Series, Shorts, and Documentaries

Die Nibelungen (1924)

Fritz Lang | Part 1 (2hr 30min), Part 2 (2hr 11min)

As a new medium of storytelling emerged in the early 20^th century, the appeal in reimagining those archetypal fables of centuries past grew with it, paying homage to heroes and monsters who passed through songs, plays, and novels. The 13^th century epic poem Nibelungenlied was very familiar with such adaptations too, building an enduring legacy through Richard Wagner’s operatic cycle ‘Der Ring des Nibelungen’, though it took a visionary such as Fritz Lang to recognise its extraordinary potential as a work of cinema. The result is a five-hour fantasy saga of ambition so grand, it is surprising that it often gets buried beneath his better-known films Metropolis and M. Nevertheless, Lang’s majestic tale of greed, betrayal, and vengeance stands as a monumental achievement of silent filmmaking, lifting mythical kings and battles out of legend and giving them extraordinary, larger-than-life form on the silver screen.

The impact of Lang’s creation did not fade with the passing decades and shifting cinematic trends either. Eighty years later, Peter Jackson would adapt the works of another storyteller deeply inspired by Germanic and Norse mythology – J.R.R. Tolkien, whose The Lord of the Rings series bear more than a passing resemblance to Richard Wagner’s cycle of operas, Der Ring des Nibelungen. Just as dwarven riches, fearsome dragons, and magic treasures are scattered through Siegfried’s quest for glory in the ancient legend, so too do Bilbo and Frodo Baggins encounter them in their own respective journeys, with archetypes reflecting humanity’s capacity for good and evil being deeply embedded in both.

*High fantasy and incredible imagination in Lang’s visual creations, resting the Nibelung treasure on the shoulders of chained dwarves.*

*Miniatures used for establishing shots, imparting a sense of wondrous grandeur.*

*Imposing authority in the main hall of Burgundy, commanding a solemn air of medieval reverence.*

*The wild mountain men are prototypes for Jackson’s orcs, tearing meat from the bone with their teeth.*

*The Oscars were not yet established in 1924, but Die Nibelungen surely would have surely won Best Hair and Makeup for these feral, unruly wigs.*

When Jackson eventually decided to take the reins and adapt The Lord of the Rings himself, we continue to see how his visual designs and staging drew influence from Lang’s own duology. The primitive mountain men who feast on hunks of meat look to be the prototypes of orcs, particularly with their unkempt makeup and hairstyling, while the imposing sets which comprise the Kingdom of Burgundy mirror the cavernous halls and fortresses of Middle Earth’s majestic cities. When Siegfried ventures to Iceland, Lang even uses magnificent castle miniatures upon steep mountains to personify Queen Brunhilde’s prideful, stubbornly independent character, laying the groundwork for similar architectural achievements three years later in Metropolis. Like Éowyn, she defies traditional gender roles as a powerful warrior, and yet the role she plays in ensuring Siegfried’s downfall alongside King Gunther’s devious adviser Hagen of Tronje reveals both to be cunning, Wormtongue-adjacent manipulators.

*A castle perched on a steep, rocky mountain rising from the fire below, announcing Queen Brunhilde before we meet her.*

*Brunhilde is a fiercely independent warrior queen, challenging traditional gender roles with her stubbornness and pride.*

*The one-eyed hagen of Tronje is weaselly and treacherous, whispering in King Gunther’s ear and pulling strings for his own purposes.*

Lang is clearly attuned to the archetypes of this text, bringing each together in service of an epic narrative following our hero Siegfried’s rise, betrayal, and the vengeance that his widow seeks for his assassination. As the son of King Siegmund, he is a valiant figure destined for greatness right from the start, mastering the art of forging under the reclusive blacksmith Mime and immediately resolving to marry the beautiful Princess Kriemhilde, brother to King Gunther. His adventure through towering forests and misty swamps sees him fight a dragon, astoundingly brought to life as a giant, mechanical puppet that breathes real fire, and gain Achilles-like powers of invulnerability by bathing in its blood – that is, except for one spot on his shoulder which is shielded by a leaf. Later, his encounter with the crafty King of Dwarves brings him to the heart of a mountain where he claims the trickster’s net of invisibility, the legendary sword Balmung, and the rest of his enormous hoard.

*Towering forests emerge from and disappear into darkness, diminishing Siegfried in a daunting world.*

*Danger lurks in misty swamps – an archetype found in fantasy tales from The Lord of the Rings to The Neverending Story.*

*Magnificent practical effects with the life-sized dragon puppet, breathing real fire as Siegfried fights it one on one.*

*The King of Dwarves, a hostile, covetous, yet tragic monster not unlike Gollum from The Lord of the Rings.*

*Towering, fantastical rock formations in the dwarven cavern, inviting Siegfried into a new world.*

By the time Siegfried arrives at the Kingdom of Burgundy, he has amassed enough power and influence to win an audience with King Gunther. Taken with songs of Siegfried’s conquests, Kriemhilde longs to meet the brave adventurer, yet portentous dreams also warn her of future misfortune. Lang’s decision to render these visions in silhouetted cut-outs is a formal masterstroke, enlisting the help of animation pioneer Lotte Reiniger who only a couple of years later would use this technique to create cinema’s first animated feature, The Adventures of Prince Achmed. Here, we witness a collection of shapeless masses morph into birds, setting two black eagles against a white falcon who perishes in the assault. Kriemhilde may not immediately understand the dream’s symbolic significance, but given that this first part of Die Nibelungen is subtitled Siegfried’s Death, it isn’t hard for us to foresee their intertwining of fates.

