Film Review – Page 4 – Scene by Green

Adolescence (2025)

Philip Barantini | 4 episodes (51 – 65 min)

In a small English police station, 13-year-old Jamie Miller is charged with the murder of his classmate, Katie Leonard. Back at school, an entire community is left reeling with confusion and grief over what has unfolded. In a youth detention centre, Jamie’s motives are uncovered by a forensic psychologist, and some months later his family continue to grapple with the long-term consequences in their own home. Four snapshots across thirteen months are all that Philip Barantini needs to uncover the humanity in the horror of Adolescence, plunge into its despairing depths, and lift this crime beyond the sort of freak occurrence that most people are fortunate enough to only ever see in news headlines.

Where a lesser series would thinly spread its sprawling drama across dozens of episodes, Adolescence weaves the fragmented nature of television into its very structure, dedicating an hour at a time to its characters’ messy lives. It is not an anthology of self-contained stories, but neither does it maintain the straightforward continuity that we often expect from serial dramas, letting us fill in the days and months that separate episodes. As such, its narrative economy is remarkably efficient, unravelling four vignettes in real time while intertwining the movements of police officers, students, and relatives.

*We are pulled right into the action with this in media res opening, storming the Miller household as the police pull Jamie from bed – all captured in one continuous take of course.*

Barantini’s stylistic conceit of playing out each episode in single, continuous takes must be credited for our immersion in this harrowing study of modern-age masculinity. Right from the in media res opening of episode 1, we are launched into the police force’s raid of the Miller residence, sharing in the same shock as Jamie’s panicked family as he is arrested. The handheld camerawork keeps us in Barantini’s tight grip, disorientating us as we move with Jamie from the house into the police van where we finally get a moment to collect ourselves. In the absence of cuts, we sombrely sit with him for several minutes during his transportation to the police station, tuning out the adults’ muffled speech while a tense, ticking score takes over. The sheer length of sequences like these only deepens our discomfort in Adolescence, growing our dread throughout this first episode.

*Barantini orchestrates his camera’s push and pull between wide shots and close-ups beautifully, anxiously tightening on Jamie’s face as his fingerprints and mugshot are taken.*

When Jamie’s mug shot and fingerprints are taken, again we hang on the unspoken guilt written across his face, while the agonising humiliation suffered by his father Eddie is given an agonising close-up during the young teen’s strip search. In the consultation room, Jamie’s blue jumper blends in with the muted, melancholy tones of the walls around him, where the camera tentatively circles the emergence of truth. Jamie was caught on CCTV footage stabbing Katie to death in a parking lot the previous night, we eventually learn, effectively rupturing the innocence of a community which never believed such a barbaric act could be committed by one of their own – and least of all by a child.

*Adolescence doesn’t feature overly gorgeous mise-en-scène, but the muted blues in the police station and costuming make for an admirable standout in episode 1.*

Episode 2 is set only a couple of days later, though it delivers an impressive sense of scale by widening its focus to the staff and students at Jamie’s school, many of whom become witnesses in DI Luke Bascombe’s investigation. With his son Adam only a few years above Jamie, his personal life is not entirely removed from this case, and in their emotionally estranged relationship we begin to see patterns emerge between the fathers and sons of Adolescence. Here, Barantini locks onto the social influences which slyly insinuated themselves in Jamie’s life, mixing a lethal Gen Z cocktail of cyberbullying and incel propaganda with the sort of male insecurities even older generations would recognise.

*Episode 2 widens its focus to an entire community impacted by Jamie’s crime, skilfully navigating the school grounds and classrooms where his worst influences begin to show their faces.*

*Patterns emerge between fathers and sons in Adolescence, revealing an emotional estrangement in otherwise close relationships.*

This episode features what may be Barantini’s singularly most ambitious shot, traversing the school grounds, classrooms, and offices to reveal the interconnectedness of the local community. The camera often hitches onto characters as they move from one location to the next, linking conflicting accounts of Jamie and Katie’s relationship to a secret emoji language, and the missing murder weapon to Jamie’s friends. During its final minutes, Barantini even seamlessly lifts the camera into a drone shot flying over the entire neighbourhood to a choral rendition of ‘Fragile’, echoing its mournful lyrics as it eventually descends to witness a mournful Eddie laying flowers at the site of Katie’s murder.

*A breathtaking highlight of Barantini’s soaring camerawork, lifting the camera above the school, flying over the town…*

*…and eventually descending into a close-up of Eddie’s face, laying flowers at Katie’s shrine.*

With all this said, the greatest hindrance to Barantini’s long takes are Adolescence’s lengthy dialogue scenes, often leaving the camera to wander without aim or purpose. Within these moments, its ambitions fall far behind other one-take films such as Birdman or Victoria, and this especially becomes restrictive in the single room setting of episode 3. The staging in Jamie’s detention centre is more akin to a play than anything else, focusing on his examination by forensic psychologist Briony Ariston, though in exchange young actor Owen Cooper is given a platform to deliver some of the most outstanding acting of the series.

The stagebound setting of episode 3 doesn’t quite earn its one-take conceit, but nevertheless underscores two brilliant performances at its centre, particularly from the incredibly talented Owen Cooper.

In Jamie’s frustration at Briony’s line of questioning, we see a teenage boy who can’t quite grasp his own emotions, resisting any attempt to probe deeper in fear of what he may find. “Are you allowed to talk about this?” he uneasily asks about half a dozen times when the topic turns to sex, repeating the phrase almost as often as his baseless claim – “I didn’t do it.” Unable to reconcile his guilt and dignity, he desperately tries to convince himself of his innocence, denying the traumatic reality of his actions. When this cognitive dissonance is threatened, he falls back on intimidation tactics to retake control from Briony, throwing insults and even a chair in bitter anger. She is perturbed, yet actress Erin Doherty holds a steel nerve against his torment, only ever revealing how deeply this experience cuts away from his judgemental eyes.

*A brief respite in the corridor outside – this line of work is incredibly taxing for Briony, only letting her guard drop away from Jamie’s eyes.*

In Jamie’s quieter moments too, Cooper’s angsty performance remains strong, unassumingly being coaxed into contemplating his relationship with his father. When he asked if he is loving, Jamie’s responds is dismissive – “No, that’s weird” – and as Adolescence moves into episode 4, Barantini allows this regretful man to take the final word on the matter. Thirteen months after the murder, the Miller family wrestles with the long-term ramifications of Jamie’s actions which have singled them out in their community as pariahs. Glimmers of healing emerge during their drive to the local hardware store, looking for paint to cover up the graffiti left on Eddie’s van, but even this simple outing cannot escape the cruel taunts of teenagers or conspiracy theorists chillingly advocating for Jamie’s innocence.

Isolated and ridiculed in their own community, the Millers desperately hold the remnants of their lives together in episode 4, as Barantini turns something as simple as a trip to the local hardware store into an entire ordeal.

*Online incel culture latches onto Jamie’s story and chillingly manifests in real life.*

*Eddie splashes black paint across his van in a fit of rage, finding no other release for his emotions.*

Finally exhausting his patience, Eddie throws his fresh tin of paint all over the van, and in this moment we see flashes of the boy who only last episode tossed a chair in anger. Retreating to Jamie’s room with his wife Manda, Eddie ponders where it all went wrong, at which point the dialogue begins spell out its themes a little too directly. The screenplay weakens here, exchanging subtext for literalism, yet Barantini nevertheless succeeds in bringing Jamie’s story full circle back to his biggest influence.

Eddie’s failure isn’t as simple as him being a bad father – that much is clear from the anguished guilt of Stephen Graham’s performance. “If my dad made me, how did I make that?” he laments, beginning to recognise how deeply entrenched his worst habits are in his own childhood and parenting. As he cries into Jamie’s bed, the blues we observed in the police station return in darker shades to envelop him in a familiar sorrow, yet this time allowing an honest outpouring of suppressed emotions. It is a catharsis that we have eagerly awaited in Adolescence, and one that is especially earned through the cumulative weight of Barantini’s long, restrained takes, pushing a quiet form of insistence – not only that we bear witness to this teenager’s shattering crime, but to the raw, fragmented, and unresolved mess left behind.

*Emotional catharsis as Eddie finally reveals his vulnerability in the closing minutes of Adolescence, returning to Jamie’s room where it all began.*

Adolescence is currently streaming on Netflix.

La Terra Trema (1948)

Luchino Visconti | 2hr 45min

The villagers of Aci Trezza do not speak Italian, La Terra Trema’s opening text is sure to inform us. Theirs is a Sicilian dialect which most people would have trouble comprehending, but Luchino Visconti is not interested in rounding off these rough edges for the sake of his mainland audience. His ensemble is made up of real townsfolk rather than professional actors after all, so why compromise on those details which give their insulated community such character and complexity? Moreover, why not use its rugged coastlines and bustling marketplaces in place of artificial studio sets, capturing their lives with even greater authenticity?

Visconti was not the only neorealist pushing these innovations forward in the 1940s, though where Vittorio de Sica and Roberto Rossellini used real locations to tell the stories of individuals, La Terra Trema leans into the story of its setting. The omniscient Italian voiceover which describes Aci Trezza’s daily routines and power structures does not compromise the naturalism on display – rather the opposite in fact, effectively shaping this literary adaptation into a work of docufiction which observes the village with a distant curiosity. It speaks in present tense, underscoring the spontaneity of each narrative development, but there is also no doubt regarding Visconti’s meticulous craftsmanship. This tale of one fisherman’s attempted revolution against the greedy local wholesalers is given an epic stage here, tracing the sort of rise-and-fall archetype that once belonged to Roman mythology, yet which Visconti transposes to a microcosm of modern Sicily.

