By the time Mickey 17 is printed into existence, there have already been 16 prior Mickeys that have been stabbed, gassed, burnt, and killed any number of ways – all in service of humanity’s expedition to the frozen planet Niflheim of course. He is a cog in the machine of colonisation to be sent on suicide missions and used as test subjects, often without being warned of the situation he is getting into. With his memories being downloaded into each new clone upon the death of its predecessor, it initially seems as if the collective Mickeys are a single being, blessed with immortality and cursed to live a Sisyphean existence. When a mix-up leads to his seventeenth incarnation coming face to face with Mickey 18 though, death no longer feels like a fleeting bump in the road. Once a Mickey dies, his consciousness truly ceases to exist, even as near-identical future copies take his place.
True to Bong Joon-ho’s savage class critiques, Mickey 17 uses its high concept sci-fi premise to delineate the underpinnings of identity in a capitalist system – particularly one which explicitly labels its workers “expendables.” The labour exploitation here is a continuation of similar concerns illustrated in Parasite, though the satire bears much closer resemblance to the harsh dystopia of Snowpiercer and Okja’s whimsical eco-fable. While Mickey strives to hold onto his dignity, expedition leader and thinly veiled Trump parody Kenneth Marshall wields him as a weapon against Niflheim’s native alien species, colloquially known as creepers, trampling over subservient allies and defenceless enemies to claim this territory as his own.
With Robert Pattinson giving perhaps his most broadly comedic performance to date, what could have been a gritty tale of class oppression and uprising is instead played with a dark sense of humour, narrated by Mickey’s timid, nasally voiceover. Through him we are given the backstory on how he ended up here, the grim state of civilisation on Earth, and the purpose of this interstellar mission – though when we are still getting through the exposition an hour in, Bong’s worldbuilding begins to wear a bit thin. There isn’t a whole lot of efficiency to this first act, so it is largely thanks to his incredible imagination that we remain in the grip of his storytelling, examining the ethical and social implications of a society built on the careless turnover of its working class.
Although Mark Ruffalo plays the main antagonist here with cartoonish sensibilities, Toni Collette’s wit is far sharper as his uncomfortably affectionate wife Ylfa. Her absurd obsession with sauces goes beyond mere idiosyncrasy, and becomes an icon of upper-class indulgence in a totalitarian environment of strictly controlled calorie intake, ensuring the workers do not have energy for prohibited recreational activities such as intercourse. Just as Kenneth and Ylfa are reminding the crew of such rules though, Bong’s parallel editing weaves in this treasonous act between Mickey and his girlfriend Nasha with subversive passion, setting both up as the strongest voices of dissent on the spaceship.
That Mickey 17 seems to have a little too much on its mind unfortunately weakens the narrative here, as for quite a while it seems that Mickey 18’s problematic arrival is secondary to Kenneth’s broader conflict with the creepers. It takes a sudden provocation and shift in character motive for Bong to start forcing these plot threads together, delivering a firm anti-imperialist statement as the native species begins to retaliate against their oppressors.
Designed as an outlandish cross between a pill bug and a yak, the harshly-named creepers turn out to be surprisingly endearing and highly intelligent, desiring peaceful coexistence with the settlers rather than war. For all intents and purposes, they are Bong’s take on the Na’vi in Avatar, albeit far more removed from anything vaguely humanoid. It is ironic then that in fighting for this alien species, those stripped of their humanity are set on a path to regaining it, breaking free of a system which draws a hostile divide between the self and the other.
It is disappointing that the futurist production design on display isn’t always taken advantage of in Darius Khondji’s cinematography, but this does not detract from Bong’s impactful visual symbolism. The furnace where each of Mickey’s corpses are disposed regularly damns him to the pits of hell, while the implications of a human printer which guarantees his eternal servitude are chillingly reframed in the closing minutes, pondering the impossibility of permanently expunging dictators from society. Those familiar with Bong’s tendency to wield both the sledgehammer and the scalpel shouldn’t be surprised at Mickey 17’s inelegant swerve away from Parasite, yet in an era where exploitation is repackaged as progress, his satirical blend of class-conscious allegory and genre spectacle resonates all too clearly.
When David’s Jewish heritage tour group sits down for a dinner together late in A Real Pain, he recounts a joke that his grandmother once told him. “First generation immigrants work some menial job. You know, they drive cabs, they deliver food,” he begins. “Second generation, they go to good schools, and they become like a doctor or a lawyer or whatever,” he continues, building to the punchline. “And the third generation lives in their mother’s basement and smokes pot all day.”
Quiet chuckles echo around the table, yet David’s cousin Benji remains silent. “She said that?” he asks, obviously offended. “I lived in my mum’s basement.” Although the joke is a vast over-simplification of generational immigrant patterns, it is also the cleanest distillation of trauma’s many faces in A Real Pain, fitting David and Benji’s clashing characters into a broader cultural context. While one pushes his “unexceptional” pain down to avoid burdening others, the other openly wrestles with it, swinging between uncomfortable emotional extremes. At the same time though, Jesse Eisenberg’s comedy-drama is not blind to the sensitivity and empathy that are tied deeply to Benji’s turbulent personality. As these cousins reconnect to their Jewish ancestry in Poland, we also witness their reconnection with each other, binding polar opposites together through humour, compassion, and aching grief.
Benji is the first of the two we meet, introduced at the end of a tracking shot which flies past other passengers at JFK International Airport. Eventually it settles on his quiet presence, as still and subdued as we will ever see him. He has been waiting here since the airport opened, he tells his surprised cousin – and why wouldn’t he be? He claims that this is a great opportunity to simply watch the world go by, but given his unemployment and lack of close family, it is evident that he has little else to occupy his time. Despite his laidback nature, there is an underlying loneliness fuelling Kieran Culkin’s incredibly funny performance, longing for authentic, honest relationships. This is ironically something he proves himself very adept at forging too as we see him easily bond with his fellow tourists, yet still deep-seated issues keep him from holding onto anything for the long-term.
There is one major exception here though, represented in Benji’s relationship with this film’s most influential unseen character. He and his grandmother were close like no one else, and her passing has affected him in ways that not even David can understand. Despite their differing life experiences, they shared a mutual respect as blunt yet caring outsiders, trying to make it in a society that cares little for them. Her final parting gift to both Benji and David before passing was this trip to her homeland, and now as they tour its towns, monuments, and concentration camps, the impact of her struggles as a Holocaust survivor manifests in their lives clearer than ever.
