Category: 2020s

Adolescence (2025)

Philip Barantini | 4 episodes (51 – 65 min)

In a small English police station, 13-year-old Jamie Miller is charged with the murder of his classmate, Katie Leonard. Back at school, an entire community is left reeling with confusion and grief over what has unfolded. In a youth detention centre, Jamie’s motives are uncovered by a forensic psychologist, and some months later his family continue to grapple with the long-term consequences in their own home. Four snapshots across thirteen months are all that Philip Barantini needs to uncover the humanity in the horror of Adolescence, plunge into its despairing depths, and lift this crime beyond the sort of freak occurrence that most people are fortunate enough to only ever see in news headlines.

Where a lesser series would thinly spread its sprawling drama across dozens of episodes, Adolescence weaves the fragmented nature of television into its very structure, dedicating an hour at a time to its characters’ messy lives. It is not an anthology of self-contained stories, but neither does it maintain the straightforward continuity that we often expect from serial dramas, letting us fill in the days and months that separate episodes. As such, its narrative economy is remarkably efficient, unravelling four vignettes in real time while intertwining the movements of police officers, students, and relatives.

We are pulled right into the action with this in media res opening, storming the Miller household as the police pull Jamie from bed – all captured in one continuous take of course.

Barantini’s stylistic conceit of playing out each episode in single, continuous takes must be credited for our immersion in this harrowing study of modern-age masculinity. Right from the in media res opening of episode 1, we are launched into the police force’s raid of the Miller residence, sharing in the same shock as Jamie’s panicked family as he is arrested. The handheld camerawork keeps us in Barantini’s tight grip, disorientating us as we move with Jamie from the house into the police van where we finally get a moment to collect ourselves. In the absence of cuts, we sombrely sit with him for several minutes during his transportation to the police station, tuning out the adults’ muffled speech while a tense, ticking score takes over. The sheer length of sequences like these only deepens our discomfort in Adolescence, growing our dread throughout this first episode.

Barantini orchestrates his camera’s push and pull between wide shots and close-ups beautifully, anxiously tightening on Jamie’s face as his fingerprints and mugshot are taken.

When Jamie’s mug shot and fingerprints are taken, again we hang on the unspoken guilt written across his face, while the agonising humiliation suffered by his father Eddie is given an agonising close-up during the young teen’s strip search. In the consultation room, Jamie’s blue jumper blends in with the muted, melancholy tones of the walls around him, where the camera tentatively circles the emergence of truth. Jamie was caught on CCTV footage stabbing Katie to death in a parking lot the previous night, we eventually learn, effectively rupturing the innocence of a community which never believed such a barbaric act could be committed by one of their own – and least of all by a child.

Adolescence doesn’t feature overly gorgeous mise-en-scène, but the muted blues in the police station and costuming make for an admirable standout in episode 1.

Episode 2 is set only a couple of days later, though it delivers an impressive sense of scale by widening its focus to the staff and students at Jamie’s school, many of whom become witnesses in DI Luke Bascombe’s investigation. With his son Adam only a few years above Jamie, his personal life is not entirely removed from this case, and in their emotionally estranged relationship we begin to see patterns emerge between the fathers and sons of Adolescence. Here, Barantini locks onto the social influences which slyly insinuated themselves in Jamie’s life, mixing a lethal Gen Z cocktail of cyberbullying and incel propaganda with the sort of male insecurities even older generations would recognise.

Episode 2 widens its focus to an entire community impacted by Jamie’s crime, skilfully navigating the school grounds and classrooms where his worst influences begin to show their faces.
Patterns emerge between fathers and sons in Adolescence, revealing an emotional estrangement in otherwise close relationships.

This episode features what may be Barantini’s singularly most ambitious shot, traversing the school grounds, classrooms, and offices to reveal the interconnectedness of the local community. The camera often hitches onto characters as they move from one location to the next, linking conflicting accounts of Jamie and Katie’s relationship to a secret emoji language, and the missing murder weapon to Jamie’s friends. During its final minutes, Barantini even seamlessly lifts the camera into a drone shot flying over the entire neighbourhood to a choral rendition of ‘Fragile’, echoing its mournful lyrics as it eventually descends to witness a mournful Eddie laying flowers at the site of Katie’s murder.

