Category: 2022

Park Chan-wook | 2hr 18min

Detective Hae-jun does not let go of unsolved cases easily, instead sticking their photos up on the wall of the apartment he lives in during the week, and making them as much a part of himself as the marriage he returns to on weekends. This compartmentalisation is the only way he can properly function as a normal human being, and yet even his wife knows that drawing such a hard division between his home and work life is no perfect solution. As she observes early on, he grows morose when his routine becomes too peaceful. He is a man who needs murder and violence to be happy.

Given the fascinations of crime and vengeance running through Park Chan-wook’s career of brutally spell-binding thrillers, perhaps there is a little bit of himself written into Decision to Leave’s protagonist, much like the psychological obsession that Alfred Hitchcock shares with James Stewart’s detective in Vertigo. For Hae-jun, the subject of his psychological fixation is Seo-rae, a freshly widowed Chinese immigrant whose husband fell from a cliff while mountaineering. He spends hours questioning her with delight, sharing sushi and enjoying friendly conversation, though he does not let his guard down entirely. True to Park’s Hitchcockian sensibilities, a thread of surveillance is tied through this ambiguous relationship, visually navigating the boundaries and secrets that envelop it. Inside the interrogation room, Hae-jun and Seo-rae’s interview is set against a two-way mirror with split diopter lenses and focus pulls restlessly guiding our eyes between characters and their reflections, leading us to wonder whether he is really the only one here leading a double life.

The subjectivity of Park’s camera is virtually impossible to escape in Decision to Leave, taking the perspective of a dead man as an ant crawls over his eye, and tracing the subtlest character details in close-ups – the slight movement of a hand for instance, or the tan line left by an absent wedding ring. Park’s editing too adopts a fluidity in its graphic match cuts that, at their most graceful, delicately frame an anxious Hae-jun in the palm of Seo-rae’s hand through a long dissolve, and at their craftiest play tricks on our sense of space. Park will often rapidly shift back and forth between the detective and the distant subject of his focus in POV shots that keep cutting closer, before suddenly zooming out to reveal the drastically narrowed gap between them. All of a sudden, we find ourselves in Hae-jun’s mind where he is speaking to her directly rather than on the phone, and reconstructing a crime scene by invisibly stalking his visualisation of her.

In this voyeuristic compulsion there is something that goes beyond intellectual interest or romantic passion. Their relationship is defined by an unresolved longing, simultaneously drawing them together into the same intimate world, yet keeping them as far apart as the mountains and oceans woven throughout Park’s imagery. Quite significant to this is the language barrier that stands between them, situating Seo-rae as an outsider in Korea who needed her late husband’s influence as an immigration officer to keep her safe, and who occasionally uses a translator app to communicate complicated ideas. No doubt Hae-jun finds this an inconvenience at times, but at the same time it is yet another slight separation which he finds utterly tantalising in its precarious uncertainty.

Seo-rae is no passive subject of voyeurism in this equation though, equalling Hae-jun in shrewdness and recognising the mystery she perpetuates as the foundation of their relationship. Even as Park’s story spins off into concurrent cases that Hae-jun is investigating, it consistently winds back to Seo-rae as she helps him solve them, perhaps hoping to situate herself as his most impossible puzzle. So dedicated is she to this mission that when he finally gets to the bottom of her case and leaves, she encourages him to reopen it with newly incriminating evidence, desperately eager to rekindle their lost romance.

Even when it comes to Park’s costume design, his characters can never quite agree which side of his green and blue palette that Seo-rae’s teal dress lands on, letting her escape the binary that he paints with melancholic beauty all through his mise-en-scène. He lays it out with attention to detail in key props such as her green notebook, fentanyl pills, and beach bucket, but even on a larger scale too as he tracks Hae-jun’s chase across rooftops in one sweeping crane shot, he matches the urban scenery in the background to the same verdant colour scheme. His enthralling set pieces are perfectly suited to such gloomy yet tranquil designs, underscoring a subdued romance that finds gentle repose at a turquoise Buddhist temple, makes grisly discoveries in an empty swimming pool, and develops domestic bonds in Seo-rae’s apartment decorated with aquatic wallpaper.

At least, that is what the pattern resembles at first glance. On closer inspection, those waves could just as well be mountains, enveloped by a cool, chilly mist. Dizzying altitudes and deep bodies of water become fitting metaphors for this perilous connection, frequently threatening to send Hae-jun tumbling over the edge of steep drops not unlike Seo-rae’s deceased, rock-climbing husband. Her fear of heights is totally understandable when we reach the narrow, plateaued mountaintop where he perished, caught in a dizzying panorama as saturated in soft blue tones as the foggy sea she holds such fondness for. Hae-jun and Seo-rae may be united in the wistfulness of Park’s breathtaking colours, but symbolically they belong to entirely different worlds – him dangerously staggering atop treacherous summits, and her dwelling in the mysterious, oceanic abyss, pulling lovers down to her level and sending damning evidence into its depths.