*Leading lines into the background, using blocking of actors to design the frame while remaining completely organic.*

*La Terra Trema is a family saga, and Visconti matches his visuals to the epic scope – not so much with vast landscapes than the sheer density of his crowded shots.*

As is typical of these grand sagas as well, we find a family at the centre of its drama, rich with history and traditions which have thrived for generations. “The women always worry about the men at sea, as the family has always had a boat at sea, ever since the name Valastro has existed,” the narrator informs us, introducing the clan to whom our working-class hero Antonio belongs. Long have they been exploited by the wholesalers, but now that he has returned home from war, he has also brought with him radical new ideas. Uniting his fellow fishermen, he encourages them to resist budging on their prices, and ultimately claims victory despite the violence which breaks out. With the wholesalers temporarily out for the count, Antonio has the whole town on his side, yet this is only the beginning of his grand ambitions to reform Aci Trezza’s fishing industry.

*Revolution among workers, using Eisenstein’s ‘monistic ensemble’ to transcend individualism.*

*Staggered blocking of the wholesalers’ faces in this frame – a wonderful composition imposing smug superiority.*

It is no surprise that Visconti was commissioned by the Italian Communist Party to create this film, even if he diverged a little from their instructions to shoot a documentary. The product is ideologically akin to the Soviet Montage films of the 1920s, though formally the only significant influence here emerges from Sergei Eisenstein’s theory of the ‘monistic ensemble’, blocking large crowds as single units that transcend individualism. When it comes to the pure visual composition of bodies in the frames as well, few are Visconti’s equal. The full depth and scope of his frame are used to build out social hierarchies within the Valastro family and beyond, staggering actors in dynamic tableaux that seem to emerge organically from their weathered environments. Even when his camera is tracking through masses pulling boats ashore or haggling at the market, still these hundreds of people are staged with a piercing clarity, revealing the unity and tension which pervades everyday life in Aci Trezza.

*Intricate staging within the Valastro home, distinguishing men, women, and children.*

*Masterful work with crowds, amplifying the scope of this saga.*

*Incredible complexity and desnity in Visconti’s composition, filling the frame with bodies in different poses as the Valastro family hits rock bottom.*

Perhaps just as impactful in characterising these people are the textures of the village itself, its rough stonework worn to debris and rubble by decades of exposure to the elements. Upon walls tarnished by discoloured stains, we also occasionally find the hammer and sickle symbol, blatantly pointing to the rising Communist sentiment in the area. Despite the complex social structures which see military officers perversely leer over impoverished women, it is clear that no one here is truly wealthy. These people are trapped by their unfortunate circumstances, ravaged by a capitalist system which equates them to their economic value and condemns them to squalid living conditions.

*Weathered textures framing Visconti’s actors, encompassing them in destitute poverty.*

*Much of this village has collapsed into debris and rubble, and Visconti’s location shooting does not shy away from exposing this side of Italy.*

*Communist symbols graffitied on walls, pointing to rising anticapitalist sentiments in the region.*

*Class and status depicted through height, with military officers often leering over the women of the town.*

This is not to say that Aci Trezza lacks beauty, though its magnificence is entirely inseparable from the greyscale austerity of its land and seascapes. From the hours spent gazing longingly at the Mediterranean Sea and waiting for their men to return, the Valastro women may know this better than anyone too. Visconti’s low angles capture their black imprints against grey skies with great severity, their flapping cloaks giving the impression of crows as they brave the wind on the rugged headland. Jutting out of the water, craggy outcrops obstruct our view of the horizon, yet these also stand as familiar, welcoming landmarks to departing and returning sailboats. Meanwhile, high angles of the shoreline itself crowd the mise-en-scene with these wooden vessels resting between trips, blending in with the coarse sand and rock.

*The Valastro women stand upon rocks in flapping, black cloaks like crows, gazing out at the sea – a masterfully bleak composition in this low angle.*

*Craggy outcrops beyond the shore interrupt the horizon, standing as familiar landmarks to sailors.*

*Rocky shorelines and wooden boats – Visconti loves setting these elemental textures against each other.*

So bleak is this environment, it is difficult to see how Antonio’s success could ever be sustainable here. His dreams of becoming independent, buying a boat, and cutting the wholesalers out of the supply chain manifest through pure willpower and effort, yet still the narrator foreshadows an inevitable downfall. “Well, Antonio? You have everything. All you dreamed of is yours,” it sardonically reflects, moving beyond its once-detached tone. As much as we remain at a distance from these events, we can’t help but feel some resentment towards the cruel hand of fate which unleashes a destructive storm upon Antonio’s work, as well as the unforgiving capitalist system which kicks him while he’s down.

*Antonio ostracised from his community, one man against the crowd.*

Pressure mounts on the Valastro family when the bank comes to repossess their house, and soon even the town turns on them, effectively cutting Antonio’s sister Lucia off from any prospect of marriage. No longer is he a hero of the working class, but a reckless pariah who tried to enact change too quickly, and Visconti’s blocking continues to evolve with these new dynamics as the fisherman finds himself isolated among his own people. “One by one, the tree’s branches wither and fall,” the narrator laments, watching a once-respected clan collapse by the actions of one man who gambled their possessions away on a brighter future. Desperate and hungry, he returns to the smirking wholesalers in a moth-eaten shirt, and resigns himself to working under them once again as an underpaid labourer.

*Antonio remains isolated even within his own fractured family.*

It takes solidarity to spark revolution, and although it is this missing ingredient which sinks Antonio’s economic ambitions in La Terra Trema, the narrator does not lose hope in the slow wheel of progress. “No one will help him until they all learn to live and support each other,” it reflects, “and within himself he’ll find courage to start a new life.” Its impression of neutrality has faded, yet Visconti’s writing maintains a sincere conviction in the spirit of Aci Trezza – even if it continues to lie dormant beneath the cumbersome weight of inequality. For as long as these progressive ideals remain alive as a mere thought or feeling, human dignity endures in La Terra Trema, ingrained in the very fabric of a society sustained by its indispensable, tenacious working class.

*A humiliating return to the status quo, meeting the wholesalers in a moth-eaten shirt and no bargaining power whatsoever.*

La Terra Trema is currently streaming on Amazon Prime Video.

The Girl with the Needle (2024)

Magnus von Horn | 2hr 2min

The face of human evil is insidiously disguised in The Girl with the Needle, though the glimpses that Magnus von Horn’s nightmarish interludes offer us reveal the eerie horror behind its warm, maternal mask. Within black voids, faces morph and merge into monstrosities, transparently layered atop each other like projections. Hands forcefully rub cheeks, mouths stretch open in silent screams, and shadows pass across upside-down features, expressing a pain and malice which could be straight from the depths of hell.

*An eerie montage of stretched, distorted faces in shadow, expressing pain, malice, and insidious glee.*

*A codependent relationship between the abused and the abuser visualised in multiple reflections, trapped and helpless.*

Within the uncanny blend of close-ups, two faces emerge which we will soon be made familiar with – factory worker Karoline, who finds herself at an impossible crossroads when she is impregnated with a baby she can’t afford to raise, and Dagmar, a middle-aged woman who takes her in seemingly out of the goodness of her heart. The destitute Denmark they occupy has been ravaged by the economic fallout of World War I, flaunting the privilege of the wealthy over the poor who must suffer in squalid conditions, and holding them in the grip of an inherently unjust system. As such, the cruel acts that Dagmar inflicts upon the few truly innocent inhabitants of Copenhagen are supposedly an anaesthetic to this psychological suffering, not unlike the ether she ritually abuses. Through her twisted sense of compassion, single mothers are not only freed of their unwanted children, but may also submit to the fantasy that they have been adopted by a loving, well-off family. When finally arrested and confronted with the severe weight of her crimes, her moral justification of the infanticide she commits is chillingly straightforward.

“That’s what was needed.”

Perhaps most unsettling of all is the historic basis of this character upon one of Denmark’s most infamous serial killers, whose notorious murders of abandoned babies shook the nation to its core. As repulsive as she may be, Horn is sure not to paint her as some aberration of society. She is the product of a post-war civilisation which ruthlessly tramples over the disenfranchised, and consequently births a new form of degeneracy which masquerades her services as gender and class solidarity.

*Horn’s wide shots often use longer lens to compress his depth of field, here composing a delicate shot with the two women and stroller framed beneath the majestic tree.*

The war comes to an end, yet what should be a joyous occasion is accepted with solemnity among these factory workers, who remained resigned to the class hierarchy painted out in this marvellous blocking.

Anchored in the destitute poverty of postwar Copenhagen, Horn often uses his setting’s dilapidated architecture and muddied streets in the vein of Béla Tarr, sinking his characters into a hopeless malaise.

Horn’s framing of her story through the eyes of fictional client Karoline effectively applies a grim, psychological lens, clouding our perception of 1920s Copenhagen’s harsh realities with terror, mistrust, and trauma. His stunningly bleak recreation of this period setting echoes Béla Tarr in its ruinous dilapidation, rendering the textures of coarse fabrics and peeling walls in high-contrast, monochrome photography, and slowly zooming in on doors and stairways where horrors unfold just beyond our view. The influence of Ingmar Bergman is also felt in Horn’s intimate framing of faces, notably splitting Karoline and Dagmar’s profiles on either side of the frame during a crucial confrontation, though the shallow depth of field on display is notably his own. Copenhagen’s bitterly cold parks and stone streets melt away into blurred backdrops through his long lenses, disconnecting Karoline from her environment, and especially isolating her from Dagmar once her betrayal is made apparent.

