Highly Recommend – Scene by Green

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.

Kinds of Kindness (2024)

Yorgos Lanthimos | 2hr 44min

Whatever affection the title Kinds of Kindness promises to explore in its three surreal fables can only be considered ‘kindness’ on its most shallow, depraved level. Given how scarce a resource it is in Yorgos Lanthimos’ bleakly absurdist world of abusers and manipulators, perhaps the provisional security they offer is the best that any individual lost in the senseless void of existence can hope for. After all, when order lapses into anarchy, what is there to cling to but the unyielding directives of one’s employer? Where can love be found outside of one’s spouse, and what is purpose without a divine imperative guiding one’s life?

Gone is the whimsy of Lanthimos’ most recent films The Favourite and Poor Things, and replacing it is a familiar deadpan bleakness that harkens back to the early Lanthimos of Dogtooth and The Lobster. In the absence of his intricate period sets and fisheye lenses, Kinds of Kindness marks a disappointing step down visually, though this is not to say his world-building is any less bizarre. The rules that these characters live by are completely alien, forcing each to submit their agency to powers that we struggle to wrap our minds around, yet which they must never question for fear of greater ramifications.

Kinds of Kindness marks a return to the bleak, muted visuals of Lanthimos’ early films, using a wide-angle lens to stretch out this handsome shot here of Robert standing in the corner of his office, as if about to topple from security into oblivion.

The first chapter in Lanthimos’ anthology may be the clearest rendering of this social critique, observing a toxic relationship that holds corporate businessman Robert under the thumb of his boss, Raymond. Every aspect of his life is minutely controlled, from the books he must read right down to his weight-gaining diet. In return, he is given a large house, a wife, and a collection of valuable sports memorabilia – all handpicked by Raymond of course. Meanwhile, Robert’s comically petty acts of self-harm manifest as small rebellions, giving him a chance to whine for attention and take ownership of something beyond his employer’s grasp. When Raymond demands he commit vehicular homicide by recreating one of his staged car accidents though, Robert expresses doubt for the first time and risks losing everything.

*Cutting social commentary by way of absurdist narratives and settings. Lanthimos is a Samuel Beckett or Eugène Ionesco for modern cinema.*

He shouldn’t feel guilty over this, Raymond assures him, as the intended target has agreed to this proposition. Going by the embroidered monogram on the victim’s shirt, his name is R.M.F – the same initials which appear in the title of all three chapters. He is a passive enigma of a character, barely taking up a few minutes of screentime in each tale, and yet his role is always pivotal. The foreshadowing is apparent here in the first chapter ‘The Death of R.M.F.’, though later when Lanthimos plays out the second and third chapters ‘R.M.F. is Flying’ and ‘R.M.F. Eats a Sandwich’, the relevance grows increasingly oblique.

Those trying to penetrate the deeper symbolism behind R.M.F. will either conjure up some fantastic theory or be left sorely disappointed. Because he is fatefully tied to Lanthimos’ eccentric main characters and even takes precedence over them in chapter titles, we might expect him to represent some grand, metaphysical concept. Ultimately though, he is little more than a mundane peculiarity in this outlandish world – and quite ironically, it is exactly that which makes him stand out, further defining his environment as one of incongruous chaos.

At least when he appears in the second chapter ‘R.M.F. is Flying,’ he takes somewhat of a heroic role, rescuing marine biologist Liz from a desert island after she and her colleagues are shipwrecked. Unfortunately, her husband Daniel is not so ready to welcome her home. This new Liz is different, having apparently been replaced by a doppelganger who smokes, no longer fits her old shoes, and suddenly has a very active libido. Bit by bit, Lanthimos shifts the perspective of this story until Daniel’s role as a delusionally unreliable narrator comes into focus, and we begin to consider whether he is simply unable to comprehend his wife’s sudden psychological trauma.

*Jesse Plemons’ deadpan presence is a perfect fit for Lanthimos’ understated humour, playing outlandish character beats with comical nonchalance.*

Fulfilling her husband’s requests of self-mutilation appears to be the only way that Liz can prove her authentic love, and thus this chapter moves into some of the most viscerally disturbing scenes of the film, revealing its grotesque metaphor of toxic dependence. She has felt the horror of true isolation, and so this abuse seems a small price to pay for the security of marriage, even if it erodes the physical substance of her being.

In one key monologue elucidating a dream she had on the island, we can at least find a partial justification for this in her mind, imagining a world where dogs and humans have swapped places while the rest of society remains unaffected. It is not the first time Lanthimos has likened people to animals, contemplating the narrow divide between civil order and savage chaos, though here the metaphor explicitly pays off in a short epilogue revealing this off-kilter alternate world – dogs relaxing with friends, driving over human roadkill, and hanging themselves to death.

*Black-and-white dreams and flashbacks are where Lanthimos’ surrealism takes off, especially in the closing of the second chapter where we witness Liz’s dream of dogs and humans swapping places.*

There is evidently a prophetic power to dreams throughout Kinds of Kindness, especially given how closely they are bound to characters’ memories, with prescient visions and flashbacks being consistently depicted in black-and-white. These interludes may exist purely inside their minds, and yet they frequently manifest in their lives later on like eerie echoes, sometimes even right down to the identical repetition of shots as we observe in Robert’s dreamed and actual confrontations with his boss in the first chapter. As such, the use of ‘Sweet Dream’s by the Eurythmics makes for a fitting theme song, lyrically contemplating the toxic behaviours of Lanthimos’ characters.

“Some of them want to use you,

Some of them want to be used by you,

Some of theme want to abuse you,

Some of them want to be abused.”

Indeed, “everybody is looking for something” in Kinds of Kindness, and bit by bit we begin to wonder whether their cryptic dreams are the key to finding it. Specifically in the third chapter, devoted cultist Emily is haunted by a nightmare of her hair being caught in a pool drain, until another woman sets her free – a visual metaphor which later manifests in her mission to find a foretold Messiah figure. Believing that bodily fluids hold the essence of human corruption, she and her brainwashed peers fall naively under the sway of their leader Omi, whose twisted, manipulative love holds the ultimate judgement over whether or not they have been “contaminated.” Once we witness the abuse Emily suffered back in her old home life though, we at least come to understand her desperate need to find belonging at whatever humiliating expense, even if it means a complete dedication of one’s soul and body to an unhinged belief system.

