Flora and Miles may only be children, but by the time Miss Giddens meets them in the opening of The Innocents, they have already suffered more than most their age. Besides being orphaned as infants, their uncle and legal guardian prefers to keep an emotional distance, letting hired help carry the heavy load of parenting instead. The recent deaths of his valet Peter Quint and their previous governess Mary Jessel have no doubt also left them traumatised, and so it is little wonder why Miss Giddens is so concerned for their welfare when she is hired as the latter’s replacement.
On top of all that, there seems to be another sinister influence taking hold of Bly Manor which is not so easy for her to pin down. The children’s behaviours are atypical, if not downright disturbed, especially with Flora being oddly drawn to the lake where Jessel supposedly drowned herself. Miles on the other hand acts strangely grownup for his age, unsettling Miss Giddens with inappropriately intimate gestures and hiding the dead body of one of his beloved pet pigeons beneath his pillow. Even more chilling though are the two ethereal figures flitting in and out of view, not only convincing Miss Giddens that Bly Manor is haunted by the spirits of Quint and Jessel, but that they are also possessing the children. These ghosts were lovers when they were alive, she learns from the housekeeper Mrs Grose, and now it seems that taking human vessels is the only way they can remain together.
Lacey bed curtains framing Miss Giddens and Flora, easing into the girl’s unsettling behaviours.Martin Stephens delivers an impressively creepy performance at the age of 11, his mannerisms suggesting an older, more sophisticated man living in his mind.Glimpses of spirits manifesting around the manor, convincing Miss Giddens of ethereal forces possessing the children.
Still, the doubt which Jack Clayton infuses in this supernatural mystery is hard to shake, especially given that much of it surrounds Miss Giddens herself. Beyond Deborah Kerr’s nervous infatuation when she meets the children’s uncle in the opening scene, she also carries a general uneasiness around any hint of carnal desire, hinting at a sexual repression stemming from her own conservative youth. If she is to preserve Flora and Miles’ innocence, then she must first release them from the spirits which seek to corrupt it, exposing their true nature once and for all.
Hints of sexual repression in this initial meeting between Miss Giddens and the children’s uncle, subtly expressed in Deborah Kerr’s delicate performance.Remarkable blocking and framing made possible by the deep focus lens, set design, and camera angle, looming the two creepy children over Miss Giddens further down the stairway.
That Kerr also plays Miss Giddens with such warmth and sensitivity though only obscures our judgement of her weaknesses. She does not project the image of some deluded, Victorian relic, but rather a woman whose maternal instincts grant her empathetic insight into the lives of children and the dangers of their environment. From the moment she enters Bly Manor, she is at odds with its menacing atmosphere, blinded by the light in its picturesque gardens and absorbed into the darkness of its Gothic hallways. The sets that Clayton constructs here are remarkably detailed, filling out backgrounds with paintings, statues, and patterned wallpaper, and elsewhere framing characters within gaping archways.
A marvellous feat of Gothic production design, filling the frame with Victorian clutter that divides the characters.An incredible array of set pieces all throughout the manor, one standout being the statue garden that surrounds characters with grotesque, stone figures.Picturesque flowers gardens and beautifully reflective ponds, offering up these eerie compositions even in broad daylight.The gazebo becomes another prime location for the spirits to visit, and Clayton puts its pillars to excellent use in this framing.
Just as astounding though is also his rendering of this space through delicately subjective camerawork, quietly revealing its grim, ominous nature. Despite making excellent use of the CinemaScope format, Clayton’s cinematographer Freddie Francis chose to selectively hand-paint the edge of his lenses, slightly narrowing the wide frame and creating a claustrophobic vignette effect. The impact is understated but powerful, suggesting a pervasive darkness that closes in on Miss Giddens’ very presence. The clarity that Clayton offers us in his deep focus photography of two shots is also deceptive in its apparent objectivity, in one composition positioning her nervous expression behind Flora who curiously studies a spider devouring a butterfly. Alternately, her anxious expressions are frequently foregrounded in intimate close-ups, subtly warping her face through wide-angle lenses.
Freddie Francis hand-painted the edge of his lenses to create a vignette effect, letting the darkness creep in.Exceptional use of deep focus lenses worthy of comparison to Orson Welles or William Wyler, particular in these two shots which separate Kerr from her fellow actors.
These are piercing images worthy of comparison to Orson Welles or William Wyler, and with Clayton’s surreal long dissolves, candle-lit interiors, and creeping camera movements in the mix as well, The Innocents effectively develops its own unsettling visual character. By the time Jessel and Quint fully reveal themselves to Miss Giddens, the psychological horror has already set in – though how much of this is merely the disintegration of a tortured mind remains agonisingly ambiguous. The governess is ready to save the children no matter the cost, and so after sending Flora to her uncle’s place in London with Mrs Grose, she is finally ready to directly address these ghostly disturbances with Miles one-on-one.
Long dissolves slip us between scenes and into Miss Giddens’ haunted dreams.Dark corridors lit only by the blazing candlelight from Miss Giddens’ candelabra as she moves with the creeping camera.
As the orphaned boy wanders through the greenhouse to the sound of trickling water and chirping crickets, Miss Giddens pursues him with an intensive line of questioning. “Sometimes I heard things,” he nervously confesses. “And when did you first see and hear of such things?” she pushes, only to be met with an unsatisfying reversal.
“Why, I made them up.”
Their faces grow clammy with sweat through this interrogation, and the glass panes of the greenhouse gradually fog up – though not enough to obscure the manifestation of Quint’s creepy, malicious grin pressing in from the outside. As if possessed by his wickedness, Miles launches into a brutally honest outburst, and drastically shifts away from his typically cool, sophisticated demeanour.
“You don’t fool me. I know why you keep on and on. It’s because you’re afraid, you’re afraid you might be mad. So you keep on and on. Trying to make me admit something that isn’t true. Trying to frighten me the way you frighten Flora. But I’m not Flora, I’m no baby. You think you can run to my uncle with a lot of lies. But he won’t believe you, not when I tell him what you are. A damned hussy! A damned dirty minded hag! You never fooled us. We always knew.”
Perspiration forms on Kerr’s face in the greenhouse as Miles’ vitriol spills forth.Deeply terrifying imagery – Quint’s grinning face slowly comes into view over Miles’ shoulder, obscured only by the fogged up greenhouse windows.
Miles and Quint maliciously cackle in unison at the terror on Miss Giddens’ face, and even after the young boy has seemingly managed to regain his senses, the malevolent spirit does not let go so easily. Gazing down from a high angle in the statue garden, Clayton’s camera suddenly adopts a new perspective for the first time in The Innocents – that of Quint himself, his hand raised in the foreground as if casting a spell over Miles. We might almost assume this to be confirmation of Miss Giddens’ supernatural suspicions were it not for Clayton’s reiteration of this same shot a few seconds later, revealing little more than a stone statue where Quint once stood. From this dizzying height, we helplessly watch as Miles falls to the ground dead, though who or what is truly responsible for his demise remains woefully unclear.
Clayton plays a trick of perspective here as he divorces us from Miss Giddens’ point-of-view, first taking this high angle as we look over the ghost’s shoulder……and then cutting back to the exact same angle two shots later, only to find a statue in its place.Sexual repression bursting forth, or the ghost passing into her? Miss Giddens’ kiss on Miles’ dead lips remains an unsettling enigma.
Has Miss Giddens been justified in her concern, trying to save these children from unholy evils? Are these merely ghosts of past traumas, manifesting as paranoid delusions? Does the kiss she plants on Miles’ cold lips come from her, or one of the spirits entering her body? Clayton offers few answers as this governess clasps her hands together in prayer, mirroring the image from the opening credits and sinking her into an unforgiving darkness. In their place, The Innocents simply haunts us with a stifled, neurotic madness, blurring the lines between sinful corruption and the efforts of those who obsessively seek to conquer it.
The final shot echoing the first, encompassing Miss Giddens in darkness as she helplessly prays.
The Innocents is not currently streaming in Australia.
Though promised as a prosperous homestead for westward-bound families, the Arizonan frontier town Horizon is marked with bloodshed from the moment its foundations are outlined. Even after its surveyors are brutally massacred by an Apache war band asserting their territory, colonisers continue to flock to the flourishing settlement, ignoring the danger which skirts its borders. It shouldn’t come as a shock then that four years after its establishment, the same tribe should launch a devastating assault, burning the settlement to the ground and slaughtering its residents. From this horrific violence, Kevin Costner spins out several narrative threads among Horizon’s survivors – but at such an early point in his epic saga, even this major incident cannot account for every subplot that wanders through the film.
Maybe this is to be expected though from a film which announces itself as the first chapter of a four-part series, each instalment of which is expected to be roughly 3 hours long. The Lord of the Rings series seems to be a fair comparison in terms of story structure, though where The Fellowship of the Ring brought a sense of closure to its lengthy narrative setup, Horizon: An American Saga – Chapter 1 is not so robustly constructed. Costner is playing the long game here, promising to eventually intersect subplots that for now dangle without any destination in sight, and steadily working through each at a patient pace.
