Category: 1990s

Abel Ferrara | 1hr 49min

It is hard to tell at first how genuine drug lord Frank White is in his desire to “fix” New York, but we can at least gage that he is resolute in his ambitions. In his transition from prison back into society, a luxurious limousine is his ferry, and coinciding with this return is his second-hand assassination of past associates, evoking the climactic murders of The Godfather. Frank is our Michael Corleone figure here, though he evidently has far more years of experience in the criminal underworld behind him, commanding an aura of intimidation and respect in his imposing presence. As Christopher Walken stares out the window of the limousine with a stoic gaze, the radiance of passing street lamps fade up and down upon his face, and immediately Abel Ferrara brings us into King of New York with a deep, fearful reverence for this man.

There is also something so solemn and poignant about Walken’s eyes that speaks volumes about Frank’s love of the city. As he admires its beautiful lights and architecture from afar, we begin to believe that his motivations might go beyond mere selfishness. Perhaps it was those years he spent behind bars that has made him reconsider his own place in the world, as he searches for ways that he can contribute something positive, eventually latching onto a struggling children’s hospital in desperate need of private assistance. Still, it is difficult to remove the man from his ego, as it is in these aspirations that he also misguidedly sets his sights on becoming the Mayor of New York, viewing the office as his chance at some vague sort of redemption.

“If I can have a year or two, I’ll make something good. I’ll do something.”

The gritty realism of Ferrara’s location shooting in real New York streets and hotels is a perfect fit for this character study of urban grit and power plays, with The French Connection especially coming to mind in the use of this imposing city as a set for the thrilling cops-and-criminals battle at its centre. The authenticity of Ferrara’s style especially takes hold in his dim lighting, gorgeously diffused through the smog and mist of dark exteriors, and in one pivotal club shootout, drenching the room with a dark blue neon glow. A diegetic hip-hop track underscores the slow-motion deaths of criminals and police officers here, until eventually it spills out into the streets in a high-speed car chase.

It is within this extended sequence of moving the violence from one location to the next that King of New York reaches its stylistic apex. As Ferrara’s heavy rain beats down upon cars speeding down wet roads and their headlights beam through the deluge, the combination of his lighting and weather elements effectively heighten the dramatic stakes of this spectacular set piece. Eventually this loud, bombastic showdown turns into a cat-and-mouse contest of stealth and reflexes, with the few straggling survivors from both sides seeking refuge from the rain in a fenced-off construction site beneath a bridge. As it continues to pour down buckets in the background, Ferrara brings a visual texture to the muddiness of this confrontation, pulling both sides of the law into a dark, drab underworld of corruption and bloodshed.

Though we spend more time with Frank and his associates than the police officers, it is hard not to feel some sympathy for both. The antagonism they hold towards each other is devastating, obliterating each other’s dreams in a feud of mutual destruction. It is this hopelessness which settles in Frank’s minds in his last moments as he is faced with two options, both of which he realises will ultimately lead to the same result. Bleeding out in the back of a taxi with swarms of cops closing in, he could choose in this moment to go out fighting. But with his hopes of bringing something positive to the world dashed, perhaps it is his love for New York that holds him back from wreaking further destruction, recognising that a quiet exit might be the best thing he could really do for it. Really, Frank was never going to be the one to reform this city. It is rather in Ferrara’s skilful twisting of a traditional redemption arc that we see the true tragedy of this man bound by choices he made long ago, and who only is only willing to accept his true purpose when it is his turn to join the list of people killed in his name.

King of New York is not currently available to stream in Australia.

Sally Potter | 1hr 34min

Orlando slips through identities with nonchalant grace, about as effortlessly as Sally Potter flits through the centuries that her narrative is set over. Time barely leaves a scratch on our young protagonist, and so rather than marking years solely with numbers, themes are instead embedded in chapter titles as a means to separate one period of Orlando’s life from the next. “1600 Death” delivers a lesson in mortality with the passing of Queen Elizabeth I. “1650 Poetry” sees a blossoming interest in the writing of sonnets and verses. “1750 Society” is the period within which they fully comprehend the gendered politics of human civilisation, when they suddenly transform from a man into a woman. While it is a change that causes great confusion within the rigid boundaries of English society, Orlando’s reception of it goes by with little fanfare.

“Same person, no difference at all. Just a different sex.”

