Category: Must-See

Magnus von Horn | 2hr 2min

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

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

“That’s what was needed.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Coen Brothers | 1hr 56min

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Brady Corbet | 3hr 35min

When Hungarian-Jewish immigrant László Tóth first arrives in the United States, it is as if we are watching a birth from inside the belly of the steamship itself. The dissonant score of plucked strings and hollow percussion blend with the chaotic din of passengers below deck, scrambling in the darkness to catch sight of their new home. The handheld camera moves in a single, disorienting take with László through the crowd, submerged in total confusion, until finally a glimpse of blinding light pierces through. It takes a few seconds for our eyes to adjust when he exits, but as we gaze up at his beaming smile, we follow his line of sight to New York’s beacon of hope. The Statue of Liberty looms proudly over the tumbling camera, and as Daniel Blumberg’s booming, four-note theme breaks through the raucous sound design with orchestral grandeur, an awe-inspiring vision of the American Dream is announced – albeit one which has been turned totally upside down.

Upon moving to Philadelphia to work for his cousin’s furniture business, still that brassy motif continues to follow László through The Brutalist, welcoming him to a land of freedom and opportunity. There, his expertise as an architect comes in handy when he is hired to renovate a wealthy industrialist’s study into a library. After Mr. Van Buren gets over his initial confusion and outrage, it is also that incredible talent which lands László in the businessman’s inner circle, where he uses his careful craftsmanship to carve a path to prosperity. Still, at no point during their affiliation does László forget that this entire arrangement is founded upon unspoken caveats. As we traverse Brady Corbet’s epic immigrant saga, László’s relationships to both the United States and his homeland are knotted together, yielding complex artistic fusions from bitter nostalgia, soured dreams, and deep-seated cultural trauma.

The void which The Brutalist fills within modern cinema is one that is only ever occupied these days by films with equal parts mass appeal, artistic ambition, and vintage nostalgia. Right from the moment the word ‘Overture’ appears on a black screen in the opening seconds, it is clear that this is a throwback to the event films of a long-gone era, complete with a lengthy run time and a much-needed intermission. Even Corbet’s decision to shoot on VistaVision, a high-resolution format that fell from popularity in the 1960s, captures that fine, grainy texture and rich colouring of Golden Age Hollywood. With a score that also merges the classical majesty of Maurice Jarre and the avant-garde stylings of Jonny Greenwood, The Brutalist thoughtfully captures László’s split mindset in this country of contradictions, positioning him as an artist caught between the Old World and the New.

Of course, that music comparison inevitably draws us to the Paul Thomas Anderson parallels. From The Master’s introspective character study, Corbet borrows a wandering, post-war existentialism, haunted by substance abuse, sexual affairs, and memories of immense suffering. László Tóth is a far more sophisticated man than Freddie Quell, yet both seek some return to normalcy after being separated from their homes and loved ones. On a visual and narrative level though, The Brutalist bears greater resemblance to There Will Be Blood, building a grand mythos around the foundations and evolution of American capitalism. Like oil baron Daniel Plainview, László erects towering monuments of human progress from the raw materials of the earth, and Corbet’s astounding long shots bask in those rugged, monolithic structures rising from the green hills of Pennsylvania.

With that said, Plainview does not possess László’s eye for aesthetic and engineer’s mind, making his closest counterpart here the business-minded Mr. Van Buren. The entrepreneur’s bizarre description of their conversations as “intellectually stimulating” and the pedestal he places László upon at opulent dinner parties transcends mere admiration. In his eyes, this immigrant architect is an object of perverse fascination, fetishised for his exotic background, ingenuity, and trauma. Repressed homoerotic attraction and jealousy stoke feelings of insecurity in Van Buren, who finally encounters a barrier that money can’t overcome. As such, the closest he can get to possessing László’s intrinsic gift is through exploiting his labour. This largely comes in the guise of generous benefaction, though when all that charm is stripped away, Corbet reveals a hideous, hateful creature who takes advantage of his subordinate in far more depraved ways as well.

