Category: 2020s

Christian Petzold | 1hr 43min

There is no need to worry about the wildfires spreading through the surrounding forest, Leon and Felix are frequently told during their stay by the Baltic Sea. They are a safe enough distance away that their getaway can continue uninterrupted, simply letting the sea breeze blow the flames inland. Even as Leon tirelessly works on his manuscript and Felix builds his photography portfolio though, the blaze of summer romance proves to be alarmingly volatile. Incidentally, the small holiday home that they are staying in also happens to be occupied by another vacationer, Nadja, whose fling with local lifeguard Devid intertwines with the dreams and hormones of her fellow occupants. For the time being, all four are happy assuming that the distant danger won’t interfere with their tiny bubble, and yet it is only a matter of time before this inferno shifts direction and wreaks havoc on their delicate lives.

Following on from Christian Petzold’s subaquatic fantasy-drama Undine, Afire marks the second in the German filmmaker’s proposed elemental trilogy. He wears the parallels to Eric Rohmer’s thematic series of seasons and proverbs with pride here, displaying similar fascinations in those casual interactions between friends and lovers that belong to the idyllic days of youth. Romance, drama, and comedy airily float around characters with only the slightest hint of foreboding menace, all while Leon isolates himself from the others as a brooding loner.

To be fair, the start of this holiday has not been particularly pleasant, with a broken-down car, a water damaged ceiling, and Nadja’s noisy trysts keeping him up at night. Stoking Leon’s discontent even further is the complete inadequacy of his own writing, drawing criticism from his publisher Helmut, as well as Nadja herself. At least in the latter case, he can easily brush off her comments as uneducated – she only works as a lowly ice cream vendor down by the beach after all. It is exactly this dismissal though which exposes his intellectual arrogance, as well as his readiness to leap to false conclusions about her academic background.

Leon’s jealousy towards the easy-going Felix comes from a similar place too, as he watches the myth of creative success only being earned through painstaking obsession crumble before his eyes. While Leon sulks over his tortured genius, Felix approaches his photography with an open-minded spontaneity, attracting the praise from Helmut that his friend desperately desires, and still finding the time to effortlessly form new relationships. So self-absorbed is Leon that he doesn’t even notice sparks of romance igniting between Felix and Devid until Nadja directly tells him that they are sleeping together, not even slightly bothered by the fact that her fling has found another lover.

Perhaps this trio is blinded by their shared joy as they play games and make love into the night, but so too is Leon’s vision clouded by his bitter insecurity. When all four are finally forced to confront the pressing danger of local forest fires, all they can do is stand on the roof and gaze at it from a distance, hypnotised by its brilliant orange glow illuminating the night sky. The contrast it strikes against the soothing blue hues of Petzold’s day-for-night wash is vividly realised, threatening to disrupt the status quo even as characters naively express relief that the blaze won’t come any closer. Neither is the trance disrupted by the arrival of white ash fluttering down from the sky like snow, casting an enchanting thrall over this quiet retreat. It takes a sudden medical emergency to snap these vacationers back to reality, only to realise on their way out of the forest that they may have left their evacuation far too late.

It is here in this climax that Petzold delivers some of his most compelling symbolism, foreshadowing a destruction of innocence as he lingers on the burnt remains of a baby boar and deer that have been abandoned by their families. Much like the clash of warm and cool hues in his natural lighting, these fiery visuals are harshly juxtaposed against the calm ocean setting which Felix photographs, Devid patrols, and Nadja works by. Leon does not quite appreciate the beach in the same way, and yet it is exactly where he finds himself wandering to in the wake of tragedy, watching its bioluminescence light up the water with tears in his eyes. If only he had accepted Nadja’s earlier invitation to see what he sees now, he quietly regrets. If only he recognised the futility of his work, shed his inhibitions, and opened himself up to new possibilities. His confession of love ultimately comes far too late, and has the worst possible timing one could imagine.

But then if Leon did submit to the heated throes of passion, would he have been among the unlucky ones to succumb to its flames, burning to death in a tight lover’s embrace? Petzold wields his metaphor here with a haunting elegance, alluding to those two bodies uncovered at Pompeii that were locked in a similar position, and imbuing Afire’s resolution with an almost mythical quality. Young love requires a certain vulnerability that those looking in from the outside might be terrified to submit to, and yet once consumed by the blazing euphoria that Petzold so delicately depicts in its raw, elemental form, anybody can see that it is worth the peril.