A breathtaking highlight of Barantini’s soaring camerawork, lifting the camera above the school, flying over the town…
…and eventually descending into a close-up of Eddie’s face, laying flowers at Katie’s shrine.

With all this said, the greatest hindrance to Barantini’s long takes are Adolescence’s lengthy dialogue scenes, often leaving the camera to wander without aim or purpose. Within these moments, its ambitions fall far behind other one-take films such as Birdman or Victoria, and this especially becomes restrictive in the single room setting of episode 3. The staging in Jamie’s detention centre is more akin to a play than anything else, focusing on his examination by forensic psychologist Briony Ariston, though in exchange young actor Owen Cooper is given a platform to deliver some of the most outstanding acting of the series.

The stagebound setting of episode 3 doesn’t quite earn its one-take conceit, but nevertheless underscores two brilliant performances at its centre, particularly from the incredibly talented Owen Cooper.

In Jamie’s frustration at Briony’s line of questioning, we see a teenage boy who can’t quite grasp his own emotions, resisting any attempt to probe deeper in fear of what he may find. “Are you allowed to talk about this?” he uneasily asks about half a dozen times when the topic turns to sex, repeating the phrase almost as often as his baseless claim – “I didn’t do it.” Unable to reconcile his guilt and dignity, he desperately tries to convince himself of his innocence, denying the traumatic reality of his actions. When this cognitive dissonance is threatened, he falls back on intimidation tactics to retake control from Briony, throwing insults and even a chair in bitter anger. She is perturbed, yet actress Erin Doherty holds a steel nerve against his torment, only ever revealing how deeply this experience cuts away from his judgemental eyes.

A brief respite in the corridor outside – this line of work is incredibly taxing for Briony, only letting her guard drop away from Jamie’s eyes.

In Jamie’s quieter moments too, Cooper’s angsty performance remains strong, unassumingly being coaxed into contemplating his relationship with his father. When he asked if he is loving, Jamie’s responds is dismissive – “No, that’s weird” – and as Adolescence moves into episode 4, Barantini allows this regretful man to take the final word on the matter. Thirteen months after the murder, the Miller family wrestles with the long-term ramifications of Jamie’s actions which have singled them out in their community as pariahs. Glimmers of healing emerge during their drive to the local hardware store, looking for paint to cover up the graffiti left on Eddie’s van, but even this simple outing cannot escape the cruel taunts of teenagers or conspiracy theorists chillingly advocating for Jamie’s innocence.

Isolated and ridiculed in their own community, the Millers desperately hold the remnants of their lives together in episode 4, as Barantini turns something as simple as a trip to the local hardware store into an entire ordeal.
Online incel culture latches onto Jamie’s story and chillingly manifests in real life.
Eddie splashes black paint across his van in a fit of rage, finding no other release for his emotions.

Finally exhausting his patience, Eddie throws his fresh tin of paint all over the van, and in this moment we see flashes of the boy who only last episode tossed a chair in anger. Retreating to Jamie’s room with his wife Manda, Eddie ponders where it all went wrong, at which point the dialogue begins spell out its themes a little too directly. The screenplay weakens here, exchanging subtext for literalism, yet Barantini nevertheless succeeds in bringing Jamie’s story full circle back to his biggest influence.

Eddie’s failure isn’t as simple as him being a bad father – that much is clear from the anguished guilt of Stephen Graham’s performance. “If my dad made me, how did I make that?” he laments, beginning to recognise how deeply entrenched his worst habits are in his own childhood and parenting. As he cries into Jamie’s bed, the blues we observed in the police station return in darker shades to envelop him in a familiar sorrow, yet this time allowing an honest outpouring of suppressed emotions. It is a catharsis that we have eagerly awaited in Adolescence, and one that is especially earned through the cumulative weight of Barantini’s long, restrained takes, pushing a quiet form of insistence – not only that we bear witness to this teenager’s shattering crime, but to the raw, fragmented, and unresolved mess left behind.

Emotional catharsis as Eddie finally reveals his vulnerability in the closing minutes of Adolescence, returning to Jamie’s room where it all began.