Van Buren easily stands among Guy Pearce’s most compelling characters, played with a roguish allure that draws the respect of similarly powerful allies, but it is Adrien Brody who comes out even stronger in his raw, battered performance as László. He is the culmination of countless devastating experiences, each resulting in unhealthy coping mechanisms that only deepen his psychological wounds. In particular, the heroin that was commonly used to treat pain on the journey to America becomes a toxic habit, frequently used as self-medication. When he attends a club early on to get high, the camera’s energetic swinging at low angles among musicians and dancers eventually gives way to a slow, lifeless zoom in on his glazed-over expression, while the upbeat jazz music nightmarishly dissolves into discordant mayhem.

When László is hard at work on the other hand, Brody projects a supreme, self-composed confidence that seems entirely compartmentalised from his drug-fuelled breakdowns. His genius is limitless under the right conditions, taking physical form in those imposing buildings and interiors which are celebrated in Corbet’s photography. The library especially is a feat of clean, minimalist design, creating a forced perspective from the entry towards a rounded window wall where sunlight filters through translucent white drapes. The bookshelf doors which open in graceful unison make for an elegant touch here too, though it isn’t until Van Buren commissions the architect to construct a community centre that his style evolves into full-fledged brutalism.

Concrete is a sturdy and cheap material, László reasons, though visually it also makes a powerful statement in its rejection of smooth, polished textures and ornamentations. From this coarse mixture of cement, water, and aggregates, his giant slabs and pillars impose a geometric simplicity upon the rolling countryside, while also expressing a creative, spiritual reverence in the cross that forms from the negative space between two towers. Timelapse photography and metric montages fuse with Blumberg’s driving score as progress is made in the construction, though even beyond László’s creations, Corbet’s camera continues to gaze in wonder at the steep terraces of Italian marble quarries and the vast, steel scaffolding of industrial sites.

After all, don’t those structures which service our basic needs for shelter, security, and community stand at the cornerstone of human civilisation? On a cultural level too, don’t their aesthetic and functionality define entire historical epochs, while also transcending time itself by nature of their permanence? With an immigrant at the centre of this story, Corbet is keenly aware of the irony here – not only was American modernism largely shaped by outsiders importing ideas from Eastern Europe, but those same innovators suffered greatly within the nation’s oppressive economic system.

Being divided cleanly into a rise and fall narrative structure, it is The Brutalist’s second act which especially traces that growing disillusionment, setting László on a steady downward slide. With the arrival of his wife Erzsébet and niece Zsófia as well, it becomes even more apparent just how emotionally stunted he is, keeping him from recovering the stable, loving relationship they shared before the war. Soon, both women join him in recognising the emptiness of America’s promises. “This whole country is rotten,” Erzsébet mournfully laments after his attempt to treat her pain with heroin goes disastrously wrong. At this point, it seems that the only way out is to begin a new chapter of their lives in Israel.

Unfortunately, it is also this latter half of the film which strays from Corbet’s tight, economical storytelling, stagnating in some plot threads while wandering down others that aren’t so cleanly integrated. As a result, the end of László’s arc comes about abruptly, with nothing but a tonally jarring epilogue to reflect on the legacy he left behind. The monologue here is overly expository, clunkily revealing layers to his artistry which link back to his experiences as a Holocaust survivor, and it is incredibly disappointing that our first proper viewing of the finished community centre comes through fuzzy video tape footage.

Instead, the most impactful conclusion to The Brutalist arrives at the end of Part 2. Corbet’s handheld camerawork and long takes have consistently imbued this epic with a primitive intimacy, and now as Erzsébet confronts Van Buren in front of his friends, both are used in a single, tremendous shot lasting several minutes. All at once, the polite civility which has long maintained the systemic injustice he has profited off crumbles, exposing a cowardly, insecure man who is nothing without the respect of his peers. Where László’s legacy is substantial and far-reaching, the haunting ambiguity of Van Buren’s own fate appropriately transforms him into a ghost of sorts, intangibly bound to that magnificent community centre and the talented architect who designed it. Such is the nature of a culture which purposefully imbalances the relationship between investor and creator though, and as this sprawling, historic fable so vividly expresses, it is often the latter who bears the true cost of progress.