Jesse Eisenberg’s flair for playing neurotic, highly strung characters is no surprise, and his visual direction of A Real Pain is modest at best, so it his talents as a screenwriter which stand out here. Both David and Benji are immensely well-realised characters, and each scene in which they are together efficiently exposes new sides to their dynamic, often seeing the latter passionately engage in the tour while trampling over his cousin’s expectations of polite conduct. Whether Benji is posing with memorial statues or criticising the tour for its clinical approach, David’s embarrassment gradually gives way to tender appreciation, joining the others in embracing his cousin’s playfulness, sensitivity, and jarring honesty.
After all, if this Holocaust tour is not the place for Jewish people to communally ponder their complicated feelings of guilt, pride, and heartache, then what is? Eisenberg’s choice to set this story against the Romantic piano music of Polish composer Frédéric Chopin firmly anchors it in a culture of rich artistic expression, playing his airy preludes, nocturnes, and waltzes beneath montages of the nation’s modernist and neoclassical architecture. When the group inevitably visits Auschwitz concentration camp though, Eisenberg drops the soundtrack altogether, dwelling in a grave solemnity which reaches the depths of Benji’s soul. On the bus back to the city, he sobs into his clenched hands, and Culkin pours out a profound, visceral anguish.
It is rarely made explicit, but there is evidently a deeper reckoning with mental illness present here, intertwined with David and Benji’s complex family history. Both characters are inverse portraits of managing this, and although David seems to function more smoothly, he does not do himself any favours by sealing off his emotions. In fact, despite the appearance of having his life together, he even admits to harbouring jealousy over Benji’s ability to connect with anyone through pure charm and sincerity – not that the modern world always allows room for such public self-expression. When they finally arrive at their grandmother’s old home, this barrier becomes particularly apparent, as their effort to pay humble tribute is quickly shut down by a nosey neighbour.
As for whether this journey of enlightenment and reconnection will stay with the cousins upon returning to New York, the conclusion of A Real Pain remains poignantly ambiguous. While David carries a sentimental souvenir with him, Benji appears to be just as directionless as he was before, sitting alone in the airport as Eisenberg formally mirrors the film’s very first shot in its last. David’s invitation to his place is right there, but Benji nevertheless resigns himself to the isolation he is most familiar with, falling back into cycles propagated by generations of unresolved trauma. Eisenberg’s dual character study examines shared bloodlines with affectionate humour, yet history continues to live on in its fragmented offshoots, revealing the depths of human vulnerability and resilience through the burden of inherited sorrow.
A Real Pain is currently streaming on Disney Plus.
The twelve days that Eunice Paiva spends detained by the Brazilian military dictatorship in I’m Still Here are physically and psychologically harrowing, but for this upper-middle class housewife, it is a particularly brutal break from reality. After being taken from her home, she is relentlessly questioned on her husband Rubens’ alleged Communist ties, and forced to identify faces of suspected strangers, acquaintances, and family members. Somewhere else in this prison, Rubens and their daughter Eliana are also incarcerated, though it is near impossible to get updates on their conditions. Instead, this air of chilling ambiguity is filled with sounds of clanging metal doors, echoed footsteps, and tortured screams, hinting at the terror which lies just beyond her immediate perspective.
Still, this jolting shock cannot compare to the existential dread that Eunice feels upon returning home. Eliana is thankfully safe, yet Rubens’ whereabouts remain unknown, adding to the mounting number of forced disappearances in 1970s Brazil. While tyranny reigns with the heavy hand of injustice, a quiet radicalism sparks in the Paiva family, and Walter Salles offers poignant insight into the aftermath of a tragedy riddled with agonising uncertainty.
The government’s assault on Eunice’s family is all the more jarring given their apparent social and economic security, carefully established along with the encroaching danger throughout the film’s first act. Salles takes his time laying the groundwork, delivering a touch of nostalgia through the formal thread of Eliana’s 16mm home video footage, while undermining the illusion of docile state compliance with glimpses of Rubens’ secretive phone calls and unexpected visitors. The military roadblock which pulls his children over one night also points to a growing threat they don’t fully understand yet, searching them for evidence of terrorist activities and feeding into a broader culture of political paranoia. Salles is not terribly efficient with his narrative economy here, meandering through subplots that overstay their welcome, yet the family portrait he creates is tenderly detailed by the time he begins to rip it apart.
Fernanda Torres plays Eunice as a force of resolute willpower through it all, desperately trying to shelter her family from the trauma of losing a father while bearing its brunt herself. Salles dwells on the everyday inconveniences here, seeing Eunice frustratingly blocked from her own bank account due to it being in her husband’s name, yet we are also reminded of an even greater menace when a symbol of innocence warmly established in the film’s very first scene is cruelly eliminated. Balancing all of this against the pressure to protect her children becomes particularly difficult when she receives unofficial confirmation of Rubens’ death, along with a warning to avoid publicly revealing this information – if the state catches onto her awareness of the situation after all, she could get in even deeper trouble.
In recreating what would come to be a defining photograph of the real Paiva family though, Salles captures a moment of hopeful defiance. When a journalist comes by to report their story, his request for them to pose for the camera without smiles is met with playful laughter, ultimately freezing their indomitable spirit in a single moment. Civilians who have given up their humanity are far easier to control by an authoritarian state than those who hold on, and here we see the power in their radical joy.
The two flashforwards which end I’m Still Here drag, particularly when we visit an elderly, non-verbal Eunice, but the resolution that Salles offers her children encapsulates the lingering psychological pain that afflicts those who survive disappeared loved ones. For the youngest, Maria, the point that she accepted her father wasn’t coming home came when they left Rio de Janeiro for good. For Marcelo, it was a year and a half later when Eunice donated all his clothing to charity. Without closure, each travel their own lonely, complicated journeys to healing. At least beneath the beacon of resilience that is their steadfast mother though, I’m Still Here affectionately unites their shared grief, transforming her sorrow into a testament of selfless, compassionate resistance.
Opera singer Maria Callas’ astonishing talent is both her greatest gift and curse in Pablo Larraín’s dreamy, melancholy biopic, giving her reason to live and simultaneously eating her up inside as she navigates the final week of her extraordinary life. “Happiness never gave us a beautiful melody,” she informs the filmmakers creating a documentary about her career. “Music is born of distress and poverty.”
It’s no surprise that a woman who was forced to sing to fascist officers as a child during World War II should attach such negative associations to her craft, yet the self-confessed intoxication she feels when performing nevertheless binds her to this deep-rooted sorrow. Callas is a woman of magnificent contradictions, and it is in the collision between those extremes where the disorientating, nostalgic surrealism of Maria takes form, painting a complex portrait of both soaring exultation and abject misery.
Maria Callas wanders around the golden glow of Paris in all black, keeping a low profile as her physical and mental health continue to slide.