Adolescence is currently streaming on Netflix.

The Girl with the Needle (2024)

Magnus von Horn | 2hr 2min

The face of human evil is insidiously disguised in The Girl with the Needle, though the glimpses that Magnus von Horn’s nightmarish interludes offer us reveal the eerie horror behind its warm, maternal mask. Within black voids, faces morph and merge into monstrosities, transparently layered atop each other like projections. Hands forcefully rub cheeks, mouths stretch open in silent screams, and shadows pass across upside-down features, expressing a pain and malice which could be straight from the depths of hell.

An eerie montage of stretched, distorted faces in shadow, expressing pain, malice, and insidious glee.
A codependent relationship between the abused and the abuser visualised in multiple reflections, trapped and helpless.

Within the uncanny blend of close-ups, two faces emerge which we will soon be made familiar with – factory worker Karoline, who finds herself at an impossible crossroads when she is impregnated with a baby she can’t afford to raise, and Dagmar, a middle-aged woman who takes her in seemingly out of the goodness of her heart. The destitute Denmark they occupy has been ravaged by the economic fallout of World War I, flaunting the privilege of the wealthy over the poor who must suffer in squalid conditions, and holding them in the grip of an inherently unjust system. As such, the cruel acts that Dagmar inflicts upon the few truly innocent inhabitants of Copenhagen are supposedly an anaesthetic to this psychological suffering, not unlike the ether she ritually abuses. Through her twisted sense of compassion, single mothers are not only freed of their unwanted children, but may also submit to the fantasy that they have been adopted by a loving, well-off family. When finally arrested and confronted with the severe weight of her crimes, her moral justification of the infanticide she commits is chillingly straightforward.

“That’s what was needed.”

Perhaps most unsettling of all is the historic basis of this character upon one of Denmark’s most infamous serial killers, whose notorious murders of abandoned babies shook the nation to its core. As repulsive as she may be, Horn is sure not to paint her as some aberration of society. She is the product of a post-war civilisation which ruthlessly tramples over the disenfranchised, and consequently births a new form of degeneracy which masquerades her services as gender and class solidarity.

Horn’s wide shots often use longer lens to compress his depth of field, here composing a delicate shot with the two women and stroller framed beneath the majestic tree.
The war comes to an end, yet what should be a joyous occasion is accepted with solemnity among these factory workers, who remained resigned to the class hierarchy painted out in this marvellous blocking.
Anchored in the destitute poverty of postwar Copenhagen, Horn often uses his setting’s dilapidated architecture and muddied streets in the vein of Béla Tarr, sinking his characters into a hopeless malaise.

Horn’s framing of her story through the eyes of fictional client Karoline effectively applies a grim, psychological lens, clouding our perception of 1920s Copenhagen’s harsh realities with terror, mistrust, and trauma. His stunningly bleak recreation of this period setting echoes Béla Tarr in its ruinous dilapidation, rendering the textures of coarse fabrics and peeling walls in high-contrast, monochrome photography, and slowly zooming in on doors and stairways where horrors unfold just beyond our view. The influence of Ingmar Bergman is also felt in Horn’s intimate framing of faces, notably splitting Karoline and Dagmar’s profiles on either side of the frame during a crucial confrontation, though the shallow depth of field on display is notably his own. Copenhagen’s bitterly cold parks and stone streets melt away into blurred backdrops through his long lenses, disconnecting Karoline from her environment, and especially isolating her from Dagmar once her betrayal is made apparent.

Narrow frames squeezing in on an oppressed Karoline, using the city’s narrow corridors and doorways to impede on her very being.
Bergman’s influence in the blocking and lighting of faces, illustrating the poisonous relationship between Karoline and Dagmar as the truth comes to light.
Horn’s shallow focus disconnects Karoline from her harsh environment, particularly here as a wealthy couple passes through the background in a blur.