The Brutalist is currently playing in theatres.

Jean Renoir | 1hr 40min

Locomotive driver Lantier has been painfully afflicted by the consequences of his ancestors’ alcoholism since birth, though the way it manifests as headaches and uncontrollable fits of rage in La Bête Humaine, it might as well be a blood curse. When he is caught in the throes of passion or intoxication, he appears to be possessed by some invisible force, at one point compelling him to wrap his hands around the neck of his sweetheart Flore before a passing train snaps him back to reality. As such, it is a dangerous game that his newest love interest Séverine is playing, slyly luring the angry, volatile beast from out of its cage and setting it on her abusive husband.

The link between France’s poetic realism and Hollywood’s films noir is evident in Jean Renoir’s bleak, psychological tale, laying out the blueprints of those corrupted antiheroes and femme fatales who would dominate the next decade of American cinema. That La Bête Humaine’s roots extend back to the naturalistic writing of novelist Émile Zola only further embeds it within a history of fatalistic storytelling as well, rejecting romanticism in favour of moral ambiguity and melancholic contemplations on the inexorable nature of man. After all, Lantier’s downfall is woven into the very fabric of his character, dooming him to a tragic fate decided before he was even born – so who better to navigate his dance with darkness than the French master of camera movement?

Coming off a string of cinematic triumphs, the versatility of Renoir’s fluid visual style was well-established in 1938, though here it is more precisely aimed at generating a pervasive, uneasy tension. This is not to say his camerawork isn’t swept away by romance on occasion, even falling under Séverine’s allure in one ballroom scene as it lightly weaves its way among dancers to find her, but far more notable is the chilly distance which it keeps between us and the actors. When fate guides Lantier to the train where his path will soon collide with Séverine’s, we are kept on the outside, only catching glimpses through the windows as we drift past. Moreover, the murder she conducts with her jealous husband Roubaud unfolds entirely out of view, just behind the closed doors of a private compartment. Her wealthy godfather Grandmorin is the target here for allegedly assaulting her in the past, though given Roubaud’s abusive nature, his own future isn’t looking terribly secure either.

With an infatuated Lantier as the sole witness to this assassination, Séverine finds no difficulty in covering it up, and thus an affair begins to blossom between the two. Renoir’s camera seems to be in equal adoration of her as well, often framing her through windows and mirrors like the subject of a painter’s gaze, though he does not shy away from the darkness which encompasses both in sultry, gloomy reflections. While Jean Gabin is playing out internal battles of self-control and impulsive fury, Simone Simon delivers a similarly layered performance as Séverine, albeit one which conceals a sharp, manipulative mind beneath seductive pleas for Lantier’s masculine protection. When she eventually confesses her love to him one rainy night, the camera’s movement from their kiss to an overflowing, nearby barrel isn’t just a suggestive hint at the following consummation – it is an ominous symbol of mounting emotions ready to spill over at any moment.

The first attempt on Roubaud’s life thus stands out as perhaps the most potent harbinger of film noir in La Bête Humaine, both in terms of narrative and mise-en-scène. With Séverine’s murder of Grandmorin becoming a point of morbid intrigue for Lantier, she takes him to a murky, industrial train yard where can find out for himself what it is like to kill a man, and Renoir’s lighting grows more expressionistic than ever. Long shadows are thrown across the rough ground, and a single strip of light illuminates Lantier’s guilty eyes, before he reaches down into a puddle and claims a steel pipe as his weapon. Even with Séverine’s encouragement though, still he cannot bring himself to unleash the murderous animal within him – at least, not upon the target she has aimed him towards.