As such, the fact that Horizon faltered at the box office and failed to make up its extravagant budget is no real surprise. The genre subversions that we typically find in contemporary Westerns like Django Unchained or The Revenant are nowhere to be found here, and the extraordinary run time has undoubtedly turned away many who weren’t already put off by its Chapter 1 subtitle. Perhaps if Horizon was released in the era of Dances with Wolves, it would have found a more receptive audience, though it is also clear that Costner’s adoration of John Ford roots his narrative even deeper in Hollywood history.
The stories which emerge from the Apaches’ raid on Horizon draw the strongest parallels to Ford’s films here, seeing the widowed Frances Kittredge and her daughter Elizabeth survive the massacre by hiding underground, and eventually find refuge at Camp Gallant with a detachment of the United States Army. Despite some initial tension around non-interventionist beliefs, romance begins to bloom between Frances and First Lieutenant Gephardt, while Elizabeth warms to the younger outposted soldiers. With their dark blue uniforms pressed against Utah’s red rock landscapes, She Wore a Yellow Ribbon asserts itself as the primary influence on this storyline, as Costner delicately considers the complicated relationship between love and duty.
Also carried over from Ford’s 1949 film are the moral divisions that emerge within Native American tribes, yet which are considered with far more nuance in Horizon. Where the older generation promotes co-existence with the settlers, emerging leader Pionsenay seeks to drive them from their territory, fearing that his people will soon be displaced. Anticipating reprisal from the elders, he and his war band that attacked Horizon strike out on their own, clouding their idealism with visions of war and retribution.
Meanwhile on the other side of this struggle, the vengeance which orphaned survivor Russell seeks against the Apaches effectively models him after virulently racist gunslinger Ethan Edwards from The Searchers. With his parents dead, the closest Russell has to mentors are the two hunters he has teamed up with, both driven by a hateful bloodlust that risks sending the young boy down a similar path. When they fail to successfully track the raiders who destroyed Horizon, the nonchalance with which they resolve to simply ambush whatever other Native American village they come across is chilling. The question of Russell’s own moral conscience hangs heavy over his scenes, setting up a compelling character arc that will likely resonate through future sequels.
The dusty plains of the Old West are clearly ripe for mythologising, and Costner continues to use its gorgeous vistas in a disconnected subplot concerning a wagon train set for Horizon, although its late entry into the film leaves it severely underdeveloped. Instead, it is our complete departure from the badlands altogether which ushers in a far stronger storyline, trekking across the snowy alpine terrains of Montana and the vibrant autumnal forests of Wyoming. After shooting her abusive partner, escaping with her baby Sam, and adopting a new name, Lucy inadvertently attracts the psychotic Sykes Brothers to the peaceful town she has set up a new life in. It seems inevitable that the burgeoning relationship between her roommate Marigold and horse trader Hayes should get tangled up in this looming danger as well, eventually forcing the couple to take Sam and flee town.
Casting himself in the role of Hayes, Costner does not necessarily stand out within this enormous ensemble, yet he still channels the passion he has for the project at large into this lonely, vulnerable gunslinger. Together with Marigold and Sam, the three become a makeshift family who discover a rare sort of love, and whose paths begin to verge on Horizon towards the end when a promotional leaflet winds up in their hands.
The plot movements are slow, and the scope is so vast we may doubt whether they payoff will be worth it, but from Chapter 1’s foundations it seems unlikely that Costner is navigating this story without a grand vision. His use of natural light and helicopter shots offer plenty for us to visually feast on while the pieces gradually fall into place, as does his impressive array of rural locations, defining his historical legend not by a single town, but by America as a whole. With all these elements considered together, Horizon announces itself as a project of ambition so majestically bloated that it threatens to dilute its own focus, yet which still etches out the beginnings of a sprawling, mythological saga refusing to be defined by a single perspective.
Horizon: An American Saga – Chapter 1 is currently streaming on Stan, and is available to rent or buy on Apple TV, YouTube, and Amazon Video.
We are barely ten minutes into Alien: Romulus when orphaned miner Rain learns the first Alien film’s key lesson – labourers owe nothing to corporations that treat them as expendables. The five years that she has been contracted for have come to an end, but the sheer number of people who have perished under Weyland-Yutani quickly douses her dreams of leaving for the distant, utopian planet of Yvaga III. With the company short staffed, her contract is renewed, and she is not to be released from servitude for another five years.
Next to the xenomorphs, the corporation has always been the biggest threat of this sci-fi series, and Fede Álvarez continues to blur those lines between humanity and monster here in Alien: Romulus. To the untouchable bureaucracy, this extraterrestrial species is not to be left to its own devices, but exploited for biological warfare – or as is the case here, genetic engineering. Evolution’s natural processes are far too slow for Weyland-Yutani’s grand ambitions after all, and the key to designing the ideal human for space exploration seems to lie in the aliens’ resilient DNA. That the space station Renaissance which once hosted these dangerous experiments also contains the cryostasis equipment Rain needs to reach Yvaga III doesn’t just bring her into conflict with a primal, destructive force of nature. This deep into space, her corporate superiors continue to exert their ruthless will upon seemingly insignificant lives, remaining both oblivious and apathetic to the incredible threat it is reckoning with.
The crew of runaways joining Rain on this mission range from cannon fodder to deeply sympathetic allies, leaving the bond formed between our protagonist and her adopted synthetic brother Andy as the only relationship worth our attention. Cailee Spaeny’s star continues to rise in the wake of Priscilla and Civil War, displaying an intelligent pragmatism while carrying a deep grief for her late father whose legacy lives on in Andy’s programmed dad jokes. As the humanistic android, David Jonsson stands out even more with his furrowed brow and steadfast warmth, though it is when he accepts a Weyland-Yutani computer chip to improve his physical capabilities that he strikingly manoeuvres his focus into a cold, corporate expediency.
The setting from which the film takes its name also mirrors this sibling conflict, stranding Rain and her ragtag crew in the twin modules which make up Renaissance – Romulus and Remus. Continuing the franchise’s trend of referencing Greco-Roman mythology, Álvarez alludes to the two brothers who were raised by wolves and established Rome, before Romulus ultimately killed Remus over the city’s foundations. This is the allegory which underlies Weyland-Yutani’s vision for the future, comparing the xenomorph’s extract to the she-wolf milk which strengthened and nurtured the infant brothers into pioneers of civilisation. On a far more chilling level, it is also this transgression of nature which binds both species together as one, producing an atrocity which manifests the corporation’s monstrous rejection of its own humanity.
Álvarez certainly does not waste his opportunity to play in the realm of body horror here either, crafting the thrills and grotesqueries which the Alien series has always specialised in. The fleshy cavity of one xenomorph’s cocoon drips viscous fluids, suggesting more than just a distant correlation to human genitalia, and Romulus delivers one of its most creatively suspenseful set pieces when combining the creature’s acid blood with a temperamental, zero-gravity environment. The industrial futurist production design makes for a solid visual accomplishment here too, beautifully illuminated with pulsating light sources that pass characters through blazing orange hues and gloomy shadows.
That Romulus occasionally gets caught up in its own nostalgic references to previous Alien films is a disappointing symptom of modern franchises at large, though it is thankfully not a dealbreaker here. The care and imagination which Álvarez brings to the sci-fi source material lets his film stand on its own, offering a mythological slant to this universe which embellishes and warps millennia-old archetypes. There in the unnatural distortion of our social and biological identities, Romulus disturbingly probes into our human drive for greatness, as well as the inhumanity which threatens to cannibalise us in the process.
Alien: Romulus is currently available to purchase on Apple TV, YouTube, and Amazon Video.
Even before Blow-Up, Michelangelo Antonioni was already demonstrating the powerful tool of perception that is a photographer’s eye, angling his camera at the oppressive structures of modern civilisation. By placing one such artist at the centre of a psychological mystery though, the question is raised as to whether this intensive scrutiny may also give birth to fabrications, imposing form and purpose on an existence ungoverned by cosmic harmony. This is not necessarily an inherent human weakness – our storytelling sets us apart from less developed lifeforms after all – but to mistake a collection of unrelated artefacts for reality will only ever lead to further distortions, revealing more about the mind of the observer than the observed.
When fashion photographer Thomas begins developing the film stock of an impromptu shoot in a local park, we too find ourselves swept away by the tantalising prospect of conspiracy. Laying his celluloid strips over a light table, he passes a magnifying glass across them frame by frame, before projecting negatives onto photographic paper and submerging the undeveloped prints in a chemical bath. This is a process to be undertaken alone, methodically dedicating one’s utmost attention to each step, and yet it is only after he has meditated on these photos for some period of time that something catches his eye.
Thomas approaches his art with methodical purpose, and Antonioni uses this sequence to similarly raise our own suspicions without a single line of dialogue.
In the first photograph, the female subject, Jane, is leading her partner by the hand. In the second, they are holding each other in a tight embrace. When it is enlarged though, he can see her eyeline directed elsewhere. He sections off the small section of bush where he believes she is looking, and then blows that up as well into an abstract array of black and white smudges that still don’t make much sense. Nevertheless, the more he pieces together fragments of his photos, the more previously hidden details begin to emerge – until he unveils the face of a third party hiding in the shadows, and a pistol pointing directly at the male subject.
