Highly Recommend – Scene by Green

28 Years Later (2025)

Danny Boyle | 1hr 55min

The reports at the end of 28 Days Later suggesting that the ‘infected’ would soon die of starvation were wrong. These zombie-like creatures are no longer simply people driven to their most primal, aggressive instincts by the Rage Virus – they have effectively evolved into their own species by the time we join Lindisfarne’s remote island community in 28 Years Later, feeding off worms when more warm-blooded food sources are scarce. Extraordinarily, there even seem to be signs of culture developing among them, with rituals, family units, and social hierarchies giving structure to their otherwise chaotic existences. It is enough to make an observer pause in wonder at the sheer persistence of life, though not for so long that one might hang around and risk their own.

Danny Boyle’s return to the horror series which redefined the zombie genre is very welcome, shifting back to his cinematic strengths that were absent in the disappointingly milquetoast Yesterday. This is a filmmaker whose passion bleeds from his craftsmanship, building upon the gritty kineticism of the digital camcorders he experimented with in 28 Days Later, and turning to iPhones as the main tool to recapture that raw immediacy. Lightweight film technology has improved vastly since then, now allowing for a higher-resolution image, yet 12-year-old Spike’s journey to the perilous mainland is nevertheless well-served by this handheld, guerilla-style shooting. Through his coming-of-age, he must confront a broken world stripped of its humanity, but in that visceral chaos 28 Years Later also uncovers a melancholy beauty that so many survivors stubbornly reject.

*Gone are lo-fi digital textures of the preceding films in this series, as Boyle turns instead to higher-resolution iPhones while maintaining a visceral immediacy in his cinematography.*

Local scavenger Jamie has no reason to suspect that a father-son hunting trip to the infested mainland would inspire Spike to run away from home, but upon discovering his dad’s lies and selfishness, that is exactly what he does. His mother Isla has been sick for some time, and whispers of a reclusive doctor spark his desperate hope, so the young boy ultimately sees no other option than to seek him out with her in tow. Intercut with his initial departure are newsreels and clips of wars from throughout history, often featuring children marching in military units, and drawing parallels to his own abrupt transition into adulthood. Boyle does not rely heavily on any musical score here, but rather a passage read from Rudyard Kipling’s haunting poem Boots, transposing the bleak thoughts of a Second Boer War infantryman onto Spike’s expedition. Through the sheer force of repetition, the maddening, hypnotic monotony of the battlefield rises to a panicked urgency, yet never changes its relentless rhythm.

“(Boots—boots—boots—boots—movin’ up and down again!)

There’s no discharge in the war!

Don’t—don’t—don’t—don’t—look at what’s in front of you.

(Boots—boots—boots—boots—movin’ up an’ down again);

Men—men—men—men—men go mad with watchin’ em,

An’ there’s no discharge in the war!”
‘Boots’, Rudyard Kipling (1903)

*Excellent location shooting upon the Holy Island of Lindisfarne, weaving its unique geography into the narrative itself.*

This entire section may very well be the cinematic peak of 28 Years Later. Boyle’s bullet time effect is established here when the infected are killed, freezing the action as the camera rapidly hurtles through space around them, and jump cuts also imbue the action with a grating abrasiveness. Unfortunately, he doesn’t follow through on everything that he sets up, eventually repurposing the use of infrared filters from horrifying cutaways to dream sequences before dropping them altogether. The overall stylistic coherence is somewhat questionable, especially given the handful of other offhand embellishments that aren’t revisited at all, but the film’s dramatic angles and abrasive editing continue to flourish even when his erratic swings falter.

*Boyle uses silhouettes effectively when shooting the infected from a distance, raising tension through these gorgeous long shots.*

Boyle is often far more appreciated for his dynamic pacing than his mise-en-scène, and yet the cinematography of 28 Years Later still finds a wondrous beauty in the natural world, striking haunting silhouettes against the sky and revelling in its surreal aurora borealis. When Spike eventually reaches his destination and meets the elusive Dr Kelson, Boyle also delivers what may be the film’s defining set piece, revealing a forest of bone pillars constructed around a soaring tower of skulls. It is called Memento Mori, the doctor explains, Latin for “Remember you must die.” The sight of this macabre art installation may stoke fear from a distance, yet it also becomes the channel through which Dr Kelson expresses his immense respect for all life, incorporating the remains of infected and uninfected alike – “because they are alike,” he insists.

*A wildly creative set piece at the film’s climax, paying immense respected to the cycles of life and death through this formidable forest of bones.*

Ralph Fiennes is remarkably well-cast in this relatively small role, embodying a gentle eccentricity that has been deprived of human contact for many years, but which has made peace with things no one else dares face. He stands at the centre of the film’s entire ethos, nudging Spike forward in his journey to confront death with grace, birth with tenderness, and transformation with courage. Through the three characters who represent each, Boyle constructs an unusual trinity, echoing those natural rhythms of existence that persist in a world that has seemingly destroyed them.

As Spike reaches this milestone in his maturation, fires and memories intertwine through an ethereal montage set around the Memento Mori shrine, now illuminated as an icon of extraordinary hope and reverence. For all its pulpy violence and bloody horror, 28 Years Later is also surprisingly soulful in its lyrical contemplations, asserting a belief in the soul that transcends whatever version of humanity we abide by. With various references to a mysterious “Jimmy” scattered all throughout this film, the stage is set for an intriguing sequel which Boyle is unfortunately not returning to the director’s chair for, instead passing the considerable responsibility to Nia DaCosta. Regardless of where that future instalment goes though, Boyle’s return to his beloved, existential franchise stands as a fierce act of anthropological curiosity, not so much questioning if humanity can be saved than whether it is still worth defining.

*The tease of ‘Jimmy’ laced through 28 Years Later makes for excellent foreshadowing, fully earning that cliffhanger as we head into the sequel.*

28 Years Later is currently playing in theatres.

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.

Blitz (2024)

Steve McQueen | 2hr

There are countless ways to die in Blitz-era London, and as nine-year-old George makes his way through train yards, thieves’ dens, and bombed out ruins to find his mother Rita, he tragically bears witness to many of them. The streets where children once played have become battlegrounds, and underground stations are now air raid shelters, prone to devastating flash floods that burst through brick walls like overflowing dams. Leaning on new friends may secure temporary relief from the horror, yet it becomes devastatingly apparent that this volatile, war-ravaged environment does not provide fertile ground for enduring companionship.

