Category: 1972

Last Tango in Paris (1972)

Bernardo Bertolucci | 2hr 9min

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.

Fellini’s Roma (1972)

Federico Fellini | 2hr 8min

The two eras of Rome that Federico Fellini displays in his offbeat homage to the Italian city are set apart by three decades, though the boundaries separating one from the other aren’t always so clearly outlined. Hippies lounge around ancient monuments in the 1970s, air raids send civilians running for cover in the 1940s, and yet still life goes on for those who seek the simple pleasures of sex, entertainment, and good food. After all, what else is there to cling to in a world eternally bound within a state of perpetual chaos?

This is not quite the Rome chronicled in history books, nor the Rome captured with authenticity in the films of the Italian neorealists. This is Fellini’s Roma – an absurd, urban landscape defined more by its culture, politics, and traditions than any individual icon. Not to say that Fellini’s film lacks idiosyncratic characters – in fact virtually everyone here sets themselves apart from the colourful crowd – but they are simply threads woven into a larger, vibrant tapestry. Despite its familiar interrogations of modern Rome’s debauchery, Roma bears far greater resemblance to the surreal, episodic madness of Fellini Satyricon than the focused character study of La Dolce Vita. Such a grandiose defiance of narrative convention comes with some structural unevenness, though Fellini’s recreation of the city he both loathes and adores is nonetheless rich with impressionistic detail, filtering moments in time through the wily incongruity of satire and memory.

A city littered with millennia of history – fading, crumbling, yet always to be replaced with new artefacts and stories.
Hippies lounge around ancient monuments in the 1970s while bombs drop on Rome in the 1940s – parallel timelines marked by war and celebration.

If there is a consistent character in Roma whom we are to follow beyond Rome itself, then it is the strange presence of Fellini himself in two forms. The first is a semi-autobiographical representation of the director watching silent films about Ancient Rome as a child, and later moving to the Nazi-occupied city as a young man. The camera moves with him past magnificent fountains and cathedrals in travelogue-style tracking shots, before he finally finds lodging at a shabby guesthouse bustling with vain actors, rowdy children, and religious zealots. The insanity seemingly has no boundaries, populating the streets at night with noisy al fresco restaurant patrons, and still we continue weaving through the crowd as our attention jumps from a waiter carrying a plate of pasta to the young Fellini being invited to eat with friendly strangers.

Fellini self-autobiographically enters the film as his younger self moving to Rome, embracing all that the city has to offer.

This version of Fellini is often little more than a passive observer accompanying our journey, while the second cinematic representation of the filmmaker manifests as an older, wiser extension of the same man – an unseen tour guide of sorts, offering amusing descriptions and opinions on Rome’s eclectic culture through omniscient voiceover. He is our constant companion through this adventure, possessing a whimsical self-awareness as he introduces a “portrait of Rome” exactly as a young, naïve Fellini once perceived it – “a mixture of strange, contradictory images.” Later as we stumble across Italian actress Anna Magnani walking home to her palazzo, this voiceover even holds a conversation with her, distilling all the facets of Rome down to this living symbol who has lived out its many lives on film.

“Rome seen as vestal virgin, and she-wolf. An aristocrat, and a tramp. A sombre buffoon.”

Rome’s proclivity towards fascism echoes through time, dominating the culture with fervent nationalism and authoritarianism.

On occasion, Roma does not always handle these fourth wall breaks so well, leading to some patchiness in one highway scene that turns the camera back on Fellini’s own crew capturing the traffic jam. Jean-Luc Godard’s Weekend is the obvious influence here, as we observe anarchy unfold on the roads one stormy night. Dead animals, burning trucks, hippie protestors, and police barricades are illuminated under harsh spotlights to paint an image of societal breakdown, but for once the chaos seems to escape Fellini’s control.

Some vignettes in Roma are more effective than others, and the highway set piece is one that suffers in comparison.

It is evident that Fellini handles the mayhem with greater poise when he is aligning these disordered elements under unified set pieces, digging into the bedrock of culture and history the city quite literally rests upon. The wondrous regard these people hold for their heritage is not to be outdone by their relentless pursuit of progress, as industrials drills paving the way for a new transit system smash the walls of an ancient Roman house to pieces, revealing alabaster sculptures, mosaics, and frescoes that have miraculously survived for two thousand years. “Look how they seem to be staring at us,” one woman remarks as these artworks cast a stern eye upon their new visitors. Suddenly, the paint’s exposure to the outside air triggers a rapid deterioration, and thus these representatives of the ancient world cast their final judgement on modern civilisation for its graceless, irresponsible ineptitude.

The tension between past and present comes through bleakly in the industrial dig site. Attempts at establishing a new underground transit system are frequently halted by historical discoveries, and inadvertently ruin them in the process.

Still, little can erase the immense pride of a culture that annually celebrates the Festa de’ Noantri – literally translating to ‘Festival of Ourselves.’ Fellini stations his handheld camera in a car as it passes by colourful lights, bustling crowds, and folk musicians filling the air with joy, capturing a slice of the real celebration in an almost documentary-like manner, and even bringing in American writer Gore Vidal to reflect on his life in Rome. “This is the city of illusions,” he ponders to an audience of rapt listeners. “It’s a city, after all, of the church, of government, of movies. They’re all makers of illusions.”