The danger in this romantic tension does not come from any malice on Seo-rae’s part, as she herself recognises the sacrifices that Hae-jun makes in protecting her, but rather the inherent incongruency of their stations in life. He is a police detective, destined to observe and contemplate crime from a distance, but never to cross that line to the other side. Seo-rae, recognising how much these boundaries define their love, cannot stand to see them broken. Not only would her guilt compromise his innocence, but once he sees her as she is, she would also become just another solved case taken down from his wall and ultimately forgotten.

There are so many shots in Decision to Leave that leave us teetering on the edge of mountains and rooftops, it is somewhat surprising to find the most impactful tragedy of the film takes place on a cold, lonely beach. That this is where Seo-rae decisively resolves to “unsolve” Hae-jun’s case is poignantly poetic in its open-endedness, sinking her into an oceanic enigma that he may very well spend the rest of his life trying to unravel. For lovers as deeply obsessive yet incompatible as these, such elusive romance can only be kept alive through death, bound together by the promise of an eternal, impenetrable mystery.

Decision to Leave is currently streaming on SBS On Demand, and is available to rent or buy on Apple TV, YouTube, and Amazon Video.

Danny and Michael Philippou | 1hr 35min

The latest party drug to be passed between teenagers in Talk to Me is not a new strain of MDMA, but a pale, embalmed hand. Those who play with its supernatural powers must first open the gateway to the afterlife, before letting its spirits into their minds and bodies with a simple expression of consent – “I let you in.” What happens after that is wildly unpredictable. Perhaps the ghost that takes possession of their host is playful, amusingly forcing them to sing in Spanish, or they could be more nefarious and compel them to perform deeply humiliating acts. Either way, this relinquishing of power to some external force is ecstatic for those who participate, and incredibly entertaining for those spectators who eagerly record everything on their phones.

Brothers Danny and Michael Philippou are confident in their handling of this drug metaphor, made even more impressive by the fact that Talk to Me marks their feature debut as directors, having previously gotten their start making horror comedy videos on YouTube. Perhaps this is why its screenplay and setting feel so true to Australian rave culture, particularly among younger generations willing to risk their lives for a rush of adrenaline and the approval of their peers.

Though some of these actors may not be fully serviced in some underdeveloped character arcs, they each at least get their moment to shine when spirits begin to use their bodies as puppets, like grown versions of Regan from The Exorcist. The cold light that harshly beams down from phone torches at each possessed teenager even bears some resemblance to the frosty air that infiltrates the bedroom in William Friedkin’s seminal horror film, coolly illuminating these figures of corrupted innocence. Under the influence of whatever spirit has taken their autonomy from them, they lick their lips and take nasty swipes at each other, though it is what comes after that may be most of haunting of all.

Much of the tension here hangs on Sophie Wilde’s leading performance as Mia, a young woman reluctantly coming to terms with the demonic forces that she has unleashed on herself and others, yet who also can’t resist digging herself deeper into a pit of anxious delusion. If the embalmed hand is a drug, then she is responsible for the horrific overdose of her friend’s little brother, and she too finds herself in the grip of its addictive pull. Only by continuing to use it can she fix the problems it caused in the first place – at least, that is what she mistakenly believes, even after she is told that its effects will naturally wear away with time.

Through the camera’s shallow focus and tracking shots too, the Philippou brothers ensure that we are stuck in Mia’s uneasy headspace virtually every step of the way, hanging on the back of her neck as she walks through hospitals and hallways. The most significant instance where they land us with a different character though comes in the opening scene, marking the film’s stylistic highpoint as we find ourselves following Cole – another teenager whose fate is bound to the black magic of the embalmed hand. In one long take, he makes his way through a crowded house party to find his injured brother, who gives us our first glimpse of the horrific darkness in store for Mia and her friends.

With such incredibly subjective camerawork, Talk to Me often feels as if it is transcending the perspective of its human characters to instead peer through the eyes of a disembodied ghost. When spirits enter the bodies of teenagers, the camera violently tosses backwards with their heads, and there is also a formal poetry to the pair of overhead shots tying the end of Mia’s character arc right back to the start. The narrative may lose some steam in the final act when its starts relying on coincidence and leaves subplots hanging, but the Philippou brothers still keep the surprises rolling in right up until the end, paying off on their camera’s ghostly perspective. Willingly letting unpredictable forces take over one’s mind and body is evidently a dangerous game in Talk to Me, only leaving hope for those with enough self-control to tear themselves away from this supernatural intoxication.

Talk to Me is currently playing in theatres.

Jerzy Skolimowski | 1hr 26min

If fate exists in EO, then it is not guided by some greater, divine being. Perhaps that is what most sets apart Jerzy Skolimowski’s animal road drama from its clearest influence, Au Hasard Balthazar, which roots itself far more deeply in religious iconography and symbolism. The only destiny that our aimless, drifting donkey is wandering towards here is the same as many other creatures he encounters along the way – cold, merciless death at the hands of humans.

To reach that inevitable endpoint though, EO must first undergo an odyssey across the towns, forests, and farms of Poland and Italy. It is tempting to personify the donkey as being more intelligent than he lets on, especially with those beautiful shallow focus close-ups which read into his dark, blank eyes, and those sporadic moments that see him take assertive action. Perhaps the trophy shelf he topples over at a stable isn’t really an accident, but rather his frustration at the clear inequality between him and the pampered horses he lives with. His violent attack of a man killing foxes at a fur factory could be an act of animal justice, carried out in the only way he knows how. Even his noisy braying at a soccer game might be interpreted as a playful sense of humour, given that its timing distracts the losing team during a penalty shot and hands their opponents the win.