*Lotte Reiniger is brought in to animate this dream sequence, morphing light and shadow with ethereal grace.*

*Symmetrical blocking and magisterial mise-en-scène as Siegfried arrives in the Kingdom of Burgundy, flanked by his vassals.*

Lang’s daring manipulations of special effects do not end here either. To make the beautiful Kriemhilde his wife, Siegfried must first aid Gunther in winning Queen Brunhilde’s hand in marriage, yet it is plainly evident that the King is not up to the physical challenge of besting her in the three tasks she sets him. Fortunately, Siegfried has a cunning idea – with his net of invisibility, our hero can help the King cheat in the stone hurl, distance jump, and spear throw. Manifesting through faint double exposure effects, Siegfried secures victory for King Gunther, and thus marries Kriemhilde back in the Kingdom of Burgundy.

*An inspired us of double exposure to reveal Siegfried’s invisible form, assisting King Gunther in his feats of physical prowess.*

*A triumphant return to Burgundy with soldiers lining the horizon and standing in the moat, holding the bridge aloft for their king. Magnificent scale rendered in rigorous staging.*

*A gorgeous garden backdrop of flowers as these lovers unite, bound by matrimony yet destined to be separated.*

*Establishing shots inspired by D.W. Griffith’s Intolerance, revelling in the enormity of sets which dwarf the extensive ensemble below.*

It is only a matter of time though before Brunhilde recognises her husband for the submissive weakling that he is, as well as the con which Siegfried has orchestrated, thus commencing Die Nibelungen’s political intrigue with her pursuit of retribution. Siegfried took her maidenhood, she lies to King Gunther, who is quick to turn on his friend. This “ravenous wolf” must be put down, he declares, and the duplicitous Hagen is more than happy to feed his madness.

*An assassination treacherously disguised as a hunt, turning the high fantasy of Die Nibelungen towards political intrigue.*

Kriemhilde meanwhile continues to be haunted by prophetic dreams of Siegfried being ripped apart by a boar and crushed by two mountains, yet even after she is tricked by Hagan to mark on her husband’s tunic the location of his sole weakness, still she remains naïve to the conspiracy which surrounds them. Only after Hagen has pierced Siegfried’s vulnerable shoulder with a spear during a hunt and brought his body back to the castle does Kriemhilde begin to grasp the treachery afoot in the Kingdom of Burgundy, and Lang once again draws from Georges Méliès’ playbook to visualise her love withering into grief. Recalling her dire dreams, she sees Siegfried standing with open arms in front of a blooming tree, which rapidly shrivels up before our eyes as he fades from view. Still the image continues to transform though, and through a skilful blend of lighting, editing, and production design, Lang menacingly morphs these dead branches into a large, sinister skull.

*Kriemhilde’s last memory of her living husband is corrupted by his death, creatively symbolised in these dissolves transforming a withering tree into a skull.*

Never again do we see the light return to the princess’ eyes, with this newfound bitterness positioning her as the vindictive antihero of Die Nibelungen’s second part, Kriemhilde’s Revenge. Her patience is deadly and her string-pulling merciless, outdoing even the late Brunhilde who took her own life with gleeful satisfaction after Siegfried’s death. The transformation we see in Margarete Schön’s performance is tremendous, her face hardening as she finds a new husband in King Attila of the Huns and twists his pledge of loyalty into sworn vengeance against her family. His pleas to forget Siegfried go ignored, while his one-sided, lovesick devotion draws mockery from his own people, accusing him of falling under the “White Woman’s spell.”

*Kriemhilde is overcome by a cold ruthlessness stemming from grief, light leaving her eyes.*

*An impeccably lonely frame, using the arches and towers of Burgundy to isolate Kriemhilde in her mourning.*

*Rigorous blocking, movement in Burgundy’s symmetry…*

*…making a terrifically harsh juxtaposition against the chaos of the Hun kingdom.*

*Wooden, tribal designs decorate Kriemhilde’s new home within a far more ferocious culture of warriors.*

As we move deeper into the second part as well, Lang’s mise-en-scène notably shifts with it, distinguishing the immaculate symmetry and opulence of Gunther’s palace from the exotic, rugged design of the Hun kingdom. Instead of guards stationed in rigorous formations, Kriemhilde is greeted by hordes of barbaric warriors and gawking masses, while Attila’s primitive hall of scattered weapons and dirty floors chaotically illustrates his warmongering culture. As he ventures into battle too, tents made from animal hide host legions while campfires fill the air with black smoke. These people may be crude, yet in them Kriemhilde sees an opportunity to stir dissent, particularly when Gunther, Hagen, and the Burgundian soldiers eventually arrive on their steps as visitors for the Midsummer Solstice.

*Crude leather tents and black smoke as Attila sets out for battle.*

*Siegfried never truly loses Kriemhilde’s heart, yet Attila is besotted with her, making for tantalising power plays as she seeks revenge.*

*Compare the Attila’s main hall against Gunther’s – these kings inhabit entirely different worlds, and Lang illustrates their differences through their shared traditions.*

Although Lang swings away from the more fantastical elements of Die Nibelungen in Kriemhilde’s Revenge, the political manoeuvring only deepens. With Attila backing down from his pledge and asserting Hagen’s rights as a guest, Kriemhilde decides to take matters into her own hands, bribing the Hun warriors with gold to incite conflict during the feast. When the chaotic confusion ultimately leads Hagen to slaughter Attila and Kriemhilde’s son though, all civility is officially thrown out the window. In the final act of this five-hour duology, Lang stages an epic battle of sieges, hostages, and executions, simultaneously drawing inspiration from the fall of Babylon in D.W. Griffith’s Intolerance and setting a standard of cinematic medieval warfare that Jackson would later strive to match in The Lord of the Rings.