Fellini’s location shooting soaks in the sights of the Festa de Noantri – the lights, the food, the community, everything comes together to form a lively picture of Roman celebration and joy.

Fellini does not attempt to escape from beneath the shadow of this reputation either, but rather devotes his vision of Rome to its extraordinary artifice, understanding that the truth never lies far from its projected façade. With Roma’s production taking place a few years after Vatican II, this is especially relevant to the church’s struggle of identity in a modern world, and thus he launches a scathing attack upon its attempted reinvention through a hilariously gaudy fashion show.

“Model number one: Patience in a classical line of black satin for novices,” the emcee announces to the crowd of cardinals, bishops, and nobles, as a pair of nuns walk down the catwalks in glossy habits and leather boots “suitable for Arctic wear.” Next, two more nuns with headdresses that flap like turtledove wings, priests on roller skates clad in “robes for sport,” and then men in frilly doilies swinging thuribles with choreographed panache – “Elegance and high fashion for the sacristan in first-class ceremonies.” The ecclesiastical accoutrements only grow more ridiculous, eventually culminating in the arrival of the Pope himself on a blinding white set, radiating sunbeams as the audience collapses to their knees in awe.

The true highlight of Roma comes in the form of an ecclesiastical fashion show, sending up the material obsession of the Catholic Church is it seeks a connection to modern culture. Particularly magnificent costume work from Danilo Donati.

Costume designer Danilo Donati must be commended for the visual extravagance of this vignette, though it is Fellini’s genius which unites each garment under a single, scathing criticism of religious hypocrisy, and its attempts to win modern audiences through material spectacle. Then again, how can we blame the church for appealing to the masses in such an excessive manner when the people themselves are so blinded by escapist self-indulgence? Men from across the lower and upper ends of this society are far more likely to frequent local bordellos for a taste of intimacy, as Fellini only separates their endeavours by the sophistication of the facilities themselves. In the shabbier brothel, a long corridor fills with working class men hoping to pair off with a woman, before it is eventually shut down by police. In the more luxurious one, older men take their pick of the escorts before taking an elevator up into grand bedrooms decorated with red wallpaper and classical paintings.

An up-class and rundown brothel continue to draw parallels between different segments of Rome, uniting its men as seekers of physical pleasure.

Art and entertainment similarly prove to be effective distractions from the ills of the modern world, manifesting in the 1970s as a film director neglecting to depict the negative aspects of Rome, and in the 1940s as a vaudeville show that unites audience members in laughter, bawdiness, and nationalistic sentiment. The musical and comedy acts run for a little too long here, but the announcement of Germany and Italy’s successful defence of Sicily that interrupts the performances is worth it, erupting in disconcerting cries of support from the crowd.

The irony that this jubilant resolve dissipates into pandemonium the moment sirens start blaring a few short moments later is not to be missed. “Whose baby is this?” one patron shouts upon discovering a baby left alone in the evacuated theatre, while outside Fellini shoots the emptying streets in a chilly blue wash. Though present-day Rome has long moved past the terror and instability of World War II, the insecurity that comes to light here is a ghost that continues to haunt this city – a city which, as Vidal elucidates, “has died so many times and was resurrected so many times.”

A haunting juxtaposition between Rome’s nationalistic celebration and the violent bombing a few short minutes later – this is a snapshot of a city in turmoil, at odds with its own contradictions.

More specifically, it is Rome’s historical inclination towards fascism which can’t quite be expelled from its culture, and which becomes the subject of the town fool’s rhyming couplets comparing Italian dictators across time. “This fascist shit, his head is split,” he cackles at a damaged statue of Julius Caesar, before turning his insubordinate poem to the 1940s.

“Now we’ve got another meanie,

By the name of Mussolini.”

Fellini’s obvious disdain towards the police in the 1970s timeline formally brings this partisan statement full circle, noting that despite the political lull, there remains an oppressive, authoritarian influence quashing freedoms in contemporary Rome. These people may find any excuse for a communal celebration of family, art, food, or religion, and yet such lively passions can sway dangerously towards prejudice with the right provocation. “It seems to me the perfect place to watch if we end or not,” Vidal predicts, and by the end of Roma, Fellini has thoroughly substantiated his claim. Within this vividly surreal portrait, its culture is a vibrant epicentre of history and modernity, community and intolerance, highbrow art and lowbrow entertainment – and worth cherishing in all its wonders, contradictions, and flaws.

Fellini’s Roma is currently available to buy from Amazon.

Cries and Whispers (1972)

Ingmar Bergman | 1hr 31min

Merely describing the vibrant colour palette that consumes the four women of Cries and Whispers as red wouldn’t quite do its richness justice. Its carpets, furniture, and drapes are shaded a deep, vibrant crimson, bleeding an arresting sensuality throughout the 19th-century Swedish manor which most of its inhabitants are incapable of expressing themselves. This is the colour of the human soul, Ingmar Bergman rationalises in his screenplay, but it also represents blood and passion, drawing this family household to the edge of its sanity where an almost fantastical dream state takes over.