Flitting between two black-and-white images until we, like Thomas, begin to impose our own contrived ideas onto them.Thomas literally caught between the two blown-up photos, both becoming the object of his obsession.Antonioni plays with the pareidolia effect – the tendency to see patterns in random stimuli, and piece together meaningful conclusions. Of course here, it is the static array of black and white smudges which tangibly form evidence of a murder.
Antonioni’s construction of this sequence is tightly measured, alternating between the photos, close-ups of Thomas’s sweaty face, and wide shots of his frantic pacing through the studio. That last photo may have saved the man’s life, he decides, seeing as it coincided with the exact moment Jane realised they were being watched. No doubt her persistence in later charming him into handing over the negatives is only further proof of her guilt, he believes, though perhaps her erratic behaviour is conversely what put the idea in his mind to begin with. Either way, such fervent curiosity is hard to stop once it is set in motion, setting Thomas down a path of obsessive investigation.
Blow-Up is Antonioni’s second film shot in colour, and he immediately flexes an impressive control over its stylish potential.
It is no great surprise that Alfred Hitchcock’s Rear Window should play such a crucial role in Antonioni’s direction of Blow-Up, which itself would inspire more paranoid thrillers in years to come such as The Conversation and Blow Out. Even beyond the compelling mystery narrative, Antonioni is using his camera to manipulate our point-of-view, voyeuristically peering through frame obstructions at the subjects of our focus. The use of a deep focus lens also takes notes from Hitchcock’s classic masterpieces, staging Jane in the distance of one shot that also eyes off Thomas’ sought-after camera in the foreground, thus drawing great suspense from her concerted attempt to steal back whatever secrets it contains.
Hitchcock would often use deep focus like this to create tension, though here Antonioni is also impressively creating a split screen effect with his meticulous framing.
Even with these influences in play though, Antonioni’s established style of incredible architectural designs remains dominant, melding perfectly with his depiction of the Swinging Sixties as an era of vibrant self-expression and profound existentialism. Thomas’ studio is a handsomely chaotic mess of colours and textures, the centrepiece of which is a long stand of vibrant ostrich feathers running from the floor to the ceiling, and outside his location shooting continues to find a geometric synchronicity in London’s natural and manufactured aesthetics. Patterns reveal themselves in the repetition of objects, organically framing Thomas through a symmetrical line of trees and segmenting a backdrop of city streets with Venetian blinds, while negative spaces ease the weight that these shapes impose upon the mise-en-scène.
Thomas’ studio is a handsomely chaotic mess of colours and textures, the centrepiece of which is a long stand of vibrant ostrich feathers running from the floor to the ceiling.Antonioni reveals his photographer’s eye in his immaculate framing and location shooting, using these evenly spaced trees to design this shot.Venetian blinds segment a backdrop of London’s streets – geometric synchronicity in manufactured aesthetics.
Architecture is of course not all about physical buildings for Antonioni, but rather extends to the composition of bodies, ornaments, vehicles, and vegetation in any given shot, taking on the quality of a still life artwork in their representation of something larger – a social critique for instance, or a subtle paranoia. Especially when actors are partially concealed by their environments, we often find ourselves leaning forward and filling in the missing information, consequently adopting the perspective that drives Thomas forward in his quest for a greater understanding of an uncertain world.
Posing bodies in the frame like models, turning them into part of the mise-en-scène.Obstructions force us to fill in the missing visual information.Thomas’ reality warps as his obsession grows, trapping him in these magnificently designed shots within his own studio.
This is what it means to adopt the eye of a photographer, Antonioni posits – recognising that what remains unseen is just as significant as that which is visible. When interpreting a piece of art, one must essentially become a detective to unearth tangible proof of one’s hypothesis, though which comes first makes all the difference. It is difficult to dispute Thomas’ discovery of the body at the crime scene for instance, now convincing him that the murder was successful, just as the trashing of his studio by an unknown perpetrator suggests he is getting too close to the truth. Nevertheless, when evidence seems to evaporate into thin air, Thomas’ reality seems to collapse into paradox.
Such is life in the British counterculture of the 60s though, bleeding with metaphysical contradictions. While Thomas indulges in the sexual liberty and consumerism of the fashion industry, so too does he engage with more socially conscious pursuits on the side, photographing the homeless people of London for a book project. Subscribing to both escapism and performative activism is all one can do to avoid confronting the dread of Cold War-era politics, and even when seeds of existential doubt do begin to sprout, parsing truth from deception remains extraordinarily difficult.
The Swinging Sixties bleed into Antonioni’s pop aesthetics, indulging in the sexual liberty and consumerism of the fashion industry.Thomas’ attempts reach a more authentic truth by way of addressing social issues only results in more artifice.
As such, this artist suddenly finds himself unable to trust his own eyes and ears. Is that the sound of someone stepping on a twig at the park, or is his paranoid mind playing tricks? Does the unexpected absence of a dead body suggest that he was only imagining it the first time around? With the negatives finally being stolen, the prospect of reassessing evidence to arrive at some definitive conclusion is ruled out as well.
Perhaps there really is a grand conspiracy manipulating Thomas’ perception of the world, or maybe he has just convinced himself of one. There is no doubt that there is at least some sort of illusion at play, though this knowledge doesn’t help in exposing it, as Antonioni demonstrates in his confounding final scene. Lost for answers, Thomas finds himself wandering by a tennis court where a troupe of mimes silently act out a game, and soon overcomes his confusion to participate in the imaginary act. We are not exemption from this mirage either, following the invisible ball’s arc through the air and even hearing it hit the make-believe racquets.
A reality-defying finale as Thomas reaches the tennis game performed by mimes, eventually engaging in their imaginary act – the metaphoric implications upon the rest of his story are sweeping.
The effect is disorientating, and yet to accept a collective fantasy is to find one’s home in a false reality, fading tangible truths into non-existence. That this should also be Thomas’ fate in a narrative that already keeps us at arm’s length from decisive answers is perfectly enigmatic, undermining whatever confidence we have left in identifying where Blow-Up’s slyly crafted illusion starts and ends. If nothing on its surface is a true representation of itself, then there may ultimately be very little keeping us too from becoming distortions in the eyes of others, spuriously skewing our very identities to the point of uncanny, elusive abstraction.
Thomas too becomes little more than a distortion in the eye of the observer, eroding his very identity in the confounding final shot.
Blow-Up is currently streaming on The Criterion Channel, and is available to rent or buy on Apple TV, YouTube, and Amazon Video.
Impoverished ingénue Letty is absolutely convinced that the Texan wasteland where she tries to plant her roots in The Wind is haunted, though not by any malevolent poltergeist or demon. High up in the sky, she envisions a ghostly white horse galloping among the clouds, stirring a gale which tears at the foundations of ranches down below. This invisible force of elemental chaos possesses no alliance to any greater good or evil, but exists of its natural accord. It is to be marvelled at, feared, and for those who are particularly susceptible to its maddening influence, hopelessly succumbed to in total resignation.
It is through this eerie visual motif that what would otherwise be a straightforward melodrama takes on dark psychological dimensions in The Wind, delivering a metaphor of profound, existential instability. Especially for a woman like Letty whose life is so consumed by turmoil, this restless tempest is a constant companion, blowing around debris just as she herself is helplessly tossed between homes and men. What she initially hopes will be a chance for a new life in Sweetwater offers little in the way of security, especially when she begins to realise how vulnerable she is at the hands of the local bachelors – not all of whom have honourable intentions.
California’s Mojave Desert stands in for the Texan badlands, showcasing some superb location shooting in Hollywood’s earliest days.The winds take the form of a great white horse in the sky, galloping across clouds with ceaseless momentum.
It is an uncertain, ever-changing world that she inhabits, and as an early pioneer of location shooting, Victor Sjöström is powerfully in tune with capturing its raw elements. California’s Mojave Desert effectively stands in for the Texan wilderness, and airplane propellors are cleverly situated just out of shot to simulate the titular winds, buffeting the actors’ hair and clothes. When an advancing cyclone turns a carefree party into an accelerating stampede to safety, even his blocking adopts that perpetual, unidirectional momentum. Standing amid the rush, Letty fearfully clings to her most persistent suitor Wirt, before being whisked away into an underground bunker with the other patrons. Clearly if she is to find any sort of stability, then she must hitch herself to a man, regardless of whether she finds the available options particularly appealing.
Gish literally surrounded by suitors in this framing, pressing in from every side.A rush of bodies flying past Letty, manifesting the winds in Sjöström’s blocking.
As D.W. Griffith’s muse, Lillian Gish was certainly no stranger to playing naïve, innocent women, though Sjöström makes even better use of her talents here to corrupt Hollywood’s paragon of virtue. Even when she is safe inside, her troubled gaze is constantly drawn to windows where views of the heavy gale slowly erode her sanity, and bitterness makes a home in her heart as she perseveres through a reluctant marriage to Sweetwater local Lige Hightower. Her adamant fury when he forces a kiss is strengthened by its contrast to her usually passive demeanour, and opens the door to a deeper mistrust of those men she once believed were meant to be protectors of women.
A landmark of acting in silent cinema, twisting and corrupting the paragon of virtue which Gish so frequently represents.Our gaze is frequently drawn to window frames of the exterior view, establishing a thin barrier between safety and madness.
