Category: 2020s

David Lowery | 2hr 5min

There many not be too many hardcore fans of Arthurian legends hoping that David Lowery’s adaptation of ‘Sir Gawain and the Green Knight’ remains faithful to its source material, but right up until the film’s final few minutes, this is surprisingly the case. It is no easy task maintaining secrecy around what exactly unfolds in this dénouement where the two stories part ways, especially given how much it represents the zenith of his stylistic and formal achievement of filmmaking, but this much can be said without risk of spoilers – his narrative’s eventual surrender to the creeping power of time and nature is far more in line with its pagan influences than its Christian.

The medieval kingdom of The Green Knight is built on fragile foundations of ego and pretence, with even its royal crowns radiating outwards like metallic imitations of iconographic halos. The sombre spirituality which can be found within these castle walls is not a bright beacon of faith, but is rather represented as a dark, deathly decay, pierced only by light pouring down from above like heavenly blessings. This is but a small taste of the transcendent, otherworldly power which Gawain will discover on his journey across the beautiful rolling landscapes of England, where encounters with scavengers, lords, and supernatural creatures gradually temper his ambitions of glory and honour. As he comes to grapple with the dark and mystical beauty of the world beyond King Arthur’s castle, so too does Lowery in his visual artistry, relishing the poetic fantasy and dreamlike imagery of such a grand, chivalric quest.

There is a sizeable difference between the medieval world which Lowery constructs here versus those grittier representations of the era from more historically-minded films. This is a setting which seems to spring forth from the oral tales of ancestors, as a visual sense of delicate impressionism emerges from within every set piece. Matte paintings are used early on during the Round Table scenes, effectively turning its backdrop of gaping arched hallways into a canvas upon which Lowery stages his ensemble of knights and nobles. Later as Gawain approaches the end of his journey, a supernatural orange mist engulfs the final trek, as if to tempt him away from the inverse colours of the Green Chapel. Such evocative imagery rejects any perceptions of this narrative as a piece of pure history, but rather establishes it as a tale that has been pulled apart and reconstructed thousands of times over centuries, distilling its core down to a pure expression of humanity’s total insignificance.

The destiny which the young knight Gawain finds himself bound to comes not from religious prophecies, but is instead foolishly created by his own hand. “Tell me a tale of yourself, so that I might know thee,” King Arthur implores him at a Christmas feast, and yet unlike those other great men of the Round Table, he has none. As if summoned by this request, a man made entirely of bark and leaves rides into the dining hall. He offers a challenge: anyone who shall land a blow against him must have the exact same blow delivered back to them one year later. Tempted by the glory, and feeling the pressure to prove himself worthy, Gawain steps forward and beheads the Green Knight. It is a show of superficial strength, but also of foolish arrogance, as he thus sets in stone a fate which will see him reap what he has sown.

Given its lyrical musings, cryptic symbolism, and enchanting monologues, The Green Knight is certainly a film built for multiple viewings. The threat of Gawain losing his head lies as a persistent undercurrent beneath his quest, especially as he is met along the way with the task to retrieve another’s from within a spring. But as he searches for greater significance, it also comes to signify something more personal to our hero – a spiritual chastening, through which he loses his ego and accepts the presence of greater natural forces at play. The ravages of time specifically wreak great devastation upon human delusions of power, and in formally recurring visions of alternate futures seeded throughout the film, Lowery continues to posit either one of two ideas – either we meet the consequences of our actions in the present, or we meet it further down the road. Twice do we see such visions paired with slow-moving, 360-degree camera pans through which he evokes the steadily pivoting hands of a clock, visually manifesting the glacial encroachment of nature and time upon the realms of men.