The white and black tones which puncture Bergman’s neatly curated interiors offer a stylistic counterpoint to these saturated reds, though they too confine characters within a rigorous dichotomy, presenting purity and life on one side while grief and death beckon from the other. Neither Karin’s cold severity nor Maria’s flighty temperament can offer the solace that their dying sister Agnes needs in her final days, and so the spiritual strength that their housemaid Anna finds to escape this scarlet membrane brings a redemptive grace to her mortal suffering.

Cries and Whispers is simply one of the greatest displays of mise-en-scène put to screen, drifting through these powerful colour compositions of red, black, and white with masterful blocking.

The Madonna and Christ allegory which Bergman draws so delicately in his imagery is especially apparent in this relationship between Anna and Agnes, seeing the latter abandoned by all her loved ones save for a single mother figure. Through her cries and screams, she expresses the pain that others would much rather stifle in a “web of lies,” while finding maternal nourishment in Anna’s warm embrace. It isn’t hard to see where this nurturing compassion comes from either – early on we find Anna praying for her deceased daughter, simultaneously mourning her lost innocence and demonstrating an unconditional faith in God. As she bears her breast and reads from a storybook, Bergman nestles her face against Agnes’ in a tightly framed composition of profound intimacy, filling in the void that each feel in their respective losses of a biological mother and child.

Even while Bergman’s photography flourishes in its wide shots, his trademark blocking in close-ups is still very present, especially in the intimate bond between Agnes and Anna.

It is a wonder that this love abides in a household of such glacial friction, distilled so hauntingly in one dream sequence following Agnes’ death. Both she and Anna’s daughter are effectively resurrected here with Christlike parallels, as it is the sound of a young girl’s crying which leads Anna through the mansion’s red corridors to the bedroom where Agnes lies. Outside, Karin and Maria stand frozen. Agnes’ face is barely seen as she speaks to each of them, disembodying her voice as she invites them inside. “I want nothing to do with your death,” Karin cruelly asserts before exiting, while Maria’s show of affection crumbles into fear the moment her sister reaches out and grasps her hand. Only Anna is there to nurse Agnes’ frail body through the pain, as Bergman arranges them in an extraordinary tableau evoking the Pietà – the theological icon of Mary cradling Christ’s body after his descent from the cross. This is also one of the few shots in Cries and Whispers which sees Bergman relinquish his crimson palette to clean, white tones, bathing both women in a sea of spiritual purity.

A divine tableau evoking the Pietà, as Anna cradles a mortal Agnes in her arms.

Even beyond this explicitly surreal sequence, there is an atmosphere of otherworldly detachment that persists in the narrative’s quiet, languid flow, echoing Bergman’s previous film The Silence. “I hear only the wind and the ticking of clocks,” Anna remarks at one point, reflecting on the subtle, dialogue-free sound design, representing the “wind” as Agnes’ rattling gasps for air. Together, these rhythmically embody what editor Ken Dancyger describes as “the continuity of time and life,” and merge with formal cutaways to swinging pendulums and moving minute hands. The mystical pull of mortality is felt on every level of Bergman’s direction, luring us into the uneasy mind of each sister and empathising with their emotional disconnection.

“I sometimes wander through this childhood home of ours, where everything is both strange and familiar… and I feel like I’m in a dream, and some event of great importance lies in store for us.”

Bergman runs this superb formal motif of ticking clocks through his sound design and cutaways, making the passage of time fully tangible.

Key to Bergman’s construction of this reverie are those scarlet fades which elliptically bridge one scene to the next, lifting us outside the passage of time altogether. They also formally mark our escapes into his characters’ minds, pairing with close-ups of each woman’s face half-obscured in shadow and drenching them in his bloodred hue, before entering the deeper levels of their subconscious. While Anna’s thoughts manifests as a dream, Agnes, Karin, and Maria’s backstories emerge in flashbacks, blurring fantasy and memories in a magical realist style presaging Fanny and Alexander.

Bergman’s other main motif in Cries and Whispers are the elliptical red fades over close-ups, often as we slip into the dreams and flashbacks of his characters.

This is also where Ingrid Thulin and Liv Ullmann excel in further developing the prickly weaknesses of their characters, seeing both distance themselves from their husbands to violent results. While Maria’s affair with a visiting doctor drives Joakim to feebly attempt suicide via seppuku, Karin turns a shard of shattered glass on herself in a self-mutilating display of hatred. After cutting her genitals in front of Fredrik, she smears the blood across her face with a contemptuous smile, simultaneously absorbing the red palette of her surroundings and destroying any means of sexual connection.

Viscerally uncomfortable violence and self-mutilation spills out from the silent contempt between husbands, wives, and sisters, driving each other further away.

In the present, both continue to live with the consequences of their selfishness and hatred. Karin recoils at the slightest touch of affection, paradoxically rejecting the kindness of her sister even as she craves it, and Maria is still a slave to her own fickle desire for pleasure and attention. When the doctor returns, her attempt to rekindle their affair meets nothing more than a cold description of how her appearance has festered with her apathy, and of course Bergman plays the entire monologue out in a single close-up studying every detail of Ullmann’s silent reaction.