Afire is currently streaming on The Criterion Channel.

Sam Hargrave | 2hr 3min

In recent years, the upward trend of Hollywood stuntmen picking up cameras and becoming directors has reinvigorated the action genre with a visceral practicality. While Chad Stahelski and David Leitch have been revolutionising the art of the set piece, Sam Hargrave’s career has been relatively quiet, though this is in part due to his late emergence on the scene. After working as a stunt coordinator for both Marvel and DC Studios, he made his debut on Netflix in 2020 with Extraction, an introduction to black ops mercenary and sullen action hero Tyler Rake whose return in the sequel gives him even more to brood over. Much like the first instalment, Extraction 2’s visuals are as ambitious as its narrative is thin, revealing a confidence behind the camera that thrillingly elevates Joe Russo’s otherwise mediocre screenplay.

Tyler has barely had any time to settle into retirement and rehabilitate from prior injuries when a new job comes knocking at his rural Austrian cabin, drawing him back into the business with mysteriously personal stakes attached. Davit Radiani, co-founder of Georgian drug empire the Nagazi, has been imprisoned with no hope of bribing his way out, and so he has also moved his wife Ketevan and two children in to keep them under his control. Tyler’s task to stealthily infiltrate the jail and rescue the family is straightforward enough, and yet there are three main complications which lengthen Extraction 2’s conflict into a feature-length narrative.

The first is the nature of Tyler’s relationship to Ketevan, having previously been married to her sister Mia. The tragic backstory of their child who passed away from cancer often stops the film’s narrative momentum dead in its tracks, and although Chris Hemsworth carries magnetic star power and a strong physical presence, he plays the emotional beats here without a great deal of variation. Still, the groundwork is laid out for a redemption arc that broadly examines the responsibility fathers have for their children, thereby leading into the second primary complication – kingpin Davit’s relationship with his son Sandro.

Though the teenager is effectively a prisoner within his family, Sandro’s total belief in Davit’s goodness blinds him to his selfish manipulation, and motivates him to follow in his father’s footsteps as a Nagazi. As a reluctant participant in Tyler’s rescue, he is also torn in his wavering loyalties, frequently threatening the safety of his sister and mother as he tries to reach out to their pursuers. Besides the success of the mission, the moral goodness of this young man is also at stake, ultimately testing Tyler’s patience, compassion, and guidance during his temporary substitution as the family’s surrogate father.

Even with all this in mind though, it is clear that Extraction 2’s narrative and character development is not where Hargrave’s passion lies. It is the moment-to-moment development of individual set pieces that becomes the third main source of tension in the film, and which reveals his greatest talent as an action director. The impressive 12-minute take from Extraction that followed Tyler’s rescue of a drug lord’s child is topped here by an even more remarkable 21-minute take through multiple locations, keeping us in the grip of a prison break, riot, and chase that all unfold in real time with heart-pounding urgency.

It matters little that this shot was simulated by stitching together 49 individual cuts – there is no faking Hargrave’s skilful manoeuvring of the camera through frenzied environments, often with extras, searchlights, and falling snow filling the frame with movement. Inside the prison, we navigate several perspective shifts between our heroes and a small force of armed guards confronting rampaging inmates, even briefly entering Tyler’s dazed perspective after his head is smashed with a brick and tethering us to his face in close-up. The spectacle is marvellously paced in waves too, drastically raising the stakes as fences between both sides of the conflict are violently torn down, and yet also pulling back in quiet pauses that allow a moment to breathe between fights.

With no visible edits, this long take makes for the perfect showcase of practical stunt work, carrying a creative yet visceral brutality as loose rocks, shovels, a furnace, and even an arm lit aflame by a Molotov Cocktail become improvised weapons. It is too bad that the handheld camerawork somewhat obscures this at times, lacking the smoothness of Alfonso Cuarón’s direction in Children of Men’s car chase scene which clearly inspired its dextrous weaving in and out of moving windows.