*A mission to find a Messiah figure with the ability to perform miracles is tainted by the utter disregard these characters have for true divinity, destroying it to heal their own loneliness.*

As we should expect by now, the divine is not something to be exalted in Lanthimos’ self-serving society, but to be drugged, kidnapped, and traded for the arbitrary approval of others. Its power is transcendent, yet it is ironically degraded by those who hold it up as an icon of spiritual glory, committing sordid acts in its name. Whatever hope or salvation may have been found in religion is lost the moment it is fashioned into a tool for simple, worldly desires.

Emma Stone’s performance as Emily in this final chapter may be the most memorable of the film, leaving a distinct mark in her copper-coloured suit, auburn hair, and flashy purple sportscar. As a totality though, it is the revolving cast through each fable which makes even more impactful formal statement, additionally featuring Jesse Plemons, Willem Dafoe, Margaret Qualley, and Hong Chau in multiple roles. Through the connection of R.M.F., we understand that they all exist within the same world, though perhaps one which is more akin to a Kafkaesque purgatory trapping souls in various forms of psychological torture than a logical, organised civilisation.

*Emma Stone shakes and thrusts to ‘Brand New Bitch’ in her copper-coloured suit, as her drugged victim slumps in the background – she is the clear standout in the third chapter.*

Further lifting Kinds of Kindness beyond the realm of reality is Jerskin Fendrix’s minimalist music score, setting shrill, discordant piano melodies against deep, pounding chords, while acapella male choruses sing ominous Greek hymns and sustained warnings of “No…”. These might as well be vocalisations of our own internal thoughts, watching these poor souls degrade themselves to earn the conditional love of employers, spouses, and religious leaders, yet only ever finding cold, empty embraces at best. For Lanthimos at least, the period to grieve this total loss of self-worth has long passed. By the time each tale in Kinds of Kindness has run its course, we inevitably realise that the only reasonable response to our own inhumanity is pitying, sardonic laughter.

Kinds of Kindness is currently playing in cinemas.

Fellini’s Roma (1972)

Federico Fellini | 2hr 8min

The two eras of Rome that Federico Fellini displays in his offbeat homage to the Italian city are set apart by three decades, though the boundaries separating one from the other aren’t always so clearly outlined. Hippies lounge around ancient monuments in the 1970s, air raids send civilians running for cover in the 1940s, and yet still life goes on for those who seek the simple pleasures of sex, entertainment, and good food. After all, what else is there to cling to in a world eternally bound within a state of perpetual chaos?

This is not quite the Rome chronicled in history books, nor the Rome captured with authenticity in the films of the Italian neorealists. This is Fellini’s Roma – an absurd, urban landscape defined more by its culture, politics, and traditions than any individual icon. Not to say that Fellini’s film lacks idiosyncratic characters – in fact virtually everyone here sets themselves apart from the colourful crowd – but they are simply threads woven into a larger, vibrant tapestry. Despite its familiar interrogations of modern Rome’s debauchery, Roma bears far greater resemblance to the surreal, episodic madness of Fellini Satyricon than the focused character study of La Dolce Vita. Such a grandiose defiance of narrative convention comes with some structural unevenness, though Fellini’s recreation of the city he both loathes and adores is nonetheless rich with impressionistic detail, filtering moments in time through the wily incongruity of satire and memory.

*A city littered with millennia of history – fading, crumbling, yet always to be replaced with new artefacts and stories.*

*Hippies lounge around ancient monuments in the 1970s while bombs drop on Rome in the 1940s – parallel timelines marked by war and celebration.*

If there is a consistent character in Roma whom we are to follow beyond Rome itself, then it is the strange presence of Fellini himself in two forms. The first is a semi-autobiographical representation of the director watching silent films about Ancient Rome as a child, and later moving to the Nazi-occupied city as a young man. The camera moves with him past magnificent fountains and cathedrals in travelogue-style tracking shots, before he finally finds lodging at a shabby guesthouse bustling with vain actors, rowdy children, and religious zealots. The insanity seemingly has no boundaries, populating the streets at night with noisy al fresco restaurant patrons, and still we continue weaving through the crowd as our attention jumps from a waiter carrying a plate of pasta to the young Fellini being invited to eat with friendly strangers.

*Fellini self-autobiographically enters the film as his younger self moving to Rome, embracing all that the city has to offer.*

This version of Fellini is often little more than a passive observer accompanying our journey, while the second cinematic representation of the filmmaker manifests as an older, wiser extension of the same man – an unseen tour guide of sorts, offering amusing descriptions and opinions on Rome’s eclectic culture through omniscient voiceover. He is our constant companion through this adventure, possessing a whimsical self-awareness as he introduces a “portrait of Rome” exactly as a young, naïve Fellini once perceived it – “a mixture of strange, contradictory images.” Later as we stumble across Italian actress Anna Magnani walking home to her palazzo, this voiceover even holds a conversation with her, distilling all the facets of Rome down to this living symbol who has lived out its many lives on film.

“Rome seen as vestal virgin, and she-wolf. An aristocrat, and a tramp. A sombre buffoon.”

*Rome’s proclivity towards fascism echoes through time, dominating the culture with fervent nationalism and authoritarianism.*

On occasion, Roma does not always handle these fourth wall breaks so well, leading to some patchiness in one highway scene that turns the camera back on Fellini’s own crew capturing the traffic jam. Jean-Luc Godard’s Weekend is the obvious influence here, as we observe anarchy unfold on the roads one stormy night. Dead animals, burning trucks, hippie protestors, and police barricades are illuminated under harsh spotlights to paint an image of societal breakdown, but for once the chaos seems to escape Fellini’s control.