“Look in the mirror. You’re beautiful. Perhaps even more than when we were together. But you’ve changed and I want you to see how. Now your eyes cast quick, calculating, side glances. You used to look ahead straightforwardly, openly, without disguise. Your mouth has a slightly hungry, dissatisfied expression. It used to be so soft. Your complexion is pale now. You wear makeup. Your fine, wide brow has four lines above each eye now. You can’t see them in this light, but you can in the bright of day. You know what caused those lines? Indifference. And this fine contour from your ear to your chin is no longer so finely drawn – the result of too much comfort and laziness. And there, by the bridge of your nose. Why do you sneer so often? You see that? You sneer too often. You see it? And look under your eyes. The sharp, scarcely noticeable wrinkles from your boredom and impatience.”

Liv Ullmann is on a transcendent run at this point in her career. Even though Erland Josephson is delivering this monologue, it is her face that Bergman’s camera lingers on, examining the details written into its creases and glances.

When we consider how favoured Maria was by her mother above her sisters, the psychological roots of her shallow vanity and strained family relations become evident. It is a clever formal touch from Bergman to double cast Ullmann as the mother as well in Agnes’ childhood flashbacks, suggesting that the two characters she plays are not so different, and sensitising us even further to the subjective nature of these sisters’ memories.

Within this ensemble, only Agnes seems to treat these recollections with some self-awareness, so it is fair to reason that this is why her recollections eliminate those dreamy red fades and instead play out with the pensive voiceover of her diary. Though her mother could be a “playfully cruel” paradox at times, Agnes also confesses that she understands her much better with age, empathising with “her boredom, her impatience, her longing, and her loneliness.”

Ullmann also has the brief but significant role of the mother, only ever appearing in flashbacks – it is her ghost that hangs over the sisters in the present day.
This would be Harriet Andersson’s last role in a Bergman film until Fanny and Alexander in 1982, and though her screen time is far less than Ullmann or Thulin’s, she makes her mark with her tortured, dying screams.

Given how walled off Karin and Maria are from their own spiritual conscience, the redemptive peace that their sister discovers in her suffering is not one that either can grasp at this point in their troubled lives. For Agnes at least, salvation can be found just beyond the red walls of her physical confinement, as Bergman ends Cries and Whispers on a memory that is entirely free of that radiant hue. Only when we look to a happier past can we venture outside this oppressive manor and into bright, sunny gardens, as she walks with her Karin, Maria, and Anna in white dresses. In the triad of tones which form Bergman’s dominant palette, it is that colour which represents grace that lives on in Agnes’ legacy, illustrating her profound gratitude for life.

One of the few shots in the film where red is entirely absent, instead emphasising the pure whites which cloak each sister and their maid in flashback.

“Thus, the cries and whispers fall silent,” Bergman’s epitaph reads, drawing spiritual peace from humanity’s emotional and physical anguish. His wrestling with matters of faith has never been so vividly illustrated as it is here in a film that stands among the greatest uses of colour in cinema, untangling the stunted relationships and regretful insecurities of these four women through their surreal, tortured dreams.

Cries and Whispers is currently streaming on The Criterion Channel, and is available to rent or buy on Apple TV.

Cabaret (1972)

Bob Fosse | 2hr 15min

For the bohemian misfits of Cabaret, it is easy enough to believe that the Kit Kat Club is a safe refuge to escape the political tensions of Germany’s Weimar Republic, tucking them away into a small, dark pocket of Berlin where sexual and creative freedoms may flourish onstage. Within these walls of distorted mirrors and black show curtains, Joel Grey is our pale-faced, gender-fluid Master of Ceremonies, irreverently commenting on the world outside with his bawdy musical numbers. When his songs aren’t breaking the narrative up like fleeting escapes into the artistic minds of its characters, Bob Fosse is skilfully intercutting them with scenes of hope, love, and violence, orchestrating a vivid tension between the dwindling, carefree escapism of one subculture and the burgeoning totalitarianism of another.

Cabaret is steeped in this dramatic irony right from the opening scenes, where the Emcee’s multi-lingual welcome to his realm of riotous laughter and his burlesque wrestling act briefly passes over a Nazi being kicked out. Clearly his greeting only extends so far – those who preach intolerance have no place in this diverse melting pot of nationalities, sexualities, and identities, and it is with that ethos in mind that British writer Brian finds a home among its patrons. It is especially with its bubbly American cabaret singer, Sally Bowles, who he strikes up an affectionate friendship with, after moving into the boarding house where she resides.

Expressionism in Fosse’s mise-en-scène, lighting up this stage with silhouettes and striking poses.

Carrying on the tradition of musical excellence set by her famous Hollywood parents, Liza Minnelli takes the spotlight here as the flighty, wide-eyed singer onstage at the Kit Kat Club, living life like one long song and dance she never wants to end. Relationships are easy to come by for her, calling friends and strangers alike “darling” within the first thirty seconds of meeting them, and falling for new lovers like one might try on a new outfit.

If Minnelli belongs to a lineage of movie-musical actresses that her mother, Judy Garland, sits atop of, then Sally’s characterisation can similarly be drawn back to the 1930s, where Marlene Dietrich’s playful cabaret headliner, Lola Lola, stole the hearts of multiple men in The Blue Angel. Upon vibrant stages respectively designed to the audacious visual stylings of Josef von Sternberg and Bob Fosse, both women strike dramatic poses on chairs and sing rousing love songs, passionately dedicating their voices and bodies to the art of performance. It is also notable that in one scene of Cabaret, Sally even name drops Emil Jannings, Dietrich’s co-star, suggesting to someone she is trying to impress that she knows him well.

