Category: Must-See

Luchino Visconti | 1hr 57min

“I dislike people behaving like characters in some melodrama,” Contessa Livia Serpieri hypocritically proclaims in the opening minutes of Senso, particularly needling those “with no regard for the serious consequences of a gesture dictated by impulse or by unforgivable thoughtlessness.” Luchino Visconti does not merely underscore the irony of such a grand indictment – over the course of this film, her life becomes an opera itself, appropriately beginning with one fateful encounter at a theatrical production of Il Trovatore. There are few men in Venice more shameful for Livia to fall for than Lieutenant Franz Mahler, whose loyalty to the Austrian Empire during its occupation of Italy is directly at odds with her cousin Roberto’s nationalistic insubordination, as well as the old-fashioned aristocracy she has married into. Still, what do these taboos really amount to when that rare breed of star-crossed love is at stake?

Livia is not wrong to question the social conventions of her time, though the naivety with which she conducts her secret rebellion dooms her from the start. She falls hard and fast, turning a blind eye to Franz’s exile of Roberto and stubbornly suffering through his tactless womanising. Her lovesick stubbornness may be reminiscent of Scarlett O’Hara, but it is clear in Alida Valli’s taciturn performance that this does not come from the same place of petulance or vanity. Behind her sharp features she conceals an ardent desire to escape her dull, overprivileged lifestyle and uncover hidden passions that she never felt in her claustrophobic marriage to Count Serpieri, while the Third Italian War of Independence complements this rising tension with a similarly volatile backdrop of turmoil and violence.

On this level, the similarities to Gone with the Wind’s sweeping historical scope and beauty deepens, shrouding the film in a Technicolor opulence that arrived in 1954 as an unexpected shift for a renowned neorealist such as Visconti. Senso’s extravagant studio sets allowed him a level of control that he was never previously afforded, obstructing meticulously arranged compositions with oil lamps, drapes, and fine ornaments laid precisely around rooms of patterned wallpaper and faded frescoes. His staging of actors across the full breadth and depth of his frame makes for some magnificent cinematic paintings too, dressing the men in military uniforms that cut out sharp silhouettes and women in voluminous dresses which fill up entire doorways. The colours and textures of Visconti’s period décor may be worn with age, yet this only speaks to the miraculous survival of Italy’s cultural heritage across many centuries, and its bold perseverance against the newest threat to arrive at their doorstep.

As visually sumptuous as these sets are, it is evidently the addition of Visconti’s magnificent location shooting among Venice’s most iconic sites which led to Senso becoming the most expensive Italian film at the time of its release. Aristocrats, soldiers, and activists fill the ornate golden stalls and balconies at La Fenice opera house where the film opens, setting the scene of civil unrest as green and red protest leaflets are scattered through the air, while outside the moonlight bounces off the Cannaregio Canal and dimly illuminates the surrounding stonework. As Livia wanders down the archaic city streets with her secret lover, her voiceover romantically ponders what she believes to be true companionship, submitting to the same melodramatic weaknesses she derided in others only a few scenes prior.

“There existed only a secret and unspoken pleasure I experienced in hearing him speak and laugh, and in hearing the echo of our footsteps in that silent city.”

It would be reasonable to suggest that Visconti can’t entirely shake his neorealist tendencies given his dedication to the authenticity of each setting, but by the time he is staging immense battles between Italian and Austrian forces, it is abundantly clear that his cinematic ambitions have also expanded to crafting breathtaking action and spectacle. His camera pans and crane shots may be simple in their execution, yet they are enormously effective in tracking the coordinated movement of rigorous military formations through wheat fields, while capturing the menacing accumulation of opposing forces atop a hill in the background. Visconti scenery is consistently layered with a remarkable level of detail here, letting fires burn across distant pastures while horse-drawn carriages pass right by the camera, and consequently breathing life into Italy’s epic, historic stand against their Austrian oppressors.

The purpose of these imposing battle scenes in Senso is twofold – not only do they vividly paint out the visceral violence which Livia remains happily ignorant to, but they also directly embody the tragic consequences of her irresponsible actions. So besotted is she with her Austrian Lieutenant that she doesn’t see the cowardice in his antiwar monologue, and when he asks for money to bribe his way out of fighting, she impulsively decides to give him funds that Roberto intended for the Italian war effort. The results are catastrophic, leaving the Italians severely under-resourced in the Battle of Custoza, and incidentally guaranteeing their defeat.

For a woman who considers herself above the whims of melodrama, Livia is evidently prone to spontaneous bouts of recklessness and depression, even seeing her don a black mourning dress when she is separated from Franz. Delusions of exotic romance that exist to cover deeper insecurities can only sustain themselves for so long though, and once Franz has accomplished his goal of bribing his way out of the army, Livia’s finally come crashing down. Along with losing his social status and military rank, so too has Franz lost all dignity. Now spending his days and nights with the prostitutes of Verona, he considers himself nothing but a “drunken deserter,” and doesn’t hold back in inflicting his spiteful self-loathing upon Livia when she finally tracks him down.

The wide shots in his apartment of gold-and-crimson wallpaper are handsomely mounted, but it is Visconti’s unusual shift into close-ups which particularly astounds here, studying the mix of despair and exhaustion that unfolds across Valli’s face during her cruel humiliation. “You think the same way I do,” Franz viciously asserts when he notes her shock at his moral debasement. “Otherwise you wouldn’t have given me money to buy yourself an hour of love.”

It is a dangerous thing to shatter a woman’s heart so completely, and so it is reasonable to assume that Franz similarly recognises the seeds of self-destruction that he is sowing through such a heinous act. After all, Livia still holds proof of his treason, and what greater way for her to end this cinematic opera than with a petty act of revenge? The Austrian authorities she turns him in to see the contempt behind her actions, but there is no shame left in this emotionally ruined woman. Driven mad with anger and betrayal, she screams his name into the empty streets of Verona, poignantly mirroring Senso’s final shot of Austrian soldiers carrying Franz’s body into the darkness following his execution. Her heart may still be beating, but she has suffered an annihilation of the spirit as irrecoverable as any physical death, as Visconti sinks his historical melodrama into the depths of a grave tragedy that was fated from the start.

Senso is currently streaming on The Criterion Channel, and is available to purchase from Amazon.