These have been common themes throughout Larraín’s trilogy of historical female icons, beginning with Jackie’s intimate meditation on grief and Spencer’s interrogation of disintegrating identity. In Maria, the Chilean director once again weaves his protagonist’s declining physical and mental health into a fragmented narrative, though this time merging the pensive flashbacks and ethereal hallucinations of its respective precursors. Choruses and orchestras seem to manifest all through Callas’s Parisian wanderings, inviting her to take the stage, while shaky rehearsals are deftly intercut with visions of those elaborate performances that she once delivered to adoring audiences. Even the aforementioned documentary crew is revealed early on to be a concoction of her lonely mind longing for those bygone days of cultural relevance, consuming her in the crushing, psychological isolation of a life in the public eye.
Orchestras, choruses, and a documentary film crew follow Callas wherever she goes, summoning up the glory of her youth and fame.
Angelina Jolie’s celebrity status has often been more anchored in her star power than her acting talent, so the delicate vulnerability she displays as an ailing Callas quite easily stands as her finest achievement to date. She inhabits the troubled soprano as a fragile shadow of herself, lingering in a space between life and death where reality fades away and memories flood back stronger than ever. She is visibly pained when listening to her old records, overwhelmed by the musical perfection that her voice will never match again, even as she hopelessly tries to recover it along with her dignity during private lessons. When a resentful fan confronts her over a show that she cancelled years ago due to poor health, she bites back with indignant fury, yet still she carries immense guilt over her inability to live up to the divine, immaculate image of her younger self.
Angelina Jolie’s singular greatest acting achievement to date, piercing the depths of this tormented character with incredible vulnerability.
With the accomplished Edward Lachman by Larraín’s side too as cinematographer, Maria develops an elegant visual style to match Jolie’s enchanting aura. There is a touch of Jean Renoir’s poetic realism in the camera’s gentle gliding through her lavish Parisian apartment, using embellished doorways and mirrors as frames for Larraín’s grand production design. One wide shot angled into her living area from the next room over even makes for a gorgeous bookend, setting a stage which effectively turns her passing into an opera.
Lavish mise-en-scène in Callas’ Parisian apartment, decorated with chandeliers, luxurious furniture, and a grand piano she constantly has moved around.Beautiful framing through mirrors, isolating Jolie in her extravagant surroundings.
The handheld camerawork and zooms which mimic the archival footage laced throughout Maria don’t blend so smoothly with the otherwise graceful aesthetic on display, so Larraín is smart to restrain these elements. The shift to black-and-white photography in flashbacks rather stands as the stronger formal contrast to Callas’ present-day story, maintaining its visual majesty while underscoring another sadness which has long been by her side. After leaving her husband for wealthy business magnate Aristotle Onassis, she finds herself swept away by his charm, yet frequently subjected to his imposing demands. She was to reduce her public performances, he decided, and the abortion she got for him had devastating long-term effects on her body. Nevertheless, this is the man that Callas would harbour feelings for her entire life, eventually making peace with him on his deathbed.
Larraín maintains the visual elegance of tracking shots and gorgeous production design in flashbacks, but formally sets them apart from the present day with a melancholy monochrome.Recreations of archival footage blend historical authenticity with dreamy surrealism, simultaneously examining Callas from the inside and outside.
That Aristotle would marry Jackie Kennedy following his affair with Callas makes for a fascinating plot point in Maria, if for no other reason than the connection Larraín is consciously drawing to the first film in his unofficial biopic trilogy. While JFK is played by Caspar Phillipson, reprising his role from Jackie, the beloved First Lady influences the narrative entirely offscreen. Callas regards her with reverence and even a bit of jealousy, going out of her way to avoid crossing paths so that she needn’t face her former lover’s wife. The fact that these two distinguished women should be caught in each other’s orbits only further enriches Larraín’s framing of Callas’ life, constantly trying to measure up to a standard of sublime feminine grace that always seems out of reach.
Larraín is wise to narrow in on a critical moment in Callas’ life, just as he did in Jackie and Spencer. This is Callas at her most vulnerable, wracked with drug addiction, eating disorders, and poor mental health.
Clearly this pressure takes a physical toll on Callas as well, inflicting drug addictions, eating disorders, and strained vocal cords which inhibit her singing. Although she tries to sustain hopeless fantasies of a thriving career, it is only in understanding the root of her nostalgia that she is able to salvage the residual beauty of her art.
“My mother made me sing. Onassis forbade me to sing. And now, I will sing for myself.”
As she stands by her apartment window and delivers a final, aching rendition of ‘Vissi d’arte’ from Puccini’s Tosca, she once again connects to that joy and sorrow which fuelled her passion for many years. “I lived for art, I lived for love,” she exults in Italian, while begging for a heavenly answer to her lonely prayer.
“In this hour of grief, why, why, Lord, why do you reward me thus?”
Larraín is not one to end his biopic with expository text spelling out his subject’s legacy. Maria’s blend of archival film and ethereal impressionism paints a far more complete, evocative portrait of the legendary prima donna than any biography ever could, framed in a fleeting moment of vulnerability when her tormented soul was thoroughly exposed. There within the dimming spotlight, where art is produced solely for its creator, the liberation it ushers in is enough to release the most weary, forsaken artist from a lifetime of agonising perfection.
Recapturing the sublime beauty of her art, even if for a brief moment – Callas ascends to divine heights.
In some bizarre, self-aware manner, there is an internal logic to the campy sensationalism of Emilia Pérez. Jacques Audiard is unabashedly committed to his ludicrous premise – a ruthless cartel kingpin hires a lawyer to help procure gender-affirming surgery, fake their death, and establish a new life as a woman. It’s the kind of pulpy melodrama one might find in a telenovela, or a Pedro Almodóvar film that revels in its flamboyant queerness. Perhaps the Spanish auteur might have even had the tact to smooth over its wild swings between romance and crime thriller genres, or to polish its tackier elements. Jacques Audiard is certainly no hack, and there is some merit in his outlandish ambition, yet in his hands the tonal misfires present keep this film from ever settling on a coherent direction.
Among Emilia Pérez’s greatest inconsistencies are its musical numbers, vibrantly fusing Latin, pop, and hip-hop styles. At their best, Audiard’s choreography intensifies Rita’s moral conflicts working in law, turning strangers on the street into backup dancers and singers who accompany her internal monologue in ‘El alegato’. There is a music video-like quality to these sequences, featuring high-contrast lighting and dynamic camerawork which match the characters’ heightened emotional realities, while acknowledging darker social issues at play. Mexico’s epidemic of disappearances in particular drives the tension behind the ensemble number ‘Para’, and in the show-stopping ‘El Mal’, Rita’s attack upon wealthy charity benefactors who secretly collude with cartels delivers a sharp, uncomfortable edge.