Liza Minnelli takes centre stage as Sally Bowles in one of the great performances of the 1970s, exploding onstage with impassioned musical numbers and offstage carrying a complex character arc.

For all her messy flaws and idiosyncrasies though, Sally is a far less antagonistic character than Lola Lola, as Cabaret chooses instead to offer her great empathy for her naïve hope that the world is a better place than it is. Right after her first kiss with Brian, Fosse bathes her heartfelt solo ‘Maybe This Time’ in a gentle blue and orange light, while passionately blending it with scenes of their blossoming love. Despite their many differences, both possess a youthful ambition that drives them forward in their creative endeavours, as well as an open-mindedness to alternative lifestyles that make it easy enough for them to gradually grow their friend circle. Soon enough, they are joined by wealthy playboy Maximilian, German merchant Fritz, and Jewish heiress Natalia, and between the five of them Fosse draws out a rich web of complex relationships. Sally delights in some light mocking of Natalia’s posh manner, flippantly turning casual conversation to the subject of syphilis, and elsewhere jealousy roils around in love triangles and affairs, leading to revelations that sting with playful honesty.

“Screw Maximilian!”

“I do.”

“So do I.”

For now, each of these characters are living with some level of privilege, though as the political climate within Berlin shifts, tougher, life-changing decisions await them further down the line. Sally’s accidental pregnancy brings fears of settling down to the surface, pushing her to seek out an illegal abortion, but perhaps even more concerning than this is the love which emerges between Natalia and Fritz, who realises he must announce his Jewish heritage if he wishes to marry her. Back in the Kit Kat Club, the Emcee amusingly maintains his love for a gorilla in the number ‘If You Could See Her Through My Eyes’, right before landing the punchline that he is really defending the fact she is a Jew. The social satire is evident, but in his sharp editing Fosse is making an even sharper point about the nature of this entertainment – any social issue that holds real weight on the outside is humorously undercut in the club, which is simply not equipped to handle the real world with any sincerity.

‘If You Could See Her Like I Do’ is an amusing musical number that packs an even better punchline. A masterfully comedic performance from Joel Grey.

As cabaret performers send up traditional German folk dance wearing flamboyant lederhosen, Fosse punctuates each comical slap with the beating of the club’s owner in the alley outside by a gang of Nazi youths. As the Emcee leads a burlesque army of dancers in Nazi regalia, ridiculing their customs and mannerisms, we cut to Natalia discovering her brutally slaughtered dog in her yard. Fosse’s editing lays down a bold formal contrast in this way, setting close-ups of exaggerated facial expressions and swinging limbs against hateful, violent atrocities taking place outside, and choreographing them all to the cabaret’s cheeky rhythms.

Juxtaposing the light irreverence of the club with the horrific darkness of 1930s Germany. One of the best edited films of the decade, thanks to Fosse’s unique skills.

Given the birthplace of expressionism in early twentieth century Germany, it is fitting that Fosse brings this stark visual style to his smoke-filled cabaret numbers, cutting out sharp silhouettes of his performers as they strike dramatic poses up onstage. Though there is certainly visual beauty outside the club in the brown décor of the boarding house and some flourishes of camerawork around his characters, Fosse evidently prefers the stage to reality for its theatrical spice. Like von Sternberg before him, he carries a keen sense of cinematic blocking in these settings, foregrounding legs, chairs, and bodies that frame performers as they dance. Along the walls and up on the ceiling, he hangs wavy mirrors that uneasily distort his actors’ faces, especially reflecting the expressions of the exuberant Emcee who might be a little too cheerful for our comfort.

Fosse obfuscates his frames in these compositions much like Josef von Sternberg before him, building his mise-en-scène around Minelli.
Distorted mirrors offer an undercurrent of warped darkness to the cabaret, marking both the opening and closing shots of the film.

The Kit Kat Club is no doubt a exciting place for thespians and free spirits, but bit by bit, the sinister undertones pressing in on it grow too significant to ignore. The complacency that allows such virulent antisemitism to breed in Germany is not just confined to our main characters, though they certainly typify that thinking.

“The Nazis are just a gang of stupid hooligans, but they do serve a purpose. Let them get rid of the Communists. Later we’ll be able to control them.”

As much as Fosse’s characters dismiss them as mere pests, his camera never treats them as anything less than a terrifying threat to the very foundations of liberty and justice. While a dead Communist bleeds out on a street in broad daylight, he cuts between parts of his frozen tableau, where Nazis and onlookers stand around in chilling silence.

Chilling montage editing underscoring the stillness of this brutal murder.

Perhaps the most disturbing depiction of their political ascension though is one which does not depict any sort of physical violence at all, as Brian and his friends drop in at a rural beer garden for an easy day out, only to be met with a young, blonde boy singing the only song of Cabaret which does not take place inside the club, ‘Tomorrow Belongs to Me’. As the camera pans down from his face to reveal a Swastika patched on his sleeve, this ode to Germany’s natural scenery transforms into a militant anthem for the Third Reich, and around him, the rest of the audience stands one by one, adding their stern voices to the chorus. Fosse does not exempt this wildly disparate song from his zealous montage editing either – as he energetically cuts between close-ups of the proud faces in the crowd, he is sure to slip in some shots of the unhappy few who remain seated, resisting the overwhelming wave of fervent nationalism.

