Category: Recommend / Highly Recommend

Yasujirō Ozu | 1hr 31min

The lingering cadence which brings the film title I Was Born, But… to an open-ended ellipsis seems to raise a question. The simple innocence that comes with infancy doesn’t hang around for particularly long after we venture beyond our family homes – so as children, what might we expect from a world that contains power dynamics far more complex than our immature minds can comprehend? Through Yasujirō Ozu’s patient eyes, this deliberation only deepens with age, not so much granting answers as it reveals the sheer commonality of imbalanced relationships through all stages of life. With gentle humour and formal acuity, I Was Born, But… contemplates such social patterns across two generations of a Japanese family, and delicately ponders the potential to break its pitiful cycles.

Brothers Keiji and Ryoichi are virtually copies of each other here, disorientated by their family’s sudden relocation to the Tokyo suburbs and sudden enrolment in a new school, yet still finding the time to get tangled up in mischief. Still working in the realm of silent cinema, Ozu borrows the light-hearted deadpan of Hollywood’s early comedians to pace their story, pitting the two boys against a local gang and their leader Taro who scares them away from attending school. With their father Chichi setting high academic expectations, they spend the day forging homework and grades to escape his ire – so it is unfortunate indeed that he remains well-informed through his boss Iwasaki, Taro’s father.

At least with the help of older delivery boy Kozou, Keiji and Ryoichi are able to gain some ground against their bully, even forming somewhat of a friendly rivalry with him and his cronies. “My dad’s got lots of suits,” one boy competitively proclaims. “My dad’s car is fancier” and “My dad’s the most important,” the others pile on, trying to raise their own status through association with their fathers. At Iwasaki and Taro’s home video night though, it quickly becomes clear whose is most definitively not at the top of the pecking order.

At this gathering, a whole new world of office politics is revealed to the brothers. As adults and children sit down to watch Iwasaki’s recordings, Chichi’s stern, authoritative image dissolves in their eyes, replaced by that of a clownish buffoon sucking up to his boss. “You tell us to become somebody, but you’re nobody!” they rebuke, and all of a sudden Ozu brings into focus the incredible similarities between their respective worlds.

After all, the social and economic barriers which afflict one generation is not so easily cast off by the younger, particularly given the recent relocation both parents and children have been equally affected by. As they walk through their relatively barren neighbourhood, Ozu frequently passes trains through the background, breaking up flat plains with these huge, industrial icons of modernity. Class and status are not merely defined by human relationships – they are right there in their humble surroundings, ever-present in transitory cutaways to telegraph poles and hanging laundry.

The foundations of Ozu’s pillow shots are evidently being laid in I Was Born, But…, though even more pervasive is his subtle yet purposeful positioning of the camera, taking the perspective of a child by setting it no more than just a few feet above the ground. Adults tower over us from this angle, and when Chichi’s disillusioned sons destroy his ego, he too sinks low in the frame to meet us where we sit. His humiliation is felt even further in the Ozu’s visual divisions, isolating him in windows and doorways, and once again affirming the extraordinary artistic mind which would eventually perfect the art of developing character through mise-en-scène.

Much more unusual for Ozu is the proliferation of tracking shots on display here, rolling past workers and students alike as they write at their desks. The formal parallels between generations continue to reveal themselves in this stylistic device, trapping both in rigid institutions which require submissive compliance from their subjects, though it is also there where Chichi and his sons diverge in their responses.

Disappointed that their father does not model the same upstanding behaviour he preaches, Keiji and Ryoichi attempt a hunger strike, sitting in the garden and turning their backs to the house. Ozu’s comedy is not patronising, but nevertheless finds levity in the brothers’ endearing synchronicity, eventually giving in to their mother’s rice balls and even opening up to their father once again. “What are you going to be when you grow up?” he tenderly asks, taking a seat next to them. “A lieutenant general,” Keiji responds, reasoning that he can’t be a full lieutenant since that will be Ryoichi’s job. Even if Chichi isn’t the perfect image of a respected family man, still there remains a childlike hope that their spirits will not be crushed in the same way.