Besides, for a biracial child such as George, there is another insidious force to contend with in 1940s London. Prejudice has already torn his family apart once when his father was unjustly arrested by police and deported to Grenada. Now with citizens of all backgrounds being forced to shelter with each other, frictions spark heated confrontations, exposing that same intolerance which they are fighting against ironically ingrained within their own culture. What hope there is for a civilisation under attack both externally and from within seems meagre in Blitz, yet there’s a warmth to Steve McQueen’s visual storytelling which nevertheless keeps nostalgic memories of family alive in its survivors.

*Beautifully designed recreations of the London Blitz – McQueen captures the scope and horror with lighting that would make Roger Deakins proud.*

*The thieves den makes for a gorgeously dingy set pieces with the green billiards tables and low-hanging lights, exposing an underbelly of crime capitalising on the destruction of society.*

*Underground stations become air raid shelters, claustrophobic and teeming with life.*

That this handsomely staged war drama lacks the formal punch of McQueen’s previous works has more to do with the high bar he has set for himself than any specific failings here. Blitz does not possess the psychological intensity of Shame, the sprawling narrative of Widows, nor the euphoric intimacy of Lover’s Rock, so the tale of one child’s journey home to his mother after being evacuated from London seems a little straightforward in comparison. Nevertheless, the balance he strikes intercutting George’s odyssey with his mother’s lonely heartache anchors Blitz to their precious bond, even when they are at their most emotionally isolated. As this young boy follows the train tracks through England’s countryside with suitcase in hand, McQueen’s parallel editing delicately tethers them together, with Rita’s singing on the radio lyricising the cosy protection such an enduring love provides in difficult times.

“From sea to sea

I wrap myself in warm, sunny you

Fighting the blues

My winter coat is you.”

*McQueen’s parallel editing ties George and Rita together across long distances, consistently centring their relationship even as they are tugged apart.*

Pre-war flashbacks tease out nuances of this relationship in piano singalongs and elsewhere bask in the red lighting of a jazz club where Rita and her husband dance, though these are not quite consistent enough to establish a larger family portrait. That Rita plays a relatively passive role in this narrative doesn’t help her character development either, so it is fortunate that Saoirse Ronan’s performance embodies the Cockney fighting spirit with incredible tenderness and ferocity, proving a mastery of accents to rival the likes of Meryl Streep and Cate Blanchett. While George traverses dangerous urban landscapes in Blitz, she offers a reassuring emotional foundation, becoming the endpoint to the most treacherous journey he will ever make.

*Saoirse Ronan proves her versatility as Rita, adopting a Cockney accent and embodying London’s working class spirit.*

*Passionate red lighting in the flashback introducing Rita’s husband, far removed from the desolation of the present day story.*

McQueen is sure to land us right alongside him during each ordeal as well, vividly recreating scenes of wartime London with immense attention to detail. Tracking shots navigate restless crowds crammed into claustrophobic shelters, and later immerse us in a jazz club where life thrives in stubborn defiance of the terror unfolding outside. The blocking here is seamlessly coordinated as we descend from the ceiling to the dance floor, follow a waiter into the kitchen, and fluidly latch onto new characters in long takes, soaking up the vibrant nightlife before sirens bring the festivities to a chilling standstill. McQueen’s hard transition into the blackened ruins of this same club a mere few hours later is jarring – though the camera still floats, its panning through the dusty wreckage is deeply sombre, taking in the sight of pale corpses, a splintered piano, and gangs shamefully looting whatever valuables they can find.

*A devastating contrast between this lively, bustling jazz club and its total annihilation in the very next scene – McQueen juxtaposes life and death all throughout Blitz to chilling effect.*

Later when George himself is the one running through streets of burning buildings and emergency workers, Blitz’s blend of elegant camerawork and desolate mise-en-scène evokes similar scenery in the Soviet war drama The Cranes are Flying, drawing parallels between the uprooted, disorientated protagonists of both stories. Where Mikhail Kalatozov’s film threw a lifeline to Veronika in the form of a child though, George finds fleeting companions in the Black people scattered around London, with Nigerian air raid warden Ife and lowly thief Jess becoming a surrogate father and sister. Through them, he is taught crucial life lessons that he was denied the moment his only Black parent was cruelly taken away, enabling him to grasp the nuances of a hegemonic culture that savagely targets outsiders.

Tracking shots through streets in the midst of disaster, immersing us in the disorientating chaos alongside George, and demonstrating McQueen’s impressive talent for coordinating large scale set pieces.

*Ife the air raid warden becomes the father George never knew, guiding him through this complicated world with a calming wisdom.*

*Jess becomes an older sister to George, developing a protective fondness for him even as he is exploited by the gang she works for.*

From the perspective of this nine-year-old boy, what initially appears to be a survival drama gradually proves to be a coming-of-age tale in disguise, exposing him to life’s harshest realities on a historic scale. Like Odysseus returning to Ithaca or Dorothy realising there’s no place like home, George’s attempts to find his mother forge wisdom, compassion, and courage in the fires of war, eventually empowering him to undertake a heroic, character-defining rescue which in turn points him towards salvation. It is our bonds which keep us relentlessly persevering through harrowing times after all, and as Blitz draws together these broken family threads, McQueen tenderly illuminates humanity’s darkest hour with a loving, maternal radiance.

*War-ravaged urban landscapes captured on an epic scale in these establishing shots, shrinking Blitz’s characters within the widespread ruin.*

Blitz is currently streaming on Apple TV+.

Flow (2024)

Gints Zilbalodis | 1hr 25min

It is strongly implied in Flow that humans have long departed the Earth, yet there is hardly a note of melancholy or despair in this lyrical, wordless narrative. To the wild animals who roam its rainforests and mountains, our demise barely earns a passing thought, despite the remnants of crumbled civilisations which surround them. Nature has reclaimed that which we once stole from it, so even when a flash flood wreaks havoc on the land, still there remains a rousing beauty in life’s stubborn perseverance. The journey that one nameless black cat and its assorted companions set out on through gentle and treacherous waters makes for a simple narrative, yet within Flow’s hypnotic minimalism, the organic cycles of this ever-changing ecosystem fall into soothing harmony.

The immersive, fluid animation which Latvian director Gints Zilbalodis uses to compose this incredibly detailed world is made all the more impressive by the relatively small scale of his production. Starting with a tiny budget and relatively small crew, he decided to animate his film in Blender – a free, open-source computer graphics program that Pixar and DreamWorks would never even think of touching. Instead of using storyboards or concept art, Zilbalodis created expansive environments within the software and explored how his animal characters inhabited the space. Rather than aiming for the highly textured aesthetic of mainstream animations as well, he simulates naturalism through their graceful motions, watery environments, and of course that ever-moving virtual camera.