And indeed, these two forces are often bound together in the film, fusing both physical and metaphysical worlds within the representation of the Green Knight himself. He is patient, but also inevitable. He does not seek out Gawain, and yet he doesn’t need to. Most importantly, he is no villain. He encourages those at the end of their lives to not experience death as a terrifying epiphany, but rather a great humbling. As for when exactly one meets their end – that is merely a reflection of their own actions towards the world at large. Such delicate poetic justice instils The Green Knight with a cyclical structure, not so much within Gawain’s immediate story, but within the hypnotic rhythms and repetitions of the world around him, and consequently pulls us ever deeper into its mystical, foreboding heart.

The Green Knight is currently available to stream on Amazon Prime Video.

Ridley Scott | 2hr 32min

It is crucial to the form of The Last Duel that its first act introduces us to what seems like a relatively standard medieval tale of love, betrayal, and vengeance, all told through the perspective of the noble French knight, Sir Jean de Carrouges. A hostile rivalry with his disrespectful squire, Jacques le Gris, is the driving force upon which his story progresses, especially when this entitled subordinate commits an act of treachery that pushes the knight to seek righteous justice. Though Matt Damon, Ben Affleck, and Nicole Holofcener’s screenplay intelligently draws out a complex power struggle between our main players in the first act, it is the turn that the film takes in its second which lifts its narrative up to a new level of intrigue, revealing an entirely different set of priorities altogether.

In this act, de Carrouges is not the honourable hero we were led to believe, and Marguerite, his beautiful wife, longs to escape their unsatisfying marriage. Or at least, this is truth according to le Gris, the playful womaniser who finds himself constantly covering for de Carrouges’ errors and shortcomings. History is written by whoever is in control of the narrative, and by traditional accounts, these are usually the men who win battles. As for those who aren’t men, and those who do not win battles – these are the alternate points-of-view which The Last Duel turns its attention to when de Carrouges’ version has run its limited course. They aren’t always grounded in reality or entirely comprehensive, but then again, neither is our conceptualisation of “objective” history which we so happily accepted without question at the start.

The Akira Kurosawa influence looms large here, certainly in Ridley Scott’s direction of exhilarating medieval battles and hierarchies, but most palpably in the Rashomon-style narrative structure which moves in chapters between three perspectives of a single story. Just as a court case becomes the centrepiece of Kurosawa’s 1950 psychological drama, so too does the trial of The Last Duel become a device through which Scott untangles the three messy accounts of the crime that has taken place – the rape of Marguerite, committed by le Gris.

It is the perfect canvas for a director as formally meticulous as Scott to examine our ever-shifting perceptions of history, as he goes about repeating the same events twice or thrice over with slight, barely perceptible variations between them. A modest kiss, shoes flying off in a frenzied panic, and desperate cries for help don’t just take on different meanings each time we witness them, but the perceived intent creates an adjustment in the action itself. In the mind of le Gris, that kiss lingers for a split second longer, those shoes are deliberately removed as an invitation, and those screams are sensual sighs, holding back a burning desire.

Such subtle discrepancies between each version pose great challenges for our main cast, as Matt Damon, Adam Driver, and Jodie Comer essentially play three different versions of the same characters, and pull each off with flair. But this formal attentiveness goes beyond the performances, also becoming a showcase for Scott’s camerawork, which continues to refresh the same plot beats in its detailed alterations. A low-angle hanging on le Gris in a dominant position versus a close-up levelled with Marguerite’s distraught face makes all the difference in how we read both sides of the rape, as does the choice to let le Gris’ gaze pick her out in a crowd from a distance, when this same scene has played out elsewhere with both leading men at its centre.

As for the complete exclusion of key moments from certain accounts, these are absolutely telling of how much import each narrator attaches to them, whether out of conscious or subconscious biases. Most significantly, the holes in de Carrouge’s perspective, initially assumed to be the “default”, only fully come to light when we have finally considered Marguerite’s version of the truth. It is here that her husband is exposed as a man not so invested in seeking to defend the vulnerable, but who has rather taken the rape of his wife as a slight against his own ego, and who now pursues personal vengeance out of blind, self-centred bitterness. The question of rightful ownership over material wealth has been a long-running feud between the men, and in Marguerite being given the opportunity to express herself, the addition of the rape to that list of superficial quarrels is revealed as the act of dehumanisation that it is, inevitably altering our judgement of every other character that suppressed her voice.