Like the steam trains he is so lovingly obsessed with, Lantier cannot deviate from the rigid tracks he has been set on, and it is no use trying to slow or control him. Renoir has been building this metaphor right from the start through montages of chugging wheels, burning furnaces, and our soot-covered protagonist at the helm, while those recurring shots fixed to the vehicle itself build a similarly brisk momentum, hurtling forward into pitch-black tunnels and beneath bridges. His fate is as tragically assured as the destination of any locomotive, finally toppling headfirst into madness when Séverine tries to seduce him one last time into killing her husband.

Much like the murder of Grandmorin, Renoir’s camera keeps a safe distance from the violence which unfolds, though this time we are given glimpses through a doorway as Lantier furiously chases his lover. With so much of this unfolding offscreen, we are given nothing but her chilling screams to fill in the dead air before he finally re-enters the frame, pushes her onto a bed, and sinks a knife into her flesh. In the aftermath, the sentimental lyrics of a French love song seem to taunt Lantier as his mind begins to clear, and the camera drifts mournfully across Séverine’s limp, lifeless body.

“Whoever tries to love Ninette,

Will end up with a broken heart,

Ninon’s little heart,

Is tiny and frail and adorable.”

Still set on a singular, unwavering path, Lantier trudges down the railway tracks and towards his final shift at work. The beast within him has won, and now only death can end the suffering it has inflicted upon his mind and soul. After witnessing him jump from a moving train and finding his body in the grass, it seems that even his colleague Pecqeaux agrees too, poignantly remarking that “I haven’t seen him look so peaceful in a long time.” Perhaps this calmness found in the destruction of the self is the best that any of us can hope for, Renoir cynically laments – and yet La Bête Humaine never entirely discounts the grace which comes with such suffering. If anything, the fact that Lantier’s anguish resonates so loudly only affirms the existence of beauty in his troubled life, letting us cherish it even more for its delicate, fateful fragility.

La Bête Humaine is currently streaming on The Criterion Channel.

Robert Eggers | 2hr 12min

Unlike the suave Count Dracula, there is nothing even slightly charming about the ghastly, cadaverous Count Orlok. He may have emerged as a legally dubious reimagining of the literary character in F.W. Murnau’s silent horror Nosferatu, yet he outwardly represents something far more grotesque than the seductive nobleman, bringing plague and decay to the German town of Wisborg. This is not to say that Orlok’s character is divorced from any notion of sexuality though – quite the opposite in fact, as this creature’s overtly carnal voraciousness is more heightened than ever in Robert Eggers’ handsomely chilling remake.

Gone are the murine teeth and wide-eyed gaze of Max Schreck’s ancient vampire, and in their place Bill Skarsgård delivers an acutely Slavic interpretation, sporting a heavy fur coat, bushy moustache, and deep, Eastern European accent. His commitment to this otherworldly voice by training in opera and Mongolian throat singing is astonishing, carrying the weight of character work while his face hides in shadow, and his naked physicality when latching onto victims is similarly unsettling as he pulses upon them like a pale, writhing leech.

Unlike most mainstream depictions of vampires, Eggers’ rendition of Orlok also feeds from the chest rather than the neck, remaining true to some of the oldest legends which depicted them as reanimated corpses that kill purely out of malice. It is not only a testament to the thorough research which informs Eggers’ mythologising, but such a viscerally intimate embrace also blurs the lines between intercourse and breastfeeding, underscoring the shameful, psychosexual desires which expose each character to Orlok’s disturbing pull.

Easily the most vulnerable among these victims is Ellen Hutter, wife to real estate agent Thomas Hutter who has been tasked with securing Orlok’s purchase of a new home in Wisburg. Years ago, she made a deal with the creature which psychically bound them together, and now his influence reaches back into her life through nightmares, demonic seizures, and the orchestrations of his deranged servant, Herr Knock. There is a conflict within her that many others also suffer to some degree, whether in Thomas’ perverted arousal at her possession or her neighbour Friedrich’s depraved expression of grief through necrophilia, though she holds a unique position as the object of Orlok’s desire. He seeks to satiate his lustful obsession by entering her dreams, and while she reflects on their ethereal connection with a blissful smile, that instinctual happiness also terrifies her at the same time. Isabelle Adjani’s landmark performance in Possession bears a sizeable influence on Lily-Rose Depp’s acting here, ironically even more so than her portrayal of the equivalent role in Werner Herzog’s remake Nosferatu the Vampyre, and it is through these strong dramatic choices that Depp displays total command over Ellen’s deep-seated torment.