Then again, can we really judge a father based on the subjective opinions of their children? “Who’s got the best dad, you or us?” Ryoichi asks Taro, continuing their petty competition. “You do,” his new friend answers after some hesitation. “No, you do,” Ryoichi responds in confusion – but really, the different is negligible. These men and boys are simply doing their best navigating the pressures of families and peers, trying to find external validation while remaining true to themselves, and it is there where Ozu grants individuals of all ages equal understanding. Within the messy entanglement of power and status, the formal mirroring of I Was Born, But… reveals that conflict at the root of our common insecurities, as well as the sweet, liberating affirmation we never stop pursuing from infancy through adulthood.

I Was Born, But… is currently streaming on The Criterion Channel.

Todd Phillips | 2hr 18min

When Todd Phillips created his own trauma-ridden version of Batman’s greatest nemesis in 2019, audiences were as polarised as the citizens of Gotham City. To a disillusioned minority, Arthur Fleck was an icon of bitter anarchy, seeking to tear down the broken system which drove him and so many others to madness. To critics, he was simply a glorified criminal, claiming the spotlight with little substance to back up his words and actions. This divide becomes the central tension in Phillips’ sequel, seeking to parse out the nuances missed by both sides in the debate over Arthur’s soul – and yet in doing so, Joker: Folie à Deux has met an even more troubled reception than the first.

Of course, part of this comes down to the perceived emasculation of our antihero, diverging from the tough guy persona he had artificially crafted for himself as Joker. Criticisms targeted at the duology’s surprising shift into the movie-musical genre are slightly more justified, especially given how hit-or-miss many of the numbers are, though even these condemnations fail to account for their sheer vibrance and passion. Phillips is no stranger to ambitious swings, and if there was ever a supervillain to make this leap into song and dance, then it is surely the one whose schtick is highlighting life’s senseless absurdity through colourful, extravagant theatrics.

It also makes sense that Phillips should credit Francis Ford Coppola’s maligned musical One from the Heart as a major inspiration here too, featuring similarly remarkable visual craftsmanship while drawing criticisms of ‘style over substance’. Both films float by upon expressionistic dreams of romance, detaching its characters from any recognisable reality and entering a realm that exists only in their elated minds. A brief nod to The Umbrellas of Cherbourg hints at this early on in Folie à Deux, but by the time Arthur is waltzing through the grounds of a burning Arkham State Hospital with fellow patient Lee Quinzel and singing an elaborate rendition of ‘If My Friends Could See Me Now’, we are fully immersed in their ecstatically unhinged delusions.

Unfortunately, the inconsistencies that plague Phillips’ direction of these scenes also happen to be among Folie à Deux’s most unflattering blemishes. Many great musicals are able express subdued emotion in duets without simply cutting back and forth between close-ups, but this is exactly the trap that he falls into here, leading to a sharp disparity between magnificently staged showstoppers and softer, blandly shot ballads. Additionally, songs that play out in creaky whispers waste the talent that comes with Lady Gaga’s otherwise inspired casting, while Joaquin Phoenix’s pitchy vocals are downright weak.

Still, Phillips is as confident as ever when it comes to his dystopian worldbuilding beyond the musical numbers, adeptly building upon the first film’s dingy ambience and grimy production design. Arkham State Hospital is one of two primary locations explored here, damning our protagonist to a hellhole flooded with murky green hues and heavy shadows, while maintaining an eerie elegance in long takes navigating its narrow hallways. The prison’s claustrophobic framing also strikes a dramatic contrast against the openness of the courtroom where Arthur revels in the limelight, violating the judge’s orders at every turn and reducing it to a circus where his Joker persona can deride the entire bureaucratic system.

Even then though, we are left wondering – what is this all for? Arthur’s indignation does not expose any hidden evil so much as it offers a cathartic release, but that too seems dubious when he is confronted by the innocent victims of his own actions. Luckily from among his throngs of fans, Lee emerges as the woman to put such insecurities to rest, effectively embodying that fetishisation of high-profile criminals which celebrates their iconography rather than understanding their humanity. “I want to see the real you,” she murmurs as she ironically paints Arthur’s face with clown makeup, and her glitzy musical influence only serves to further shape his identity to her vision of provocative sensationalism.