Rhythmic montage editing again in the only musical number that doesn’t take place in the Kit Kat Club, serving an entirely disturbing tone.

Sure enough, there is little any of our characters can do about Germany’s shifting political landscape by this point. After a rage-fuelled confrontation with a pair of Nazis campaigning on the street, Brian is left with nothing but a black eye and the realisation that his love for Sally does not outweigh his own fears and ambition. Not long after, he departs Berlin, leaving his cabaret-loving sweetheart to keep singing her heart out to whoever is left to watch her perform, dazzled by her own dreams that she is too naïve to realise will never flourish under the reign of the Nazi party.

“Life is a cabaret,” she joyously proclaims. “We have no troubles here,” asserts the grinning Emcee. But it is hard to read this delusional ending as anything but a tragedy as the camera pans across the warped mirrors one last time to view the twisted reflections of the uniformed Nazis, now dominating the audience. For the first time, there is no music playing in the Kit Kat Club, or even any movement among its patrons. There is simply an eerie, deadening silence, banishing whatever traces of dissent once held the power to overcome it, but which instead chose to keep partying on inside its tiny, bohemian bubble.

A silent pan across the distorted mirrors, revealing an audience now consisting almost entirely of Nazis – a horrifying pay-off to the steady rise we see leading up to it.

Cabaret is not currently streaming in Australia.

Aguirre, the Wrath of God (1972)

Werner Herzog | 1hr 34min

At one point in the final act of Aguirre, the Wrath of God, after each member of Don Lope de Aguirre’s expedition has either succumbed to the ruthless Peruvian wilderness or their own madness, one of them makes note of seeing a wooden ship lodged high up in the branches of a tree. Another brushes it off as a hallucination, and we may believe that to be the case, until we cut right to that surreal image.
 
Up until this point, Werner Herzog has held back from submerging us into the confusion of his explorers, grounding the piece in handheld camerawork that allows us to see them as they are – an absurd band of conquistadors who are dressed more appropriately for the royal courts of 16th century Spain than the unforgiving jungles of South America. And yet in this moment, at the peak of their insanity, this boat perched in a tree forces us to reconsider our own assessment of reality. If it is real, then this is a fearsome demonstration of the forest’s true destructive capability. If it isn’t, then these men are mentally too far gone to navigate their way home, let alone to the fabled country of El Dorado.

A hint of surrealism – is this vision a demonstration of nature’s raw power or humanity’s confounding delusion?

Above them, low-hanging clouds shroud rocky mountains with steep slopes dropping into thick, verdant jungles. High-pitched choral harmonies accompany these epic images, and yet there is something off about this music. In fact, these aren’t voices at all, but rather a choir-organ hypnotically ringing out an inhuman drone, lingering in the uncanny valley of sound. This may have once been a spiritual realm, but God has long abandoned this part of His creation. Now, it has grown into a dense mass of foliage, broken up only by coursing brown rivers which can always be heard even when they are not visible. This domain of natural chaos does not stand down peacefully for foreigners trying to introduce their own ideas of order.

The camera tilting down a Peruvian mountain in the opening shot as an inhuman choir rings out, before settling on the trail of conquistadors and nobles hiking a dangerous path.

Leading the cast as the delusional Aguirre is Klaus Kinski, whose pale blue eyes seem to be both glassed over as if in a trance, and widened in sheer, haunted terror. The combination of both these expressions suggests a man who quietly registers the danger around him, and yet who cannot help but bury his fear deep into his subconscious, lest it should distract from his own ambition.
 
The overgrown branches, trunks, and vines of his environment frequently obstruct and crowd out frames, consuming Aguirre and his fellow conquistadors in the rainforest’s overgrown vegetation as they try to hold farcical trials and elections. Herzog often blocks them in staggered compositions, sketching out their disorientation which only serves to fuel their self-defeating acts of meaningless violence. They burn down a village with no clear purpose, kill a native when he expresses ignorance of the Christian bible, and push their only horse off the raft when they start to find it annoying. Even the diary entries which have structured this narrative through an organised measurement of time are eventually lost, as one man drinks the ink thinking it is medicine. In a pathetic attempt to reinvigorate the spirits of his men, Aguirre encourages his musical companion to play his pan flute, but this breathy, jaunty tune simply feels like a cruel taunt as it underscores rhythmic montages of the sprawling jungle.

The thick, verdant vegetation, low-lying clouds, and brown rivers at direct odds with these Spanish invaders. This seems to be an important text for Francis Ford Coppola in the production of Apocalypse Now.

In bookending this film with two all-time magnificent shots, Herzog contrasts the start and end of Aguirre’s maddening journey. No longer can he sit and be awed by the terror of his environment – now, he is completely consumed by his own ego, and Herzog’s dizzying 360 shot effectively turns him into the centre of his own world. Around him, the monkeys of the forest snatch away the remaining supplies, and the bodies of his companions drift away down the river to decompose. In these final seconds, all at once, nature has never been so frightening, and humanity has never been so stubbornly delusional.

A 360-degree tracking shot circling Aguirre’s meagre raft in the very last shot, isolating him as a god in his own mind, destined to perish like the others.

Aguirre, the Wrath of God is currently streaming on SBS On Demand.