Unlike lesser action filmmakers though, Hargrave’s set pieces in Extraction 2 consistently advance the narrative with great momentum, frequently pushing Tyler to adjust his tactics to new terrains and threats. As he fights off an enemy inside a giant glass tower, his associate’s unconscious body slides down a glass platform just outside, thrilling driving up the tension with added time pressure. The old stone church of dusty scaffolding and angel statues where the Nagazi have set up base similarly makes for a grand climax, seeing Tyler pivot when the immediate danger of their hostage situation comes to light. It is often where the film’s blocking, editing, and camerawork takes a step back that its plot falls back on weak exposition, though fortunately these passing moments are more forgettable than outright awful. Hargrave is a far more talented director than Russo is a writer, and it is through his dynamic set pieces that Extraction 2 pushes its reluctant fathers to confront their paternal responsibility with electrifying tenacity.

Extraction 2 is currently streaming on Netflix.

Justine Triet | 2hr 32min

The events leading up to Samuel Maleski’s fall from the third-floor balcony of his French chalet are clouded with uncertainty. Though he has been making his presence known through the Caribbean music rudely blasting throughout his wife Sandra’s interview with a graduate student, it isn’t until we see his body lying on the snow outside that we meet him face to face. Their blind son Daniel and his guide dog Snoop are the first to find him after returning from a walk, and given that the fall took place after the student’s departure, there is only one suspect left. “I didn’t kill him,” Sandra asserts to her lawyer Vincent when the forensic evidence starts to point towards murder. His reply is blunt.

“That’s not the point.”

Indeed, the matter of whether Sandra is responsible for physically sending Samuel toppling over the edge is merely a distraction from Anatomy of a Fall’s real investigation. Both are guilty of letting their marriage slip into mutual disdain, as are so many troubled spouses heading towards a breaking point. While the jury of her court trial endeavour to dissect the facts of the criminal case, Justine Triet positions us as the jury of Sandra’s conscience, unburdening the viewer with the legal necessity of arriving at an unequivocal verdict.

It is through this ambiguity that Anatomy of a Fall also develops such a psychologically compelling narrative, layered with doubts around specific details and theories. Was the blunt head trauma that Samuel suffered before dying from a weapon, or from hitting the shed roof on the way down? Were the secret recordings he was making of his and Sandra’s arguments part of his creative process, or a premeditated effort to frame her as his murderer? Was his guilt over Daniel’s crippling accident really enough to drive him to a second suicide attempt?

As pieces of evidence as they are brought to the court’s attention, Triet fluidly weaves flashbacks and cutaways, though whatever certainty they grant us in the moment are frequently dispelled by equally convincing cases against them. When the dirty details of Sandra’s dark writing and previous affairs are dredged up by the prosecution, the humiliation she suffers is akin to that of a divorce hearing, only without a living target for her to deal it back to. She is alone in her shame, unable to perfectly express herself in her second language of French, and even being separated from her son over the final weeks of the trial.

Though Triet’s documentary-style zooms, whip pans, and handheld camerawork are intended to compound the indignity by hinting at the media presence in the courtroom, they ultimately mark a weakness in Anatomy of a Fall’s visual form. The first act’s setting around Sandra’s home in the French alps is pristine, and recurring overhead shots of the frozen ground where Samuel fell are impactful, especially when capturing the chilling sight of his blood mixing with pure white snow. There are still some sharp visual flourishes later on, such as when Triet places us in Daniel’s overwhelmed perspective on the witness stand by swinging a close-up from left to right around his head, but the camera’s spontaneous naturalism does not always match the iciness of her narrative and characters. 

As much as we find great empathy for this widow whose insecurities have been relentlessly picked apart by strangers, both Triet and actress Sandra Hüller are careful to keep us at a cold distance from the truth. If we are to accept the student’s description of her semi-autobiographical novels as mixing reality and fiction, then perhaps there is a version of Sandra who harbours dark thoughts of murder, but whether she is capable of acting on them is another matter. Even if she was not the one to physically push him, there is still the question of whether their broken marriage is at least partly responsible, and by the time Anatomy of a Fall has thoroughly autopsied its lifeless remains, there is at least no doubt as to who is responsible for its slow, agonising death.

Anatomy of a Fall is currently playing in cinemas.

Sofia Coppola | 1hr 50min

So intoxicating is the allure of fame in Priscilla that by the time its young, naïve schoolgirl is trapped behind the white iron gates of Graceland, she can barely distinguish between its privileges, constraints, and everyday banalities. Whether she is bribing classmates with her intimate connection to Elvis or being forced to dress according to his tastes, everything seems to blend into an uncritical acceptance of her strange new life, floating by on musical montages and dreamy vignettes. Watching these incredible contradictions of extravagance and mundanity inhabit the same space is a surreal experience, begging the question that Priscilla never consciously ponders in fear of losing all that she has been given – why her?