Phillips has never been a filmmaker who trades in subtlety, and while this has led to a series that aggressively beats its heavy-handed message home, it has also created some of the strongest imagery from any comic book movie in recent years. As the climax pulls Arthur through the streets of Gotham in a Children of Men-style long take and swallows him up in the dystopian monstrosity he has inadvertently created, we are reminded of what is truly at stake here. Not just “Gotham’s soul”, as The Dark Knight once operatically proclaimed – on a much smaller scale, Folie à Deux possesses a twisted kind of sympathy for broken individuals who respond to one evil with another, and a crushing lack of faith that righteous, even-handed justice will ever be served.

Joker: Folie à Deux is currently playing in cinemas.

Federico Fellini | 2hr 19min

The outlandish matriarchal society that middle-aged philanderer Snàporaz wanders through in City of Women is not quite the grand feminist statement that one might expect, but rather a self-deprecating cinematic tool for Federico Fellini to pick at his own masculine insecurities. The women who occupy this secluded region of Italy are militant caricatures, calling the missionary position a “sociocultural oppression” and claiming wrinkles are a male invention, though they are specifically the type of radicals that one might invent as a straw man for the sake of ridicule and derision. As Fellini reveals in its closing scene, they are little more than figments of Snàporaz’s unconscious mind as he naps on a long-distance train journey, pieced together from real women travelling with him in true The Wizard of Oz-style.

Still, every so often, a sharp blade of truth slices through Snàporaz’s uneasy fantasy. He has smirked at and talked down to the attendees of the feminist convention that he has stumbled across, but he can only remain hidden in the crowd for so long. The speaker to draw him into the spotlight is the woman who he followed into this mysterious city, and now as she addresses her audience, she eloquently raises him upon a pedestal of judgement.

“Our efforts here have been useless, sisters. The eyes of that man, presently among us with that look of feigned respectability, of one who desires to know us, understand us because he insists it can better our relationship. We are only a pretext for another of his crude animalistic fables. Another neurotic song and dance act. We’re his chorus, his hula hula girls, his fiends. We enhance his show with our passion, with our suffering.”

If Marcello Mastroianni is once again performing the role of Fellini’s surrogate here, then it is plain to see the self-criticism in this passage. As a filmmaker, he recognises his own tendency towards the objectifying male gaze, while as a husband, the guilt of his affairs weighs enormously on his conscience. Only someone who has been inside his mind could design a nightmare so specifically targeted to these doubts, and only Fellini could do so with the edge of dark, chaotic surrealism present in Snàporaz’s emasculating journey through City of Women.

The visual magnificence which once guided us through the absurd dreamscapes of Satyricon and Casanova is far more inconsistent here than we are used to with Fellini, though his most familiar stylistic trademarks still make an impact. The zooming, panning, and drifting camera movements through crowds of people are stifling, while imposing set designs totally consume Snàporaz, defining each episode in this narrative with renewed visions of Kafkaesque madness and self-reflection. As he slowly descends a giant slide in a lonely amusement park, he watches memories of his childhood crushes pass by in strange exhibitions, and in a miserable, grey courtyard of portraits and candles he finds himself speechless before a panel of female judges.

The manor of Dr. Xavier Katzone where Snàporaz seeks refuge is the set piece where Fellini’s absurd spectacle lifts off though, encompassing the bewildered outsider in an eclectic mix of patterns, textiles, and phallic sculptures. Even the spires on the fence outside were designed with that resemblance in mind, the doctor explains, consciously rebelling against his matriarchal rulers. Among the more peculiar displays here too is the long, arched corridor lined with photos of every woman he has slept with, each individually lighting up and playing explicit audio of their encounters.

