Whether we call it programming or simply animal nature, there is not a whole lot separating stimulus and response for the creatures of The Wild Robot – at least until one shipwrecked robot washes up on their island and is landed with the task of raising a young gosling. Designed as a service android with the sole purpose of fulfilling orders, Roz initially bristles against the call to become a mother, choosing instead to nurture the lone egg with clinical detachment. Survival relies on far more complex behaviours than reflex alone though, and this film proves to be especially astute in its distillation of parenthood’s complex challenges into a tender, inviting fable.
Considering the animation industry’s recent move away from realism, the step forward that Dreamworks takes with The Wild Robot is significant, building on the painterly style of Puss in Boots: The Last Wish with a more refined watercolour aesthetic. This works particularly well in the woodland setting, imbuing the idyllic environments with a sense of hand-painted wonder inspired by Hayao Miyazaki’s eco-parables, and examining similar visual conflicts between nature and technology.
While the few human characters we glimpse look half-finished, this design lends itself superbly to machines and animals, visually depicting Roz’s gradual integration into the ecosystem through the lichen, dirt, and rust that gathers on her pristine metallic surface. When a fire threatens the entire forest later in the film too, The Wild Roboteven injects a fluorescent pink into its otherwise earthy palette, underscoring the danger of human interference by way of synthetic, radioactive hues. While this story could have just as easily been dreamed up in a Pixar writers’ room, it is refreshing to see Dreamworks pursue a different stylistic direction, applying highly stylised, impressionistic illustrations to its tale of instinct and adaptation.
By balancing both the mechanical and the human intonations in her voice performance, Lupita N’yongo builds a sincere harmony into Roz’s characterisation. Her attempts to be as spontaneous as her new woodland friends fall amusingly flat, though each play their own role in helping her understand life beyond her programming, whether it is Pinktail the opossum’s parenting advice or Thunderbolt the falcon proving that it indeed takes a community to raise a child. The most difficult lessons of all though arrive through her adopted child Brightbill, who grows much too fast for her to keep up with his ever-changing needs. Self-assigned tasks at least give her some structure in the early days, but when she is ready to admit that she is making everything up as she goes along, the growing emotional attachment she feels is powerful enough to fill this gap in her software.
The parallel character arc we witness in Fink the fox makes for a thoughtful formal comparison here, initially resisting his predatory impulses so that he can benefit from Roz’s survival skills before eventually accepting his place as the surrogate father of this found family. The Wild Robot draws a surprising amount of dark humour from the ongoing casualties in the forest’s food chain, acknowledging that while animal nature certainly serves a purpose in ensuring survival, adaptation and cooperation are often even greater resources. Having learnt these skills by mothering Brightbill, Roz continues to put them to use in building a shelter for all the island’s wildlife during a snowstorm, and in turn calls them to overcome their own programming by building strong, communal bonds.
Even with self-preservation as the objective, kindness proves to be the most effective long-term strategy here, showing strength in solidarity between predator and prey alike. Besides a cliched ‘love saves the day’ deus ex machina, The Wild Robot largely turns what could have been a superficial, mawkish sentiment into a well-earned payoff, laying its foundations within an anthropomorphic ensemble of multiple distinct character arcs. By framing the most unlikely mother as the catalyst for such enormous transformation as well, the selfless path of parenthood not only guarantees a future for younger generations, but also a mindful, altruistic self-growth which no set of hardwired instincts or programs can achieve alone.
The Wild Robot is currently available to rent or buy on Apple TV, YouTube, and Amazon Video.
It is strongly implied in Flow that humans have long departed the Earth, yet there is hardly a note of melancholy or despair in this lyrical, wordless narrative. To the wild animals who roam its rainforests and mountains, our demise barely earns a passing thought, despite the remnants of crumbled civilisations which surround them. Nature has reclaimed that which we once stole from it, so even when a flash flood wreaks havoc on the land, still there remains a rousing beauty in life’s stubborn perseverance. The journey that one nameless black cat and its assorted companions set out on through gentle and treacherous waters makes for a simple narrative, yet within Flow’s hypnotic minimalism, the organic cycles of this ever-changing ecosystem fall into soothing harmony.