“He is my shame, he is my melancholy,” she confesses to Thomas, posing a metaphor that quite aptly describes this specific representation of the ancient vampire. Orlok is every disgraceful, buried secret now risen from the dead, eating away at those who guiltily try to repress them. With this in mind, Eggers’ design of the character as a ghoulish, Transylvanian nobleman who speaks the extinct Dacian language effectively connects him to a piece of long-forgotten Eastern European history, imbuing his image with a gritty, sinister authenticity. He is not some unfathomable figure beyond human comprehension – he is that part of ourselves which we hide away from the world, lest we should suffer the indignity of revealing our souls’ true corruption.

Nevertheless, these secrets cannot be hidden away forever, and the shadows they cast across Eggers’ meticulously curated sets are mighty indeed. The dark, distinctive outline of Orlok’s clawed hand wields a strange power as it reaches across bed chambers and castle corridors, often acting like a disembodied ghost detached from his physical being, and becoming a living extension of the film’s dour expressionism. Eggers’ visual style remains conscious of Murnau’s cinematic legacy here without becoming derivative, crafting imposing images from chiaroscuro lighting and eerily floating his camera with subdued dread, yet influences from silent cinema at large also leave their indelible imprint on his nightmarish designs. The driverless stagecoach which delivers Thomas to Orlok’s manor pays direct homage to Victor Sjöström’s The Phantom Carriage, while the presence of The Cabinet of Dr Caligari is felt in the winding stairs, alleyways, and streets of Wisburg.

In fact, so uniform are Eggers’ colour schemes that many scenes almost appear totally monochrome, washing out landscapes in blue-grey tones beneath overcast skies and embracing fire-lit interiors that glow like hellish furnaces. It is according to these palettes that he also dedicates Nosferatu’s painstaking production design, extending his extensive folklore research into the architecture, costumes, and ornamental details of 19^th century Germany, as well as Orlok’s 16^th century Transylvanian castle. True to Eggers’ love of history, little is updated for contemporary audiences, and no shortcuts are taken in this devoted rendering of the past. It is rather in faithfully recreating every fan-tie corset and Gothic stone archway that he grounds the supernatural in our world, locating it close to the heart of humanity.

In Nosferatu’s screenplay as well, Eggers is not so much subverting horror conventions than executing them with poetic flair, achieving a 19^th century stylisation in the dialogue which elegantly weaves macabre metaphors among other rhetoric devices. In fact, the only trace of modernisation on display may be in the freedom of its subtextual and explicit sexuality, edging us gradually closer to a full consummation of Ellen and Orlok’s sordid affair.

Unlike Dracula’s equivalent character of Mina Murray, Ellen is not depicted as the archetypal ‘pure virgin’ in Nosferatu, but rather a married, mature woman destined to play a far more active role in confronting the vampire. Additionally, this version of the famed vampire cannot be easily overcome by weapons or sheer force. Only by playing his game of seduction may he be reduced to his most vulnerable state, and so dressed in a bridal white gown and veil, Ellen chooses to make a fatal sacrifice.

If shame is a parasite which thrives in darkness, then light is anathema to its very being, exposing its feeble, pathetic decrepitude to the world. No longer does it stoke fear, but simply disgust at its pitiful existence. At the same time, accepting this monstrosity as an inextricable part of oneself may also bring death to its host, and it is here where Eggers reveals the tragedy which comes sorrowfully paired with the conquest of primitive, libidinal desire. Like all great fables, Nosferatu is straightforward in its clean divide between virtue and sin, order and chaos, life and death – yet it is through the blurred union of each in the guilty hearts of humans where this vampiric legend manifests its most familiar, archaic horror.

