Category: 2020s

Conclave (2024)

Edward Berger | 2hr

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.

Conclave is currently playing in theatres

Anora (2024)

Sean Baker | 2hr 19min

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.

Anora is currently playing in theatres.

Nosferatu (2024)

Robert Eggers | 2hr 12min

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.

Nosferatu is currently playing in cinemas.

Wolfs (2024)

Jon Watts | 1hr 48min

So reclusive are the two fixers at the centre of Wolfs that even their names are kept from us. Their identities are their jobs, requiring them to override any moral inhibitions they might harbour to maintain a stoic, unflinching professionalism. Personal relationships are similarly out of the question, or else they might find themselves easily compromised by conflicting loyalties. According to George Clooney’s pragmatic specialist, this line of work requires a “certain level of monasticism” – so when he and Brad Pitt’s sardonic contractor are incidentally hired to handle the same job, their forced partnership threatens to steer both off track.

The snarky repartee flows freely in this buddy comedy-thriller, fuelled by a chemistry that was established between the two veteran actors long ago in Ocean’s Eleven. There is no question as to the competency of these professionals, but their mutual jabs at each other’s work ethic do reveal petty egos underlying their suave composure. Unfortunately, this is not the sort of job which can handle too much distraction either. After a Manhattan District Attorney’s brief affair with a younger man ends in disaster, the mess they have been tasked with cleaning up quickly spirals out of control, leading them on a chase through New York City and into the middle of a gang war over a stolen drug shipment.

Although Austin Abrams isn’t quite Clooney and Pitt’s equal here, he injects a bewildered, guileless humour as their naïve tagalong, finding himself in over his head more than anyone else. The single night setting only elevates the farcical caper further, escalating its stakes faster than he can keep up. Even if for a brief period, an oddball family dynamic forms between these three men as Clooney and Pitt find themselves strangely protective of the ‘Kid’ and develop a begrudging respect for each other. Nowhere is this better illustrated either than their run-in with an old criminal associate from the Albanian mafia, seeing them quickly take control of the tense situation and act with perfect synchronicity to save both their necks.

Stealth, cunning, and a solid dose of charisma are clearly essential qualities for these fixers, and quite unusually for Jon Watts, Wolfs showcases a visual stylishness which matches their crafty street smarts. One might almost mistake this for a Steven Soderbergh thriller with lighting this atmospheric, spreading a clean ambience through luxurious hotel interiors and shedding dingy hues from neon signs in diners. The nightclub set piece is also a standout in this respect, flooding the dance floor and exterior with a red wash that screams danger while glass chandeliers dangle over the partying crowds. It is refreshing to see Watts flex his filmmaking talents beyond the restrictions of Marvel Studios here, and this extends to his execution of creative visual gags as well, often playing out with sharp comic timing in thoughtfully staged wide shots.

Though the storytelling eventually gets tangled in a convoluted web of conspiracies, the development of Clooney and Pitt’s relationship maintains a brisk momentum, even adopting a Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid dynamic as the unlikely partners begin to realise that they can only rely on each other. Without resorting to derivative, sentimental shortcuts, Watts’ nod to the Western classic’s iconic ending thoughtfully pays homage to one of cinema’s greatest duos, similarly offering these lone wolves a shot at redemption through genuine camaraderie before they face the fire. Clooney and Pitt can easily command the screen alone, but together they become a magnetic force of undistilled charisma, rising above stubborn independent streaks and egos to appreciate the playfully invigorating nature of companionship.

Wolfs is currently streaming on Apple TV Plus.

Horizon: An American Saga – Chapter 1 (2024)

Kevin Costner | 3hr 1min

Though promised as a prosperous homestead for westward-bound families, the Arizonan frontier town Horizon is marked with bloodshed from the moment its foundations are outlined. Even after its surveyors are brutally massacred by an Apache war band asserting their territory, colonisers continue to flock to the flourishing settlement, ignoring the danger which skirts its borders. It shouldn’t come as a shock then that four years after its establishment, the same tribe should launch a devastating assault, burning the settlement to the ground and slaughtering its residents. From this horrific violence, Kevin Costner spins out several narrative threads among Horizon’s survivors – but at such an early point in his epic saga, even this major incident cannot account for every subplot that wanders through the film.