*It is a little reductive to call water a motif given how omnipresent it is in Flow, but Zilbalodis’ choice to open the film with a reflection ingrains it within the cat’s journey from the start.*

*The cinematic strength of Flow lies in its tracking shots, established early as the low-lying camera moves with the cat through the rainforest.*

Zilbalodis picks up the pacing of his camerawork when other animals are thrown into the mix, in this shot passing the cat from the whale to the secretary bird in one swift, seamless take, before dropping it back on the sailing boat.

Above all else, it is this elegant navigation of such a gorgeously constructed world which elevates Flow. Zilbalodis’ camera is as free as we’ve ever seen in an animated film, borrowing a little from modern video games, but perhaps even more so from live-action directors such as Alejandro Iñárritu and Alfonso Cuarón. Long takes often last for several minutes at a time, following the cat in low-lying tracking shots through gardens and valleys, before seamlessly shifting into kinetic action scenes when it is chased by a playful Labrador and threatened by rising flood waters. As the cat helplessly flails, we bob along with it, and when it eventually finds refuge on a boat with a capybara, we too sail with them over calm seas.

Zilbalodis simulates natural light sources with the sun, moon, and rippling reflections on the water, capturing magic hour as beautifully as any live-action director might. Meanwhile, the distant stone pillars are visually set up as this boat’s mysterious destination – a promised land of sorts for these companions.

In the absence of spoken dialogue, Zilbalodis’ active camerawork allows even greater room for visual storytelling, observing the clashing personalities which emerge when new members join this makeshift Noah’s Ark. As the cat’s initial caution gives way to curiosity, the capybara establishes itself as the level-headed leader of the group, keeping a cool demeanour while the obsessive lemur picks a fight with the secretarybird for kicking its precious glass float overboard. These are no anthropomorphised Disney cartoons, but rather heightened illustrations of distinctive animal traits, with Zilbalodis even using their real-life counterparts to provide voicework. That said, the cooperation between these creatures suggests somewhat developed social behaviours, underscoring the interspecies symbiosis which ensures the long-term survival of any ecosystem.

*Even without dialogue or anthropomorphised traits, Flow efficiently distinguishes between each of its non-verbal animal characters, setting them up as allies on this journey across floodwaters.*

Crucial to this equilibrium as well is its biodiversity, which Zilbalodis relishes in his vibrant animation. While marine life flourishes in the flood waters, land mammals and birds manoeuvre its obstacles, adapting their behaviours through trial and error. The differences between these creatures do not set them apart as adversaries though – in fact, the whale which initially saves the cat from drowning proves itself to be an ally on multiple occasions, and Zilbalodis finds vibrant splendour beneath the surface as colourful schools of fish revel in their rapidly expanding home.

*Miyazaki influences in the slight warping of nature, gazing in awe and terror at the mutated whale breaching the surface of this half-submerged ancient city.*

*The cat joins vibrant marine life beneath the surface of this new, confusing world, and Zilbalodis continues to relish its beauty in these gorgeous camera angles and compositions.*

Not much can touch the picturesque grace of the world above though, where simulated natural light from the sun, moon, and bright reflections of both bounce off rippling oceans. The golden glow of magic hour has rarely been recreated so exquisitely in animation too, silhouetting animals against magnificent, picturesque landscapes. While Zilbalodis’ character designs are highly stylised, it is astonishing just how naturalistically detailed their environment is, particularly in the clear blues, swampy greens, and inky blacks of the water. The more we explore it as well, the further Flow departs from any recognisable reality, verging on the surreal as the boat drifts through an ancient, half-submerged city, and makes its way towards a peculiar series of stone pillars leering over the horizon.

*Fascinating world building – the giant cat statue goes unexplained, adding to the mystery of a land without humans yet marked by remnants of civilisation.*

*Auroras in the night sky – superb attention to detail even in throwaway scenes.*

*The sunken city makes for an eerie set piece, paving the path this crew must sail through to reach their destination.*

Hayao Miyazaki’s whimsical, ecological fantasies no doubt exert a significant influence here. The uncanny cat sculptures which litter the rainforest and the whale’s biological mutations suggest a distorted merging of spirituality and nature, and by the time we enter the cat’s first dream, Zilbalodis is explicitly binding both in an ethereal, otherworldly realm. There, menacing visions of the initial flash flood and an ominous, rotating circle of deer haunt the cat, trapping it in circumstances beyond its control. Even more mystical though is the cat and secretarybird’s transcendent experience upon finally arriving at the stone pillars, where they begin to float among bubbles, colours, and stars in a boundless astral plane. Above, a golden portal beckons them into another world, and the sheer beauty of Zilbalodis’ animation makes the prospect of leaving one life for the next seem both immensely soothing and wistful.

*Heavy surrealism in the cat’s first dream, returning to the deer from the earlier stampede now ominously circling it.*

*Jaw-dropping illustrations in Flow’s surreal climax, reaching to the heavens as gravity disappears and colours swirl in the atmosphere.*

After all, this new adventure is simply a part of those natural cycles which Flow underscores with exquisite grace, particularly when that flood which once altered the entire landscape rapidly drains away. Zilbalodis’ narrative is a closed loop, returning a sense of normality to the cat’s land-dwelling companions, yet with it comes a poignant recognition of the equal adversity delivered to those who previously prospered in the endless waters. There is no perfect state of being in nature, Flow illustrates with breath-taking wonder, besides that of a balanced ecosystem which resiliently oscillates between different phases. As we float and soar through a world in perpetual transition, our restless movements match it every step of the way, basking in the chaos which somehow – amazingly – nourishes both the earth and water from which life is born.

*Nature’s equilibrium – life for one brings death for another.*

*An inspired final frame, bookending the narrative with shots of creatures gazing at their watery reflections*

Flow is currently playing in cinemas.

Conclave (2024)

Edward Berger | 2hr

What unfolds behind the closed doors of the Sistine Chapel in the wake of a pope’s death is an esoteric mystery for the public, and a tantalising source of intrigue in Conclave. Those untouchable pillars of virtue who make up the College of Cardinals represent one of the most powerful patriarchies in the world, yet only a fool would believe they are above the messiness of material, bureaucratic machinations. Especially when the time comes for them to decide the future of the Catholic Church, factions solidify into cliques, demanding unwavering loyalty amid profuse uncertainty. The only death that takes place in Conclave is the late Pope’s, and the film’s sole action set piece is merely a footnote within the broader narrative, but the tension that Edward Berger weaves into this historic landmark is rich with all the conspiratorial speculation of an exhilarating political thriller.