Perhaps this is the reason that Sofia Coppola washes Priscilla out with such a muted colour palette and low contrast lighting, lulling her guileless protagonist into a subdued state of passivity, though visually the cinematography is a missed opportunity. The curated mid-century American décor deserves to pop onscreen with a vibrancy that reflects Priscilla’s colourful obsession, and which heightens the pristine world of Graceland into the same fantasy realm as Marie Antoinette’s Palace of Versailles where Coppola drew flourishes of gold and pink through elaborate French interiors.

Still, both these films make for fascinating companion pieces in her filmography, reframing historical figures through introspective studies of female celebrity, youth, and exploitation. Where Marie Antoinette is born into royalty and thus doomed to suffer the consequences from birth, Priscilla’s ascension to widespread recognition is rapid and unexpected. Anachronistic pop music from across the late twentieth century give way to some excellent needle drops in both their soundtracks, but it is especially notable in Priscilla that Elvis’ music never makes an appearance beyond his diegetic performances. For once he is not the centre of the story, and we are finally given the chance to explore Priscilla’s identity outside of his shadow.

Next to Jacob Elordi’s tall, swaggering rockstar, Cailee Spaenee inhabits Priscilla’s tiny frame with an awkward innocence, and yet the transformation she makes from a 14-year-old teenager to a grown woman in her late 20s is extraordinary. Even when she isn’t speaking, close-ups narrow in tight on her awestruck face listening to the conversations bounce between Elvis and his friends, while anytime she comes forward with her own contribution she is sent back into her quiet shell. Besides the extreme limitations imposed on her freedom, there is little that distinguishes her from her peers, making this miraculous fulfilment of a teenage girl’s fantasies all the more tragic.

Still, as Priscilla ages she also discovers desires that she had always denied, and which don’t always align with Elvis’. He places her on a pedestal, elevating her as a bastion of purity while sleeping around with movie stars in a prime example of the Madonna-whore complex. For Priscilla though, this neglect simply leaves her sexually frustrated and emotionally demoralised, forcing her to adopt the image of the faithful, virginal wife he has crafted for her in the public eye. Only when she storms off in an argument for the first time and Elvis comes chasing after her does she realise just how important this is to him. Suddenly, the power she wields in this relationship comes into focus, and the seeds of future rebellions are planted in her mind.

Priscilla’s newfound confidence in her femininity does not immediately free her from the prison of the public eye, as even right before she heads into hospital to give birth, she applies fake lashes and makeup for the paparazzi. Nevertheless, it does empower her to begin carving out her own future and identity, while Elvis’ disappears into a haze of substance abuse. Had she not been randomly picked from the crowd as a teenager, perhaps she would have been among those swathes of fans crowding Graceland’s gates as she drives out of his life, and yet she is the one with the wisdom and perspective to free herself from the patriarchal cult of celebrity they have all been caught up in. All of a sudden, Priscilla’s lonely, insulated world of normalised frivolity doesn’t seem so unique, as Coppola’s languid tone poem of passive obsession reveals its hypnotic hold over western culture at large, and finally offers this grown woman the agency that she was denied in youth.

Priscilla is currently playing in cinemas.

Alexander Payne | 2hr 13min

The students and teachers of all-boys boarding school Barton Academy have no issue letting Mr Paul Hunham know that he is by far the least liked member of staff. He is a hardline traditionalist who rarely gives high grades, refuses to let his class off early on the last day of semester, and freely dishes out creative insults with unfettered bluntness. Quite understandably, those few students who won’t be returning home for the Christmas break are dreading spending it with him instead. Even outside of school term, he continues to impose study and exercise schedules, and rules over their downtime with unwavering rigidity.

It is through the warm, festive magic of The Holdovers though that Paul crucially separates himself from the hostile teachers of Ferris Bueller’s Day Off or The Breakfast Club. Alexander Payne instils his protagonist with an amiable sincerity that is scarce to be found in so many contemporary films, using both style and narrative to call back to the cinema of the era that these characters are living through. Just as America was caught between its mid-century innocence and a horrific grappling with the Vietnam War in the 1970s, so too are the teenagers of Barton coming to grips with a harsher world than they once believed, making for a coming-of-age film that unites generations in common emotional struggles.