Sydney Pollack | 2hr 41min

For Baroness Karen von Blixen, the vast plains and farming communities of Africa are a liberating escape. The Danish aristocracy she was born into is one of cold conservatism and rigid social conventions, necessitating a marriage to Baron Bror Blixen – not her first choice, given that he is the brother of the man who spurned her romantic approach, but a satisfactory match nonetheless. The ranch he has purchased in East Africa is to be their new residence, and in time will expose the suffocating confines of her previous home in Europe, as a rejuvenating enlightenment unfolds through meditative voiceovers destined to one day be recorded in the pages of her memoir Out of Africa.

For big-game hunter Denys Finch Hatton however, Africa is not merely an escape when the pressures of the world grow too intense. From the moment he arrived as a young man, there was nowhere else he could have possibly lived. These grasslands and savannahs are his home, not so much soothing his restless soul than embodying the untamed zest for life that has existed inside him since birth. It is clear to see how the romance between Karen and Denys blossoms in their mutual appreciation for this environment and its surrounding culture, yet this subtle difference is not an easy one to overcome. Just as this land of primal beauty defies the influence of its colonisers, so too does Denys resist the expectations of domesticity imposed by European tradition, and its attempts to impose arbitrary structures on life’s natural order.

Set against the 1910s colonial backdrop of the nation soon to be officially recognised as Kenya, there are no two ways around Karen’s romanticisation of a disruptive, traumatic era in the history of the region, yet there is little else one can expect from the sentimental reminiscences of a Danish noblewoman. Though she labours alongside Kikuyu workers on her coffee plantation, she lives in a bubble of idyllic bliss distant from their hardships, gracefully delineated through the entwining of her lyrical narration with Sydney Pollack’s impressionistic editing. Long dissolves weave a dreamy elegance through scene transitions, and gentle montages formally bridge gaps in time between each episode in her life as she poetically reflects on her deep connection to the land, persisting even during her brief return home to Denmark. Naturally, this development unfolds purely through voiceover, as the visuals effectively keep us present with her distracted heart and mind in Africa.

The impact of these montages are only magnified by Pollack’s vibrant photography of Kenya’s expansive vistas, imprinting silhouettes of men and animals against hazy, red sunsets, and composing establishing shots from its dry desert scenery with a picturesque grandeur. The period production design of 1910s colonial Africa is certainly a fine accomplishment too, capturing Europe’s attempt to maintain a semblance of noble sophistication as they impose their highbrow culture on such rugged landscapes, though Out of Africa rises to even greater stylistic heights when Denys finally invites Karen aboard his biplane. Even the film’s greatest detractors cannot deny the raw power of this sequence, gliding through aerial shots of flamingos flocking across lakes, wildebeest herds galloping through plains, and waterfalls cascading into lush green forests. John Barry’s grand orchestral score reaches its dynamic peak here too, evocatively recapitulating the film’s main theme which, like the plane itself, continues ascending until it reaches a scintillating climax.

The irony that underlies this scene’s long shots sets in with a mournful realisation – our appreciation of Africa’s staggering beauty only increases the further up we fly, with the scenery eventually disappearing altogether once we are above the clouds. These stunning landscapes can be remotely admired, but never fully embraced by an outsider like Karen, and through this conceit Out of Africa develops an eloquent metaphor for her own relationship with Denys. The nostalgic subtext of her narration tenderly illustrates this yearning, reflecting on just how much her love for both the man and his habitat has magnified from a distance, while Meryl Streep’s astounding emulation of the real Karen von Blixen’s Danish accent imbues her contemplations with an almost musical quality.

If there is any regret expressed in these voiceovers, then it comes with full understanding that there was never any possible long-term relationship between Karen nor Denys that would have satisfied both parties. She requires stability following her divorce from Bror, yet Denys makes it abundantly clear that he does not wish to be tied down to any oppressive institution that might potentially tear him away from the wild whims of his heart. As such, their passionate romance begins to fade into memory, and is soon definitively buried with Denys’ body after a tragic biplane accident. “He brought us joy, and we loved him well,” Karen dolefully eulogises at his funeral. As she gazes out over the spectacular view from his grave though, she knows she cannot lay claim to his heart.

“He was not ours. He was not mine.”

If Africa and Denys are one in Karen’s mind, then the fire which destroys her farm and sends her back home to Denmark is essentially analogous with her lover’s death. As she quietly wanders among its people and terrains for the last time, her voiceover delivers the concluding passage of her memoir, romantically pondering what remnants of their relationship might remain after she has departed.

“If I know a song of Africa, of the giraffe and the African new moon lying on her back, of the ploughing the fields and the sweaty faces of the coffee pickers, does Africa know a song of me? Will the air over the plain quiver with a colour that I have had on? Or will the children invent a game in which my name is? Or the full moon throw a shadow over the gravel of the drive that was like me? Or will the eagles of the Ngong Hills look out for me?”

Karen understands that to revere a land as incomprehensibly vast and complex as Africa is to also realise that it will never admire her back, yet through her memory of Denys, Out of Africa preserves a vestige of hope. With her greatest love laid to rest in its rugged wilderness, Pollack’s exquisite final shot points to the remnant of her presence that eternally lingers with his spirit – the respectful, unassuming humility of an outsider, freely exchanging material possession for a divine connection to the Earth, to humanity, and to one’s own mortal soul.

Out of Africa is currently streaming on Binge, is available to rent or buy on Apple TV, YouTube, and Amazon Video, and is available to purchase on Amazon.

Yasujirō Ozu | 1hr 53min

Given how notoriously private Yasujirō Ozu was as a public figure, it is impossible to speculate with any certainty the reason why he never married. Considering that he was supposedly expelled from his boarding school for writing love letters to another boy, it is conceivable that he was a queer man living in conservative times. Alternatively, perhaps he simply valued his relationship with his mother over any romantic attachment, seeing as how he lived with her throughout his adulthood. His films never featured any surrogate characters explicitly representing him, and yet they were nevertheless a medium through which he deeply pondered those cultural Japanese traditions that he simultaneously was at odds with and adored.

With this context in mind, An Autumn Afternoon becomes all the more fascinating as Ozu’s last film in an incredibly vast career – not that he necessarily knew it would be at the time. His decline from throat cancer was sudden, seeing him pass away only a few months after his mother on his sixtieth birthday, leaving this as his final testament to the enduring purpose, duties, and conflicts of family and marriage. In its observations of a widowed father’s reluctant attempts to marry off his daughter Michiko, Late Spring’s narrative is specifically recaptured here, though the updated setting to 1960s also reveals Ozu’s complex relationship with the advance of Western modernity into Japanese civilisation.

