A direct translation of Ikiru to English is ‘To Live’, and it is in formally binding one dying bureaucrat’s revitalisation closely to this ideal that Akira Kurosawa gracefully transforms his existential study of mortality into an introspective consideration of life’s intrinsic purpose, infusing this profound spiritual journey with melancholy visual detail.
A Lesson in Love is an impressive display of comic versatility for a relatively minor Ingmar Bergman film, sending his sober marital drama crashing into idiosyncratic foibles where screwball humour, sophisticated wit, and savage feuds intermingle.
The discovery of a horrific secret within the isolated Mennonite colony of Women Talking leaves some difficult decisions to be made by its female population, and through Sarah Polley’s bleak yet sensitive direction, she transforms it into a nuanced allegory of patriarchal exploitation at large, pushing it to a terrifying, unpredictable tipping point.
Life is a circus that creates entertainment out of humiliation, Ingmar Bergman posits in Sawdust and Tinsel, and in his rich staging and screenwriting he needles its existential drama with a finer, wittier point than ever before, finding both sympathy and pity for its hapless fools doomed to eternal ridicule.
Close is a work of incredible mourning and devoted realism for Lukas Dhont, telling the tale of two childhood friends driven apart by the social pressures of adolescent masculinity, and often leaving the most profound emotions unspoken as we silently sit in understated reaction shots connecting them to a confusing, corrupt world.
The existential dilemma one small family must make to either sacrifice one of their own or unleash Armageddon drives a taut tension through Knock at the Cabin, and by wrapping this home invasion story up in a stifling visual style, the cosmic stakes of M. Night Shyamalan’s psychological horror feel both arrestingly claustrophobic and dauntingly apocalyptic.
The Dardenne Brothers prove their dedication to social realism in La Promesse, tying their narrative up into knotty moral predicaments around one teenager’s vow to a dying, undocumented immigrant, and through its tiny symbolic developments it progresses with archetypal formality, pushing him to be better than the unjust world he grew up in.
Wistful memories and melancholy regrets swirl all through The English Patient’s vast, time-leaping narrative, developing its gentle ruminations over national identity into a historical epic of extraordinary beauty, as Anthony Minghella uses the sprawling emptiness of the desert to underscore the majesty and romance of the larger-than-life characters traversing it.
Broken Blossoms may be a simple, tragic fable of ill-fated lovers, though such eloquent visual poetry refreshes its archetypes through crisp close-ups and propulsive editing, inviting the sort of intimacy that D.W. Griffith alone realised in these early years of cinema was uniquely suited to this young, nascent artform.
In Bellissima’s unconventional blend of Italian neorealism and comedic satire, Luchino Visconti takes sharp aim at the ludicrous glorification of the entertainment industry, identifying an authentic connection between one effusive show mum’s pursuit of stardom for her daughter, and her struggles of post-war poverty.