Maybe this is to be expected though from a film which announces itself as the first chapter of a four-part series, each instalment of which is expected to be roughly 3 hours long. The Lord of the Rings series seems to be a fair comparison in terms of story structure, though where The Fellowship of the Ring brought a sense of closure to its lengthy narrative setup, Horizon: An American Saga – Chapter 1 is not so robustly constructed. Costner is playing the long game here, promising to eventually intersect subplots that for now dangle without any destination in sight, and steadily working through each at a patient pace.

As such, the fact that Horizon faltered at the box office and failed to make up its extravagant budget is no real surprise. The genre subversions that we typically find in contemporary Westerns like Django Unchained or The Revenant are nowhere to be found here, and the extraordinary run time has undoubtedly turned away many who weren’t already put off by its Chapter 1 subtitle. Perhaps if Horizon was released in the era of Dances with Wolves, it would have found a more receptive audience, though it is also clear that Costner’s adoration of John Ford roots his narrative even deeper in Hollywood history.

The stories which emerge from the Apaches’ raid on Horizon draw the strongest parallels to Ford’s films here, seeing the widowed Frances Kittredge and her daughter Elizabeth survive the massacre by hiding underground, and eventually find refuge at Camp Gallant with a detachment of the United States Army. Despite some initial tension around non-interventionist beliefs, romance begins to bloom between Frances and First Lieutenant Gephardt, while Elizabeth warms to the younger outposted soldiers. With their dark blue uniforms pressed against Utah’s red rock landscapes, She Wore a Yellow Ribbon asserts itself as the primary influence on this storyline, as Costner delicately considers the complicated relationship between love and duty.

Also carried over from Ford’s 1949 film are the moral divisions that emerge within Native American tribes, yet which are considered with far more nuance in Horizon. Where the older generation promotes co-existence with the settlers, emerging leader Pionsenay seeks to drive them from their territory, fearing that his people will soon be displaced. Anticipating reprisal from the elders, he and his war band that attacked Horizon strike out on their own, clouding their idealism with visions of war and retribution.

Meanwhile on the other side of this struggle, the vengeance which orphaned survivor Russell seeks against the Apaches effectively models him after virulently racist gunslinger Ethan Edwards from The Searchers. With his parents dead, the closest Russell has to mentors are the two hunters he has teamed up with, both driven by a hateful bloodlust that risks sending the young boy down a similar path. When they fail to successfully track the raiders who destroyed Horizon, the nonchalance with which they resolve to simply ambush whatever other Native American village they come across is chilling. The question of Russell’s own moral conscience hangs heavy over his scenes, setting up a compelling character arc that will likely resonate through future sequels.

The dusty plains of the Old West are clearly ripe for mythologising, and Costner continues to use its gorgeous vistas in a disconnected subplot concerning a wagon train set for Horizon, although its late entry into the film leaves it severely underdeveloped. Instead, it is our complete departure from the badlands altogether which ushers in a far stronger storyline, trekking across the snowy alpine terrains of Montana and the vibrant autumnal forests of Wyoming. After shooting her abusive partner, escaping with her baby Sam, and adopting a new name, Lucy inadvertently attracts the psychotic Sykes Brothers to the peaceful town she has set up a new life in. It seems inevitable that the burgeoning relationship between her roommate Marigold and horse trader Hayes should get tangled up in this looming danger as well, eventually forcing the couple to take Sam and flee town.

Casting himself in the role of Hayes, Costner does not necessarily stand out within this enormous ensemble, yet he still channels the passion he has for the project at large into this lonely, vulnerable gunslinger. Together with Marigold and Sam, the three become a makeshift family who discover a rare sort of love, and whose paths begin to verge on Horizon towards the end when a promotional leaflet winds up in their hands.