Wirt’s willingness to pursue her even after she marries Lige sets him apart as the worst of the bunch. She has already rejected him upon learning that he simply wants to make her his mistress, yet still he continues his advances, driving Letty mad with panicked terror. When he is brought to her place to recover from an injury one day, she can’t help but picture his leering eyes and creepy smile as he sleeps, rendered disconcertingly in a double exposure effect. With men like this hanging around, little can soothe her anxiety, which Sjöström soon builds to a fever pitch as the fabled North Wind plagues her home with howling, frenzied chaos.
A haunting double exposure effect layers Lige on top of himself, leering disconcertingly at the camera.
Gish too seems possessed by this invisible force, her eyes stretching wide with terror and drooping into a hypnotic trance as she rhythmically sways with the hanging lanterns and camera. Kitchen bowls rock on shelves as if enchanted by spirits, and soon even the glass windows give in to the piercing wind, knocking over an oil lamp and setting a blanket on fire. In the sky above, that great white horse continues to whip up violent flurries, but a pounding at the door heralds an even greater peril – an opportunistic Wirt, taking advantage of Letty’s vulnerability to force himself on her.
Remarkable montage editing as the wind enters the house, knocks over an oil lamp, and drives Letty mad.
The relative serenity of the following morning does not bring an end to Gish’s madness. She is deeply traumatised, and as she sits stiffly in a kitchen chair, the camera’s forward tracking shot directs our gaze towards the object of her attention – a pistol, lying atop a pile of debris. She seems prepared to defend herself, though later when she finally fires it into Wirt’s stomach, she can barely comprehend her own actions. Even after burying him, all she can do is watch in terror as the wind gradually re-exposes his body, convincing her that the pair of hands forcing open the front door belong to his vengeful spirit.
A steady camera movement inching forward from behind Gish and towards the pistol lying on the table.Madness builds to another peak after Letty’s murder of Lige, the wind revealing his buried body.
That it is Lige who enters cabin instead comes as a great relief to Letty, though even more reassuring are his words of comfort. “Wind’s mighty odd – if you kill a man in justice – it allers covers him up!” he proclaims, pointing out the weather’s mysterious concealment of her murder. Contrary to the rest of Sweetwater’s foreboding mythologising, this is the first suggestion that there might be some semblance of moral order in an otherwise lawless cosmos. Even more importantly, it is also the first demonstration of Lige’s selfless, forgiving love. With a steadfast certainty like this, all other doubts and insecurities fall away, and not even the winds hold the same psychological influence anymore as Letty and Lige bask in the draught of the open doorway. Worldly elements may ravage material constructs in The Wind, yet there is still peace to be found in Sjöström’s allegory of life’s erratic movements, delicately revealed in our ability to face its ravaging, mercurial turbulence.
Finally embracing the elements and life’s uncertainty without fear, captured in this gorgeous frame.
This review discusses themes of sexual violence, emotional abuse, and the ethical controversies surrounding the production of Last Tango in Paris. It includes references to the mistreatment of actress Maria Schneider and the lasting psychological impact of the filming process. Reader discretion is advised.
After encountering each other in an empty Parisian apartment through pure happenstance, it doesn’t take long for grieving widower Paul and young actress Jeanne to begin their impromptu, passionate affair. The residence is currently for lease, and although both are interested in renting it for themselves, there is no bitter competition in their initial exchange – merely small talk about the fireplace, potential furnishings, and the old-fashioned architecture. Before either knows what is happening though, he is picking her up in his arms, and they are making animalistic love against the window. As their relationship progresses throughout Last Tango in Paris, their sex takes on more sensual dimensions, though this is far from the last time we will see it devolve into an act of crude, carnal instinct.
This entire affair hinges on a single rule, Paul declares: to maintain an ongoing emotional detachment, neither are to divulge a single personal detail about themselves to the other, including their own names. When they are together, their identities are stripped away, as are the expectations and norms of society. For Jeanne, this means a break from her frustrating engagement to Thomas, an aspiring filmmaker who often treats her more as an object of his art than a romantic partner. For Paul on the other hand, it runs much deeper. This is a man whose is deeply aggrieved by the suicide of his wife Rosa, and now seeks an outlet for emotions that he cannot fully understand or control. Within this apartment, there is no need to mull over the despair that has clouded his mind with self-loathing. Here he is in total control of his connection to another human, and free to indulge his most disturbing impulses.
A random encounter between strangers explodes with sudden sexual passion, establishing this apartment as their own bubble within a complicated world.
Of course, it is plain to see how this anonymous affair is far more an escapist fantasy than it is a path to healing, and Bernardo Bertolucci’s character study is unafraid to plunge the thorny depths of such a paradoxical arrangement. What Paul and Jeanne effectively establish here is a form of intimate disassociation, embracing each other’s bodies while neglecting everything else. As he grows more possessive, his dirty talk veers perversely into bestiality and necrophilia, though this debauchery seems to stem more from unresolved anger than lustful desire. The moment he truly crosses the line also happens to be the point that Bertolucci did the same during production, and there is no brushing past the abject inhumanity of what both he and Marlon Brando submitted actress Marie Schneider to here.
Art may be the purest distillation of its creator’s soul, yet as is the case in Last Tango in Paris, it can also be so horrifyingly effective that we are compelled to look away from the malevolence revealed. As a portrait of emotional and sexual abuse, Bertolucci’s film is incredibly powerful, but it is no coincidence either that it comes from someone who is responsible for the same trauma he is depicting. Reasoning that an authentic performance was worth letting his actress suffer, he did not inform Schneider that Brando would be lubricating her with butter before filming a rape scene. Consequently, he only succeeded in revealing his disregard for Schneider’s ability as an actress, and implicating himself as the hypocritical target of his own criticism.
That Schneider would continue to live with the psychological consequences of this assault for the rest of her life while Bertolucci and Brando showed little remorse only complicates the legacy of this scene further. As such, a damning parallel emerges between Bertolucci and the character of Paul, seeing both use artificial constructs of identity as self-expression while holding no regard for the emotional toll being imposed on others. For better or worse, art lays bare humanity’s extremes, and Last Tango in Paris is no exception in leaving us to grapple with its flaws and contradictions.
Animal instinct is unleashed, free from the confines of civility and decorum.
There is certainly no denying the excruciating vividness of such an introspective study either, prodding at open wounds in Paul’s psyche that refuse to heal and provoke guttural manifestations of inner torment. While Brando sordidly adopts an almost bestial physicality in these moments of primal release, he also displays an eloquent vulnerability through his monologues, delivering one of his finest scenes at the viewing of Rosa’s body. It is impossible for him to separate the love, grief, and vitriolic anger that he harbours, and so here they all chaotically burst out at once, pouring slurs, tears, and apologies over her open casket.
“Our marriage was nothing more than a foxhole for you. And all it took for you to get out was a 35-cent razor and a tub full of water. You cheap goddamn fucking godforsaken whore, I hope you rot in hell. You’re worse than the dirtiest street pig anybody could ever find anywhere.”
A powerhouse performance from Brando as he unleashes his pain, love, and anger at his wife’s dead body, unable to distinguish between his conflicting emotions.
As such, it makes sense that Jeanne represents a blank beacon of innocence who he can map Rosa’s identity onto, as well as a target of his overbearing love and abuse who doesn’t ask for explanations. Reduced to this state of vulnerability, she claims to feel like a child again in his arms, and the two exhibit a light playfulness when they make up gibberish names for themselves. Even the apartment that hosts their affair and which Paul never quite finishes moving into embodies this nondescript purity, forcing them to lounge around on the floor in the absence of furniture.
The full-length mirror that lazily leans against the wall makes for some superb compositions, splitting them between isolated frames.
Nevertheless, Bertolucci works stylistic wonders with such a sparsely decorated setting, drawing on cinematographer Vittorio Storaro’s talents to insulate these lovers within their own private world. When they aren’t wrapped up in a tangle of limbs, doorways and windows often become visual dividers, physically separating them within the shared space. The full-length mirror that lazily leans against the wall also makes for some superb compositions, splitting them between isolated frames, while the frosted glass of the reception area underscores their mutual anonymity by blurring their faces into impressionistic watercolours.
Vittorio Storaro’s photography uses the barriers and lighting of the environment to illustrate Paul and Jeanne’s relationship as they simultaneously grow closer and further apart.Frosted glass blurs the faces of our two leads, rendering their identities anonymous.
There is no doubt a romantic warmth to Storaro’s lighting of the apartment as well, filtering in through the white, translucent drapes hanging from the windows, yet it never quite escapes the melancholy of its soft brown hues and shadows. As much as Paul seeks to separate the outlet for his emotions from the source, the two are deeply intertwined, and eventually drive Jeanne away altogether as she begins to grasp the true depravity of their arrangement.
United in a tangle of limbs, just slightly silhouetted against the translucent white drapes in the background.In his excellent use of low-key lighting, Storaro borrows a little from Gordon Willis, the Prince of Darkness.