*Narrow frames squeezing in on an oppressed Karoline, using the city’s narrow corridors and doorways to impede on her very being.*

*Bergman’s influence in the blocking and lighting of faces, illustrating the poisonous relationship between Karoline and Dagmar as the truth comes to light.*

*Horn’s shallow focus disconnects Karoline from her harsh environment, particularly here as a wealthy couple passes through the background in a blur.*

With a score of low drones, rumbling vibrations, and metallic creaks, The Girl with the Needle takes haunting form in its minimalist soundscape too, uncomfortably accompanying Karoline’s descent into helpless reliance upon her child’s killer. This is a woman whose hopes for a prosperous life have been dashed by her affluent ex-lover, and whose husband Peter has returned from war both horribly disfigured and violently traumatised, eroding her faith in men as a source of stability. As such, she is in a deeply vulnerable place when she initially meets Dagmar at the local baths, attempting an abortion with a dauntingly large needle. The comfort provided by a stranger promising a secure future for Karoline’s daughter appears to be the only source of light in a dark world, so it is only natural that she gravitates toward it like a moth to a flame.

A minimalist shot packed with visual symbolism – the dirtied mirror masking Karoline’s face behind a layer of grime as she wrestles with her conscience, and the giant needle offering escape through pain.

*Gorgeous lighting diffused through windows and bouncing off wet surfaces, setting the scene for Karoline’s desperate escape.*

Nevertheless, something seems very wrong even before Karoline learns the truth of Dagmar’s business, especially with Horn leading us to suspect the very worst. Once Karoline gets hooked on Dagmar’s ether, she effectively loses all agency, only finding purpose as a wet nurse to the abortion broker’s younger daughter Erena and a recently abandoned baby boy. Erena’s attempt to smother this infant when Karoline gives it too much attention should be the first major hint that murder is commonplace in this household, and suspicions expressed by her old colleague Frida similarly validate our own, mounting a foreboding sense of dread.

*Painterly shots as Karoline stalks Dagmar through Copenhagen’s rough stone streets, mounting a foreboding suspense.*

*A gut-punch of a reveal, confirming our suspicions with jerking, almost inhuman movements as we linger on Dagmar’s back.*

*Horn realises it’s what remains unseen which haunts us most of all, unfolding harrowing trauma just beyond our field of view.*

The stretch of purely visual storytelling which leads to Karoline’s discovery sits among the finest sequences of The Girl with the Needle, stalking Dagmar as she carries the baby through Copenhagen, before reaching a lonely alley and mysteriously settling on her back. From Karoline’s obscured perspective, Dagmar’s jerking, struggling movements ambiguously manifest her worst fears, while her subsequent inspection of the open sewer where the child disappeared confirms them. Despite her gut-wrenching distress though, still she can’t separate herself from this codependent mother-daughter relationship, entwining Vic Carmen Sonne and Trine Dyrholm’s performances in a disorientated haze of shame and violence. Horn’s desolate photography continues to submit to the despair through it all too, hovering an overhead shot above these women sharing a filthy bed, and casting creeping shadows across Sonne’s guilty face.

*Toxic co-dependency in a single shot, laying these curled up women on a filthy bed.*

*Karoline’s face consumed by shadow, hiding from her own guilty conscience.*

Karoline is not the only one to dwell in the darkness though, as Peter too often hides in Horn’s gorgeously low-lit interiors, shamefully covering his mutilated face. Unlike Dagmar, the mask he wears is a shield from society’s prejudice rather than its judicial system. His visage may fit among those terrifying faces which haunt Karoline’s nightmares, but there is also a kindness here which even she overlooks due to his physical and mental scars, effectively rendering him unrecognisable to his own wife. With nowhere left to turn, he resorts to the lowliest job of all as a circus freak, letting others exploit and profit off his deformity in the most dehumanising manner possible. Despite the whimsical props which adorn his caravan, there is no levity in Horn’s shabby, carnivalesque production design here, yet healing and redemption may be found in even the dirtiest environments when one falls into the arms of a nurturing, dutiful lover.

*Several characters wear a mask of some kind, and Peter’s is quite literal, covering up his facial disfigurement and hiding it in darkness.*

*Carnivalesque production design at the circus, framing Karoline’s emotional recovery in the unlikeliest of locations.*

*A stifling frame in the oval mirror, yet there is a touch of warmth in Karoline and Peter’s physical and emotional union, enduring a rough life together.*

Perhaps it is indeed a stretch too far to believe that any adult in this derelict society would want to raise another’s unwanted child, but for all its misery and sorrow, Horn does not let The Girl with the Needle end without glimpsing a world where this might be possible. Even after abject depravity has shredded Karoline’s faith in humanity, we witness how a single act of love may change an entire life, formally subverting Dagmar’s cynical worldview which once perpetuated even deeper anguish. After all, tenderness is never too far out of reach in Horn’s profound, historical reflection, often hiding within those who have suffered the most, and offering glimmers of tenderness in a society consumed by its own despondent shadows.

*Karoline subverts Dagmar’s cynical worldview, carrying out an act of radical love and selflessness.*

The Girl with the Needle is not currently streaming in Australia.

The Last Laugh (1924)

F.W. Murnau | 1hr 28min

As far as the proud, jolly doorman of The Last Laugh is concerned, there is no greater calling in life than the hospitality he offers to patrons of the Atlantic Hotel. This is his entire identity, so essential to his being that he is not even given a name. Instead, he is distinguished by his portly figure, regal moustache, and elaborate, militaristic uniform, commanding respect from those who pass through the revolving door he loyally guards. That he is so willing to help the homeless children who loiter outside his apartment building speaks to the strength of his moral character as well, establishing him as a man whose existence has been joyfully dedicated to the service of others.

It is a cruel turn of events then which delivers a letter of demotion into his hands, relegating him to the position of washroom attendant. He has gotten too old for his position, management claims, and in his place a younger man has donned the uniform he holds in such esteem. Framed through the glass double doors of the boss’ office, darkness surrounds him on all sides, until the camera tracks forward across the barrier and into the room itself. As we read these devastating words, F.W. Murnau imprints a vision over the top of the previous attendant handing in his white coat, and the text begins to blur in tearful distress. There is a desolate future ahead of this former doorman, and from here The Last Laugh plunges into his deep humiliation, teasing out the shame and indignity that comes with an earth-shattering shift in status.

*Emily Jannings strikes a proud, regal figure with his moustache and uniform, setting up his bombastic pride before the humiliating fall.*

*Murnau’s camera tracks forward from outside the door and into the room as bad news is delivered.*

*In the absence of intertitles, Murnau uses these creative visual cues to relay exposition.*

So rich is Murnau’s visual storytelling here that all exposition is minimised to a single intertitle, giving him room to explore the ambitious limits of his camerawork and mise-en-scene. Three years before Fritz Lang’s triumph of set design that was Metropolis, The Last Laugh was bringing to life busy streets, apartment buildings, and majestic hotels built on studio stages and backlots, each brimming with the sort of expressionistic detail that Germany was pioneering in the 1920s. The glass revolving door in the hotel foyer makes for a particularly impressive set detail as well, the oscillation of its vertical lines constantly reframing exterior views and merging with brisk camera movements to imbue the city with a bustling liveliness.

*Tremendous apartment buildings and city sets constructed on studio backlots, brimming with expansive expressionistic detail.*

*The revolving doors make for a superb recurring set piece, its oscillating lines constantly reframing exterior views of the city.*

On a larger scale, this liberation from static tripods sits at the core of The Last Laugh’s stylistic brilliance, especially standing out for its immersion into our downtrodden doorman’s psyche. Right from the very first shot, we are introduced to the hotel from within the elevator, descending multiple stories as we gaze through the metal grills into the crowded lobby. When the doorman dances, the camera spins with him in gleeful unison, and when he dashes past sleeping security guards on the night shift, it too takes desperate flight.

*The very first shot introduces us to the lobby via the elevator, descending into the bustling crowd.*

*The camera spins with the doorman as he dances, swept up in his exuberant glee.*

*Clean geometric lines and shapes in Murnau’s sets, making a bold statement of class and privilege.*

Having recently dabbled in the realm of horror and fantasy, Murnau relishes the uncanny dreaminess of these visual devices, entering the doorman’s waking nightmare of the hotel’s edifice bearing down on him like a monster and later slipping into his unconscious mind with experimental panache. There, a double exposure effect blends a close-up of his sleeping face with an absurdly tall vision of the hotel’s revolving doors, before entering hazy, distorted crowds lavishing him with applause. There is no cumbersome struggle with bulky luggage in this world, as he is instead endowed with an almost superhuman strength, lifting bags with one arm above his head and tossing them into the air. For a moment, Murnau’s camerawork even goes completely handheld, stumbling with the doorman in dizzy motions among his ardent admirers.

*Our entry into the doorman’s dream is marked by this double exposure effect, merging his face with that revolving door which extends infinitely up past the top of the frame.*

*Hazy, distorted visuals in the doorman’s dream as he easily lifts bags in the air above his head, groggily captured by a swaying handheld camera.*

When the doorman awakes the next morning though, it seems that reality hasn’t quite caught up. Too embarrassed to come clean to his family and neighbours about his demotion, he bears the weight of a guilty conscience, and through point-of-view shots we see his perception of the world stretch and blur in disorientating patterns. He finally arrives for his first day at work, yet in Murnau’s beautifully severe wide shot, this washroom looks far closer to a prison of harsh angles and dingy lighting. The mirror which extends an entire wall simply reflects his shame back at him, and next to it he sits alone in a wooden chair, no longer dominating frames with his hefty physique but rather shrinking into the background.