The pillow shots that herald the restaurant where Shūhei drinks with his friends consistently bathe in flashing signs and vibrant graphics that light up storefronts, poignantly recognising the shift to market capitalism that has been imported from America and Europe. Commercial indulgences are an irrevocable part of these characters’ lives, filling Shūhei’s companions with alcohol to the point of excess, and sparking arguments in his son Kōichi’s marriage over a set of golf clubs he desperately desires. Later, those same clubs are integrated into one of Ozu’s trademark hallway shots among other perfectly arranged household items, economically tying off this subplot and signalling a broader shift towards consumerism.

Above all else though, the colour cinematography which Ozu had begun using four years prior in Equinox Flower may be the strongest stylistic decision made in An Autumn Afternoon, vividly accentuating the organised patterns and contrasts that he had already mastered in black-and-white. While the interior architecture is handsomely captured with patterned wallpaper around shoji doors and geometric frames, it is more frequently the small props and ornaments which inject bursts of primary colours into his muted scenery, each set with absolute precision. At the restaurant, mid-shots of Shūhei and his friends are lined along the bottom with a full rainbow assortment of ceramic cups and saucers, while an impeccably composed wide shot leads a line of yellow bar stools towards an alleyway washed in neon red lighting. Even when there are no humans in sight, every vivid detail points to their presence, quietly littering pillow shots as beautifully simple as embroidered rugs draped over apartment balconies and empty slippers laying outside closed doors.

Most crucially, it is Ozu’s pairing of red and white which suggests a uniformity between Japanese tradition and industry in An Autumn Afternoon, mirrored between the striped smokestacks and steel drums of the very first shot. This palette continues to punctuate the mise-en-scène in sweaters, lanterns, and signs, before boldly arriving in Michiko’s elaborate white wedding gown and headdress accented with notes of crimson.

Visual patterns such as these are important to connecting the public and private lives of Ozu’s characters, further revealing the unity of the two in pillow shots that steadily cut between several frames associated with a new scene, and gradually edge closer to its characters. Quite significantly, this approach maintains a soothing, consistent flow in the editing, rather than falling back on the sort of establishing shots that a more conventional director might turn to. As a result, Ozu can recall these compositions as shorthand whenever he returns to a familiar location – the smokestacks viewed from Shūhei’s office window for example, or the surrounding restaurants outside Tory’s Bar.

Narratively, this formal poetry is also reflected through multiple characters who signal some shift in the status quo, underscored by the two instances of current and former naval officers mockingly sending up patriotic military anthems. Although Japan’s national spirit was broken after losing World War II and replaced with scathing cynicism among younger generations, Shūhei continues to mourn its loss, and sorrowfully responds in private with songs about floating castles guarding the Land of the Rising Sun.

Through the character of the Gourd, a respected teacher who mentored Shūhei and his friends on Chinese classics, Ozu continues to reckon with Japan’s changing culture by envisioning the future that awaits our protagonist should Michiko never marry. Not only has the Gourd’s middle-aged daughter become a lonely spinster due to his desire to keep her for himself, but his own life has also fallen into disarray by limiting her prospects, condemning him to run a cheap noodle shop and suffer humiliation every day from his customers.

The catalyst for the second half of An Autumn Afternoon’s narrative is thus set off, spurring Shūhei to secure a husband for Michiko. The fact that Ozu only dwells on the moments when her wedding finally arrives is telling of what he truly values within these cherished relationships, as a montage moves through the vacant home to dwell on a standing mirror, Venetian blinds, and a red-cushioned stool. These are domestic items that don’t hold dramatic weight on their own, yet peacefully evoke Michiko’s absence, and disappear from view as the camera cuts to a view just outside the window.

In the closing scene when Shūhei returns as an empty nester, Ozu frames him in a distant, wooden corridor of his last hallway shot, his back turned to the camera and slightly darkened by shadows. Ozu never inserted explicit representations of himself into his films, and yet Shūhei’s poignant resignation to change is one that this ageing director knows too well, having essentially spent the past thirty-five years recording Japan’s enormous cultural shifts on camera. If his life’s work is a cinematic suite testifying to the ongoing tension between tradition and progress, then An Autumn Afternoon makes for a tender final movement, resonating formal harmonies across generations to ultimately savour an undying faith in their shared humanity.

An Autumn Afternoon is currently streaming on The Criterion Channel, and is available to purchase on Amazon.

Michael Mann | 1hr 52min

Michael Mann’s brief detour from crime movies into historical epics spanned a total of one film in the early 1990s, though the visceral action that commonly brings good and evil into conflict throughout his oeuvre is no less present in The Last of the Mohicans. Within the broader French and Indian War of the mid-18^th century which saw various Native American tribes ally with opposing British and French colonies, personal vendettas run deep. The humiliation that Huron chief Magua once suffered at the hands of Colonel Edmund Munro has marked the officer as his mortal enemy, and the prospect of cutting out his heart is not enough to satiate his bloodlust. Meanwhile, Munro’s underestimation of his enemy does not only compromise his tactical and technological advantages, but also woefully sets back those caught in the middle who desperately seek some sort of harmony within the chaos.

For Mohican-adopted woodsman Hawkeye, this bitter violence between Brits and Hurons especially undermines his efforts to preserve the Indigenous traditions that white colonialism threatens to erase. He is a mythic hero lifted straight from James Fenimore Cooper’s literary series Leatherstocking Tales, typifying the ideal union of European and Native American cultures. Now as a grown man, he lives with Mohican elder Chingachgook and his son Uncas, both the last of their tribe. When the responsibility of escorting Munro’s daughters Cora and Alice back to their father falls into their laps, intimate bonds continue to develop between natives and settlers, and yet the consequences of Magua’s vindictive fury and Munro’s ruinous pride can only be averted for so long.

Still, the cross-cultural romance that Hawkeye and Cora share right next to Uncas and Alice brings a gentle reprieve to the film’s brutality, even if they must first work through their differences. When they first encounter a farm of massacred settlers and deduce the activities of a Huron war party, Mann’s blocking sets the tiny, clueless Europeans apart from Hawkeye and his native companions whispering in the foreground, and this division continues to echo through his immaculate staging of British and French forces. Only in the wilderness where the prejudices and conventions of white civilisation are left behind can these impossible relationships flourish, illuminated by the warm natural light of campfires and shrouded in the blue glow of cascading waterfalls.