Not that this deters Paul from trying to win her back, and even give up the mask of anonymity which he once so passionately preserved. Quite fittingly, he does not seek to lure her back to his apartment where privacy is guaranteed, but instead sets a public tango bar as the location for their attempted reconciliation. There, Bertolucci’s camera floats across the dance floor where a competition is underway, illuminated by spherical lights hanging from the ceiling and forming a starry backdrop to Paul’s confession of love – not that Jeanne is necessarily ready to start a relationship with this man who she is only really getting to know now.
The tango bar is a gorgeous set piece for the attempted reconciliation between Paul and Jeanne, illuminated by these round lights suspended over the dance floor, and navigated with floating camerawork.
The push and pull of conflicting emotions in this exchange is symbolically mirrored in the tango it is intercut with, seeing feet sweep in long arches and stamp on short, staccato beats. Perhaps an even more authentic reflection of Paul and Jeanne’s relationship though arrives when they decide to spontaneously join in, horrifying their fellow patrons with an obscene, rhythmless dance of twisting, flopping, and strutting around. In essence, this act is simply another unfiltered eruption of emotions not unlike their lovemaking, though one which they can finally perform in the open without shame.
Mirrors and backlighting as Paul chases Jeanne back to her apartment – an excellent use of rigid lines and angles in the architecture.
Still, just because two people have bared their souls to each other does not mean that they are compatible. Where the much-younger Jeanne is ready to leave this part of her life in the past and marry Thomas, Paul clings desperately to what he believes is a sustainable love, even chasing her down the street and back to her apartment. “I want to know your name,” he begs as he strokes her hair, though Jeanne’s response is double-edged, coinciding her verbal answer with a gunshot to his chest.
Maybe Paul genuinely thought he had a chance of starting a new life with Jeanne, though going by the resigned expression on his face as he stumbles out onto the balcony, it seems more likely that he always expected an early grave next to his wife. We do not witness the exact moment that life leaves him, but instead Bertolucci slowly tracks backwards from the city view to reveal his crumpled body, and further into the apartment where a dazed Jeanne begins rehearsing her lines for the police.
“I don’t know who he is. He followed me in the street. He tried to rape me. He’s a lunatic. I don’t know what he’s called. I don’t know his name.”
No one alive knows Paul like Jeanne does, and yet at the same time she isn’t entirely lying. Paul was unknowable, not only to her, but even to himself. To cast damning judgements on others is easy, but as Bertolucci so eloquently illustrates in the warped power dynamic of Last Tango in Paris, examining one’s own psychological torment is a far more dangerously frightening undertaking.
Bertolucci’s camera floats backwards from the skyline, past Paul’s crumpled body, and into a close-up of Jeanne as she rehearses her statement to the police – a stunning final shot.
Last Tango in Paris is currently available to rent or buy on YouTube.
There is no known horror greater than that faced by soldiers on the frontlines of war, and as Veronika learns through the excruciating loss of her loved ones back home, there may be no loneliness like the grief suffered by its survivors. At least in the early morning of 22nd June 1941, the last few hours of her innocence are peacefully spent exploring Moscow and watching cranes fly overhead with her boyfriend Boris, only to be disrupted by the news of Germany’s invasion. He will surely be exempt from serving, she believes, yet he barely needs a push to offer up his services. Before she knows it, he is whisked away without so much as a farewell, and Veronika is left to make sense of this unfamiliar, upside-down world.
Life is incredibly fragile in The Cranes are Flying, but so too is the spirit of a nation subjected to unfathomable trauma, and Mikhail Kalatozov’s dynamic camerawork does not spare us from the immediacy of this anguish. Ultra wide-angle lenses are his primary aesthetic of choice here, delivering a crispness in close-ups which cross the boundaries of personal space, and in long shots reveal the sheer scale of Moscow’s overwhelming affliction. What was a once a city that Veronika wandered freely rapidly transforms into an urban dystopia of sandbags and anti-tank obstacles, imposing harsh, angular beams of steel on the environment and bouncing their jagged reflections off wet pavement.
Ultra wide-angle lenses are Kalatozov’s primary aesthetic of choice here, delivering a crispness in close-ups that cross the boundaries of personal space.Moscow becomes an urban dystopia of sandbags and anti-tank obstacles, imposing harsh, angular beams of steel on the environment and bouncing their jagged reflections off wet pavement.
High and low angles dramatically intensify scenes like these, and particularly when paired with a deep focus, they also draw attention to the raw, elemental textures of mud, water, and concrete that Kalatozov’s characters tread across. His rapid, handheld camera movements generate a visceral sense of whiplash here too, efficiently adjusting shots without ever sacrificing their severe clarity. Canted angles and delirious montages further disorientate us in Kalatozov’s hyper-stylised sequences, forcing us to adopt the mindset of those driven to the brink of madness and despair. When Boris is tragically shot in battle, long dissolves uneasily bridge spinning point-of-view shots and slow-motion dreams of marrying Veronika, while her own attempted suicide later adopts a similarly kinetic frenzy.
Avant-garde surrealism in Boris’ dying visions of marrying Veronika, blending slow-motion photography, extreme camera angles, and long dissolves.Kalatozov builds his editing to a fever pitch once again as Veronika attempts suicide, placing us directly within her point-of-view.
Kalatazov is wise to hold off on these more turbulent visuals until later in the film though, instead approaching Veronika’s first major loss with brisk tracking shots as she anxiously runs through smoke, debris, and emergency workers to reach her bombed-out apartment building. The edifice is still on fire when she climbs its crumbling stairs, and the reveal of her home reduced to nothing but rubble and open-air is devastating. All at once, a future without her family suddenly comes into focus, and she is sent reeling into a state of numbing shock.
The camera traverses the living, breathing world of wartime Russia, each individual dealing with the destruction of Moscow in their own ways.Tragedy strikes close to home – devastating set pieces revealing the sheer calamity of war.Tatyana Samoylova is the heart and soul of Russia, benefitting enormously from Kalatozov’s evocative close-ups.
Within the icon of ravaged innocence that is Veronika, The Cranes Are Flying places the soul of the Russian people, and actress Tatyana Samoylova plays each beat with understated sensitivity. Kalatozov is not quite a realist when it comes to cinematic style, though his penchant for capturing faces in intimate detail still allows for more naturalistic performances, giving the impression of an ordinary world falling prey to man’s corrosive madness.
Nowhere is this more evident either than in Veronika’s rape at the hands of Boris’ cousin Mark, set against the backdrop of a violent storm of lightning, billowing drapes, and a crashing sound design. The visual direction here verges on expressionistic, lifting our heroine far outside her comfort zone and inevitably isolating her even further, as she is forced to marry the man who has effectively stolen what little of herself she has left. Meanwhile, her forced relocation to a cramped cabin in Siberia with Boris’ disapproving family severs her last remaining link to the simple life she once knew back in Moscow, leaving her agonisingly unaware of whether her true sweetheart is even alive.
Creative framing and reflections, dauntingly closing in on Kalatozov’s actors.Curtains billow and lightning flashes – the stormy weather matches Veronika’s own inner turmoil as she is raped by Mark.Delicately placed long dissolves in scene transitions, blending gorgeous close-ups with superbly blocked wide shots.
Still, somehow within all this fear and guilt, there remains salvation in a future that reveres the past. It is surely more than just coincidence which lands an orphan auspiciously named Boris in Veronika’s path when she is at her lowest, pushing her to make the first step towards rebuilding the family she lost. Neither is Kalatozov so cruel as to let her dwell in broken-hearted misery when she finally learns of her boyfriend’s tragic fate. As returning troops disembark trains and greet their families, his camera hangs steady on her teary face moving through the joyful yet suffocating crowd, striking a jarring contrast that feels almost unfair to Boris’ memory. As his friend Stepan takes the podium though, his words deliver a rousing assurance that the legacies of the fallen will become the foundation of a new promise – that no one will ever have to feel this pain again.
“We shall do everything to ensure that sweethearts will never again be parted, that mothers may never again fear for their children’s lives, that our brave fathers may not secretly hold back their tears. We are victorious and live on, not in the name of destruction, but in the name of building a new life!”
An agonising contrast between Veronika’s grief and the surrounding happiness – the war is finally over, but she is lonelier than ever.A majestic crane shot lifts above Stepan and the crowd, rousing their patriotic spirit.
Veronika’s wounds may not be healed, but we can see this peace fill her up from within as the camera gently eases off its close-up. As she hands out the flowers she had brought for Boris, her eyes are directed upwards, and there Kalatozov recalls the innocence from the film’s opening scene that we had assumed was irrecoverable. Flying over Moscow in a v-formation, another flock of cranes heralds a new era for the Soviet Union. Maybe not an era for Boris, or even for Veronika who will never be the same as she was before, but one which will see both give to younger generations the blissful, idyllic lives that the horrors and tragedies of war have stolen from them.
Marvellous bookends to Kalatozov’s narrative, returning to the titular cranes as a symbol of peace and freedom.
The Cranes Are Flying is currently streaming on The Criterion Channel.
As vibrantly scintillating as Dorothy’s journey to Oz was in 1939, the land itself was one of fantastical, faraway dreams, not so much revealing a lived-in civilisation than a vision of near-utopian perfection. This is the Oz that has cemented its iconic place in pop culture, archetypal enough for other artists to fill in its gaps with their own creative spins, yet none have come as close to its legendary status as Stephen Schwartz’s Broadway musical. Much of this is due to the perseverance of one unlikely friendship within its politically charged setting, and now that Wicked has taken to the screen, this fable is expanded to elaborate, epic proportions fitting of its narrative stakes.