It isn’t hard to see why this particular Virginia Woolf novel was considered nearly impossible to adapt to the screen. The difficulty isn’t just in the need for intricate and elaborate production design that shifts dramatically with each new chapter, but also in the lead actor’s ability and confidence to convincingly pull off the many layers of Orlando’s characterisation, including that pivotal sex change. Potter accomplishes the former with magnificent flair, collaborating with costume designer Sandy Powell to curate the deep, royal reds of Queen Elizabeth I’s bejewelled court, as well as the many colours of Orlando’s dynamic self-expression. The achievement of the latter though belongs largely to Tilda Swinton, whose striking androgynous style has rarely found a better fit than it does here.

It is a wonder why so many other directors she has worked with haven’t recognised the great potential of close-ups in capturing her sharp facial features as well as Potter does here, as she always seems to find the most perfect meld of lighting, angles, and framing to form a direct connection between Swinton’s face and the camera. Every time she whips her eyes towards us, the impact is electrifying, as with each new incarnation there is a change in her iris colour that pierces the fourth wall with blues, ambers, browns, and greens. This fixation on Orlando’s physical appearance continues to extend to the rest of their body as well, as in one scene Potter’s camera traces the outline of their naked legs, hips, and torso in tight close-up against a black background, studying each curve with utter enthralment, as if trying to decipher the key to their eternal youth.

Perhaps we might find more answers in Orlando’s direct addresses to the audience though, which contribute addendums to their own voiceover, revealing a person fully conscious of their unique place in history, though lacking any desire to assert themselves as anything more than an open-minded human. They move through time like an embodiment of time itself, though one that is trapped in a human body and subject to the petty judgements of society.

Orlando’s journey through the film is largely defined by its restlessness and acceptance of an unpredictable future, forever living like a young person with their whole life ahead of them, and Potter’s energetic synth score blends tremendously with this characterisation, invitingly beckoning them into the future. As they run into a magnificent hedge maze after rejecting a proposal, her music propels them down its narrow, green trails, this set piece becoming a tremendous visual metaphor of their navigation through the complicated labyrinth of human history. They disappear around corners and into clouds of fog with great urgency, trying to find an exit, but even in the frustratingly limited options laid out for them there is a still joyous freedom in the ability to choose their own path. Orlando may be a being of fluidity with an indestructible youth and vigour, and yet through the ever-shifting annals of human history that Potter so smoothly flips through, they are also ironically the only constant.

Orlando is currently available to stream on Stan and Mubi.

Sofia Coppola | 1hr 37min

Even rarer than a director making a debut film of as high a calibre as The Virgin Suicides is a director doing so in their twenties, but then again Sofia Coppola is no ordinary filmmaker. Being raised by one of the great masters of cinema, Francis Ford Coppola, there were surely lessons passed on from one to the other, but an even more distinct image of her childhood and adolescence emerges in the closed-off, dreamlike spaces her stories unfold within, meditating on notions of celebrity, privilege, and disillusionment.

Michelangelo Antonioni might seem like a fitting comparison to draw here tonally, and yet stylistically The Virgin Suicides is more often in line with François Truffaut, playfully removing us from the immediacy of the narrative to freeze frames over character introductions, playfully opening up an ‘x-ray’ iris to peek at a pair of underwear, and dividing shots with creative split screens. With a nostalgic voiceover playing over the top of it all, a pensive yet whimsical atmosphere takes hold through which the lives of the Lisbon sisters are languidly filtered. The power they hold over the neighbourhood boys is immediately evident in the intrigue and reverence with which they are shot, like sacred mysteries to be untangled. The influence they continue to exert long after this story ends also remains clear in the narration’s wistful mythologising, speaking in first person plural without clear individuality, like an embodiment of the entire town reflecting on its own history.

As such, there is also an element of destiny which haunts this narrative like a ghost, slyly directing the sisters down a tragic path of self-destruction right from the youngest’s very first suicide attempt. Maybe their fate was spelled out from the start, but more likely is that it is simply the concoction of an unreliable narrator, imagining an aura of sacrosanctity around these girls who are put up on pedestals by both the town and their own conservative parents. As the local boys pry through one of their diaries, their imagination of its contents manifest in a graceful montage of open wheat fields, unicorns, sparklers, and close-ups of the sisters’ faces lightly flowing in dreamy long dissolves, and illuminated under the gorgeous glow of golden hour lighting. “We knew they knew everything about us, and we couldn’t fathom them at all,” the boys extol in wonder, and yet such daydreams only set them up for disappointment in those moments when that mystique briefly fades away.

