Category: 2020s

Wes Anderson | 4 episodes (17min to 41 min)

Not even two months out from the release of Asteroid City, Wes Anderson has continued to break down that fourth wall between storytellers and audiences with his deadpan theatrics, though this time in the spirit of literary adaptation. Having previously translated Roald Dahl to screen in 2009’s Fantastic Mr. Fox, he is no stranger to the author’s modern fables of monsters and outcasts, both of which bear especially close connections to his own experiences living through wartime and post-war Britain in these four shorts. The brief, handwritten notes at the end of each instalment offer some context to their writing, whether inspired by the eccentric local townsfolk of Amersham where he penned The Rat Catcher, or a newspaper account of a real bullying incident that stayed with Dahl for thirty years before using it in The Swan. Even within the settings themselves, the relevance to his own military service is clear as well, with both Poison and The Wonderful Story of Henry Sugar using Britain’s imperial rule of India as a backdrop to stories of greed and racial prejudice.

As far as familiarity goes in Dahl’s work, these tales are not quite as widely beloved as Charlie and the Chocolate Factory or The BFG, yet Anderson is purposeful in his curation, painting out a larger portrait of alienation across the entire collection. It is there in the rodentlike characterisation of the titular Rat Catcher who recoils from the disgust of others, Peter’s psychological and physical torment at the hands of two bullies in The Swan, and perhaps most cuttingly the vitriolic racial slurs spat at Dr Ganderbai that give a double meaning to the title Poison.

When it comes to The Wonderful Story of Henry Sugar though, the longest of all these short films, Dahl and Anderson angle their story towards a hubristic self-isolation resulting from one wealthy bachelor’s obsessive pursuit of greatness. Having spent years as a recluse in his London apartment trying to learn the ancient Indian trick of seeing without one’s eyes, Henry finds himself totally unfulfilled by the fraudulent success it grants him in casinos. His loneliness is entirely of his own making, emerging from an arrogance that is ultimately washed away by the ancient form of spiritual meditation he has been practicing, and guides him towards a lifetime of redemption.

Of the four shorts, The Wonderful Story of Henry Sugar is the only one that ends on such an optimistic note, while Anderson takes some liberties to end each of the others with unresolved bitterness. After Dr. Ganderbai exposes the snake apparently lying on one terrified man’s chest in Poison to be in his head, he does not brush off his humiliated patient’s racism with the happy-go-lucky attitude of his literary counterpart, but rather leaves him with nothing but cold silence. Similarly, Peter’s fate after being forced to jump from a tree in The Swan is a touch melancholier here than in Dahl’s version, with Anderson choosing to close on the poetic image of Peter’s adult self crumpled on the ground, unrecovered from his childhood trauma. To Anderson, worldly evils such as those suffered by our protagonists cannot simply be healed over with a cheerful shrug or a band aid. They persist in the memories of their wounded victims, and are imparted to the world through the eloquent expressions of great artists.

It makes sense then why Anderson chooses to use a physical representation of Dahl as a narrator in each of these stories. More than any of his fictional characters, Anderson sees pieces of himself in the writer, both being storytellers who offer a veneer of whimsical innocence that may entice children, only to reveal quiet tragedies beneath the colourful surface. Anderson’s screenplay is dense with narration lifted mostly verbatim from the source material, passing from Dahl sitting comfortably in his home on the outermost layer to those characters within the stories themselves. From there, actors effortlessly switch between direct addresses to the camera and in-scene dialogue with barely a pause, moving narratives along at an extraordinarily propulsive pace that may be unforgiving to those viewers who let their attention wander for more than a few seconds.

For many directors, this endlessly babbling stream of descriptive soliloquys would be a hindrance to the visual medium of cinema, and though Anderson is slightly more limited here in his staging than usual, his craftsman hands deftly mould Dahl’s words into the equivalent of a pop-up storybook unfolding on giant stages. Specific props and characters are occasionally absent, encouraging a childlike imagination as actors mime and interact with empty space, while other illusions such as Henry Sugar’s levitation is achieved with little more than a camouflaged box. With his rear projection, pastel dioramas, stop-motion animation, and mobile sets visibly moved by backstage crew, Anderson lays the artifice on even thicker than usual, arranging every shot to a level of symmetrical perfection that keeps us at a Brechtian distance from any impression of reality.