The beauty that Mann consistently finds in America’s terrain of rough mountains, leafy forests, and still lakes may only be outdone though by the absolute attention to detail he pours into his period production design and battle sequences. From a distance, the French’s siege of Fort William Henry lights up the night with bright orange smoke, while up close his camera tracks through their relentless barrage of gunfire and cannonballs aimed at sturdy stone walls. Slow-motion is used to brilliant effect in these scenes too, often centring around Daniel Day-Lewis as he daringly runs into the thick of combat and subsequently proves his versatility as an action hero.

The climactic confrontation which Mann builds all of this to makes for a magnificent show of cinematic storytelling in the final act of The Last of the Mohicans, stripping away the dialogue to underscore the final struggle with Scottish fiddles reiterating a persistent, propulsive melody. Time slows down once again as Hawkeye races across a mountain to rescue Cora and Alice from Magua, and yet it is Uncas who first reaches his destination and is consequently slain by the Huron’s blade. Resolving to follow her lover rather than be trapped with Magua, Alice throws herself from the cliff, at which point Mann seems to turn the entire world upside down in an extreme low angle that sorrowfully beholds her tragic fall.

Finally, Chingachgook takes on his son’s killer in a duel, and it is just as he is about to land the final blow that Mann pauses on a tremendous wide shot of them standing face-to-face against a vast, mountainous backdrop. Both native men were only brought into conflict through the interference of white settlers and are blocked here as equals, but it is Chingachgook who ultimately holds the upper hand with his long, curved gunstock war club hanging between them. Anticipation bleeds through the stillness of the composition, and yet there is also a quiet sorrow here as the last Mohican delivers his coup de grâce, anguished that he was pushed to commit such terrible violence.

Gazing out at the horizon and praying for Uncas’ deceased soul, Cora, Chingachgook, and Hawkeye’s profiles are perfectly aligned, united in the harmony they have long sought for and attained at great cost. These remarkable visuals are not unusual for Mann, though the sensitive storytelling of The Last of the Mohicans certainly is, dwelling in serene sorrow without the need for release. His grand mythologising of colonial America forecasts a bleak future, solemnly recognising that the Mohican tribe will soon perish with Chingachgook, and yet it is also through this native elder and his adopted son Mohawk that the seeds of cross-cultural peace miraculously begin to grow in the infertile soil of war.

The Last of the Mohicans is currently streaming on Stan, is available to rent or buy on Apple TV and Amazon Video, and the Blu-ray can be bought on Amazon.

George Miller | 2hr 28min

Of all George Miller’s additions to his post-apocalyptic world in Mad Max: Fury Road, hardened warrior Imperator Furiosa proved to be the most compelling, speeding and swaggering through the Australian wasteland like a Clint Eastwood-style gunslinger with an unwavering sense of purpose. She was a mystery and was all the more fascinating for it, so the challenge of filling in the more ambiguous parts of her backstory in a prequel that simultaneously preserved her captivating intrigue would require a stroke of genius on Miller’s part.

Even more than the family entertainment of Happy Feet or the fantastical storytelling of Three Thousand Years of Longing, this anarchic dystopia of dictators, marauders, and vehicle chases is clearly where he is most comfortable as a filmmaker. A return to the Mad Max franchise once again turbocharges the Australian director with raw, high-octane vigour, as Furiosa: A Mad Max Saga expands its world to far more expansive proportions than Fury Road’s tightly contained narrative. On one hand, this leads to a plot that doesn’t quite possess the same forward momentum and is more willing to wander off on tangents, though it is no great shame that Furiosa suffers in comparison to its extraordinarily economic predecessor. Quite miraculously, this prequel sticks its landing with dynamic poise, giving us greater reason to admire Imperator Furiosa as a force of undistilled willpower.

Covering fifteen years from Furiosa’s kidnapping as a young girl to her promotion among the upper ranks of the Citadel’s army, this story offers a new nemesis who leads his own ragtag gang against Immortan Joe’s War Boys. Dementus is a Latin title befitting of a warlord who styles himself in the image of Roman emperors, ostentatiously riding atop a chariot led by motorcycles and employing classical battle tactics. He takes sadistic pleasure in torturing those like Furiosa’s mother who fall captive to his biker horde, and he has no qualms sacrificing his own men for the sake of a tactical deception, yet his boisterous charisma is quite distinctive in this barren wasteland.

Perhaps that is to be expected from an actor so frequently typecast as Chris Hemsworth though, snarling his lines with broad, nasally glee as he breaks out from the stock-standard hero and himbo roles that have largely defined his career up until now. His villainous turn here is just as extreme as Anya Taylor-Joy’s shift into the archetype of silent, brooding action hero, sufficiently carrying on Charlize Theron’s legacy from Fury Road even if she doesn’t quite reach the same remarkable heights.

It is worth applauding the cast that Miller gathers beyond these two leads as well, and the hilariously inventive character names given to each. John Howard and Angus Sampson respectively return from Fury Road as the People Eater and the Organic Mechanic, filling out their backstories as Immortan Joe’s associates, while Tom Burke impresses in the role of fleeting love interest Praetorian Jack with a pitch-perfect Australian accent. The appearance of Indigenous actor Quaden Bayles among the War Boys imbues the tribal militia with shades of corrupted innocence, and Miller also makes especially excellent use of David Collins from the Umbilical Brothers as a member of Dementus’ biker horde, drawing on his aptitude for physical comedy.

Quite unexpectedly though, it is George Shevtsov’s tattooed History Man who becomes the closest thing to an audience surrogate in Furiosa, connecting this world’s grotesque degradation back to a pre-apocalyptic past that only survives through his living memory. Miller unfolds some tremendous world building through this character, reflecting on the War of Roses, the three World Wars, the Water Wars, and the Tri-Nation Nuclear Wars that span our own past and future, before adding the brand-new Forty-Day Wasteland War to this list of humanity’s futile attempts to assert its blood-thirsty dominance. To preserve knowledge in a world that burned its books long ago, he etches his mournful wisdom across every inch of skin, thereby setting up a key plot point when a captive Furiosa uses his ink to draw a star chart on her arm. To get back home to the Green Place, she must simply follow this guide, and this alone stands as her sole hope across years of confinement.

Those familiar with Fury Road will see the loss of this arm coming from the start, but Furiosa never falls into the trap of gratuitously hitting anticipated plot points for the sake of empty fan service. Each step that Furiosa takes towards becoming the woman who eventually rescues Immortan Joe’s wives lands with impact, seeing her objectives shift with incredible resourcefulness as old doors close and new ones open. She is certainly a proficient driver, fighter, and mechanic, though these skills merely back up a resolute, retributive anger which positions her as a force that any adversary should tremble to reckon with – “The darkest of angels, the fifth rider of the apocalypse.”