More specifically, it is the comedy-dramas of Hal Ashby that inspire Payne’s direction in The Holdovers, many of which were in conversation with the decade’s political issues. The relationship that forms between Angus and Paul obviously lacks the romance of Harold and Maude, and yet the bond they form similarly transcends a significant age gap, while the appearance of Cat Stevens’ song ‘The Wind’ within the 70s pop soundtrack draws the connection even deeper. The long dissolves that link scenes in their unauthorised excursion to Boston also recall the snowy, cross-state road trip of The Last Detail, blending frozen landscapes and close-ups in transitions that thoughtfully evoke a distinct time and place in American history.

The film grain that Payne emulates in his digital cinematography takes the nostalgia of 70s cinema a step further, but more than anything else it is the complex character work which richly embodies the decade’s counterculture. Most of the boys’ parents are relegated to minor roles here, setting off on winter vacations that leave their children emotionally isolated over the Christmas break and struggling to find any meaning in the holiday season. Angus’ relationships with his mother, father, and stepfather are particularly delicate, forcing him to shield a raw, wounded heart behind layers of white lies.

That his cantankerous classics teacher turns out to be the most well-equipped adult in his life to nurse those afflictions comes as a surprise to Angus, and perhaps even more so to Paul himself. He too has learned to hide his insecurities, though his defence mechanism manifests as a front of cerebral confidence, awkwardly inserting ancient historical facts into conversation and even outright lying to an old college classmate about his academic career. It is the small details of Paul Giamatti’s performance that develop this professor into such a nuanced portrait of middle-aged loneliness, from the lazy eye that keeps others guessing which one to look at, to the shyness around women that hints at a life of celibacy. Should he let the air of intellectual authority disappear for even a second, then he might just be exposed as a social outcast whose entire self-worth rests on his job.

If there is anyone worth opening up to though, it is Angus. While they are trapped inside the school alone with head cook Mary Lamb, they slowly drive each other insane, and Payne delights in the gags that ensue from their rivalry. The rapport that all three build over time is carefully earned, even if the time stamps which mark the passing days are formally weakened by their relatively quick drop-off. This is a film of small moments of connection, transforming forced obligations into genuine desires to fill the voids in each other’s lives. For Angus and Paul, this takes the form of a father-son relationship, while for Mary it is the loss of her child in the Vietnam War that keeps her grieving at work over the Christmas break, and which sees her subconsciously take on a maternal role in this surrogate family of outsiders.

Payne’s comedy is rarely extraneous to these relationships, but often serves to bring these characters together in moments of levity or, at the very least, high-pressure situations that they might look back on with humour. Driven to rebel out of sheer frustration, Angus taunts Paul with a forced chase through the school hallways, but ultimately fails to subvert the power structure when he dislocates his shoulder. Angus’ decision to take the blame for the incident and save his teacher is more than just a step towards reconciliation for them – it is paid back in full by Paul at a critical point in his own character arc, sacrificing his ego and rigid principles for his student’s future. It is not by discipline, but rather through compassion and mercy that he makes the biggest impact of his teaching career, without ever losing that sardonic wit that gives Payne’s festive film its amusingly cynical edge. By the end, it is almost impossible not to give into the effortless, authentic charm of The Holdovers, as Paul, Angus, and Mary transform what so many consider the loneliest holiday of the year into a season warmly dedicated to its most distant outcasts.

The Holdovers is currently playing in cinemas.

Sean Durkin | 2hr 12min

The family curse that is rumoured to have haunted the Von Erich wrestling empire hangs heavy over The Iron Claw. It is said that when patriarch Fritz Von Erich changed his surname from Adkisson to his mother’s maiden name, he brought misfortune upon all those who carried it on, including his eldest son Jack Jr who passed away in an accident at the young age of 5. One random tragedy on its own is simply bad luck, surviving brother Kevin believes, and has little to do with superstition. Still, the more disasters that pile up, the harder it is to deny the presence of some invisible force setting each child of the Von Erich family on a slow, agonising path to total ruin.