Anderson’s aesthetic trademarks are distinctly recognisable from film to film, yet the theatrical designs and formal elements of these shorts bind them even closer as a single cinematic work, rarely even straying outside its single troupe of actors who rotate between roles. Ralph Fiennes, Benedict Cumberbatch, Rupert Friend, Ben Kingsley, Dev Patel, and Richard Ayoade each play an assortment of outlandish characters, while among them Fiennes is the only one to appear in all four instalments, taking on the additional role of Roald Dahl himself. His gentle demeanour there is hilariously offset in The Rat Catcher when he comes to solve a small village’s infestation with claw-like nails, beady eyes, and a pair of long front teeth, suggesting his ethos to ‘think like a rat’ has spread to his grisly appearance and behaviour, and thereby showing off Fiennes’ impressive acting range. Perhaps just as impressive though is Friend’s solo command of The Swan, adopting the nasally voices of other characters in an enrapturing monologue like a parent might while reading to their child at bedtime, and Cumberbatch’s turn as Henry Sugar himself, easily the most fully developed character of the lot.

In an era of streaming that has seen directors like Barry Jenkins and Nicolas Winding Refn dip into auteur television, Anderson’s own fascinating formal experiment pushes the medium beyond the usual episodic series, while delivering a natural extension of his filmography up to now. Fictional magazines, plays, novels, and memoirs have inspired his inventive structures before, and now his adaptation of Roald Dahl’s short stories into a loosely connected anthology continues that trend of exploring more traditional media through versatile cinematic forms. If there is any hindrance to his talent here, then it is the sheer difficulty of developing any character or story within the limited scope of 17 minutes, and yet at the same time there is far more excitement in any one of these isolated shorts than most films being made. The spirit of Dahl’s literature is alive, taking creative form in Anderson’s poignantly whimsical fables of scheming psychics, merciless bullies, zealous exterminators, and petrified patients.

Wes Anderson’s collection of Roald Dahl shorts is currently streaming on Netflix.

Gareth Edwards | 2hr 13min

One hundred years after America sent their troops to a war in Vietnam that they would suffer greatly for, another conflict unfolds in the futuristic Republic of New Asia, where artificially intelligent beings have taken refuge from the genocidal fury of the western world. Driven by humanity’s most basic fear of extinction and replacement, the United States has taken up arms against their synthetic inventions. Not only have they developed a giant superweapon called USS Nomad that sits up high in the sky, scans for simulants, and destroys them on sight, but they have also unleashed the full force of their highly advanced military upon the forests, mountains, and villages of New Asia where the survivors are being protected by locals.

Gareth Edwards is clearly not holding back his visual and narrative allusions to the Vietnam War, even referencing the specific iconography of films like Apocalypse Now and Platoon, and yet there is a freshness to The Creator which still finds new meaning in the historical conflict through contemporary questions of human identity. America’s dehumanisation of its enemies manifests in this allegory with brutal violence, as soldiers psychologically torture innocent civilians for information, flatten towns with giant tanks, and desecrate the bodies of dead simulants. With foes this inhuman, it is all too easy for Joshua to rationalise fighting for his country as an undercover agent – after all, can a non-human being even be dehumanised to begin with?

Still, it is a very thin line between those artificial simulants and their human New Asian allies, both being disregarded and slaughtered by Americans with barbaric indifference. Lending an even greater weight to this race of artificial humanoids is the faith that has become central to their hopes of survival, noted in the opening text that translates the Nepalese word “Nirmata” as “god-like creator”, and going on to frame this mysterious deity as an architect of AI technology and civilisation.

Therein lies the grand theological concerns of The Creator. Much like Jake Sully’s conversion in Avatar, Joshua begins to see the value these beings place on life beyond mere survival, and the purpose they inherently hold by nature of their own creation. Both organic and synthetic races are inextricably bound – if their lives are worthless, then so too are ours.

As such, this narrative which starts out much like a Blade Runner-type story of a man hunting down artificial humanoids begins to take a direction far more in line with Children of Men, right down to the Messianic icon at its centre. Having learnt of a new weapon developed by Nirmata, Joshua sets out to destroy the device before it can obliterate the USS Nomad, only to discover its devastatingly sympathetic form – a young child simulant called Alpha-O, or more affectionately nicknamed Alphie. It is certainly no coincidence that she activates her power to control technology by holding her hands in a prayer-like position, as if calling on the power of her deity to perform miracles. She is the prophesied saviour of the world, merging the best of both humanity and artificial intelligence, and incidentally turning Joshua into a Joseph-like father figure tasked with ensuring the fulfilment of her destiny.