The immersive, fluid animation which Latvian director Gints Zilbalodis uses to compose this incredibly detailed world is made all the more impressive by the relatively small scale of his production. Starting with a tiny budget and relatively small crew, he decided to animate his film in Blender – a free, open-source computer graphics program that Pixar and DreamWorks would never even think of touching. Instead of using storyboards or concept art, Zilbalodis created expansive environments within the software and explored how his animal characters inhabited the space. Rather than aiming for the highly textured aesthetic of mainstream animations as well, he simulates naturalism through their graceful motions, watery environments, and of course that ever-moving virtual camera.
It is a little reductive to call water a motif given how omnipresent it is in Flow, but Zilbalodis’ choice to open the film with a reflection ingrains it within the cat’s journey from the start.The cinematic strength of Flow lies in its tracking shots, established early as the low-lying camera moves with the cat through the rainforest.Zilbalodis picks up the pacing of his camerawork when other animals are thrown into the mix, in this shot passing the cat from the whale to the secretary bird in one swift, seamless take, before dropping it back on the sailing boat.
Above all else, it is this elegant navigation of such a gorgeously constructed world which elevates Flow. Zilbalodis’ camera is as free as we’ve ever seen in an animated film, borrowing a little from modern video games, but perhaps even more so from live-action directors such as Alejandro Iñárritu and Alfonso Cuarón. Long takes often last for several minutes at a time, following the cat in low-lying tracking shots through gardens and valleys, before seamlessly shifting into kinetic action scenes when it is chased by a playful Labrador and threatened by rising flood waters. As the cat helplessly flails, we bob along with it, and when it eventually finds refuge on a boat with a capybara, we too sail with them over calm seas.
Zilbalodis simulates natural light sources with the sun, moon, and rippling reflections on the water, capturing magic hour as beautifully as any live-action director might. Meanwhile, the distant stone pillars are visually set up as this boat’s mysterious destination – a promised land of sorts for these companions.
In the absence of spoken dialogue, Zilbalodis’ active camerawork allows even greater room for visual storytelling, observing the clashing personalities which emerge when new members join this makeshift Noah’s Ark. As the cat’s initial caution gives way to curiosity, the capybara establishes itself as the level-headed leader of the group, keeping a cool demeanour while the obsessive lemur picks a fight with the secretarybird for kicking its precious glass float overboard. These are no anthropomorphised Disney cartoons, but rather heightened illustrations of distinctive animal traits, with Zilbalodis even using their real-life counterparts to provide voicework. That said, the cooperation between these creatures suggests somewhat developed social behaviours, underscoring the interspecies symbiosis which ensures the long-term survival of any ecosystem.
Even without dialogue or anthropomorphised traits, Flow efficiently distinguishes between each of its non-verbal animal characters, setting them up as allies on this journey across floodwaters.
Crucial to this equilibrium as well is its biodiversity, which Zilbalodis relishes in his vibrant animation. While marine life flourishes in the flood waters, land mammals and birds manoeuvre its obstacles, adapting their behaviours through trial and error. The differences between these creatures do not set them apart as adversaries though – in fact, the whale which initially saves the cat from drowning proves itself to be an ally on multiple occasions, and Zilbalodis finds vibrant splendour beneath the surface as colourful schools of fish revel in their rapidly expanding home.
Miyazaki influences in the slight warping of nature, gazing in awe and terror at the mutated whale breaching the surface of this half-submerged ancient city.The cat joins vibrant marine life beneath the surface of this new, confusing world, and Zilbalodis continues to relish its beauty in these gorgeous camera angles and compositions.
Not much can touch the picturesque grace of the world above though, where simulated natural light from the sun, moon, and bright reflections of both bounce off rippling oceans. The golden glow of magic hour has rarely been recreated so exquisitely in animation too, silhouetting animals against magnificent, picturesque landscapes. While Zilbalodis’ character designs are highly stylised, it is astonishing just how naturalistically detailed their environment is, particularly in the clear blues, swampy greens, and inky blacks of the water. The more we explore it as well, the further Flow departs from any recognisable reality, verging on the surreal as the boat drifts through an ancient, half-submerged city, and makes its way towards a peculiar series of stone pillars leering over the horizon.
Fascinating world building – the giant cat statue goes unexplained, adding to the mystery of a land without humans yet marked by remnants of civilisation.Auroras in the night sky – superb attention to detail even in throwaway scenes.The sunken city makes for an eerie set piece, paving the path this crew must sail through to reach their destination.