Or maybe it is all just animal instinct, reacting without thought to an unpredictable environment. When he is glorified as the winning team’s mascot after the soccer game and taken to a bar for celebrations, there is nothing to suggest he can comprehend his lofty veneration. Neither can he grasp the reason for his punishment when the losing team ransack the party and beat him close to death. It is far easier for us to identify with these humans who attach some grander meaning to this donkey’s life than the animal itself, disregarding a far simpler reality – perhaps EO is just a beast of pure instinct, offering a perspective through which we can study his surroundings.

Indeed, there may be no creature better suited to witnessing all sides of humanity as him, if only he could piece together these experiences into something greater. This is where Skolimowski’s introspective direction is gently imprinted on the story, drawing remarkable formal connections between the representation of humanity in the vignettes it effortlessly drifts between. Besides EO, not a single character gets more than a few minutes of screentime, and yet it is in these brief moments where they are faced with the world’s most common creature that their truest selves come out.

In the donkey’s original owner, Kasandra, we find nothing but genuine compassion, though the same cannot be said for the labourers, hunters, and protestors who see him as little more than a means to self-interested ends. It is evident that these attitudes extend past animals as well, as the driver of a truck he is being transported on late in the film meets a grisly end at the hands of a random, unidentified killer. Such cruelty is clearly not contained to interspecies relations. This is a dog-eat-dog world from the top down.

Particularly fascinating is the subplot that emerges in the final scenes, centred around a kind, young priest who takes the donkey back to his estate. The short glimpse we are offered into his life is more scandalous than anything else we have witnessed yet. His stepmother, played by the great Isabelle Huppert with chilly disdain, taunts him over his gambling addiction, and yet they also carry out an uncomfortable sexual affair away from prying eyes. In any other film this would carry enough weight to justify being the main story. To the donkey who passively stands outside, it couldn’t matter less. And so off he plods once again through the gate that has been carelessly left open, towards wherever his instincts guide him next.

These scenes of the priest and the Countess are unusually populated with dialogue for a film which is otherwise so minimalist in its screenplay. Save for those times when people speak directly to EO like a friend, there is simply no need for speech to move this story along. Instead, Skolimowski’s elliptical editing keeps it progressing in almost dreamy manner, eroding our sense of whether this narrative unfolds over weeks, months, or years. It barely makes a difference in the end. Like the human drama he nonchalantly passes by, measures of time mean nothing to this donkey.

Rather than looking to the past or future, there is an emphasis on the sensory experience of each isolated moment in EO, rendered with visual majesty in long shots that shrink our protagonist against a variety of magnificent European landscapes. Vague paths are sketched out in gorgeous compositions of urban structures and expansive fields, and in one fairy tale-like interlude, we cut between the animals of a forest peacefully going about their business, temporarily undisturbed by the harmful activity of humans.

Though Skolimowski’s film frequently unfolds naturalistically, it is evident in sequences like these that he is not aiming for pure realism. At his most stylistically extreme, he even submits us to psychedelic, red-tinted dreams that could very well take place in EO’s mind, occasionally recalling his origins at the circus he might be trying to find his way back to, and at one point soaring through a forest in a glorious long take. His perspective is far from objective, and yet there is a tragic beauty in its lonely transience. Humanity has never looked as simultaneously kind and cruel as it does through the eyes of the world’s lowliest beast, through which EO unveils its profoundly graceful meditations on our most fundamental nature.

EO is currently streaming on The Criterion Channel.

Colm Bairéad | 1hr 36min

The abuse that nine-year-old Cáit suffers at the hands of her parents is never specified in The Quiet Girl, but director and writer Colm Bairéad gives us all we need in one key scene, revealing the expectations she has of all grown-ups. Now under the temporary care of distant relatives Eibhlín and Seán while her mother is pregnant, she is brought to her new family’s well to collect water. “Is it a secret? Am I not supposed to tell?” she sheepishly asks. Eibhlín’s sorrowful reaction mirrors our own. “There are no secrets in this house,” she assures the young girl. The kindness and warmth they have to offer is entirely foreign to Cáit, revealing a softer side to the world which may at least partially alleviate her trauma before she is returned to her parents, though in this delicate surrogate relationship it eventually becomes clear that such emotional healing goes both ways.

The countryside that Bairéad envisions in this depiction of rural Ireland is clearly one that he recalls from his own childhood in the 1980s, its décor carefully curated to the era’s musty patterned wallpaper and bare wooden furniture. Within his boxy aspect ratio, actors are cropped into narrow spaces, emphasising a claustrophobia which his doorframe shots and shallow focus continue to restrict. Cáit’s frame is already tiny, and when Bairéad turns to wide angle lenses she is virtually swallowed up by her environment. This is a girl who treads lightly and makes her presence small as a means of survival, and is only now finding the love she deserves in the home of Eibhlín and Seán.