*Some vignettes in Roma are more effective than others, and the highway set piece is one that suffers in comparison.*

It is evident that Fellini handles the mayhem with greater poise when he is aligning these disordered elements under unified set pieces, digging into the bedrock of culture and history the city quite literally rests upon. The wondrous regard these people hold for their heritage is not to be outdone by their relentless pursuit of progress, as industrials drills paving the way for a new transit system smash the walls of an ancient Roman house to pieces, revealing alabaster sculptures, mosaics, and frescoes that have miraculously survived for two thousand years. “Look how they seem to be staring at us,” one woman remarks as these artworks cast a stern eye upon their new visitors. Suddenly, the paint’s exposure to the outside air triggers a rapid deterioration, and thus these representatives of the ancient world cast their final judgement on modern civilisation for its graceless, irresponsible ineptitude.

The tension between past and present comes through bleakly in the industrial dig site. Attempts at establishing a new underground transit system are frequently halted by historical discoveries, and inadvertently ruin them in the process.

Still, little can erase the immense pride of a culture that annually celebrates the Festa de’ Noantri – literally translating to ‘Festival of Ourselves.’ Fellini stations his handheld camera in a car as it passes by colourful lights, bustling crowds, and folk musicians filling the air with joy, capturing a slice of the real celebration in an almost documentary-like manner, and even bringing in American writer Gore Vidal to reflect on his life in Rome. “This is the city of illusions,” he ponders to an audience of rapt listeners. “It’s a city, after all, of the church, of government, of movies. They’re all makers of illusions.”

*Fellini’s location shooting soaks in the sights of the Festa de Noantri – the lights, the food, the community, everything comes together to form a lively picture of Roman celebration and joy.*

Fellini does not attempt to escape from beneath the shadow of this reputation either, but rather devotes his vision of Rome to its extraordinary artifice, understanding that the truth never lies far from its projected façade. With Roma’s production taking place a few years after Vatican II, this is especially relevant to the church’s struggle of identity in a modern world, and thus he launches a scathing attack upon its attempted reinvention through a hilariously gaudy fashion show.

“Model number one: Patience in a classical line of black satin for novices,” the emcee announces to the crowd of cardinals, bishops, and nobles, as a pair of nuns walk down the catwalks in glossy habits and leather boots “suitable for Arctic wear.” Next, two more nuns with headdresses that flap like turtledove wings, priests on roller skates clad in “robes for sport,” and then men in frilly doilies swinging thuribles with choreographed panache – “Elegance and high fashion for the sacristan in first-class ceremonies.” The ecclesiastical accoutrements only grow more ridiculous, eventually culminating in the arrival of the Pope himself on a blinding white set, radiating sunbeams as the audience collapses to their knees in awe.

The true highlight of Roma comes in the form of an ecclesiastical fashion show, sending up the material obsession of the Catholic Church is it seeks a connection to modern culture. Particularly magnificent costume work from Danilo Donati.

Costume designer Danilo Donati must be commended for the visual extravagance of this vignette, though it is Fellini’s genius which unites each garment under a single, scathing criticism of religious hypocrisy, and its attempts to win modern audiences through material spectacle. Then again, how can we blame the church for appealing to the masses in such an excessive manner when the people themselves are so blinded by escapist self-indulgence? Men from across the lower and upper ends of this society are far more likely to frequent local bordellos for a taste of intimacy, as Fellini only separates their endeavours by the sophistication of the facilities themselves. In the shabbier brothel, a long corridor fills with working class men hoping to pair off with a woman, before it is eventually shut down by police. In the more luxurious one, older men take their pick of the escorts before taking an elevator up into grand bedrooms decorated with red wallpaper and classical paintings.

*An up-class and rundown brothel continue to draw parallels between different segments of Rome, uniting its men as seekers of physical pleasure.*

Art and entertainment similarly prove to be effective distractions from the ills of the modern world, manifesting in the 1970s as a film director neglecting to depict the negative aspects of Rome, and in the 1940s as a vaudeville show that unites audience members in laughter, bawdiness, and nationalistic sentiment. The musical and comedy acts run for a little too long here, but the announcement of Germany and Italy’s successful defence of Sicily that interrupts the performances is worth it, erupting in disconcerting cries of support from the crowd.

The irony that this jubilant resolve dissipates into pandemonium the moment sirens start blaring a few short moments later is not to be missed. “Whose baby is this?” one patron shouts upon discovering a baby left alone in the evacuated theatre, while outside Fellini shoots the emptying streets in a chilly blue wash. Though present-day Rome has long moved past the terror and instability of World War II, the insecurity that comes to light here is a ghost that continues to haunt this city – a city which, as Vidal elucidates, “has died so many times and was resurrected so many times.”

*A haunting juxtaposition between Rome’s nationalistic celebration and the violent bombing a few short minutes later – this is a snapshot of a city in turmoil, at odds with its own contradictions.*

More specifically, it is Rome’s historical inclination towards fascism which can’t quite be expelled from its culture, and which becomes the subject of the town fool’s rhyming couplets comparing Italian dictators across time. “This fascist shit, his head is split,” he cackles at a damaged statue of Julius Caesar, before turning his insubordinate poem to the 1940s.

“Now we’ve got another meanie,

By the name of Mussolini.”

Fellini’s obvious disdain towards the police in the 1970s timeline formally brings this partisan statement full circle, noting that despite the political lull, there remains an oppressive, authoritarian influence quashing freedoms in contemporary Rome. These people may find any excuse for a communal celebration of family, art, food, or religion, and yet such lively passions can sway dangerously towards prejudice with the right provocation. “It seems to me the perfect place to watch if we end or not,” Vidal predicts, and by the end of Roma, Fellini has thoroughly substantiated his claim. Within this vividly surreal portrait, its culture is a vibrant epicentre of history and modernity, community and intolerance, highbrow art and lowbrow entertainment – and worth cherishing in all its wonders, contradictions, and flaws.

Fellini’s Roma is currently available to buy from Amazon.