Such superb narrative form is not always matched by astonishingly beautiful compositions in The Last Duel, though Scott is by no means slouching off when it comes to his mise-en-scène either. There is a dedication to the sheer abundance of candles lighting up studies, dining halls, and throne rooms of medieval France, but it is in the exterior landscapes where we cower at the vast battlefields, castles, and grimy streets of this society that his world-building truly flourishes.

As promised, there is indeed a duel that takes place in this film, bookending its narrative with the pivotal moment upon which the fates of all three main characters rest. In building such tension to its lead-up, Scott makes ambitious assurances that this will pay off not just on the conflict between de Carrouges and le Gris, but Marguerite’s own struggle as well. Then, as it finally arrives, it is evident that this is a set piece entirely from the creative mind behind Gladiator. As the physical defences of each man are torn away, Scott’s exerts a fine control over his action editing and slow-motion, following this battle of horses and swords while it brutally descends into a visceral, muddy wrestle. Yet all throughout this physical violence, The Last Duel does not once lose sight of the female struggle and trauma perpetrated by the same men who then attempt to claim as their own through bombastic displays of strength and skill. In offering great empathy to these perspectives, Scott crafts a formally astounding interrogation of history as it is lived from moment to moment, and the inherent unreliability of any one account as the sole vessel of truth.

The Last Duel is currently playing in theatres.

Destin Daniel Cretton | 2021

The efforts of the Marvel Cinematic Universe to keep refreshing itself by dipping into different genres at times seem more evocative of greater films than aiming to become one, and though there is certainly no shortage of artistically transcendent Chinese wuxia films to put Shang-Chi and the Legend of the Ten Rings in its place, there is an authentic delicacy to its style one doesn’t often find in typical comic book fare. At its centre is our newest superhero, the titular Shang-Chi, a Chinese immigrant whose shady family history remains largely secret from even those closest to him. After an attempted assassination on his life, he quickly finds himself drawn back into a world he had hoped was well behind him. Yet as his story progresses deeper into the devious Ten Rings organisation and the mystical village of Ta Lo, director Destin Daniel Cretton also turns up the elegant beauty of his landscapes and martial arts choreography, bringing a sensuality to Shang-Chi’s personal journey of self-discovery.

There is a visceral impact to casting stuntman Simu Liu in the lead role, as his ability to carry fight scenes without the manipulation of rapid-fire editing allows for some truly impressive choreography to shine through. The first we see of him in combat is on a moving bus, a set piece which, while being a thrilling exertion of bombastic visual effects and choreography, is later topped by more emotionally loaded hand-to-hand contests of precision, strength, and manoeuvring. Eventually, these martial arts encounters transform more into cooperative dances than vindictive, bitter clashes, each combatant working in unison to craft beauty from the collaborative motion of their bodies.

This tension between conflict and coordination is the key to unlocking the complex nuances of Shang-Chi’s relationship with his absent father and master of the Ten Rings, Wenwu. It takes a lot of effort on Liu’s part to not be blown off the screen every time Tony Leung appears alongside him as the family patriarch, providing a performance that certainly makes for one of the most compelling, nuanced Marvel villains we have seen. What could have been a rather dull objective for Wenwu, to recover his deceased wife from another dimension, takes on extra poignancy in the consideration of his entire, centuries-spanning life. Here is an immortal who had effectively given up all power and world-dominating ambition to start a family, only to lose that hope and blame himself when that new life was shattered.

Cretton’s frequent flashbacks bring a real sense of historical weight to the world being built in Shang-Chi, but they also offer Wenwu more depth and empathy than the traditional comic book supervillain, revealing a man whose journey to treachery isn’t as clear-cut as one might expect. Carrying a dangerous mixture of grief, shame, regret, and rage, Leung turns Wenwu into the sort of unpredictable antagonist who isn’t quite sure whether he wants to protect or exact vengeance on his own son, and as such can’t find peace in his internal conflict.