*Faces stretch and warp as the doorman faces the world with a guilty conscience.*

This washroom looks far closer to a prison of harsh angles and dingy lighting in Murnau’s beautifully severe wide shot, extending a mirror along an entire wall to reflect the doorman’s shame back at him.

Every bit of Emil Jannings’ physical presence embodies this transformation too, making for a soaring accomplishment of silent acting that few others from this era have matched. It is a depressing thing to witness a man as large and exuberant as him shrivel up in sheepish submission, his back hunching over as he cowers before patrons and colleagues. Within Murnau’s magnificent close-ups too, his beaming smiles fall into maddened grimaces of distress and misery, and his tired eyes drift off in disoriented confusion.

*Jannings’ face is meant for German Expressionism – a canvas of heightened emotion.*

*The exposure of the doorman’s secret is played as horror, suspensefully edging his relative towards the washroom before hurtling us towards her screaming face.*

There seems to be no end to the doorman’s suffering either, as it is only a matter of time before the truth of his demotion comes home to his family and neighbours. When one relative visits the hotel, Murnau plays her discovery like straight horror, suspensefully edging us towards the washroom before hurtling towards her terrified expression as he comes into view. Gossip spreads quickly around his apartment building too, and Murnau’s camera actively tracks its passage in whip pans between balconies and tracking shots into attentive ears. Catching like wildfire through the community, derisive laughter surrounds the doorman as he stumbles ashamedly through the streets, and soon inundates the entire frame as a multiple exposure effect thrusts expressions of gleeful scorn upon us.

*Gossip spreads fast, and the camera tracks its passage in whip pans between neighbouring balconies.*

*A brisk tracking shot into a neighbour’s ear, receiving news of the doorman’s humiliation.*

*We stumble with the doorman down the street, neighbours pointing and mocking his shame.*

*Cruel laughter dominates the frame in a double exposure effect, undercutting whatever dignity the doorman had left.*

In a pure tragedy, this is where the story would end, leaving our wretched protagonist at his lowest point. In a strange twist of fourth wall breaking justice though, Murnau’s sole intertitle confesses the pity he took on the doorman, instead bestowing upon him an improbable epilogue which lands him as the beneficiary of one Mexican multimillionaire’s fortune. Whoever’s arms he should pass away in should inherit his estate, the wealthy man’s will decrees, and it just so happens that the Atlantic Hotel’s washroom should host his fatal heart attack.

Murnau’s moving camera continues to blend elegantly with the blocking here, comically revealing the doorman’s jubilant face behind a crowd of waitstaff and an enormous cake, though formally this development is shaky at best. However pleasing it is to see him become the hotel’s most distinguished guest and give its staff the respect he never received, this jarring shift in tone has no grounding in the narrative which led up to it. Clearly Murnau’s stylistic intuitions are sharper than his plotting, so it is fortunate indeed that this fable plays out largely by way of its dynamic, enthralling visuals. It is through the avant-garde after all that we find reality slipping so elusively from our grasp, and it’s in that vulnerable state that The Last Laugh reveals the heartbreaking capacity of our self-loathing, ready to destroy us the moment we hang our pride upon the dubious, fragile illusions of social status.

The Last Laugh is in the public domain and available to watch on YouTube.

Songs from the Second Floor (2000)

Roy Andersson | 1hr 40min

Somewhere in the unnamed Swedish city of Songs from the Second Floor, a crash test dummy falls seemingly out of nowhere into a quarry. In a lavish hall, a crowd of clerics, aristocrats, generals, and businessmen prepare a young girl called Anna for a mysterious task. Finally, Roy Andersson pays off both scenes in a darkly funny punchline that leads the child along the top of a cliff, before sending her plummeting to an unseen death. As the same elites who groomed her for this ritual passively bear witness, a mournful hymn builds to a crescendo, commemorating the innocent life they have sacrificed to whatever gods might save them from the insipid, desolate hell they themselves have built on Earth.

Like an artist curating a solo exhibition, Roy Andersson is compiling a gallery of evocative tableaux that each express their own self-contained story in Songs from the Second Floor. No single image here reveals the full apocalyptic senselessness that this city of eternal traffic jams and mind-numbing bureaucracy has descended into, but when each are considered in unison, a more expansive landscape begins to form of surreal, urban decay. There is no redemption for bosses who fire their most loyal staff after 30 years of service, and no hope for the employee who pathetically clings to his superior’s leg as he is dragged crying down office hallways. All that can be done is to bury the shame deep down – though where is the sanity in that when humanity’s moral failures pervade the mundanity of everyday life?

*A crash test dummy falls from a cliff onto a pile of rocks.*

*A young girl is groomed for a mysterious tasks by a crowd of adults.*

*Both vignettes come together and deliver an incredibly dark punchline – the young girl is sacrificed at the edge of the cliff, observed by members of society’s elite.*

Individual scenes here vary between tightly interwoven episodes and standalone vignettes, yet each play their role in Andersson’s astoundingly formal world building, erecting life-sized dioramas that trap pale, lethargic characters in Edward Hopper-style paintings. There is a complete absence of in-scene editing, and in its place we find a consistent dedication to wide, static shots with a remarkable depth of field, often extending highly stylised sets far into the distance where background figures carry out their day-to-day routines. At its most absurd, this manifests as a procession of flagellating businessmen trudging their way through the perpetual congestion, hoping to find atonement through self-punishment like the masochistic monks from The Seventh Seal. Even when life beyond the immediate setting isn’t visible though, the noise of road rage and car horns can often be heard from just outside enclosed walls, rooting these trivial, woeful tales within a common dystopia.

*Detail in Andersson’s world building, calling back to the masochistic monks of The Seventh Seal with this procession of businessmen and women whipping themselves through the city’s busy streets.*

Perhaps the only thing holding Andersson’s film back from total melancholy is its sharply attuned, deadpan satire, carried by his idiosyncratic ensemble and revealing a civilisation that has reached a point of unsalvageable stagnation. Comparisons to Jacques Tati and Wes Anderson’s playful mockeries of modern society are apt, especially in their meticulous manufacturing of eccentric structures to speak for their monotonal characters, though Andersson’s humour possesses a far darker edge than either. Without physical slapstick or whimsical montages driving its narrative forward, Songs from the Second Floor languishes in the uncomfortable silence of awkward interactions, washed out by drab, desaturated colour palettes sapped of life.

*Truly pathetic characters – we pity them as they grovel at the feet of their superiors, and as others quietly watch on from their offices.*

*Surreal perfection in Andersson’s mise-en-scène, establishing the flat, low-contrast visual style that he would continue to stick to from this point on in his career.*

Although Federico Fellini’s cinematic chaos does not draw so clean a parallel, Andersson’s condemnation of an indulgent, undignified culture reveals this influence to be particularly potent. Much like the Italian director’s later films, Andersson’s surreal imagery and episodic narrative unveil the egocentric irony in human suffering, manifesting as miserable self-pity afflicting an entire civilisation. When strangers are beaten up in public, injured in a botched magic trick, and stuck in a train door, bystanders in Songs from the Second Floor watch on with blank expressions, preferring to keep a distance from those who desperately need help.

*A formal dedication to vignettes, each played with absurd deadpan as bystanders observe the suffering of others from a neutral distance.*

Then again, perhaps it is the very fact that everyone is occupied by their own personal burdens which keeps them from stepping forward. In a particularly Felliniesque metaphor, Andersson stages what seems like hundreds of travellers at an airport terminal dragging overloaded trolleys of luggage towards the counters, where hostesses wait with professional apathy. The soundscape of desperate groans almost sounds like a hellish torture chamber, and although the distance to cover is minor, it feels like an eternity away as bags begin to topple over.

*Perhaps the single greatest shot from Andersson’s entire filmography, extending this airport terminal deep into the background as passengers struggle with their towers of luggage.*

Clearly everyone has their crosses to bear, and for some in Songs from the Second Floor, these manifest quite literally. If Andersson centres any character in this expansive tapestry of miserable lives, then it must be the middle-aged salesman Kalle who burns down his furniture business, attempts to claim insurance on it, and decides to join his old friend Uffe hustling religious paraphernalia. Lugging a crucifix-shaped package through train stations and cafeterias, he expects to find some financial or spiritual salvation, albeit one which never materialises. Religion is reduced to nothing more than a cheap commercial enterprise, and when he decides to seek genuine solace in a church, even the vicar is too preoccupied by his own troubles to consider the needs of his congregation.

“At the end of your wits… so who isn’t? I’ve been trying to get my house sold for four years.”

*Glimpses of spiritual transcendence as train passengers burst out into an operatic chorus, while Kalle remains woefully apathetic.*

*Andersson’s satirical critique of religion evokes Luis Buñuel, cutting into the con artists and salesmen who turn a profit on religious paraphernalia.*

This is not to say that Kalle’s world is absent of mysticism or empathy. The aggrieved entrepreneur is simply too blind or deaf to appreciate it, even ignoring the melancholy, operatic chorus sung by surrounding commuters on a train. Their shared sorrows swell in beautiful harmony, carrying over to the following scene in a diner as well where Andersson reveals just how far this song of suffering resonates. Neither does Kalle grasp the divine enlightenment that his son Thomas has been blessed with, yet which has tragically condemned him to a psychiatric hospital. “Beloved be the one who sleeps on his back,” he proclaims, quoting Peruvian poet César Vallejo, before continuing to exalt all those overlooked by a complacent society.

“Beloved be the bald man without a hat.

Beloved be the one who catches a finger in the door.”