Ralph Fiennes’ performance as Dean Thomas Lawrence must also be credited for anchoring this sacred assembly in a weary apprehension, both disillusioned by the church and anxious that its leadership should fall into the wrong hands. With Berger’s camera frequently circling him and hanging on the back of his head in tracking shots, we are placed right in his uneasy state of mind, aggravated further by the deep, staccato strings restlessly driving each scene forward. It seems cruel that he should be the man to preside over the papal conclave given his personal troubles, but still he remains true to his duty. This is a process heavily entrenched in ritual and tradition, and there can be no allowance for unorthodox interferences at any point – so when the candidates themselves are caught up in self-aggrandising games of sabotage, to whom can their followers turn for spiritual guidance?

*Fiennes is weary, anxious, and subdued as he takes on the responsibility of leading the papal conclave, worry lines creasing his forehead.*

Thoughtfully adapted from Robert Harris’ novel, Conclave possesses a screenplay that is more concerned with archetypes than characters, both to its benefit and detriment. These cardinals stand for opposing sides of an internal conflict more than their specific doctrines, vaguely labelled here as reactionaries, moderates, and liberals with little regard to what these practically mean. On one hand, this broadly helps to shape the story into a microcosm of modern politics, rendering their philosophies as secondary to their trivial antagonism. On the other, it struggles to distinguish these characters beyond their shallow alliances, each equally obstinate in their goal to elect whoever best serves their own interests.

*Precision, order, and tradition in Berger’s visuals, from his blocking of large crowds to their resplendent garments.*

While Conclave does not engage deeply with Lawrence’s particular crisis of faith either, it at least positions his perspective as perhaps the most compelling of this religious debate. “Certainty is the great enemy of unity. Certainty is the deadly enemy of tolerance,” he preaches in his homily before the first vote, encouraging his peers to vote for someone who recognises doubt as a great virtue. After all, it is from that space between two absolutes that faith is born – not that many in his audience are ready to listen with open hearts. This is nothing more than his own personal ambition speaking, they believe, coming across as an attempt to throw his name into the ring.

On some subconscious level, perhaps there is some truth to this as well. Along with Lawrence’s spiritual turmoil, he must also grapple with his own opportunistic tendencies, driving him to step forward when he realises his friend Aldo Bellini cannot lead the church’s progressive faction to victory. As such, the universe’s timely intervention at the exact moment he casts a vote in his name almost seems to be a biblical rebuke from the heavens, humbling him before a righteous, divine God who has a plan for all things.

*Uncanny timing in what seems to be an act of God, rebuking Lawrence for committing the sin of pride.*

Lawrence is far from the only ego present forced to face his sin though. The secrets that simmer beneath the surface of the papal conclave hold the potential to topple candidacies, and as they are gradually brought to light, each one also exposes the moral weaknesses of those religious leaders who hide behind facades of reverence. Whether they concern long-buried mistakes from thirty years ago or recent acts of deep-seated corruption, the humiliation that comes with their revelation brings prideful men to heel, begging the question of who can really be trusted with such consequential responsibilities.

*A tremendous use of architecture and colour, letting the red of the cardinals’ robes pop against white colonnades.*

*Another visual highlight as the cardinals make their way in unison through the rain beneath white umbrellas, finally coming to a majority decision on their next pope.*

That Berger brings such solemn gravity to his staging of this confined drama only deepens the burden upon these characters’ shoulders as well, seeing him constantly underscore the sharp angles and perfect symmetry of the Vatican’s Renaissance architecture. Beautiful marble interiors, plazas, and colonnades host crowds of cardinals in their black and red attire, collectively moving in uniform patterns around the Apostolic Palace and the Domus Sanctae Marthae, and forming a particularly striking composition as they head towards their final vote beneath white umbrellas. Even as they wait around between votes, Berger turns yellow and red plaster walls into striking backdrops for their idle smoking and texting, while inside he casts the eyes of history upon them through montages of the Sistine Chapel’s vibrant frescoes.

*The weight of history bears down on the cardinals from the Sistine Chapel above.*

*Colour and texture in Berger’s use of these walls as striking backdrops.*

This is evidently an environment bound by precise order, and the fact that Berger took liberties to make the cardinals’ living quarters even more prison-like than real life only further emphasises its severity. As a result, when this rigidity is compromised to even a minor extent, we can feel the full weight of its implications. This particularly comes into play when we consider the role of women in Conclave who are relegated to minor and supporting roles, much like in the church itself, yet who bear incredible influence upon the formal proceedings. Isabella Rossellini’s stern, authoritative turn as Sister Agnes stands out here even in her limited screen time, balancing her devotion to the church against her desire to see unworthy candidates held accountable, and eventually allying with Lawrence to see the Lord’s will be done.

*A small but standout performance from Rossellini, reassessing the role that women play in the church.*

With this consideration of gender roles in mind, the final secret revealed in Conclave makes for a particularly earth-shattering subversion of the Catholic Church’s dogmatic power structure, treading a narrow line between stringent dichotomies. If the lead-up to it were not so hinged on a contrived, idealistic plot device that overrides all the political game-playing we have witnessed, Berger might have stuck the landing even more, but the resolution nonetheless gives tangible meaning to Lawrence’s acceptance of a life without certainty. As this entire process has demonstrated, an institution that is focused on tradition more than the future is damned to fall on its own sword, blinded by a strict adherence to icons loaded with influence and stripped of moral substance. In Conclave, these icons do not necessarily need to be demolished – it is the periodic reinvention of what they stand for which grants longevity to the fundamental principles of their diverse, devoted followers.

Conclave is currently playing in theatres

Anora (2024)

Sean Baker | 2hr 19min

Although Ani demands not to be called by her given name in Anora, the film’s very title insists upon an outright refusal. As we learn in its closing scenes, her name means honour, light, and grace, yet she is quick to deflect from any further reflection on the matter. These aren’t just qualities she denies, but which she actively shields herself from, keeping her guard up lest she be taken as unseriously as she fears she deserves – a daunting struggle indeed for a stripper in New York City. As a result, she takes a quick liking to her lively client Vanya, if for no other reason than to revel in his naïve wonder and adoration of her every move.

Being the son of a wealthy Russian oligarch, the long-term security that his exorbitant privilege seemingly entails no doubt draws Ani’s eye, though this alone does not account for the raw chemistry between them. In Vanya, Ani finds an exuberant lover who wants to spend more than just a single night with her, and is even ready to prove his commitment by marrying her on a whim. Thus begins a whirlwind romance in Anora which at its most euphoric reveals her sensitivity, at its lowest draws out her insecurity, and demonstrates at every turn why that name she spurns so perfectly epitomises her fervent, resilient spirit.