Il Bidone (1955)

Federico Fellini | 1hr 52min

So desperate is the working class of Il Bidone’s post-war Italy, it seems that they are ready to believe any stranger who comes bearing dubious promises of financial stability. Perhaps with some retrospect, they might realise how strange it is that government bureaucrats would promise public housing to anyone in a crowd who comes forward with a deposit. Even more ludicrous a scenario is Vatican clergymen visiting a farmer’s property, bearing papal orders to dig up their land and uncover a repentant criminal’s bones, treasure, and will that stipulates the landowner must pay the church before receiving any money. Those who carry an air of confident authority can easily gain the trust of the needy, and naturally as the oldest and most experienced of his crooked crew, that is exactly Augusto’s greatest strength.

True to Federico Fellini’s contemplations of morality and corruption in modern Italy, Il Bidone is deeply engaged with lives of parasitic cruelty and the weight they bear on one’s conscience. Religion is effectively reduced to empty icons in their hands, stripped of the virtue it preaches and irreverently wielded as a means to an end. There may not be any of Fellini’s usual carnivals or entertainers present here, but Il Bidone’s conmen are nevertheless performers who profit off their carefully constructed spectacles. Much like their show business counterparts, total commitment is required from any swindler who wishes to succeed in his craft, and Augusto leaves no room for confusion regarding what sacrifices must be made.

“People like us can’t have families. One must be free to move. You can’t have a wife. You must be alone. The most important thing when you’re young is freedom. It’s more important than the air you breathe.”

*The priest scam is a classic in the books of Augusto and his crew of conmen, displaying an ingenuity and efficiency that holds no regard for the sacrilege being committed.*

*Broderick Crawford carries an imposing, authoritative presence as Augusto, winning the trust of strangers before running off with their money.*

Not that the companionship that these men find with each other instead is terribly fulfilling. At night they excessively indulge in luxuries purchased with their stolen money, drinking and dancing their guilt away. If there is any hope of escaping this cesspool of debauchery, then it comes in the form of family members longing for their husbands and fathers to be truly present, though such clean redemption is no easy objective. Just as the friends in I Vitelloni are awed by their leader’s overconfidence, the naïve Picasso here sees his associate Roberto as a model of masculinity, and ultimately finds himself torn between his charismatic lure and his wife’s desperate pleas to leave this unethical life behind.

*Even in her small role, Giulietta Masina makes an impact as the moral centre of Il Bidone, pleading with her husband to leave his life of crime.*

Perhaps the most compelling relationship of Il Bidone though arrives through Augusto’s chance run-in with his estranged daughter Patrizia, just as he is on his way to another con. The humanity that had previously escaped his characterisation begins to manifest here with delicate caution as he attempts to rekindle this connection, offering to pay for her studies and bestowing gifts that she doesn’t realise have been stolen. It is a real tragedy that he is recognised as a conman during their outing together at a cinema – not so much for the judicial slap on the wrist, but rather for his humiliating exposure in front of the only person who still holds him in some esteem. The dramatic irony that stations Patrizia in the foreground watching the movie and Augusto’s confrontation in the background is made all the more discomforting by the crowd’s eyes slowly turning towards the commotion in a ripple effect, suspensefully edging closer to his oblivious daughter.

Salvation appears out of the blue one day when Augusto runs into his daughter Patrizia. Her discovery of his crooked line of work is heartbreaking, as Fellini foregrounds her obliviousness while her father is caught by authorities in the background. Very slowly, heads turn towards the commotion, rippling out across the crowd until Patrizia’s attention is similarly caught.

Even if Il Bidone is a step below his prior masterpieces I Vitelloni and La Strada, Fellini’s visual storytelling and blocking still land with bold dramatic impact in moments like these. His neorealist tendency towards shooting real locations with deep focus lenses constantly keeps the struggling communities being hurt by Augusto’s gang in view, and at the very least turns rough-hewn stonework and dusty rural farms into bleak backdrops. As long as the conman can keep an emotional distance from his targets, then he can continue exploiting them with little mind for their future wellbeing, and yet soon we begin to realise that his daughter’s broken belief in him has fundamentally altered his worldview.

*Neorealist tendencies in the poverty-centric narrative and location shooting, turning Italy’s towns and countryside into rugged backdrops.*

*Augusto’s encounter with the disabled girl of the family he is scamming is the last straw – his moral corruption can no longer bear the weight of his guilt.*

By laying small reckonings of morality like these all throughout Il Bidone, Fellini earns the final step in Augusto’s redemption arc, formally returning to the religious scam which he conducted so effortlessly in the film’s first scene. When realising his victim’s daughter is a polio-afflicted teenage girl with a pure faith in God, his conscience can no longer bear the weight of his guilt. Torment and shame uneasily mount in Broderick Crawford’s flustered performance, though it is only when he makes away with his crew that they ultimately manifest as a bald-faced lie – he did not end up taking the money, he claims, but instead returned it.

*Wondrous depth of field in Fellini’s blocking, as Augusto’s crew grow suspicious of their leader and turn on him.*

It is at this point that we witness a religious icon be imbued with real meaning for the very first time in Il Bidone, rather than become a weapon of exploitation. As Augusto is robbed by his associates, beaten, and left on a hill to die, Fellini symbolically alludes to Christ’s sacrifice, bearing the sins of the world on the cross. Augusto’s honourable attempt to keep the stolen money from falling into criminal hands may be in vain, yet through physical and spiritual suffering, his soul is liberated. Rocky is the path to salvation in Fellini’s cinematic parable, but so too is it purifying, stripping back the lies and depravity of a modern world to uncover the grace that lies dormant in even the most dishonest man.

*Fellini evokes Christ’s torture and sacrifice in Augusto’s death, cherishing the purification of his soul at the tragic expense of his life.*

Il Bidone is currently streaming on The Criterion Channel, and is available to purchase on DVD or Blu-ray on Amazon.

