Category: 2020s

Sinners (2025)

Ryan Coogler | 2hr 17min

Music is a supernatural force that can pierce the veil between life and death, we are told in the opening minutes of Sinners, and on the local juke joint’s opening night it is apparent that the local preacher’s boy is specially ordained to make that mystical connection. This Southern Gothic tale is deeply infused with the spirit of blues, thrumming with vibrant, soulful twang of guitars, but as Sammie takes the stage and rouses the crowd, we also witness a cosmic revolution unfold.

No longer is this bar simply a place for African Americans of 1930s Mississippi Delta to dance, drink, and party with their people. It transcends time itself, beginning with an electric guitarist joining the bluesy vocals and reverberating acoustic instruments, before pulling back to reveal a DJ dropping hip-hop beats. Still Ryan Coogler’s camera continues to fly around the joint as Sammie’s act summons spirits of the past and future, integrating tribal drumming with hip-hop and ragtime, while Crip Walks and masked Zaouli dancers fill the space with anachronistic energy. This may be a celebration of Black music from across history, but the Beijing Opera performers who join Chinese couple Bo and Grace suggest an even broader appreciation of cultural expression, folding in its many forms upon a single, eternal moment.

The highpoint of Sinners and Coogler’s career – a floating tracking shot transports the juke joint into another realm where spirits of the past and future join the patrons in cultural celebration. It is a tremendously inspired stroke of surrealism, burning the building to the ground as the living and dead continue to dance, and time folds in on itself.
Those who have lost touch with their roots watch on in malicious envy, planning to seize this power for themselves.

It is no wonder why vampire Remmick longs to exploit Sammie’s mystical power to reawaken departed ancestors. Sinners remains relatively faithful to traditional vampire lore, depicting them as predatory creatures who have disrupted the natural course of life and death, while a brief glimpse of Native American hunters hints at a larger battle between spiritual forces at play. Just as these creatures have lost their humanity, Remmick has grown distant from his Irish origins during his time in America, making the purity of expression he witnesses in Sammie’s musical ability all the more awe-inspiring. Assimilation was the cost of freedom for Remmick’s people, and now as he seeks to similarly absorb Sammie’s community, Sinners’ most remarkable metaphor takes chilling form. Subsumed in another collective, these undead monsters lose the sun, their souls, and their culture – but if this assimilation also guarantees African Americans an escape from prejudice, could it possibly be a fair trade?

Coogler has certainly proven his hand at directing and elevating franchise films over the years, though it is no surprise that his first truly original story also marks his finest achievement to date, giving him a platform to explore his most eclectic artistic interests. Michael B. Jordan remains reliably by his side, cast in his most impressive role to date as twins Smoke and Stack who ran from the gangs of Chicago, and have now returned to their hometown in the Mississippi Delta. Jim Crow racism is rampant in the South, but it is better to deal with the devil they know, the brothers reason, not yet grasping the true depth of its inhuman evil.

Coogler recreates 1930s Mississippi in his production design with careful attention to detail, capturing the scope and sprawl of this setting in Leone-like establishing shots.
Sinners is a superb addition to Michael B. Jordan’s resume, continuing his collaborations with Coogler as twin brothers Smoke and Stack – rich characters whose return to the Mississippi Delta reunites old friends and lovers.

The juke joint that Smoke and Stack intend to open is an opportunity for them to assemble old friends, family, and lovers, and Coogler is patient with the introduction of each, building out his ensemble with depth and vitality. Hailee Steinfeld plays Stack’s old flame Mary with subtle internal conflict, uncertain of her place as a one-eighth Black woman who passes as white, and drawing parallels with Bo and Grace whose outsider status similarly ally them with the African American community. Weathered pianist Delta Slim, discerning occultist Annie, and loyal field worker Cornbread continue to round out the supporting players here, so that by the time bodies start dropping and rising from the dead, the stakes of losing these characters are agonisingly high.

The time Coogler spends patiently building out each supporting character in the opening act is well spent, with each playing a crucial role later on – Mary as Stack’s romantic weakness, Annie as the occult expert, and Cornbread as the joint’s dependable bouncer.

The structural similarities that Sinners bears to From Dusk Till Dawn are notable, dividing the film in distinct halves that separate the drama from the bloody horror, though Coogler’s narrative goes down far smoother than Robert Rodriguez’s unevenly plotted spectacle. The prologue lands us in the immediate aftermath of the carnage, hinting at the imminent terror through smash cuts to single-frame flashbacks, and promising us that it will all be worth the wait – not that we need such a guarantee with characters this compelling. If there is any cinematic setback in the first act, it is those stretches of stylistic inactivity behind the camera, but the gorgeous period décor and natural light which permeates Coogler’s scenery nevertheless imbues this slow-burn setup with an enchanting effervescence.

Coogler’s prologue lands us in a rural church of spotless white mise-en-scène, disorientating us with smash cut flashbacks to the previous night.
The breathtaking landscapes of rural Mississippi bask in the magic hour, and it is not just there for show – it is upon this brink between day and night where the setting’s true danger reveals itself.

Sure enough, our climactic arrival at Smoke and Stack’s juke joint is more than a worthy payoff, heralded by the crescendo of Ludwig Göransson’s acoustic blues and its gradual layering of heavy rock instruments. Here, the golden lighting sinks in an ambient warmth, recreating the spirited atmosphere of a live concert as singer Pearline stomps, belts, and enraptures the audience with her dynamic stage presence.

Coogler’s musical set pieces bask in the golden warmth of the juke joint, lit with lanterns and bulbs strung across the ceiling.

Equally astounding though is Göransson’s musical pivot at this point, ushered in with the unwelcome arrival of Remmick and his recently converted minions. There is a cold, shiny glint in their eyes as they approach the juke joint, seeking the invitation they require to enter. Their jaunty bluegrass tune comedically shatters the tension with the corniest possible rendition of ‘Pick Poor Robin Clean’, though once its incongruity settles, we recognise the menace in its soulless appropriation of a classic blues standard. Remmick’s later performance of Irish folk ballad ‘Rocky Road to Dublin’ is a far more sincere representation of the threat he poses, effectively clashing cultures through divergent musical traditions, and threatening the erasure of everything the juke joint represents. Never has a jig been so menacing as it is here, yet Jack O’Connell also imbues it with an impassioned longing, grasping at the remnants of a life he lost long ago and now seeks to revive through assimilation and bloodshed.

A cold, menacing glint in the eye of Coogler’s vampires.
The juke joint becomes a sanctuary for the living, keeping out the evil which lays siege to its defences.
The most menacing Irish jig you will ever witness, battling foreign cultures through clashing musical expressions and traditions.