*Baker uses this frame in Vanya’s mansion twice, using its height and prestige as a contrasting statement against her shabby, railroad-adjacent share house.*

The brand of spontaneous realism which defined Sean Baker’s previous films stands among the strongest elements of this modern fairy tale, continuing his compelling examination of sex workers beyond their flattened mainstream representations. For Mikey Madison in particular, it also allows for slice-of-life improvisations as she wanders through the bustling strip club and flirts with customers, demonstrating a savviness that has clearly been built upon years of industry experience. The red and blue lighting in this ambient environment is marvellous, while Baker’s jump cuts and handheld camerawork offer an excited restlessness that intensifies with Ani and Vanya’s burgeoning relationship. Montages of their escapades and lovemaking zip by with carefree elation, and when they finally get married on an impromptu trip to Las Vegas, Baker sets their celebration against a backdrop of colourful, exploding fireworks.

*Gorgeous lighting in the club where Ani works, bathing here in red, blue, and purple hues.*

*The first half of Baker’s narrative zips by in montages and jump cuts, reflecting the impulsiveness of these immature characters.*

*The lights and fireworks of Las Vegas form a scintillating backdrop after Ani and Vanya’s wedding, the camera swinging around them in a low angle.*

Within this blissful bubble, Anora also takes the time to pull its pacing back through long takes, calmly arcing the camera around the lovers as they talk about their future in bed. Romance is still in the air, yet these moments afford us some distance from their infatuation, bringing their differences to light. After all, nothing about Ani and Vanya’s mismatched lives can be separated from the context of where they have come from, the destinies written out for them, and their own character flaws – or at least, not for very long. This is not simply a case of society condemning star-crossed lovers after all, but of two young adults who do not even understand themselves, leading to a particularly complicated entanglement when Vanya’s parents enter the mix to put an end to their son’s reckless marriage.

*Baker’s exerts fine control over his long takes during dialogue scenes, here gracefully arcing the camera around Ani and Vanya as they discuss the prospect of marriage in bed.*

No one here is truly blameless, yet still Baker finds compassion in the most unexpected places, using comedy to ease the tension that comes with the threat of an influential Russian family. Their trusted advisor Toros is the first to enter the picture, sending lackeys to investigate the authenticity of Vanya’s supposed marriage, checking his phone for updates during his godson’s baptism, and interrupting the ceremony with a stifled cry when his suspicions are confirmed. Meanwhile at the mansion, what seems like a straightforward job for the injury-prone Garnick and mild-mannered Igor rapidly gets out of hand when Ani refuses to go down without a fight, paying no regard to the powerful authority they represent.

Tarantino cast the Manson family members well in Once Upon a Time in Hollywood, catching Austin Butler, Margaret Qualley, and Sydney Sweeney before they became Hollywood A-listers – and now we can add Mikey Madison to that list with this marvellous breakthrough.

Even after Vanya literally runs away from his responsibility, Ani is still not ready to accept that he is anything less than the man she is meant to spend her life with. As such, Baker dedicates the second half of his film returning her to a grim reality where sons of powerful Russian families simply do not marry American strippers. Much like Giulietta Masina’s starry-eyed prostitute from Nights of Cabiria, Ani considers herself a worldly woman who understands the desires of men, yet when it comes to matters of love, both are woefully naïve.

Still, as Ani gradually begins to see the entitled, immature side of Vanya, another much sweeter relationship begins to form. The compassion that Igor shows Ani can only go so far given the restraints of his job, but he may be the only person in this film who sees her as she truly is – neither an opportunistic gold digger nor a helpless victim, but a deeply vulnerable and complex woman. Opening oneself up to another is challenging for any young adult reckoning with personal insecurities, let alone one whose line of work manufactures intimate, transactional relationships, yet there is a comforting assurance to his unflappable composure. If there is anything that can break through Ani’s defences, it is not the shallow devotion of a Russian playboy, nor his parents’ threats to ruin her entire life. Kindness without expectation of reward is an overwhelming mystery to this forlorn romantic, and as Baker’s patient lens sits with the culmination of her heartbreak, it is this authentic show of sensitivity and grace that finally allows her to discover the same in herself.

Anora is currently playing in theatres.

Disclaimer (2024)

Alfonso Cuarón | 7 episodes (45 – 55 minutes)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Disclaimer is currently streaming on Apple TV Plus.

Jean de Florette & Manon of the Spring (1986)

Claude Berri | 2hr 2min & 1hr 54min

In a rural French village, set nine years apart, a pair of fables unfold around two blocked springs.

The first is located on the property of cheerful hunchback Jean, who has come from the city with his family to start a new life as a farmer. Seeking to claim the land’s water as their own though, neighbours César and Ugolin have covered it with cement and soil, keeping him from ever knowing of its existence. Now all they must do is sit back and watch, as Jean’s struggle against the elements pushes him to the brink of destitution.

*The first of two springs, promising prosperity to an uncle and nephew who plot the downfall of their new neighbour.*

The second spring is the town’s main water supply, hidden in the crevices of a nearby mountain. When Jean’s grown daughter Manon stumbles across it almost a decade later, she immediately acts on the resentment she has harboured ever since her father was driven to an early grave, blocking its flow with clay. The plot to destroy Jean may have been committed by two neighbours, but the entire community was well-aware of it, and thus they are all responsible for his untimely passing. If water is the source of all life, then it is no surprise that its suppression inevitably leads to needless deaths in both instances, formally mirroring the tragedies of Jean de Florette and Manon of the Spring against each other. Together, they take on an epic scope, as Claude Berri plays out the Shakespearean fall of two feuding families through greed, scorn, and betrayal.

*The second of two springs, hidden away in a rocky crevice – a chance for Manon to exact vengeance on those who indirectly killed her father.*

Based on the two-part volume novel ‘The Water of the Hills’ and shot in back-to-back productions, it is tough to consider these films as anything but a single work, strengthened by the formal connections that stretch across their conjoined narratives. César and Ugolin are our main characters in both, taking on the mantle of antiheroes from the moment they accidentally kill their neighbour Pique-Bouffigue in an altercation over his spring. Perhaps there is a bit of contempt here too, especially given that César was once in love with Pique-Bouffigue’s sister, Florette, who abandoned him many years ago.

If this is indeed the case, then it would also be safe to assume that César holds a similar disdain towards Florette’s disabled, newly-arrived son, Jean, thereby adding a second layer of motivation to ruin his life. So bitter is César that for the two years the hunchback lives on that farm, the old man cannot even bring himself to meet him face to face, instead choosing to watch his suffering play out from the comfortable distance of his home. While his nephew Ugolin directly implicates himself by cruelly denying Jean the use of his mule, it is César whose heart has been corrupted by resentment, remaining all too happy to sacrifice his neighbour’s wellbeing to accomplish his own goal of starting a carnation farm.