The plot movements are slow, and the scope is so vast we may doubt whether they payoff will be worth it, but from Chapter 1’s foundations it seems unlikely that Costner is navigating this story without a grand vision. His use of natural light and helicopter shots offer plenty for us to visually feast on while the pieces gradually fall into place, as does his impressive array of rural locations, defining his historical legend not by a single town, but by America as a whole. With all these elements considered together, Horizon announces itself as a project of ambition so majestically bloated that it threatens to dilute its own focus, yet which still etches out the beginnings of a sprawling, mythological saga refusing to be defined by a single perspective.

Horizon: An American Saga – Chapter 1 is currently streaming on Stan, and is available to rent or buy on Apple TV, YouTube, and Amazon Video.

Alien: Romulus (2024)

Fede Álvarez | 1hr 59min

We are barely ten minutes into Alien: Romulus when orphaned miner Rain learns the first Alien film’s key lesson – labourers owe nothing to corporations that treat them as expendables. The five years that she has been contracted for have come to an end, but the sheer number of people who have perished under Weyland-Yutani quickly douses her dreams of leaving for the distant, utopian planet of Yvaga III. With the company short staffed, her contract is renewed, and she is not to be released from servitude for another five years.

Next to the xenomorphs, the corporation has always been the biggest threat of this sci-fi series, and Fede Álvarez continues to blur those lines between humanity and monster here in Alien: Romulus. To the untouchable bureaucracy, this extraterrestrial species is not to be left to its own devices, but exploited for biological warfare – or as is the case here, genetic engineering. Evolution’s natural processes are far too slow for Weyland-Yutani’s grand ambitions after all, and the key to designing the ideal human for space exploration seems to lie in the aliens’ resilient DNA. That the space station Renaissance which once hosted these dangerous experiments also contains the cryostasis equipment Rain needs to reach Yvaga III doesn’t just bring her into conflict with a primal, destructive force of nature. This deep into space, her corporate superiors continue to exert their ruthless will upon seemingly insignificant lives, remaining both oblivious and apathetic to the incredible threat it is reckoning with.

The crew of runaways joining Rain on this mission range from cannon fodder to deeply sympathetic allies, leaving the bond formed between our protagonist and her adopted synthetic brother Andy as the only relationship worth our attention. Cailee Spaeny’s star continues to rise in the wake of Priscilla and Civil War, displaying an intelligent pragmatism while carrying a deep grief for her late father whose legacy lives on in Andy’s programmed dad jokes. As the humanistic android, David Jonsson stands out even more with his furrowed brow and steadfast warmth, though it is when he accepts a Weyland-Yutani computer chip to improve his physical capabilities that he strikingly manoeuvres his focus into a cold, corporate expediency.

The setting from which the film takes its name also mirrors this sibling conflict, stranding Rain and her ragtag crew in the twin modules which make up Renaissance – Romulus and Remus. Continuing the franchise’s trend of referencing Greco-Roman mythology, Álvarez alludes to the two brothers who were raised by wolves and established Rome, before Romulus ultimately killed Remus over the city’s foundations. This is the allegory which underlies Weyland-Yutani’s vision for the future, comparing the xenomorph’s extract to the she-wolf milk which strengthened and nurtured the infant brothers into pioneers of civilisation. On a far more chilling level, it is also this transgression of nature which binds both species together as one, producing an atrocity which manifests the corporation’s monstrous rejection of its own humanity.

Álvarez certainly does not waste his opportunity to play in the realm of body horror here either, crafting the thrills and grotesqueries which the Alien series has always specialised in. The fleshy cavity of one xenomorph’s cocoon drips viscous fluids, suggesting more than just a distant correlation to human genitalia, and Romulus delivers one of its most creatively suspenseful set pieces when combining the creature’s acid blood with a temperamental, zero-gravity environment. The industrial futurist production design makes for a solid visual accomplishment here too, beautifully illuminated with pulsating light sources that pass characters through blazing orange hues and gloomy shadows.

That Romulus occasionally gets caught up in its own nostalgic references to previous Alien films is a disappointing symptom of modern franchises at large, though it is thankfully not a dealbreaker here. The care and imagination which Álvarez brings to the sci-fi source material lets his film stand on its own, offering a mythological slant to this universe which embellishes and warps millennia-old archetypes. There in the unnatural distortion of our social and biological identities, Romulus disturbingly probes into our human drive for greatness, as well as the inhumanity which threatens to cannibalise us in the process.