With a score of low drones, rumbling vibrations, and metallic creaks, The Girl with the Needle takes haunting form in its minimalist soundscape too, uncomfortably accompanying Karoline’s descent into helpless reliance upon her child’s killer. This is a woman whose hopes for a prosperous life have been dashed by her affluent ex-lover, and whose husband Peter has returned from war both horribly disfigured and violently traumatised, eroding her faith in men as a source of stability. As such, she is in a deeply vulnerable place when she initially meets Dagmar at the local baths, attempting an abortion with a dauntingly large needle. The comfort provided by a stranger promising a secure future for Karoline’s daughter appears to be the only source of light in a dark world, so it is only natural that she gravitates toward it like a moth to a flame.

A minimalist shot packed with visual symbolism – the dirtied mirror masking Karoline’s face behind a layer of grime as she wrestles with her conscience, and the giant needle offering escape through pain.
Gorgeous lighting diffused through windows and bouncing off wet surfaces, setting the scene for Karoline’s desperate escape.

Nevertheless, something seems very wrong even before Karoline learns the truth of Dagmar’s business, especially with Horn leading us to suspect the very worst. Once Karoline gets hooked on Dagmar’s ether, she effectively loses all agency, only finding purpose as a wet nurse to the abortion broker’s younger daughter Erena and a recently abandoned baby boy. Erena’s attempt to smother this infant when Karoline gives it too much attention should be the first major hint that murder is commonplace in this household, and suspicions expressed by her old colleague Frida similarly validate our own, mounting a foreboding sense of dread.

Painterly shots as Karoline stalks Dagmar through Copenhagen’s rough stone streets, mounting a foreboding suspense.
A gut-punch of a reveal, confirming our suspicions with jerking, almost inhuman movements as we linger on Dagmar’s back.
Horn realises it’s what remains unseen which haunts us most of all, unfolding harrowing trauma just beyond our field of view.

The stretch of purely visual storytelling which leads to Karoline’s discovery sits among the finest sequences of The Girl with the Needle, stalking Dagmar as she carries the baby through Copenhagen, before reaching a lonely alley and mysteriously settling on her back. From Karoline’s obscured perspective, Dagmar’s jerking, struggling movements ambiguously manifest her worst fears, while her subsequent inspection of the open sewer where the child disappeared confirms them. Despite her gut-wrenching distress though, still she can’t separate herself from this codependent mother-daughter relationship, entwining Vic Carmen Sonne and Trine Dyrholm’s performances in a disorientated haze of shame and violence. Horn’s desolate photography continues to submit to the despair through it all too, hovering an overhead shot above these women sharing a filthy bed, and casting creeping shadows across Sonne’s guilty face.

Toxic co-dependency in a single shot, laying these curled up women on a filthy bed.
Karoline’s face consumed by shadow, hiding from her own guilty conscience.

Karoline is not the only one to dwell in the darkness though, as Peter too often hides in Horn’s gorgeously low-lit interiors, shamefully covering his mutilated face. Unlike Dagmar, the mask he wears is a shield from society’s prejudice rather than its judicial system. His visage may fit among those terrifying faces which haunt Karoline’s nightmares, but there is also a kindness here which even she overlooks due to his physical and mental scars, effectively rendering him unrecognisable to his own wife. With nowhere left to turn, he resorts to the lowliest job of all as a circus freak, letting others exploit and profit off his deformity in the most dehumanising manner possible. Despite the whimsical props which adorn his caravan, there is no levity in Horn’s shabby, carnivalesque production design here, yet healing and redemption may be found in even the dirtiest environments when one falls into the arms of a nurturing, dutiful lover.

Several characters wear a mask of some kind, and Peter’s is quite literal, covering up his facial disfigurement and hiding it in darkness.
Carnivalesque production design at the circus, framing Karoline’s emotional recovery in the unlikeliest of locations.
A stifling frame in the oval mirror, yet there is a touch of warmth in Karoline and Peter’s physical and emotional union, enduring a rough life together.

Perhaps it is indeed a stretch too far to believe that any adult in this derelict society would want to raise another’s unwanted child, but for all its misery and sorrow, Horn does not let The Girl with the Needle end without glimpsing a world where this might be possible. Even after abject depravity has shredded Karoline’s faith in humanity, we witness how a single act of love may change an entire life, formally subverting Dagmar’s cynical worldview which once perpetuated even deeper anguish. After all, tenderness is never too far out of reach in Horn’s profound, historical reflection, often hiding within those who have suffered the most, and offering glimmers of tenderness in a society consumed by its own despondent shadows.