It stands to reason then that in place of Mother Mary, Joshua’s late wife Maya is the guiding maternal presence, becoming a significant figure in this story despite being largely absent. The promise from Josh’s superiors that she is still alive is all the motivation he needs to join their mission, but it also eventually pushes him to go rogue and whisk Alphie away, leading them from one action set piece to the next in hope of recovering his lost love.

In this stimulating combination of philosophical concerns and largescale science-fiction filmmaking, the names of two more giant directors easily spring to mind. Edwards’ accomplished production design, visual effects, and crisp cinematography clearly follow in the footsteps of Denis Villeneuve, and his consideration of relations between distinct lifeforms and political factions particularly echo Arrival, Blade Runner 2049, and Dune. No doubt this visual prowess can be largely attributed though to Edwards’ use of Dune cinematographer Greig Fraser, capturing a vision of Earth’s future that is rich with cultural detail as helicopter shots circle temples atop Himalayan mountains, and gaze in awe at America’s colossal superweapon sitting up high in the atmosphere.

The other key influence here is virtually inescapable in this era of blockbuster filmmaking, yet remains especially relevant with Edwards’ sharp parallel editing and Hans Zimmer’s majestic blend of orchestral and electronics instruments. The Creator may not touch the magnificent heights of most Christopher Nolan films with its occasional meandering, and yet Edwards’ choice of artistic inspiration is welcome nonetheless, posing a more cerebral alternative to Hollywood’s production line of mindless entertainment without compromising on cinematic spectacle.

As fresh and modern as Edwards is with his epic storytelling, this is a narrative rooted deeply in human culture and history, as Joshua’s military commander even points out parallels to the Homo sapiens’ archaic conflict with Neanderthals which saw the more advanced species come out on top. Despite the fact that these simulants are programmed to desire nothing more than a global, cross-species harmony, humans are nonetheless driven by their own paranoid survival instinct. If they are to be killed off in some catastrophe, it will not be from any threat posed by their inventions, but from their own insecurity and fear of what they themselves have done.

The generational conflict between creators and their creations that Edwards writes into the subtext here makes the surrogate father-daughter relationship at the film’s centre all the sweeter. Through the love that Joshua and Alphie slowly develop for each other on their quest to save simulants from extinction, the paternal figure can relinquish his grasp on an advancing world, and the child is given the tools to ensure a prosperous future on Earth. It may not even matter whether this grand purpose is passed down from a divine deity or a mortal parent. In the eyes of those children eternally bound in loving gratitude to their creators, both are one and the same.

The Creator is currently playing in theatres.

Kenneth Branagh | 1hr 43min

The stylish campness of moustachioed detective Hercule Poirot is not exactly lost in the Gothic dread of A Haunting in Venice, though it is at least more subdued in comparison to his previous outings. Approximately ten years have passed since Death on the Nile, and here Kenneth Branagh picks up on Poirot’s reclusive retirement in late 1940s Italy. One can only stand to witness so many crimes in their life before finding themselves totally disillusioned with humanity, and the horrors of World War II have no doubt taken their toll on his idealistic resolve as well. As a result, Poirot may be the most cynical that he has ever been, and yet as he is drawn into this mystery of mediums, seances, and vengeful ghosts, the foundations of his hardened logic are confronted with visions of the impossible.

What better location to set this loose adaptation of Agatha Christie’s novel Hallowe’en Party than Venice too – a city which by day presents itself as a grand historical wonder built around classical stone monuments and canals, and which by night reminds us that the ghosts of its legends are still very much alive. It certainly helps that Branagh chooses to shoot on location rather than falling back on the green screens of Death on the Nile, which previously produced a somewhat artificial look. Magnificently authentic Venetian backdrops thus make for a rich visual presence throughout the first act, before the Belgian detective is lured into the claustrophobic, centuries-old palazzo of opera singer Rowena Drake with the promise of a séance that will defy belief.

