there in the diegesis of the film, but it also continues to appear in his non-diegetic musical score as well, its lilting melody and persistent, flowing bassline combining to carry the eloquence of Ada’s voice through even when her piano isn’t immediately within reach.

The single most dangerous threat in The Piano is that posed by Ada’s own husband, Alisdair, whose rejection of her musical instrument goes beyond a lack of appreciation for her talent, and becomes an active attempt to silence her, desperately beating her into the role of a submissive housewife. It is a testament to Holly Hunter’s performance as Ada that beyond the way she moves with her music, so much expressiveness can be found in her often-stoic demeanour, commanding the screen even when Alisdair is flailing for domination in his relationship. Beside her is a nine-year-old Anna Paquin who, in the role of Flora, transcends the usual expectations attached to child performances by delivering an outspoken straightforwardness in amongst her tantrums and fibs, balancing out the male egos present elsewhere in the cast. Together, the two make for a powerhouse acting duo of swelling emotions, rising and falling like reflections of Nyman’s delicate musical score.

When it comes to director Jane Campion’s choice of shooting location, it is impossible to undersell the importance of the New Zealand beaches and brush in setting up Ada and Flora’s emotional arcs as strangers in a foreign land, particularly as they are caught in wide shots shrinking them against the grey, misty shoreline. Along the sand, Ada sits at her piano among her possessions, forming the impression of a makeshift home in a beautiful but inhospitable location. With the horizon places towards the bottom of the frame, Campion’s focus remains on the cloudy skies above, offering a gentle ethereality upon which the black shapes of people and furniture are imprinted. In this gorgeous imagery the beach becomes a place of transience, belonging neither to the civilised homes and lush rainforests of New Zealand, nor to Ada’s native Scotland, and it is here where she frequently lingers with her heart split between both places.

As much as Campion’s impressionistic imagery and Nyman’s music artistically speak for Ada’s thoughts and feelings, she is not entirely vocally silent in The Piano. Bookended with voiceovers that offer a glimpse into Ada’s mind, a connection is built in her direct address to the audience. Like the music she produces, she speaks lyrically and with cadences, reflecting on the fate of her piano now sitting at the bottom of the ocean, like a restless spirit put to sleep. Quoting poet Thomas Hood, she recites:

“There is a silence where hath been no sound,

There is a silence where no sound may be,

In the cold grave, under the deep, deep sea.”

Ada may never entirely be at home in New Zealand, as she herself admits to being considered the “town freak” when struck with a physical deformity. But like her sunken piano, existence in such incongruous conditions goes on. And while she learns to communicate with her environment in other, more conventional ways, there is a newfound tranquillity that can be found in the resounding quiet.

The Piano is available to stream on Stan, and available to rent or buy on YouTube.