And therein lies the power of this film’s use of martial arts – the paradox of cooperative movement and friction is echoed predominantly within those fights between Shang-Chi’s core family members, as we first witness during the opening prologue where Wenwu meets his future wife, Ying Li. With him dressed all in white, her in a flowing green dress, and their elegant combat set against a gorgeous backdrop of vivid red leaves, an alluring connection emerges between them, underscored even further by the glimpses of eye contact we receive in moments of stunning slow-motion. Cretton calls back to this later in a fight between father and son, this time using the same aesthetic techniques to reveal a mutual recognition of their broken relationship, and which can now only be expressed through a collaborative act of violence, regret, and every so often, a display of genuine compassion.

At a certain point, Shang-Chi and the Legend of the Ten Rings does turn into the sort of predictable, weightless CGI-fest one might expect from a superhero movie fixated on world-ending stakes. Immediately preceding this though is another epic battle of sorts between two rivalling factions of fighters, one side dressed in black, the other in uniform, deep reds, and it is just slightly disappointing that this striking display of ambitious, large-scale combat made up of awe-inspiring stuntmen and women doesn’t play out for longer.

It would be a disservice to simply label this movie as “beautifully shot” and leave it at that, as the level of attention which goes into the colour palettes and designs of the ancient Chinese village where this battle takes places deliberately evokes the style of more traditional wuxia films. In a particularly exquisite shot towards the end, Cretton lets us linger on an array of glowing, golden lanterns floating atop a lake at night, as the red-clad villagers stand in the background and watch these spirit-like lights drift away. There may be patches of weakness here which keep Shang-Chi and the Legend of the Ten Rings from transcending its comic book movie trappings, but when it comes to using precisely choreographed action as a means to develop character arcs and relationships, the emotional resonance is powerful.

Shang-Chi and the Legend of the Ten Rings is currently streaming on Disney Plus.

Valdimar Jóhannsson | 1hr 46min

Through a dreary, snowy landscape somewhere in an Icelandic mountain range, a herd of bedraggled horses wander an open field. We approach them from a distance in one long take, though the sound of heavy breathing clues us in that we are perhaps not a neutral observer in this situation. The horses buck and whinny, spooked by our presence in this expansive, rural region, though the mysterious figure whose identity we have briefly adopted is kept largely offscreen for much of the film.

This description of the opening scene may not help any argument that Lamb is not, in fact, a horror film as it has been advertised, but what it may help to illustrate is just how much first-time director Valdimar Jóhannsson is following in the footsteps of Bela Tarr, the Hungarian filmmaker whose name is essentially synonymous with bleak, arthouse cinema, and who is credited as executive producer on this film. Like Tarr, the use of eerie, repetitive sound design to create the impression of silence is one of Jóhannsson’s greatest tools, letting us tune into the audible breathing of sheep, the whirring engine of a tractor, or the bitter wind blowing through valleys. Dialogue is sparse, but what little there is simply conveys the bare facts of María and Ingvar’s cold, lonely lives.

It takes the supernatural arrival of a semi-horrific, semi-adorable creature on their farm to bring about a sudden shift in mood, and after drawing out the details of what exactly makes this infant so odd for a long time, the reveal comes in an ever so brief glimpse sure to draw a couple of double-takes. It belongs neither to the world of humans, nor to the animal kingdom, yet all it takes is a fleeting period of shock for María and Ingvar to adjust before readily taking on the responsibility of raising it as their own. As they bring out a cot from the shed and set up a nursery, the existence of some past heartbreak is hinted at, letting us in on the emptiness present in their lives. Just like that, Lamb takes a small step away from the horror genre, and more into that of a psychological family drama, probing questions of how parenting instincts overlap with the welfare of such a unique, irreconcilably “different” child.