Alien: Romulus is currently available to purchase on Apple TV, YouTube, and Amazon Video.

Wicked (2024)

Jon M. Chu | 2hr 41min

As vibrantly scintillating as Dorothy’s journey to Oz was in 1939, the land itself was one of fantastical, faraway dreams, not so much revealing a lived-in civilisation than a vision of near-utopian perfection. This is the Oz that has cemented its iconic place in pop culture, archetypal enough for other artists to fill in its gaps with their own creative spins, yet none have come as close to its legendary status as Stephen Schwartz’s Broadway musical. Much of this is due to the perseverance of one unlikely friendship within its politically charged setting, and now that Wicked has taken to the screen, this fable is expanded to elaborate, epic proportions fitting of its narrative stakes.

Of course, such sweeping ambition is evident right from the moment Part 1 is tacked beneath the opening title, revealing that Jon M. Chu’s adaptation only covers the musical’s first act. It isn’t hard to see the financial incentives that might have cynically motivated this decision, yet the opportunity to let the story breathe and illustrate its world in more detail is far too appealing. Glimpses into Elphaba’s childhood through the opening number ‘No One Mourns the Wicked’ effectively bring greater insight into her sympathy for persecuted animals, and a brief diversion in ‘One Short Day’ similarly builds out the history of Oz itself by way of two spectacular cameos.

Even more impactful though is the intricate visual design which reimagines Oz beyond Dorothy’s dream, skilfully blending the steampunk aesthetics of the stage show with the Art Deco whimsy of the classic Hollywood film. The digital effects are far from weak, allowing for some sweeping long takes which fly across the fictional land, though it is no coincidence that many of the strongest set pieces here are executed practically. The majestic, geometric architecture of Shiz University is especially suited for Wicked’s superb musical numbers, spinning across hamster wheel-inspired library shelves in ‘Dancing Through Life’ and sinking us into the gorgeous green and purple lighting of the Ozdust Ballroom. For the sheer coordination of its editing and choreography though, ‘What is this Feeling?’ stands out as the clear highlight, mounting Elphaba and Glinda’s simmering rivalry in split screens before exploding it across the university’s dining halls, classrooms, and courtyards.

It is virtually impossible to fault the casting too, though this is no surprise given the intense behind-the-scenes competition which saw many talented actors miss the cut. Jeff Goldblum proves his eccentric, animated charm to be a perfect fit for the Wizard, and Jonathan Bailey’s Fiyero exudes a rebellious charisma which believably appeals to both the status-conscious Glinda and principled Elphaba.

Still, only so many words can be written before inevitably praising our two leading women. One of Wicked’s greatest joys is in watching a lifelong bond form between polar opposite personalities, and both Cynthia Erivo and Ariana Grande understand this intimately, bringing a reciprocated chemistry to their duets that spans contempt, joy, and deep, abiding love.

Where Grande’s bubbly improvisations make for a constant source of amusement and further elevate songs like ‘Popular’, Erivo takes on a greater share of the film’s dramatic weight as Elphaba. Having believed since childhood that her magical abilities were to be shamefully suppressed, she shields a desire for acceptance behind quick wit and guarded suspicion, only to let that hopeful innocence burst forth upon learning that these powers may be the key to finding her place in Oz. Though sung with profuse joy, the foreshadowing of her eventual infamy in ‘The Wizard and I’ only deepens the tragedy of her character arc, ultimately bringing us to its crux at the showstopping finale.

Also accompanying Elphaba’s journey are hints at a sinister, oppressive force lurking within Oz, often manifesting as propaganda and outright censorship of the animal population, and growing more apparent the closer she gets to meeting the Wizard. These minor details strengthen Wicked’s political allegory, so that by the time she is within reaching distance of her goal, the moral dilemma she and Glinda face to either join the system or challenge it is poignantly well-earned.