Of course, such sweeping ambition is evident right from the moment Part 1 is tacked beneath the opening title, revealing that Jon M. Chu’s adaptation only covers the musical’s first act. It isn’t hard to see the financial incentives that might have cynically motivated this decision, yet the opportunity to let the story breathe and illustrate its world in more detail is far too appealing. Glimpses into Elphaba’s childhood through the opening number ‘No One Mourns the Wicked’ effectively bring greater insight into her sympathy for persecuted animals, and a brief diversion in ‘One Short Day’ similarly builds out the history of Oz itself by way of two spectacular cameos.
Even more impactful though is the intricate visual design which reimagines Oz beyond Dorothy’s dream, skilfully blending the steampunk aesthetics of the stage show with the Art Deco whimsy of the classic Hollywood film. The digital effects are far from weak, allowing for some sweeping long takes which fly across the fictional land, though it is no coincidence that many of the strongest set pieces here are executed practically. The majestic, geometric architecture of Shiz University is especially suited for Wicked’s superb musical numbers, spinning across hamster wheel-inspired library shelves in ‘Dancing Through Life’ and sinking us into the gorgeous green and purple lighting of the Ozdust Ballroom. For the sheer coordination of its editing and choreography though, ‘What is this Feeling?’ stands out as the clear highlight, mounting Elphaba and Glinda’s simmering rivalry in split screens before exploding it across the university’s dining halls, classrooms, and courtyards.
It is virtually impossible to fault the casting too, though this is no surprise given the intense behind-the-scenes competition which saw many talented actors miss the cut. Jeff Goldblum proves his eccentric, animated charm to be a perfect fit for the Wizard, and Jonathan Bailey’s Fiyero exudes a rebellious charisma which believably appeals to both the status-conscious Glinda and principled Elphaba.
Still, only so many words can be written before inevitably praising our two leading women. One of Wicked’s greatest joys is in watching a lifelong bond form between polar opposite personalities, and both Cynthia Erivo and Ariana Grande understand this intimately, bringing a reciprocated chemistry to their duets that spans contempt, joy, and deep, abiding love.
Where Grande’s bubbly improvisations make for a constant source of amusement and further elevate songs like ‘Popular’, Erivo takes on a greater share of the film’s dramatic weight as Elphaba. Having believed since childhood that her magical abilities were to be shamefully suppressed, she shields a desire for acceptance behind quick wit and guarded suspicion, only to let that hopeful innocence burst forth upon learning that these powers may be the key to finding her place in Oz. Though sung with profuse joy, the foreshadowing of her eventual infamy in ‘The Wizard and I’ only deepens the tragedy of her character arc, ultimately bringing us to its crux at the showstopping finale.
Also accompanying Elphaba’s journey are hints at a sinister, oppressive force lurking within Oz, often manifesting as propaganda and outright censorship of the animal population, and growing more apparent the closer she gets to meeting the Wizard. These minor details strengthen Wicked’s political allegory, so that by the time she is within reaching distance of her goal, the moral dilemma she and Glinda face to either join the system or challenge it is poignantly well-earned.
‘Defying Gravity’ thus arrives as the dazzling culmination of all their insecurities and convictions at the end of Part 1, and it is virtually impossible to imagine this as the mere midpoint of a film which would then anticlimactically progress to the musical’s second act. Though some muddy visual effects threaten to blur Elphaba’s flight into nondescript blurs, Chu pulls off her rise as the Wicked Witch of the West with brilliant spectacle against a cloudy, orange sunset, and Erivo too displays breathtaking musical command over the final chorus and iconic battle cry. Having already established itself as a theatrical phenomenon, this splendid combination of talents effectively claims Wicked’s cultural status within cinema as well, enchanting larger audiences with its stirring, resonant tale of Oz’s most celebrated and reviled inhabitants. The groundwork has been marvellously laid for Part 2, and the outlook is promising.
“In themselves, the pictures, the phases, the elements of the whole are innocent and indecipherable. The blow is struck only when the elements are juxtaposed into a sequential image.”
Meticulous framing through Eisenstein’s deep focus, imposing Ivan the Terrible’s distinctive profile upon the Russian people.
Best Film
Battleship Potemkin. Eisenstein’s second feature stands tall among the great works of cinema, and if that isn’t enough, it is also the best-edited film of all time. It is very much a product of the Soviet Union in its earliest years, though under the purview of an artist who understands his craft on an intimate level, it also transcends mere propaganda. The five methods of montage that Eisenstein developed in the early 1920s are cleanly distilled here in their purest forms, and from this mechanical arrangement of moving images, he composes a narrative that identifies the collective masses as their own champions. No discussion of Battleship Potemkin can go without mention of the Odessa Steps sequence either, where he orchestrates a cinematic assault on the senses into a sweeping indictment of the Tsarist regime.
Innocence versus pitiless evil in Battleship Potemkin, clearly defining the heroes and villains of Russian history through masterful, tactile montage editing.
Most Overrated
October: Ten Days That Shook the World. The TSPDT list’s ranking at #452 might only be off by 100 spots or so, but this isn’t a great travesty. Although it lacks the formal rigour of Strike or Battleship Potemkin, this is a superb demonstration of Eisenstein’s intellectual montage in action, telling the story of the October Revolution through large scale set pieces and profound political symbolism.
October beautifully demonstrates the abstraction of Eisenstein’s montage theory, particularly in its comparison of juxtaposed images to create fresh, symbolic connections. This is intellectual montage at its strongest, setting Russia’s tale of Bolshevik victory against its historic, deeply emblematic statues.
Most Underrated
Strike. A ranking of #654 on TSPDT is too low for what is one of history’s most impressive directorial debuts. Rigorous formal purpose underlies every visual and editing choice that Eisenstein makes here, using a factory strike to represent a much larger class struggle at play throughout early twentieth century Russia. While cinema was still young, few people understood its immense power in shaping political thought, and even fewer mastered this skill through a virtuosic command of moving images as Eisenstein does in Strike.
Montage extends beyond the sequential arrangement of images for Eisenstein, but also blends them into the same frame here in Strike, spinning the wheel of progress over these stoic, united factory workers.
Gem to Spotlight
Alexander Nevsky. Tempered by the Soviet state, Eisenstein approached his fourth feature as a fresh start. This film may not possess the formal innovation of his silent works, yet its venture into sound cinema maps out its historic clash of medieval armies with great finesse, and builds to a grand thirty-minute climax at the Battle on the Ice. The fantastic score from Sergei Prokofiev certainly doesn’t hurt either, rumbling and sweeping across battlefields to accompany the titular Prince’s victory over the merciless Teutonic Knights.
Vasilisa’s face is foregrounded against the frontline of Russian soldiers, embodying the grit and strength of a nation that refuses to surrender quietly.
Key Collaborator
Eduard Tisse. The other option here is Grigori Aleksandrov who assisted in various capacities, whether as an actor, assistant director, or co-director. Nevertheless, it is Tisse who had the most tangible impact on Eisenstein’s as his perennial cinematographer, shooting all his films from Strike to Ivan the Terrible. It can be easy to underrate these visuals next to the sheer triumph of editing on display, but the precision that that Eisenstein applied to montages is well supported by Tisse’s tremendously striking imagery, dipping into expressionism through lighting, blocking, and camera angles.
Strong flavours of F.W. Murnau throughout Eduard Tisse’s photography, particularly in his later work. Shadows, candles, and hooded figures make for an outstanding visual and dramatic climax in Ivan the Terrible.
Key Influence
D.W. Griffith.There are few influences to draw on this early in film history, but the comparison between these directors is especially apt given their innovations in the realm of editing and establishing the foundations of film language. Despite their vastly differing political ideologies, Eisenstein admired Griffith’s ability to evoke strong emotional reactions from his audiences, often through staggeringly large set pieces with magnificently intimate close-ups interspersed throughout.
D.W. Griffith was the first master of the long shot, close-up, and parallel editing – and Eisenstein would continue to pioneer all three.A dedication to both foreground and background as soldiers march off to war, with this shot from Alexander Nevsky mirroring the above.
Cultural Context and Artistic Innovations
Methods of Montage (1925-29)
Having studied architecture and engineering in Petrograd, fought in the Russian Civil War, and explored the world of experimental theatre, Sergei Eisenstein’s entry into cinema resulted from an amalgam of influences. It was specifically in those days of directing plays that he developed what he would call the ‘Montage of Attractions’ – the theory that by juxtaposing conflicting artistic elements, an audience could be led to specific emotional or ideological conclusions, creating a new idea that isn’t contained in any individual component. This was born from the philosophy of dialectics developed by Hegel in the early 19th century, which proposed that the evolution of human thought relied on a three-part process:
Thesis: A particular idea is posed.
Antithesis: This idea is contradicted.
Synthesis: The resolution of this conflict, leading to a new idea that incorporates elements of both thesis and antithesis.