Even here though, there is still a vague air of sadness that lingers in its rooms and hallways. It may not be immediately evident to Cáit, but the train-themed wallpaper of her temporary bedroom and the boy’s clothes they dress her in highlight a tragic void left in this family that they cannot bring themselves to talk about. Even more painful is the awkward callousness which Seán carries around with him, hinting at a grief he has not yet learned to deal with. Bursts of irritability occasionally erupt when Cáit helps him on the farm, but her presence also softens him over time, as he opens himself up to the love and pain of being a father once again. Her encounter with a nosy neighbour later in the film confirms all our suspicions, bringing to light the devastating fate of Eibhlín and Seán’s son, though by this point the reveal is barely needed. Everything we need to know about their role Cáit fills in their lives has already been expressed with magnificent narrative economy.

Still, this plot beat does at least motivate a shift in Catherine Clinch’s understated performance of this shy, young girl. With a greater understanding of her surrogate parents’ past comes a comprehension of what she means to them, and a new self-confidence begins to bloom. As she starts to feel more comfortable, Bairéad moves gracefully through the images of her gradual integration into this home’s routine, as well as her liberating run through forests rendered in evocative slow-motion.

When the final minutes of the film roll around and he returns to this motif one last time, he lands it with even greater power. It is inevitable that Cáit will have to return to her neglectful family, but for what may be the first time in her life, she acts out in defiance. Memories of her time spent with Eibhlín and Seán flash by as she bolts into their arms, grasping at their warm affection one last time before it is ripped away. Just as Bairéad has resisted showing us the details of her terrible home life, he is also right not to show us what comes next. The Quiet Girl is not a film of hopeless misery but rather gentle repose, establishing a symbiotic harmony between broken children and adults alike, and letting them heal through each other’s simple, gracious presence.

The Quiet Girl is currently streaming on SBS On Demand, and is available to rent or buy on iTunes, YouTube, and Amazon Video.

Scott Cooper | 2hr 8min

The resurgence of murder mysteries in recent years has been undeniable, especially with the popularity of Rian Johnson’s Knives Out series, Kenneth Branagh’s revival of Hercule Poirot, and several other standalone whodunnits gaining traction including Bodies Bodies Bodies and See How They Run. In The Pale Blue Eye, Scott Cooper jumps on the trend with a detective tale that at once calls back to the genre’s western roots in 19^th century literature, and yet which also possesses more modern sensibilities in its historical revisionism.

Edgar Allen Poe is still a young cadet in the United States Military Academy here, not yet a famed writer of Gothic poems and short stories, yet still consumed by an obsession with the macabre. In effect, this is his fictionalised origin, laying out the pieces of inspiration which would later drive him to write about guilty consciences, cryptic puzzles, and grisly murders. He is not our primary protagonist though – Detective Augustus Landor is the one sought out by local authorities when bodies of cadets start turning up with their hearts mysteriously cut from their torsos. It doesn’t take long for him to join forces with a sharp-minded, inquisitive Edgar, who has taken a morbid interest in the cases. As the chilly mist clears across white, frozen landscapes, a mysterious conspiracy of occult horror and dark family secrets emerges, revealing a devastating anguish that resides in heroes and villains alike.

It is far easier to settle into the bleak frigidity of Cooper’s desolate style than his lethargic narrative, which often seems to oscillate between listless inertia and eerie intrigue. Most notably, the stray attempts to offer Augustus a pained backstory by way of distracted flashbacks never quite feels one with the film until the end, leaving us to wonder just how much of this 128-minute run time could have been shaved down to a tighter film. Even a drawling, scenery-chewing Harry Melling as Edgar and Christian Bale’s gloomy detective aren’t enough to pull us through these patches. That said, Cooper’s casting doesn’t go entirely to waste – both stars mix well in this ensemble of famous faces, making allies and suspects out of Timothy Spall, Toby Jones, Gillian Anderson, Charlotte Gainsborough, and Robert Duvall.

Regardless of how connected they are to the central murders, darkness infects the hearts of many of these figures, and radiates out into the frosty atmospheres that encompass them. Cooper often keeps us at a distance from his characters in his handsome long shots, emphasising the negative space left behind by snowy fields and foggy forests, and later he drives up the tension with an unnerving pair of high angles teetering us on the edge of an icy cliff. The only shelter from these harsh elements comes in equally cold interiors, lit by thick candles dripping with melted wax and bearing sinister Gothic designs.

Given that the film’s final act almost seems to be on the verge of fizzling out, it is particularly fortunate that Cooper manages to ultimately stick the landing. Just as the horror and evil of Edgar Allen Poe’s writing exists to conceal its deeper layers of melancholy, so too do the ugly actions of Cooper’s characters arise from their obscure emotional wounds. For them, the only way to fight a cruel universe is to arm oneself with even greater cruelty. As flawed as its storytelling may be as, The Pale Blue Eye does not hold back on its grotesque thrills, constructing the sort of enigmatic, disturbing world that we can only imagine gave birth to such a morbid literary imagination.

The Pale Blue Eye is currently streaming on Netflix.