This use of music to represent the division and fusion of cultures weaves incredible formal creativity through Sinners, though Coogler continues to push its conflict further as he draws it into the heart of the film, fracturing Smoke and Stack’s intimate fraternal bond. This archetype of warring brothers reaches far back to the biblical story of Cain and Abel, and Carl Jung’s consideration of doppelgängers as manifestations of one’s inner darkness similarly resonates in Coogler’s vampiric doubles. Hostility and grief bleed through Jordan’s dual performances, but it is also through this split that we see traces of both emerge in each other. Just as humans carry incredible capacity to inflict violence, so too is there a surprising emotional depth to their monstrous counterparts, regretfully aching for reconnection to that which once made them truly alive.

Coogler composes a Cain and Abel fable set in rural America, establishing virtue and corruption as equals and tragically setting them against each other.

The mid-credits scene is not one to miss, as it is here where this pivotal recontextualisation takes places, offering sympathy to those who exchanged one freedom for another in the process of social conformity. For human and vampire survivors alike, that devastating night is remembered with nostalgic melancholy over what was both gained and lost, allowing a mutual understanding to flourish among those who went their separate ways. It is there in Coogler’s epic battle of preservation and assimilation that a timeless riff resonates between warring cultural ideals, and it is through their haunting harmonies that Sinners echoes a harrowing, historic struggle for community.

Sinners is currently playing in theatres.

Queer (2024)

Luca Guadagnino | 2hr 16min

Early in Queer, we delve into writer William Lee’s nightmare of his friends in prison, an abandoned baby, and a naked woman bisected along her torso. The symbolism opaquely hints at the guilt harboured by William Burroughs, the real-life novelist who based this troubled character off himself, though it is his response to this woman questioning his sexuality which articulates the film’s most layered metaphor.

“I’m not queer. I’m disembodied.”

The separation between Lee’s self-loathing thoughts and pleasure-seeking instincts drives a wedge into the core of his identity as a gay man, and is further reflected in Luca Guadagnino’s dissociative direction, often letting the writer’s mind escape his physical being. Early in his relationship with the much younger Eugene, Lee’s yearning is often rendered as a transparent, ghostly version of himself reaching out to caress his face or lean on his shoulder, though it also manifests even more darkly in his indulgent vices. Drugs and alcohol offer easy escapes from the shame of his sexuality, and even sex too ironically satiates that desire for euphoric sensation as it simultaneously feeds that underlying guilt.

Guadagnino calls back to silent cinema techniques with his double exposure effects, ethereally manifesting Lee’s longing.

The 1950s was not a particularly hospitable time for the gay community, yet there was also a certain level of privilege that came with living as a white man in Mexico City which Lee and his similarly ostracised friends use as a social counterbalance. This circle of outsiders is relatively insular, so when Eugene arrives at their local bar flirting with both men and women, Lee is instantly drawn to his mysterious allure. This is a man who hides his emotions so well that others question whether he really is gay, striking an intense contrast against our verbose protagonist’s overbearing tendency to persistently chase interactions. When Lee leans in, Eugene often hesitantly pulls away, making the few moments of organic connection between all the more valuable.

Vibrant set designs lifted a layer from the real world, saturated with colour yet often underscoring Lee’s loneliness.

There was never any doubting Daniel Craig’s talents during his time as James Bond, though the performance he delivers here as the eloquently eccentric Lee is his most layered yet, leaning into the weariness of a middle-aged man whose existential insecurities are only amplified by his ageing. He inhabits a world that is one level removed from our reality, filling in the malaise with the bold, bright colours that often decorate Pedro Almodóvar’s melodramas. Within the lush purple and red lighting of a hotel bedroom and the yellow décor of his apartment, his inner life is given passionate outward expression, though Guadagnino’s stylistic achievement does not end there either. From a distance, the city is often whimsically rendered through miniatures, making cars look like toys and buildings like dollhouses. In an ending that thoughtfully borrows from the final act of 2001: A Space Odyssey, this visual motif pays off when Lee hallucinates another version of himself inside a diorama of the hotel where he is staying, further splitting his mind and his body between entirely different realms.

Guadagnino’s use of miniatures feeds into Lee’s feeling of disembodiment – the world doesn’t seem quite right, driving a wedge between his mind and reality.
A dream sequence inspired by 2001: A Space Odyssey with multiple versions of Lee occupying the same space.
Inside the surreal dollhouse hotel, drenched in deep red.

The height of Queer’s surrealism though arrives when Lee and Eugene venture into the deep jungles of South America, seeking a plant which is said to grant telepathic abilities. It is no wonder why Lee should be so obsessed with such a prospect – if the rumours are true, then perhaps this higher form of communication is a treatment for his emotional isolation, allowing a union of souls which regular conversation and sex cannot attain.

A search for enlightenment through experimentation with hallucinogens, transcending the restraints of the physical world.

Although Guadagnino largely maintains the novella’s literary quality through his chapter breaks, he takes creative liberties in departing from its depiction of the drug trip here. Where the source material saw Lee disappointed by its underwhelming effects, the film submits to the psychedelia, having him and Eugene literally vomit out their hearts before exposing their truest feelings. “I’m not queer,” Eugene asserts, formally echoing Lee’s earlier words as his body fades from view during their hallucinogenic drug trip. “I’m just disembodied.” Indeed, these two men have never been more detached from their physical beings, and have never been more in synchrony as their bodies grotesquely merge into one. Limbs move beneath fused skin as they dance, and for one precious night, Lee truly escapes his shame and transcends his loneliness.

Body horror and surrealism as Lee and Eugene merge into a single being, making a euphoric yet fleeting connection between divided souls.

This drug is not some portal into some other place though, their dealer Dr. Cotter is sure to warn them. It is a mirror into one’s soul, offering a glimpse at whatever desires and fears lurk beneath their consciousness. Its euphoria is short-lived, particularly for Eugene who wakes up the next morning anxious and eager to leave. It is a terrifying thing losing a part of oneself to another person, and when faced with the truth of his relationship with Lee, he sees its toxicity for what it is.

The recurring centipede is one of Guadagnino’s more cryptic symbols in Queer, and its unsettling appearance in Lee’s dream of Eugene many years after their breakup continues to hold him in an unresolved state of suspension. Just as it first appeared around the neck of a one-night stand, the centipede now marks Eugene as another fleeting lover, manifesting the real-life Burroughs’ self-confessed fear and cherished literary motif. Lee’s story is unfinished in Guadagnino’s eyes, leaving him a half-complete man torn between dualities – shame and indulgence, connection and independence, mind and body. As long as he strives to separate rather than reconcile these parts of his identity, he will continue to live in a world of dissociative nightmares, spiritually and psychologically divorced from himself. Through the colourful, eerie patterns that Guadagnino consequently uncovers in Lee’s character, Queer delivers an unflinching fever dream that denies easy answers to his internal contradictions, constantly unravelling his capacity for love by his fear of being seen.

Guadagnino’s narrative is brimming with symbolic motifs, particularly borrowing the unsettling centipede from Burrough’s own works as a manifestation of Lee’s insecurity.

Queer is currently available to rent or buy on Apple TV and Amazon Video.