The pinnacle of Eisenstein’s artistry arrives in Battleship Potemkin’s Odessa Steps sequence, often lampooned and paid homage to throughout history. Quite easily among cinema’s finest edited scenes.
Karl Marx would later develop this through a more material lens, framing the thesis as capitalism, the antithesis as class struggle, and the synthesis as a new socioeconomic order – socialism. Inspired by Marx’s writing, Eisenstein sought to similarly integrate dialectics into his own theory of montage.
Thesis: An initial image (eg. the Tsarist police massacring factory workers and their families).
Antithesis: A second image in conflict with the first (eg. a bull being slaughtered at an abattoir).
Synthesis: The reaction of the audience, who resolves the two conflicting images into a new idea (eg. the brutal dehumanisation of innocents).
Devastation reigns in Strike – Eisenstein’s parallel editing compares the massacre of the strikers to the slaughter of a bull, raging at the loss of innocence.
Just as Eisenstein was writing essays on these avant-garde ideas, the Soviet government was growing interested in cinema, recognising its potential as a method of mass propaganda. As such, he was one of several artists commissioned by the state to make films, officially commencing the movement of Soviet Montage Theory along with Lev Kuleshov (famed for devising the Kuleshov effect), Vsevolod Pudovkin (Mother), Alexander Dovzhenko (Earth) and Dziga Vertov (Man with a Movie Camera). There are subtle differences in the way each approached the art of montage, though it was Eisenstein who found the greatest artistic success in his five methods of montage:
Metric montage: Cutting based on a specific number of frames per shot (eg. a quickening tempo underscores the rising tension of sailors preparing to revolt in Battleship Potemkin)
Rhythmic montage: The adjustment of each shot length according to the movement unfolding onscreen (eg. watching sailors run across the frame during Battleship Potemkin’s mutiny)
Tonal montage: Editing together shots that evoke a specific mood or feeling (eg. crowds mournfully gather around the body of a fallen hero in Battleship Potemkin)
Overtonal montage: The combination of metric, rhythmic, and tonal montages to induce a more complex emotional response (eg. the devastating Odessa Steps scene in Battleship Potemkin)
Intellectual montage: The symbolic association of juxtaposed shots (eg. intercutting religious idols with the advance of the Imperial Army in October, linking the tyranny of religion to nationalism).
October’s avant-garde exercise in pure, intellectual montage – Eisenstein saw the potential to extend his craft beyond straightforward narrative convention, and creates abstract symbolism from religious and military icons.
Eisenstein’s theories were inherently opposed to the idea of seamless continuity editing and straightforward plotting, but rather suggested montage could be a dialectical form of thinking in images. Shots are meant to collide, he believed, requiring spectators to generate the resulting synthesis in their mind – a participatory act of creativity which is revolutionary in and of itself. It is certainly no coincidence that many of history’s most politically charged films feature this kind of fast-paced editing, such as D.W. Griffith’s contemptible valorising of the Ku Klux Klan in The Birth of a Nation or Oliver Stone’s conspiracy theories in JFK. On its purest level though, his montage theory can also be contained to a standalone shot with internal visual conflicts, such as heavy contrasts of light and dark or cutting through orderly frames with harsh, diagonal vectors.
Geometriccompositionthroughthe sharp angles of the factory, fanning out across the ceiling in this low angle as workers hang from the beams.
It is thanks to this firm theoretical grounding that Eisenstein approached his first two films with enormous confidence. Strike and Battleship Potemkin were released in 1925, making for one of the strongest cinematic debuts and immediate follow-ups in history. Both are set in the days of pre-Revolution Russia when proletariats suffered under the tyranny of the Tsars and their feudalist state, and in true socialist fashion, he identifies the collective masses as their own champions rather than glorifying any single protagonist. Where Strike ends with the catastrophic massacre of innocents though, Battleship Potemkin leaves us with a hopeful look towards the future, revealing the sheer versatility of his editorial orchestrations to span humanity’s full emotional spectrum.
Spies are given animalistic qualities through their code names in Strike, as well as the dissolves which blend them together in our mind. A prime example of Eisenstein’s editing serving character rather than plot.A creative use of a dissolve edit in Battleship Potemkin, visualising the threat of hanging sailors from the masts of the ship.
Here, Eisenstein also established a common motif that would continue to appear in his later films too – revealing the wickedness of his villains by depicting them as child killers. There is little room for moral ambiguity in these political fables, but it is upon this sheer disparity between good and evil that he builds his most invigorating montages, including perhaps the best-edited scene of all time in Battleship Potemkin’s Odessa Steps sequence.
The rapturous reception these early films received set Eisenstein on course to director October: Ten Days That Shook the World three years later. For the government, this was to be a grand dramatisation of the October Revolution in 1917, which saw the Bolsheviks topple the Provisional Government and officially establish the Soviet Union. Eisenstein no doubt delivers on spectacle here, and even continues his trend of opening with a quote from Vladimir Lenin, but he was evidently more interested in creating intellectual montages above all else. Although October was enthusiastically received by foreign critics, this decision to emphasise abstract visual symbolism was deeply unpopular with the Soviet government, pushing him to leave home and explore filmmaking prospects in the Western world.
Eisenstein’s knack for close-ups and framing is underrated compared to his innovations in editing, though this composition from October is a standout.The storming of the Winter Palace plays out through a series of epic imagery, flooding the vast, ornate halls with Bolsheviks at the climax of October.The Provisional Government’s leader Alexander Kerensky is set against a dour-faced Napoleon, diminishing his historical stature – Eisenstein’s intellectual montage pounds the symbolism home.
Nevertheless, these early years were Eisenstein’s most fertile artistic period, and certainly his most unrestricted. The mathematical mind that he honed as an engineering student was the same which drove him to revolutionise cinema with logical precision, seeking to understand the compositional details of art from which profound sensory experiences are born. Dissolves were not merely used to indicate the passage of time, but could be woven into montages like a legato musical phrase, while close-ups of incensed faces might alternately be played with rapid staccato. To him, this was a radical mode of creative expression for the twentieth century, uniquely attuned to his own revolutionary ideals which would symphonically swell upon waves of moving images.
A double exposure effect crushes these striking factory workers as they draw up demands in Strike.Close-ups are played like staccato montages as one man tries to turn wounded sorrow into prejudice in Battleship Potemkin, only to be faced with the anger of those seeing through his ploy.
Historical Epics (1938-46)
The ten years following the negative reception of October were turbulent for Sergei Eisenstein. After briefly dabbling in documentaries and shorts, he set off on a journey through Western Europe with his frequent collaborators Eduard Tisse and Grigori Aleksandrov, where he continued to broaden his filmmaking network. Not long after though, his attempts to break into Hollywood each ended in failure, sending him back home to the Soviet Union where he met further disappointments. His only shot at making a comeback was by appealing to Joseph Stalin, who was now exerting a more extreme censorship of the film industry than ever before.
A new era in Eisenstein’s career was beginning, shifting his focus away from experimental celebrations of modern-day Russia and towards grand historical epics. For the first time, he was also centring individual protagonists, each of whom where real-life figures whose stories were to be read as allegories for contemporary political affairs. Where his depiction of Alexander Nevsky’s medieval conquest of German invaders warned audiences of the Third Reich’s rising threat in 1938, his two-part series on Ivan the Terrible likened the Tsar to Stalin himself – much to the dictator’s initial pleasure and later disapproval.
Scenes of carnage and destruction in Alexander Nevsky, setting in a deep, sombre grief. The Teutonic Order possesses a cult-like ruthlessness with their white hoods and crosses as they torture innocent Russians.Depth of field in Ivan the Terrible, towering the Tsar’s crooked posture over a vast line of Russians stretching far into the background.
The creative limitations imposed on Eisenstein during this time may have kept his editing from reaching the avant-garde heights of his silent works, yet it is nevertheless a testament to his incredible craftsmanship that these films are still so cinematically ambitious. His renewed focus on mise-en-scene saw a slight shift towards expressionism, particularly in his production design, lighting, and blocking for Ivan the Terrible, while his exterior landscapes often featured low angles setting immaculately staged scenes against vast, grey skies.
Minimalism in Eisenstein’s framing, frequently using low angles to set actors against grey skies.Low angles again in Ivan the Terrible, painterly in their almost two-dimensional quality and beautifully textured backdrops.An incredibly recognisable profile, cast against walls in darkened shadows.
This venture into sound cinema also saw Eisenstein invite two new collaborators into his fold. Sergei Prokofiev was already a famed composer of operas, ballets, and symphonies before this partnership, but through Alexander Nevsky and Ivan the Terrible he immortalised his name in the world of cinema too. Eisenstein’s casting of Nikolay Cherkasov as the titular roles of both films similarly cemented his status as a leading actor of Soviet cinema, showcasing his range by playing extremes of rousing courage and vain cruelty.
Nikolay Cherkasov plays the titular Alexander Nevsky – the heroic Russian prince who led his people to victory against the invading Germans.Cherkasov swings far in the other direction as Ivan the Terrible, showcasing his range playing the cruel, wicked tyrant.