Karoline subverts Dagmar’s cynical worldview, carrying out an act of radical love and selflessness.

The Girl with the Needle is not currently streaming in Australia.

Juror #2 (2024)

Clint Eastwood | 1hr 54min

When expecting father Justin Kemp hit something on a dark road roughly a year ago, he had no reason to believe it was anything other than a deer. He spent the night up to that point drinking alone at the local bar, relapsing into old habits to deal with the grief over a recent miscarriage, though it is a concerned text from his wife Allison which ultimately distracts him from the road. He exits the car to check on the potential casualty, but after scanning the bridge and river below, it appears that whatever he hit has disappeared into the darkness.

As such, the eerie alignment between details of the criminal case he has been summoned to serve as jury for and his own accident that cold, rainy night seems like a cruel twist of fate. Clint Eastwood’s parallel editing deftly plays out his realisation via flashback, initially through the attorneys’ opening remarks which lay out James Sythe’s alleged murder of his girlfriend Kendall, before revealing that Justin was at the bar during the violent public breakup that preceded it. After James forced her to walk home in the rain, Justin left in his car shortly after – and the later discovery of her body next to the bridge where he supposedly hit a deer appears to confirm his culpability. With the camera hanging on Nicholas Hoult’s face in close-up, moral turmoil begins to stir his conscience, and it is this inner conflict which Juror #2 teases out in its study of stifled, agonising guilt.

It has been many years since Eastwood directed an instant classic like Unforgiven, but the fact that he is still creating quality films is nevertheless a feat for a man going strong in his 90s. Juror #2 thrilling treads that line between honesty and self-preservation, setting up enormous stakes whichever way Justin chooses to go. Should he come clean, he would almost certainly suffer dire legal consequences and lose the chance to be part of his child’s life. Should he stay quiet, he would bear the lifelong burden of knowing an innocent man has suffered in his place. Immense power has been placed in his hands, and with the discerning minds of fellow jurors prying deeper into the truth as well, the matter becomes increasingly complex.

Driven by a feeble moral imperative, Justin is initially the only holdout among his peers to advocate for James’ innocence, despite being unable to openly justify his verdict. Still, the reasonable doubt he instils in others’ minds is enough raise questions, particularly from J.K. Simmons’ fellow juror Harold. When this former homicide detective decides to breach court rules and investigate the crime scene himself, his resolution to find James guilty begins to waver, and is ultimately replaced by an intuitive, cynical suspicion. Although Justin smartly gets him disqualified, the seeds of doubt which he initially planted have sprouted among other jurors, condemning him to reap their poisoned fruits should they be allowed to grow.

Eastwood gathers a talented cast here, integrating their respective talents to drive up the dramatic irony of Justin’s secret. Much like Simmons, Toni Collette possesses a bold screen presence as Faith, the prosecutor whose determination to win this case falters when fresh evidence comes to light. Her interrogation of Allison late in the film sees her come dangerously close to the truth, yet Eastwood wields superb narrative suspense as he resists crossing that line. In the jury room too, what could have been an inert discussion of ideas becomes an active exercise in hypothesising, with the blocking often separating a nervously agitated Justin from his peers.

Although Hoult is largely recognised as a character actor specialising in pompous male egos, Juror #2 proves his ability to slot seamlessly into a leading role, adopting an American accent and raw vulnerability. Beyond the interspersed flashbacks to that fateful night, he continues to unravel Justin’s backstory, revealing a previous car collision that pushed him to his lowest point yet spurred him to start taking responsibility for his actions. As he finds himself trying to cover up his guilt in the present day, his principles are arduously tested, undermining the very integrity he soon plans to model as a father. Freedom and redemption are mutually exclusive within this moral quandary, but as pressures from all sides mount with grim, inexorable foreboding, Eastwood rivetingly raises the question of whether either are truly attainable at all.

Juror #2 is currently available to rent or buy on Apple TV, YouTube, and Amazon Video.

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.