The foul taste left behind by the outright abysmal musical numbers is harder to reckon with. Pitchy ensemble singers aren’t helped by the jarring placement of songs right in the middle of regular conversations, and awkward lyrics give us clunky gems like “If he’s a wolf, she’ll be a wolf / If he’s the wolf, you’ll be his sheep.” That the low point arrives with the song ‘La Vaginoplastia’ should be no surprise to those who witnessed its ascension to viral scorn, and rightly so. Where most musical numbers serve some sort of emotional expression, it is tough to identify what exactly this is trying to communicate besides the details of gender-affirming surgery. Even this attempt is so inane though that the lyrics might as well be written by school students, skimming through a textbook and listing off whatever terms might suggest they have any idea of what they are talking about.
At the very least, Audiard’s writing of Emilia herself does not flatten her entirely into a one-dimensional transgender cliché, but neither is she a terribly consistent character. The regret she carries from her past as a gangster continues to haunt her, motivating her to start a non-profit which identifies and returns bodies of cartel victims to their families. It is a strange attempt at absolving her of guilt, and one that fizzles out after she begins a relationship with a client. The narrative thread that goes down the path of kidnapping, ransom, and a shootout takes her story in a far more tantalising direction, playing each beat with both total sincerity and thrilling sensationalism. If nothing else, Emilia Pérez swings hard for its camp, gaudy melodrama, and there is something worth admiring in that audaciousness – even if it never quite escapes the awkward inelegance of Audiard’s constant formal blunders.
When a stubborn iconoclast is forced into the rigid confines of celebrity culture, it is inevitable that one will eventually break the other. When that rebel is Bob Dylan and the entertainment industry that he inherits specifically elevates stars with clearly defined images, the friction is enough to instigate a social turning point, confronting the inherent uncertainty within modern art, philosophy, and politics. As such, there is a challenge that comes with fitting his unorthodox story into a genre which often falls too easily into a ‘Greatest Hits’ playlist, appealing more to cheap nostalgia than thoughtful re-examination of an icon’s legacy.
A Complete Unknown is not as boldly experimental asTodd Haynes’ I’m Not There, which offers a far more compelling insight into Dylan’s multitude of identities, yet James Mangold also fortunately saves it from the flavourless banality of Bohemian Rhapsody. Focusing on those first few years of the musician’s career at least grants the film some leeway, catching him at a point in time when the question of who he would be still hangs in the air – though truthfully, this mystery has never quite been settled. Ironically, Dylan’s most distinguishing feature may very well be his elusiveness, and it is there where Mangold’s biopic effectively captures the countercultural icon’s inscrutable essence.
The quiet depth that Timothee Chalamet brings to the role certainly pierces some of that obscurity, offering greater insight into those romantic and professional relationships which shaped his early career, yet never does he completely bare his soul. Not even his girlfriend Sylvie is quite able to figure him out, lamenting the strange gaps in his story that keep others at a distance, but we can also see that he feels just as much an outsider to himself. Instead, music and experimentation pave the path to self-awareness, and as his profile grows, he is quick to defy those who keep him from satiating his curiosity.
Chalamet hits all the right notes here in his interpretation of Dylan, striking a fine resemblance in his recreation of the musician’s drawling mumble, yet also building on his persona in a manner that transcends mere mimicry. This Dylan can be both deeply contemplative and abrasively blunt in his own aloof way, drawing out an affair with singer Joan Baez while continuing to live with Sylvie. Later he walks offstage mid-performance when he feels pressured to sing his most popular songs, and when he introduces his new, electronic sound Newport Folk Festival, he stubbornly persists through the jeers of the audience.
Mangold plays loose with his dramatisation of Dylan’s story, at worst exaggerating the committee’s rush to pull the plug on this pivotal performance, and elsewhere undercutting a breakup scene with an awkward metaphor about spinning plates. After all, a certain level of sensationalism is unfortunately needed in bringing a story like this to the mainstream. For the most part though, A Complete Unknown smooths over these contrivances for the sake of its character work, drawing tension from Dylan’s peculiar, incongruous standing in American pop culture.
The vintage aesthetic that absorbs Chalamet in a world of smoky bars and spotlights also offers some authenticity here, replicating the fashion of 1960s Greenwich Village where bohemian counterculture thrived. With acoustic guitars and soulful vocals filling these spaces too, notes of Inside Llewyn Davis are felt strongly, though Dylan’s tale is not one of existential malaise. Instead, there is an impassioned energy in Mangold’s moving camera and abundant lens flares, blearily underscoring this rise to stardom in an era of artistic revolution.
For the disillusioned audiences of mid-century America, no longer are the glamorous, untouchable idols of Hollywood enough to earn their attention and reverence. News reports of the Cuban Missile Crisis and JFK’s death anchor Mangold’s film to a specific, turbulent point in time, embedding them just as much in Dylan’s character as he is ingrained in the culture at large. The unity of art and politics was not exactly a new concept in the 60s, but to invent a new brand of celebrity that can be both radically outspoken and mysteriously private is a feat which inspires absolute awe in A Complete Unknown. There in the unresolved and unexplained, true artistry is born, and Mangold leaves us entranced by its confounding, extraordinary contradictions.
A Complete Unknown is currently playing in cinemas.
When Hungarian-Jewish immigrant László Tóth first arrives in the United States, it is as if we are watching a birth from inside the belly of the steamship itself. The dissonant score of plucked strings and hollow percussion blend with the chaotic din of passengers below deck, scrambling in the darkness to catch sight of their new home. The handheld camera moves in a single, disorienting take with László through the crowd, submerged in total confusion, until finally a glimpse of blinding light pierces through. It takes a few seconds for our eyes to adjust when he exits, but as we gaze up at his beaming smile, we follow his line of sight to New York’s beacon of hope. The Statue of Liberty looms proudly over the tumbling camera, and as Daniel Blumberg’s booming, four-note theme breaks through the raucous sound design with orchestral grandeur, an awe-inspiring vision of the American Dream is announced – albeit one which has been turned totally upside down.
Upon moving to Philadelphia to work for his cousin’s furniture business, still that brassy motif continues to follow László through The Brutalist, welcoming him to a land of freedom and opportunity. There, his expertise as an architect comes in handy when he is hired to renovate a wealthy industrialist’s study into a library. After Mr. Van Buren gets over his initial confusion and outrage, it is also that incredible talent which lands László in the businessman’s inner circle, where he uses his careful craftsmanship to carve a path to prosperity. Still, at no point during their affiliation does László forget that this entire arrangement is founded upon unspoken caveats. As we traverse Brady Corbet’s epic immigrant saga, László’s relationships to both the United States and his homeland are knotted together, yielding complex artistic fusions from bitter nostalgia, soured dreams, and deep-seated cultural trauma.