This poetry is the reason Thomas has gone insane, Kalle claims, so it is ironic indeed that each visit ends with the salesman being forcibly removed by hospital staff for his furious breakdowns. The resemblance Thomas’ words bear to the Beatitudes from the Sermon on the Mount is certainly no coincidence here. He is a Christlike figure, albeit one who has been debilitated by a culture which sees his wisdom and calls it madness. He is no Son of God, but neither was Jesus, Thomas asserts – he was simply a man who was tormented to death for his kindness.

*Thomas is the closest thing to a pure, moral figure that this film has, confined to a psychiatric hospital and called mad for his offbeat wisdom.*

Still, the guilt which lingers beneath society’s thin veneer of apathy cannot be entirely ignored. The only time Andersson’s camera moves in Songs from the Second Floor is at the point where reality almost entirely breaks down, seeing it track backwards along a train platform where a man with bleeding wrists follows Kalle. This is Sven, we soon learn, a man who Kalle once owed money to yet eventually took his own life before being repaid. Kalle was not directly responsible for his death, though he sheepishly confesses to feeling relieved upon hearing the news.

Not far behind Sven is another spectre, though this one manifests as a far greater trauma in European history. Approaching Kalle with a noose around his neck, a young Russian who was hung by Nazi Germany is looking for his similarly deceased sister, hoping to apologise for his transgressions. Kalle has never met him before, yet still he feels a sense of shame as the foreign ghost stalks him through the city. “You’ll have to forgive me, but I’m afraid I can’t help you because I can’t understand what you’re saying,” Kalle weakly apologises as the boy pleads to him in his own language, though this is evidently little more than a convenient excuse for an embarrassingly disinterested man.

*Echoes of European history haunt Kalle as ghosts, underscoring Sweden’s national guilt.*

When all is said and done, was Sweden’s diplomatic policy of neutrality in World War II not a radical position in itself, granting themselves permission to sit by as millions died across the Baltic Sea? Elsewhere at a nursing home, the staff who celebrate a senile general’s 100^th birthday ignore his Nazi salute and deluded greeting to Hitler’s right-hand man, as Andersson further characterises a nation whose self-proclaimed tolerance is also its greatest flaw. These ghosts may fade into obscurity, but they never truly disappear as long as the living refuse to address the torment they have inflicted and suffered, leaving the dead to amass an overwhelming force in the film’s closing minutes.

*Nazis live on in modern day Sweden, shoved away into nursing homes so society doesn’t have to think too much about them.*

Just outside the city’s borders, Kalle meets with his friend Uffe, who has given up his business. “How can you make money on a crucified loser?” he grumbles, hurling crosses onto a pile of junk. Religion has apparently fallen so far from the mainstream, no one even is even seeking the empty promises of its cheap icons. We can’t quite make out the faces of the people trudging towards him in the far distance, but when Uffe finally leaves, Kalle is quick to identify the leader.

“Why are you chasing me, Sven? Why are you tormenting me? I can’t make it up to you. How could I do that? You have no relatives. What can I do? Sven! Can we not treat each other decently? Forget it all. The past… just look ahead!”

The trash that he throws is enough to scare some off, and yet a hundred more rise from the earth, continuing their zombie-like march. Kalle whimpers, resigned to his fate, and though Andersson does not linger on this shot long enough to reveal what that might be, we do finally recognise the girl at the front.

*An eerie, ambiguous conclusion as the sacrificed girl leads a crowd of ghosts to Kalle, forcing a terrifying confrontation with his own conscience.*

After all, how could we ever forget that chilling image of a blindfolded child being led to her death along a cliff top? Like Sven and the Russian boy, Anna’s spirit continues to haunt those who call society’s evils ‘necessary’ and shirk moral responsibility. It wasn’t long after her demise that those who bore witness tried to drown their guilt at a hotel bar, we recall. There, an elderly aristocrat vomits on the countertop, a woman struggles to pick herself up off the floor, and one man’s demented cry eerily spreads through the establishment. “Where are we?” they collectively moan in confused discord, as if coming to the realisation that this modern hell has been nightmarishly fashioned from the reality they once believed in. As far we are concerned in Songs from the Second Floor too, this existential question might as well echo across the entire city.

*This city is a nightmarish limbo, designed by those who wield absolute power yet ironically wonder where it all went wrong.*

Songs from the Second Floor is currently streaming on The Criterion Channel.

Juror #2 (2024)

Clint Eastwood | 1hr 54min

When expecting father Justin Kemp hit something on a dark road roughly a year ago, he had no reason to believe it was anything other than a deer. He spent the night up to that point drinking alone at the local bar, relapsing into old habits to deal with the grief over a recent miscarriage, though it is a concerned text from his wife Allison which ultimately distracts him from the road. He exits the car to check on the potential casualty, but after scanning the bridge and river below, it appears that whatever he hit has disappeared into the darkness.

As such, the eerie alignment between details of the criminal case he has been summoned to serve as jury for and his own accident that cold, rainy night seems like a cruel twist of fate. Clint Eastwood’s parallel editing deftly plays out his realisation via flashback, initially through the attorneys’ opening remarks which lay out James Sythe’s alleged murder of his girlfriend Kendall, before revealing that Justin was at the bar during the violent public breakup that preceded it. After James forced her to walk home in the rain, Justin left in his car shortly after – and the later discovery of her body next to the bridge where he supposedly hit a deer appears to confirm his culpability. With the camera hanging on Nicholas Hoult’s face in close-up, moral turmoil begins to stir his conscience, and it is this inner conflict which Juror #2 teases out in its study of stifled, agonising guilt.

It has been many years since Eastwood directed an instant classic like Unforgiven, but the fact that he is still creating quality films is nevertheless a feat for a man going strong in his 90s. Juror #2 thrilling treads that line between honesty and self-preservation, setting up enormous stakes whichever way Justin chooses to go. Should he come clean, he would almost certainly suffer dire legal consequences and lose the chance to be part of his child’s life. Should he stay quiet, he would bear the lifelong burden of knowing an innocent man has suffered in his place. Immense power has been placed in his hands, and with the discerning minds of fellow jurors prying deeper into the truth as well, the matter becomes increasingly complex.

Driven by a feeble moral imperative, Justin is initially the only holdout among his peers to advocate for James’ innocence, despite being unable to openly justify his verdict. Still, the reasonable doubt he instils in others’ minds is enough raise questions, particularly from J.K. Simmons’ fellow juror Harold. When this former homicide detective decides to breach court rules and investigate the crime scene himself, his resolution to find James guilty begins to waver, and is ultimately replaced by an intuitive, cynical suspicion. Although Justin smartly gets him disqualified, the seeds of doubt which he initially planted have sprouted among other jurors, condemning him to reap their poisoned fruits should they be allowed to grow.

Eastwood gathers a talented cast here, integrating their respective talents to drive up the dramatic irony of Justin’s secret. Much like Simmons, Toni Collette possesses a bold screen presence as Faith, the prosecutor whose determination to win this case falters when fresh evidence comes to light. Her interrogation of Allison late in the film sees her come dangerously close to the truth, yet Eastwood wields superb narrative suspense as he resists crossing that line. In the jury room too, what could have been an inert discussion of ideas becomes an active exercise in hypothesising, with the blocking often separating a nervously agitated Justin from his peers.

Although Hoult is largely recognised as a character actor specialising in pompous male egos, Juror #2 proves his ability to slot seamlessly into a leading role, adopting an American accent and raw vulnerability. Beyond the interspersed flashbacks to that fateful night, he continues to unravel Justin’s backstory, revealing a previous car collision that pushed him to his lowest point yet spurred him to start taking responsibility for his actions. As he finds himself trying to cover up his guilt in the present day, his principles are arduously tested, undermining the very integrity he soon plans to model as a father. Freedom and redemption are mutually exclusive within this moral quandary, but as pressures from all sides mount with grim, inexorable foreboding, Eastwood rivetingly raises the question of whether either are truly attainable at all.

Juror #2 is currently available to rent or buy on Apple TV, YouTube, and Amazon Video.

Sinners (2025)

Ryan Coogler | 2hr 17min

Music is a supernatural force that can pierce the veil between life and death, we are told in the opening minutes of Sinners, and on the local juke joint’s opening night it is apparent that the local preacher’s boy is specially ordained to make that mystical connection. This Southern Gothic tale is deeply infused with the spirit of blues, thrumming with vibrant, soulful twang of guitars, but as Sammie takes the stage and rouses the crowd, we also witness a cosmic revolution unfold.

No longer is this bar simply a place for African Americans of 1930s Mississippi Delta to dance, drink, and party with their people. It transcends time itself, beginning with an electric guitarist joining the bluesy vocals and reverberating acoustic instruments, before pulling back to reveal a DJ dropping hip-hop beats. Still Ryan Coogler’s camera continues to fly around the joint as Sammie’s act summons spirits of the past and future, integrating tribal drumming with hip-hop and ragtime, while Crip Walks and masked Zaouli dancers fill the space with anachronistic energy. This may be a celebration of Black music from across history, but the Beijing Opera performers who join Chinese couple Bo and Grace suggest an even broader appreciation of cultural expression, folding in its many forms upon a single, eternal moment.

The highpoint of Sinners and Coogler’s career – a floating tracking shot transports the juke joint into another realm where spirits of the past and future join the patrons in cultural celebration. It is a tremendously inspired stroke of surrealism, burning the building to the ground as the living and dead continue to dance, and time folds in on itself.