Beyond fate and luck, perhaps there is a third, far more rational reason behind the heartbreaking catastrophes hunting these brothers down though. Fritz’s ambitious drive to preserve his family legacy may very well be his own biggest threat, and only escalates in response to the damage it does. Surely Jack Jr’s freak death can’t be put down to this, and neither can the sudden onset of David’s enteritis, but the young wrestler’s decision to ignore physical pain in pursuit of greatness certainly aligns with his hard-headed father’s no-excuses credo. Although much of The Iron Claw is framed through the eyes of Kevin, it is Fritz who becomes the most compelling character in his selfish push for glory, openly playing favourites with his sons to breed competition and excellence.

If anything, this Darwinian approach to parenting hurts his relationship with his children more than their bonds with each other. The devastation that is wreaked on their lives is made even more gut-wrenching by Sean Durkin’s portrayal of them as such close companions, never placing their personal ambitions over their family. Fritz may not bear a lot of fondness for Mike, the youngest and least interested in wrestling, but his own brothers don’t think twice about supporting his musical aspirations, and Kevin similarly never lets his friendly rivalry with David and Kerry wither into animosity. When illnesses, accidents, and suicides begin to pick them off, we can see the mental burden placed on Kevin as he anxiously accepts the possibility of a family curse, and yet Fritz can only seal his anguish tight behind a stoic denial of responsibility.

It is also at this point that Durkin begins to reveal the true nature of The Iron Claw – not as a conventional sports biopic about underdogs rising to the top, but a patient, psychological drama obsessed with the thin division between destiny and chance. Enormous weight is placed on a single coin flip that will determine whether Kevin or Kerry will take David’s place in a major fight, and that is all it takes to set off a new chain of events that sees Kerry lose his foot in a motorbike accident, Mike step up to represent the Von Erich empire, and subsequently suffer permanent brain damage. Perhaps with a more supportive father the misfortune might have ended there, and yet in Fritz’s mind the only way to move forward is to raise the bar even higher, setting the mental health of his sons on the same downward trajectory as their physical welfare.

The visceral impact of Durkin’s editing and lighting heavily evoke Raging Bull in early boxing scenes, but his direction also submits to a subdued despair the deeper we get into The Iron Claw’s narrative, turning an introspective eye towards Kevin’s trauma. Durkin knows when to step back on the montages and hold on a shot, often pairing them with a slow zoom that draws our eye to both the foreground and background, and creating a subtle discomfort that jarringly runs against these wrestlers’ dynamic energy. Long dissolves become more common here too, creating an ethereal disorientation that formally matches supernatural visions of ghosts appearing just within the peripheral view of living characters, eerily out of focus.

Zac Efron’s performance fits well into this uncanny atmosphere, simultaneously carrying an enormous, beefy physique and great emotional vulnerability. Directly proportional to the immensity of his adversity is the anger which he unleashes in the wrestling ring, uncontrollably mounting until he is disqualified for continuing to use the ‘Iron Claw’ on his opponent past the ringing of the bell. The irony that this was once Fritz’s signature move is not lost on Durkin. In trying to become their father, each of the Von Erich children sacrifice a little bit of their own sanity and wellbeing, falling to a psychological darkness that many of them never escape from.

Though there is the faintest tinge of horror and suspense attached to Durkin’s direction, The Iron Claw would be better described as an extended tragedy underscored by persistent fear, only letting its overwhelming grief resolve into tearful reflection in the final act. “Tonight, I walk with my brothers,” are the last words of the last Von Erich suicide note, and Durkin brings a tender sensitivity to his visualisation of such a heavenly meeting. If this family curse is real, then perhaps it merely takes the form of poor parenting rather than some evil superstition, and yet the end results are virtually indistinguishable. It is the descendants of the damned who suffer most in either case, as the sins of the prideful, overbearing father prey on the only good thing to have spawned from his legacy – the unwavering kinship of brotherly love.

The Iron Claw is currently playing in theatres.

Jimmy Chin and Elizabeth Chai Vasarhelyi | 2hr

It may just be a coincidence that swimmer Diana Nyad’s surname translates to “water nymph” in Greek, but that doesn’t stop her from reminding every second person she meets of this connection. Her destiny is written into her very being, she believes, and there is very little that can shake her focus from the objective that has eluded her for over thirty years – to swim the 110-mile strait between Cuba and Florida without a shark cage. She had failed once before at the age of 28, and now in her 60s the disappointment still hasn’t faded, relentlessly pushing her forward with passion and grit to become the first person to accomplish this feat of remarkable endurance.