*Picturesque landscapes of southeastern France, basking in the golden glow of natural sunlight.*

*Lovely depth of field in Berri’s compositions, layering his actors to separate the town from its pariahs.*

*Gorgeous, scenic farmlands composed with affection and adoration for the region.*

The beauty of 1910s France’s sun-dappled pastures and settlements does well to mask the malice which resides in its seemingly humble farmers, as Berri crafts astounding visuals across both parts of this duology, basking in the golden glow of the countryside’s natural light. His establishing shots are astounding, setting quaint cottages against vast backdrops of majestic mountains, lush hills and valleys provide fertile ground for locals to cultivate. From inside their darkened homes, Berri often cuts out windows of light through which neighbours often spy on each other, though these interiors also frequently carry through that outside warmth through dim oil lamps and small fires. Across the four hours that Jean de Florette and Manon of the Spring unfold over, Berri delivers enough painterly compositions to hang in a gallery, taking advantage of his widescreen frame to stage actors across superbly detailed period sets and landscapes.

*Excellent framing from tiny windows in darkened rooms, often peering out to spy on Jean and his family.*

*Delicate lighting from fires and oil lamp, weaving the golden palette through interiors as an extension of the sunny exteriors.*

When the local weather rears its nasty head though, Berri is not afraid to shed a harsher light upon these environments, testing the endurance of Jean as he struggles to grow produce in unpredictable conditions. When a dust storm strikes, Berri lays a musty, yellow filter across the lens, while winter conceals the land’s green and gold hues with pristine white blankets of snow. When clouds gather, the rain is always either too heavy for Jean’s vegetables, or taunting him from a distance as it falls several miles away. “There’s nobody up there!” he angrily swears to the sky, but each time he is ready to give up, he picks himself up again.

*Berri uses a musty, yellow filter to represent a dust storm.*

*The land is stripped of its warmth when winter falls, developing a refreshing beauty through its pristine white blankets of snow.*

*Rain falls in the distance, but misses Jean’s farm – fate seems to conspire against this tragic figure who is brought to his knees and curses the heavens like Job.*

For César, this resilience is endlessly frustrating, though from the outside we can’t help but admire the bright optimism of Gérard Depardieu’s performance. His spirit is indomitable, working against every obstacle thrown his way right up until he is fatally struck in the head by a rock during his attempt to build a well. The incident may be an accident, but César and Ugolin know very well that the guilt lies with them – as does Manon when she discovers them unplugging the blocked spring right after they purchase the property. “I hereby name you King of Carnations,” César sardonically proclaims, baptising Ugolin with water from the earth, though soon enough the young florist will wear this title with great shame.

*A baptism using the plugged up water, selfishly revelling in the fortune that Jean’s death has granted them.*

When Manon cuts off the town’s water supply nine years later in Manon of the Spring, the community is quick to lay blame on César and Ugolin – not for blocking it themselves, but for provoking God’s righteous anger. Where Berri’s staging once isolated the hunchbacked farmer from the derisive villagers, it is now the uncle and nephew who are ostracised, shrinking into small, lonely figures. Church attendance numbers surge with panicked locals suddenly “full of faith and repentance,” while the priest himself implicitly directs his homily towards those two men who everyone quietly recognises as the incidental culprits behind Jean’s death.

“I once read in a secular work a Greek tragedy, about the city of Thebes struck by a violent plague because of the king’s crimes. So I ask myself: is there a criminal among us?”

*An older Manon returns to the town nine years later, turning the tables on her father’s killers with a sense of poetic justice.*

*These villagers’ lives are deeply entwined with their faith, but only in troubled times – surely the fountain running dry is a punishment from God*.

*César and Ugolin now find themselves isolated in Berri’s blocking, taking Jean’s place as the loathsome outsiders.*

The feelings that Ugolin begins developing for Manon only further propagates his shame, though only on the most selfish level. Unlike César, he is a fool who lacks total self-awareness, and thus cannot comprehend the concept of regret or social decorum. His advances are awkward and obsessive, only deepening Manon’s disgust towards him, while she in turn grows closer to young schoolteacher Bernard. When Ugolin finally takes his life in despair, Berri does not even grant him the grace of our full attention, relegating his meagre, hanging body to the background of a long shot.

The return of the town’s water comes too late to save Ugolin, not that Manon particularly cares. The timing is impeccable, as it is only a short while after she unplugs the spring that the local fountain leaps back to life during a religious procession, seemingly reviving it through prayer. God’s love once again shines down on the village, felt by all except for César who must not only confront his grief, but also a final, devastating twist of the knife.

*Tragedy tears through this epic fable, killing Ugolin with little fanfare as his body is revealed here hanging in the distance.*

*Prayers and processions bring the town’s water supply back to life – or at least this is the easiest explanation for the villagers.*

Jean was not Florette’s child by another man, he learns from an old acquaintance visiting town, but rather the son she bore from César himself. The tragedy is heartbreaking, though not so much as to overshadow the irony of his self-destruction, wrought by arrogance and bitterness. “Out of sheer spite, I never went near him,” he mournfully reflects in his final letter.

“I never knew his voice, or his face. I never saw his eyes, that might have been like his mother’s. I only saw his hump and the pain I caused him.”

As César’s voiceover expresses real regret for the first time, Berri’s camera gracefully floats by the items in his bedroom. An envelope addressed to Manon, containing his confession and intent to leave his estate to her. A pair of spectacles, folded neatly in front. An old family photo, depicting the blood ties he has tainted through the ghastly act of filicide. Finally, we find César himself combing his hair in the mirror, preparing to lay down for the last time. Like Oedipus unknowingly slaying his father or King Lear’s hubris destroying his children, César joins history’s lineage of tragically flawed patriarchs, inadvertently cursing their own families as fate’s ultimate punishment. The stage upon which this plays out in Jean de Florette and Manon of the Spring is not located within the grand halls of historical power, but as Berri paints out in the warm, intimate scenery of rural France, tragedy may topple pride in even the humblest of settings.

*A delicate camera movement drifting through César’s room as he prepares to die, intensively studying the remnants of his life left behind.*

*This tragedy deals its final blow upon the patriarch of the family, his life ending in ruin due to his own selfish actions.*

Jean de Florette and Manon of the Spring are currently streaming on The Criterion Channel and SBS On Demand, and is available to rent or buy on Apple TV and YouTube.