49th Parallel (1941)

Michael Powell | 2hr 3min

The fight that the western world puts up again Nazi Germany in 49^th Parallel is not led by individual heroes or organised military units. It takes a communal sense of justice, democracy, and moral fortitude among everyday civilians to not only pick off the six Nazi submariners who have been stranded in Canada, but to also thoroughly undermine the narrow-minded, hateful ideology which guides their actions. With the United States still being considered neutral territory in 1941, the Niagara Falls border crossing is their destination, and so all Lieutenant Hirth and his men need to do is keep their heads down for the journey south. If these fugitives are to successfully find sanctuary though, then it isn’t just a victory for them – it is an alarming affirmation of fascist indomitability.

The fact that this is one of the few Michael Powell films to be shot in black-and-white rather than Technicolor does not mean he is any less confident with his chosen aesthetic. While other works of his such as Black Narcissus and The Red Shoes possess a similarly haunting wickedness, they are also far more fantastical than 49^th Parallel, whose grim severity simply would not be suited to the same stylistic vibrance. In small scenes of contained drama, cinematographer Freddie Young instead captures Powell’s rich blocking and rigorous military formations with a deep focus lens, remarkably uninfluenced by his contemporary Orson Welles who was making Citizen Kane at the exact same time.

Michael Powell was primarily celebrated for the lush beauty of his Technicolor cinematography, but this visual style would have not suited the bleak austerity of 49th Parallel, capturing grim compositions of soldiers and civilians in severe black-and-white.

Even more impressive is the grand visual scale which Powell quite comfortably inhabits, executing spectacular stunts of exploding sea vessels and crashing planes, and flying his camera over vast coastlines in extraordinary aerial shots. When the Nazi fugitives make it to Winnipeg, he confronts them with a rainy city of neon signs and busy streets where bulletins call for their capture, though it is more often the expansive alpine terrains where these ill-prepared men are mentally worn down. Dressed in suits and fine shoes, they traverse sprawling pine forests, hike up barren mountain ranges, and follow raging rivers in the hope of finding some sort of civilisation again, yet the North American wilderness is not kind to these foreigners. With long shots as sweeping as these, it wouldn’t be a stretch to say that Young’s work here thoroughly prepared him for his incredible landscape photography in Lawrence of Arabia twenty-one years later, especially since the editor on 49^th Parallel is David Lean himself.

*Thrilling spectacle in the opening act of 49th Parallel, crashing planes and exploding sea vessels to set up the large scale of the narrative to come.*

*Aerial shots of the Canadian wilderness, revealing the enormous scope of Powell’s narrative spanning hundreds of miles.*

*Harsh mountain scenery consuming suited men ill-equipped for their environment – a deeply ingrained mismatch between characters and setting.*

Underscoring the incongruency of the Nazis’ survival in Canada even more than the natural environment though is the people they encounter, each of whom possess some liberal value which they view as weakness through their dogmatic perspectives. Powell gathers an impressive cast in his ensemble here, including Laurence Olivier as a jovial trapper whose optimistic trust sees him shot and killed, and Leslie Howard as an English novelist who camps by a lake to mentally separate himself from the war. He is thoughtful and sensitive, shrewdly analysing the repetitive rhetoric used by fascists to manipulate the minds of susceptible listeners, and yet Hirth is nevertheless quick to label him a soft, degenerate coward who would rather talk than fight.

*Lawrence Olivier’s brief cameo as a jovial Canadian trapper is worth savouring, as Powell pits his naive optimism against the opportunism of the Nazis.*

*Leslie Howard’s English novelist offers the film’s sharpest indictment of Nazi ideology and rhetoric, embodying a sensitive sophistication that Hirth and his men disparage as weak.*

49^th Parallel may be a piece of wartime propaganda, but it is tough to deny the astuteness of its humanitarian arguments, especially when the fugitives are welcomed into a Hutterite farming community that houses German refugees. Anton Walbrook plays their leader Peter, an amiable man who views himself as a servant of his people, rather than the other way round – a shocking discovery for these fascists who are so used to heiling their Führer. Their blind belief that this community is a cover for Nazi sympathisers would almost be comical if Hirth’s impassioned speech inviting them to join him wasn’t met with such damning, disgusted silence, followed by a solemn response from Peter that further reveals how distant these humble Christians are from the monsters of their homeland.

“You think we hate you, but we don’t. It is against our faith to hate. We only hate the power of evil that is spreading over the world. You and your Hitler are like the microbes of some filthy disease, filled with a longing to multiply yourselves until you destroy everything healthy in the world. No. We are not your brothers.”

*The stupid arrogance of the Nazis is revealed in Hirth’s attempted alliance with the Hutterite community, defiantly ignorant to the fact that many of them are refugees.*

It is not these words alone which moves one of the fugitives to ally himself with the Hutterites, but Vogel’s brief experience of working as their baker and finding heartfelt acceptance among their ranks is enough for him to decide to stay permanently. We can only imagine what his reformation might have looked like had he been allowed to follow his own enlightened path though, as Hirth coldly executes him for treachery before departing with the remaining party.

The readiness of Nazis to abandon their own companions is plain to see all throughout Powell’s narrative, defining its very structure as their group gradually diminishes one-by-one in a similar fashion to Agatha Christie’s murder mystery And Then There Were None. Through plane accidents, executions, arrests, and physical assaults, each fugitive is stopped in their tracks, while the others continue their relentless march south to the Canada-United States border where they might finally be safe. The danger around them increases tenfold once they start drawing attention in the media, but so too does the subsequent news from back home praising them as national heroes spur them on, right up until Hirth is left as the sole survivor struggling to the finish line.

*Like Agatha Christi’s novel And Then There Were None, Powell picks off his characters one by one, giving 49th Parallel a rigorous formal structure.*

It is there on a freight train heading past Niagara Falls into New York that the German lieutenant encounters Andy, another stowaway similarly keeping a low profile due to his desertion of the Canadian army. “You’re a deserter because you have a legitimate grievance against your democratic government,” Hirth acclaims, but this disloyal soldier does not take so kindly to the Nazi once he learns of his true identity.

“You can’t even begin to understand democracy. We own the right to be fed up with anything we damn please and say so out loud when we feel like it. And when things go wrong, we can take it. We can dish it out too.”