Corbet opens his film with incredible bravura, tumbling the camera in all directions until finally catching sight of the upside down Statue of Liberty – an outstanding visual metaphor for what’s to come.A saga of American immigrants to join the likes of The Godfather Part II, interrogating all the social and personal struggles that come with this land of freedom and oppression.
The void which The Brutalist fills within modern cinema is one that is only ever occupied these days by films with equal parts mass appeal, artistic ambition, and vintage nostalgia. Right from the moment the word ‘Overture’ appears on a black screen in the opening seconds, it is clear that this is a throwback to the event films of a long-gone era, complete with a lengthy run time and a much-needed intermission. Even Corbet’s decision to shoot on VistaVision, a high-resolution format that fell from popularity in the 1960s, captures that fine, grainy texture and rich colouring of Golden Age Hollywood. With a score that also merges the classical majesty of Maurice Jarre and the avant-garde stylings of Jonny Greenwood, The Brutalist thoughtfully captures László’s split mindset in this country of contradictions, positioning him as an artist caught between the Old World and the New.
Lol Crawley’s talent behind the camera is evident, particularly in his use of VistaVision to capture the scenery’s rich colours and textures.
Of course, that music comparison inevitably draws us to the Paul Thomas Anderson parallels. From The Master’s introspective character study, Corbet borrows a wandering, post-war existentialism, haunted by substance abuse, sexual affairs, and memories of immense suffering. László Tóth is a far more sophisticated man than Freddie Quell, yet both seek some return to normalcy after being separated from their homes and loved ones. On a visual and narrative level though, The Brutalist bears greater resemblance to There Will Be Blood, building a grand mythos around the foundations and evolution of American capitalism. Like oil baron Daniel Plainview, László erects towering monuments of human progress from the raw materials of the earth, and Corbet’s astounding long shots bask in those rugged, monolithic structures rising from the green hills of Pennsylvania.
There Will Be Blood is present in Corbet’s long shots, observing physical manifestations of human progress rise from the earth.
With that said, Plainview does not possess László’s eye for aesthetic and engineer’s mind, making his closest counterpart here the business-minded Mr. Van Buren. The entrepreneur’s bizarre description of their conversations as “intellectually stimulating” and the pedestal he places László upon at opulent dinner parties transcends mere admiration. In his eyes, this immigrant architect is an object of perverse fascination, fetishised for his exotic background, ingenuity, and trauma. Repressed homoerotic attraction and jealousy stoke feelings of insecurity in Van Buren, who finally encounters a barrier that money can’t overcome. As such, the closest he can get to possessing László’s intrinsic gift is through exploiting his labour. This largely comes in the guise of generous benefaction, though when all that charm is stripped away, Corbet reveals a hideous, hateful creature who takes advantage of his subordinate in far more depraved ways as well.
Guy Pearce takes on the character of Van Buren with blazing confidence, masking jealousy and bitterness behind dazzling American charm.
Van Buren easily stands among Guy Pearce’s most compelling characters, played with a roguish allure that draws the respect of similarly powerful allies, but it is Adrien Brody who comes out even stronger in his raw, battered performance as László. He is the culmination of countless devastating experiences, each resulting in unhealthy coping mechanisms that only deepen his psychological wounds. In particular, the heroin that was commonly used to treat pain on the journey to America becomes a toxic habit, frequently used as self-medication. When he attends a club early on to get high, the camera’s energetic swinging at low angles among musicians and dancers eventually gives way to a slow, lifeless zoom in on his glazed-over expression, while the upbeat jazz music nightmarishly dissolves into discordant mayhem.
A prime achievement for Adrien Brody, playing both the soaring strengths and devastating weaknesses of a battered man trying to start a new life away from past traumas.
When László is hard at work on the other hand, Brody projects a supreme, self-composed confidence that seems entirely compartmentalised from his drug-fuelled breakdowns. His genius is limitless under the right conditions, taking physical form in those imposing buildings and interiors which are celebrated in Corbet’s photography. The library especially is a feat of clean, minimalist design, creating a forced perspective from the entry towards a rounded window wall where sunlight filters through translucent white drapes. The bookshelf doors which open in graceful unison make for an elegant touch here too, though it isn’t until Van Buren commissions the architect to construct a community centre that his style evolves into full-fledged brutalism.
Elegance and beauty in the design of Van Buren’s library, often playing host to The Brutalist’s best interior shots.Brutalism as an architectural style is bold, imposing, and honest – a confronting expression of practicality for this artist.
Concrete is a sturdy and cheap material, László reasons, though visually it also makes a powerful statement in its rejection of smooth, polished textures and ornamentations. From this coarse mixture of cement, water, and aggregates, his giant slabs and pillars impose a geometric simplicity upon the rolling countryside, while also expressing a creative, spiritual reverence in the cross that forms from the negative space between two towers. Timelapse photography and metric montages fuse with Blumberg’s driving score as progress is made in the construction, though even beyond László’s creations, Corbet’s camera continues to gaze in wonder at the steep terraces of Italian marble quarries and the vast, steel scaffolding of industrial sites.
The marble quarry in Italy makes for an outstanding set piece, swallowing László and Van Buren up in the gaping caverns of the Earth.Industrial architecture has rarely seemed so stylish, bouncing off the surface of lakes.
After all, don’t those structures which service our basic needs for shelter, security, and community stand at the cornerstone of human civilisation? On a cultural level too, don’t their aesthetic and functionality define entire historical epochs, while also transcending time itself by nature of their permanence? With an immigrant at the centre of this story, Corbet is keenly aware of the irony here – not only was American modernism largely shaped by outsiders importing ideas from Eastern Europe, but those same innovators suffered greatly within the nation’s oppressive economic system.
Being divided cleanly into a rise and fall narrative structure, it is The Brutalist’s second act which especially traces that growing disillusionment, setting László on a steady downward slide. With the arrival of his wife Erzsébet and niece Zsófia as well, it becomes even more apparent just how emotionally stunted he is, keeping him from recovering the stable, loving relationship they shared before the war. Soon, both women join him in recognising the emptiness of America’s promises. “This whole country is rotten,” Erzsébet mournfully laments after his attempt to treat her pain with heroin goes disastrously wrong. At this point, it seems that the only way out is to begin a new chapter of their lives in Israel.