We Live in Time (2024)

John Crowley | 1hr 47min

Although the span of Tobias and Almut’s relationship in We Live in Time transpires in non-linear fashion, its overarching structure is largely governed by three interwoven timelines. The first begins with their unconventional meet cute after Tobias’ divorce from his wife, topping off a series of humiliating misfortunes that involve him wandering the city in a hotel robe and Almut eventually striking him with her car. It isn’t until he is taken to the hospital that the two properly introduce each other and, against all odds, hit it off. From there, we leap through the joyous and tumultuous first few years of their romance, seeing them fight over Almut’s resistance to having children before eventually falling pregnant.

It is there where the first and second timelines chronologically meet, though having watched scenes from both formally bounce off each other, we are already deep into those turbulent nine months by the time their younger selves are ready to conceive. Humour goes hand in hand with the anxiety of bringing a new life into the world, particularly when Tobias discovers his car has been boxed in their first rush to the hospital, or as Almut wanders to a nearby petrol station for snacks in the midst of labour. It is a miracle at all that she was able to conceive given her ovarian cancer and partial hysterectomy, but ever since going into remission, their lives have been flooded with hope for the future.

Travelling parallel to these two timelines is the third and most harrowing of them all, beginning three years after the birth of Tobias and Almut’s daughter, Ella. The return of Almut’s cancer marks a turning point for this couple, bringing into focus the fleeting beauty of their life thus far, as well as the emotional justification for the film’s formal fragmentation. Even as flashbacks to earlier moments in their relationship colour their happiness with melancholy shades of grey, there is a strange comfort in the grieving process it prematurely initiates, savouring every celebration, argument, and tender reconciliation between these lovers.

Beyond its narrative structure, We Live in Time is a film which thrives on the attraction and friction between two personalities – one a self-reliant chef who keeps her emotional guard up, and the other an idealistic sales rep who leans on the validation of loved ones. The two bring out the best in each other when they are on the same page, but the more Tobias tries to plan out a future with children and marriage, the more Almut withdraws. Later when she refuses to let terminal illness impact her quality of life, we see this combative resistance emerge once again, compelling her to train for a prestigious cooking competition. Realising that Tobias would disapprove of her prioritising the Bocuse d’Or over her declining health, she decides to keep it secret for as long as possible, driving a wedge between them while guiltily grappling with this betrayal of his trust.

Were it not for Andrew Garfield and Florence Pugh’s natural chemistry, the love which persists through these tests of Tobias and Almut’s relationship would not be half as convincing either. They are a magnetic force onscreen, distinguishing each timeline by the stark physical and emotional changes in their performances, and revealing a shared interiority even when the screenplay short changes them. When Tobias finally proposes to Almut, his decision to let her read his journal rather than outwardly express his feelings aloud denies us deeper insight into their relationship, and is only saved by their non-verbal reactions smoothing over the lazy writing.

When it comes to the narrative pacing at least, John Crowley wields a fine control, occasionally even delivering a refined sense of style in the jittery editing and radiant lighting of montages that relish the richness of Tobias and Almut’s love. The extraordinarily unusual circumstances that surround her childbirth are given all the tension and catharsis that this pivotal beat requires, and when tragedy inevitably arrives, Crowley’s delicate omission of certain details leaves us to fill in the gaps with a pair of backwards tracking shots. In this moment, the space between these parting lovers speaks for the indescribable sorrow hanging in the air, gently laying their relationship to rest.

Within the splintered structure of We Live in Time, Crowley doesn’t simply evoke the act of recalling a person’s life. Almut’s desire to be remembered as more than just someone’s dead mother is granted by the layered manner in which her story unfolds, preserving memories of personal struggles alongside those of profound devotion, aspiration, and passion. Even before one’s physical being fades though, it is evident here that one’s legacy already begins taking complex shape, imprinted in the minds of those soon to be left behind and carving a quiet, enduring presence into the very fabric of time.

We Live in Time is currently available to purchase on Apple TV, YouTube, and Amazon Video.

Sing Sing (2024)

Greg Kwedar | 1hr 47min

Prison inmate Divine G may not have committed the crime he was found guilty of, but the shame and atonement which Sing Sing interrogates has nothing to do with the eyes of the law. Not once do we even learn what the other incarcerated participants of Divine G’s theatre program did to wind up here. Their rehabilitation is purely a matter of the soul, placing each on the same level regardless of their past. “We’re here to become human again,” one of them explains to the troupe’s newest member, Divine Eye, justifying the playful whimsy with which they conduct themselves in this safe space. “To put on nice clothes and dance around and enjoy the things that is not in our reality.”

So sincere is Greg Kwedar in humanising these inmates that many are played by the actual men of the story this film is based on. Not only did the Rehabilitation Through the Arts program at Sing Sing Maximum Security Prison provide them a means of self-expression, a supportive community of fellow Black men, and a path forward – it also honed their talent enough for them to effectively fill in the ensemble of this character-driven prison drama. Through the act of performance, Divine G and his troupe find realer versions of themselves beyond a criminal record or their public infamy. Emotional wounds are revealed beneath outward displays of anger, and in the case of the kind, intelligent Divine G, flashes of bitterness escape his sensitive resolve.

Among the few professional actors in this cast, Colman Domingo leads Sing Sing with calm composure, acting as the unofficial leader of his troupe. When Divine G isn’t leading productions of Shakespeare, he is writing original scripts and modelling emotional maturity as a mentor for his fellow inmates. He passes no judgement, and neither do his fellow actors, until the arrival of Divine Eye threatens the community he has carefully cultivated. Their theatre exercises are goofy, Divine Eye remarks, and Divine G’s dreary dramas are far from exciting – so why not consider a zany time travel comedy for their next show?

While most of the troupe supportively rallies around Divine Eye’s suggestion, Divine G can’t help but feel threatened by this shifting power dynamic. His theatre group is his life, and Divine Eye’s inability to take any of this seriously cuts to his core. As such, the friction between both personalities takes centre stage in Sing Sing, with both Domingo and the real Divine Eye thoughtfully navigating a pair of intertwined character arcs. Kwedar does not fare so well in letting us feel the span of time spent with these men, but the bumpy road they travel towards a lifelong friendship is nevertheless a compelling one, seeing both step in for each other at different points when they are at their lowest.

For Divine G, this support is delivered through the conquest of his own ego, understanding Divine Eye’s desperate need for someone to help him articulate deeply buried emotions. Bit by bit, we see his development as an actor, bringing intonation to monologues rather than falling back on the anger and aloofness that he knows too well. For Divine Eye on the other hand, it is that newfound ability to relate with others which motivates him to reach out to his demoralised friend. After all Divine G’s hard work building the theatre group, we can feel his frustration when it is barely considered in his clemency hearing, and instead gives them ammunition for their harshest, most insulting question.

“So are you acting at all during this interview?”