Hayao Miyazaki’s whimsical, ecological fantasies no doubt exert a significant influence here. The uncanny cat sculptures which litter the rainforest and the whale’s biological mutations suggest a distorted merging of spirituality and nature, and by the time we enter the cat’s first dream, Zilbalodis is explicitly binding both in an ethereal, otherworldly realm. There, menacing visions of the initial flash flood and an ominous, rotating circle of deer haunt the cat, trapping it in circumstances beyond its control. Even more mystical though is the cat and secretarybird’s transcendent experience upon finally arriving at the stone pillars, where they begin to float among bubbles, colours, and stars in a boundless astral plane. Above, a golden portal beckons them into another world, and the sheer beauty of Zilbalodis’ animation makes the prospect of leaving one life for the next seem both immensely soothing and wistful.
Heavy surrealism in the cat’s first dream, returning to the deer from the earlier stampede now ominously circling it.Jaw-dropping illustrations in Flow’s surreal climax, reaching to the heavens as gravity disappears and colours swirl in the atmosphere.
After all, this new adventure is simply a part of those natural cycles which Flow underscores with exquisite grace, particularly when that flood which once altered the entire landscape rapidly drains away. Zilbalodis’ narrative is a closed loop, returning a sense of normality to the cat’s land-dwelling companions, yet with it comes a poignant recognition of the equal adversity delivered to those who previously prospered in the endless waters. There is no perfect state of being in nature, Flow illustrates with breath-taking wonder, besides that of a balanced ecosystem which resiliently oscillates between different phases. As we float and soar through a world in perpetual transition, our restless movements match it every step of the way, basking in the chaos which somehow – amazingly – nourishes both the earth and water from which life is born.
Nature’s equilibrium – life for one brings death for another.An inspired final frame, bookending the narrative with shots of creatures gazing at their watery reflections
Not long after Black teenager Elwood begins at an internally segregated reform school, and after about forty minutes of looking at the world through his eyes, Nickel Boys shifts its first-person perspective. As a group of bullies mock him in the cafeteria, fellow student Turner quickly comes to his defence, beginning a friendship that will eventually become a lifeline for both during their time here. Before moving on though, RaMell Ross takes a leaf out of Ingmar Bergman’s Persona playbook and runs through the scene a second time, removing us from Elwood’s seat and placing us in Turner’s. For the first time, we see Elwood as a full being outside of reflections caught in shiny surfaces, granting us a fresh view of the world beyond his bright childhood and troubled adolescence.
From then on, Ross’s in-scene editing is freed up as he cuts between both points-of-view rather than sticking to long takes. On an even broader level though, his device also binds these boys within the film’s astonishing formal framework, presenting them as equal vessels through which we experience their growing disillusionment in a systematically racist institution. Nickel Boys may be Ross’ foray into narrative filmmaking, yet his avant-garde instincts come fully formed in his subjective camerawork and impressionistic montages, nostalgically slicing through memories that have been fragmented, reconstructed, and replayed in one’s mind a thousand times.
The first meeting between Elwood and Turner is played through twice – once from each of their perspectives. Bergman first pulled this off in Persona, and Ross remarkably recaptures it here.Nostalgia in the first-person camera and its endlessly creative angles, sentimentally recalling moments from Elwood’s childhood.We frequently return to this gorgeous timelapse shot from inside a train carriage, foreshadowing an inevitable escape.
Monumental historic events are deeply tied to these recollections as well, not merely using the civil rights movement of 1960s America as a backdrop to Ross’ narrative, but as a gateway into his characters’ minds. As Martin Luther King Jr. speaks to enormous crowds on television screens, we catch a young Elwood watching through the shop window, absorbing a message which would later inspire his attempts to expose the abusive staff at Nickel Academy. Sidney Poitier films also engage his curious mind, while archival cutaways to the space race underscore the bitter irony between America’s grand ambition and the marginalisation of its most disadvantaged citizens. Within this context, the primary split between Elwood and Turner takes clear form – one being an idealistic advocate for social progress, and the other a cynic just looking to keep his head down.