*Those who have lost touch with their roots watch on in malicious envy, planning to seize this power for themselves.*

It is no wonder why vampire Remmick longs to exploit Sammie’s mystical power to reawaken departed ancestors. Sinners remains relatively faithful to traditional vampire lore, depicting them as predatory creatures who have disrupted the natural course of life and death, while a brief glimpse of Native American hunters hints at a larger battle between spiritual forces at play. Just as these creatures have lost their humanity, Remmick has grown distant from his Irish origins during his time in America, making the purity of expression he witnesses in Sammie’s musical ability all the more awe-inspiring. Assimilation was the cost of freedom for Remmick’s people, and now as he seeks to similarly absorb Sammie’s community, Sinners’ most remarkable metaphor takes chilling form. Subsumed in another collective, these undead monsters lose the sun, their souls, and their culture – but if this assimilation also guarantees African Americans an escape from prejudice, could it possibly be a fair trade?

Coogler has certainly proven his hand at directing and elevating franchise films over the years, though it is no surprise that his first truly original story also marks his finest achievement to date, giving him a platform to explore his most eclectic artistic interests. Michael B. Jordan remains reliably by his side, cast in his most impressive role to date as twins Smoke and Stack who ran from the gangs of Chicago, and have now returned to their hometown in the Mississippi Delta. Jim Crow racism is rampant in the South, but it is better to deal with the devil they know, the brothers reason, not yet grasping the true depth of its inhuman evil.

*Coogler recreates 1930s Mississippi in his production design with careful attention to detail, capturing the scope and sprawl of this setting in Leone-like establishing shots.*

Sinners is a superb addition to Michael B. Jordan’s resume, continuing his collaborations with Coogler as twin brothers Smoke and Stack – rich characters whose return to the Mississippi Delta reunites old friends and lovers.

The juke joint that Smoke and Stack intend to open is an opportunity for them to assemble old friends, family, and lovers, and Coogler is patient with the introduction of each, building out his ensemble with depth and vitality. Hailee Steinfeld plays Stack’s old flame Mary with subtle internal conflict, uncertain of her place as a one-eighth Black woman who passes as white, and drawing parallels with Bo and Grace whose outsider status similarly ally them with the African American community. Weathered pianist Delta Slim, discerning occultist Annie, and loyal field worker Cornbread continue to round out the supporting players here, so that by the time bodies start dropping and rising from the dead, the stakes of losing these characters are agonisingly high.

The time Coogler spends patiently building out each supporting character in the opening act is well spent, with each playing a crucial role later on – Mary as Stack’s romantic weakness, Annie as the occult expert, and Cornbread as the joint’s dependable bouncer.

The structural similarities that Sinners bears to From Dusk Till Dawn are notable, dividing the film in distinct halves that separate the drama from the bloody horror, though Coogler’s narrative goes down far smoother than Robert Rodriguez’s unevenly plotted spectacle. The prologue lands us in the immediate aftermath of the carnage, hinting at the imminent terror through smash cuts to single-frame flashbacks, and promising us that it will all be worth the wait – not that we need such a guarantee with characters this compelling. If there is any cinematic setback in the first act, it is those stretches of stylistic inactivity behind the camera, but the gorgeous period décor and natural light which permeates Coogler’s scenery nevertheless imbues this slow-burn setup with an enchanting effervescence.

*Coogler’s prologue lands us in a rural church of spotless white mise-en-scène, disorientating us with smash cut flashbacks to the previous night.*

The breathtaking landscapes of rural Mississippi bask in the magic hour, and it is not just there for show – it is upon this brink between day and night where the setting’s true danger reveals itself.

Sure enough, our climactic arrival at Smoke and Stack’s juke joint is more than a worthy payoff, heralded by the crescendo of Ludwig Göransson’s acoustic blues and its gradual layering of heavy rock instruments. Here, the golden lighting sinks in an ambient warmth, recreating the spirited atmosphere of a live concert as singer Pearline stomps, belts, and enraptures the audience with her dynamic stage presence.

*Coogler’s musical set pieces bask in the golden warmth of the juke joint, lit with lanterns and bulbs strung across the ceiling.*

Equally astounding though is Göransson’s musical pivot at this point, ushered in with the unwelcome arrival of Remmick and his recently converted minions. There is a cold, shiny glint in their eyes as they approach the juke joint, seeking the invitation they require to enter. Their jaunty bluegrass tune comedically shatters the tension with the corniest possible rendition of ‘Pick Poor Robin Clean’, though once its incongruity settles, we recognise the menace in its soulless appropriation of a classic blues standard. Remmick’s later performance of Irish folk ballad ‘Rocky Road to Dublin’ is a far more sincere representation of the threat he poses, effectively clashing cultures through divergent musical traditions, and threatening the erasure of everything the juke joint represents. Never has a jig been so menacing as it is here, yet Jack O’Connell also imbues it with an impassioned longing, grasping at the remnants of a life he lost long ago and now seeks to revive through assimilation and bloodshed.

*A cold, menacing glint in the eye of Coogler’s vampires.*

*The juke joint becomes a sanctuary for the living, keeping out the evil which lays siege to its defences.*

*The most menacing Irish jig you will ever witness, battling foreign cultures through clashing musical expressions and traditions.*

This use of music to represent the division and fusion of cultures weaves incredible formal creativity through Sinners, though Coogler continues to push its conflict further as he draws it into the heart of the film, fracturing Smoke and Stack’s intimate fraternal bond. This archetype of warring brothers reaches far back to the biblical story of Cain and Abel, and Carl Jung’s consideration of doppelgängers as manifestations of one’s inner darkness similarly resonates in Coogler’s vampiric doubles. Hostility and grief bleed through Jordan’s dual performances, but it is also through this split that we see traces of both emerge in each other. Just as humans carry incredible capacity to inflict violence, so too is there a surprising emotional depth to their monstrous counterparts, regretfully aching for reconnection to that which once made them truly alive.

*Coogler composes a Cain and Abel fable set in rural America, establishing virtue and corruption as equals and tragically setting them against each other.*

The mid-credits scene is not one to miss, as it is here where this pivotal recontextualisation takes places, offering sympathy to those who exchanged one freedom for another in the process of social conformity. For human and vampire survivors alike, that devastating night is remembered with nostalgic melancholy over what was both gained and lost, allowing a mutual understanding to flourish among those who went their separate ways. It is there in Coogler’s epic battle of preservation and assimilation that a timeless riff resonates between warring cultural ideals, and it is through their haunting harmonies that Sinners echoes a harrowing, historic struggle for community.

Sinners is currently playing in theatres.

A Serious Man (2009)

The Coen Brothers | 1hr 45min

Tormented by a lack of answers to his perpetual misfortune, Jewish physics professor Larry Gopnik meets with three rabbis in A Serious Man. The first is a young optimist fresh out of college, naively suggesting that Larry simply needs to shift his disposition. “The parking lot here. Not much to see,” he ponders, staring out his office window. “But if you imagine yourself a visitor, somebody who isn’t familiar with these autos and such. Somebody still with a capacity for wonder. Someone with a fresh… perspective.” Larry’s frustration with his frivolous metaphor is plain to see.

The second rabbi chooses to share an anecdote from a member of his synagogue – a dentist bewildered by the Hebrew scripture he finds engraved on the teeth of a non-Jewish patient. Driven to uncover what this could mean and how it got there, the dentist pursued the mystery to all ends, and eventually approached the rabbi to hear his insight. “So what did you tell him?” Larry eagerly asks, only to be met with curt indifference.

“Is it relevant?”

Still searching for a shred of guidance, Larry does not even make it all the way into the office of the final and most senior rabbi. He is busy, the secretary tells him, despite our view of the clearly unoccupied old man sitting at his desk.

*The first rabbi – a young, naive optimist with nothing to offer but shallow metaphors.*

*The second rabbi – a spinner of yarns who sees life’s mystery, yet lacks the curiosity to pursue answers.*

*The third rabbi – a shrivelled old man whose potential wisdom remains just out of reach.*

The fact that this seems like the run-up to a joke with no punchline is absolutely intentional on the Coen Brothers’ behalf, typifying their darkly ironic sense of humour. In these three rabbis, we find three answers that religion commonly gives to tough philosophical questions, including one total non-response. There is no grand revelation that inspires or consoles us. Instead, we find a mirror to the long, elaborate setup that is Larry’s life, prompting us to similarly ask – what is all this leading to? Is there a guiding hand behind the breakdown of his marriage to Judith, his brother’s legal woes, and his son’s troubles at Hebrew school? And if so, why must this suffering be inflicted on a man who by most accounts is a relatively good person?

*Surrounded by books in the mise-en-scène, and yet none of these volumes can answer Larry’s burning spiritual questions.*

A magnificent frame – Larry is quite literally overwhelmed by figures and vharts in his attempt to understand the cosmos. He is a man of science, yet he remains deeply unsatisfied by his worldly knowledge.

That Larry makes a career out of searching for meaning through numbers certainly complements this existential character study too, and is perfectly distilled in his lecture on the Schrödinger’s cat thought experiment, suggesting that two conflicting states of being may simultaneously exist until they are observed. He is a man of both science and faith, and as far as he is aware, God both exists and does not. The mise-en-scène surrounds him with books in his attorney’s office and shrinks him beneath a colossal blackboard of equations, but all the information in the world cannot point to a simple yes or no answer.

The film as a whole is no great cinematographic triumph from Roger Deakins, yet in moments like these he draws a clean minimalism through Larry’s cookie-cutter neighbourhood and local synagogue, then every so often tips it off balance with canted angles, hazy drug trips, and surreal nightmares that bleed into reality. The discomfort is pervasive, eroding our trust in the security of Larry’s day-to-day existence, and prompting us to adopt his tentative doubt. Perhaps it would be comforting to believe in God, but then why is he being punished so cruelly? If there really is no sense to it all, how can he reckon with the random whims of pure chaos?