Just as key to unlocking the mysteries of the woman we recognise in Fury Road is the hyper-stylised visual storytelling which surrounds her, pushing Furiosa to the brink of sanity in this surreal, malformed world. Swapping out the Namibian desert landscapes used previously for the authentic Australian outback, Miller’s scenery is as strong as ever, saturating the dusty orange sand beneath the harsh sun and washing it in stunning shades of sapphire when he shoots day-for-night. An inventive use of flare guns also injects bursts of vibrance through red, green, and black clouds of dust, unnervingly staining Dementus the colour of blood at one point, and making this environment’s crude, primitive production design appear increasingly alien. Miller’s silhouettes and rigorous blocking of actors are often admirable within still compositions, though the jerky movements of his visuals stand out even more, seeing him subtly manipulate frame rates as vehicles rush towards the camera and the camera dramatically hurtles towards actors.

It requires a marvellously steady hand to maintain such fine control over these fast-paced set pieces, though Miller’s kinetic editing and keen sense of geography keeps them from slipping into incoherence. This is particularly impressive in one Fury Road-style pursuit that splits its attention between Praetorian Jack driving the gigantic War Rig, Furiosa clinging to its underside, and bandits attacking from parachutes and propellors strapped to motorcycles, but Miller’s vehicular warfare also expands beyond chases here. Ambushes, infiltrations, and escapes from fortresses often use the architecture of these giant, metal beasts to brilliant effect, piercing the walled defences of Gastown and its moat of crude oil, and dangerously scraping the edges of the Bullet Farm’s deep quarries.

The allegory behind Miller’s trucks, cars, and motorbikes in Mad Max has been explicit ever since the first film in the series, transforming these vehicles into mechanical extensions of their driver’s body, status, and personality. Furiosa is no exception here either as she learns to navigate the powerful War Rig, though equally core to the question of her survival in this demented wasteland are the dehumanising compromises that must be made. Bit by bit, shards of metal, plastic, and glass replace the lost pieces of one’s soul, until that too is as brutally mechanical as the machine one drives. “To feel alive we seek sensation, any sensation to wash away the cranky black sorrow,” Dementus solemnly contemplates as he faces Furiosa one last time, and indeed there is a strange overlap between the futility of their attempts to find release from this hellhole. To actively carve out a greater purpose with compassion and resilience as noble guides though – that alone is enough to set this warrior apart from the multitude of nihilists and zealots driven mad by the emptiness.

Furiosa: A Mad Max Saga is currently playing in cinemas.

Terry Gilliam | 2hr 6min

If Baron Munchausen’s tales of adventuring across oceans, into volcanoes, and through outer space are true, then he may very well belong among the greatest of all heroes. If the flamboyant, swashbuckling explorer is a liar, then he must be the greatest fraud to walk the Earth. If we are to submit to Terry Gilliam’s whimsical view of history and legend as one and the same however, then the difference is entirely negligible. After all, why shouldn’t one of modern Europe’s greatest spinner of yarns stand next to such icons as Odysseus and Heracles, purely based on the awesome wonder that he inspires in the commonfolk?

This is an especially rare talent in the war-torn city of corrupt bureaucrats that the Baron wanders into one Wednesday in the Age of Reason, taking the stage from a theatrical troupe reenacting his grand escapades so that he may correct their inaccuracies. From there, The Adventures of Baron Munchausen transcends the notion of storytelling as mere entertainment, and blurs the boundaries dividing reality and fiction with all the spirited panache of its titular unreliable narrator. So invisible is this margin that is not marked by any sort of cut or dissolve, but simply rather a slick camera movement transitioning from the stage into the ageing voyager’s story, and of course back again when it is complete. With a pair of simple dollies, life and imagination are thus delicately connected through a single line of continuity.

For Terry Gilliam, this playful mythologising is a natural extension of his work in Monty Python, ludicrously undercutting the notion of historical truth by exposing the amusing shortcomings of those who were at its centre. Wordplay, wit, and satire are still very much present in the dialogue, but it is only in this period after the comedy troupe’s breakup that he is also free to explore his magnificent stylistic ambition, formally matching majestic visuals to his farcical storytelling. It certainly helps as well that he is drawing on cinematographer Giuseppe Rotunno’s experience shooting some of Federico Fellini and Luchino Visconti’s most extravagantly beautiful films, and using it here to capture a vibrantly expressionistic world steeped in manic surrealism. Together, Gilliam and Rotunno design their frames with an eccentric precision, often using a wide-angle lens to capture odd obstructions, abstract shapes, and staggered blocking of actors within a vast depth of field.

Though the real world is handsomely mounted as a lush framing device, Gilliam’s real visual talents emerge when we enter the Ottoman palace of cocky adventurer’s first tale, cartoonishly patterned with large stripes. There, he wagers his life on a bet that he only barely wins with the help of his magical companions, the super speedy Berthold and uncannily accurate marksman Gustavo. When invited to take his winnings from the Great Sultan’s treasury, strongman Albrecht helps in carrying away its entire contents on his back, while Gustavus wards off the Ottoman army with his powerful breath.

Later, the Baron makes his way into outer space via a hot air balloon made solely out of ladies’ knickers, where he sails across a desert of lunar dust and meets the giant, floating heads of the King and Queen of the Moon. The silvery surfaces present here strike a contrast against the fiery red core of Mt Etna where the Baron encounters Roman god Vulcan, just as they are both visually distinct from the deep blue lighting inside the monstrous sea creature that swallows him whole. According to Gilliam’s design, each new setting is its own world with its own rules, manifesting an imagination so wholly detached from reality that we can only admire the pure invention of it all.

Of course though, neither Gilliam nor the Baron’s tales are quite as wholly original as they might otherwise suggest. The fact aside that The Adventures of Baron Munchausen is loosely based on an 18^th century novel, elements of classic fantasy films are woven into its narrative, such as the sea monster from Pinocchio and the hot air balloon escape of The Wizard of Oz. The imprint of Victor Fleming’s Technicolour musical continues to be seen in the one-to-one connections between people the Baron sees in real life and those characters in his stories, many of whom are similarly collected along an unpredictable journey to the outskirts of civilisation and back again.