*Fast-paced action editing kicks in as we head into the climactic final act, seeing the Huns lay siege to their own building where the Burgundy soldiers take shelter.*

*Hagen Tronje remains as ruthless as ever fighting for his life, and Kriemhilde matches him in pure force of will.*

Despite her success in stoking hostility and trapping the Burgundians inside the hall though, Kriemhilde is far from satisfied. “I died when Siegfried died,” she coldly laments, turning away from the sentimental innocence of her youth. With her son as the first casualty of this war, her soul blackens beyond redemption, callously rejecting her brothers’ pleas for mercy when they refuse to turn over Hagen. It is all too fitting that this woman who seeks the destruction of her family should order the Huns to attack their own infrastructure, and demand her most faithful vassal to kill his son. Heritage means nothing to a woman so twisted by rage that her only loyalty is to a dead man, and it is through her own selfish actions that she ultimately sets in motion the downfall of two great civilisations.

*Confronted by the death of her own kin, Kriemhilde’s facade cracks a little, yet she remains firm in her merciless pursuit of vengeance.*

In the flames and black smoke which billow up from the burning hall, a blazing emblem of Kriemhilde’s barbaric legacy is born, before eventually collapsing beneath its own weight. “Loyalty, which iron could not break, will not melt in fire,” Hagen’s men staunchly proclaim, refusing to give up their leader even as they are crushed by the falling roof. Lang’s practical effects are as spectacular as ever here, yet tragedy reigns in the wake of such a daring set piece, with Gunther and Hagen emerging from the ruins to face their executioner.

*Epic visuals as flames and black smoke billow up from the hall, marking one of the great set pieces of the silent era.*

Although Kriemhilde finally delivers the vengeance she has long sought against her kin, there is no great reward awaiting her on the other side of this conquest. Die Nibelungen has few survivors, as even the tyrannical princess soon falls to the blade of her own disillusioned sword master. From the wondrous fantasy of this legend’s beginning, love withers into grief, and finally begets contempt, violence, and widespread devastation. Lang orchestrates legend with a composer’s precision, and through a finale as colossal as the stories which inspired it, he concludes an operatic spectacle that continues to reverberate cinematic fanfares, choruses, and cadences through the ages.

Die Nibelungen is currently in the public domain and available to watch for free on YouTube.

Adolescence (2025)

Philip Barantini | 4 episodes (51 – 65 min)

In a small English police station, 13-year-old Jamie Miller is charged with the murder of his classmate, Katie Leonard. Back at school, an entire community is left reeling with confusion and grief over what has unfolded. In a youth detention centre, Jamie’s motives are uncovered by a forensic psychologist, and some months later his family continue to grapple with the long-term consequences in their own home. Four snapshots across thirteen months are all that Philip Barantini needs to uncover the humanity in the horror of Adolescence, plunge into its despairing depths, and lift this crime beyond the sort of freak occurrence that most people are fortunate enough to only ever see in news headlines.

Where a lesser series would thinly spread its sprawling drama across dozens of episodes, Adolescence weaves the fragmented nature of television into its very structure, dedicating an hour at a time to its characters’ messy lives. It is not an anthology of self-contained stories, but neither does it maintain the straightforward continuity that we often expect from serial dramas, letting us fill in the days and months that separate episodes. As such, its narrative economy is remarkably efficient, unravelling four vignettes in real time while intertwining the movements of police officers, students, and relatives.

*We are pulled right into the action with this in media res opening, storming the Miller household as the police pull Jamie from bed – all captured in one continuous take of course.*

Barantini’s stylistic conceit of playing out each episode in single, continuous takes must be credited for our immersion in this harrowing study of modern-age masculinity. Right from the in media res opening of episode 1, we are launched into the police force’s raid of the Miller residence, sharing in the same shock as Jamie’s panicked family as he is arrested. The handheld camerawork keeps us in Barantini’s tight grip, disorientating us as we move with Jamie from the house into the police van where we finally get a moment to collect ourselves. In the absence of cuts, we sombrely sit with him for several minutes during his transportation to the police station, tuning out the adults’ muffled speech while a tense, ticking score takes over. The sheer length of sequences like these only deepens our discomfort in Adolescence, growing our dread throughout this first episode.

*Barantini orchestrates his camera’s push and pull between wide shots and close-ups beautifully, anxiously tightening on Jamie’s face as his fingerprints and mugshot are taken.*

When Jamie’s mug shot and fingerprints are taken, again we hang on the unspoken guilt written across his face, while the agonising humiliation suffered by his father Eddie is given an agonising close-up during the young teen’s strip search. In the consultation room, Jamie’s blue jumper blends in with the muted, melancholy tones of the walls around him, where the camera tentatively circles the emergence of truth. Jamie was caught on CCTV footage stabbing Katie to death in a parking lot the previous night, we eventually learn, effectively rupturing the innocence of a community which never believed such a barbaric act could be committed by one of their own – and least of all by a child.

*Adolescence doesn’t feature overly gorgeous mise-en-scène, but the muted blues in the police station and costuming make for an admirable standout in episode 1.*

Episode 2 is set only a couple of days later, though it delivers an impressive sense of scale by widening its focus to the staff and students at Jamie’s school, many of whom become witnesses in DI Luke Bascombe’s investigation. With his son Adam only a few years above Jamie, his personal life is not entirely removed from this case, and in their emotionally estranged relationship we begin to see patterns emerge between the fathers and sons of Adolescence. Here, Barantini locks onto the social influences which slyly insinuated themselves in Jamie’s life, mixing a lethal Gen Z cocktail of cyberbullying and incel propaganda with the sort of male insecurities even older generations would recognise.