Earth (1930)

Oleksandr Dovzhenko | 1hr 15min

The symbiosis between man, machine, and nature is a delicately choreographed dance in Earth, and it isn’t long after farming peasant Vasyl introduces a tractor to his community that we witness each unite in seamless synchronicity. Wheels carve out trenches in the soil, a steady stream of wheat flows through the harvester, and workers efficiently prepare it for the threshers, where unhusked grains shake in rhythmic motion along conveyer belts. After being crushed into flour, bakers swiftly mix and knead it into dough for the ovens, where bread is produced for the hungry masses.

This methodical assembly line sequence may be the closest Earth gets to non-fiction, though Oleksandr Dovzhenko also more broadly dedicates his film to depictions of collectivist agriculture, much like Sergei Eisenstein did a year earlier in his documentary The General Line. Under this system, plots of land owned by wealthier peasants known as kulaks would be consolidated into state-controlled enterprises, with the intention of freeing exploited labourers and industrialising the Soviet economy. Beyond presenting mere fact or opinion of the matter though, Dovzhenko also uses it as the basis of his invigorating visual poetry in Earth, meditating on the profound relationship that binds humans to the land that feeds them.

*Dovzhenko’s filmmaking borders on documentary here as he traces the methodical processes of agricultural production in this new industrial era.*

Compared to Sergei Eisenstein’s montage theory which sought to collide images in harsh juxtaposition, Dovzhenko’s editing is far more lyrical, emphasising the unity of all life on this planet. Clearly some of cinema’s most spiritual directors have drawn from this too, whether it is Terrence Malick finding divine inspiration in its graceful shots of workers in wheat fields for Days of Heaven, or Andrei Tarkovsky recreating the ethereal gust of wind rippling through long grass in Mirror. The death of Vasyl’s grandfather which occurs in Earth’s opening scene is not a disruption of such organic cycles, but rather a peaceful transition from one state of existence to another, seeing him lay down by an apple orchard surrounded by family. At the moment of his passing, Dovzhenko poignantly cuts to a sunflower gently swaying in the breeze, and thus reveals the fruits of this farmer’s labour thriving beyond his expiry.

*Wind ripples through the long grass – scenes of pastoral tranquility that Malick and Tarkovsky would later borrow for Days of Heaven and Mirror.*

*Vasyl’s grandfather passes away surrounded by the figurative and literal fruits of his labour – his family and his orchard.*

One would almost assume that Earth is a soothing expression of pantheistic spirituality were it not for the Soviet Union’s policy of state atheism in this era, though Dovzhenko’s open admiration of the Ukraine’s rural landscapes manages to skirt religious controversy, even as he turns his camera to the heavens. The low angles of vast skies become a strong visual motif here, pushing the horizon to the bottom edge of the frame in long shots, and forming cloudy backdrops to humans, animals, and plant life standing in tranquil stillness. These rural farms are as close to paradise as one can find on earth, yet political divisions in the community nevertheless threaten to strangle their natural evolution alongside Ukraine’s burgeoning agriculture industry.

*Horizons hang low in the frame, minimising the earth beneath the vast open skies.*

*Low angles imprint people, animals, and plant life against the dark grey sky.*

As we see in the economic conservatism of Vasyl’s father, Opanas, the kulaks are evidently not the only ones resistant to the collectivism that has swept through the village. He has manually worked the land his entire life, and the state’s rapid shift towards newer technologies is unnerving, driving a wedge between him and Vasyl who excitedly leads the movement’s charge into the future. Their initial confrontation plays out in mid-shots of their backs turned to each other, but as tensions rise, Dovzhenko turns them around and gradually cuts in tighter to their incensed expressions. Quite unusually though, Earth does not depict the black-and-white morality of other Soviet propaganda films of the era, instead allowing for more nuance in its characterisations. Opanas is not the villain of this piece – quite the opposite in fact, as his son’s eventual murder at the hands of an embittered kulak suddenly positions him as our unlikely protagonist.

*Fine editing as tensions arise between father and son, beginning with mid-shots of their backs turned before cutting into close-ups of their incensed expressions.*

Vasyl died for the new life, and so he is to be buried according to the new ways, a bereaved Opanas declares. There are to be no priests or prayers at his funeral, and in their place the community will sing songs of hope for the future. As Vasyl’s body is carried down the street in a procession, tree branches reach out to caress his face, and in one delicately framed shot he even seems to drift by on a sea of flowers. People and nature alike mourn his passing which, unlike his grandfather’s, has momentarily disrupted the circle of life.

*Solidarity in mourning after Vasyl’s murder, sparking a mass procession down the village streets.*

*Vasyl’s body seems to float past trees and fields in these beautifully framed shots, as if giving him the blessing of nature.*

It is during this sequence as well that Dovzhenko’s editing begins to broaden its narrative scope, building to a climax in its deft intercutting between multiple side characters. As the spurned Russian Orthodox priest prays for God to punish the sinners who have refused a traditional service, Vasyl’s bereaved fiancée Natalya cries out in agony, and his killer’s public confession falls on the deaf ears of the grieving, radicalised crowd. Suspicions of his culpability weren’t exactly secret, but now as the guilt-ridden kulak rolls in the dirt madly proclaiming “It’s my earth! I won’t give it up!”, it is apparent that the collectivist movement has already delivered his moral punishment.

*Excellent parallel editing as anger, grief, and guilt collide at Vasyl’s funeral.*

Perhaps most moving of all though is Opanas’ face among the masses, not broken by anguish, but listening to his son’s eulogy with stoic resolve. “You, Uncle Opanas, mustn’t grieve!” the speaker pronounces. “Vasyl’s fame will fly around the entire world like our Bolshevist airplane above!” Even the skies begin to weep at this point, showering the orchards below with nourishing rain, before concluding with Natalya rediscovering love and security in the arms of another man. The transfer of power back to the Ukrainian people is not bloodless in Earth, but as fresh beginnings wash away old sorrows, Dovzhenko’s formal cadences realign society’s march into the future with the harmonious, seasonal rhythms of the natural world.

*A cleansing rain to wash away old sorrows and water the soil, continuing the cycle of life.*

*New beginnings as Natalya finds love in another man’s arms, healing her wounded soul.*

Earth is not currently streaming in Australia.

Mother (1926)

Vsevolod Pudovkin | 1hr 27min

The defiance of a lone, unarmed rebel standing against a tyrannical state is unlikely to shift the course of history. Their position is hopeless, dooming them to perish beneath the boot of their oppressors as so many others have before them. It is not this singular protest though which elevates them as a countercultural icon in Mother, but rather the tragedies that have led them to this point, radicalising those who find strength in defeat. While Sergei Eisenstein was celebrating the powerful solidarity of a unified working class in Strike and Battleship Potemkin, Vsevolod Pudovkin was turning his camera towards those whose resilience is fed by anguish, painting such individuals as models of Russia’s impassioned, revolutionary spirit.