That Divine G’s appeal should be rejected when Divine Eye is granted release seems totally unfair, and very gradually, we begin to see both men’s attitudes cross over. Where the mentor once guided the troublemaker into a welcoming community, he now rejects the brotherhood with biting resentment, broken by a system that is fundamentally rigged against Black people. Clearly Divine G is not immune to the repressed anger that so many of these incarcerated men reckon with, and the raw despair in Domingo’s performance makes for a particularly bleak contrast against his earlier self-assuredness. Nevertheless, the seeds that he spent years sowing into the community have finally sprouted, and in a rehabilitated Divine Eye, he finds his own compassion and wisdom reflected right back at him.

Each of these prisoners are fighting their own internal battles, and Divine G is no exception, learning to accept his place among peers despite his lawful innocence. What Kwedar lacks in visual style, he makes up for with delicate attention to character detail, demonstrating an inspired approach to casting which blurs truth and representation. Through this metafictional angle, Sing Sing merges its sensitive consideration of art’s healing power with its very form, producing a fresh, nuanced understanding of those disenfranchised by an institution specifically designed to break them down.

Sing Sing is coming soon to video on demand.

Blitz (2024)

Steve McQueen | 2hr

There are countless ways to die in Blitz-era London, and as nine-year-old George makes his way through train yards, thieves’ dens, and bombed out ruins to find his mother Rita, he tragically bears witness to many of them. The streets where children once played have become battlegrounds, and underground stations are now air raid shelters, prone to devastating flash floods that burst through brick walls like overflowing dams. Leaning on new friends may secure temporary relief from the horror, yet it becomes devastatingly apparent that this volatile, war-ravaged environment does not provide fertile ground for enduring companionship.

Besides, for a biracial child such as George, there is another insidious force to contend with in 1940s London. Prejudice has already torn his family apart once when his father was unjustly arrested by police and deported to Grenada. Now with citizens of all backgrounds being forced to shelter with each other, frictions spark heated confrontations, exposing that same intolerance which they are fighting against ironically ingrained within their own culture. What hope there is for a civilisation under attack both externally and from within seems meagre in Blitz, yet there’s a warmth to Steve McQueen’s visual storytelling which nevertheless keeps nostalgic memories of family alive in its survivors.

Beautifully designed recreations of the London Blitz – McQueen captures the scope and horror with lighting that would make Roger Deakins proud.
The thieves den makes for a gorgeously dingy set pieces with the green billiards tables and low-hanging lights, exposing an underbelly of crime capitalising on the destruction of society.
Underground stations become air raid shelters, claustrophobic and teeming with life.

That this handsomely staged war drama lacks the formal punch of McQueen’s previous works has more to do with the high bar he has set for himself than any specific failings here. Blitz does not possess the psychological intensity of Shame, the sprawling narrative of Widows, nor the euphoric intimacy of Lover’s Rock, so the tale of one child’s journey home to his mother after being evacuated from London seems a little straightforward in comparison. Nevertheless, the balance he strikes intercutting George’s odyssey with his mother’s lonely heartache anchors Blitz to their precious bond, even when they are at their most emotionally isolated. As this young boy follows the train tracks through England’s countryside with suitcase in hand, McQueen’s parallel editing delicately tethers them together, with Rita’s singing on the radio lyricising the cosy protection such an enduring love provides in difficult times.

“From sea to sea

I wrap myself in warm, sunny you

Fighting the blues

My winter coat is you.”

McQueen’s parallel editing ties George and Rita together across long distances, consistently centring their relationship even as they are tugged apart.

Pre-war flashbacks tease out nuances of this relationship in piano singalongs and elsewhere bask in the red lighting of a jazz club where Rita and her husband dance, though these are not quite consistent enough to establish a larger family portrait. That Rita plays a relatively passive role in this narrative doesn’t help her character development either, so it is fortunate that Saoirse Ronan’s performance embodies the Cockney fighting spirit with incredible tenderness and ferocity, proving a mastery of accents to rival the likes of Meryl Streep and Cate Blanchett. While George traverses dangerous urban landscapes in Blitz, she offers a reassuring emotional foundation, becoming the endpoint to the most treacherous journey he will ever make.

Saoirse Ronan proves her versatility as Rita, adopting a Cockney accent and embodying London’s working class spirit.
Passionate red lighting in the flashback introducing Rita’s husband, far removed from the desolation of the present day story.

McQueen is sure to land us right alongside him during each ordeal as well, vividly recreating scenes of wartime London with immense attention to detail. Tracking shots navigate restless crowds crammed into claustrophobic shelters, and later immerse us in a jazz club where life thrives in stubborn defiance of the terror unfolding outside. The blocking here is seamlessly coordinated as we descend from the ceiling to the dance floor, follow a waiter into the kitchen, and fluidly latch onto new characters in long takes, soaking up the vibrant nightlife before sirens bring the festivities to a chilling standstill. McQueen’s hard transition into the blackened ruins of this same club a mere few hours later is jarring – though the camera still floats, its panning through the dusty wreckage is deeply sombre, taking in the sight of pale corpses, a splintered piano, and gangs shamefully looting whatever valuables they can find.

A devastating contrast between this lively, bustling jazz club and its total annihilation in the very next scene – McQueen juxtaposes life and death all throughout Blitz to chilling effect.

Later when George himself is the one running through streets of burning buildings and emergency workers, Blitz’s blend of elegant camerawork and desolate mise-en-scène evokes similar scenery in the Soviet war drama The Cranes are Flying, drawing parallels between the uprooted, disorientated protagonists of both stories. Where Mikhail Kalatozov’s film threw a lifeline to Veronika in the form of a child though, George finds fleeting companions in the Black people scattered around London, with Nigerian air raid warden Ife and lowly thief Jess becoming a surrogate father and sister. Through them, he is taught crucial life lessons that he was denied the moment his only Black parent was cruelly taken away, enabling him to grasp the nuances of a hegemonic culture that savagely targets outsiders.

Tracking shots through streets in the midst of disaster, immersing us in the disorientating chaos alongside George, and demonstrating McQueen’s impressive talent for coordinating large scale set pieces.
Ife the air raid warden becomes the father George never knew, guiding him through this complicated world with a calming wisdom.
Jess becomes an older sister to George, developing a protective fondness for him even as he is exploited by the gang she works for.

From the perspective of this nine-year-old boy, what initially appears to be a survival drama gradually proves to be a coming-of-age tale in disguise, exposing him to life’s harshest realities on a historic scale. Like Odysseus returning to Ithaca or Dorothy realising there’s no place like home, George’s attempts to find his mother forge wisdom, compassion, and courage in the fires of war, eventually empowering him to undertake a heroic, character-defining rescue which in turn points him towards salvation. It is our bonds which keep us relentlessly persevering through harrowing times after all, and as Blitz draws together these broken family threads, McQueen tenderly illuminates humanity’s darkest hour with a loving, maternal radiance.

War-ravaged urban landscapes captured on an epic scale in these establishing shots, shrinking Blitz’s characters within the widespread ruin.