In effect, Snàporaz’s vanity takes physical form in Dr. Katzone, whose manor is essentially a shrine dedicated to himself. True to his ostentatious arrogance, the doctor even hosts a celebration of his ten thousandth sexual conquest that evening, complete with a giant cake and enough candles to burn down the entire building. Fellini continues ramping up the absurdity through this sequence, lingering on one guest’s party trick of sucking up coins into her vagina aided by some reverse photography, but once again the insanity comes to a halt when Snàporaz comes face-to-face with his own shortcomings – this time manifesting as his ex-wife, Elena. The bitterness in their quarrel is only drowned by a shared sorrow over their festered love, as she leaves him to wonder whether there may be some possibility of redemption in his future.

“There may still be a chance, if you wanted. Or are we too old to be young again, you and I?”

Perhaps this is why when Snàporaz is eventually put on trial for his masculinity and dismissed to go free, he nevertheless chooses to face his mysterious punishment anyway, following a corridor into a boxing ring with a giant, stone tower in the centre. “Shake her, break her, find her, lose her, open her, close her, love her, kill her, remember her, forget her,” the crowd of women chant, encouraging him to climb it and make love to the supposedly ideal woman at the top. Halfway up the ladder though, he is not so certain that this is necessarily what he desires.

“If you existed, would you be my reward or punishment? Please, let me go. Have mercy. Get me out of this mess. What good am I to you? I don’t need you, and vice versa. Could it be we’ve already met but that I don’t recognise you? My first love? No, you must be somebody new, someone born out me.”

At the top he finds only Donatella, the sole woman to have shown him kindness in this city, and a hot air balloon that has taken her form. Perhaps this is his escape then, Snàporaz half-correctly presumes, before she loads a machine gun and sends him plummeting to his death.

Back on the train, he jolts awake. “You’ve been mumbling and moaning for two hours,” the woman he previously followed off elucidates. The reveal would almost seem like a copout if the seeds of this journey were not so evidently planted within Snàporaz’s subconscious, sprouting into deliberations that he may either disregard as pesky nightmares or carry with him into the real world. As the train hurtles into a tunnel though, Mastroianni does not grant such clear answers, leaving us with an expression that could be either peaceful acceptance or smug complacency. Clearly the layers of insecurity and madness which City of Women is founded upon are slippery for any man as conceited as Snàporaz or even Fellini himself to grasp, composing an imperfect yet compelling portrait of masculinity threatened only by its haughty, self-destructive hubris.

City of Women can be purchased on Amazon.

Rose Glass | 1hr 44min

From the bottom of a chasm residing on the outskirts of Rose Glass’ rustic Southern town, a rotten stench is bleeding out. Dark secrets have been decaying down there for years, eating away at those who either willingly or reluctantly shroud them in silence, as well as those who tragically fall into their orbit. For vagrant body builder Jackie, fate seems especially intent on pulling her into these shady circles, both through her burgeoning relationship with local gym manager Lou as well as the casual job she incidentally picks up at the shooting range owned by her father, Lou Sr. As she pursues physical perfection in anticipation of an upcoming bodybuilding contest, Lou is right by her side supplying performance-enhancing steroids, unknowingly feeding an addiction that soon uncontrollably careens into a seedy underworld of treachery and murder.

Much like Glass’ debut, Love Lies Bleeding does not shy away from the eerie dread and murky morality of its female characters, though this erotic thriller sprawls much further out than Saint Maud’s introspective character study. Gone are the formal notes of Roman Polanski and Paul Schrader, here replaced with the rural noir influence of the Coen Brothers as bodies stack up in the sordid backwaters of America, and amateurs clumsily try to cover up their tracks. Gyms and streets alike are dimly lit with a grimy green ambience, suffusing this 80s landscape of spandex, baggy shirts, and shaggy hairstyles with an air of suburban decrepitude. There are few options in life for queer locals like Lou who dwell far outside the mainstream, but with a violent, paternalistic chauvinism rearing its ugly head, even those who seek the stability of traditional marriage are destined to be severely disappointed.

Sporting a greasy mullet and gaunt cheekbones, Kristen Stewart’s brooding screen persona is an ideal match for Glass’ shabby town, taking on its muted bleakness even as she fights its corruptive influence. Amusingly enough, this internal battle is frequently distilled down to her ironic habit of smoking while she actively listens to anti-smoking audiobooks, revealing a weakness for addiction that she will inevitably pass on to her new girlfriend. Very gradually, we witness Lou’s steroids taking fearsome effect on Jackie, eroding her impulse control and mounting a rage in her that can only be contained for so long.