Olivier Hermanus | 1hr 42min

The mountainous structures of files that British bureaucrat Mr Williams has spent his life building is virtually a fort for him, keeping out those distractions he deems insignificant, and insulating him in a state of lifeless passivity. These paper towers crowd out his office in the local council’s Public Works department, forcing him to the edges of the frame and obstructing our view of him with Oliver Hermanus’ delicate shallow focus. The social etiquette and conventions which govern 1950s London’s middle-class may be rigidly defined, but Mr Williams’ grounding in a firm sense of self is not – that is until a terminal cancer diagnosis forces a personal reckoning. Perhaps it is this fresh setting and polished aesthetic which most tangibly sets Living apart from the film it is adapting, Akira Kurosawa’s Ikiru, even if it is overshadowed in virtually every other aspect.

When remaking such elevated source material and deciding how faithful it will be, there is great risk along either path. Sticking too close to what already exists compromises creativity, as is often the case in Living’s familiar narrative structure. Straying too far on the other hand will almost certainly lose much of what gave the original film its power. Hermanus’ addition of the bland Mr Wakeling character serves little purpose, and his removal of several key flashbacks also incidentally develops Mr Williams into a less complex character than his counterpart in Ikiru.

Still, there is a revitalising novelty to Hermanus’ clean, polished direction, steering clear of Kurosawa’s deep focus photography and instead relying on his own filmmaking instincts. His production design’s period detail is as beautifully refined as his staging, sending slow-motion crowds of suited men across bridges and into office buildings against the elegant flourishes of a lush piano and strings score. “Not too much fun and laughter,” one of them warns their newest colleague, and it could almost be their motto. The melancholic joy of Living comes through when Hermanus loosens his style even further, breaking up his predominantly muted palettes with a flash of golden lighting in the bar where Mr Williams ventures beyond his comfort zone, or filling his home with memories that fade from monochrome into colour.

Most significantly though, it is Bill Nighy’s tremendously subtle performance that drives the pathos of the film, sinking into a weary depression when answers cannot be found in the hedonism of London’s nightlife, before letting a sly charm start to break through his lethargic demeanour. Maybe if Hermanus sat a little longer in his most spell-binding moments it would have been an even greater acting achievement, as we move on from Nighy’s impromptu, melancholic rendition of the Scottish folk song ‘The Rowan Tree’ just a little too quickly.

Living might be best appreciated as a standalone film, as although our protagonist’s last minutes onscreen pales in comparison to the marvellous dolly shot of Ikiru, it remains an affecting scene on its own terms. While Nighy sits in the children’s park he has spent the last few months of his life building, a bleak, powdery snowfall encases him in freezing temperatures, and yet not even that can dull the poignant spark in his musical reprise of ‘The Rowan Tree.’ Hermanus effectively carries out a cultural transplant in his adaptation, shifting this mid-century tale of one dying man’s passionate enlightenment from Japan to London, and imbuing it with a whole new context of soul-sucking social customs and routines. If anybody is only going to watch one version of this story, Kurosawa’s masterpiece is the clear winner, but as far as remakes of classics go Living holds up surprisingly well.

Living is currently playing in theatres.

Ti West | 1hr 42min

Shot in a secret back-to-back production with Ti West’s grindhouse horror pastiche X, Pearl pulls back the curtain on its predecessor’s decrepit, murderous villain, and centres her in the shining spotlight of Hollywood’s earliest days. Set roughly fifty years before the events leading to her demise, this prequel couldn’t be more distinct in its saccharine tone and vibrant style. Pearl herself is essentially this movie’s darker take on Dorothy Gale, longing to escape the confines of her rural Texan ranch and fly somewhere over the rainbow – or at least to the Hollywood hills, where she can make a name for herself as a chorus girl. Much like the visible influences of The Texas Chainsaw Massacre in X, West wears his inspirations on his sleeve in Pearl, inviting us into a Technicolor dream where traces of The Wizard of Oz sit alongside seedier references to silent, pornographic stag films.

These pulpy renderings of two very different eras of cinema are ripe for some rich cultural comparisons, as the wannabe independent filmmakers of X approaching their ambitions with greater grit, practicality, and compromise than Pearl’s blatantly unrealistic aspirations. What they do have in common is unabashed ego, setting them all up for inevitable disappointment. “One day the whole world’s gonna know my name,” proclaims the enthusiastic young woman, echoing the words of Maxine Minx from X. Like the aspiring porn actress, Pearl comes from humble origins, though with her husband away fighting in the war and her German immigrant parents destroying any notion of life beyond the farm, she is also more stuck in the weeds of tradition. How much of her derangement is bred by this conservative culture versus how much is instinctually ingrained in her psyche is something which West thoughtfully teases out, but Hollywood’s bright promises of the American Dream certainly plays a part in exacerbating it.

After Mia Goth’s remarkable dual performances in X, it should be no surprise that she entirely dominates the screen here, playing right into Pearl’s simple-minded naivety and merciless psychopathy. No doubt she also benefits from the film’s refined focus on its intensive character study rather than a larger ensemble, and clearly West knows the talent he’s got at hand with his long takes that linger on her pained expressions and monologues. This is especially evident each time Pearl lands a kill, whether against an animal or human, as he builds solid form in returning to the same low angle of her disturbingly emotionless face. Her journey here is layered with romantic desire, personal ambition, and murderous rage, and through Goth’s skilled handling of each arc we come to realise how much they are all part of a single descent into madness.