Blitz is currently streaming on Apple TV+.

The Apprentice (2024)

Ali Abbasi | 2hr

Not long after New York attorney Roy Cohn meets Donald Trump in The Apprentice, he imparts his three rules to winning. First rule: “Attack, attack, attack.” Begin the full-frontal assault early and take control of the situation. Second rule: “Admit nothing, deny everything.” Truth is irrelevant – no accusation can stick to you if you don’t let it. Lastly, he delivers the most important rule of all, assuring success even in the grip of failure.

“No matter what happens, no matter what they say about you, no matter how beaten you are, you claim victory and never admit defeat.”

These aggressive tactics should sound familiar to anyone who has paid the vaguest attention to American politics over the past decade, but director Ali Abbasi is not interested in retreading the well-worn ground of caricatures, insults, and superficial attempts to penetrate the president’s psyche. This Trump is still working for his father’s real estate business in 1970s New York, figuring out how to play the cruel game of capitalism and carve out his own legacy. There is no crossroads in his path to infamy here – with all the opportunities provided to him, he was always going to become the ruthless tycoon and bullish politician we recognise today. Instead, the onus lies with the cutthroat corporate culture which fostered his worst instincts, only beginning a serious self-reckoning once it falls under the shadow of its most profitable creation.

In The Apprentice, this establishment is largely personified in Cohn. Where Sebastian Stan plays a relatively passive role in the first act as young Trump, being guided through court cases and business lessons, Jeremy Strong often steals scenes with his gaunt face, beady eyes, and menacing presence. Even in their very first encounter, Abbasi cuts between a pair of slow zooms of their unbroken eye contact across a swanky New York bar, catching Trump in Cohn’s gaze like a shark locking onto its prey. With the added context of Cohn’s homosexuality, their silent interaction almost seems lustful, so it is no surprise that this device is reiterated later when Trump meets his future wife Ivana at another lavish club. This is a man thoroughly modelled in the image of his teacher, and Abbasi’s visual storytelling is efficient in tracing that striking formal comparison.

As Trump’s profile continues to grow across the decades, even the texture of the footage shifts as well, with its emulation of grainy 1970s film stock eventually giving way to the crackly VHS tape aesthetic of the 1980s. His favourite colour is pervasive in the golden lighting and production design, but within this worn analogue look, its shining opulence does not project warmth. Instead, it is gaudy, uninviting, and even a little smothering, complementing Martin Dirkov’s cold, domineering synths which pulsate with overbearing energy. By mixing real archival footage with staged reproductions of old newsreels too, Abbasi lays into a montage-heavy cinema verité style that marches persistently forward, setting a pace which Cohn realises is rapidly spiralling out of his control.

Quite ironically, there is enormous restraint in Stan’s depiction of this larger-than-life character, whose physical mannerisms and vocal patterns have been parodied to death. Although he disappears into the distinctive pout, hunch, and squint, these idiosyncrasies are relatively diluted in this youthful Trump, and only begin to intensify as his ego balloons over the years. What he lacks in Cohn’s subtlety and eloquence, he makes up for with a stubborn drive to succeed, trampling over his own family and undermining those who gave him a platform. When he explains what it takes to be a billionaire, he does not even possess the humility to credit anything other than his own innate ability.

“You have to be born with it. You have to have a certain gene.”

With dialogue this snappy, screenwriter Gabriel Sherman takes a great deal of inspiration from Aaron Sorkin, even as his philosophical underpinnings take a darker, more cynical direction. There are no idealistic soundbites here about heroes dying for their country, or decisions being made by those who show up. Instead, Sherman’s best one-liners succinctly expose the rotten foundation of American institutions. “This is a nation of men, not laws,” Cohn explains, encouraging Trump to throw out the old idiom about playing the ball, not the man. In fact, do the exact opposite, he instructs – “Play the man, not the ball.”

Of course, there is a level of hypocrisy to anyone who plays dirty, but who isn’t ready to have those same tactics thrown back at them. Behind closed doors, it only takes a few cheap jabs at Trump’s weight gain and hair loss for Ivana to get under his thin skin, provoking him to assert dominance through physical and sexual abuse. He simply can’t love anyone who can match him in boldness or business acumen, he confesses, and the cosmetic surgery he forced her to get doesn’t do it for him anymore. As for Cohn, vicious homophobic attacks serve as a shield, pre-emptively deflecting any potential persecution he might face for his own sexuality. It is a weak defence to say the least, naively trusting that those who see his vulnerability won’t exploit it, even after giving them a guide on how to do exactly that.

When two equally unscrupulous and insecure friends go for each other’s throats then, it is only a matter of time before it devolves into a shit-slinging contest. Cohn displays far greater self-awareness then Trump would ever be capable of, yet his remorse comes far too late. While this icon of America’s indomitable spirit rises to superstardom, the man who created him fades into obscurity, pridefully refusing to publicly admit that he has AIDs even when it relegates him to a wheelchair.

It is fitting that the final meeting between these former friends should take place at the cavernous monument to Trump’s cult of personality that is Mar-a-Lago, turning what initially appears to be an opportunity to bury the hatchet into one last kick in the guts. The set designs here are remarkable, continuing to weave through the entrepreneur’s trademark golden opulence, yet the sinister darkness which envelops them also calls to mind the similarly extravagant, cavernous Xanadu mansion in Citizen Kane. It is hard not to feel at least a shred of pity for Cohn as he weeps tears of remorse over his enormous birthday cake here, totally humiliated by the mocking, insincere charity of the monster he has created, yet at the same time we recognise the poetic irony in his downfall.

There is something almost Shakespearean in these dual character arcs, likening Cohn to a Julius Caesar figure who was ultimately assassinated by his own followers, and Trump to a Richard III ruler who reigns with terror, manipulation, and deceit. Quite notably though, this America does not punish such qualities in its leaders, but outright rejects those narrative conventions which dictate the necessity of moral consequences. Instead, The Apprentice earns a superb formal payoff in its epilogue which draws one final comparison between both men, revealing just how deeply rooted Cohn’s depraved ethos is in Trump’s being, and how easily he claims total ownership of it. This rising businessman and media personality will not suffer the same mistakes as his mentor, he decides, and as the haunting final shot reveals New York’s cityscape in his eye, it is apparent that his plans for total dominance do not end there.

The Apprentice is currently streaming on Stan, and is available to rent or buy on Apple TV, YouTube, and Amazon Video.

All We Imagine as Light (2024)

Payal Kapadia | 2hr 3min

“Evening is my favourite time of day,” Anu’s secret boyfriend Shiaz remarks one night as they wander Mumbai’s bustling markets. “In my village, this was the time to stop playing football and go home. But here, it feels like the day has just begun.” Indeed, there is a soothing liberation which comes with the setting of the sun in All We Imagine as Light, particularly for Anu whose controversial relationship with a Muslim man may only be conducted under the cover of darkness. Payal Kapadia relishes the delicate beauty of these scenes, blending the cool blues in her production design with the soft illumination of city lights, indoor ambience, and cloudy evening skies, while piano riffs tinkle away in the background. In this nocturnal urban environment, love flourishes without judgement, connecting souls in moments of sweet, uninhibited honesty.