*Episode 2 widens its focus to an entire community impacted by Jamie’s crime, skilfully navigating the school grounds and classrooms where his worst influences begin to show their faces.*

*Patterns emerge between fathers and sons in Adolescence, revealing an emotional estrangement in otherwise close relationships.*

This episode features what may be Barantini’s singularly most ambitious shot, traversing the school grounds, classrooms, and offices to reveal the interconnectedness of the local community. The camera often hitches onto characters as they move from one location to the next, linking conflicting accounts of Jamie and Katie’s relationship to a secret emoji language, and the missing murder weapon to Jamie’s friends. During its final minutes, Barantini even seamlessly lifts the camera into a drone shot flying over the entire neighbourhood to a choral rendition of ‘Fragile’, echoing its mournful lyrics as it eventually descends to witness a mournful Eddie laying flowers at the site of Katie’s murder.

*A breathtaking highlight of Barantini’s soaring camerawork, lifting the camera above the school, flying over the town…*

*…and eventually descending into a close-up of Eddie’s face, laying flowers at Katie’s shrine.*

With all this said, the greatest hindrance to Barantini’s long takes are Adolescence’s lengthy dialogue scenes, often leaving the camera to wander without aim or purpose. Within these moments, its ambitions fall far behind other one-take films such as Birdman or Victoria, and this especially becomes restrictive in the single room setting of episode 3. The staging in Jamie’s detention centre is more akin to a play than anything else, focusing on his examination by forensic psychologist Briony Ariston, though in exchange young actor Owen Cooper is given a platform to deliver some of the most outstanding acting of the series.

The stagebound setting of episode 3 doesn’t quite earn its one-take conceit, but nevertheless underscores two brilliant performances at its centre, particularly from the incredibly talented Owen Cooper.

In Jamie’s frustration at Briony’s line of questioning, we see a teenage boy who can’t quite grasp his own emotions, resisting any attempt to probe deeper in fear of what he may find. “Are you allowed to talk about this?” he uneasily asks about half a dozen times when the topic turns to sex, repeating the phrase almost as often as his baseless claim – “I didn’t do it.” Unable to reconcile his guilt and dignity, he desperately tries to convince himself of his innocence, denying the traumatic reality of his actions. When this cognitive dissonance is threatened, he falls back on intimidation tactics to retake control from Briony, throwing insults and even a chair in bitter anger. She is perturbed, yet actress Erin Doherty holds a steel nerve against his torment, only ever revealing how deeply this experience cuts away from his judgemental eyes.

*A brief respite in the corridor outside – this line of work is incredibly taxing for Briony, only letting her guard drop away from Jamie’s eyes.*

In Jamie’s quieter moments too, Cooper’s angsty performance remains strong, unassumingly being coaxed into contemplating his relationship with his father. When he asked if he is loving, Jamie’s responds is dismissive – “No, that’s weird” – and as Adolescence moves into episode 4, Barantini allows this regretful man to take the final word on the matter. Thirteen months after the murder, the Miller family wrestles with the long-term ramifications of Jamie’s actions which have singled them out in their community as pariahs. Glimmers of healing emerge during their drive to the local hardware store, looking for paint to cover up the graffiti left on Eddie’s van, but even this simple outing cannot escape the cruel taunts of teenagers or conspiracy theorists chillingly advocating for Jamie’s innocence.

Isolated and ridiculed in their own community, the Millers desperately hold the remnants of their lives together in episode 4, as Barantini turns something as simple as a trip to the local hardware store into an entire ordeal.

*Online incel culture latches onto Jamie’s story and chillingly manifests in real life.*

*Eddie splashes black paint across his van in a fit of rage, finding no other release for his emotions.*

Finally exhausting his patience, Eddie throws his fresh tin of paint all over the van, and in this moment we see flashes of the boy who only last episode tossed a chair in anger. Retreating to Jamie’s room with his wife Manda, Eddie ponders where it all went wrong, at which point the dialogue begins spell out its themes a little too directly. The screenplay weakens here, exchanging subtext for literalism, yet Barantini nevertheless succeeds in bringing Jamie’s story full circle back to his biggest influence.

Eddie’s failure isn’t as simple as him being a bad father – that much is clear from the anguished guilt of Stephen Graham’s performance. “If my dad made me, how did I make that?” he laments, beginning to recognise how deeply entrenched his worst habits are in his own childhood and parenting. As he cries into Jamie’s bed, the blues we observed in the police station return in darker shades to envelop him in a familiar sorrow, yet this time allowing an honest outpouring of suppressed emotions. It is a catharsis that we have eagerly awaited in Adolescence, and one that is especially earned through the cumulative weight of Barantini’s long, restrained takes, pushing a quiet form of insistence – not only that we bear witness to this teenager’s shattering crime, but to the raw, fragmented, and unresolved mess left behind.

*Emotional catharsis as Eddie finally reveals his vulnerability in the closing minutes of Adolescence, returning to Jamie’s room where it all began.*

Adolescence is currently streaming on Netflix.

Ivan the Terrible (1944-46)

Sergei Eisenstein | 2 Parts (1hr 40min, 1hr 26min)

So rapturous was the reception that Ivan the Terrible, Part I received from Joseph Stalin, it is hard to blame Sergei Eisenstein for recklessly pushing the boundaries of state censorship in its sequel. Both films are mirrors of each other – the first revealing an idealistic ambition in the young Ivan IV which Part II withers into paranoid cruelty, and together painting a vivid portrait of Eisenstein’s own shifting relationship with the Soviet Union. This was no longer the filmmaker who sought to reflect revolutionary principles in his experimental montage theory, but rather a disillusioned artist simultaneously defying and reluctantly cooperating with Stalin’s regime. It is a little ironic that the Communist dictator should see so much of him himself in the first Tsar of Russia, yet Eisenstein nevertheless took the metaphor as a creative challenge, risking his life and liberty to compose a vision of oppressive tyranny that stands true across centuries.