Coming from the world of documentaries, Jimmy Chin and Elizabeth Chai Vasarhelyi have specialised in subjects who test the limits of their physical capabilities, whether it is the mountain climber of Free Solo scaling El Capitan or the cave divers saving the Thai soccer team in The Rescue. With its basis in the true story of Diana’s extraordinary achievement, Nyad makes for a natural leap into narrative filmmaking for the husband-and-wife duo, playing to their strengths by cutting in newsreels and talk shows from her youth. While much of this archival footage is a disheartening reminder of Diana’s initial failure, the voiceover of her younger self also delivers inspiration, driving her onward with reminders of her unique strength.

“The whole key to success in marathon swimming, masochistic as it may seem, is the person who succeeds is willing to ensure the most pain in the most number of hours.”

She may not readily admit to it, but Diana is also a woman who is deeply and sentimentally attached to the past, which Nyad further develops in its dreamy flashbacks. Even beyond her frustration in her previous let-down, she holds onto the memory of her father’s idyllic adoration of Cuba, and the PTSD of her sexual abuse at the hands of her childhood swimming coach. “I hate victim shit,” she spits, trying to brush off the lifetime of pain it has caused her, and yet it is virtually inseparable from the tenacious, self-punishing perseverance that pushes her on.

It is fortunate then at least that Diana has her long-time coach, best friend, and platonic soulmate Bonnie by her side, offering her the holistic care and concern that she is unwilling to give herself. The rapport between Annette Bening and Jodie Foster in these roles is compelling, revealing several decades worth of camaraderie in their blunt honesty and deep knowledge of each other’s idiosyncrasies. When Diana rates a pain in her shoulder as a 6 out of 10, Bonnie knows very well that actually equals “a normal person’s 8,” and so too does she realise that fabricating a story about authorities declaring the swim to be impossible would make her friend dig in even deeper.

There is no understating the role that Bonnie plays in her journey. Although Diana is the swimmer, Bening and Foster are effectively co-leads in Nyad, striving towards a common goal with equal passion. While Diana suffers a great deal physically and mentally, Bonnie bears an enormous emotional toll, realising that she is encouraging her friend’s death wish and receiving little recognition for her efforts. Still, the bond they share is undeniable, often returning to a comforting motto of reassurance and fortitude whenever insecurity begins to creep in.

“Onward.”

Through the danger of sea creatures, allergic reactions, and dehydration, Diana and Bonnie keep this maxim at heart – if not on a physical level during several more failed swims, then at least mentally. That willpower is their strength after all, and what Diana especially relies upon with an older body that has weakened since her youth. At times the obstacles they come up against are a little too clearly contrived for the sake of plot, and it doesn’t help either that the sharks are rendered through shoddy CGI. Instead, the ocean often feels far more perilous in those eerie night sequences where Diana’s rope light sheds an eerie red glow within the darkness, revealing the beauty and terror of the world she is seeking to conquer.

Somehow though, it is still those final miles that are the most difficult to overcome, propelling both Diana and Bonnie to the brink of absolute exhaustion even as the destination comes into view. Nyad may be straightforward in its underdog tale of struggle and success, but it earns these emotional beats well through its visceral, physical danger. For Diana, destiny is nothing more than a matter of tenacity and patience, driving one’s body to its extremes simply to prove that it can be done.

Nyad is currently streaming on Netflix.

Michael Mann | 2hr 11min

It is said in Roman mythology that when Saturn learned of a prophecy foretelling his downfall at the hands of one of his children, he set out to eat each of them as they were born. As a man desperately searching for an heir to his business and family name, Enzo Ferrari may not possess great sympathy for the King of Gods, and yet the journalist who draws this comparison may not be so far off given the devastation that is visited upon young men looking to earn the entrepreneur’s admiration.

Unlike those unfortunate souls, Enzo would much prefer to sit above the fray of motor racing as an engineer and businessman, coaching the drivers of his automobiles rather than risking his own life behind the wheel. He understands their addiction to the sport all too well, and uses that to feed their sense of competition by telling them individually that they alone each have the best chance of winning against each other. This is ”our deadly passion, our terrible joy,” he grimly declares, though his romanticisation of its lethal danger is not easily missed.