True to Andy’s patriotic sentiments, it is exactly Hirth’s underestimation of the power that democracy vests in ordinary citizens which brings about his downfall. That the deciding moment of his victory rests on the shoulders of a lowly Canadian deserter and a US Customs inspector makes for a tremendous formal pay-off to this narrative, which has consistently underscored the ability of trappers, farmers, and writers alike to weaken fascism’s forward advance. Sacrifices must be made in the struggle, and yet Powell’s wartime fable effectively cloaks these in glory, vigorously rousing the then-neutral United States of 1941 to take up arms against Nazi Germany with egalitarian pride and honour.

It is not a concerted military effort that stop the Nazis in their tracks, but rather the democratic actions of ordinary civilians, right up to Hirth’s attempt to cross the Canada-United States border as the last man standing.

49th Parallel is currently streaming on The Criterion Channel, and is available to purchase on Amazon.

Challengers (2024)

Luca Guadagnino | 2hr 11min

When aspiring tennis player Tashi first meets doubles partners Art and Patrick at the US Open, she lays out the metaphor at the centre of Challengers quite plainly. “Tennis is a relationship,” she romantically opines, binding opponents in perfect harmony. As long as they are locked in this combative back-and-forth, they see into each other’s minds in a way that no one else could possibly imagine, anticipating and performing manoeuvres with an impassioned, instinctive efficiency.

The pivotal Challenger match woven through Luca Guadagnino’s narrative is clearly the purest distillation of this ethos, telling a story of friends-turned-rivals that only those who bore witness to their journey might comprehend. Art and Patrick’s end goal here transcends merely winning the game – that would be far too simplistic a motive for men with as complex a shared history as theirs. In reality, there is another player here who has taken her place on the sidelines. Tashi may not have played professionally since her career-ending knee injury, but her impact on this match is just as impactful as Art and Patrick’s, becoming the third person in a love triangle that has spent thirteen years fluctuating between cold resentment and fervent desire.

“Tennis is a relationship” becomes the central metaphor of Challengers, and Guadagnino goes out of his way to infuse it in every level of his back-and-forth narrative structure, camerawork, and editing.

With his laurels resting on the success of Call Me by Your Name, Guadagnino is no stranger to exploring queer romance, and so it should be no surprise that the polyamorous, homoerotic relationship of Challengers remains so compelling throughout its lengthy runtime. From the moment Art and Patrick lay eyes on Tashi at the US Open as naïve 18-year-olds, they are instantly entranced by her vibrant passion and charm, locking their eyes on her side of the court while everyone else’s heads follow the ball. Later that evening, they are astonished to discover that she has accepted their invitation to their hotel room, and even more surprised when their truncated threesome brings their latent bisexuality to light. Whoever wins the junior singles final the next day will have her number, she promises in the aftermath, incidentally driving the first of many wedges between them. Patrick thus claims his prize and begins dating Tashi shortly after, though it is ultimately Art who marries and takes her on as his coach.

Between this fateful meeting in 2006 and their reunion at the Challenger event in 2019, Guadagnino energetically hops between timelines with incredible deftness, intercutting the years of their youth, the week leading up to their final game, and the climactic showdown itself. As a result, this rich formal structure uncovers hidden signifiers and motivations in Art and Patrick’s decisive match, from a subtle shift in the way Patrick serves the ball to his purposeful double faulting. The editing remains dynamic in the transitions too, gliding across eras through match cuts that seamlessly maintain the narrative’s brisk pacing, and elsewhere shifting between contrasting scenes that bear hidden connections. This is especially evident when Art and Patrick reunite in a steamy sauna before their Challenger game, where Guadagnino breaks up their oddly intimate argument with Tashi and Patrick’s brief liaison eight years earlier. In the years since, Patrick has maintained his fiery passion despite a meagre career while Art has burnt out on professional success, yet both still share a common belief in Tashi as the key to unlocking their true potential.

*Old lovers collide through pure accident in flashback, bouncing Josh O’Connors reflection off the window as their paths meet.*

As for where Tashi sits relative to this broken brotherhood, Guadagnino’s opening scene paints a perfect picture, symmetrically aligning her with the net as the camera briskly dollies across the court to her position in the dead centre of the crowd. Challengers is not an extraordinarily beautiful film, but in moments like these he works in vivacious flourishes of style to vibrantly match the temperamental dynamic between Zendaya, Mike Faist, and Josh O’Connor, as well as Trent Reznor and Atticus Ross’ score of propulsive synths. During a pivotal argument between Tashi and Patrick, Guadagnino volleys his camera between both sides as if watching a game of tennis, and later an even greater breakdown unfolds in the middle of a storm furiously whipping leaves of loose paper around them.

*Inventive camerawork offers fresh, invigorating perspectives at tennis matches, sinking the camera beneath the ground in extreme low angles and lifting it up into overhead shots.*

Ultimately though, Guadagnino reserves his most invigorating visuals for the court, where Art, Patrick, and Tashi release their frustration through raw, physical power and skill. Between games, the camera will often patiently survey the field through panning and tracking shots, while during rallies we flinch as Guadagnino lets the ball fly right past the lens. By the time the match interlaced throughout Challengers reaches its final sets, he similarly lets it build to a cinematic apex, making for one of the most thrilling games of tennis put to film. Close-ups keenly observe sweat pour off faces and extreme low angles dramatically peer up from beneath the ground itself, but it is the extreme slow-motion photography which most triumphantly imbues this sequence with stylish tension, apprehensively drawing out split-second decisions and reactions. As this tightly edited sequence approaches its climax, Guadagnino uses Tashi as the division in a split screen and even attaches us to the disorientated point-of-view of the ball, throwing us onto the court like another participant in this match.

Tennis may be a relationship according to Tashi, though by capturing both aspects of these characters’ lives with the same primal passion, Guadagnino pushes this metaphor even further – tennis is sex, revelling in the exhilarating union of synchronised bodies and building to an explosive finish. When it comes to matters of carnal expression, who wins and loses is entirely inconsequential, with such concerns only leading to discontentment. For what is otherwise a relatively inexplicit film, Challengers intersects lust, love, and loathing with electrifying sensuality, fulfilling a mutual desire for intimate connection through relentless, heated competition.