The casting of Nikolay Cherkasov as the imposing central figure here is particularly fascinating given his previous role in Alexander Nevsky, where he portrayed the titular 13^th-century Prince of Novgorod. As a young, newly-coronated Ivan proudly declares Moscow a “Third Rome,” his eyes glisten with tears and hope, sentimentalising a vision of Russia’s future which doesn’t sound so different from Nevsky’s own utopian promise after vanquishing the Teutonic Knights.

*Meticulous attention to detail in Eisenstein’s staging – this could very well be one of those images painted on the walls surrounding the young Tsar at his coronation, immortalised in history.*

This is the ruler that Stalin admires, yet who is never viewed in such a pure light again after this moment, soon developing a distinctively hunched posture and angular facial features that become living extensions of Eisenstein’s majestic production design. Ivan’s bushy eyebrows, pointed beard, and crooked nose are virtually made for close-ups, and when his distinctive profile is cast in giant shadows upon the walls, he becomes a dark, physical embodiment of 16^th century Russia’s formidable spirit.

*An extraordinary performance from Nikolay Cherkasov, physically transforming into a hunched, crooked tyrant.*

*Meticulous framing in Eisenstein’s deep focus, imposing Ivan’s visage upon the Russian people.*

*An incredibly recognisable profile, cast against walls in darkened shadows.*

Only the Kremlin’s lavish interiors can match his awe-inspiring majesty with religious iconography painted across arches and columns, reliefs carved from its stonework, and collectively resting the Tsar’s legacy upon centuries of culture and history. Eisenstein’s rich depth of field especially flourishes here, sinking the masses to the bottom of frames that revel in the overhead architecture, and symmetrically positioning Ivan at their centre. These vast, intricate halls of power may very well mark Eisenstein’s greatest achievement in mise-en-scene, borrowing heavily from F.W. Murnau’s expressionistic imagery to cloak characters in chiaroscuro lighting, and underscoring their constant psychological tension between good and evil.

*Remarkable achievements in production design, sinking his actors to the bottom of the frame to bask in the murals painted all across these halls and arches.*

*Wonderful symmetry through framing, blocking, and production design, projecting power and control.*

In the absence of formally innovative editing, Eisenstein turns his focus to composing magnificent shots like these through lighting and staging, marking Ivan the Terrible as his most beautiful work to date.

It is evident here that Eisenstein is far more than just an editor, though he nevertheless showcases those talents as well in the explosive siege of Kazan, where Ivan and his sprawling armies claim a stunning victory against the Khanate. As soldiers wait patiently upon hillsides with their cannons and banners, sappers furiously dig tunnels beneath the walled city to plant gunpowder, and Eisenstein clearly relishes the practical effects granted by his enormous budget when the time comes to blast brick, mortar, and smoke into the air. Rather than wielding his editing for intellectual purposes, here he dedicates it purely to the vast scale of his action, building Ivan’s grand authority upon the conquest of those who dare oppose his rule.

*Eisenstein uses the natural terrain to block huge crowds of extras across hills, stretching their formations deep into the background.*

*Eisenstein proves he still has his knack for action editing, lingering on the burning fuse before unleashing a series of spectacular explosions around the city walls.*

For the most part though, the greatest political threats to the Tsar are located within his own ranks, as conspirators plot to install his simple-minded cousin Vladimir as Russia’s true sovereign. The political intrigue carries a Shakespearean gravity to it, modelling Ivan after the likes of Macbeth or Richard III, and watching his games of manipulation unfold with treacherous delight. When he falls deathly ill and names his son Dmitri as heir to the throne, his aunt Yefrosinya is quick to whisper into the embittered Prince Kurbsky’s ear, perniciously encouraging him to announce her son Vladimir as the rightful successor instead. Kurbsky is smart to sniff out Ivan’s test of his loyalty here, as almost immediately after carrying out his wishes, the recovered Tsar emerges from his chambers and rewards his allegiance.

*Shakespearean power struggles, treachery, and intrigue – perhaps Eisenstein’s strongest pure narrative to date.*

Yefrosinya, on the other hand, is not so restrained. Though she prefers to pull strings from the shadows, she isn’t above getting her hands dirty, going so far as to weaken Ivan’s rule by poisoning his wife Anastasia. Later when he makes an enemy of Metropolitan Philip by overruling his religious authority, Yefrosinya again leaps on the opportunity to stir dissent among his followers, only this time rallying them behind an assassination plot that targets Ivan himself.

The murder is to take place after a banquet and theatrical performance, where Ivan the Terrible suddenly departs from the black-and-white photography which has dominated Eisenstein’s career thus far and catches aflame with hellish red hues. This vibrant burst of colour is a shock to the senses, accompanying Ivan’s final and perhaps most despicable act. Having plied Vladimir with alcohol and extracted the conspiracy from his lips, he mockingly dresses him in his own royal regalia, and lets him lead his entourage to the cathedral in prayer. Black, hooded figures trail behind Vladimir like spectres of death, and from the shadows the killer pounces, sinking his dagger into the flesh of the disguised prince.