With Ferrari premiering at the Venice Film Festival in 2023, the eight years that separate it from Michael Mann’s previous film Blackhat is the longest period of dormancy in his career, beating out the six years which had divided that espionage thriller from Public Enemies. That this is the story he chose to break the drought is somewhat surprising given the crime and action films that otherwise define his career, but this is not the first time he has ventured into biopic territory either, having previously used the genre to examine the legacy of boxing legend Muhammed Ali. In this instance, the awe he holds for the founder of the Ferrari brand is clearly a prime interest for him, stretching all the way back to the early 2000s when he first began exploring a potential film adaptation. Enzo is exactly the sort of morally compromised man whose ruthless pursuit of a singular objective aligns with many of Mann’s greatest characters, and yet who also hides all his pride, shame, and sorrow behind tinted sunglasses.

After Adam Driver’s recent stint as the head of the titular fashion brand in House of Gucci, his second shot at playing another Italian entrepreneur of the twentieth century is a moderate improvement. His talent is undeniable as he remarkably passes off as a man in his late 50s, outshining a poorly miscast Shailene Woodley as his mistress Lina Lardi, though often being outdone by the raw fire of Penélope Cruz. Much of her storyline in Ferrari as his wife Laura is spent furiously narrowing in on her husband’s secret family, drawing her determination from a bottomless well of grief over the recent passing of their son. That Enzo is so prepared to replace the deceased Alfredo with his illegitimate child is an insult to his memory, she vehemently asserts, desperately trying to preserve the remnants of her broken family.

Perhaps the blame that Laura places on Enzo for their son’s terminal illness is unjustified, but it certainly reinforces that image of a God feasting on the deaths of his children. If we are to view his drivers as his descendants too, then the fact that he took one of their widows to be his mistress is entirely damning. As the untouchable head of the Ferrari family, he exerts an influence which even pulls the Roman Catholic church itself into his orbit, becoming a Don Corleone figure in a scene that alludes heavily to The Godfather. As Enzo listens to a homily about car manufacturing, the sounds of his competitor’s vehicles can be heard clearly from a nearby test track. Stopwatches are withdrawn from the congregation’s pockets as they line up for communion, vigorously ticking along with the score while Mann sharply intercuts between both locations. In place of God, it is Ferrari who reigns over this sacred building, holding greater respect for speed, efficiency, and victory than human life.

Nowhere do the consequences of this idolatry becomes so devastatingly apparent than in the Mille Miglia of 1957. This was historically the last time the open-road, thousand-mile endurance race was played out, and for very good reason. Where the rest of the film suffers from flaws in its pacing, these thirty minutes carry a thrilling momentum in its razor-sharp editing, even when we cut to scenes of Enzo, Laura, and other characters following the competition from a distance. Dispersed throughout this heart-pumping sequence too are some of the film’s finest long shots, basking in the green valleys and dusty orange skies of Italy’s countryside, before moving into the cobbled streets and narrow streets of Rome. Once again, the sound of ticking stopwatches weaves into the music score with urgency, while dolly zooms queasily warp the road ahead of Enzo’s driver Alfonso de Portago through the quiet rural commune of Cavriana, luring him to an awful fate.

European car racing history is littered with tragedies, and the Mille Maglia was especially no stranger to participants and spectators losing their lives in fatal collisions. That Mann so unflinchingly presents the accident which officially brought an end to this specific race is profoundly shocking. The blown-out tyre which causes it may be caught in slow-motion, but the car’s violent cleaving through a crowd of bystanders happens so fast that the only hope we can cling to is that death came instantly and painlessly.

Whether the environment of ruthless competitiveness that Enzo fostered was responsible for Portago’s decision against changing his worn tyres is delicately uncertain, and later leads into a court trial that Ferrari brushes over far too quickly in its abrupt ending. To Mann though, the details of his manslaughter charge and its eventual dismissal are unimportant. Far more fascinating is Enzo’s reaction as he visits the gruesome site where eleven lives were claimed, including those of five children. Like a coroner examining a mangled carcass, he picks through the wreckage of his race car, barely even turning his eyes to the crushed and severed corpses around him. If the media vilifies Enzo as a deity who props up his legacy by feasting on the lives of his own children, then perhaps they are merely carrying through the justice that was never delivered in court. For all of Ferrari’s narrative unevenness, the god of conquest at the centre of Mann’s modern mythologising makes for a compellingly thorny subject, leaving behind a long trail of bodies in his blood-stained ascent to cultural immortality.

Ferrari is currently playing in theatres.