*Endlessly creative shot choices as Guadagnino ramps up the chaotic tension in the final scene, attaching his camera to the ball’s point-of-view as it ricochets across the court.*

*Sweat drips onto the camera in slow-motion – visceral, carnal imagery.*

Challengers is currently playing in cinemas.

Civil War (2024)

Alex Garland | 1hr 49min

If award-winning war photographer Lee and her team of journalists are to accurately capture images of Civil War’s dystopian conflict, then it is necessary for them to first detach emotionally from their work. Their job isn’t to intervene, Lee stresses, but merely to chronicle reality so that other people can ask the hard-hitting questions instead.

Frequently when these reporters snap photos on the frontlines, Alex Garland thus cuts away to black-and-white still shots of their subjects, briefly muting the sound design to remove us from the fervour of the moment. At times it is a relief to breathe just for a few seconds, even if we are still being forced to gaze upon brutal executions and massacres. It is exactly in that silence though that a new, unexpected horror comes to light – one which has taken root in supposedly impartial outsiders who try to deny the personal impact of such visceral psychological trauma. Lee’s hardened mental barriers aren’t indestructible, though equally her sensitive protégé Jessie can only take so much of a beating before she sets up similar defences, as Garland sets both on inverse paths towards a self-destructive conflict of human instincts.

*Kirsten Dunst and Cailee Spaeny lead the film along a pair of inverse character paths, converging at the point of psychological self-destruction.*

*These cutaways to still, black-and-white photos are a superb formal choice with a devastating pay-off, desensitising us to the carnage.*

*Each stop along the odyssey brings its own threats and twists, revealing the sadistic penchant for violence within ordinary Americans.*

Even more than Annihilation’s surreal venture into the unknown, Civil War marks Garland’s largest, most ambitious project yet, setting out an odyssey across a future America that has been violently split into loyalist and secessionist states. The world building is remarkable here, covering an enormous scope from the ferocious riots in New York City to the military siege of Washington DC itself, and positioning a tyrannical, three-term President at the centre who sanctions the murder of journalists. Seemingly untouched towns trying to live in blissful ignorance and gas station attendants torturing dissidents in their garage continue to develop this divided America at a ground level too, revealing the lives of civilians desperate to maintain some semblance of normality, and those viciously buying into the carnage.

*Nick Offerman’s three-term is only in the film’s opening and closing scenes, but his impact is felt strongly across a divided America.*

*There is a huge scope to Garland’s staging and narrative, set up in establishing shots covering military units, camps, and helicopters – clearly one of his biggest budgets yet.*

At the same time though, the history and politics of this civilisation is not Garland’s primary focus. Much to the chagrin of audiences hoping for a hard partisan stance, Civil War purposefully neglects the granular details which might have made pigeonholed this film into a shallow take on left-right ideologies, and in doing so saves us from overly didactic monologues stopping the narrative in its tracks.

The unlikely alliance of California and Texas as the Western Forces only further distances Garland’s war from the United States as it exists today, though not so much that we are totally alienated from his characters. This team of photojournalists may have a better contextual understanding than us, but this information is irrelevant in hostile environments where survival is the only meaningful objective – besides their endeavours to record such scenarios in digital snapshots. Even more protective than their Kevlar vests identifying them as press are the cameras which separate them from reality, imbuing Garland’s disorientating cinematography with a cutting self-awareness. The shallow focus close-ups visually isolate his characters when their PTSD kicks in, though even more unusual are the chromatic aberrations and smeared lens effects reminding us of the prism we are viewing this world through, purposefully distorting our perception to save us from the maddening truth.

*Shallow focus close-ups shift us outside the immediate reality, and into Lee’s detached mind.*

*The chromatic aberrations around the edges of the frame are another nice formal choice from Garland, filtering PTSD through a prism.*

Garland continues to reveal an uncanny beauty in scenes of Lee’s team driving through blazing forest fires while sparks fall around them in slow-motion, but when he does let the horrors of Civil War unfold in a full view, it is easy to see why such filters are so necessary. The bloodshed is often visceral and downright shocking, grotesquely revealed in one particularly disturbing overhead shot of Jessie crawling out from a mass grave of white, bloodied corpses, and marking each episode in this cross-country journey with its own unique threat. Apocalypse Now is evidently a key influence here, as Garland lets its carnivalesque chaos emerge in the depressing sight of a derelict Christmas fair hosting a shootout between enemy snipers to the depressing sound of ‘Jingle Bells.’ Unsure of which side is which, Lee questions the nearest combatants, and the response she receives is eerily evocative of the insanity at Do Lung Bridge.

“No one’s giving us orders man. Someone’s trying to kill us. We’re trying to kill them.”

*Lens flares and slow-motion as the crew drive through a forest fire – an unearthly beauty tainted by the traumatic stench of death.*

Whatever deeply held convictions instigated this war have officially lost all meaning to those merely fighting to stay alive, and perhaps the same could even be said for those soldiers simply seeking excuses to indulge their most sadistic desires, represented in Jesse Plemons’ unnerving ultranationalist. As strong as Kirsten Dunst and Cailee Spaeny are in the two lead roles, he very nearly steals the entire film as the militant in red-tinted sunglasses who captures their entire crew at gunpoint, suspensefully toying with them in his deadpan voice. If Robert Duvall’s Colonel Kilgore was the standout minor character in Apocalypse Now, then Plemons is the memorable equivalent in Civil War, playing a character who rests his entire life’s purpose upon the barbaric conquest of dehumanised enemies.