Corbet explores a profoundly troubled relationship between László and Erzsébet in the second act, though here The Brutalist starts to wander.
Unfortunately, it is also this latter half of the film which strays from Corbet’s tight, economical storytelling, stagnating in some plot threads while wandering down others that aren’t so cleanly integrated. As a result, the end of László’s arc comes about abruptly, with nothing but a tonally jarring epilogue to reflect on the legacy he left behind. The monologue here is overly expository, clunkily revealing layers to his artistry which link back to his experiences as a Holocaust survivor, and it is incredibly disappointing that our first proper viewing of the finished community centre comes through fuzzy video tape footage.
Instead, the most impactful conclusion to The Brutalist arrives at the end of Part 2. Corbet’s handheld camerawork and long takes have consistently imbued this epic with a primitive intimacy, and now as Erzsébet confronts Van Buren in front of his friends, both are used in a single, tremendous shot lasting several minutes. All at once, the polite civility which has long maintained the systemic injustice he has profited off crumbles, exposing a cowardly, insecure man who is nothing without the respect of his peers. Where László’s legacy is substantial and far-reaching, the haunting ambiguity of Van Buren’s own fate appropriately transforms him into a ghost of sorts, intangibly bound to that magnificent community centre and the talented architect who designed it. Such is the nature of a culture which purposefully imbalances the relationship between investor and creator though, and as this sprawling, historic fable so vividly expresses, it is often the latter who bears the true cost of progress.
What unfolds behind the closed doors of the Sistine Chapel in the wake of a pope’s death is an esoteric mystery for the public, and a tantalising source of intrigue in Conclave. Those untouchable pillars of virtue who make up the College of Cardinals represent one of the most powerful patriarchies in the world, yet only a fool would believe they are above the messiness of material, bureaucratic machinations. Especially when the time comes for them to decide the future of the Catholic Church, factions solidify into cliques, demanding unwavering loyalty amid profuse uncertainty. The only death that takes place in Conclave is the late Pope’s, and the film’s sole action set piece is merely a footnote within the broader narrative, but the tension that Edward Berger weaves into this historic landmark is rich with all the conspiratorial speculation of an exhilarating political thriller.
Ralph Fiennes’ performance as Dean Thomas Lawrence must also be credited for anchoring this sacred assembly in a weary apprehension, both disillusioned by the church and anxious that its leadership should fall into the wrong hands. With Berger’s camera frequently circling him and hanging on the back of his head in tracking shots, we are placed right in his uneasy state of mind, aggravated further by the deep, staccato strings restlessly driving each scene forward. It seems cruel that he should be the man to preside over the papal conclave given his personal troubles, but still he remains true to his duty. This is a process heavily entrenched in ritual and tradition, and there can be no allowance for unorthodox interferences at any point – so when the candidates themselves are caught up in self-aggrandising games of sabotage, to whom can their followers turn for spiritual guidance?
Fiennes is weary, anxious, and subdued as he takes on the responsibility of leading the papal conclave, worry lines creasing his forehead.
Thoughtfully adapted from Robert Harris’ novel, Conclave possesses a screenplay that is more concerned with archetypes than characters, both to its benefit and detriment. These cardinals stand for opposing sides of an internal conflict more than their specific doctrines, vaguely labelled here as reactionaries, moderates, and liberals with little regard to what these practically mean. On one hand, this broadly helps to shape the story into a microcosm of modern politics, rendering their philosophies as secondary to their trivial antagonism. On the other, it struggles to distinguish these characters beyond their shallow alliances, each equally obstinate in their goal to elect whoever best serves their own interests.
Precision, order, and tradition in Berger’s visuals, from his blocking of large crowds to their resplendent garments.
While Conclave does not engage deeply with Lawrence’s particular crisis of faith either, it at least positions his perspective as perhaps the most compelling of this religious debate. “Certainty is the great enemy of unity. Certainty is the deadly enemy of tolerance,” he preaches in his homily before the first vote, encouraging his peers to vote for someone who recognises doubt as a great virtue. After all, it is from that space between two absolutes that faith is born – not that many in his audience are ready to listen with open hearts. This is nothing more than his own personal ambition speaking, they believe, coming across as an attempt to throw his name into the ring.
On some subconscious level, perhaps there is some truth to this as well. Along with Lawrence’s spiritual turmoil, he must also grapple with his own opportunistic tendencies, driving him to step forward when he realises his friend Aldo Bellini cannot lead the church’s progressive faction to victory. As such, the universe’s timely intervention at the exact moment he casts a vote in his name almost seems to be a biblical rebuke from the heavens, humbling him before a righteous, divine God who has a plan for all things.
Uncanny timing in what seems to be an act of God, rebuking Lawrence for committing the sin of pride.
Lawrence is far from the only ego present forced to face his sin though. The secrets that simmer beneath the surface of the papal conclave hold the potential to topple candidacies, and as they are gradually brought to light, each one also exposes the moral weaknesses of those religious leaders who hide behind facades of reverence. Whether they concern long-buried mistakes from thirty years ago or recent acts of deep-seated corruption, the humiliation that comes with their revelation brings prideful men to heel, begging the question of who can really be trusted with such consequential responsibilities.
A tremendous use of architecture and colour, letting the red of the cardinals’ robes pop against white colonnades.Another visual highlight as the cardinals make their way in unison through the rain beneath white umbrellas, finally coming to a majority decision on their next pope.
That Berger brings such solemn gravity to his staging of this confined drama only deepens the burden upon these characters’ shoulders as well, seeing him constantly underscore the sharp angles and perfect symmetry of the Vatican’s Renaissance architecture. Beautiful marble interiors, plazas, and colonnades host crowds of cardinals in their black and red attire, collectively moving in uniform patterns around the Apostolic Palace and the Domus Sanctae Marthae, and forming a particularly striking composition as they head towards their final vote beneath white umbrellas. Even as they wait around between votes, Berger turns yellow and red plaster walls into striking backdrops for their idle smoking and texting, while inside he casts the eyes of history upon them through montages of the Sistine Chapel’s vibrant frescoes.
The weight of history bears down on the cardinals from the Sistine Chapel above.Colour and texture in Berger’s use of these walls as striking backdrops.
This is evidently an environment bound by precise order, and the fact that Berger took liberties to make the cardinals’ living quarters even more prison-like than real life only further emphasises its severity. As a result, when this rigidity is compromised to even a minor extent, we can feel the full weight of its implications. This particularly comes into play when we consider the role of women in Conclave who are relegated to minor and supporting roles, much like in the church itself, yet who bear incredible influence upon the formal proceedings. Isabella Rossellini’s stern, authoritative turn as Sister Agnes stands out here even in her limited screen time, balancing her devotion to the church against her desire to see unworthy candidates held accountable, and eventually allying with Lawrence to see the Lord’s will be done.