To draw parallels back even further, Renaissance art can be frequently found all through Gilliam’s production design, whether forming stylish backdrops in his elegantly designed interiors or being directly referenced in a recreation of Botticelli’s painting ‘The Birth of Venus.’ Two cupids, the sons of Venus herself, circle her and the Baron as they fly and waltz through a cavern of waterfalls, fountains, and chandeliers, while elsewhere Gilliam’s classical iconography places his protagonist’s legacy among mythical figures and inspires the visual gag of the Baron falling into Vulcan’s lair. As the Baron and his friends lie helpless at the bottom of a pit, a trick of the camera cleverly creates the illusion that Vulcan is a giant, setting up a brilliantly awkward punchline when they enter the same shot and the god’s relatively short stature suddenly comes to light.

The Baron may elderly, but he strikes a robust figure next to monsters and immortals alike, with his long goatee extending as far off his face as his impressive nose. So rejuvenating is the call of adventure for him that it seems to physically erase the wrinkles from his face, and yet he can only keep running away from the Angel of Death for so long. Surreal visions of paradise and mortality are common in Gilliam’s work, whether manifesting in the flying dreams of Brazil or the Red Knight of The Fisher King, and here they become a formal reminder of what awaits those who live such excitingly dangerous lives. Even the Baron’s young companion and frequent rescuer Sally can’t keep it at bay forever, eventually failing to banish the reaper when, just as our hero saves the city from the Great Sultan’s army, he is caught in crosshairs of the mayor’s rifle.

Then again, if there is anything in this quirky cosmos that has the power to resurrect the dead, then it is that very talent which the Baron wields such creative control over. Such is the nature of storytelling that even when it is at its most preposterously absurd, it can influence reality in mysterious ways. Lessons of moderation are learned from aliens who can’t reconcile the division between mind and body, the wrath of a jealous god exposes the insecurity behind great egos, and perhaps there may even be just enough truth in such tales that those living under authoritarian rule can shed the fear keeping them locked away from the world. Whether Gilliam’s mischievous raconteur in The Adventures of Baron Munchausen is a hero, a fraud, or both, he is undeniably a man who can shape the lives of those who listen with open hearts and minds.

The Adventures of Baron Munchausen is currently streaming on The Criterion Channel, can be rented or bought Apple TV, YouTube, and Amazon Video, and the DVD or Blu-ray can be bought on Amazon.

Jean Cocteau | 1hr 36min

It is not just the fantastical designs and living furniture which imbue the enchanted castle of Jean Cocteau’s Beauty and the Beast with an air of otherworldly awe. Time inside this ethereal realm mystically warps in unexpected directions, stretching out in delicate slow-motion when the captive Belle runs down hallways of billowing white curtains, and flipping it around with reverse photography as a collection of loose pearls magically form a necklace. Given that its days and nights are completely out of sync with the village situated just a few miles away, it might as well exist in its own time zone too, consumed in darkness when the sun should be shining.

As a skilled technician of practical effects, Cocteau is fully dedicating his illusory craft to our complete disorientation, further manipulating our own suspended disbelief as spatial dimensions disappear altogether in feats of teleportation and clairvoyance. The Beast’s castle defies logic in more ways than just its eccentric mise-en-scène. The very system of logic it operates on exists entirely outside of our own, making for a world that is as inventively surreal as it is fearsome.

Especially in contrast to Disney’s animated adaptation of the French fairy tale, Cocteau’s vision possesses a far more whimsical horror. When Belle’s father first enters the Beast’s domain after getting lost in the forest, he is welcome by arms protruding from stone walls and holding candelabras to light his way, while faces carved into the dining hall’s ornate fireplace quietly observe his movements. These are not humans transformed into objects, but rather embodiments of the castle’s own sentience, opening doors and whispering to its inhabitants as if possessed by ghosts.

Where Georges Auric’s fabulously lush orchestrations build to grand crescendos outside this estate, the addition of a haunting choir within its dark chambers gives the eerie setting its own non-diegetic voice, effectively breathing life into that which is inanimate. Cocteau’s curious camera underscores the mystery even further too as it moves in dangerous anticipation of what we might find at the end of long corridors, while the cluttered Gothic décor obscures our clear view of what lies submerged in dark voids of negative space.

From the doorways encased in ornamental carvings to the grand stone sculptures guarding the castle walls, Beauty and the Beast is a towering landmark of cinematic production design, constructing an architectural marvel as phantasmagorical as its cursed master. The Beast’s anthropomorphic design is beautifully detailed, marking an incredible accomplishment of prosthetic makeup in his realistic fur and fangs, while possessing a low, raspy voice and human eyes which reveal a deep sorrow. It isn’t just that he is ugly, but this Beast also confesses that he is hopelessly dim-witted, and feels that this dehumanises him in Belle’s eyes. “You stroke me like you stroke an animal,” he laments, though it is her thoughtless response that stings even more.

“But you are an animal.”

To further underscore his monstrosity, the curse which was placed on him as a child also causes his hands to smoke whenever he is driven by his primal instinct to slaughter a forest creature, betraying his barbarity and driving him deeper into shame around his civilised guest. Though this version of Beauty and the Beast is far more faithful to the classic fable than Disney, these small, cinematic inventions shape it into its own fantastical character study, examining the thin line that separates virtuous honour from depravity.

The dual casting of Jean Marais as both the Beast and Belle’s vain suitor Avenant works brilliantly in this formal comparison too, especially as the Beast eventually finds himself becoming human, and Avenant respectively takes on his hideous form. “Love can turn a man into a beast. But love can also make an ugly man handsome,” the newly transformed Prince poetically expounds, before lifting into the air with Belle in a sudden gust of smoke and wind.

Beyond this anti-hero and villain, Cocteau continues to lay out humanity’s shortcomings in Belle’s jealous sisters who manipulate her into turning down a more prosperous life, as well as her brother Ludovic who decides to help Avenant kill the Beast. Even Belle herself is forced to come to terms with her own selfishness when she realises her actions have led to the Beast’s impending demise, kneeling over his ailing body by a stream and tearfully confessing “I am the monster!”.

Indeed, moral virtue and corruption exist within each character to varying extents, though it is only through the filter of twisted dreamscapes that this sort of nuance becomes visible, allowing us to penetrate their deceptive facades of beauty and ugliness. Just as worlds of the conscious and subconscious collide in the love shared between Belle and the Beast, Cocteau also reconciles contradictions of the body and spirit with poetic justice, embracing a wishful ending that he recognises with whimsical poignancy may only ever exist in the boundless, imaginative possibilities of fairy tales.