*Jesse Plemons may very well steal the film with his deadpan sadism, playing easily the most terrifying character of the film.*

Lee may claim to be desensitised, even suggesting that she would capture the death of her colleagues on camera if she found herself in such a situation, but she at the very least retains a humanity which so many others have clearly lost. By the time she arrives in Washington DC, Dunst has very much earned the major character shift that sees her break under pressure, yet still find the capacity for a rejuvenated selflessness. Not only this, but the cutaways to her team’s photographs throughout Civil War intersect her story arc here with formal aplomb, playing out a crucial turning point in an otherwise bombastic final set piece through a montage of silent, black-and-white stills. Remote objectivity is an impossible standard for any human to uphold in the face of severe trauma, yet after all we have witnessed in Garland’s gruelling wartime odyssey, the prospect of cynically detaching through media’s distancing filter regrettably looks a whole lot more appealing than the alternative.

Civil War is currently playing in cinemas.

Monkey Man (2024)

Dev Patel | 2hr 1min

Throughout the first two acts of Monkey Man, the only manifestations of the Kid’s childhood trauma come through splintered flashbacks, aggressively piercing the mental barrier he has placed between the past and present. They are just as disorientating as they are potent, triggering intense feelings of rage and grief at the sight of a familiar ring, or otherwise overcoming him with peace as he recalls the stories of Hindu gods his mother once read. Dev Patel’s handheld camerawork leans heavily into close-ups in these interludes, hazily singling out key details that have ingrained themselves in the Kid’s psyche, and yet which he must keep some emotional distance from if he is to exact clean vengeance against those responsible for his physical and psychological scars.

The fine control that Patel exerts over the non-linear structure of Monkey Man is an impressive feat for any first-time filmmaker, though the time he has spent acting under great directors such as Danny Boyle and David Lowery has no doubted imparted valuable lessons. Repeated images of corrupt police chief Rana Singh silhouetted against a burning village irrevocably binds the Kid to his fearsome nemesis, just as the recurring image of Hanuman the Monkey God is linked to the Kid himself, setting him on a spiritual journey from bloodthirsty retribution towards cathartic enlightenment.

*Fragments of the past aggressively pierce the Kid’s psyche, binding him to feelings of fear, anger, and grief through sheer formal repetition.*

*Flashbacks often play out in extreme close-ups, offering both intimacy and a hazy disorientation.*

The gorilla mask that the Kid wears as an underground fighter in the Tiger’s Temple may be the clearest representation of this, though when he opens a rift in his chest during a hallucinatory, spiritual awakening, Patel even more specifically evokes the iconography of Hanuman revealing his heartfelt devotion to gods Rama and Sita. Patel is wise to choose this moment as the reveal of the Kid’s full backstory, transcending mere exposition by marking it as a crucial turning point in his arc, and thus allowing him to stare his trauma in its face rather than let its intrusive fragments domineer him. All those shards of stray memories thus congeal into a pitiful portrait of corruption in modern-day India, recognising the Kid as a nameless avenger of not just his own family, but an entire caste of society that has been crushed by political oppressors.

*Incredibly creative use of Hanuman the Monkey God as a symbol of the Kid’s journey, calling upon the imagery of him tearing open his chest.*

*For what is essentially a Hollywood action film, Patel’s work is extraordinarily spiritual, and in deep conversation with Hinduism’s core tenets.*

The towering brothel that the Kid infiltrates to reach Rana becomes a magnificent metaphor for this ascension too, with each floor signifying distinct levels in a rigidly segmented social hierarchy, and respectively bringing our hero closer to shattering the fascistic branch of Hindu nationalism his archenemy serves. This movement is not to be confused with Hinduism as a religion, Patel is careful to illustrate, especially when the Kid aligns himself with a deeply spiritual community of Hijra – a third gender originating in India thousands of years ago, encompassing individuals who may be transgender, intersex, or eunuchs. Hinduism is an intricate belief system interlocked with an equally complex political landscape, and so it is a testament to Patel’s visual storytelling that both are weaved with such nuance into Monkey Man’s vibrantly textured setting, offering tangible stakes to the Kid’s brutal conquest of evil.

*Endless creativity in the action set pieces much like John Wick, using a leaky aquarium as an obstacle that both combatants must contend with in a bathroom fight.*

*The camera often rotates in overhead shots, taking a gods-eye view of the Kid’s retribution and enlightenment.*

Of course, a great deal of this also comes down to the sheer creativity and practicality of the visuals, destabilising the Kid’s world with overhead shots, canted angles, and slow-motion sequences. The settings are often as dynamically engaged with the action as the actors themselves, imposing obstacles such as a large aquarium slowly flooding a bathroom, and offering an array of improvised weapons in a kitchen where stoves, microwaves, and knives are wielded with gruesome resourcefulness. While Patel keeps up an expeditious pace in his editing throughout Monkey Man, he also knows when to let his camera hold on longer takes and let his hand-to-hand fight choreography shine through, made all the more impressive by his dedication to performing his own stunts.

*The Tiger’s Temple makes for a magnificent visual set piece, filtering a dirty golden light through the thick, humid air and often playing out the action in slow-motion.*

*The strip club inside the tower is defined by its soft purple tones, stylistically elevated above the lower-class levels below.*

*Emergency lights flood the elevator with red, heralding a climactic finale.*

Patel’s direction continues to shine in his lighting’s vivid distinction of each location too, separating the humid, yellow atmosphere of the Tiger’s Temple from the dim purple ambience of a high-end strip club, and eventually even drenching the Kid in crimson as the tower elevator takes him to the end of his journey. There at the top, Diwali fireworks and an earthy red painting of Hanuman reigning over a battlefield become auspicious backdrops to his final confrontation, effectively rendering the Kid as a modern avatar of the Monkey God meeting his destiny. It is a rare thing to witness a first-time director meld such handsomely stylised visuals with mystical symbolism, yet by its marvellous conclusion Monkey Man has thoroughly proven Patel to be just as adept behind the camera as he is in front of it, crafting a Hindu allegory that envisions the righteous delivery of divine, cosmic justice upon India’s corrupt political landscape.

*Hanuman makes one last appearance in the final scene, bringing the Kid’s journey full circle back to the Hindu myths that once inspired him.*

Monkey Man is currently playing in cinemas.