The second-youngest daughter, Lux, especially begins to stand out as the source of this disenchantment. Under tight restrictions from her parents, school heartthrob Trip is given permission to take her out to the homecoming dance, though it is when the two finally make love that her allure suddenly disappears. In a beautiful day-for-night wash across the school football field, he stands up and silently walks away in the early hours of the morning before she wakes up. “I liked her a lot, but out there on the field… It was just different then,” an older vision of Trip reflects, still unable to properly sort through his feelings though clearly no longer under the spell still possessing so many of his friends. Though he has found the heart of the legend, the only riches he has discovered is a real, vulnerable human.

And then there is Mr and Mrs Lisbon, whose reactions against having their image of their daughters ruined manifest far more severely than mere indifference. Their home becomes a prison, and perhaps here that aforementioned Antonioni influence does manifest in Coppola’s framing of the sisters within tight spaces and behind staircase bannisters. Outside, a time lapse of the house shows no one going in or out, and yet the boys continue to watch from across the street, plotting ways to contact and rescue the trapped girls. There is little these sisters can do to take control of their own narratives, especially as they brought to national attention in news stories more than once, further propagating the mythology they would much rather shed.

One has to wonder whether such obsessions would exist at all had these parents not locked their daughters down so tightly, thereby creating the illusion of great treasures hiding behind closed doors. In the sleepy, yellow radiance that bathes this small, 1970s Michigan town in the sentimentality of memory, Coppola might initially seem to be participating in the tender worship of these young girls. It is in those moments where she sees them as flawed beings though that they are brought back down to earth, transforming the film’s affectionate fascination into a poignant recognition of pain, longing, and overwhelming grief.

The Virgin Suicides is currently streaming on Stan, and available to rent or buy on iTunes, YouTube, and Google Play.

Bela Tarr | 7hr 20min

We open on a farm. The first thing we notice is the bleak, monochrome colour palette filled with shades of greys and blacks, but no whites. The purity of white just doesn’t belong in this film. A barn stands a fair way away, and at first everything is completely still. But then we see a small bit of movement in one of the doors, and a moment later some cows emerge, followed by even more. They trudge out across the churned up field that dominates the frame, and the camera slowly moves with them. This shot lasts about eight minutes. Right from the start Tarr is setting a dreary tone, warning us – if you can’t get through this, then you won’t survive all gruelling seven and a half hours of it.

When human characters do finally enter, Tarr keeps framing his horizon in the upper half of the frame with slightly raised angles. He keeps our focus on the cold, harsh elements of the earth, pulling the characters downwards as they slog along seemingly endless roads. Tarr’s moving camera doesn’t exactly float or glide, but it always appears to be pushing against another force holding it back. It is slow and methodical. It will move in a singular direction for minutes at a time, pausing when it arrives at something of interest, and then changing course along a new path. His camera isn’t a neutral observer, but a character with its own mind, constantly wandering, directing our attention to the lives inside this small, impoverished Hungarian village.

The moving camera is especially suited to this specific kind of non-linear narrative as well, which is invested in following separate perspectives that converge upon common events. Usually there is some sort of failure to communicate or understand that takes place at these meeting points, hitting home the utter futility of any interaction in this village.

The first time we see the girl, Estike, run to the Doctor for help, it is through his drunken, confused perspective. Tarr keeps us distant from the encounter, so we’re not fully sure what is taking place before she runs off. The second time we see this, we follow Estike in a mid-shot. Within the context of her own narrative, it hits differently. This is a girl who has suffered immensely, perhaps even more than any of the adults of the town. While they can drown their misery with dancing and drinking, she is left alone to watch their party from the outside. When we see this through her eyes, it seems like she goes unnoticed. But later when we watch this scene from inside the party, Tarr cuts away from an extra long shot to show her peering in from the outside. If this scene is coming from the adults’ perspective, then maybe they did actually see her at the window, and simply pretended they didn’t. In this case, Estike isn’t invisible to the adults of her town – they just don’t care.

Ignorant to her plight, the villagers continue dancing to the accordionist playing the same repetitive phrase over and over for what feels like at least ten minutes. The town drunk keeps stumbling around, one man keeps balancing bread on his forehead, and the innkeeper keeps hitting the bar with a stick. Like the riot scene in Werckmeister Harmonies, nobody is talking, shouting or singing. They just continue moving silently until they pass out from exhaustion. It’s not much, but it’s certainly better than having to take deal with their real problems. Like taking care of that girl looking through the window, for instance.