Reflections all through Ross’ mise-en-scène, steadily building Elwood’s sense of self.The civil rights movement of the 1960s is crucial to Elwood’s growing sense of justice, and Ross binds both together by imposing his reflection against Martin Luther King Jr’s speech.
As such, it is fitting that Ross should ground the visual style of Nickel Boys in first-person perspectives, playing with camera angles, orientations, and movements that we are intimately familiar with in our own lives. During Elwood’s childhood, the camera stares up at towering environments and reveals his growing sense of self through reflective surfaces. When he lays on the ground, the whole world seems to shift around him too, and it isn’t uncommon for his gaze to drift off to other distractions mid-conversation.
The camera tips and turns with Elwood and Turner’s eyes, shifting the entire world around them at its centre.The camera’s gaze wanders towards strange distractions and curious fixations, immersing us in these characters’ minds.Ross often denies us the chance to read his characters’ outward expressions, instead dwelling in abstract, ambiguous impressions.
Perhaps the most notable feature of this cinematic technique though is the abundant fourth wall breaks, seeing characters peer directly down the lens and invite us into their lives. What could easily be used as a gimmick instead melds beautifully with Ross’ evocative storytelling and cinematography, calling to mind László Nemes’ psychological dramas which hover the camera around his protagonists’ heads, and using similarly tight blocking of bodies and objects to crowd the frame. Striking an even closer comparison to Ross’ stylistic triumph here though is Barry Jenkins’ distinctive combination of shallow focus, close-ups, and direct eye contact, forging a profound connection with the ostracised subjects of his own films. That the dreamlike harmonies of this soulful score bear resemblance to If Beale Street Could Talk only deepens this likeness, and considering that both Nickel Boys and The Underground Railroad are based on novels by Colson Whitehead, it is evident that Ross and Jenkins inhabit a shared cinematic space.
Close-ups, shallow focus, and eye contact heavily evoking Barry Jenkins, directly connecting with characters while the backgrounds melt away.
Nevertheless, Ross’ style is very much his own, eroding our sense of linear time through abstract editing rhythms which flit through the past like old film reels and leap into the future with sober melancholy. The adult Elwood we meet in these flashforwards is far removed from the teenage boy living at Nickel Academy, as is Ross’ camera which hovers right behind his head rather than looking through his eyes. The effect is dissociating, recognising the lingering trauma which keeps him from moving forward despite his new start in New York City. All these decades later, he obsessively tracks news stories unearthing Nickel Academy’s sinister history, and watches fellow alumni come forward as witnesses to the abuse inflicted upon Black students. Perhaps the most affecting scene in this narrative strand though arrives during his run-in with former classmate Chickie Pete, where the buried torment of another ill-adjusted survivor is made painfully apparent in the subtext of what goes unsaid.
Flashfowards sit immediately behind Elwood’s head, dissociating us from his immediate perspective.
We can hardly blame these men for their instinctive psychological detachment though, especially given how much we are forced to suffer inside their minds with them. As several boys are woken in the middle of the night and forced to wait their turn in another room, Elwood’s gaze nervously lingers on a swinging lamp, the holy bible, his trembling leg – anything that might distract from the disturbing sounds behind that door he will soon be led through. At the very least, the reflection motif which permeates Ross’ mise-en-scène offers symbolic escapes from Elwood’s immediate reality, delivering one particularly astounding shot looking up at an overhead mirror as he and Turner discuss the prospect of fleeing the school for good.
An ominous door, a swinging lamp, the holy bible, a shaking leg – Ross paints a portrait of anxiety without so much as revealing a face.Both friends are captured in this ceiling mirror as they discuss the prospect of escape, and Ross continues to follow them from this angle as they make their way down the corridor.
Given the glimpses we are given of an adult Elwood, we feel assured that this freedom does indeed lie in his future, though the point where Ross connects both timelines makes for a formally staggering and heartbreaking transition. At the core of Nickel Boys’ first-person camera is the question of how one’s identity is formed from outside influences, and as such we see pieces of Elwood and Turner cling to each other, stoking both pragmatic caution and radical resolve. By minimising the display of outward expressions, Ross instead defines his characters by the indelible impressions they absorb from their volatile environments, internalising a shared, intrepid resilience that leads friends, communities, and an entire nation towards liberation.
Nickel Boys is currently streaming on Amazon Prime Video.
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.