Eisenstein’s winning streak unfortunately came grinding to a halt after finishing Ivan the Terrible, Part II. His depiction of the historic ruler not only implied that Stalin was a ruthless tyrant, but also painted a vivid portrait of his own shifting relationship with the Soviet Union. He was no longer a filmmaker inspiring revolution through cinematic form, but rather a disillusioned artist simultaneously defying and reluctantly cooperating with an oppressive regime. Plans for Part III were immediately shelved, and Part II did not see the light of day until it was released in 1958 – ten years after Eisenstein passed away from a heart attack in 1948. Like so many artists who have worked under strict censorship laws, his output was limited, but still he carved out a legacy of montage editing that is woven into the very syntax of cinematic language.
Orson Welles would later recycle this shot in Chimes at Midnight – a forest of spears obstructing our view of the opposing forces, advancing upon Alexander Nevsky’s army at the Battle on the Ice.
Television journalist David Locke doesn’t know much about fellow hotel guest Robertson, but based on their limited conversations, it appears that he is joyfully liberated from the burdensome responsibilities that so many carry in modern society. “No family, no friends. Just a few commitments,” the mysterious Englishman shares in their first meeting. “I take life as it comes.” Now as Locke finds his new friend’s body lying cold in his room, he does what any man seeking to escape an unfaithful wife and unsatisfying job would do. This is his opportunity to make a clean break from his dull, disappointing life, reporting the death as his own and adopting Robertson’s identity.
In this moment, Michelangelo Antonioni plays a familiar trick of discontinuity that he had previously experimented with in L’Eclisse and Blow-Up, though in The Passenger it is his camera movement rather than editing which shifts our perception of reality. As Locke forges a new passport, an audiotape recording of his and Robertson’s first meeting plays over the top, and we slowly pan towards the balcony where the voiceovers imperceptibly transition into a live flashback. When their discussion begins to wrap up, Antonioni similarly drifts the camera across the room back into the present day, effectively eroding the boundaries of time and identity which have long been missing in Locke’s life. Perhaps becoming an entirely different person is the key to finding that purpose he has never known, our protagonist resolves, and thus he sets out on a globetrotting journey meeting all of Robertson’s scheduled engagements.
Locke stares down at the dead man whose identity he wishes to claim, resolving to start a new life.Camera movement plays an unusually important role for Antonioni, erasing boundaries between past and present as it floats into this flashback……and then back to the present.
The Passenger’s scope is immense, spanning multiple countries across Europe and Africa which each hold some sort of clue to Robertson’s actual identity. This narrative might conceivably sound like a mix between Alfred Hitchcock and The Talented Mr. Ripley, though Antonioni is not so concerned with the meticulous plotting of its mystery, instead framing Locke as a man aimlessly wandering both a literal and figurative desert. This is where we meet him after all, not long before he is abandoned by his guides and gets his Land Rover stuck in a dune. He can scream at the sky all he likes, but that simply drives him to the point of exhaustion, collapsing him against the car as Antonioni’s camera despairingly pans across the Sahara’s vast, flat expanse.
Locke wanders a literal and figurative desert, searching for purpose in a world that simply drives him to exhaustion.
There are no manmade structures bearing down on Locke in this environment, and no busy crowds to stifle his expressions of anguish. Even when Antonioni does introduce magnificent architectural marvels into his mise-en-scène though, these aren’t the giant, oppressive monuments of his previous films, subjugating characters to a harsh, modern civilisation. Locke is not dominated by his surroundings, but lost in them, drifting through scenes set against vast backdrops of apartment buildings, cultural landmarks, and abstract public artworks. Somewhat ironically, this is also the sort of freedom that he relishes, every so often taking the time to appreciate this newfound independence. Leaning out of a cable car spanning a channel of water, he stretches his arms wide open, and he almost seems to fly as an overhead shot revels in his liberation.
One cinema’s great overhead shots as Nicholson leans out of a cable car, and for a brief moment seems to fly across the water.Architectural marvels impose bold shapes and patterns on Locke’s environment.
Negative space is key to Antonioni’s compositions here, underscoring the emptiness which encompasses both urban and rural locations, though he often fills them in with textures that project Locke’s mental state onto the world. His outfit almost blends in with the white-washed plaster walls and green shrubs of a rustic Spanish settlement, and when he begins to realise that his wife Rachel has sent a television producer to track him down, his fragmented psyche manifests in a mosaic sculpture decorated with jagged ceramic shards.
Matching colours between Locke’s costume and surroundings, both bleeding into each other.Negative space filled with gorgeous textures, underscoring the emptiness which encompasses our protagonist at every turn.Locke’s fragmented psyche manifests in this mosaic sculpture decorated with jagged ceramic shards.
Without any clear boundaries defining these eclectic settings, the tension between Locke’s desire for both freedom and purpose sits at the heart of his inner conflict. To unite the two, he must effectively design his own labyrinth of winding paths and dead ends – and now that he has officially taken Robertson’s identity, what better artefact is there to arbitrarily craft it from than the dead man’s diary? Not even he knows what this itinerary might lead to, though it is surely more enticing a prospect than returning to the wife, house, and job that he has grown so disillusioned with.
Antonioni traps Nicholson in a modern labyrinth of winding paths and dead ends.Modern structures rise up from concrete, forming the basis of Antonioni’s long shots and world building.
Jack Nicholson is sublime in his navigation of this quest, turning in his bombastic screen persona for a subdued uncertainty that pairs nicely with Maria Schneider’s gentle encouragement, spurring him on as a loyal companion. With no name given to her other than the Girl, her identity is kept vague enough to become whatever Locke needs in any given moment. It is fitting that he should introduce her as an architecture student as well, displaying an intellectual appreciation and understanding of their environments, even if she can’t always directly assist him. He alone must be the one to pave his path forward, discovering what it means to a live a life on his own terms.
The danger that comes with this unfettered independence is simply a part of the deal, Locke reasons, but there are certainly caveats here he would rather dismiss. When he learns of Robertson’s profession as a black-market arms dealer, he does not retreat to the comfortable confinements of his old life, but instead maintains the belief that he can keep outrunning trouble before it catches up to him. With both Rachel and a militant guerrilla movement on his tail though, each believing they are looking for Robertson, it is evident that the consequences of his decisions are inevitable – and perhaps there is a subtle recognition of this in his final monologue to the Girl as they lay down together in a rural Spanish hotel.
It is fitting that Locke’s love interest should be an architecture student, their first meeting taking place in this grand cathedral loaded with history and culture.
In the story Locke tells, the joy that a blind man found in regaining his sight was quickly dashed upon realising that “the world was much poorer than he imagined.” It doesn’t take a great imagination to recognise him framing himself in this allegory of existential suffering. The darkness that once consumed them both at least concealed the truth of life’s ugliness, and in the blind man’s case, suicide was tragically the only escape.
This is not the end that Locke is destined for in the final minutes of The Passenger, though his listless resignation to an early grave certainly aligns their respective deaths. The 7-minute long take which skirts around the edges of this incident formally caps off the wandering camerawork that has pervaded the film, and perhaps even stakes its claim as the strongest single shot of Antonioni’s career, divorcing us from Locke’s perspective as he lays down in his hotel room. With only his legs in frame, we peer across the bed at the window grills, opening onto the bright, dusty courtyard where each plot thread converges at once.
A 7-minute long take, and perhaps the finest shot of Antonioni’s career, beginning with a slow creep forward past Locke in his hotel.The camera approaches the window grills and slyly slips through, seemingly defying the laws of physics.The camera floats around the dusty courtyard as narrative threads collide.
As the Girl lingers in hesitation over whether to leave, the African assassin who has been right behind Locke for some time arrives, and Rachel arrives in a police car a couple of minutes later. Drifting forward ever so slightly, Antonioni’s camera frames everything perfectly between the iron bars, before it squeezes through the narrow opening and emerges outside. Antonioni’s nifty manipulation of the set in this moment lifts us beyond Locke’s subjective perspective, effectively defying physics as we take on the role of an invisible, neutral observer wandering the scene, and patiently wait for Locke’s inevitable collision with his pursuers.
Like our protagonist, we are but passengers on this journey, fluidly taking the point-of-view of whatever character we are positioned to identify with. There is an entire world beyond Locke’s solipsistic journey, but only now as the camera circles back on the building to look through the window from the other side do we view him within alternative contexts that he was blind to. Little did he realise when stealing Robertson’s identity that he was also adopting his fated demise, and the aftermath as well reveals a complicated legacy in his wake. “Do you recognise him?” the police officer asks Rachel, whose response in finding her lifeless husband rather than Robertson is layered with profound disbelief.
“I never knew him.”
The camera turns back around to look in at the hotel room from the outside, revealing Locke’s body as his wife arrives a few minutes too late.
Given the identical position of Locke’s body from when we last saw it, we can infer that there was little struggle when the assassin entered the room. That The Passenger should conclude not with this though, but rather a far simpler shot of the Girl departing the hotel at dusk only underscores his total irrelevance in a world that keeps moving on, fading his strange, fruitless bolt for freedom into the milieu. Antonioni does not seek to overwhelm us with grief here – that would be far too straightforward in its clear distinction between life and death. Like Locke, we must confront the desolate, senseless banality of the emptiness, and continue living with it long past his consciousness is granted a merciful release.
The Passenger is not currently streaming in Australia.