Pelageya is the long-suffering mother in question here, caring deeply for her adult son Pavel who in turn protects her from the abuse of her alcoholic husband, Vlasov. No one in this family holds any explicit political affiliations, though as subjects of pre-Revolutionary Russia, tensions run rampant in their local community. While Pavel is secretly helping local socialists by hiding a stash of handguns in his home, ultra-nationalist group the Black Hundred are bribing Vlasov to join their counterattack upon an upcoming workers’ strike, making for an awkward, unexpected confrontation between father and son when they come face to face at the protest. “So you’re one of them?” Vlasov furiously growls as he chases Pavel into a pub, only for his rampage to be halted by a stray bullet from a revolutionary’s gun.

*A devastating confrontation of father and son on opposing sides of a workers’ strike, inevitably driving both towards tragedy.*

As his killer is forcefully apprehended, Pudovkin takes a moment to cut away from the action. Rustling tree branches, drifting clouds, and gentle streams carry us out of the chaos, before returning to the broken body of the man who took Vlasov’s life, now lying dead on the floor. The strike is over, and the Tsarists have won, leaving a captive Pavel in the hands of a judicial system he knows is not on his side.

*A peaceful montage of nature inserted within this violent assault – Pudovkin plays it perfectly, knowing when to let us step away from the action in deep reflection.*

Through Pelageya’s mixture of grief and desperation though, she remains convinced that mercy will be granted if he confesses the truth. At Vlasov’s funeral, her mind wanders to that loose floorboard back at home, which Pudovkin rapidly dissolves to reveal the stash of firearms below. Later at Pavel’s interrogation, her eyes shift nervously in close-up, intently observing the suspicious police officer, her son’s stoic denial, and his clenched fists behind his back. Her torment is unbearable, and finally reaches a breaking point when she reveals the hidden firearms – only to worsen again when she recognises the dire, irreversible consequences of her actions.

*A clever dissolve putting us in Pelageya’s mind, drawn to the hidden stash of firearms beneath a loose floorboard.*

*A tense montage of close-ups, observing Pelageya grow more anxious as her son maintains a stoic facade.*

Given that Mother‘s intimate drama operates on a relatively small scale, the editing isn’t quite as spectacularly complex as Eisenstein’s, though Pudovkin’s development of narrative continuity through montage is nevertheless a remarkable achievement. Where Eisenstein produces meaning from the abstract collision of images, Pudovkin emphasises the seamless flow of emotions, placing more weight on each individual shot. Especially when it comes to the juxtaposition of close-ups during Pavel’s trial, his editing delivers an intense clash of expressions, preceding The Passion of Joan of Arc’s historic innovation of this technique by two years. There in the Russian court of law, the judges’ sheer incompetence, laziness, and prejudice are on full display, and Pudovkin doesn’t miss the chance to implicate the highest levels of government through cutaways to a bust of Nicholas II.

*Pudovkin borrows from Eisenstein in his use of Nicholas II’s bust through cutaways – intellectual montage in action, symbolically comparing the corrupt courtroom officials to the Tsar.*

As Pelageya’s lonely head pokes above empty rows of courtroom seats though, Pudovkin reminds us where the emotional centre of this film lies. Gradually over the course of Mother, actress Vera Baranovskaya visibly unravels, her tired eyes drooping and her posture slouching with dwindling hope. Only when her son’s sentence to a life of hard labour in Siberia is delivered does she abruptly rise from her seat, stretching her face wide with horror as she indignantly screams – “Where is truth?!”.

*A minimalist composition underscoring Pelageya’s sheer loneliness as her family dwindles.*

*Vera Baranovskaya erupts with fury for the first time, and it is a sight to behold – the passionate anger of a mother seeing her family torn apart.*

For the first time, Pelageya’s agony does not wane into dreary depression, but rather explodes with fury. Once out in the world, that righteous anger is not so easy to put back in its box either. Even when it eventually simmers down, still it manifests as seething resentment, following her all the way to Pavel’s prison some months later.

With this narrative transition, Pudovkin once again delivers more montages celebrating the natural world, contrasting the inmates’ dreams of sunny, open pastures back home to the melting ice floes of Siberian rivers just outside their cells. Spring has arrived in this frozen wasteland, and nervous excitement is in the air. Between the latest batch of visitors making their way to the labour camp with a socialist flag and whispers of a prison break, Pudovkin’s parallel editing generates palpable anticipation, drawing the reunion between mother and son ever closer.

*Peaceful meadows back home versus the cold Siberian prison – Pudovkin’s scenery spans the utopias and wastelands of modern Russia.*

From here, the violent action which unfolds is a tightly choreographed dance between hope and despair, carrying this daring set piece aloft upon swift, unyielding momentum. The collective effort of the inmates ramming down doors, climbing walls, and overwhelming guards is largely successful, though Pavel soon finds himself cornered when faced with that vast, glacial river. Still, the only path is forward, and thus he begins jumping from sheet to sheet in epic long shots intercut with daunting close-ups of breaking ice.

*The prison break is a masterful orchestration of action and editing, carrying an energy through to Pavel’s daring escape across the river.*

*A climactic set piece worthy of Hitchcock, watching Pavel bravely jump between ice floes to meet his mother on the other side.*

From the other side, the visiting protestors are keen to celebrate the escapee, though none are so ecstatic as his mother. Her arms wrap him in an embrace so tight that only death itself could tear them apart – and that is exactly what the cavalry tragically delivers as they ride across a large, steel bridge, firing bullets at the crowd. Kneeling over her son’s body, she weeps, and becomes the only remaining visitor to not instantly flee at the first shots.

*A daunting, perfectly symmetrical composition of this giant bridge, granting passage to the cavalry who ride directly towards the camera.*

*Tremendous montage editing as the troops line up their rifles, the crowd scatters, and Pavel is tragically shot dead.*

In this moment, Pelageya transforms. The very foundations of her motherhood have been stripped away, and yet her maternal instincts persist, inspiring her to channel that fierce protectiveness she once reserved for Pavel towards the people of Russia. Within the fast-moving chaos, we carefully linger on her picking up the socialist flag, raising it to the sky, and fearlessly facing down the oncoming stampede in an imposing low angle. At last, the radicalisation is complete. Even as she is ruthlessly cut down like a martyr in these glorious final seconds, Pudovkin recognises that not even a hundred Tsarist troops can destroy her radiant spirit, infectiously shared among those lucky enough to witness the valour of a selfless, devoted mother.

*The radicalised spirit of Russia, facing down her oppressors with no hope or reward – just an undying, selfless devotion to her child.*

Mother is not currently streaming in Australia.