Though the arrival of Ingvar’s brother, Pétur, in this narrative initially serves to underscore the tension in this messy family dynamic, his presence ultimately does little to sway the emotion of the film one way or the other. Explicit references to a past romance that he and María once shared do serve to instil tension in this family’s unaddressed, repressed emotions, but this touch of relationship drama does end up feeling more like an irrelevant footnote tacked onto everything else we watch play out.

Beyond this, there is a lot to be said about the way Jóhannsson finds such unexpected moments of humour in an otherwise merciless film. While combinations of snow, fog, wind, and rain leave us cowering at the beautiful terror of such an unforgiving environment, the ridiculousness of this family’s situation is never forgotten. The tittering one might hear from a theatre audience in certain parts is not at the expense of the film’s tension, nor is it an unintended consequence of some tonal mishandling. When forced to look at Lamb’s bizarre, folklore-tinted body horror, and then simultaneously faced with such desperate attempts by María, Ingvar, and Pétur to incorporate it into the pleasant image of a traditional, nuclear family, the straight-faced absurdity of humanity’s desire to tame the wildest, most incongruous parts of the world can be overpowering. In such situations as these, an exasperated laugh of disbelief directed at our own instinctual need for rigid, sanitised social structures might suffice just as well as anything.

Lamb is currently playing in theatres.

Leos Carax | 2hr 19min

There is a glossy sheen to the bizarre, theatrical world that stand-up comedian Henry McHenry lives within, and yet by the end of Annette, Leos Carax raises the question of just how much its peculiar details are simply the warped perceptions of an egomaniac unable to confront a reality that doesn’t place himself at its centre. Carax is no stranger to pushing the conventions of narrative and good taste, and here he channels these fascinations into a movie musical swinging for the exact opposite of what more traditional representatives of the genre set out to achieve – using songs to repress emotions, rather than spilling them out into beautiful, lyrical expressions.

“We love each other so much,” is the phrase which Henry and Ann, his famed opera star wife, sing in mind-numbing repetition, as if they might convince themselves of its truth by attaching a melody to it. Later, Ann’s accompanist is relegated to singing “I’m an accompanist” in an effort to remind himself of his own subservient status, and when Henry’s mental state spirals into self-destructive habits, he is only fooling himself in repeating “I’m not that drunk.” These lyrics are contrived by design, typing out in heavy-handed text the straightforward ideas which each character is trying to manifest in their struggles against reality. In draining the emotional conviction from much his screenplay though, Carax also walks a tricky line he often stumbles along, at times failing to find the authenticity in moments which do finally call for it.

Adam Driver and Marion Cotillard display immense restraint in playing these roles as awkward, contrived beings, incapable of expressing genuine emotions beyond those which they summon in a stand-up routine or opera performance. This disconnection only further manifests with the birth of their baby daughter who, in an eccentric, Caraxian twist, is played by a marionette, and appropriately named Annette. “This is my baby,” Henry tells himself, though once again his use of such plain language is just a weak attempt to force emotions which aren’t there. As Annette grows up and starts to display a prodigious talent, the pretence of the parent-child connection disappears, and instead Henry’s visualisation of her as a puppet informs the new relationship which forms between them – that of a manager and his exploited worker.

In spite of the material success Henry finds along his path to fame, he still finds himself bogged down in the envy of others who possess something he lacks, and an ethereal green lighting setup emerges whenever those feelings surface. From the lamps sitting in the audience of a stand-up show, to the pool set piece where his jealousy pushes him to the edge of sanity, it follows him like a ghost, haunting him with reminders of his own corruption and mediocrity.

And indeed, much of Annette plays like a ghost story, as Carax relishes the opportunity to play into the theatrical, Gothic expressionism of his imagery. A recurring emphasis on Henry’s hands stretching towards Ann from behind isolates them from the rest of his body, giving the sinister impression of a soulless, zombie-like creature reaching out for its prey. Meanwhile, as Henry stews in his resentment towards her, she finds herself surrounded by clean, blue hues, especially in her opera performances where she finds far more critical success than her partner.