Though Bela Tarr marks the end of each chapter with a voiceover, its interjections rarely do anything to lighten Sátántangó‘s overwhelming austerity. The one exception here is Estike’s suicide. For the village her death is a tragedy, but for her it is an escape. And ironically enough, it is one of the few respites Tarr allows us.

“She felt at peace inside and around her the trees, the road, the rain and even the night all radiated tranquillity. Whatever happens is good, she thought. Everything was simple, at last, forever. She recalled the events of the day, and smiled, as she understood how everything was connected. She felt that these events weren’t connected by chance, or accident, but by an indescribable beautiful logic bridging them together. And she knew she wasn’t alone, since everything and everyone, her father up above, her mother, her siblings, the doctor, the cat, these acacias, this muddy road, this sky and the night below it, all depended on her, just as she depended on everything else. She had no reason to worry. She knew her guardian angels were already on their way.”

Though Tarr has a talent for finding beauty in solemnity, he only uses it sparingly. In this destitute Hungarian village of dilapidated buildings and free-roaming farm animals, a Messiah figure seemingly returns from the dead. Like the Prince in Werckmeister Harmonies, people are suspicious of him, and yet he quickly and easily charms them. Irimias is a false prophet bearing false promises, encouraging the villagers to give up their wealth to start a new, prosperous community which never manifests. Instead they are spread to distant corners of the country, unable to do anything but follow his orders even once their faith in him has been thoroughly destroyed.

The two characters who remain immune are the Innkeeper and the Doctor. The former retains a grip on reality, but is ultimately left alone for being the only one to do so. The latter is simply not around to realise what is going on. He shuts himself inside his house, only ever venturing out to buy more alcohol, and so when he realises the town is deserted he is confused. Regardless, he will just keep doing what he has always done.

The Doctor’s routine is only perturbed by the ringing of bells from a church we have previously learned doesn’t have any. Must the noise then be a sign from God? Upon investigating the source, the Doctor finds a madman clanging a piece of metal in the ruins of the church. “I’ve mistaken a common bell for the Great Bells of Heaven,” the Doctor laments. But Futaki heard the exact same sound at the start – surely this is no coincidence? The Doctor boards up his windows, retreating into a void that cuts him off from the outside world. Though traces of magical realism are sparse in Sátántangó, the instinct to reject the possibility of some mystical essence is widespread. Through these bookends Tarr intertwines this bleak landscape and the town’s lack of faith in spiritual icons, following unreliable worldly figures instead.

There may not be seven and a half hours worth of narrative here, but Tarr has always been adamant about his distaste for plot. Sátántangó is about a progression of tones and images, glacially paced, suffocatingly drab, and completely mesmerising from start to finish.

Sátántangó is currently available to stream on The Criterion Channel.

In 1990, Martin Scorsese blew both critics and general audiences away with mob flick and tour-de-force of filmmaking, Goodfellas. In 1991, he followed that up with the less-praised but still-dark psychological thriller, Cape Fear. And then two years later in 1993 came The Age of Innocence – a romantic period film, adapting the 1920 novel of the same name by Edith Wharton. On one hand, this is a significant change of pace for a director whose claim to fame is gritty masculine dramas about working-class men. The vividly colourful flower arrangements, archaic furniture, and lavish costumes are a far cry from the dingy New York streets of Taxi Driver or the stark black-and-white photography of Raging Bull.

But this film is not so completely removed from Scorsese’s artistic fascinations that it feels like some impersonal oddity in his filmography. It is not just that he had dabbled in other genres outside his wheelhouse before, but his protagonist of Newland Archer is yet another character in Scorsese’s long line of male antiheroes with fatal flaws. On top of that, having frequently praised the swooning period romances of German auteur, Max Ophüls, The Age of Innocence may also be Scorsese’s most direct homage to the innovator of moving cameras and long takes.

As such, it is in his turn to the quiet, passionate yearning of two lovers bound by constrained cultural restrictions of 1870s upper-class New York that he surprisingly feels right at home, deftly tracking his camera through opulent 19^th century mansions, following characters through colossal rooms, and then letting it detach to observe beautiful paintings hung upon vivid red walls, like it has a mind of its own. Meanwhile, a voiceover lifting lines straight from the novel plays over the top, at times introducing us to the characters who emerge within these unbroken takes, and then at other times listing off the period-specific items and people which his camera seems to obsess over.

“…a hired chef, two borrowed footmen, roses from Henderson’s, Roman punch, and menus on gilt-edged cards.”