Not that Pearl’s true nature is evident to many of those around her. While mother and father deny the terror that lies behind her innocent façade, her sister-in-law Mitsy and the projectionist she flirts with at the local cinema remain blissfully unaware, feeding her idealistic fantasies. West too is fanciful with his visual stylings, building a similar tension between his stylistic impersonation of old Hollywood movies and the festering degeneracy which lies beneath. With his gaudy wipe transitions, black-and-white interludes, and a classic orchestral score that swells with sentiment, Pearl is just as much an homage to the Golden Age of Hollywood as X is to the American New Wave of the 1970s.

Most accomplished of all though is West’s flamboyantly colourful cinematography, announcing itself from the very first shot that pushes us through a dark doorway not unlike Dorothy’s first steps into Oz, and into a picturesque composition of lush green lawns, a bright blue sky, and a freshly painted homestead. Recurring long shots of a withering cornfield frequently punctuates Pearl’s ventures in and out of town, and a particularly unnerving long take later in the film sticks us with one of her victims making a nervous, ill-fated getaway. Not only is this engrossingly stylish filmmaking from West, but by pushing well-worn genre conventions into direct conversation with cinema history itself, he layers his horror storytelling with a playful self-awareness. Pearl the film is just as much a warped product of the Hollywood dream machine as Pearl the aspiring actress, murderess, and housewife, relishing the superficial splendour that only barely conceals an uglier, malevolent truth.

Pearl is currently playing in theatres.

Emma de Swaef, Marc James, Roels Niki, Lindroth von Bahr, Paloma Baeza | 1hr 37min

Across three eras of one house’s past, present, and future, a rhyming triplet is formed by their respective chapter titles, taking the form of an old English folk poem.

I – And heard within, a lie is spun

II – Then lost is truth that can’t be won

III – Listen again and seek the sun.

Irish screenwriter Enda Walsh infuses this verse with a dark, mystical ambiguity, hinting at forces in each self-contained story which amass power through deceit and manipulation. As The House teases these individual lines out further, an allegory of whimsical existentialism begins to unfurl in an arresting series of Kafkaesque tales. Bit by bit, this anthology traces the rise of modern consumerism from the class envy it was historically born from, through the image-conscious perfectionism of today’s society, and to its logical end as an apocalyptic, flooded wasteland.

Each chapter is credited to a different director, and yet their creative visions possess an abstract unity, following three sets of characters in the process of moving into, selling, or renovating the titular house, only to be confronted by a collection of outsiders who expose their inner corruption. Like Franz Kafka’s absurdist fables, there is little explanation as to where these disturbing figures come from, nor where they will end up when all is said and done. It is rather the effect they have on these poor, doomed residents which The House chooses to study through its rich metaphors, observing the evils they have welcomed into their home tragically erode their souls.

The first ensemble of characters we follow are a poor family given the opportunity of a lifetime when the inscrutable architect Mr. Van Schoonbeek offers to build them a house free of charge – the only condition being that they leave behind their old home and possessions. Family patriarch Raymond, wife to Penny and father of Mabel and baby Isobel, falls easily into temptation, compelled by his jealousy towards rich, condescending relatives. The sudden manifestation of his dreams in his new abode quickly descends into psychological horror though, drawing comparisons to The Shining in its imposing symmetrical patterns, maze-like interiors, and unsettling strangers lurking in unused rooms.

There is no questioning who makes the food or turns on the fancy electric lights at night-time, nor do the parents push back against the house’s strange hypnosis, forcing them to keep sewing drapes and fruitlessly try to light the house’s fireplace. Very gradually, an uneasy blurring of the lines between these people and their possessions unfolds, each absorbing the other until Raymond and Penny start wearing the upholstery and become part of the furniture. Mabel and Isobel make it out with their humanity still intact, and yet the generational cycles of toxic consumerism have begun, promising an even bleaker future.

With such precious virtue at stake, the stop-motion animation of needle felt puppets brings a childlike innocence to The House, freeing each director up to experiment with anthropological creatures and perverse body horror. In the close-ups of Part I, the detail of these human characters is extraordinary, as the camera sharply focuses on the thin felt fibres of their skin ruffling with each movement like homemade dolls. In the later chapters where animals take over, the character designs remain equally impressive, especially with entry of the creepy, disproportioned rats in Part II.

“We are extremely interested in this house,” they repeat in raspy, wheezy growls, and for a time the Developer struggling to sell it acquiesces to their odd behaviour out of desperation, letting them take up unofficial residence the very same day of the inspection. He is quite literally a part of modern society’s rat race, trying to get a leg up by creating the image of a perfect home, and yet the meaninglessness of such efforts is revealed as it falls prey to the filthy exploitation of these squatters and their unwelcome relatives. Eventually, even the Developer succumbs to the anarchic madness, reverting to his most primal instincts and mirroring the transformation of Kafka’s The Metamorphosis. An earlier overhead shot of him curling up within the fur beetle infestation doesn’t look so sickening anymore when compared to the absolute ruin which has now torn the house apart, seeing him succumb to the indulgent ruin of his materialistic dreams.