The Godfather (1972)

Francis Ford Coppola | 2hr 55min

Did Francis Ford Coppola realise in 1972 what he was putting out into the world? Surely there was a sense that he was creating something that would be critically successful, but the reverence for The Godfather has become so much of its own beast that he himself has admitted to feeling dwarfed by his creation. To praise this any further would be to contribute to the discourse that has tragically sapped his stamina as a director, but regardless – it remains one of the greatest pure narratives put to film in its sheer economy, and that it manages this while unravelling such a dense and sprawling story speaks to the monumental ambition that underlies its cinematic execution.

Though The Godfather is based on the Mario Puzo novel of the same name, it is often Greek mythological conventions which feel more baked into its structure, with archetypes of sons replacing fathers, an overseas journey leading back home, and fatal flaws spelling out the end for several characters. In transposing such classical storytelling traditions onto a 1940s Italian American crime family, Coppola effectively creates an epic poem for the twentieth century, captivated by the details of an underworld established by men who did not find the equality or justice they were promised when they first immigrated to New York. Perhaps this complex interaction of dreams and values is most pointed in the scene of Paulie’s assassination that sees him driven out to a wheat field and shot in the back of the head, with Coppola’s wide shot catching the Statue of Liberty quietly rising up over the horizon like a silent witness to the mafia’s crimes. 

The first truly shocking murder of the film, with the Statue of Liberty framed as a tiny figure in the distance.

Even the very first words of the film set up these thematic aspirations, with Sicilian undertaker Bonasera’s immortal line, “I believe in America.” Though he is a minor character, he is our way into the world of the Corleones, coming to Don Vito on his daughter’s wedding day to ask a favour as per cultural tradition. Bonasera is a man who has drifted too far from his roots, though in realising how America’s institutions have failed him, he falls back on the Corleone family’s loyalty and sense of justice, both of which are far more powerful than anything the United States might offer.

Shrouded in darkness and delivering a monologue with hints of repentance, one might initially presume that Bonasera has come to a small chapel to confess his sins to a priest, but even when the actual context becomes evident, Coppola still maintains that air of religious authority and reverence around Vito. These pitch-black backgrounds pierced by pinpoints of lights and faces are typical of cinematographer Gordon Willis, whose moniker “The Prince of Darkness” is well-earned by his work here on The Godfather. Perhaps even more shocking though is its visual and tonal contrast to the bright, rambunctious wedding of Connie Corleone that lies right outside, its joyous festivities just as integral to the Corleone empire as their quiet, underhanded dealings. This nearly half-hour long sequence sets the stage for the film’s expansive ensemble of characters, each line and shot serving a purpose right down to Paulie eyeing off a purse of cash, tipping us off about his treacherous, greedy aspirations.

Gordon Willis, “The Prince of Darkness” earning his credentials here with superbly lit interiors and close-ups, turning the room into a quiet space of deep reverence.

Michael Corleone’s place in this family is teased here before we even meet him, with Vito stopping a family photo from going ahead without his son. Just the sight of Michael arriving late with his military uniform and non-Italian girlfriend, Kay, tells us all we need to know about his semi-estrangement. Here is a model of American citizenry, reserved in his interactions and denying involvement in his family’s sordid affairs, though clearly not so ostracised that he has started an entirely new, separate life altogether. The cold-blooded transformation that Al Pacino puts into motion from this point on is simply remarkable. There are a multitude of scenes that could be picked out to exemplify his tour-de-force performance, from Michael’s first murder to his chiding of his brother, Fredo, though it is in the gradual progression from the quietly disconnected man we see at the wedding to the one ascending to the role of Godfather at the end of the film that the full force of his acting achievement lands with its full weight. 

Al Pacino and Marlon Brando battle it out for the best performance of this film. Both are unforgettable.

Arguably the only other actor to outdo Pacino here is Marlon Brando himself, whose mumbling, bulldog-cheeked Vito Corleone stands powerfully above every other character, including those who try to cut him down to size. Though it is only really in the first scene where we see him at his full power before the attempt on his life, his presence and influence hangs over so many others as well, most of all those in which his children struggle beneath the weight of his legacy. Where the hot-headed Sonny lacks the wisdom of his father and the weak-willed Fredo lacks the nerve, we come to realise during Michael’s hospital visit that he alone carries the virtues necessary to lead. While Vito is recovering in bed, Michael uses his wits to fend off further attacks, and as he lights the cigarette of a trusted ally shaking in his boots, Coppola cuts to his perfectly still hands, revealing a cool, keen propensity for handling high-pressure situations. 

At this point in his arc though, he still has a long way to go to attain the same authority as his father. Long dissolves are often Coppola’s tool of choice in visually setting Vito up as the powerful man pulling the strings, with a particularly notable one landing after the scene of a movie producer waking up to find his prized horse’s head in his bed, fading from the exterior of his house to a close-up of the Don himself. There is a weighty implication in the merging of such images, as those shots of his face dominating landscapes and wides vividly turn him into a larger-than-life being. 

Coppola setting himself up as one of the great film editors of the 1970s with these long dissolves, an effective device he will later continue in The Godfather: Part II and Apocalypse Now.