On a physical level, Jackie’s metamorphosis is rendered as visceral body horror akin to Requiem for a Dream, acutely observing needles pierce bare skin and muscles ripple, bulge, and stretch in grotesque formal cutaways. Given Glass’ team-up with Darren Aronofsky’s regular composer Clint Mansell, it is a fitting creative choice too, as the synth-heavy score pounds and reverberates throughout the film with ominous trepidation of what may come from Jackie’s monstrous transformation. From there, Glass oversees a descent into drug-fuelled hallucinations that only aggravate her insecurities, yet also push her to inhuman limits.

As for Lou, there is no denying the creature she has accidentally created, especially since it has partially arisen from the demons she has been fighting for years. Red-drenched dreams of her past haunt her in menacing cutaways, surfacing memories of Lou Sr’s illegal schemes that she was once shamefully complicit in. Even outside these visions, Glass continues to rupture the green and yellow ambience of this town with hints of crimson lighting, in one scene harshly bouncing it off Lou Sr’s face from a nearby vending machine and snapping Lou’s nightmare into vivid reality. Although both father and daughter are mirrors of each other in this battle of wits and violence, it is clear to see who is purely driven by self-preservation, and who is fighting for love. While Lou Sr’s crimes have been ambiguously responsible for the unexplained disappearance of his wife, Lou is determined to keep Jackie from slipping away, and instead actively endeavours to pull her back from the brink of destruction.

True to her Coen Brothers influence, the dark humour which underlies Glass’ chaotic sequence of events colours in the setting with a wry cynicism, seeing fellow lesbian and comic relief Daisy threaten to derail Lou’s plans. Beneath her naïve optimism is a childish penchant for manipulation, seeking little more than her own self-satisfaction while remaining wilfully ignorant to the danger quietly gathering around her.

When Love Lies Bleeding approaches its climactic ending, Glass finally ratchets the absurdity up one last time to the point of inhuman surrealism, formally uniting Jackie’s physical and emotional transformation through a colossal symbol of feminine power. Much like the last scene of Saint Maud, this daring resolution fully departs from the material world and lifts us into the distorted psyche of Glass’ characters, albeit through freakish imagery that is far more likely to provoke laughs of disbelief than chills. The brief epilogue which follows doesn’t quite maintain the same brilliance, yet still can’t take entirely away from the grand culmination of Love Lies Bleeding’s collision of narrative arcs. Only through selfless acts of faith and sacrifice can Lou and Jackie uncover hidden reserves of strength that have laid dormant through years of loneliness, nourishing an unconventional love that seeks to rise above the miserable, moral degradation of a society that never truly cared for them.

Love Lies Bleeding is currently available to rent or buy on Apple TV, YouTube, Amazon, and Google Play.

Wim Wenders | 2hr 5min

It isn’t that Japanese toilet cleaner Hiriyama is discontent with his janitorial duties in Perfect Days, nor that his lowly status at the bottom of Tokyo’s working class is eroding his spirit. If anything, his methodical repetition of the same procedures from day-to-day is a soothing meditation, finding fulfilment in the conscientious act itself rather than the end goal. It is fortunate too that this motivation is so self-sustaining, given that these toilets are almost immediately soiled by the public the moment they are cleaned. There is little external gratification to be found in this line of work, and thus Hiriyama’s Zen-like mindset breeds an appreciation for its small, unassuming details, from his car playlist of classic rock to the trees he photographs in his lunch break.

Still, there is something missing here, gradually revealing itself as time stretches on without him speaking a single word. Hiriyama may be the loneliest man in Tokyo, only ever interacting with his capricious younger colleague who talks enough for them both, and the regulars at the public bath and restaurant that he visits at the end of each workday. He is a man comfortably bound by tradition, yet mildly perturbed by those unpredictable disruptions which throw off his perfectly balanced schedule. At least by minimising the influence of external factors, he can maintain that peaceful equilibrium in his life, even if it means never truly understanding the happiness that comes through sharing it with others.