There is something of Alain Resnais’ Last Year at Marienbad in these hypnotic descriptions and rolling camera movements, though the significance goes beyond simple aural rhythms or its grounding of this narrative in a materialistic, aristocratic culture. Much of what this voiceover fussily lists off are antiquated artefacts that contemporary audiences cannot attach specific meanings or purposes to, but instead fill in with a vague, even mystical sense of nostalgia. They belong to a “hieroglyphic world” where “the real thing was never said, or done, or even thought, but only represented by a set of arbitrary signs,” and as such they present to us an invitation to interpret this era through a lens of subjective impressionism – a lens which our protagonist, Newland Archer, is all too happy to adopt himself.

Such a romanticisation of old-fashioned ideals might not be so readily apparent in the restless, frustrated attitudes of this New York City lawyer though. Despite Archer’s engagement to May Welland, the young, respectable daughter of a wealthy family, his encounter with her scandalous cousin, Countess Ellen Olenska, quickly gives rise to an ardent, passionate affair between the two, as well as a frustration directed towards his society’s uptight Victorian ideals. There is an allure to the other side of the Atlantic where Olenska has spent much of her adulthood, and where bohemian lifestyles have eroded the rigid structures of high society. If only he were to live in a civilisation where performative gender roles and meaningless traditions were completely devalued, then maybe then he wouldn’t have to keep up this image of decorum, and he would be able to submit to his true romantic feelings.

And yet, in spite of these dreams, he paradoxically finds himself attached to the idealism of such archaic standards as well, particularly in how they preserve the innocence of his sweet, virtuous wife, which he cannot bring himself to destroy with honesty. Where Olenska dresses in red satin and black lace, and the settings of their passionate encounters seem to radiate vivacious scarlet palettes out to the wallpaper, curtains, and carpets, May is clothed in virginal white dresses. As much as Archer begrudges the neat conventions of 19^th century New York, he thrives on the existence of this duality – and it makes a late reveal that May is not so naïve all the more devastating for him.

Liminal as they may be, memories are the only space where such fantasies can exist without contradiction or tension, and Scorsese heavily commits to maintaining the tone of an impressionistic look into the past, removed from its immediacy. The past-tense narration and the imagining of letters as being spoken in direct addresses to camera work to establish this sentimental, slightly artificial reminiscence, but it seeps even further down into Scorsese’ delicate long dissolves, dreamily flowing from one shot to the next like a fluid, effortless recollection. As Archer ages through the decades, a combination of camera pans and these dissolves drift through a single room in his manor, brushing over milestones in his life that have taken place since the departure of Olenska.

Back in days of his youth, the notion that he might at least maintain his May’s innocence gives some justification to his decision to remain by her side, and yet as 19^th century social conventions fade and May’s life is cut tragically short, he still cannot bring himself to elope with Olenska, the woman he claims to love most. After all, who knows what troubled reality he may face if they actually were to settle down together? This fantasy of the past is far more preferable, and as such their relationship only exists in how he chooses to remember it. We recall a scene earlier in the film where Archer stares from a distance to her standing on a pier, facing a bright, golden ocean like an ethereal, unreachable figure. But within the comfort of his own memories, the past is malleable, and it is in revisiting this moment in his own mind that she finally turns to meet his gaze. The age of innocence as Archer perceived it might not have ever existed, but when filtered through a lens of self-absorbed nostalgia, it can manifest in whatever form he wishes.

The Age of Innocence is available to rent or buy on YouTube and Google Play.

The Coen Brothers | 1hr 57min

The eccentric worlds of Coen Brothers films aren’t often built by epic establishing shots or detailed production design, though they do revel in these on occasion. Their settings usually come together through the uniquely American idiosyncrasies of their characters, the dark humour of their screenplays, and, especially as we see here in The Big Lebowski, their thorough understanding of how genre conventions can be flipped, bent, twisted, and discarded with altogether. Initially considered a disappointment hot off the success of Fargo, The Big Lebowski was subject to complaints of jumbled, convoluted plotting which, if anything, puts it in good company with the pulpy detective novels and films that it takes so much inspiration from. 
  
In the rich lineage of directors who bring to life their own artistic takes on Los Angeles-based neo-noirs, the Coens look favourable next to those such as Robert Altman and Roman Polanski who trod similar ground before them. Their vision of the sunny Californian city is one of contradictions, where slackers co-exist with businessmen, war veterans, artists, and young families, all of whom have some role to play in the crime and corruption which escalate from the smallest, most ridiculous misunderstandings.

