The incredible formal synthesis forged between Ingmar Bergman’s intimate visual style and psychological deliberations in Persona may be the finest of his career, blending the identities of two women through an avant-garde surrealism, and studying the perplexing duality which splits the human mind into outward expressions and internal truths.
The many acquaintances of one young murder victim each hold a piece of the puzzle to his mysterious death in The Killers, and as Robert Siodmak traces his life back through splintered collections of memories, clues, and treacherous triple crosses, the layers of his fatally obsessive insecurity begin to unfurl.
There is soulful inspiration found in two old friends simply sharing food and conversation in My Dinner with Andre, compensating for a lack of cinematic panache with a hearty, three-course meal of provocative screenwriting, and representing humanity’s conflicting desires for grand meaning and simple pleasures within the most common of modern-day settings.
It is only fitting that the melancholy lament of changing historical eras in Heaven’s Gate would be reflected in a film so often blamed for ending the New Hollywood movement, and yet time has been kind to this historical box-office bomb, where Michael Cimino skilfully stages an epic Western confrontation between the landowners and European immigrants of late 19th century Wyoming.
As far as storytelling in the MCU goes, the creative tonal balance and cartoonish playfulness of Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 3 makes for a terrific send-off to the franchise’s most colourfully eccentric series, as James Gunn faces his oddball characters up against painfully tragic pasts.
Men are but faceless idols cycling in and out of fashion in All These Women, hiding with infatuated fanatics behind facades of highbrow culture, and pulling at least one absolute truth from Ingmar Bergman’s sumptuously irreverent satire – art has no real relevance to the narcissistic pretensions of artists.
In place of open dialogue between characters in The Silence, Ingmar Bergman leaves an apathetic void of love and communication, formally manifesting his long-running existential fears of an unresponsive, godless universe within a stifled relationship between estranged sisters.
Brandon Cronenberg’s overarching metaphor in Infinity Pool may not be particularly subtle, but it is overwhelmingly visceral in its technicolour, cyberpunk nightmares, centring a cabal of reckless vacationers who psychologically dehumanise themselves through the masochistic torture of locals – and their own clones.
Akira Kurosawa’s riveting narrative in High and Low may start small with an agonising moral dilemma, but by the end of its criminal hunt it feels as if we have touched every corner of a sprawling city wracked with class warfare, forcing the rich and poor into bitter games of twisted revenge which turn both into miserable losers.
A pair of lonely masses bookends Winter Light’s spiritual crisis with a robust endurance of faith, focusing Ingmar Bergman’s intensive screenplay and severe direction upon a doubting priest bearing numerous similarities to a forsaken Christ, and uncovering a humanistic resilience which transcends religious boundaries.