For Anu’s roommate and fellow nurse Prabha, these warm Mumbai nights are not so comfortable. Her husband lives far away in Germany, and it has been over a year since they have even had any contact. Their arranged marriage is considered socially acceptable, yet unlike Anu, she is left to deal with total emotional isolation. When a German rice cooker is unexpectedly delivered to their flat one day, she becomes fully convinced that it was sent from her husband, even curling up with it in a tight hug one evening as though it were a lover. As she reads from his diary with nothing but a phone light, soaking up whatever private thoughts she has been denied, it is apparent that her nights do not signify a break from the pressures of ordinary life. In the darkness, her loneliness is felt even deeper, feeding a melancholy which intensifies with the fading light.

Kapadia’s narrative flows between these two women’s stories with lyrical grace, not only seeking to understand their interior lives, but also the friction in their own relationship to each other. To Anu, the prospect of marrying a total stranger is an unappealing and foreign concept, while Prabha observes her flatmate’s secret relationship from afar with quiet judgement. This is not to say her own eye never wanders, as there are visible sparks of attraction between her and a male doctor, yet her husband’s total withdrawal keeps her clinging to a hopeless fantasy of marriage.

All We Imagine as Light does not merely confine us to these two perspectives though, as Anu and Prabha’s friend Parvati offers a counterpoint to both women in her own subplot. After being ousted from Mumbai due to ruthless property developers, both these flatmates help her move back to her seaside hometown where she grew up. Here, the city’s bustling nightlife gives way to the calmness and clarity of a village where residents relax by the beach, indulge in the local fishing scene, and revel in the daylight. It is still no paradise, as the women quickly discover that Parvati’s new home does not even have electricity yet, but the change in scenery is nevertheless refreshing for these overworked nurses seeking a momentary escape.

Here, Anu freely explores the local mangroves and caves with Shiaz, making love in the daytime for once even as she continues trying to shield their relationship from Prabhy. Her concerns about potentially being forced into an arranged marriage by her parents don’t quite subside, but at least in this moment, she is afforded the freedom to openly express her love.

As for Prabhy, closure arrives unexpectedly one evening after saving a drowning stranger at the beach. Before leaning in to deliver mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, she hesitates for a brief second, perhaps realising this is the first time in years that she has been so close to a man. Later as she washes his body, she also seems to absorb another woman’s mistaken belief that he is her husband, turning that into a meaningful conversation with an imagined proxy. Returning to the melancholy blues of Mumbai’s nights, Kapadia delves deeper than ever into Prabhy’s lonely mind, filtering this world through a magical realist lens where identities are as malleable as plastic and long-awaited discussions may finally unfold between disconnected partners.

Kapadia fully understands the visual potency of her final scene, softly illuminating the beach shack where all three women gather under neon pink and green fairy lights. It is here where one narrow definition of love is finally relinquished, and where a broader understanding of its many versatile forms is born, nurturing a surrogate family that fills emotional gaps left by stringent parents and distant spouses. Through such quiet epiphanies as these, All We Imagine as Light delicately confronts the harsh realities of modern companionship, finding solace not in certainty, but rather the enduring resilience of mutual, unspoken solidarity.

All We Imagine as Light is currently streaming on The Criterion Channel, and is available to rent or buy on Apple TV, YouTube, and Amazon Video.

The Wild Robot (2024)

Chris Sanders | 1hr 42min

Whether we call it programming or simply animal nature, there is not a whole lot separating stimulus and response for the creatures of The Wild Robot – at least until one shipwrecked robot washes up on their island and is landed with the task of raising a young gosling. Designed as a service android with the sole purpose of fulfilling orders, Roz initially bristles against the call to become a mother, choosing instead to nurture the lone egg with clinical detachment. Survival relies on far more complex behaviours than reflex alone though, and this film proves to be especially astute in its distillation of parenthood’s complex challenges into a tender, inviting fable.

Considering the animation industry’s recent move away from realism, the step forward that Dreamworks takes with The Wild Robot is significant, building on the painterly style of Puss in Boots: The Last Wish with a more refined watercolour aesthetic. This works particularly well in the woodland setting, imbuing the idyllic environments with a sense of hand-painted wonder inspired by Hayao Miyazaki’s eco-parables, and examining similar visual conflicts between nature and technology.

While the few human characters we glimpse look half-finished, this design lends itself superbly to machines and animals, visually depicting Roz’s gradual integration into the ecosystem through the lichen, dirt, and rust that gathers on her pristine metallic surface. When a fire threatens the entire forest later in the film too, The Wild Roboteven injects a fluorescent pink into its otherwise earthy palette, underscoring the danger of human interference by way of synthetic, radioactive hues. While this story could have just as easily been dreamed up in a Pixar writers’ room, it is refreshing to see Dreamworks pursue a different stylistic direction, applying highly stylised, impressionistic illustrations to its tale of instinct and adaptation.

By balancing both the mechanical and the human intonations in her voice performance, Lupita N’yongo builds a sincere harmony into Roz’s characterisation. Her attempts to be as spontaneous as her new woodland friends fall amusingly flat, though each play their own role in helping her understand life beyond her programming, whether it is Pinktail the opossum’s parenting advice or Thunderbolt the falcon proving that it indeed takes a community to raise a child. The most difficult lessons of all though arrive through her adopted child Brightbill, who grows much too fast for her to keep up with his ever-changing needs. Self-assigned tasks at least give her some structure in the early days, but when she is ready to admit that she is making everything up as she goes along, the growing emotional attachment she feels is powerful enough to fill this gap in her software.

The parallel character arc we witness in Fink the fox makes for a thoughtful formal comparison here, initially resisting his predatory impulses so that he can benefit from Roz’s survival skills before eventually accepting his place as the surrogate father of this found family. The Wild Robot draws a surprising amount of dark humour from the ongoing casualties in the forest’s food chain, acknowledging that while animal nature certainly serves a purpose in ensuring survival, adaptation and cooperation are often even greater resources. Having learnt these skills by mothering Brightbill, Roz continues to put them to use in building a shelter for all the island’s wildlife during a snowstorm, and in turn calls them to overcome their own programming by building strong, communal bonds.

Even with self-preservation as the objective, kindness proves to be the most effective long-term strategy here, showing strength in solidarity between predator and prey alike. Besides a cliched ‘love saves the day’ deus ex machina, The Wild Robot largely turns what could have been a superficial, mawkish sentiment into a well-earned payoff, laying its foundations within an anthropomorphic ensemble of multiple distinct character arcs. By framing the most unlikely mother as the catalyst for such enormous transformation as well, the selfless path of parenthood not only guarantees a future for younger generations, but also a mindful, altruistic self-growth which no set of hardwired instincts or programs can achieve alone.