These motifs come to a head atop a rocking boat on a dark, stormy ocean, where Henry’s disembodied hands lead into an intensely confrontational waltz between the two spouses. The artifice of this soundstage is evident, as waves crash in slow-motion on a rear projected backdrop, and real water is simultaneously splashed up at them from below. Though the film sometimes plays a little too heavily on its inexpressive lyrics, Carax’s commitment to the disorientating effects of Annette beautifully isolates the theatrical hubris in the bitter, selfish ambition of Henry McHenry, who is only allowed to escape that spotlight when it is already far too late to repair the rest of his life.

Annette is currently available to rent or buy on iTunes and YouTube.

Emerald Fennell | 1hr 48min

Emerald Fennell’s steady hand over comedy, drama, thriller, and romantic conventions makes for a brilliantly adventurous screenplay in Promising Young Woman, as she pulls off wildly swinging tonal and genre shifts with poise and self-assured control. In a reflection of the competing identities of our leading woman, Cassie, these disparate elements constantly appear to be on the brink of derailing the entire film, and yet the film spectacularly lands twist after twist in an angry, candy-coloured balancing act.

Carey Mulligan fits perfectly in with Fennell’s narrative rollercoaster as Cassie, displaying an ability to turn a scene on its head with a single, well-timed line. As the coffee shop waitress and part-time con artist pursues vengeance against those who bury their guilt beneath mountains of excuses, and simultaneously tries to work her way back into a lighter world that she has been sceptical of for years, an aggrieved sensitivity begins to emerging from beneath her cool, sardonic exterior. When her conflicting priorities finally become too much to bear, her indignant rage bursts forth in an interaction with a rude driver, smashing their windshield while Fennell spins the camera around her in an impassioned, isolating whirlwind of vengeance. When the car finally speeds away, we meet her at the dead centre of the image in this moment of bitter triumph, the strings swelling as a train passes directly behind her. Without uttering a single line, we recognise the emotional toll that her quest has taken – even the most perfect acts of retribution do little to settle the disturbed anger of the avenger.

This symmetrical, centred framing becomes a recurring device for Fennell, giving Cassie the sort of authority that lets her dominate both her victims’ attention and our own. Some of these shots place circular objects just over or around her head like halos, such as in her meeting with her old schoolmate, Madison, where a sole, red lamp sits directly above her crown. In these compositions, Fennell paints her out as some sort of avenging angel on an angry, righteous quest, and indeed the final song of the film, “Angel of the Morning”, brings that motif to a satisfying close. When there are lapses in these perfectly aligned shots, there are similarly lapses in her power, with Fennell gradually shifting Mulligan just off-centre to disorientate us in this narrative that we have been led to believe she possesses total control over.

As Cassie’s structured plan unfolds in bright pink tally marks, we are privy to a huge range of reactions from her victims being confronted with their past transgressions. Though the details of the sickening injustice which was enacted upon Cassie’s friend, Nina, remain hazy for a good while, it is clear that they all took some part in perpetuating it, and that it has turned Cassie into this untrusting, angry woman we know today.

Such details aren’t all that necessary though, as it is just in the way Cassie speaks about Nina that we come to know this fully-formed character whose invisible presence hangs heavy over everyone else’s lives. We see her in the way Cassie grieves, not just for the loss of a friend, but the loss of a woman with something to contribute to the world. She touchingly appears with a full personality in the memories Cassie shares with Mrs Fisher, reminiscing how she forced a boy who stole her mother’s vase to bring it back and apologise. And most tragically, we come to know the hollow, “squeezed out” person that Nina eventually became, who Cassie was forced to watch disintegrate into a name tossed around as a joke. This underlying darkness persists even through the lighter moments of Promising Young Woman, and yet Fennell never falters in weaving such harsh depictions of trauma around gentle nostalgia and dark humour to create this moving, thrilling, and brilliantly incisive black comedy.

Promising Young Woman is available to rent or buy on iTunes and YouTube.