Jeffrey Lebowski, more colloquially known as The Dude, isn’t immune to this. Though his breezy attitude keeps him cool in extreme situations, it also makes him an easy target for manipulation by those pulling the strings. Bunny, the missing wife of a wealthy philanthropist also named Jeffrey Lebowski, seems to have been kidnapped by a gang of German nihilists, and with the promise that he might be able to return to his peaceful life of bowling if he sorts all this out, the Dude searches for answers, trying desperately to keep up with the pointless, conflicting demands thrust upon him. Virtually everyone, from porn industry kingpin Jackie Treehorn to postmodern artist Maude, has some stakes in the matter of Bunny’s disappearance – but really, no one here knows what they are doing. It is simply much easier for them to pin their confusion and failures on the guy who openly wears his bewilderment on his sleeve. 
  
The Dude himself is a masterstroke of creative characterisation from the Coens. Where one might expect to find an intelligent, relentless, hardboiled detective dressed in a sharp suit and fedora, we instead find the opposite – a bearded man dressed in sandals, baggy shorts, and a robe, stuck in the hippie movement that has long since grown out of fashion. Jeff Bridges delivers his lines with all the nonchalance and hilariously lax timing of a man who sees the wild, intense world running around him, and cares very little for it. After a violent threat from a bowling opponent, his only response is a short pause and a quiet “Jesus…”, a comically far cry from whatever sharp witticism private investigator Philip Marlowe might have retorted with. 

As a veteran stuck in his glory days of the Vietnam War, John Goodman’s Walter also makes for an explosive, comedic counterpoint to the Dude’s untroubled attitude. Though they have opposing approaches to almost every complication they come up against, both recognise each other as misfits in a culture that has moved on without them. With nothing else out there for either one, their responses to tough, unresolvable situations end in agreement on one course of action.   

“Fuck it Dude, let’s go bowling.” 

The Coen Brothers’ films aren’t often recognised for their sumptuous imagery, and yet they take The Big Lebowski a step further than its noir predecessors in literalising the Hollywood dream through surreal, wandering interludes. One Busby Berkeley dream sequence rendered in black, white, red, and gold is a magnificent reflection of the Dude’s subconscious working its way through the mystery at hand, his bizarre relationship with Maude, and of course, bowling. Outside these hallucinations, slow-motion shots of objects, lights, and people floating across pitch black backgrounds are threaded through the Dude’s reluctant investigation, continuing to lift the plot out of reality and into a weightless realm – a visual representation of his own light passage through otherwise dark situations. In a world where these deceitful, seedy environments are as inescapable as they are erratic, the Dude’s carefree lifestyle is ultimately the only constant which we can depend upon.

The Big Lebowski is available to stream on Amazon Prime Video, and available to rent or buy on iTunes and YouTube.

Mike Leigh | 2hr 40min

W.S. Gilbert is the intelligent dramatist, reciting his lyrics like light poetry. Sir Arthur Sullivan is the musical genius, directing his cast with his sense of rhythm, pitch, and dynamics. With one expressing himself through words and the other through jaunty, musical tunes, the two aren’t always speaking the same language, and conflict frequently arises. But when they are finally in sync, creativity flows uninhibited, and inspiration strikes without warning. This is especially the case when Sullivan visits an exhibition of Japanese arts and crafts, where he has an epiphany to write what would become one of their greatest musicals – The Mikado. This fruitful period of the duo’s partnership is the historical canvas upon which Mike Leigh grafts reflections of his own creative processes in Topsy-Turvy, drawing together artists, egos, and aristocrats in this world of splendour and sensitivity.

It is incredibly refreshing to see Leigh lavish such opulently stylistic expressions all over a film which belongs to a genre so frequently confined to stale templates, and often stripped of unique directorial voices. The best artist biopics in some way reflect the eccentricities of their subjects, and when Gilbert and Sullivan just so happen to be the points of interest, opportunities to present extravagant set pieces and musicals are abundant. Leigh does indeed make the most of such scenes where we watch the duo’s theatrical visions erupt in patterns of reds, greens, and golds across the stage, with the sumptuous décor of pink cherry blossoms and Japanese architecture adorning the space, but at the same time, his sights are set far beyond the products of their virtuoso, brilliant as they are. There is beauty to be found all through their journey of creation, from the gorgeous wallpaper splashing bold colours up against the backdrops to their lowest points, to the dramatic dolly in on Gilbert’s face during his stroke of inspiration, and right down to the exacting rehearsals, where both frustration and humour is present in the actors’ repetitions of their scripted lines.