It has been some time since Wim Wenders has directed a film that has emerged from Cannes Film Festival with such high acclaim, and while Perfect Days does not quite reach the cinematic heights of his work in the 80s, it is compellingly consistent with his pensive elevations of mundanity. Where Wings of Desire flitted between stream-of-consciousness voiceovers from the minds of ordinary people though, Perfect Days denies us any verbal entry into Hiriyama’s inner world, leaving us only to gage his character through Kōji Yakusho’s largely silent performance and Wenders’ rigorous narrative structure.

It is especially in the latter that this minimalist meditation attains impressive formal rigour, thoroughly setting up Hiriyama’s routine on the first day that we spend with him, and then repeating it with minor variations. By the time the second day arrives, we can virtually predict each beat with reliable accuracy – the way he folds up his floor mattress, his spraying of his pot plants each morning, and even his daily purchase of coffee from the same vending machine outside his rundown flat. The restrooms that he visits daily become his domains, each standing out in ordinary parks as architectural marvels, such as one brutalist structure made up of harsh angles and another with colourfully transparent walls that turn opaque when locked. Though Hiriyama can see straight through when it is unoccupied, he nevertheless knocks on its doors before entering, if for no other reason than to carry out his habitual duty.

Over time, the patterns which emerge in these recurring actions, location, and shots imbue Perfect Days with a formal precision evoking Yasujirō Ozu’s sensitive domestic dramas. Unfortunately, Ozu’s dedication to carefully arranging the frame does not quite carry through in the same way here – an unusual oversight for Wenders whose previous films have featured the sort of austere photography that would have strengthened Perfect Days’ exacting focus. Perhaps the greatest flashes of style here arrive in the hazy, greyscale dreams which structurally divide one day from the next, weaving in abstract visions of Hiriyama’s waking life through a series of long dissolves. Trees, shadows, wheels, and pedestrians call upon recent memories with gentle repose, while very occasionally we catch glimpses of familiar faces that have taken root deep in his subconscious.

Quite prominent among these illusory nighttime visitors is Hiryama’s niece Niko, who unexpectedly turns up at his apartment building one evening to stay with him. Whatever trouble has been unfolding at home is none of his business, especially given the clearly estranged relationship he has with his upper-middle class sister, Keiko. Hiriyama desperately tries to maintain a semblance of routine through her passive disruptions, yet her insistence on joining him at work forces him to share his meditation with someone else for the first time, and very gradually we witness a wondrous evolution take place in this relationship. Not only does Hiriyama speak, but through this connection he even relishes his usual habits even more – photographing the trees on his old film camera while Niko does so own her phone for instance, and riding bikes on the weekend through the streets of Tokyo.

When the time comes for Keiko to take her back home, Hiriyama is quietly distraught. Perhaps not only due to the tender relationship that has been snatched from him, but Keiko’s visit has also instigated a confrontation with his own selfish habit of isolating himself from others. From this perspective, Hiriyama’s meditative lifestyle may be little more than an escape from the pressures of a complicated world, which when faced head-on send him falling back on unhealthy habits.

Still, journeying outside one’s comfort zone is an adventure that inevitably entails stumbles and bounding leaps, both equally disturbing the precarious routine that Hiriyama has carefully cultivated. With the decision to boldly initiate social contact comes a spiritual rejuvenation that work alone cannot fulfil, no matter how relaxing its gentle rhythms and cadences may be. That Wenders weaves these so smoothly into the rigorous narrative structure of Perfect Days is not only a testament to his own formal attentiveness, but also consolidates communality and introspection with prudent devotion, inviting audiences into a deep reverie of collective contemplation.

Perfect Days is currently playing in theatres.