‘Defying Gravity’ thus arrives as the dazzling culmination of all their insecurities and convictions at the end of Part 1, and it is virtually impossible to imagine this as the mere midpoint of a film which would then anticlimactically progress to the musical’s second act. Though some muddy visual effects threaten to blur Elphaba’s flight into nondescript blurs, Chu pulls off her rise as the Wicked Witch of the West with brilliant spectacle against a cloudy, orange sunset, and Erivo too displays breathtaking musical command over the final chorus and iconic battle cry. Having already established itself as a theatrical phenomenon, this splendid combination of talents effectively claims Wicked’s cultural status within cinema as well, enchanting larger audiences with its stirring, resonant tale of Oz’s most celebrated and reviled inhabitants. The groundwork has been marvellously laid for Part 2, and the outlook is promising.

Wicked is currently playing in cinemas.

Smile 2 (2024)

Parker Finn | 2hr 12min

There is always the risk when turning a standalone horror film into a series that the core concept quickly wears thin, especially when such a firm narrative template has already been set. Smile 2 does not quite diverge from its predecessor’s steady, downward slide into tortured psychosis, and yet Parker Finn’s ambition has nevertheless grown, pushing his demonic metaphor for trauma into the realm of substance abuse and celebrity.

Pop star Skye Riley is the target of the smile curse this time around, suffering horrific visions throughout the week leading up to her comeback tour, which she rests her hopes for public redemption upon. It has been one year since her struggle with drugs led to the death of her boyfriend in a violent car accident, and although she has been on a path to recovery, bad habits are reemerging in the form of painkiller dependency and compulsive hair-pulling. It is initially easy to brush off her drug dealer Lewis’ erratic behaviour as a bad trip too, but after witnessing his bloody suicide via a gym weight to the face, it gradually becomes clear that the entity which haunted him is now threatening to send her reeling back into the dark, terrifying recesses of her mind.

We can see from the outset that Finn is swinging even harder stylistically here, as an 8-minute long take tracking police officer Joel’s attempt to deal with the curse picks up where the first film ended. We are hitched entirely to his distorted perspective, briefly passing by a hallucination of Rose’s burning body before entering a drug den where he intends to pass off the affliction. Every blunder here is heightened by the urgency of Finn’s camerawork, and when we finally make the leap to Skye’s point-of-view in the main storyline, these uneasy visual stylings barely let up. Close-ups narrow in tightly on Naomi Scott’s panicked expressions and flashbacks slice through in sharp cutaways, though even more chilling are their hallucinatory ingresses into Skye’s everyday life, stalking her wherever she goes with those stretched, sinister smiles.

This sequel’s shift to New York as the setting only adds to the malaise as well, flooding moody interiors with ambient lighting and turning the iconic cityscape into the subject of recurring, upside-down tracking shots. Although Skye is surrounded by people here, Finn is constantly emphasising her loneliness among crowds, leaving very few people she can turn to who don’t brush off her meltdowns as delusional relapses. Clearly the supernatural parasite knows how to play on this emotional isolation to feed on her suffering, taking the form of an obsessive fan severely overstepping boundaries, and later a troupe of grotesque, twisted dancers crawling in sync through her apartment.

Being the second film in the series, Smile 2 is also more liberated from the need for exposition, keeping the lore to a minimum while moving this story along through visual inferences and discomforting ambiguity. As Skye’s mental state rapidly declines, we begin to see the dysfunctional version of her that not only hit rock bottom a year ago, but which also claims a special place in her nightmares. That the smile entity chooses this as its most hostile form speaks deeply to her self-loathing, and perhaps at the root of her torment, it is this which keeps her from breaking free of its ruinous cycles.

Very gradually, reality slips from between Skye’s fingers, and Finn thrillingly paves the way to an apocalyptic finale which raises the stakes for a promising sequel. To relive one’s deep-rooted, psychological trauma is a frightening prospect on its own, and in Smile 2, he once again proves his ability to immerse us in that disorientating, self-sabotaging mindset. For it to be trivialised and gawked at on the world stage, however – that may be enough to shatter even the most ascendant of celebrities.

Smile 2 is currently playing in theatres.