*An avant-garde eruption of blazing red hues as Ivan prepares to commit his most despicable act yet – a shock to our senses.*

*Shadows, candles, and hooded figures as Ivan’s plan is seen through to fruition, making for an outstanding visual and dramatic climax.*

Yefrosinya’s celebration is critically premature. “The Tsar is dead!” she joyfully proclaims, before recognising the tragic turn of events which has befallen her son. Ivan cares so little for these traitors, he does not even bother to have them executed. After all, they are the ones who killed his worst enemy, and who have effectively destroyed themselves in the process.

With Ivan’s greatest threats in Moscow eradicated, the time has thus come for him to turn his attention to those on the outside – yet it is at this tantalising climax that we are left wondering what a third part to Eisenstein’s Ivan the Terrible trilogy might have looked like. Stalin’s fury at Part II’s tyrannical depiction of the Tsar not only kept the sequel from being released until 1958, but immediately ended production on Part III, destroying all but a single fragment of its footage. Even without completion though, the legacy of this truncated series is nevertheless secured in Eisenstein’s daring ambition. Through bold, inflammatory strokes, waves of Russian despotism are painted out in striking detail, reaching across centuries to impose familiar cruelties on this nation’s long-afflicted people.

Ivan the Terrible is currently streaming on The Criterion Channel.

Disclaimer (2024)

Alfonso Cuarón | 7 episodes (45 – 55 minutes)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Disclaimer is currently streaming on Apple TV Plus.

Ripley (2024)

Steven Zaillian | 8 episodes (44 – 76 minutes)

When spoiled heir Dickie Greenleaf catches Tom Ripley trying on his expensive clothing, the assumption that his new friend might be gay is only half-correct. Queer readings of Patricia Highsmith’s novel The Talented Mr. Ripley are nothing new, and Steven Zaillian is not ignorant to them in his television adaptation, though the icy contempt and admiration that are wrapped up in Tom’s repression also paint a far more complex image of class envy. Tom does not wish to be with Dickie, but to become him, and the depths to which he is willing to sink in this mission reveal a moral depravity only matched by his patience, diligence, and cunning.

Of all the qualities that vex Tom about Dickie, it is his complete lack of personal merit that is most maddening, deeming him unworthy of the lavish lifestyle funded by his wealthy father. While Dickie admires the cubism of Picasso and even proudly owns his artworks, his attempts at recreating that distinctive, abstract style fall short, just as his girlfriend Marge displays little talent in her writing and his friend Freddie is no great playwright. Money might buy the bourgeoisie false praise, yet no amount of riches can endow upon them the ingenious intuition that history’s greatest artists naturally possess, and which Tom nefariously manipulates to earn what he views as his unassailable right.

*Tom arrives in Dickie and Marge’s life as a looming shadow, ominously cast over their bodies relaxing on the beach.*

*Few television series in history look like this – Zaillian draws on the expertise of cinematographer Robert Elswit to capture these magnificent visuals, making for some of their best work.*

It takes the sharp, opportunistic mind of a con artist to conduct a scam as multifaceted as that which Tom executes here, murdering and stealing Dickie’s identity while carefully navigating the ensuing police investigations. Though Tom adopts his victim’s appreciation of Picasso for this ploy, Zaillian also introduces another historic painter as an even greater subject of fascination in Ripley. The spiritual affinity that Tom feels for Baroque artist Caravaggio is deepened in the parallels between their stories, both being men who commit murder, go on the run, and express a transgressive attraction towards men. Though living three centuries apart, these highly intelligent outcasts are mirrors of each other – one being an artist with a criminal background, and the other a criminal with a fondness for art.

*A graphic match cut deftly bridges historical time periods, bringing Tom and Caravaggio’s formal connection to a head in the final episode.*

*Gothic expressionism in the Caravaggio flashback, revealing the murder which has tainted his name.*

*Caravaggio’s artworks are strewn throughout Ripley, most notably drawing Tom to the San Luigi dei Francesi cathedral where his three St. Matthew paintings are on display.*

At the root of this comparison though, perhaps Tom’s appreciation may simply stem from the aesthetic and formal qualities of Caravaggio’s paintings, portraying biblical struggles with an intense, dramatic realism that was considered groundbreaking in Italy’s late Renaissance. When Tom gazes upon three companion pieces depicting St. Matthew at the grandiose San Luigi dei Francesi cathedral in Rome, they seem to come alive with the sounds of distant, tortured screaming, blurring the thin boundary between art and observer. With this in mind, Zaillian’s primary inspiration behind Ripley also comes into focus, skilfully weaving light and shadow through his introspective staging of an epic moral battle as Caravaggio did four hundred years ago.

Though the rise of cinematic television in recent years has seen film directors take their eye for photography to the small screen, one can hardly call Zaillian an auteur. This is not to take away from his impressive writing credits such as Schindler’s List, Gangs of New York, and The Irishman, but the spectacular command of visual storytelling in Ripley is rare to behold from a filmmaker whose directing has often been the least notable parts of his career.

*An Antonioni approach to photographing Italian architecture, using wide angle lenses to frame these shots that raise structures far above the tiny people below.*

*Immaculate framing and lighting in the canals of Venice, trapping Ripley in a labyrinth built upon his greatest fear – water.*

*Tom’s wandering through labyrinthine Italian cities offers both beautiful mise-en-scène and excellent visual storytelling, applying a photographer’s eye to the detail of each shot.*

Robert Elswit’s high-contrast, monochrome cinematography of course plays in an integral role here, rivalling his work on Paul Thomas Anderson’s films with superb chiaroscuro lighting and a strong depth of field that basks in Italy’s historic architecture. Elswit and Zaillian’s mise-en-scène earn a comparison to Michelangelo Antonioni’s tremendous use of manmade structures here, aptly using the negative space of vast walls to impede on his characters, while detailing the intricate, uneven textures of their surroundings with the keen eye of a photographer. The attention paid to this weathered stonework tells the story of a nation whose past is built upon grand ambition, yet which has eroded over many centuries, tarnishing surfaces with discoloured stains and exposing the rough bedrock beneath worn exteriors.