Nosferatu is currently playing in cinemas.

Bernardo Bertolucci | 2hr 9min

This review discusses themes of sexual violence, emotional abuse, and the ethical controversies surrounding the production of Last Tango in Paris. It includes references to the mistreatment of actress Maria Schneider and the lasting psychological impact of the filming process. Reader discretion is advised.

After encountering each other in an empty Parisian apartment through pure happenstance, it doesn’t take long for grieving widower Paul and young actress Jeanne to begin their impromptu, passionate affair. The residence is currently for lease, and although both are interested in renting it for themselves, there is no bitter competition in their initial exchange – merely small talk about the fireplace, potential furnishings, and the old-fashioned architecture. Before either knows what is happening though, he is picking her up in his arms, and they are making animalistic love against the window. As their relationship progresses throughout Last Tango in Paris, their sex takes on more sensual dimensions, though this is far from the last time we will see it devolve into an act of crude, carnal instinct.

This entire affair hinges on a single rule, Paul declares: to maintain an ongoing emotional detachment, neither are to divulge a single personal detail about themselves to the other, including their own names. When they are together, their identities are stripped away, as are the expectations and norms of society. For Jeanne, this means a break from her frustrating engagement to Thomas, an aspiring filmmaker who often treats her more as an object of his art than a romantic partner. For Paul on the other hand, it runs much deeper. This is a man whose is deeply aggrieved by the suicide of his wife Rosa, and now seeks an outlet for emotions that he cannot fully understand or control. Within this apartment, there is no need to mull over the despair that has clouded his mind with self-loathing. Here he is in total control of his connection to another human, and free to indulge his most disturbing impulses.

Of course, it is plain to see how this anonymous affair is far more an escapist fantasy than it is a path to healing, and Bernardo Bertolucci’s character study is unafraid to plunge the thorny depths of such a paradoxical arrangement. What Paul and Jeanne effectively establish here is a form of intimate disassociation, embracing each other’s bodies while neglecting everything else. As he grows more possessive, his dirty talk veers perversely into bestiality and necrophilia, though this debauchery seems to stem more from unresolved anger than lustful desire. The moment he truly crosses the line also happens to be the point that Bertolucci did the same during production, and there is no brushing past the abject inhumanity of what both he and Marlon Brando submitted actress Marie Schneider to here.

Art may be the purest distillation of its creator’s soul, yet as is the case in Last Tango in Paris, it can also be so horrifyingly effective that we are compelled to look away from the malevolence revealed. As a portrait of emotional and sexual abuse, Bertolucci’s film is incredibly powerful, but it is no coincidence either that it comes from someone who is responsible for the same trauma he is depicting. Reasoning that an authentic performance was worth letting his actress suffer, he did not inform Schneider that Brando would be lubricating her with butter before filming a rape scene. Consequently, he only succeeded in revealing his disregard for Schneider’s ability as an actress, and implicating himself as the hypocritical target of his own criticism.

That Schneider would continue to live with the psychological consequences of this assault for the rest of her life while Bertolucci and Brando showed little remorse only complicates the legacy of this scene further. As such, a damning parallel emerges between Bertolucci and the character of Paul, seeing both use artificial constructs of identity as self-expression while holding no regard for the emotional toll being imposed on others. For better or worse, art lays bare humanity’s extremes, and Last Tango in Paris is no exception in leaving us to grapple with its flaws and contradictions.

There is certainly no denying the excruciating vividness of such an introspective study either, prodding at open wounds in Paul’s psyche that refuse to heal and provoke guttural manifestations of inner torment. While Brando sordidly adopts an almost bestial physicality in these moments of primal release, he also displays an eloquent vulnerability through his monologues, delivering one of his finest scenes at the viewing of Rosa’s body. It is impossible for him to separate the love, grief, and vitriolic anger that he harbours, and so here they all chaotically burst out at once, pouring slurs, tears, and apologies over her open casket.