Disclaimer (2024)

Alfonso Cuarón | 7 episodes (45 – 55 minutes)

When journalist Catherine Ravenscroft first receives a mysterious novel called The Perfect Stranger in the mail, she is struck by the disclaimer – “Any resemblance to persons living or dead is not a coincidence.” The deeper she delves into the pages too, the clearer these resemblances become, and the revelations are deeply mortifying. Secrets she believed were buried deep in her past have been immortalised in ink for the world to see, and she immediately understands the threat it poses to every aspect of her stable, successful life.

This is only the start of widower Stephen Brigstocke’s plans for revenge though. The Perfect Stranger was written by his late wife Nancy, inspired by the grief she and Stephen both felt over the passing of their son Jonathan twenty years ago while he was travelling in Italy. They do not have a lot of information to go off, but after discovering erotic photographs of Catherine taken the night before his death, it doesn’t take long for them to reconstruct their version of events. To distil them into literary form, some truths may need to be twisted a little – but what good storyteller doesn’t smooth over such trivialities for the sake of a greater point?

Alfonso Cuarón’s unravels these layers with great patience in Disclaimer, keeping us from the reality of Jonathan and Catherine’s relationship until the final episode, yet the subjectivity of such accounts is woven into the series’ structure from the start. Two duelling voiceovers are established here – Jonathan’s speaking in first person, suggesting an inability to move on through its past tense reflections, and Catherine’s running an internal monologue via an omniscient, second person narrator. It lays bare the deepest thoughts of everyone in her family, but its direct, reproachful tone refers to her alone as “you”, as if framing her at the centre of a novel – which of course she very much is.

There is a third perspective here too, though one which takes the form of flashbacks rather than narration. This account belongs to the book itself, and by extension Nancy, who in her grief has desperately tried to make sense of her son’s profoundly unfair death. Cuarón wields excellent control over his non-linear storytelling to build intrigue here, particularly when it comes to the younger Catherine’s seduction of a stammering Jonathan and the provocative development of their holiday fling. With her husband Robert away on business, leaving her to care for their 5-year-old son Nicholas alone, this younger, unexperienced man seems like the perfect opportunity to escape the confines of marriage and motherhood.

At least, this is the version of Catherine that Nancy would like her readers to believe. As if to position us as observers looking through a peephole, Disclaimer uses iris transitions to formally bookend these flashbacks, effectively sectioning off this subjective rendering of events within their own idyllic bubble. In true Cuarón style, the camera romantically floats around Catherine and Jonathan’s interactions with tantalising intrigue, and grows particularly intimate when she finally ensnares him in her hotel room. Conversely, the cold detachment of his lingering shots in the present-day scenes underscore Stephen’s schemes and Catherine’s torment with a nervous tension, grimly witnessing the emotional isolation they have caused each other. Although Disclaimer falls behind Cuarón’s established visual standard, his command of cinematic language is still far greater than most television series, no doubt thanks to the contributions of co-cinematographers Bruno Delbonnel and Emmanuel Lubezki.

As the consequences of Stephen’s devilish sabotage and Catherine’s desperate attempts to salvage some dignity take the spotlight in episodes 5 and 6, the pieces carefully move into the endgame, setting up the climactic collision of both characters. Kevin Kline and Cate Blanchett’s performances are no doubt the highlight here, respectively capturing the roguish nihilism of a grieving misanthrope and the gut-wrenching trauma of a woman escaping his torment, though truthfully there is barely a weak link in Cuarón’s cast. Sacha Baron Cohen, Kodi Smit-McPhee, and Leila George are all given their moments to shine, while Lesley Manville in particular works wonders with her limited screen time as Nancy, subtly hinting at a bitter jealousy that transcends mere vindictiveness. As we follow the tangled threads of perspectives, not only are we led to challenge her biased presentation of Catherine and Jonathan’s characters, but Stephen too must question the foundation of his retribution – the conviction that his seemingly happy family held no responsibility for its own destruction.