Rowena’s deceased daughter Alicia is the spirit that this small party intends to commune with, having thrown herself into the canal one year prior, presumably out of heartbreak. Also present is American crime novelist Ariadne Oliver, Poirot’s old friend who invites him to the séance with the challenge of disproving medium Joyce Reynold’s supernatural abilities. Tina Fey and Michelle Yeoh are enthralling in these roles, though Branagh’s cast is not quite as loaded as it has been in previous films. Few of these characters carry the enigmatic magnetism of Emma Mackey’s spurned lover in Death on the Nile or Michelle Pfeiffer’s resentful family matriarch in Murder on the Orient Express, making Poirot’s interrogations particularly sluggish in the film’s middle act.

Still, Branagh’s chilling direction pulls through even at the narrative’s weakest points, and tantalisingly heightens its most shocking developments. Masked figures sail down canals illuminated by nothing but golden lanterns, ominously warning of a mystical danger that only reveals itself at night, while the Gothic parlours and spiral staircases of Rowena’s palazzo are warped in long shots framed through wide-angle lenses and Dutch tilts. The effect is unsettling, evoking Robert Wise’s 1963 horror The Haunting in its lavishly creepy stylings that escalate into close-up tracking shots attached to Poirot’s anxious face, and camera movements that twist our perspective upside-down. Adding to this the ghostly legend of children who were forcibly quarantined in the basement during the Black Plague back when the building was a hospital, and Branagh effectively blends his murder mystery narrative with supernatural horror, complicating our search for truth with further layers of deception and uncertainty.

Needless to say, Alicia’s suspicious death is not the only one that Poirot sets out to investigate in A Haunting in Venice – her murderer is in attendance at this very séance, Joyce proclaims as she channels her spirit, and it quickly becomes apparent that they will kill again to destroy evidence of their guilt. An unexpected attempt on Poirot’s life significantly raises the narrative stakes, and an impossible mystery seemingly leaves us with no logical explanation when another victim’s life is claimed in a locked room, heavily suggesting that those children’s spirits are more than just medieval myth.

That A Haunting in Venice departs quite significantly from its original novel and often tends more towards the Gothic literature of Edgar Allen Poe is no great source of frustration in this screenplay. Over the course of three films, Branagh has sought to construct a broader picture of the flamboyantly perfectionistic detective across decades of his life, from his days fighting in World War I, through the Great Depression, and now picking up the remnants of his passionate idealism in the aftermath of World War II. The series so far has no doubt made its missteps, and yet here Branagh proves his ability to keep expanding Christie’s classic murder mystery format in thrilling directions, questioning and reaffirming those fundamental narrative foundations that seek to fully comprehend the treacherous yet ultimately rational world they have constructed.

A Haunting in Venice is currently playing in theatres.

Celine Song | 1hr 46min

Twenty-four years after a preadolescent Nora immigrated to Toronto and left her childhood sweetheart Hae Sung behind in Korea, and twelve years after briefly reuniting with him through social media, the two finally meet again face to face in New York City. As they wander its streets and promenades, their conversation turns to the Korean concept of in-yeon – the mysterious, metaphysical thread that binds lovers together across multiple lives, drawing them closer in each incarnation until they finally fulfil their mutual destinies. Perhaps these characters we see before us were once monarchs, birds, or merely just strangers passing on a street, and yet even as they playfully consider these possibilities it becomes apparent that we are already witnessing in-yeon of a different kind.

This romantic understanding of reincarnation is delicately weaved into the triadic structure of Past Lives, effectively framing these characters as three different versions of themselves. As innocent children growing up in Seoul, to ambitious young adults divided by an ocean, and finally as accomplished professionals seeking closure, Nora and Hae Sung travel along winding paths that only intersect once every twelve years. Nora’s own personal ambitions effectively become markers along this journey too, characterised at each age by her desire to win either a Nobel Prize, a Pulitzer Prize, or a Tony Award – though by her 30s, it is clear that she does not put so much value in these lofty accolades.

Similarly, is Hae Sun not the same kid that Nora crushed on back as a 12-year-old back in Korea, nor the flat image on a laptop screen she would casually hang out with in her 20s. They may be emotionally drawn towards each other at each age, and yet whether through circumstances beyond their control or personal hang-ups, their meetings are always cut short before their relationship can blossom into full romance. The very first time we observe this too, Celine Song composes a melancholy illustration of diverging futures as the two children bid a quiet farewell, before continuing their independent journeys home from school – Nora ascending a flight of stairs on the right, while Hae Sung continuing along the level street on the left.