*Oblique shots and high angles in the local synagogue, tipping the clean, orderly setting off-balance.*

*Much like his son, Larry turns to drugs, and Deakins’ visuals hazily shift with his reality.*

Although Larry’s journey from one tribulation to the next is not difficult to follow, the formal intricacies and allusions to the Book of Job place A Serious Man among the Coen Brothers’ most profoundly enigmatic works. We are condemned to the same ungratifying search for answers as our protagonist, so the decision to set the first scene of his story far outside his perspective is a bold one indeed. This prologue grounds the film in 19^th century Jewish folklore, recounting the tale of a married couple faced with a terrifying uncertainty. Is the man they have invited into their house truly human, or rather a dybbuk – that is, an evil spirit in disguise? After the wife stabs the visitor, he wanders outside into the snow, leaving this question frighteningly ambiguous. If these are Larry’s ancestors and the old man was indeed a dybbuk, then perhaps this is the source of the curse which would ruin his life over a century later. If the visitor was a living being, maybe our protagonist is just a very unlucky man.

*The Coen Brothers’ haunting prologue plays out an ambiguous fable foreshadowing Larry’s spiritual uncertainty, as well as his incredible misfortune.*

From there, the Coen Brothers weave a tapestry of subplots through A Serious Man that mirror Larry’s identity in others. In his wife’s lover, Sy, he finds the well-respected “serious man” he wishes he could be – albeit one who coincidentally perishes in a road accident at the exact moment Larry crashes his own car. In his brother Arthur, he sees an even more broken version of himself, to whom he offers the same impractical guidance that others try to give him. As for his son Danny who struggles to fit in at school, there the Coen Brothers model a smaller scale version of his own ethical dilemmas. Is Larry justified in sleeping with his neighbour and experimenting with marijuana, now that he has split from his wife? What about accepting a monetary bribe from another student in exchange for a passing grade? If he is already being unjustly chastened by God, surely crossing these moral boundaries won’t make difference – and if God doesn’t exist, then who really cares?

*Arthur’s brokenness reveals the true depths of Larry’s despair, as well as his inability to help either himself or his brother.*

*Danny wanders through adolescence without moral certainty or guidance, and as we see in his father, answers don’t come easily with age.*

It is along this line of thinking though that Larry lets his sense of accountability gradually wear away in A Serious Man, spurred on by a helpless passivity. Danny’s subscription to the Columbia Record Club under his father’s name isn’t exactly fair, yet Larry is still responsible for making the overdue payments anyway. He reasons that he shouldn’t be punished for not doing anything, but since new vinyls are automatically mailed without customer intervention, it is precisely his inaction that has landed him in this situation.

The more we begin to recognise this dysfunctional trait in Larry, the more we see how his inclination to dwell in self-pity is at least partly responsible for many of his other problems too. He did not need to move out of his family home without standing his ground, and neither did he need to give into the pressure of paying for Sy’s funeral. Michael Stuhlbarg’s sheepish demeanour embodies every bit of this unassertive meekness, barely pushing his soft, reedy voice past a moderate speaking volume even when he shouts. Instead, he focuses all his anger at a God whose old-fashioned retribution seems ill-fitting to his upstanding lifestyle, and who conveniently isn’t present to verbally retaliate.

*A Serious Man put Michael Stuhlbarg on the map, playing to his strengths as an immensely introspective actor who can communicate entire thought processes through a simple facial expression.*

If there is a divine message to be found anywhere in A Serious Man, then it is ironic that it should come from the reclusive senior rabbi who previously declined a meeting with Larry. Instead, it is Danny who is chosen to receive his cryptic wisdom, delivered in the form of song lyrics.

“When the truth is found to be lies,

And all the hope within you dies… then what?”

Even those who aren’t familiar with ‘Somebody to Love’ by Jefferson Airplane would recognise these words from the film’s recurring musical motif. Its urgent rhythms accompany Larry’s philosophical journey with a raw, driving intensity, yet still he overlooks his life’s missing purpose hidden plainly in the song’s very title. As if to answer the question he has posed Danny, the rabbi ends their brief meeting with a simple yet valuable instruction.

“Be a good boy.”

*Finally, we hear the esoteric wisdom from the third rabbi – though Larry is not the one to receive it, and its meaning is far from apparent.*

Living with such uncertainty, is this moral imperative not the best we can do? If every one of Larry’s trials has been a test of his integrity, then has he succeeded? The Coen Brothers rarely give us the endings we expect to their films, yet with the mighty coincidence that turns up at Larry’s doorstep the moment he takes his first truly sinful action, they once again prove why they are among their generation’s best screenwriters. Drowning in legal fees, the bribe his student left on his desk begins to look very attractive, and no more than a second after he decides to give into temptation does the phone ring with dire news on the other end.

*A turning point for Larry as he transgresses his own moral boundaries – pain, desperation, and self-loathing in his expression.*

The tornado which simultaneously approaches Danny’s school only compounds our suspicion that Larry is being punished for a relatively minor transgression, once again suggesting a visitation of the father’s sins upon his children, and referencing the Book of Job where God appeared to his tormented follower as a whirlwind. The Coen Brothers’ parallel editing evocatively binds both the fatal disease and natural disaster together as a chilling, fateful condemnation, yet still we must question – isn’t this totally disproportionate to the sin that was committed? Must Larry now endure the ultimate catastrophe for cutting a moral corner that anyone under similar duress would also disregard?

*Biblical symbolism as a whirlwind threatens to end the life of Larry’s offspring – retribution sent from the heavens.*

Or is this merely a convenient explanation we would like to apply to the chaotic winds of chance? After all, those with who listen closely may pick up on the phone’s muffled ring first sounding immediately before Larry changes his student’s grade, even though the sharp interruption of the second ring is the one we consciously notice. It seems a minor difference, but if we are considering cause and effect in broad ontological terms, then it bears incredible weight on how we view the universe. Maybe Larry was always going to meet this unremarkable end, and maybe living a moral life won’t save any of us from what’s coming. Without any firm assurances though, the Coen Brothers simply leave us to dwell in A Serious Man’s eerie, senseless ambiguity. When all is said and done, perhaps being a “good boy” is the best we can do with what little we’ve got.

A Serious Man currently available to rent or buy on Apple TV, YouTube, Amazon Video.

Queer (2024)

Luca Guadagnino | 2hr 16min

Early in Queer, we delve into writer William Lee’s nightmare of his friends in prison, an abandoned baby, and a naked woman bisected along her torso. The symbolism opaquely hints at the guilt harboured by William Burroughs, the real-life novelist who based this troubled character off himself, though it is his response to this woman questioning his sexuality which articulates the film’s most layered metaphor.

“I’m not queer. I’m disembodied.”

The separation between Lee’s self-loathing thoughts and pleasure-seeking instincts drives a wedge into the core of his identity as a gay man, and is further reflected in Luca Guadagnino’s dissociative direction, often letting the writer’s mind escape his physical being. Early in his relationship with the much younger Eugene, Lee’s yearning is often rendered as a transparent, ghostly version of himself reaching out to caress his face or lean on his shoulder, though it also manifests even more darkly in his indulgent vices. Drugs and alcohol offer easy escapes from the shame of his sexuality, and even sex too ironically satiates that desire for euphoric sensation as it simultaneously feeds that underlying guilt.

*Guadagnino calls back to silent cinema techniques with his double exposure effects, ethereally manifesting Lee’s longing.*

The 1950s was not a particularly hospitable time for the gay community, yet there was also a certain level of privilege that came with living as a white man in Mexico City which Lee and his similarly ostracised friends use as a social counterbalance. This circle of outsiders is relatively insular, so when Eugene arrives at their local bar flirting with both men and women, Lee is instantly drawn to his mysterious allure. This is a man who hides his emotions so well that others question whether he really is gay, striking an intense contrast against our verbose protagonist’s overbearing tendency to persistently chase interactions. When Lee leans in, Eugene often hesitantly pulls away, making the few moments of organic connection between all the more valuable.

*Vibrant set designs lifted a layer from the real world, saturated with colour yet often underscoring Lee’s loneliness.*

There was never any doubting Daniel Craig’s talents during his time as James Bond, though the performance he delivers here as the eloquently eccentric Lee is his most layered yet, leaning into the weariness of a middle-aged man whose existential insecurities are only amplified by his ageing. He inhabits a world that is one level removed from our reality, filling in the malaise with the bold, bright colours that often decorate Pedro Almodóvar’s melodramas. Within the lush purple and red lighting of a hotel bedroom and the yellow décor of his apartment, his inner life is given passionate outward expression, though Guadagnino’s stylistic achievement does not end there either. From a distance, the city is often whimsically rendered through miniatures, making cars look like toys and buildings like dollhouses. In an ending that thoughtfully borrows from the final act of 2001: A Space Odyssey, this visual motif pays off when Lee hallucinates another version of himself inside a diorama of the hotel where he is staying, further splitting his mind and his body between entirely different realms.

*Guadagnino’s use of miniatures feeds into Lee’s feeling of disembodiment – the world doesn’t seem quite right, driving a wedge between his mind and reality.*

*A dream sequence inspired by 2001: A Space Odyssey with multiple versions of Lee occupying the same space.*

*Inside the surreal dollhouse hotel, drenched in deep red.*

The height of Queer’s surrealism though arrives when Lee and Eugene venture into the deep jungles of South America, seeking a plant which is said to grant telepathic abilities. It is no wonder why Lee should be so obsessed with such a prospect – if the rumours are true, then perhaps this higher form of communication is a treatment for his emotional isolation, allowing a union of souls which regular conversation and sex cannot attain.