The Wild Robot is currently available to rent or buy on Apple TV, YouTube, and Amazon Video.

Flow (2024)

Gints Zilbalodis | 1hr 25min

It is strongly implied in Flow that humans have long departed the Earth, yet there is hardly a note of melancholy or despair in this lyrical, wordless narrative. To the wild animals who roam its rainforests and mountains, our demise barely earns a passing thought, despite the remnants of crumbled civilisations which surround them. Nature has reclaimed that which we once stole from it, so even when a flash flood wreaks havoc on the land, still there remains a rousing beauty in life’s stubborn perseverance. The journey that one nameless black cat and its assorted companions set out on through gentle and treacherous waters makes for a simple narrative, yet within Flow’s hypnotic minimalism, the organic cycles of this ever-changing ecosystem fall into soothing harmony.

The immersive, fluid animation which Latvian director Gints Zilbalodis uses to compose this incredibly detailed world is made all the more impressive by the relatively small scale of his production. Starting with a tiny budget and relatively small crew, he decided to animate his film in Blender – a free, open-source computer graphics program that Pixar and DreamWorks would never even think of touching. Instead of using storyboards or concept art, Zilbalodis created expansive environments within the software and explored how his animal characters inhabited the space. Rather than aiming for the highly textured aesthetic of mainstream animations as well, he simulates naturalism through their graceful motions, watery environments, and of course that ever-moving virtual camera.

It is a little reductive to call water a motif given how omnipresent it is in Flow, but Zilbalodis’ choice to open the film with a reflection ingrains it within the cat’s journey from the start.
The cinematic strength of Flow lies in its tracking shots, established early as the low-lying camera moves with the cat through the rainforest.
Zilbalodis picks up the pacing of his camerawork when other animals are thrown into the mix, in this shot passing the cat from the whale to the secretary bird in one swift, seamless take, before dropping it back on the sailing boat.

Above all else, it is this elegant navigation of such a gorgeously constructed world which elevates Flow. Zilbalodis’ camera is as free as we’ve ever seen in an animated film, borrowing a little from modern video games, but perhaps even more so from live-action directors such as Alejandro Iñárritu and Alfonso Cuarón. Long takes often last for several minutes at a time, following the cat in low-lying tracking shots through gardens and valleys, before seamlessly shifting into kinetic action scenes when it is chased by a playful Labrador and threatened by rising flood waters. As the cat helplessly flails, we bob along with it, and when it eventually finds refuge on a boat with a capybara, we too sail with them over calm seas.

Zilbalodis simulates natural light sources with the sun, moon, and rippling reflections on the water, capturing magic hour as beautifully as any live-action director might. Meanwhile, the distant stone pillars are visually set up as this boat’s mysterious destination – a promised land of sorts for these companions.

In the absence of spoken dialogue, Zilbalodis’ active camerawork allows even greater room for visual storytelling, observing the clashing personalities which emerge when new members join this makeshift Noah’s Ark. As the cat’s initial caution gives way to curiosity, the capybara establishes itself as the level-headed leader of the group, keeping a cool demeanour while the obsessive lemur picks a fight with the secretarybird for kicking its precious glass float overboard. These are no anthropomorphised Disney cartoons, but rather heightened illustrations of distinctive animal traits, with Zilbalodis even using their real-life counterparts to provide voicework. That said, the cooperation between these creatures suggests somewhat developed social behaviours, underscoring the interspecies symbiosis which ensures the long-term survival of any ecosystem.

Even without dialogue or anthropomorphised traits, Flow efficiently distinguishes between each of its non-verbal animal characters, setting them up as allies on this journey across floodwaters.

Crucial to this equilibrium as well is its biodiversity, which Zilbalodis relishes in his vibrant animation. While marine life flourishes in the flood waters, land mammals and birds manoeuvre its obstacles, adapting their behaviours through trial and error. The differences between these creatures do not set them apart as adversaries though – in fact, the whale which initially saves the cat from drowning proves itself to be an ally on multiple occasions, and Zilbalodis finds vibrant splendour beneath the surface as colourful schools of fish revel in their rapidly expanding home.

Miyazaki influences in the slight warping of nature, gazing in awe and terror at the mutated whale breaching the surface of this half-submerged ancient city.
The cat joins vibrant marine life beneath the surface of this new, confusing world, and Zilbalodis continues to relish its beauty in these gorgeous camera angles and compositions.

Not much can touch the picturesque grace of the world above though, where simulated natural light from the sun, moon, and bright reflections of both bounce off rippling oceans. The golden glow of magic hour has rarely been recreated so exquisitely in animation too, silhouetting animals against magnificent, picturesque landscapes. While Zilbalodis’ character designs are highly stylised, it is astonishing just how naturalistically detailed their environment is, particularly in the clear blues, swampy greens, and inky blacks of the water. The more we explore it as well, the further Flow departs from any recognisable reality, verging on the surreal as the boat drifts through an ancient, half-submerged city, and makes its way towards a peculiar series of stone pillars leering over the horizon.

Fascinating world building – the giant cat statue goes unexplained, adding to the mystery of a land without humans yet marked by remnants of civilisation.
Auroras in the night sky – superb attention to detail even in throwaway scenes.
The sunken city makes for an eerie set piece, paving the path this crew must sail through to reach their destination.

Hayao Miyazaki’s whimsical, ecological fantasies no doubt exert a significant influence here. The uncanny cat sculptures which litter the rainforest and the whale’s biological mutations suggest a distorted merging of spirituality and nature, and by the time we enter the cat’s first dream, Zilbalodis is explicitly binding both in an ethereal, otherworldly realm. There, menacing visions of the initial flash flood and an ominous, rotating circle of deer haunt the cat, trapping it in circumstances beyond its control. Even more mystical though is the cat and secretarybird’s transcendent experience upon finally arriving at the stone pillars, where they begin to float among bubbles, colours, and stars in a boundless astral plane. Above, a golden portal beckons them into another world, and the sheer beauty of Zilbalodis’ animation makes the prospect of leaving one life for the next seem both immensely soothing and wistful.

Heavy surrealism in the cat’s first dream, returning to the deer from the earlier stampede now ominously circling it.
Jaw-dropping illustrations in Flow’s surreal climax, reaching to the heavens as gravity disappears and colours swirl in the atmosphere.

After all, this new adventure is simply a part of those natural cycles which Flow underscores with exquisite grace, particularly when that flood which once altered the entire landscape rapidly drains away. Zilbalodis’ narrative is a closed loop, returning a sense of normality to the cat’s land-dwelling companions, yet with it comes a poignant recognition of the equal adversity delivered to those who previously prospered in the endless waters. There is no perfect state of being in nature, Flow illustrates with breath-taking wonder, besides that of a balanced ecosystem which resiliently oscillates between different phases. As we float and soar through a world in perpetual transition, our restless movements match it every step of the way, basking in the chaos which somehow – amazingly – nourishes both the earth and water from which life is born.