Fate wins out every time, guiding them into the arms of others who are closer to home, and yet there is still an indissoluble connection which perseveres against comfort and convenience. It is not quite strong enough to leave their life partners or goals behind, but still these old friends can’t help but wonder what they might have been to each other had they stood firmer against the tides of destiny.

Then again, perhaps destiny is more in sync with this unfulfilled romance than it appears. After all, is it merely chance which spurs Nora to reach out to Hae Sun through Facebook over a decade since they last saw each other, only to discover that he has been trying to do the same? Is this a tiny machination in the broader cosmos, entangling these souls across multiple lifetimes where their relationships take on thousands of forms?

It is clear to see the influence of Krzysztof Kieslowski’s philosophical meditations emerge in such profound questions, contemplating the invisible connections between total strangers, and representing enormously abstract ideas through the minutia of everyday life. Song echoes a similar tenderness in her delicate moving camera as well, but as Past Lives reaches its final act she sets out to craft an aesthetic far more in line with Richard Linklater’s Before trilogy or Sofia Coppola’s Lost in Translation, serenely observing her characters wander against backdrops of New York’s modern architecture and warm city lights.

Subtly crucial to the melancholic serenity of Nora and Hae Sun’s conversations too are those organic silences that emerge between them, revealing a mutual comfort in each other’s presence rather than awkward uncertainty. Through Greta Lee and Teo Yoo’s small glances and understanding smiles, we see all the poignant complexities of their semi-romantic love, while life continues to move around them in spinning carousels and rocking boats.

Still, none of this negates the relationship Nora has built over many years with Arthur, her Canadian husband. He is keenly aware of what he might have represented in the simplified fairy tale version of this story, playfully considering how some alternate narrator might frame him as the evil villain getting in the way of his wife’s destiny. Hae Sun does not represent a better alternative – just a different one, who, through no fault of Arthur’s, is able to understand parts of Nora’s life that her husband never will.

It is this strange dynamic which rises to the surface in the film’s pivotal bar scene, shutting Arthur out of a conversation spoken in Korean between Nora and Hae Sun. So central is this meeting of all three characters in Past Lives that Song uses it twice, alternating our perspectives each time.

From within the conversation, we discover Nora and Hae Sun at their most honest, reminiscing a history that belongs solely to them and considering the alternate paths they might have taken along the way. When this scene first plays out in the prologue though, it takes on even greater significance, palpably manifesting Nora and Hae Sun’s in-yeun before we even learn of the concept. Song sets the frame in a gorgeous, warmly lit wide shot, slowly zooming in on their muted conversation as the voices of an unseen couple across the bar playfully theorise their identities and relationships. The visual cues they pick up on are specific yet open-ended, leaving us similarly guessing who they might before we even meet them, and it is in that sweet spot of ambiguity that Past Lives flourishes in its romantic optimism. Within the 24 years they have known each other, Nora and Hae Sun may be helplessly limited to their respective paths, and yet across the expansive history and future of all living things, the possibilities of their undefined love are infinite.

Past Lives is currently playing in theatres.

Mike Johnson | 1hr 59min

While much of Hollywood has recently taken to telling the feel-good stories of those entrepreneurs who innovated broadly successful products such as Air Jordans, Tetris, and Flamin’ Hot Cheetos, BlackBerry’s unlikely pairing of tech bro Mike Lazaridis and cutthroat businessman Jim Balsillie proves to be a satirically wry subversion of that formulaic rags-to-riches tale. In theory, these two should have been a dynamic duo with enough brains between them to take over the world – and indeed they do for a time. The downfall of a brand which once made up 45% of the cell phone market though seems virtually predestined with the benefit of hindsight. As far as most people are concerned, BlackBerry seemingly disappeared without explanation, and so with a natural spontaneity behind the camera and a cynical wit at hand, Mike Johnson follows in the creative footsteps of Adam McKay to fill in the gaps of what we know about one of the most catastrophic business failures of the 21^st century.

In its crudest form, the PocketLink device which Mike Lazaridis initially pitches to Jim with his friend Douglas Fregin isn’t terribly impressive, though its novelty is admirable – for one, the invention capitalises on a free wireless signal that spans North America, and which hasn’t yet been tapped into. It is little more than good timing which prompts a recently unemployed Balsillie to take them up on the offer, immediately establishing himself as co-CEO. For a time, his savvy business instincts work wonders, though the role his intimidating, hostile persona plays in this can’t be discounted. Corners must be cut, and quality must be sacrificed for progress. For such a dour man, his nuggets of wisdom are hilariously condescending, even targeting a subordinate as they commit the minor transgression of reaching for a bottle of water.