*Lichen-covered brick walls fill in the negative space of these shots with visual tactility, giving each location its own distinct character.*

*Visual majesty in the cathedrals that Ripley ventures through, captured with astounding symmetry in this high angle.*

*History is baked into the discoloured stains and weathered stonework of Italian architecture, dominating these compositions that push Tom to the edge of the frame.*

Conversely, the interiors of the villas, palazzi, and hotels where Tom often takes up residence couldn’t be more luxurious, revelling in the fine Baroque furniture and decorative wallpaper that only an aristocrat could afford. The camera takes a largely detached perspective in its static wide shots, though when it does move it is usually in short panning and tracking motions, following him through gorgeous sets tainted by his corrosive moral darkness.

*Baroque interiors designed with luxurious attention to detail, reflecting the darkness that Tom carries with him to each hotel and villa.*

*Divine judgement in the unblinking gaze of these historic sculptures, following Tom all through Italy.*

In effect, Ripley crafts a labyrinth out of its environments, beginning in the grimy, cramped apartment buildings of New York City and winding through the bright streets and alleys of Italy. Zaillian’s recurring shots of stairways often evoke Vertigo in their dizzying high and low angles, with even the flash-forward that opens the series hinting at the gloomy descent to come as Tom drags Freddie’s body down a flight of steps. Elsewhere, narrow frames confine characters to tiny rectangles, while those religious sculptures clinging to buildings around Italy direct their unblinking gazes towards Tom, casting divine judgement upon his actions.

*Tom emerges from the cramped apartments in New York City – a cesspool of grime and darkness before he heads to the bright, sunny coast of Italy.*

*Zaillian’s stairway motif arrives as a flash-forward in the very first shot of the series, which returns in its full context four episodes later.*

*Dizzying high and low angles of stairway litter this series, forming spirals out of rectangles, hexagons, and arches.*

*Distant doorways and windows place Dickie and Marge under an intense, microscopic lens from Tom’s voyeuristic perspective.*

*Precision in Zaillian’s framing, trapping Tom in confining boxes.*

As oppressive as these tight spaces may be, they are where Tom is most in control, though Zaillian is also sure to emphasise that the opposite is equally true. The only place to hide when surrounded by vast, open expanses of ocean is within the darkness that lies below, and Tom’s phobia is made palpable in a visual motif that plunges the camera down into that suffocating abyss. This shot is present in nearly every episode of Ripley, haunting him like a persistent nightmare, though Zaillian broadens its formal symbolism too as Tom seeks to wield his greatest fear as a weapon against others.

*The dominant aesthetic of static shots is broken up by this sinking camera motif, appearing in most episodes as a persistent nightmare of drowning.*

*The dark, churning water beckons Tom as he sails between destinations, threatening to pull him into the abyss.*

Most crucially, Tom’s murder of Dickie upon a small boat in the middle of the ocean marks a tipping point for the con artist, seeing him graduate to an even more malicious felony. Zaillian conducts this sequence with taut suspense, entirely dropping out dialogue from the moment Tom delivers the killing blow so that we may sit with his discomforting attempts to sink the body, steal Dickie’s coveted possessions, and burn the boat. From below the surface, the camera often positions us gazing up at the boat’s silhouetted underside with an unsettling calmness. Equally though, the sea is also a force of unpredictable chaos, threatening to drag Tom into its depths when his foot gets caught in the anchor rope and knocking him unconscious with the out-of-control dinghy.

*Zaillian’s execution of Dickie’s murder is cold, calculated, and passionless, the entire sequence unfolding over 25 patient minutes.*

*Daunting camera placement from deep within the ocean, calling upon Tom’s phobia at the peak of his brutality.*

Even when Tom manages to make it out alive, his continued efforts to cover his tracks bear resemblance to Norman Bates cleaning up after his mother’s murder in Psycho, deriving suspense from his systematic procedures of self-preservation across 25 nerve-wracking minutes. Within a two-hour film, a scene this long might otherwise be the centrepiece of the entire story, yet in this series it is simply one of several extended sequences that unfolds with measured, focused resolve.

Unlike most commercial television, there are no dragged-out plot threads or over-reliance on dialogue to push the narrative forward either. As such, Zaillian recognises the unique qualities of this serial format in a manner that only a handful of filmmakers have truly capitalised on before – Ingmar Bergman’s Scenes from a Marriage comes to mind, or more recently Barry Jenkins’ The Underground Railroad. By structuring Patricia Highsmith’s story around roughly hour-long episodes, each scene unfolds with a patient attention to detail, unencumbered by the constraints of limited run times while maintaining a meticulous narrative economy.

Zaillian borrows this use of colour from Schindler’s List – a film he wrote – leaving behind evidence of murder in these red, bloody paw print, and breaking through Elswit’s severe, black-and-white photography.

*Exposition is brought alive as letters are read out directly to the camera.*

Specifically crucial to the development of Ripley’s overarching form are Zaillian’s recurring symbols, woven with sly purpose into Tom’s characterisation. The refrigerator that Dickie purchases in the second episode is a point of contention for Tom, representing a despicably domestic life of stagnation, while the precious ring he steals is proudly worn as an icon of status. After Freddie starts investigating his mysterious disappearance though, the glass ashtray which Tom viciously beats him to death with becomes the most wickedly amusing motif of the lot, laying the dramatic irony on thick when the police inspector visits the following morning and taps his cigarette into it. Later in Venice, Tom even goes out of his way to purchase an identical ash tray for their final meeting, for no other reason than to gloat in his deception.