Nature’s equilibrium – life for one brings death for another.
An inspired final frame, bookending the narrative with shots of creatures gazing at their watery reflections

Flow is currently playing in cinemas.

Nickel Boys (2024)

RaMell Ross | 2hr 20min

Not long after Black teenager Elwood begins at an internally segregated reform school, and after about forty minutes of looking at the world through his eyes, Nickel Boys shifts its first-person perspective. As a group of bullies mock him in the cafeteria, fellow student Turner quickly comes to his defence, beginning a friendship that will eventually become a lifeline for both during their time here. Before moving on though, RaMell Ross takes a leaf out of Ingmar Bergman’s Persona playbook and runs through the scene a second time, removing us from Elwood’s seat and placing us in Turner’s. For the first time, we see Elwood as a full being outside of reflections caught in shiny surfaces, granting us a fresh view of the world beyond his bright childhood and troubled adolescence.

From then on, Ross’s in-scene editing is freed up as he cuts between both points-of-view rather than sticking to long takes. On an even broader level though, his device also binds these boys within the film’s astonishing formal framework, presenting them as equal vessels through which we experience their growing disillusionment in a systematically racist institution. Nickel Boys may be Ross’ foray into narrative filmmaking, yet his avant-garde instincts come fully formed in his subjective camerawork and impressionistic montages, nostalgically slicing through memories that have been fragmented, reconstructed, and replayed in one’s mind a thousand times.

The first meeting between Elwood and Turner is played through twice – once from each of their perspectives. Bergman first pulled this off in Persona, and Ross remarkably recaptures it here.
Nostalgia in the first-person camera and its endlessly creative angles, sentimentally recalling moments from Elwood’s childhood.
We frequently return to this gorgeous timelapse shot from inside a train carriage, foreshadowing an inevitable escape.

Monumental historic events are deeply tied to these recollections as well, not merely using the civil rights movement of 1960s America as a backdrop to Ross’ narrative, but as a gateway into his characters’ minds. As Martin Luther King Jr. speaks to enormous crowds on television screens, we catch a young Elwood watching through the shop window, absorbing a message which would later inspire his attempts to expose the abusive staff at Nickel Academy. Sidney Poitier films also engage his curious mind, while archival cutaways to the space race underscore the bitter irony between America’s grand ambition and the marginalisation of its most disadvantaged citizens. Within this context, the primary split between Elwood and Turner takes clear form – one being an idealistic advocate for social progress, and the other a cynic just looking to keep his head down.

Reflections all through Ross’ mise-en-scène, steadily building Elwood’s sense of self.
The civil rights movement of the 1960s is crucial to Elwood’s growing sense of justice, and Ross binds both together by imposing his reflection against Martin Luther King Jr’s speech.

As such, it is fitting that Ross should ground the visual style of Nickel Boys in first-person perspectives, playing with camera angles, orientations, and movements that we are intimately familiar with in our own lives. During Elwood’s childhood, the camera stares up at towering environments and reveals his growing sense of self through reflective surfaces. When he lays on the ground, the whole world seems to shift around him too, and it isn’t uncommon for his gaze to drift off to other distractions mid-conversation.

The camera tips and turns with Elwood and Turner’s eyes, shifting the entire world around them at its centre.
The camera’s gaze wanders towards strange distractions and curious fixations, immersing us in these characters’ minds.
Ross often denies us the chance to read his characters’ outward expressions, instead dwelling in abstract, ambiguous impressions.

Perhaps the most notable feature of this cinematic technique though is the abundant fourth wall breaks, seeing characters peer directly down the lens and invite us into their lives. What could easily be used as a gimmick instead melds beautifully with Ross’ evocative storytelling and cinematography, calling to mind László Nemes’ psychological dramas which hover the camera around his protagonists’ heads, and using similarly tight blocking of bodies and objects to crowd the frame. Striking an even closer comparison to Ross’ stylistic triumph here though is Barry Jenkins’ distinctive combination of shallow focus, close-ups, and direct eye contact, forging a profound connection with the ostracised subjects of his own films. That the dreamlike harmonies of this soulful score bear resemblance to If Beale Street Could Talk only deepens this likeness, and considering that both Nickel Boys and The Underground Railroad are based on novels by Colson Whitehead, it is evident that Ross and Jenkins inhabit a shared cinematic space.

Close-ups, shallow focus, and eye contact heavily evoking Barry Jenkins, directly connecting with characters while the backgrounds melt away.

Nevertheless, Ross’ style is very much his own, eroding our sense of linear time through abstract editing rhythms which flit through the past like old film reels and leap into the future with sober melancholy. The adult Elwood we meet in these flashforwards is far removed from the teenage boy living at Nickel Academy, as is Ross’ camera which hovers right behind his head rather than looking through his eyes. The effect is dissociating, recognising the lingering trauma which keeps him from moving forward despite his new start in New York City. All these decades later, he obsessively tracks news stories unearthing Nickel Academy’s sinister history, and watches fellow alumni come forward as witnesses to the abuse inflicted upon Black students. Perhaps the most affecting scene in this narrative strand though arrives during his run-in with former classmate Chickie Pete, where the buried torment of another ill-adjusted survivor is made painfully apparent in the subtext of what goes unsaid.

Flashfowards sit immediately behind Elwood’s head, dissociating us from his immediate perspective.

We can hardly blame these men for their instinctive psychological detachment though, especially given how much we are forced to suffer inside their minds with them. As several boys are woken in the middle of the night and forced to wait their turn in another room, Elwood’s gaze nervously lingers on a swinging lamp, the holy bible, his trembling leg – anything that might distract from the disturbing sounds behind that door he will soon be led through. At the very least, the reflection motif which permeates Ross’ mise-en-scène offers symbolic escapes from Elwood’s immediate reality, delivering one particularly astounding shot looking up at an overhead mirror as he and Turner discuss the prospect of fleeing the school for good.

An ominous door, a swinging lamp, the holy bible, a shaking leg – Ross paints a portrait of anxiety without so much as revealing a face.
Both friends are captured in this ceiling mirror as they discuss the prospect of escape, and Ross continues to follow them from this angle as they make their way down the corridor.

Given the glimpses we are given of an adult Elwood, we feel assured that this freedom does indeed lie in his future, though the point where Ross connects both timelines makes for a formally staggering and heartbreaking transition. At the core of Nickel Boys’ first-person camera is the question of how one’s identity is formed from outside influences, and as such we see pieces of Elwood and Turner cling to each other, stoking both pragmatic caution and radical resolve. By minimising the display of outward expressions, Ross instead defines his characters by the indelible impressions they absorb from their volatile environments, internalising a shared, intrepid resilience that leads friends, communities, and an entire nation towards liberation.

Nickel Boys is currently streaming on Amazon Prime Video.