The warmth of Part I’s green and gold palette and the sleekness of Part II’s blues and greys are all but gone by the time the dirty, pale browns take over in Part III. The formal contrast between each setting in these colour schemes essentially tell their own story of the house’s evolution, while recurring shots connect us to the unchanging layout of stairwells and rooms across its lifetime. In this way, The House may even be described as an epic of sorts, covering a huge expanse of time in which the only constant character is that large, hulking construction which promises its inhabitants perfect material lives.

As Part III rolls around, it becomes clear that the squalid mess of Part II’s ending has taken over the world. The house has at some point become a block of studio apartments, sitting on an island in a lonely, flooded city that possesses a barren beauty. Surrounding the building is a light, beige mist creeping through windows, while below we notice crooked powerlines peeking above the surface of the dirty water. We may not notice this chapter’s character subversion right away, as landlord Rosa seems reasonable enough in her attempts to restore the building and secure rental payment from her two flaky tenants. And yet in the context of this apocalyptic society where money means nothing at all, she is the odd one out, believing that people will return to the flats if she were just able to fix them up.

Much like Mr. Van Schoonbeek of Part I and the squatters of Part II, wandering hippie Cosmos sails into the life of our protagonist as a disruptive outsider, though not as a sinister enigma. If anything, he appears frustratingly disconnected from reality, speaking of impractical New Age ideals and tearing up floorboards he needs to build a new boat. In this refreshingly inverted character dynamic, our protagonist has already reached the peak of their self-delusion, and the spell Cosmos casts over Rosa is not one which sinks her further into material obsession, but rather clears her mind to see its futility in a dying world.

With Rosa’s liberation and newfound inspiration to “Listen again and seek the sun,” this final chapter punctuates The House with a far more optimistic ending than those which drew Parts I and II into deep despair. Though disconnected in their narratives, aesthetic, and even character species, each absurdist fable builds on the others to arrive at a broader allegory exposing the lie of humanity’s self-centred, material ambitions. We are animals, The House poetically posits, submitting our minds and bodies to that which brings us immediate gratification. Perhaps only when those pleasures are ripped away from us by means of our own self-destruction can we return to a simpler, wiser, and more fulfilling way of life.

The House is currently streaming on Netflix.

Ti West | 1hr 45min

The divisive culture wars of the Southern United States in the late 70s does not form the primary conflict of Ti West’s slasher film X, but it does make for a fascinating backdrop to the insecure, sex-starved rampage of ageing ranchers Pearl and Howard. From the loins of its dogmatic religious puritanism springs a depraved rebellion, thirsting for the worldly pleasures their patriarchal leaders deny. This metaphor is partly literal, with a late reveal shedding light on the origins of aspiring porn star Maxine Minx, but the inescapable presence of televangelists all through X also weaves in an oppressive formal motif which pushes us to side with her fellow cast and crew against the mainstream. Like those bible-thumping preachers, they are seeking to exploit modern media trends in their own way, leaving behind older generations who have grown irrelevant. The scene is thus set for a reckoning with America’s rotten past that has been left to waste away on the fringes of society, empowering West to deliver on a series of pulpy, tantalising thrills.

The lynchpin that connects scream queen Maxine and the decrepit, homicidal Pearl is Mia Goth, who displays an incredible range and chameleon-like abilities in both roles. As Pearl, the layers of prosthetics all over her face and body render her virtually unrecognisable, but Goth also carries a frailty in her voice and movement which distinguishes her from the younger, saucier Maxine. The acting achievement is somewhat similar to Tilda Swinton’s trio of distinct characters in 2018’s Suspiria, though Goth’s dual performances serve a greater formal purpose than simply a portfolio of talent. “We’re the same. You’ll end up just like me,” Pearl moans to her younger counterpart, offering a warning of the miserable fate which inevitably wears away at the beauty and vitality of youth.

With as decrepit a villain as this haunting the rural farm which Maxine’s crew has hired out for their porn shoot, West pays direct homage to The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, infusing X with the grotesque amorality of its cinematic precursor. More broadly, this is his tribute to that entire era of independent filmmaking, adapting its aesthetic with experimental retrospection. The flickering transitions of Easy Rider are revived here, blending the end of one scene and the beginning of the next in such a way that keeps us from immediately grounding ourselves in new settings. The effect is unsettling, and West keeps pushing his eccentric editing forward during an acoustic cover of Fleetwood Mac’s ‘Landslide’ where a split screen contrasts the young filmmakers’ warm comfort against Pearl’s silent lament of her grey, leathery skin.

Perhaps it is in the violently creative murders where West is most comfortable as a filmmaker though. The early setup of an alligator dwelling in a nearby lake originally arrives as a warning of the ranch’s lurking danger, but there is also great narrative economy in its return later, driving up the tension when Pearl corners one hapless victim to the water’s edge. As she hacks away at another in front of his getaway car, the headlights are doused in his blood, consequently drenching the entire scene with a vibrant red hue. Like so many great horror films of the 70s, X thrives in these moments of impossible artifice, pushing our suspension of disbelief in such a way that alerts and torments the senses.