“Thirst is a display of a weakness.”

Glenn Howerton’s comic instincts that he has spent years crafting on sitcoms pays off tremendously in this role, effectively transplanting the raging narcissism of Dennis from It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia into a tragically humourless businessman with an equal lack of self-awareness. The number of times he smiles in BlackBerry could be counted on one hand, but even when he does there is a cold arrogance in his eyes. Expressions of unbound fury come far more naturally to Balsillie, serving him well enough when he faces down competitors, though also incidentally revealing the rottenness which America’s capitalist industries thrive on.

Still, there is an odd respect that forms between Balsillie and Lazaridis. While the business shark proposes inserting BlackBerries into elite circles and marketing the brand as a status symbol, the tech genius wins over investors with his innovation, making for a perfectly symbiotic partnership. The tension that inevitably arises is even more tantalising to watch though, and it is through Johnson’s documentary shooting style that we begin to feel like voyeurs watching a colossal trainwreck in the making – albeit one desperately trying to save face in the public eye. Handheld cameras and zoom lenses probe into private spaces from a distance, studying the vulnerabilities of these entrepreneurs, all while Johnson keeps accelerating the momentum of their ruin in montages cutting across archival news stories and talk shows.

It isn’t just Lazaridis’ struggle to match the innovation of Apple’s iPhone touchscreen, but the very qualities which once made Balsillie such a compelling businessman are the same which brings his empire down around him. In this way, BlackBerry also becomes a cautionary tale of what comes of such nefarious distractions, obsessions, and shady practices in a capitalist industry, eventually degrading the very quality of the product until it becomes a cheap copy of itself. Through Johnson’s cynical bookends, the irritating buzz of poorly manufactured devices brings Lazaridis full circle back to where he started, only with the problem now multiplied around him a millionfold. The long-lasting era of smartphones may have been dreamed up by these forward-thinking men, and yet as BlackBerry casts its final condemnation upon the ruthlessly corrupt free market, it is also clear that its future was never going to flourish in their ill-equipped hands.

BlackBerry is currently playing in theatres.

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.

Christopher McQuarrie | 2hr 43min

What the newest antagonist of the Mission: Impossible franchise lacks in characterisation, it makes up for in its unsettling, intangible influence over the basic functions of our technology-dependent world. When we do see the Entity manifest, it is as white beams of light fanning out from a dark centre, pulsing and breathing a raspy, electronic rattle. It is described as a sentient virus, a digital parasite, and artificial intelligence gone rogue, manipulating the transfer of information to impersonate people and fabricate digital signals. Its destruction of a Soviet submarine in the opening minutes of Mission: Impossible – Dead Reckoning lays out the stakes in a thrilling set piece, but even more significantly it also demonstrates the modus operandi through which it takes down civilians – not by launching its own weapons, but by taking advantage of humanity’s reckless naivety.

Much less intimidating than the Entity is the far more standard secondary villain who acts as its “Dark Messiah”, carrying out its orders in the real world to establish its dominion. Practically speaking, Gabriel is little more than a necessary device to give our heroes a body to fight, never quite measuring up to the threat his master poses despite his ties to Ethan Hunt’s past. The other new additions to the cast are served much better in their more ambiguous roles, with Pom Klementieff entering as a reckless assassin set on taking Hunt down, and Hayley Atwell’s professional thief alternating between adversary and ally with her deft sleight of hand.

Even so, Dead Reckoning most of all proves to be a stage for Tom Cruise and his globe-trotting set pieces, taking part in horseback chases across the Arabian desert and pursuing Gabriel through the cobbled streets and canals of Venice. When Christopher McQuarrie’s direction matches Cruise’s practical commitment to the action, the film possesses an even greater exhilarating tactility, reaching a peak as Cruise rides over the edge of a cliff on a motorcycle and parachutes down into the valley. Not even the bombastic finale of green screens and CGI can match the awesome spectacle of seeing Cruise throw his body into truly creative stunts.