And then, as if to push its ambitions even further, Topsy-Turvy continues to expand its scope beyond Gilbert and Sullivan’s focused efforts, becoming an ensemble piece that gives full credit to the collaboration of multiple minds as necessary factors in this creative process. It is certainly worth acknowledging Jim Broadbent’s performance as Gilbert as one of his best, but the collective power of every other supporting and minor character has just as much of an impact, with each of them, from Andy Serkis’ pipe-puffing choreographer, John D’Auban, to Timothy Spall’s self-conscious performer, Richard Temple, getting the chance to make their presence known.

The Robert Altman comparison is inevitable here, especially given Leigh’s adoption of his directorial method of guiding actors through improvisations, thereby letting character relationships organically emerge from seemingly insubstantial discussions. He spends full scenes fixating on whether or not actor Durward Lely shall wear a corset beneath his kimono, the wage negotiations of another actor, George Grossmith, and the attempts from the show’s “three little maids” to imitate the walks of authentic Japanese women. In heavier moments, the depictions of alcoholism, drug abuse, and health issues tie the film to its setting of Victorian London, where even the wealthiest folk aren’t completely immune to the economic and social ills of the era.

And yet these hardships and petty arguments do little to separate these artists when they collectively approach Gilbert in a bid to convince him not to cut Temple’s main song, “A More Humane Mikado”. Even through such trials, their effort in restoring confidence in their friend and colleague is abundantly sweet, but it also importantly underscores the value of collaboration and sacrifice in the dramatist’s own approach to the creation of art.

With Leigh placing such an emphasis on cooperation in the production of The Mikado, it is only right to similarly give credit to his own talented team, made up of his regular cinematographer, Dick Pope, his costume designer, Lindy Hemming, and Eve Stewart, whose specialty in period production design rightfully earned her an Academy Award on this film. There is no doubting that Topsy-Turvy is an extraordinary expression of Leigh’s visionary voice, examining his own ideas of how great art comes together. And yet in the gloriously lavish interiors, the depth of the ensemble’s talents, and the painstaking detailing of each of these characters’ intricate emotional journeys, the film becomes an ode from everyone who worked on it, dedicated to those artists who can put aside their egos to share in the joy of mutual creation.

Topsy-Turvy is currently available to stream on The Criterion Channel.

Tom Tykwer | 1hr 21min

To watch the German thriller Run Lola Run is to sit through three separate heart attacks, each one divided by a brief moment of respite allowing us to catch our breath before throwing us right back into the state of panic we came from. It is a showcase of remarkable rapid-fire editing, energetic camerawork, and vivid colours, but just as compelling as Tom Twyker’s vivacious style is his segmented formal structure, repeating Lola’s effort to find and deliver 100,000 Deutschmarks to her boyfriend, Manni, in a unified triptych of timelines. To call this a meditation on any level would be wrong, and yet the poise and thoughtfulness with which Tykwer attacks questions of fatalism and free will in this onslaught of deadlines is on the same level as any slow-burn arthouse film.

Lola herself might as well be an action video game character with her distinctive look of bright red hair, tank top, and expression of obstinate grit – a fitting image for a woman at the centre of a narrative which itself mirrors video game mechanics. Presented with a singular goal, a pressing time limit, and a pathway loaded with endless opportunities to dramatically shift the course of events, Lola finds herself a free agent in a world can be manipulated by playing to its own internal rules. Should she fail, she simply respawns in a Groundhog Day-like rebirth, presented with the chance to not just affect her own future, but those of the people she bumps into along the way.

Paired with Lola’s race against time is a confronting sensory overload, beating us into submission at the feet of a relentless, ticking clock. It doesn’t take great leaps of the imagination to see why Edgar Wright has listed this among his top 40 films, or the significant influence it has had on his own creative, kinetic style. Run Lola Run is certainly among the best edited films of the 1990s, with its match cuts smoothly stitching together leaps between each segment, its constant restlessness in finding off-kilter angles to approach simple actions, and its synchronicity with the pulsing, electronic score that barely ever lets up. But even within its quick, sharp bursts of images, Tykwer’s camera is almost never static, as it circles, tracks, and dollies in on characters, impatiently pushing them to action. The three-pronged structure goes beyond a repetition of narrative events, but it is also the repetition of such audacious artistic choices as these which ground the film’s recklessly fast pace in a sense of familiarity. A long take through Lola’s apartment each time she leaves, a brief animated interlude as she makes her way out onto the street, a three-way split screen as she nears her destination – this is evidently a film that is built upon on its remarkable form as much as its blazing visual bravura.