West isn’t treading new ground in his grindhouse pastiche, and yet is a provocative consideration of a specific cultural turning point in American history all the same, pitting the bitterness of ageing against the arrogant idealism of youth. Even beyond Maxine and Pearl, this ensemble consists of well-drawn characters, carefully delineated as archetypes of both the horror genre and the amateur film industry at large. The art-driven cinematographer, the vain actress, the innocent sound recordist roped into her boyfriend’s project – these are people we recognise, and yet who also possess vivid inner lives that we see brutally snuffed out one by one.

X’s ensemble is almost quite literally in conversation with the culture of extreme religiosity that they live in, especially with the omnipresent televangelist punctuating dramatic beats through his own commentary. “Now that’s what I call divine intervention!” he feverishly proclaims when Maxine finally gets a bit of luck on her side, and she also begins indirectly quoting him as she stares down Pearl’s shotgun. Even in this isolated, rural death trap of “sex fiends” and “murderers,” there is no separating the rebellious outsiders from the strait-laced mainstream they have run from. Exploitation runs deep in both, while for those like Pearl though who have been sapped of youth’s greatest indulgences, all that is left is a tragic, vengeful resentment.

X is currently streaming on Amazon Prime Video and Binge, and is available to rent or buy on iTunes, YouTube, and Amazon Video.

Sam Mendes | 1hr 59min

The staff who work at the fading Empire Cinema in the coastal English town of Kent are a strange assortment of passionless locals. Teenagers who would rather be anywhere else collect tickets, duty manager Hilary has never even considered sitting down to watch a movie, and every day she is called into the office of her apathetic boss to carry out a loveless affair. Still, there are sparks of life to be found in unexpected places. The projectionist Norman, played with gentle spirit by Toby Jones, may be the sole employee who possesses a sincere love for his job and film as an art form. That is, until he is joined by the young, charismatic Stephen, who seeks to draw out the hidden beauty residing in his co-workers and the establishment itself.

As a result, there is a mirroring of sorts that Sam Mendes unfolds between the two main targets of his attention – Hilary, and the abandoned upper floor of the cinema that once shone bright in its glory days. Tragic beauty is instilled in both character and setting, rendered with remarkable poignancy through Olivia Colman’s thorny performance, and Roger Deakins’ marvellously golden-lit cinematography.

The latter especially is gorgeous to behold, shedding a soft, golden glow across the building’s regal red theatres, Art Deco exteriors, and the dusty unused ballroom where Hilary and Stephen frequently escape. Yellow dots of distant light break up the darkness outside its windows, and from its balcony Deakins captures a precious moment shared between the two lovers as they wondrously gaze at the New Year’s Eve fireworks bursting in the night sky. This is their world that no one else can touch, isolating them in a bubble separated from society’s conservative judgements of their age gap and interracial relationship.

And yet Empire of Light is not a romance. Hilary is a far more troubled, complicated figure than she initially appears, concealing her bipolar diagnosis and previous residence in a psychiatric hospital from Stephen until it all comes spilling to the surface. Those mood swings we might initially assume are mere slips in her temper grow more uncontrollable as she falls harder in love, and there is a deliberate awkwardness on Colman’s part which keeps us at a distance, especially when she starts stomping on sandcastles like a sulking child. At the same time, she is also revitalised by Stephen’s youthful energy, allowing her to break from old habits and develop a greater sense of self-worth. Hilary is a woman of many contradictions, lifting her to ecstatic heights as easily as they send her crashing to devastating lows.

The subplot of racial prejudice and violence which lingers on the edges of her relationship with Stephen isn’t integrated quite as smoothly. The skinheads who haunt street corners, throw slurs, and march in nationalistic rallies down main roads are an extension of the era’s conservative Thatcherism, though it often acts more like a parallel story than part of a larger narrative. As hopeful and saccharine as Empire of Light can be at times, Mendes also takes his film to some dark places, and fully understands the differences which keep Hilary and Stephen from fully understanding each other on a truly intimate level. Even when the romance fades though, another kind of love persists – one which is strained in its uncomfortable history, yet persistent in its sincere affection and care.

And then there is the ode to film which wraps all of this up in a setting that is both slightly superficial and entirely charming. Deakins’ atmospheric lighting can’t be separated from this raw cinematic power, but Mendes is also pointed in his references to movies of the era. Billboards advertising musical spectacles The Blues Brothers and All That Jazz ground the story in the early 1980s, right at the time when independent cinema started to give way to blockbusters, and in the very final minutes, Being There underscores a key moment in Hilary’s life. Just like Peter Sellers’ simple-minded Chance the gardener, the depths contained within this seemingly plain, dowdy woman are astonishing. Cinema in Empire of Light is designed to inspire and reframe one’s perspective of an ostensibly ordinary world, and with Deakins’ radiant photography at his disposal, Mendes unites both narrative and style under that warm, rose-tinted thesis.

Empire of Light is currently playing in theatres.