An inconsistent artistic paradox like Blood and Black Lace is hard to reckon with, but for all the flaws in its pulpy writing there are a thousand more strengths in Mario Bava’s audaciously stylistic direction, turning an Italian fashion house into a Technicolor fever dream where horrific murders explode with vibrantly expressionistic sensibilities.
The raw grit of Ken Loach’s 1960s South Yorkshire working class community bleeds through his dedication to cinematic realism in Kes, its soul-sucking structures of school and labour sapping the youthful idealism of one disillusioned teenage boy, and setting up his falcon as the sole symbol of independent freedom in this painfully oppressive world.
There is a biting dissonance at play in A Woman is a Woman, giving the impression that its characters are always on the verge of breaking out into song without ever reaching that climactic emotional outpouring, thereby turning Jean-Luc Godard’s postmodern movie-musical pastiche into a playfully formal experiment of non-sequiturs and fourth wall breaks.
Alfred Hitchcock’s flawed but fascinating unravelling of one of his greatest characters in Marnie weaves a suspenseful mystery of powerful visual motifs through her erratically compulsive behaviour, leading us deeper into her mind to discover what sort of repressed trauma is at the source of it all.
In the small city of Rochefort seven hours outside of Paris, the entwining paths of young and old lovers alike wind these dreamy idealists up in some remarkable force of fated romance, joyously orchestrated through artistic expressions of dance, music, and outrageously beautiful colours by French auteur and musical devotee Jacques Demy.
Once Upon a Time in the West’s epic narrative is more a legendary tale than anything else, as Sergio Leone stages remarkably orchestrated, suspenseful face-offs in dry, open deserts, turning outlaws, lawmen, and pioneers into mythical figures of American history.
In straddling a line between pulpy violence and sophisticated visual artistry, Point Blank astonishingly transcends all genre trappings, as John Boorman’s confounding, non-linear narrative extracts a dizzying fever dream from the vengeful quest of a wronged man across formidable urban landscapes.
The relative lack of songs in Lola should not be taken to mean that the film unfolds with any less panache, vigour, or sensitivity than a traditional movie-musical, as Jacques Demy’s brisk tracking shots and delicate editing brings a rhythmic sensibility to his musings over long-lost lovers.
In setting up a formal clash between his brazen stylistic experiments and the stagnant setting of a traditional Ukrainian village, Sergei Parajanov pushes the focus of Shadows of Forgotten Ancestors past this narrow-minded society and towards the haunting mysticism which lies both beyond its boundaries and within its own characters.
Mel Brooks’ irreverent satire of the entertainment industry’s grotesque exploitations wastes no time in zooming from one plot point to the next like a Marx Brothers routine, using the great comedic talents of Gene Wilder and Zero Mostel to not just match his brisk pace, but to push it even further.