McQuarrie may not be taking artistic ownership of the Mission: Impossible series the same way Chad Stahelski has with John Wick, though his contributions towards revitalising its image in recent years should not be discounted. Despite carrying the canted angles across from the first film, his visual style has a sleekness distinct from Brian de Palma’s, and there is even a bit of Skyfall present in the bright, dynamic lighting and silhouetted dancers of the White Widow’s Venetian party. It is through the precision of his parallel editing though that he most effectively ratchets up the tension of his set pieces, crosscutting between a bomb that must be defused through riddles and Hunt’s pursuit of a crucial key through an airport, and later the action unfolding simultaneously inside and outside the Orient Express.

That Dead Reckoning does so little to distinguish its relatively standard espionage narrative from others begs the question why it was conceived in two parts, besides the fact that the Entity holds so much potential for further development as a villain. Playing on renewed cultural fears of an AI takeover is a smart move for McQuarrie as he takes his own creative spin on the subject. As the seventh movie in the Mission: Impossible series, Dead Reckoning proves there is still life to be found in Ethan Hunt’s perilous undertakings 25 years since it began. As the first instalment of a new story arc, there is also just enough to keep us in its grip.

Mission: Impossible series, Dead Reckoning is currently streaming on Netflix.

Wes Anderson | 1hr 45min

Buried beneath the deadpan line readings and self-aware framing devices of Asteroid City, there is a quiet, repressed grief, fighting to reach the surface. The story of the youth astronomy convention visited by extra-terrestrials is only the innermost layer of its narrative, framed within a fictional play which in turn is being featured on an exclusive behind-the-scenes 1950s television program. This nesting doll structure isn’t unusual for Wes Anderson, whose cinematic storytelling has always relished mimicking traditional forms of media, but the boundaries between his fictional layers here are far looser and more perplexing than we have seen before.

Augie Steenbeck is the widowed father of four who has been waiting for this family road trip to tell his children of their mother’s passing three weeks ago, while Jones Hall is the actor who plays him. Co-starring next to him is world-weary actress Mercedes Ford playing the equally jaded actress Midge Campbell, who has similarly been drawn to Asteroid City for her daughter’s participation in the astronomy convention. It takes us a few seconds to recognise when either actor breaks character, remarking on the greasepaint used for a black eye or an unexpected commitment to burning one’s hand on a hot griddle. In fact, the lines between performers and their fictional identities become more obscure the deeper we get, as Anderson gradually blurs them until they essentially become one.

There is an underlying logic to these fourth wall breaks in the metacontext of the television production, though they also heavily suggest a personal dissociation that lets these characters step back and question their own actions. “Why does Augie burn his hand on the Quicky-Griddle? I still don’t understand the play,” Jones questions at the chaotic climax of Asteroid City, before heading backstage to chat with the director.

“He’s such a wounded guy. I feel like my heart is getting broken, my own personal heart, every night.”

“Good.”

“Do I just keep doing it?”

“Yes.”

“Without knowing anything?”

“Yes.”

The exchange almost sounds like a man speaking to his own conscience, spurring him on to conquer the inhibitions that keep him from understanding the logic of the universe, as well as his own soul. It doesn’t matter if can’t intellectually comprehend the deep grief of the man he is playing, he is told. “You just keep telling the story. You’re doing him right.”

Anderson’s trademark self-awareness may be reaching a peak here with the metanarrative of Asteroid City. It is almost impossible to escape the confines of theatrical or televised media here, through which authentic emotions are filtered until we reach enough of a distance to consider their purpose, thereby letting us emerge out the other side as more conscious beings. That is certainly at least the experience that Jones undergoes as he sees parts of himself in Augie, and it is at the core of the enigmatic mantra chanted by the play’s cast in one surreal, unsettling dream sequence.

“You can’t wake up if you don’t fall asleep.”

Indeed, much of Asteroid City feels as if we are watching one of Anderson’s own dreams of eccentric characters and quaint visual designs, only to be woken up every now and again to recognise its artifice. The fictional play escapes into a world entirely distinct from the boxy aspect ratio and black-and-white cinematography of the television segments, even while Anderson’s crisp depth of field, symmetrical framing, and rigorous blocking are carried across both. In fact, it even transcends the limits of any Broadway theatre as well, unfolding across expansive desert sets saturated with faded pastel blues and yellows. The seams where the floor meets the matte paintings in the background are conspicuous, as is the theatrically curated design of those train and building miniatures that populate its dry, rural landscape.