It takes a performance as emphatically physical as the one which Franka Potente delivers here to match such dynamic direction. While she thrusts her body forward through space, her eyes remain keenly focused on the road ahead. Then, in moments of utter desperation, Lola lets out a supernaturally loud, glass-shattering scream, reverberating on a frequency which seems to bend the chaos of the universe to her will. At times it might seem like Lola’s influence is unlimited – after all, this is a woman who we have seen alter the course of a woman’s life with a single bump, sending her down paths of crime, wealth, and religion – but all it takes is a slight variation set in motion from an outside source to dispel that illusion of total control. In one powerful, form-breaking moment, Tykwer’s universe springs forth from its image as a neutral, mechanical contraption, and the presence of some deeper driving force emerges. There is indeed a logical consistency to the fatalism and free will in his effervescently metaphysical world, and yet just as Lola moulds it to her design, there is similarly an independent, enigmatic sentience present guiding her and everyone else along a path that only ever makes sense when we come to its end.

Run Lola Run is currently available to stream on SBS On Demand.

Lynne Ramsay | 1hr 34min

The Glaswegian streets of Ratcatcher are infested. Rats, garbage bags, even children, who themselves are crawling with nits – this working-class suburb of Scotland is a plague-ridden, inescapable hellhole. Especially with the garbage men on strike, such scourges only continue to spread like a cancer, until they simply become extensions of everyone’s homes. Plastic bags of rubbish turn into sofas, and chasing rats becomes a hobby for those disillusioned youths with nothing else to do. Lynne Ramsay’s vision of blue-collar Scotland in the 1970s is evocative of a bygone era of childlike innocence, but to call it nostalgic by any means would be a stretch.

Even though the free-flowing, lyrical editing and structure of Ratcatcher does evoke a pacing not unlike Terence Davies’ autobiographical tribute to the British working class, Distant Voices, Still Lives, it has far more in common with the Italian neorealist films of the 1940s and 50s. James Gillespie is the 12-year-old boy who is introduced as the vessel through which we experience this world, and yet despite his age, he does not stand as a beacon of innocence. Any chance that that might be the case is stripped early on when he inadvertently commits a devastating act that weighs heavy on his soul, instilling in him such an unbearable guilt that only feeds his desire to escape this dreary, infested world that promises nothing but decay.

As for what brings about this deterioration, Ramsay doesn’t position James as so much of a victim as he is one of many agents perpetuating society’s slow, repulsive descent into corruption and squalor. Just a few days ago, his conscience was unmarked, and in his suffering, he could at least place the blame on his environment. Now, he is as good as one of those rats, spreading disease and filth wherever he goes. In this self-identification, he displays much empathy for the loathsome vermin overrunning the streets of Glasgow, who surely dream of some faraway utopia, just as he does.

As Ramsay has proven in the years since this debut, she is primarily a director who finds her film in the editing room, crafting montages that offer a tint of hypnotic delicacy to otherwise harsh environments. It is particularly in three brief, escapist interludes where she breaks the heavy realism of Ratcatcher to allow her characters some indulgence in a magical realist fantasy, and lets the film disappear into the light rhythms of her cutting. There aren’t a great deal of picturesque images to be found in this film, as Ramsay is clearly more committed to the rundown architecture of the setting, and yet in these moments of wonder she finds the time to linger on a window frame opening up onto a field of wheat, or in the melancholy conclusion, sitting with a body hanging in stasis beneath the surface of a murky canal.

In this suffocating imagery, Ramsay calls back to the opening shot of James wrapping himself up in a curtain in slow-motion. In her persistent motif of infested landscapes, burying oneself deeper into the all-consuming anathema is often the only practical way one might dull one’s senses to it. Sure, there is always the dream of finally floating away to some paradise on the moon, or moving away to a brand-new, upper-class estate. But in the agonising existence of Scotland’s lower classes, Ratcatcher recognises the disheartening disparity between such pipe dreams and reality.

Ratcatcher is currently streaming on Mubi Australia.

Jane Campion | 1hr 54min

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

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

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

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

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

“There is a silence where hath been no sound,

There is a silence where no sound may be,

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

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

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