A small but standout performance from Rossellini, reassessing the role that women play in the church.
With this consideration of gender roles in mind, the final secret revealed in Conclave makes for a particularly earth-shattering subversion of the Catholic Church’s dogmatic power structure, treading a narrow line between stringent dichotomies. If the lead-up to it were not so hinged on a contrived, idealistic plot device that overrides all the political game-playing we have witnessed, Berger might have stuck the landing even more, but the resolution nonetheless gives tangible meaning to Lawrence’s acceptance of a life without certainty. As this entire process has demonstrated, an institution that is focused on tradition more than the future is damned to fall on its own sword, blinded by a strict adherence to icons loaded with influence and stripped of moral substance. In Conclave, these icons do not necessarily need to be demolished – it is the periodic reinvention of what they stand for which grants longevity to the fundamental principles of their diverse, devoted followers.
Although Ani demands not to be called by her given name in Anora, the film’s very title insists upon an outright refusal. As we learn in its closing scenes, her name means honour, light, and grace, yet she is quick to deflect from any further reflection on the matter. These aren’t just qualities she denies, but which she actively shields herself from, keeping her guard up lest she be taken as unseriously as she fears she deserves – a daunting struggle indeed for a stripper in New York City. As a result, she takes a quick liking to her lively client Vanya, if for no other reason than to revel in his naïve wonder and adoration of her every move.
Being the son of a wealthy Russian oligarch, the long-term security that his exorbitant privilege seemingly entails no doubt draws Ani’s eye, though this alone does not account for the raw chemistry between them. In Vanya, Ani finds an exuberant lover who wants to spend more than just a single night with her, and is even ready to prove his commitment by marrying her on a whim. Thus begins a whirlwind romance in Anora which at its most euphoric reveals her sensitivity, at its lowest draws out her insecurity, and demonstrates at every turn why that name she spurns so perfectly epitomises her fervent, resilient spirit.
Baker uses this frame in Vanya’s mansion twice, using its height and prestige as a contrasting statement against her shabby, railroad-adjacent share house.
The brand of spontaneous realism which defined Sean Baker’s previous films stands among the strongest elements of this modern fairy tale, continuing his compelling examination of sex workers beyond their flattened mainstream representations. For Mikey Madison in particular, it also allows for slice-of-life improvisations as she wanders through the bustling strip club and flirts with customers, demonstrating a savviness that has clearly been built upon years of industry experience. The red and blue lighting in this ambient environment is marvellous, while Baker’s jump cuts and handheld camerawork offer an excited restlessness that intensifies with Ani and Vanya’s burgeoning relationship. Montages of their escapades and lovemaking zip by with carefree elation, and when they finally get married on an impromptu trip to Las Vegas, Baker sets their celebration against a backdrop of colourful, exploding fireworks.
Gorgeous lighting in the club where Ani works, bathing here in red, blue, and purple hues.The first half of Baker’s narrative zips by in montages and jump cuts, reflecting the impulsiveness of these immature characters.The lights and fireworks of Las Vegas form a scintillating backdrop after Ani and Vanya’s wedding, the camera swinging around them in a low angle.
Within this blissful bubble, Anora also takes the time to pull its pacing back through long takes, calmly arcing the camera around the lovers as they talk about their future in bed. Romance is still in the air, yet these moments afford us some distance from their infatuation, bringing their differences to light. After all, nothing about Ani and Vanya’s mismatched lives can be separated from the context of where they have come from, the destinies written out for them, and their own character flaws – or at least, not for very long. This is not simply a case of society condemning star-crossed lovers after all, but of two young adults who do not even understand themselves, leading to a particularly complicated entanglement when Vanya’s parents enter the mix to put an end to their son’s reckless marriage.
Baker’s exerts fine control over his long takes during dialogue scenes, here gracefully arcing the camera around Ani and Vanya as they discuss the prospect of marriage in bed.
No one here is truly blameless, yet still Baker finds compassion in the most unexpected places, using comedy to ease the tension that comes with the threat of an influential Russian family. Their trusted advisor Toros is the first to enter the picture, sending lackeys to investigate the authenticity of Vanya’s supposed marriage, checking his phone for updates during his godson’s baptism, and interrupting the ceremony with a stifled cry when his suspicions are confirmed. Meanwhile at the mansion, what seems like a straightforward job for the injury-prone Garnick and mild-mannered Igor rapidly gets out of hand when Ani refuses to go down without a fight, paying no regard to the powerful authority they represent.
Tarantino cast the Manson family members well in Once Upon a Time in Hollywood, catching Austin Butler, Margaret Qualley, and Sydney Sweeney before they became Hollywood A-listers – and now we can add Mikey Madison to that list with this marvellous breakthrough.
Even after Vanya literally runs away from his responsibility, Ani is still not ready to accept that he is anything less than the man she is meant to spend her life with. As such, Baker dedicates the second half of his film returning her to a grim reality where sons of powerful Russian families simply do not marry American strippers. Much like Giulietta Masina’s starry-eyed prostitute from Nights of Cabiria, Ani considers herself a worldly woman who understands the desires of men, yet when it comes to matters of love, both are woefully naïve.
Still, as Ani gradually begins to see the entitled, immature side of Vanya, another much sweeter relationship begins to form. The compassion that Igor shows Ani can only go so far given the restraints of his job, but he may be the only person in this film who sees her as she truly is – neither an opportunistic gold digger nor a helpless victim, but a deeply vulnerable and complex woman. Opening oneself up to another is challenging for any young adult reckoning with personal insecurities, let alone one whose line of work manufactures intimate, transactional relationships, yet there is a comforting assurance to his unflappable composure. If there is anything that can break through Ani’s defences, it is not the shallow devotion of a Russian playboy, nor his parents’ threats to ruin her entire life. Kindness without expectation of reward is an overwhelming mystery to this forlorn romantic, and as Baker’s patient lens sits with the culmination of her heartbreak, it is this authentic show of sensitivity and grace that finally allows her to discover the same in herself.
Unlike the suave Count Dracula, there is nothing even slightly charming about the ghastly, cadaverous Count Orlok. He may have emerged as a legally dubious reimagining of the literary character in F.W. Murnau’s silent horror Nosferatu, yet he outwardly represents something far more grotesque than the seductive nobleman, bringing plague and decay to the German town of Wisborg. This is not to say that Orlok’s character is divorced from any notion of sexuality though – quite the opposite in fact, as this creature’s overtly carnal voraciousness is more heightened than ever in Robert Eggers’ handsomely chilling remake.