Michael also eventually receives special treatment in the editing room when he takes over the family business, though it is also at this point where Coppola’s style takes a sharp turn. His reign is not defined by graceful long dissolves, flowing gently from one shot to the next, but is rather brought in with a montage, cross-cutting between scenes of violence and religion with one thing in common – the birth of a new Godfather, both to Connie’s newborn son and to a community of Sicilians. 

A landmark of cinematic montages. The complex display of parallel cutting here is a masterful balance of wrapping up several lingering plot threads, violently setting Michael up as the new Godfather.

It is here that Nino Rota’s sly, winding waltz of oboes, trumpets, and strings that has defined the Corleone family momentarily takes on an entirely new timbre – that of a deep, resonant church organ, adopting pieces of the main melody and twisting them into something truly ominous. Coppola’s style of depicting murders also dramatically shifts, taking a step back from the shocking bursts of violence which give us only a few seconds of warning, and instead drawing the suspense of multiple assassinations out over several minutes. As Michael confesses his belief in the Catholic Church, renounces Satan, and pledges his duty as Godfather to the baby screaming in the background, so too does he mark his ascent to the role with a vicious massacre of all those who underestimated him, solidifying his power with a single, devastating statement of his dominance.

As questions of keeping personal and business lives separate roil through this deft screenplay, the door that closes between Michael and Kay in Coppola’s final shot effectively severs the two in such a way that Vito certainly never intended. To him, business was inherently personal, inviting family members and friends into his inner circles with trust and generosity, though in Michael’s damning decision to lie to Kay about his work when she asks for the absolute truth, he carries on almost everything from his father’s legacy, save for his passionate Sicilian heart. The Godfather is a story of generations handing power from one to the next, but in the dynamic culture of mid-twentieth century America, these natural cycles are perverted by a new, corporate society, born from the same ancient traditions they inevitably end up destroying.

An ice cold final shot – Michael’s ascension to Godfather severing his personal and business lives for good.

The Godfather is currently available to stream on Stan and Paramount Plus, and is available to rent or buy on iTunes, YouTube, and Google Play.

The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie (1972)

Luis Buñuel | 1hr 41min

Even after all the dream sequences and absurd tangents that The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie goes on, somehow it still stands high above the rest of cinema history as one the greatest demonstrations of film form. There are certainly some scenes that stand about the rest, but its success cannot be nailed down to one singular moment. Rather, it is how each successive scene builds on previously established motifs and ideas that gives the film such formal rigour, and which serves to bolster Luis Buñuel’s acidic attacks on Europe’s wealthy ruling classes.

The repetition of a dinner party that never quite gets going is the main running thread, coming to represent the affluent’s unyielding dedication to preserving their social status. These are cultural rituals filled with vapid conversations and obsessive demonstrations of superiority, and yet each rude interruption reveals the meetings to be nothing more than façades masking gluttony, insecurity, incompetence, debauchery, and narcissism.

Dinner party after dinner party after dinner party – what else is one so wealthy and carefree supposed to do with their time? Each one comically interrupted by some absurd intrusion.

Buñuel continues to strip back the layers of class and civility in the second half, probing into the nonsensical nightmares of his six central characters and exposing their greatest anxieties. Most of these dreams play out in extended sequences, escalating towards the public humiliation of these men and women. The first one involves a sudden recognition during a dinner party that they are onstage in front of an audience, and they have forgotten their lines. This dream is nested inside another, in which Rafael, the ambassador for fictional South American country Miranda, is uncomfortably confronted with questions about his nation’s failing economy – not at all like the frothy small talk he is used to.

It’s all one big show – the aristocrats caught out, the artifice of their lives exposed.

These continue to escalate, eventually leading to the execution of all six aristocrats during a dinner party. Raphael escapes by hiding under a table, but he can’t help reaching up to grab a piece of meat, feebly falling prey to his own gluttonous impulses and thereby giving himself away. Once again, Buñuel reveals the emptiness of the threat by revealing this was yet another dream, playing with his narrative structure to consistently give these aristocrats the easiest way out of any tricky situation. After all, this is the closest any of them will get to real danger.
 
Buñuel’s world is larger than these six people though. We spend a fair amount of time with a Bishop, who only ever seems to gain respect while dressed in his robes, and through his character, religion at large is branded with its own specific kind of hypocrisy. He is called to be a pious, benevolent servant of his community, but he only ever seems to serve the wealthy. At one point when asked to deliver the last rites to his father’s killer, he only does the bare minimum before landing a vengeful, killing blow. Buñuel goes on to savagely attack the ruling elite classes of business, state, and military industries, exposing the irrational egocentricity that structurally holds them together.

The Bishop, perhaps the most interesting character of them all, acting as a scathing indictment of the church.

Built into the connective tissue of The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie are scenes of the six aristocrats walking down a long country road, far away from the opulent mansions and restaurants they are so comfortable hiding in. Out here in the middle of nowhere, they exist in stark contrast to their surroundings, their lavish clothing and mannerisms holding no social sway or purpose in this environment. In the final moments of the film, Buñuel returns to this comically sad image, and this may be his most pointed jab of all. With all the glamour stripped away, life as a self-satisfied aristocrat is nothing but an endless trudge along a depressingly empty road.

These hollow, directionless aristocrats walking along an endless road – a thread of surrealism running through the film, and capping it off.

The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie is available to rent or buy on YouTube.