After all, were those erotic photographs not just incomplete fragments of reality? And what is The Perfect Stranger if not Nancy’s disingenuous attempt to piece them together, assembling whatever pattern affirms her own assumptions? When Catherine finally gets a chance to speak about the events leading up to Jonathan’s death, her recollection is astonishing in its uncomfortably vivid detail, seeping through the flashback’s muffled sound design and visceral camerawork. Perhaps even more importantly though, it is also a complete shock to the beliefs we hold about virtually every single character, especially seeing Catherine’s implicating narrator latch on to another as they similarly face the inconceivability of their own redemption.

“Nothing can purify you. Nothing can absolve you. Ahead of you there’s nothing.”

What Cuarón leaves us with is more than just a lesson on the confounding subjectivity of storytelling. Disclaimer is a testament to the influential power of words themselves, granting us the ability to win sympathies, destroy lives, and even rewrite our own memories. There is little that can take them back once they have been put down in ink. Just as troubling as the guilt for what we have done is the shame over what we have said – and perhaps for those claiming to be passive witnesses in the matter, who we believed.

Disclaimer is currently streaming on Apple TV Plus.

Rebel Ridge (2024)

Jeremy Saulnier | 2hr 11min

When Marine Corps veteran Terry returns to the Louisiana police station where the $36,000 intended for his cousin’s bail has been confiscated, Chief Sandy Burnne and his colleagues are not prepared for the hell about to be unleashed on them. Jeremy Saulnier’s narrative has barely raised the heat past a gentle simmer up until now, matching Aaron Pierre’s cool performance with an equally composed pacing, though it is only matter of time before that patience wears thin. The police officers’ assumption that he lacks combat experience simply because he never served overseas during his military career is a dire mistake. Like so many action heroes of cinema history, Terry proves himself more than capable, using his unique set of skills and tactical wits to take down an entire squad.

Still, vengeance does not arrive through bloody carnage for this veteran. Violence is merely a non-lethal means to an ends, and so despite its proliferation in Rebel Ridge, the total fatalities remain remarkably low. Terry never killed a man during his service, and he is not going to start a John Wick-style rampage now, mowing down leagues of enemies before reaching a final boss. Institutional corruption must be dealt with at its source, and through his unlikely alliance with law student Summer, he begins to embrace a new fight for justice.

Of course, this is all purely tactical for Terry. Right from the opening scene when he is rammed off his bicycle by officers Marston and Lann, it is clear his identity as a Black man factors deeply into his careful interactions with the police. He is not going to pick any fights that he knows he is going to lose, and he is certainly not going to aggravate anyone looking for an excuse to detain or shoot him. In response to their extreme brutality, he responds with the least amount of force necessary, ironically demonstrating the ideal behaviour they should be modelling. Where Saulnier’s 2015 film Green Room veers far more heavily into gore and horror, Rebel Ridge makes for a far more sobering thriller, understanding the nuanced stakes that lie in this conflict beyond life and death.

Unfortunately, the dedication to murky, ambient lighting which gave Green Room such a distinctive visual character is largely absent here, leaving Rebel Ridge struggling to aesthetically set itself apart from the fray of modern action movies. At least beyond the remarkable fight choreography creatively tailored to Terry’s no-killing principle, Saulnier delivers a small handful of locations that play to his stylistic strengths, illuminating the police evidence room with a subtle blue wash and later piercing the darkness of the courtroom basement with green and orange light sources. Scenes like these do much of the heavy lifting when it comes to imbuing the setting with a sense of peril, hinting at the insidious exploitation lurking beneath the police force’s veneer of law-abiding respectability.

After all, the prejudice that Terry experiences is not an isolated incident. What starts as a quest to free his cousin inevitably gets wrapped up in a much larger conspiracy at play, raising suspicions when an unidentified whistleblower points Summer towards a strange anomaly in police records – over the past two years, many people who committed misdemeanours were held in jail for exactly 90 days before being released. The exposition which peels back the mystery here drags a little, though the payoff in Terry’s final confrontation with Burnne and his lackeys is certainly worth it, ultimately revealing where individual loyalties truly lie. Our veteran hero only may be alive due to his combat expertise, though physical conflict alone is never going to heal a broken system. Patience, discernment, and cunning are virtues embodied in his pursuit of justice, and superbly carried through in Saulnier’s tense, brooding storytelling.

Rebel Ridge is currently streaming on Netflix.