In transposing classical storytelling traditions onto a 1940s New York crime family in The Godfather, Francis Ford Coppola effectively crafts an epic piece of American mythology for the twentieth century, unravelling one of the greatest pure narratives put to film with monumental ambition in its sheer economy and compellingly tragic characters.
In its organic progression between its sprawling narrative threads, Nashville carries the sense that Robert Altman could point his camera in any direction and discover a new set of characters as equally as intriguing as the rest of his ensemble, constructing a satirical image of this musical city that is pervaded by a defiantly bright-eyed Southern idealism.
There is something of Lenny Bruce’s rebellious, unorthodox style in Bob Fosse’s 1974 biopic of the comedian’s life which mirrors his own unruly manner, cutting between moments from all across his life and death to confront the difficult legacies left behind in the fight for free speech.
Around the hair-raising cat-and-mouse chase between detective Popeye Doyle and French mobster Charnier, William Friedkin constructs a gritty vision of New York City flooded with stagnant puddles and coated in at least a few layers of grime, melding narrative and setting to deliver a biting, authentically cynical crime thriller in The French Connection.
Woody Allen takes aim at 19th century Russian literature in his off-beat period piece Love and Death, smashing through those quaint conventions of cultural and cinematic history to fashion an entirely new kind of artistic statement out of the fragments left behind.
The layers of subtext and symbolism that flow through Don’t Look Now may take multiple viewings to fully appreciate, but in Nicolas Roeg’s fluid editing which swirls between cryptic images of blood, churches, water, and grotesque representations of death, its feverish atmosphere takes hold, haunting us with the ghosts of events that have already taken place, and some that are still yet to happen.
It is from Stanley Kubrick’s uncomfortable philosophical questions regarding free will and sin that his inspired, repulsive aesthetic of nude sculptures and phallic symbols explodes outwards, marking the dystopian British society of A Clockwork Orange as one which has fallen prey to its pleasure-seeking impulses.
Stanley Kubrick’s astonishing display of picturesque beauty and grace haunts every frame of Barry Lyndon, and through this he sets an impossibly rigid standard of perfection that his messy, flawed characters cannot live up to, even as they strive for self-aggrandising legacies and traditions that only reveal their feeble hubris.
Dario Argento constructs one of the most audacious displays of stylistic horror to emerge from the genre since its cinematic inception in Suspiria, breaking from the tradition of dark, dreary aesthetics by reinterpreting its expressionist roots through an entirely different filter altogether – one that tunes into the striking contrasts of opposing neon colours to draw out a violent and vivid fairytale of witches and ballerinas.
The sharp angles and lines of Bernardo Bertolucci’s immaculate, austere tableaux of wartime Europe are as equally unyielding as the dogmatic socio-political landscape they make up, lending this incisive attack on unthinking fascist ideologies an extra edge of bitter resentment.