“Our marriage was nothing more than a foxhole for you. And all it took for you to get out was a 35-cent razor and a tub full of water. You cheap goddamn fucking godforsaken whore, I hope you rot in hell. You’re worse than the dirtiest street pig anybody could ever find anywhere.”

As such, it makes sense that Jeanne represents a blank beacon of innocence who he can map Rosa’s identity onto, as well as a target of his overbearing love and abuse who doesn’t ask for explanations. Reduced to this state of vulnerability, she claims to feel like a child again in his arms, and the two exhibit a light playfulness when they make up gibberish names for themselves. Even the apartment that hosts their affair and which Paul never quite finishes moving into embodies this nondescript purity, forcing them to lounge around on the floor in the absence of furniture.

Nevertheless, Bertolucci works stylistic wonders with such a sparsely decorated setting, drawing on cinematographer Vittorio Storaro’s talents to insulate these lovers within their own private world. When they aren’t wrapped up in a tangle of limbs, doorways and windows often become visual dividers, physically separating them within the shared space. The full-length mirror that lazily leans against the wall also makes for some superb compositions, splitting them between isolated frames, while the frosted glass of the reception area underscores their mutual anonymity by blurring their faces into impressionistic watercolours.

There is no doubt a romantic warmth to Storaro’s lighting of the apartment as well, filtering in through the white, translucent drapes hanging from the windows, yet it never quite escapes the melancholy of its soft brown hues and shadows. As much as Paul seeks to separate the outlet for his emotions from the source, the two are deeply intertwined, and eventually drive Jeanne away altogether as she begins to grasp the true depravity of their arrangement.

Not that this deters Paul from trying to win her back, and even give up the mask of anonymity which he once so passionately preserved. Quite fittingly, he does not seek to lure her back to his apartment where privacy is guaranteed, but instead sets a public tango bar as the location for their attempted reconciliation. There, Bertolucci’s camera floats across the dance floor where a competition is underway, illuminated by spherical lights hanging from the ceiling and forming a starry backdrop to Paul’s confession of love – not that Jeanne is necessarily ready to start a relationship with this man who she is only really getting to know now.

The push and pull of conflicting emotions in this exchange is symbolically mirrored in the tango it is intercut with, seeing feet sweep in long arches and stamp on short, staccato beats. Perhaps an even more authentic reflection of Paul and Jeanne’s relationship though arrives when they decide to spontaneously join in, horrifying their fellow patrons with an obscene, rhythmless dance of twisting, flopping, and strutting around. In essence, this act is simply another unfiltered eruption of emotions not unlike their lovemaking, though one which they can finally perform in the open without shame.

Still, just because two people have bared their souls to each other does not mean that they are compatible. Where the much-younger Jeanne is ready to leave this part of her life in the past and marry Thomas, Paul clings desperately to what he believes is a sustainable love, even chasing her down the street and back to her apartment. “I want to know your name,” he begs as he strokes her hair, though Jeanne’s response is double-edged, coinciding her verbal answer with a gunshot to his chest.

Maybe Paul genuinely thought he had a chance of starting a new life with Jeanne, though going by the resigned expression on his face as he stumbles out onto the balcony, it seems more likely that he always expected an early grave next to his wife. We do not witness the exact moment that life leaves him, but instead Bertolucci slowly tracks backwards from the city view to reveal his crumpled body, and further into the apartment where a dazed Jeanne begins rehearsing her lines for the police.

“I don’t know who he is. He followed me in the street. He tried to rape me. He’s a lunatic. I don’t know what he’s called. I don’t know his name.”

No one alive knows Paul like Jeanne does, and yet at the same time she isn’t entirely lying. Paul was unknowable, not only to her, but even to himself. To cast damning judgements on others is easy, but as Bertolucci so eloquently illustrates in the warped power dynamic of Last Tango in Paris, examining one’s own psychological torment is a far more dangerously frightening undertaking.

Last Tango in Paris is currently available to rent or buy on YouTube.