Beauty and the Beast is currently streaming on The Criterion Channel, and the DVD is available to purchase on Amazon.

Jonathan Glazer | 1hr 46min

The great evil that takes centre stage in The Zone of Interest is not often seen alone in historical records. Being married to Auschwitz’s longest-serving commandant, Hedwig’s name is virtually always attached to her husband’s, Rudolph Höss. Perhaps rightly so too. After all, wasn’t the great horror of the Holocaust perpetrated by the highest Nazi authorities, more than the families who never once stepped foot inside a concentration camp? It is not as if Hedwig Höss had any power of her own to halt the momentum of Hitler’s Master Plan, and so where is the harm in enjoying her position of privilege attained through her husband’s line of work?

Still, there is a chillingly blasé attitude here that is evident early in the film when she dons a fur coat from a pile of prisoners’ belongings, tries on the lipstick she finds in the pocket, and vainly admires herself in the mirror. If we are to judge evil based on one’s own moral conscience rather than the tangible impact of their actions, then the self-centred, apathetic woman that Jonathan Glazer depicts in The Zone of Interest may harbour an even darker soul than those who perpetrate the horror themselves. It quite evidently takes a special sort of inhuman cruelty to live in such close proximity to largescale genocide, profit off its spoils, and continue each day as if thousands of people weren’t being routinely murdered just beyond the garden wall.

By the time Rudolph is offered a new job and Hedwig is given an opportunity to move her family elsewhere, it is impossible to excuse her anymore. It isn’t that she is ignorant to the atrocities, nor that she is reluctantly trapped in uncomfortable circumstances. The self-dubbed “Queen of Auschwitz” lovesher home and garden with a vile passion, and will do anything to hold onto this luxurious lifestyle without a shred of care for its appalling foundations.

Purely in terms of genre, The Zone of Interest’s historical fiction couldn’t be further from the science-fiction premise of Glazer’s previous film Under the Skin, and yet the two make for fascinating companion pieces in the realm of sinister, minimalist cinema. If Under the Skin finds the vulnerable humanity in a monster, then The Zone of Interest exposes the monstrosity that resides in a seemingly mundane human, all while Glazer keep us at a chilling distance from both.

Long, static shots especially dominate the aesthetic of the latter, dispassionately setting the camera back at high angles that occasionally lifts into distorted birds-eye views, but more often letting us observe scenes of domestic life bound by that vast, grey wall persistently standing in the background. It serves its purpose well as a physical boundary for the concentration camp, and yet from the other side it fails to completely conceal the terrible truth betrayed by the guard towers, barbed wire, smokestacks, and trains peeking over the top. In sheer contrast, the flowers and vegetables that Hedwig proudly nurtures in her backyard are ironically thriving only a few metres from Auschwitz’s gas chambers, forming a lush, twisted image of Eden that she calls her “garden paradise.”

It is often in scenes set around this visual disparity where the most compelling character work is accomplished, denying Glazer’s characters the sympathy of close-ups, and forcibly associating them with Auschwitz through wide shots. Rudolph may try to block it out when he lights a cigarette and turns his back to the fiery smoke pouring from the gas chamber chimneys behind him, but the camera stoically captures it all, denying him anywhere to hide in the frame. Even when Glazer’s compositions aren’t so visually arresting, the formal rigour of this icy detachment is powerful, evoking the severe, psychological cinema of Stanley Kubrick and Michael Haneke. When it comes to the interiors of the Höss household though, the flat colours, crisp depth of field, and use of background doorways as frames makes Roy Andersson an even stronger comparison, seeing Glazer deploy a similarly dry, dark humour with discerning judgement to underscore the setting’s sheer incongruency.

The few times the camera is taken off its tripod, it travels in steady parallel motions, but otherwise it is through the rhythmic repetition of familiar shots that we track the banal routines of the Höss family. On this level, Glazer’s poetic visual beats and editing cadences reveal Yasujirō Ozu to be another unexpected influence, even if The Zone of Interest never quite touches the heights of the Japanese director’s masterpieces. The few times he diverges from his rigid formal structure with misplaced negative exposure shots and a single fade to red also weakens the similarities somewhat, and yet these flaws are little more than minor distractions from an otherwise relentless portrait of historic fascism, loaded with magnificently subtle worldbuilding.

Because as a disquieting immersion into the outskirts of Auschwitz, The Zone of Interest is just as concerned with the stifled remnants of horror lingering in the haunting sound design as it is with its visual details. Distant gunshots interrupt Hedwig’s quiet life, but she gives them as little attention as does the shouting guards, crying babies, and tortured screams that fill the air. Mica Levi’s sparse score intermittently lets out deep, guttural groans that could very well come from some demonic engine, and it too blends eerily well in with the mechanical grinding of machinery that can be heard whenever a new train of prisoners arrives, or when the gas chambers are set to work. The only time that Glazer amplifies this horrendous soundscape is also the only instance that his camera cuts to a close-up, letting us deduce from the audio alone that we have crossed the threshold into Auschwitz, and are currently standing in the middle of the concentration camp.

For the most part though, this sound design is quietly hypnotic, lulling us into the same state of helpless submission that each character must face and which exposes the true nature of their soul. Nowhere is this reckoning illustrated so vividly as when Hedwig’s mother visits the villa and tries to sleep, only to be confronted with blazes of fire from the gas chambers lighting up her bedroom. All she can do to shut it out is draw the curtains, but not even that can silence the hellish blasts that continue to keep her up. In the middle of this sequence, Glazer meanwhile cuts to Hedwig, who couldn’t be sleeping more soundly.

The profound, emotional unrest that moves her mother to leave without warning the following day is not one the Queen of Auschwitz would ever understand. In fact, Hedwig alone may be the only significant character in The Zone of Interest to never even display the tiniest shred of guilt buried deep in her mind. At least her husband Rudolph is forced to gaze upon Nazi Germany’s vile operations every day when he goes to work, thus grasping on some instinctual level the inhuman barbarity that he is perpetrating – not that this absolves him. His hypocrisy is extremely evident when he evacuates his children from a river upon discovering human remains floating by, attempting to shield them from the consequences of his own actions, though his psychological compartmentalisation is never clearer than in the very final minutes of Glazer’s film.

Rudolph initially receives the news that his name is to be given to a key operation in Auschwitz’s success with excitement, most of all because of what it means for their family’s security and comfort. Still, as he departs his office and begins his journey down several flights of stairs, some visceral disgust erupts from within. He pauses, heaves, and dry retches, before descending another storey – only to uncontrollably give into that primal urge again.