*A search for enlightenment through experimentation with hallucinogens, transcending the restraints of the physical world.*

Although Guadagnino largely maintains the novella’s literary quality through his chapter breaks, he takes creative liberties in departing from its depiction of the drug trip here. Where the source material saw Lee disappointed by its underwhelming effects, the film submits to the psychedelia, having him and Eugene literally vomit out their hearts before exposing their truest feelings. “I’m not queer,” Eugene asserts, formally echoing Lee’s earlier words as his body fades from view during their hallucinogenic drug trip. “I’m just disembodied.” Indeed, these two men have never been more detached from their physical beings, and have never been more in synchrony as their bodies grotesquely merge into one. Limbs move beneath fused skin as they dance, and for one precious night, Lee truly escapes his shame and transcends his loneliness.

*Body horror and surrealism as Lee and Eugene merge into a single being, making a euphoric yet fleeting connection between divided souls.*

This drug is not some portal into some other place though, their dealer Dr. Cotter is sure to warn them. It is a mirror into one’s soul, offering a glimpse at whatever desires and fears lurk beneath their consciousness. Its euphoria is short-lived, particularly for Eugene who wakes up the next morning anxious and eager to leave. It is a terrifying thing losing a part of oneself to another person, and when faced with the truth of his relationship with Lee, he sees its toxicity for what it is.

The recurring centipede is one of Guadagnino’s more cryptic symbols in Queer, and its unsettling appearance in Lee’s dream of Eugene many years after their breakup continues to hold him in an unresolved state of suspension. Just as it first appeared around the neck of a one-night stand, the centipede now marks Eugene as another fleeting lover, manifesting the real-life Burroughs’ self-confessed fear and cherished literary motif. Lee’s story is unfinished in Guadagnino’s eyes, leaving him a half-complete man torn between dualities – shame and indulgence, connection and independence, mind and body. As long as he strives to separate rather than reconcile these parts of his identity, he will continue to live in a world of dissociative nightmares, spiritually and psychologically divorced from himself. Through the colourful, eerie patterns that Guadagnino consequently uncovers in Lee’s character, Queer delivers an unflinching fever dream that denies easy answers to his internal contradictions, constantly unravelling his capacity for love by his fear of being seen.

*Guadagnino’s narrative is brimming with symbolic motifs, particularly borrowing the unsettling centipede from Burrough’s own works as a manifestation of Lee’s insecurity.*

Queer is currently available to rent or buy on Apple TV and Amazon Video.

Barton Fink (1991)

The Coen Brothers | 1hr 56min

The hotel that Broadway playwright Barton Fink moves takes residence in when he gets his big Hollywood break offers a deeply unsettling welcome to 1940s Los Angeles. The countless shoes lined up outside the doors of drab, low-lit corridors would suggest the presence of many other guests, as do the cries and moans that disrupt Fink’s sleep – and yet throughout his time here, most of these people remain entirely unseen. As he sits down to write a screenplay for the newest Wallace Beery wrestling flick, his room’s depressing palette of beiges and reds offer little in the way of inspiration, while the peeling wallpaper and whining mosquito only serve to distract his weary mind.

If there is any saving grace, then it is in that single painting hanging above his desk, depicting a woman sitting on a beach and shielding her eyes from the sun. It does not belong among history’s great works of art, nor does it serve as an all-important commentary on the average working man, which Fink so desperately strives to reflect in his own creative craftsmanship. Nevertheless, it is a vision of freedom beyond this Kafkaesque hellhole he has wound up in, bringing hope even as his patience, sanity, and motivation are agonisingly sapped into oblivion.

*A hotel straight from Franz Kafka’s absurdist visions – shoes lined up outside rooms, yet few guests are visibly seen.*

*Drab, beige production design, making an enemy of the writer’s imagination.*

*An emblem of freedom, taunting and inspiring Fink from above his desk as his patience, sanity, and motivation are slowly sapped.*

Not that Fink is necessarily a complete victim in these bizarre circumstances, even if he would like to present himself as an innocuous straight man. In this anxious writer, the Coen Brothers deliver one of their most idiosyncratic characters, fraught with all the arrogance and neurosis of a Woody Allen protagonist. His giant glasses and shock of frizzy hair distinguish him as a New York intellectual in this foreign land, and John Turturro’s agitated performance carries a haughty self-regard which sets him up for failure from the start. “I’m a writer, you monsters! I create! I create for a living!” he furiously brags at a dance when his pride is slighted, though a fellow partygoer is quick to shut him down with a blow to the face.

*The hotel lobby too is a strange environment, like a forest of towering greenery.*

Perhaps then he will find a home among the producers and artists of Hollywood, though there too the Coen Brothers thwart him with an ensemble of eccentric egos whose objectives and principles rarely align with his own. The enormous expectations that overbearing executive Jack Lipnick places on Fink are far more burdensome than encouraging, and novelist W.P. Mayhew’s exploitation of his trusted secretary deeply disappoints his biggest fan. Audrey has been ghost writing her boss’ recent scripts, Fink is shocked to discover, while he squanders his gift with alcoholism and idleness. What once looked like a haven for America’s creative types now reveals itself to be little more than a corrupt, money-driven business, binding its idealists within chains wrought by unconscionable contracts and poor wages.

*1940s Los Angeles is a foreign world to Fink, rich with eccentric characters, bizarre obstacles, and soul-destroying exploitation.*

As peculiar as Fink’s neighbour Charlie Meadows may be, he initially seems the most down-to-earth of the supporting players in this film. Played by John Goodman with affable warmth, he befriends Fink early on, emerging as the only other hotel guest to reveal his face. Between the two, the Coen Brothers write dialogue that crackles with self-deprecating irony, seeing the young writer proclaim a desire to write about real issues while interrupting Charlie’s attempts to share his own apparently authentic experiences. Fink’s belief that art must reflect reality is not only at the core of his struggle in Hollywood, but a notion that is directly undercut by the very story he is living in, warping Barton Fink into a remarkably absurdist work of metafiction.

*An affable performance from John Goodman as Fink’s only friend – apparently.*

After all, the longer we spend in this hotel, the more it seems to become a harrowing embodiment of our protagonist’s own tortured mind. Roger Deakins’ camera spirals in overhead shots and romantically drifts away from Fink’s sexual encounter with Audrey, heightening every emotion that passes through this room. The biggest departure from the ordinary though comes when he awakes one morning to find her dead body next to him in bed, bleeding out onto the floor and implicating him in a murder he didn’t commit. Charlie’s assistance in helping to dispose the body should be the first clue that Fink’s closest friend is secretly a notorious serial killer, but once he disappears under the guise of visiting New York and kills Mayhew as well, it is far too late to escape accusations of collusion.

*Overhead shots as Fink grows paranoid in his hotel room – the nightmare warps and twists.*

*Turturro’s finest performance to date, agitated and neurotic like a self-loathing Woody Allen protagonist.*

It is somewhat ironic then that only in the wake of incredible tragedy does Fink’s writer’s block lift, unleashing a torrent of creative inspiration in a montage of quick dissolves – not that Lipnick is terribly impressed with the results. According to him, Fink’s manuscript is nothing more than a “fruity movie about suffering,” and the option to leave Hollywood altogether is rapidly squashed by a reminder of the unbreakable contract which brought him here.

“Anything you write will be the property of Capitol Pictures. And Capitol Pictures will not produce anything you write. Not until you grow up a little. You ain’t no writer, Fink. You’re a goddamn write-off.”

This paradoxical arrangement is the ultimate punishment for an artist such as Fink, whose greatest talent is now effectively rendered useless. All hopes for a prosperous career in the film industry are gone, and there is no more concealing the hellish underworld which lurks beneath Hollywood’s superficial dream machine, as the hotel finally transforms into a blazing inferno. Flames arc up behind Goodman as he returns to eliminate the detectives on his tail, and suddenly he appears more terrifying than ever, becoming a shotgun-wielding devil who menacingly booms Fink’s own pretentious words back at him.

“Look upon me! I’ll show you the life of the mind!”

*The devil reveals his true face, burning this infernal hotel to the ground.*

Within the spectacle and symbolism, the Coen Brothers reveal the damning truth of Fink’s intellectual hypocrisy that his socially conscious writing could never fully reckon with. To acknowledge one’s own ignorance is to find peace in life’s confounding puzzle box, and perhaps he begins to recognise this as he makes his way down to the beach in the film’s closing minutes, simply savouring rather than questioning the beautiful conundrum he encounters. He does not know anything about this woman other than the fact that she lives completely outside the hell that is Hollywood, and as she sits down on the sand, she inexplicably strikes the exact same pose as the painting from his hotel room. What was once a vision of freedom now manifests by fate before Fink’s very eyes, letting life mimic art rather than forcing its dull contrivances onto our creative escapes and dreams. There is a pleasing harmony found in the elusive formal patterns of Barton Fink, though it is in trying to conquer such mysteries that man’s ego ensures its own downfall, paving the way for a quiet, graceful acceptance of the ineffable.

*The Coen Brothers’ mystifying formal puzzle ties this image back in to Fink’s escape – beautiful, enigmatic poetry.*

Barton Fink is currently available to rent or buy on Apple TV, YouTube, and Amazon Video.

May I ask, why you think Barry did not take the chance to kill Bullingdon? Do you believe it comes…

May I ask why you think Barry did not take the chance to kill Bullingdon? Do you believe it comes…

[…] 13. Bringing Up Baby […]

Where would you place it on the list?

I have to say, Really shocked to see Hero not make the cut