Jeff Rowe and Kyler Spears | 1hr 39min

It is not enough for a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles movie to pay homage to the outcasts of society merely by adapting the comic books series’ basic narrative conventions. It takes an anarchic rejuvenation of the medium itself for Mutant Mayhem to embrace the Turtles’ upbeat spirit of rebellion, veering wildly away from the trend of hyperrealist 3D animation that has seen Disney’s visual creativity dwindle in recent years. Sony’s Spider-Verse series can be largely credited for leading the way here, inventively blending computer and traditional animation to create dynamic illustrations that could be ripped straight out of graphic novels, and yet at the same time Mutant Mayhem may also be the first to follow in its footsteps without falling under its shadow.

It is the grungy imperfections rather than any aesthetic sophistication which gives Jeff Rowe’s Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles adaptation such a tactile quality, emulating the sort of colourful scrawls that could be found in a teenager’s sketchbook. Rough doodles are scribbled all through the streets and sewers of New York City, roughly forming a not-quite-perfectly round moon and chugging out squiggles from the exhaust pipes of shabby cars, while murky hues and toxic neons illuminate the urban scenery with a radioactive ambience. The visual compositions themselves are far beyond worthy of a school project too – there are frames in Mutant Mayhem worthy of a pop art exhibition, drenching the city with noir-like shadows even as our heroic quartet light them up with their buoyant humour.

With Rowe applying a jerky frame rate as well, action scenes are imbued with a scratchy kineticism that only emphasises the eccentric mannerisms of humans and mutants alike, all of whom are designed as idiosyncratic caricatures. For brothers Donatello, Michelangelo, Leonardo, and Raphael though, this unseemliness is the source of both great pride and insecurity, thus forming the foundation of a coming-of-age tale which underlies Mutant Mayhem’s superhero antics.

Quite crucially, this version of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles casts relatively unknown teenagers as its four leads for the first time in the franchise’s history, even while the rest of the cast is filled with big names such as Ice Cube, Jackie Chan, and Paul Rudd. Rather than recording their lines separately, Micah Abbey, Shamon Brown Jr., Nicolas Cantu, and Brady Noon were able to build camaraderie in the studio together, as their voice performance overlap and improvise to reveal an authentically juvenile innocence.

As a result, the Turtles’ exclusion from the human world is made all the more heartbreaking. A simple desire to be part of an accepting crowd is seemingly at the core of their journeys, and yet when they meet a gang of similarly mutated creatures led by supervillain Superfly and are enthusiastically welcomed into their plans for world domination, they must inevitably reassess their priorities. Even if they are to save humanity from enslavement, they will still likely be treated with disdain and horror, but this doesn’t make their efforts any less righteous.

No doubt their new human friend April has something to do with this moral enlightenment among the Turtles, becoming a bridge between society and its outsiders who she finds surprisingly common ground with. As Mutant Mayhem approaches its magnificent kaiju-inspired showdown, Rowe weaves her journey in with several other loose narrative threads, perhaps only neglecting the subplot concerning evil scientist Cynthia Utrom who is more than likely being kept for a potential sequel. This formal weakness is minor though, especially when it is drowned out by such astounding creativity and rich character work. Any version of Mutant Mayhem that might have conformed to the 3D animation standards of the past thirty or so years would simply not carry the same sense of thrilling defiance as this, as from its heart of revolt spills a world of good-natured humour and turbulence, vividly drawn with all the chaotic passion of adolescence.

Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles: Mutant Mayhem is currently available to rent or buy on Apple TV, YouTube, and Amazon Video, and physical media copies are available on Amazon.

Bradley Cooper | 2hr 9min

To work as a conductor and composer is to live two separate lives, according to Leonard Bernstein in Maestro. Within the privacy of his studio, he sits alone and crafts eloquent musical expressions that allow a self-examination of his own soul. This is the grand inner life of a creator, he explains to the journalist interviewing him, in direct conflict with the majestic outer life of a performer who stands on stages in front of enraptured audiences. This is where his polished genius is displayed without the trial and error, inviting people into a world that is constantly evolving according to each new note, rhythm, and shift in dynamics.

To carry around both personalities is to virtually become schizophrenic, Bernstein jokes to the journalist interviewing him, and yet the conflict between both identities is clearly a point of reckoning. “I love people so much it keeps me glued to life even when I’m most depressed,” he elucidates, putting his overwhelming dependence upon the company of others into words, though he almost immediately follows that up with the darker side of the same statement.