Gone are the murine teeth and wide-eyed gaze of Max Schreck’s ancient vampire, and in their place Bill Skarsgård delivers an acutely Slavic interpretation, sporting a heavy fur coat, bushy moustache, and deep, Eastern European accent. His commitment to this otherworldly voice by training in opera and Mongolian throat singing is astonishing, carrying the weight of character work while his face hides in shadow, and his naked physicality when latching onto victims is similarly unsettling as he pulses upon them like a pale, writhing leech.
An extraordinary visual triumph for Eggers, revelling in the macabre, Gothic designs of 19th century Germany.
Unlike most mainstream depictions of vampires, Eggers’ rendition of Orlok also feeds from the chest rather than the neck, remaining true to some of the oldest legends which depicted them as reanimated corpses that kill purely out of malice. It is not only a testament to the thorough research which informs Eggers’ mythologising, but such a viscerally intimate embrace also blurs the lines between intercourse and breastfeeding, underscoring the shameful, psychosexual desires which expose each character to Orlok’s disturbing pull.
Easily the most vulnerable among these victims is Ellen Hutter, wife to real estate agent Thomas Hutter who has been tasked with securing Orlok’s purchase of a new home in Wisburg. Years ago, she made a deal with the creature which psychically bound them together, and now his influence reaches back into her life through nightmares, demonic seizures, and the orchestrations of his deranged servant, Herr Knock. There is a conflict within her that many others also suffer to some degree, whether in Thomas’ perverted arousal at her possession or her neighbour Friedrich’s depraved expression of grief through necrophilia, though she holds a unique position as the object of Orlok’s desire. He seeks to satiate his lustful obsession by entering her dreams, and while she reflects on their ethereal connection with a blissful smile, that instinctual happiness also terrifies her at the same time. Isabelle Adjani’s landmark performance in Possession bears a sizeable influence on Lily-Rose Depp’s acting here, ironically even more so than her portrayal of the equivalent role in Werner Herzog’s remake Nosferatu the Vampyre, and it is through these strong dramatic choices that Depp displays total command over Ellen’s deep-seated torment.
Orlok’s shadow literally reaches back into Ellen’s life after many years, separated from his physical body as Eggers casts that iconic outline against the white drapes of her bed chamber.A committed performance from Depp, falling into demonic seizures and swinging wildly between emotional extremes.
“He is my shame, he is my melancholy,” she confesses to Thomas, posing a metaphor that quite aptly describes this specific representation of the ancient vampire. Orlok is every disgraceful, buried secret now risen from the dead, eating away at those who guiltily try to repress them. With this in mind, Eggers’ design of the character as a ghoulish, Transylvanian nobleman who speaks the extinct Dacian language effectively connects him to a piece of long-forgotten Eastern European history, imbuing his image with a gritty, sinister authenticity. He is not some unfathomable figure beyond human comprehension – he is that part of ourselves which we hide away from the world, lest we should suffer the indignity of revealing our souls’ true corruption.
Orlok’s shadow smothers the town in darkness and decay, as Eggers pays homage to the original Nosferatu without entirely mimicking it.
Nevertheless, these secrets cannot be hidden away forever, and the shadows they cast across Eggers’ meticulously curated sets are mighty indeed. The dark, distinctive outline of Orlok’s clawed hand wields a strange power as it reaches across bed chambers and castle corridors, often acting like a disembodied ghost detached from his physical being, and becoming a living extension of the film’s dour expressionism. Eggers’ visual style remains conscious of Murnau’s cinematic legacy here without becoming derivative, crafting imposing images from chiaroscuro lighting and eerily floating his camera with subdued dread, yet influences from silent cinema at large also leave their indelible imprint on his nightmarish designs. The driverless stagecoach which delivers Thomas to Orlok’s manor pays direct homage to Victor Sjöström’s The Phantom Carriage, while the presence of The Cabinet of Dr Caligari is felt in the winding stairs, alleyways, and streets of Wisburg.
A tangible influence from silent cinema in the expressionistic designs and low-key lighting.Every inch of Eggers’ production design is heavily researched and faithfully recreated according to history, building out 19th century German streets with incredible to detail.
In fact, so uniform are Eggers’ colour schemes that many scenes almost appear totally monochrome, washing out landscapes in blue-grey tones beneath overcast skies and embracing fire-lit interiors that glow like hellish furnaces. It is according to these palettes that he also dedicates Nosferatu’s painstaking production design, extending his extensive folklore research into the architecture, costumes, and ornamental details of 19th century Germany, as well as Orlok’s 16th century Transylvanian castle. True to Eggers’ love of history, little is updated for contemporary audiences, and no shortcuts are taken in this devoted rendering of the past. It is rather in faithfully recreating every fan-tie corset and Gothic stone archway that he grounds the supernatural in our world, locating it close to the heart of humanity.
Meticulous mise-en-scène, recreating the famous graveyard beach shot beneath a grey, overcast sky.Fiery interiors contrast heavily against the grey-blue tones of exteriors, lighting up castles and manors like hellish furnaces.
In Nosferatu’s screenplay as well, Eggers is not so much subverting horror conventions than executing them with poetic flair, achieving a 19th century stylisation in the dialogue which elegantly weaves macabre metaphors among other rhetoric devices. In fact, the only trace of modernisation on display may be in the freedom of its subtextual and explicit sexuality, edging us gradually closer to a full consummation of Ellen and Orlok’s sordid affair.
Unlike Dracula’s equivalent character of Mina Murray, Ellen is not depicted as the archetypal ‘pure virgin’ in Nosferatu, but rather a married, mature woman destined to play a far more active role in confronting the vampire. Additionally, this version of the famed vampire cannot be easily overcome by weapons or sheer force. Only by playing his game of seduction may he be reduced to his most vulnerable state, and so dressed in a bridal white gown and veil, Ellen chooses to make a fatal sacrifice.
Ellen appeals to Orlok with a virginal, bridal facade, seeking to consummate their affair and ultimately conquer him once and for all.
If shame is a parasite which thrives in darkness, then light is anathema to its very being, exposing its feeble, pathetic decrepitude to the world. No longer does it stoke fear, but simply disgust at its pitiful existence. At the same time, accepting this monstrosity as an inextricable part of oneself may also bring death to its host, and it is here where Eggers reveals the tragedy which comes sorrowfully paired with the conquest of primitive, libidinal desire. Like all great fables, Nosferatu is straightforward in its clean divide between virtue and sin, order and chaos, life and death – yet it is through the blurred union of each in the guilty hearts of humans where this vampiric legend manifests its most familiar, archaic horror.