Anderson’s camerawork matches the geometric precision of his mise-en-scène as well, travelling in parallel tracking shots, tilts, and pans whenever he breaks free of his static tableaux. These devices make up the entirety of the long take which first introduces us to Asteroid City before the convention guests arrive, noting its sparse features – a diner, a motel, a half-constructed overpass, and of course the giant crater which gives the town its lofty name. In the distance, atomic bomb tests occasionally disrupt the flat horizon, though these are of little concern to the locals who mainly consist of small business owners and astronomers. They are proud of their town’s small claim to fame, and don’t hesitate in capitalising on their national media coverage when they are unexpectedly visited by aliens.

From the long shots of the town’s 1950s architecture to the throwaway visual gag of the real estate vending machine, there is a thorough dedication to world building all through Anderson’s mise-en-scène, but it is also in his sprawling cast that he develops the rustic southwestern culture of the community. Steve Carrell, Matt Dillon, and Tilda Swinton are among a handful of residents with small-town mannerisms, while Tom Hanks, Liv Schreiber, and Jeffrey Wright fill in the roles of its curious outsiders. Another layer out, we find Edward Norton, Adrien Brody, Willem Dafoe, Margot Robbie, and Jeff Goldblum backstage at the theatre, and Bryan Cranston hosting the television program itself, though the most substantial roles are reserved for those two esteemed actors playing Augie and Midge.

Within this enormous ensemble of A-list actors, Jason Schwartzman and Scarlett Johansson are the centre upon which Anderson’s deadpan drama pivots. Beneath their mannered affects is a mutual fatigue and sorrow, shared in conversations between their neighbouring cabins. The small windows in the side of each hem them into claustrophobic frames, effectively isolating them in their respective worlds, but even so there is a tenderness to their connection that promises a chance to break free of their emotional constraints. If only they had more time for them to explore this further.

It is hard not to see the parallels Anderson is drawing to the global pandemic lockdowns with the arrival of an alien that sends the entire Junior Stargazers convention into quarantine. He is not so much interested in what this “bewildering and dazzling celestial mystery”represents though than the repercussions it leaves in its wake, breaking up the milieu of these characters’ lives and offering them the time to re-examine their relationships. In effect, this is another layer of dreaming which cuts them off from reality, yet which opens new possibilities as romances are forged, school students befriend a travelling cowboy band, and Tom Hanks’ wealthy retiree finds a new respect for his son-in-law. Sleep is not a state of passive inactivity, Anderson posits, but rather renews our connection to the world when we eventually return to it.

This is crucial to Jones’ and Mercedes’ development as they sink into the fictional roles of Augie and Midge, only to find mirrored versions of themselves. Mercedes’ disillusionment with the industry is shown early in Asteroid City when she almost quits the play right before opening night, while the source of Jones’ heartache isn’t revealed until the end, though both emerge in their characters as Augie helps Midge to rehearse for an upcoming project. “Use your grief,” she instructs him after a lacklustre performance, and not only do we see Augie’s pain surface in the following line delivery, but Jones’ as well. In an even more obscure fourth wall break that could be spoken by either Mercedes or Midge, they finally realise what binds all four of them together.

“I think I see how I see us. I mean I think I know now what I realise we are. Two catastrophically wounded people who don’t express the depths of their pain because we don’t want to. That’s our connection. Do you agree?”

When Jones randomly encounters the actress who played Augie’s deceased wife before her scene was cut, he finds an even sweeter catharsis to his emotional turmoil, as they recall the lines that they might have shared together in a dream scene. After leaving one stage show, she has simply taken on a part in another, though there is no sorrow to be found in that departure – just new beginnings.

In Anderson’s grand metaphor for life and death, everyone is constantly performing roles that they may not fully understand how to play, whether it be as a father, a widower, or professional actor. These are not lies, but rather parts through which humans may understand their truest selves, should they fully submit to these alternate identities and emotionally reconcile them with each other. It is fitting too that a filmmaker so often accused of inauthenticity should find the sincerity in such artifice, and attach such a great spiritual significance to it. Through the union of dreams and reality in Asteroid City, Anderson crafts a cinematic model of this self-realisation, and reverberates a sweet, formal harmony across its sprawling layers of truth.

Asteroid City is currently playing in theatres.

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.