At first, the following flashforward to images of present-day Auschwitz appears formally unjustified, like some clumsy attempt to strip the film’s message of its poetry. Cleaners sweep empty gas chambers and sanitise the furnaces, while the camera observes the mountains of shoes preserved behind windows as historical artefacts. A touch of Alain Resnais’ documentary Night and Fog can be felt here too as Glazer’s camera solemnly beholds the lifeless remains of this great historical tragedy, but then just as we are expecting the film to end, it cuts back to Rudolph.

Call it a premonition, or simply a sudden, unexplainable feeling that his name will forever be attached to one of humanity’s greatest injustices, but whatever shame Rudolph feels in this moment doesn’t halt his descent into darkness. This is how fascism survives, Glazer gravely laments. Not through the destruction wrought by torture, murder, and genocide, but through the passive denial of reality by those who reap its rewards and swallow their nauseating self-hatred as they go. As for those like Hedwig Höss who betray no such remorse for their exploitative privilege, and who are even given the benefit of Glazer’s judicious camera to peel back the layers around their empty soul – perhaps they stand alone at the top as the greatest evil of all.

The Zone of Interest is currently playing in theatres.

Rainer Werner Fassbinder | 1hr 53min

The image of post-war Germany that Rainer Werner Fassbinder composes in Lola is remarkably distinct from the 1905 novel that provided its source material, and yet the tragic romance at its centre nevertheless carries across the twentieth century as a timeless fable of sacrifice and degraded honour. For the original author Heinrich Mann, schoolteacher Raat is an authoritarian figure falling to the liberal values of cabaret singer Lola Lola, rigidly abiding by conservative beliefs that are more likely to break before they bend. Josef von Sternberg remained largely faithful in his 1930 adaptation The Blue Angel too, even as he shifted the time frame forward 20 years to the Weimar Republic. Within his 1981 reinvention of the modern fable though, Fassbinder shows no interest in such black-and-white morality, grinding the steadfast integrity of our righteous protagonist down to a weary resignation through a slew of moral ordeals.

Can the prosperous reconstruction of West Germany in the 1950s justify the corrupt dealings making it possible? Is noble building commissioner Herr von Bohm right to stand in the way of those crooked bureaucrats if their long-term goals are effectively aligned with his? At what point should one place their personal desire for love and security over their code of honour, and is such a sacrifice truly worth it? As complications arise within this tangled web of politics, Bohm and his sweetheart Marie-Luise find that they all come down to a single, inevitable decision – to remain loyal to one’s convictions and lose everything, or to submissively fall in line with the status quo.

For as long as Bohm remains ignorant to the truth of Marie-Luise’s secret identity as Lola, a high-end escort, nightclub performer, and mother to the child of corrupt property developer Schuckert, the choice is easy. Being a refugee from East Prussia and a grieving widower, he has proven his spirit’s endurance, and through Marie-Luise he can see a path to rebuilding his own life. On her end, Bohm’s sincerity and optimism is incredibly refreshing, and sets him apart from the deceitful, self-serving creatures she has known all other men to be. Like her, he works in a profession that can all too easily erode one’s faith in humanity, and yet his honour has remained intact. As a result, Bohm becomes a beacon of hope to Marie-Luise, as long as she can hide her shame long enough to shed it altogether.

Under Fassbinder’s vibrant direction, the sleazy exploitation that infects Lola’s post-war setting does little to dampen the incredible joys and tragedies of this central relationship, spilling out into a colourfully heightened world. No doubt there is an element of realism to the exterior streets and rundown brothels of this city, but the candy neon lighting that Fassbinder sheds over his scenes belong in the world of elevated sentimentality, composing images of astonishing beauty. There is no diegetic reasoning behind the green illumination of the room that sits behind Bohm’s office, and yet it visually sets his domain apart from the orange, red, and pink lights of the nightclub where Lola performs and Schuckert conducts his business dealings.

Where Dario Argento used similarly fluorescent lighting to craft a vibrant, expressionistic horror in Suspiria, Fassbinder melds them with the delicate romanticism of Douglas Sirk’s melodramas in Lola, framing his characters within the drastically narrowed borders of doorways, mirrors, and windows. Coloured lights bounce off glass panes, behind which Bohm and Marie-Luise frequently find themselves visually trapped, though Fassbinder doesn’t stop there either with his brilliant shot obstructions. The interior mise-en-scène of each set is designed with inventive precision, using the legs of upside-down bar stools to split the frame into triangular segments and isolate Marie-Luise from the rest of the ensemble, while tinsel runs along the club’s glittery walls and ceilings. Fassbinder’s staging of actors is incredibly evocative in these moments too, sending Marie-Luise dancing on top of a table as she dances wildly at her lowest point, while Bohm sinks to his knees in a mess of papers back at his office having learned of her second identity as Lola.

In two significant scenes where there is conversely little movement from the actors, Fassbinder compensates by dynamically circling his camera around the table where bureaucrats discuss new construction projects. In the first instance, the meeting runs smoothly, but with Schuckert and Marie-Luise’s secrets revealed to Bohm just prior to the second, a new tension hangs in the air. Our virtuous building commissioner is on a self-destructive path of righteous judgement, declaring war on Schuckert and his cronies by withdrawing the project proposal and approaching journalists with news of their dishonest exploitation. “The whole is rotten, not just parts, so the whole must be tackled,” he furiously resolves. “How could I make peace with a world that makes me sick?”

The answer to Bohm’s question comes through two bitter realisations. Not only does the media’s equal corruption make any prospect of justice impossible, but when he is at his most despairing, Schuckert makes him one final offer to at least live comfortably within this dishonest system. Marie-Luise is his prize, released from the constraints of her employment and free to marry him if only he falls in line. If Bohm is aware that Schuckert is still bedding his wife, then that knowledge has been deeply repressed for the sake of his new, comfortable life of dishonesty. This is the culture that West Germany’s future is to be built on in the wake of World War II, and it is scarily similar to the nation’s recent past of totalitarian conformity – it has just softened its harsh edges with bribery instead of threats. In the colourfully modern world of Fassbinder’s Lola, tragedy does not end with death or heartbreak, but with a poignant, quiet resignation to the loss of one’s moral character.

Lola is currently streaming on The Criterion Channel, and the Blu-ray is available to purchase on Amazon.