“I love people so much that it’s hard for me to be alone.”

Perhaps this is why Bradley Cooper sees Leonard’s complicated relationship with his wife and muse Felicia as the key to uncovering his creative essence, where both private and public lives chaotically collide. His affairs with other men become temporary antidotes to that haunting fear of loneliness, and within his marriage to Felicia, they also become an open secret. The bitterness that mounts behind closed doors and within resentful glances can only stand to be contained so long, and erupts in one particularly nasty exchange when he brings a younger boyfriend home for Thanksgiving.

Drawing visual inspiration from Ingmar Bergman’s Scenes from a Marriage, Cooper stages them at the extreme edges of a wide shot in the New York City apartment where they quarrel, and hangs on the frame for several minutes. As Felicia points out his habit of framing affairs as intellectual nourishment, the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade passes by the window in the background, taunting Leonard with views of a joyful public celebration that he would much rather be at. He can’t help but love people, he weakly asserts, and yet he too can see the future she predicts where he simply dies “a lonely old queen.”

Cooper shows an impressive restraint in many domestic scenes like this, using slow zooms and static shots on beautifully staged compositions that continue long past the point most contemporary directors would have cut to a reverse shot or close-up. By opting for longer shot lengths and a steadier pacing, he is specifically styling Maestro after the pristine, glossy look of classical Hollywood films, even using the narrow Academy aspect ratio and a sharp shift from black-and-white to colour photography with the dawn of the 1960s. At its absolute strongest, he uses the lighting and framing of this polished aesthetic to craft cinematic paintings of Felicia and Leonard’s troubled relationship, brightly illuminating her as she stands in wings of the theatre while consumed by her husband’s giant shadow conducting the orchestra. Carey Mulligan’s performance is undeniably strong, but there is more conveyed through images like these than much of her dialogue.

When Cooper does kick the energy of the film up a notch, he does so with formal purpose, separating these bursts of theatrical vigour from his home life. Overhead shots keep pace with him as he excitedly runs to take his place on a stage, and when he stands in front of an orchestra, he throws his entire body into the act with magnificent passion and control. This is the image of Leonard Bernstein that the public recognises and that the maestro himself indulges in, engaging with the souls of audiences stirred by his evocative musical expressions, and Cooper has rarely been better than he here as he disappears into the role.

At the peak of both his performance and direction, he smoothly navigates his camera in a majestic six-minute take through the orchestra during Bernstein’s famous conducting of Mahler’s ‘Resurrection’ Symphony at Ely Cathedral, tracking in on his sweaty, grinning face and lively movements before travelling around the edges of the stage. It is nothing less than a demonstration of virtuosic brilliance, capturing a magnetic presence that the camera can’t seem to tear itself away from, while elsewhere Cooper interprets his passion with greater abstraction in a romantic dream ballet set to the song ‘New York, New York.’ Even when he is at home or in a restaurant, the theatre is apparently never far away, as Cooper’s transitions between locations are so slick that they virtually become invisible within unbroken shots.

Where Cooper’s vision for Maestro begins to falter is in the same place as many other biopics, as he covers such a large span of the musician’s life to the point of stretching the narrative thin. Fortunately, there is just enough of a focus on his and Felicia’s relationship to hold it together as a decades-spanning study of his deepest loves, addictions, and insecurities, none of which really fade over his lifetime but rather take different forms in shifting circumstances.

The sensitivity and support that Leonard unselfishly gives to Felicia as she battles cancer might be surprising given his past unfaithfulness, and yet it is also entirely consistent with his claim that his overwhelming love of others is also his greatest struggle. On the darker side of this, he also never quite breaks his habit of grooming young male students following her death, as he instead runs even faster from the loneliness that threatens to consume him in his old age. The genius that Cooper so vividly captures in Maestro is one that can see no other option than to lead double lives of a conductor and composer, a family man and philanderer, a heterosexual and homosexual – yet whether by the pressures of social convention or personal inhibition, even he cannot reconcile the contradictions of his own humanity.

Maestro is currently streaming on Netflix.