*Tom eyes Dickie’s ring off early, and from there it becomes a fixation for him, representing the status he seeks to claim for himself.*

*An unassuming ash tray becomes the murder weapon Tom wields against Freddie, and continues to appear in these close-ups with sharp dramatic irony.*

This arrogant stunt speaks acutely to Andrew Scott’s sinister interpretation of Tom Ripley, especially when comparing him against previous versions performed by Alain Delon and Matt Damon. Scott is by far the oldest of three at the time of playing the role, and although this stretches credulity when the character’s relative youth comes into question, it does apply a new lens to Tom as a more experienced, jaded con artist. He does not possess the affable charisma of Delon or Damon, but he delivers each line with calculated discernment, understanding how a specific inflection or choice of word might turn a conversation in his favour. He realises that he does not need others to like him, but to merely give him the benefit of the doubt, allowing enough time to review the situation and recalibrate his web of false identities. After all, how could anyone trust those onyx, shark-like eyes that patiently scrutinise his prey when they aren’t projecting outright malice?

*Andrew Scott’s take on Tom Ripley is far from Alain Delon’s and Matt Damon’s, turning in charisma for sinister, calculating discernment.*

Scott’s casting makes even more sense when considered within the broader context of Zaillian’s adaptation, leaning into the introspective nature of Tom’s nefarious schemes rather than their sensational thrills. The question of what exactly constitutes a fraud is woven carefully through each of Ripley’s characters, mostly centring around Dickie’s class entitlement and Tom’s identity theft, though even manifesting in the police inspector’s passing lies about his wife’s hometown. The rest of society wears false masks to get ahead, Tom reasons, so why shouldn’t he join in the game?

It is no coincidence that the disguise he wears when pretending to be the ‘real’ Tom Ripley so closely resembles the representation of Caravaggio that we meet in the final episode. If anything, this is the truest version of Tom that he has played thus far, and Zaillian’s magnificent conclusion brings that comparison full circle with a dextrous montage of mirrored movements and graphic match cuts. Our protagonist is not some demon born to wreak havoc on the world, but rather a man who has always existed throughout history, seeking to climb the ladder of opportunity with a sharpened, creative impulse and moral disregard. As Ripley so thoroughly demonstrates in studying the mind of this genius, there may be no profession that better captures humanity’s enormous potential than an artist, and none that sinks any lower than a charlatan.

Zaillian sticks the landing with this tremendous montage of match cuts between Tom and Caravaggio, their weapons, and their victims, clearly inspired by The Usual Suspects while integrating his own sinister flair.

*Tom’s disguise as the ‘real’ Tom Ripley bears striking resemblance to Caravaggio, authenticating the connection between artist and criminal.*

Ripley is currently streaming on Netflix.

The Lord of the Rings (2001-03)

Peter Jackson | 3 parts (3hr 28min – 4hr 11min)

With The Lord of the Rings dominating so much of 21^st century pop culture, it is easy to take for granted just how subversive J.R.R. Tolkien’s story was in the 1950s, even as he borrowed pieces of Greek, Nordic, and Germanic mythology. Our central hero is not some predestined Chosen One like Achilles, a legendary wizard such as Merlin, and does not possess the extraordinary physical strength of Beowulf, though these ancient archetypes certainly populate the narrative’s sidelines. Should any of these alternate characters attempt to fulfil the main quest at hand, they would be guaranteed almost certain failure. Humility and loyalty are far more important qualities here, neither of which are so easily corrupted by the One Ring that reaches into the minds of those with altruistic ambitions and twists them into selfish megalomaniacs.

As a result, Frodo Baggins the hobbit stands among the few figures uniquely capable of carrying and destroying this cursed artefact, and is consequently driven to separate himself from his Fellowship of powerful companions who may fall to its temptation. The Lord of the Rings stretches across an enormous span of land and time, yet by framing this ordinary creature who has never stepped far outside his home as our primary protagonist, Tolkien offers a fresh perspective that Peter Jackson gladly capitalises on in his cinematic adaptation.

The Lord of the Rings is one of the key texts that cannot be missed when talking about world building in either literature or cinema, and specifically in the film adaptations Jackson imbues his imagery with fantastical awe.

Through Frodo’s inexperienced eyes, we appreciate Middle Earth as one of the richest fictional worlds of literary history, complete with fully developed languages, genealogies, and cultures. While this film trilogy only touches on a small portion of Tolkien’s original creation, there is a wonder here that emerges from Jackson’s rendering of its extraordinary, almost imperceptible details. With enormous respect to the astonishing work of literature that had been placed in his hands, Jackson went about faithfully translating the written descriptions of great civilisations, creatures, and weapons to a visual medium, imbuing the design of each with a level of cultural and historical detail that takes multiple viewings to properly comprehend. Jackson realises that we do not need close-ups on the runes of Orc armour nor the embroidered textures of an Elven mourning dress to note their significance. Simply by including them in the frame, he viscerally conveys the sprawling authenticity of his intricately constructed world with minimal exposition, while occasionally compromising on the compositional beauty they may have offered with more precise framing.

*Peter Jackson proves his mastery of long shots in The Lord of the Rings, crafting a vast world of astonishing beauty with the use of miniature models, matte paintings, and digital effects.*

A huge portion of this fantastical visual style of course comes down to his fine synthesis of digital and practical effects too, more frequently relying on the latter with his matte paintings and miniature city models built into the side of imposing mountain ranges. Along with deserved comparisons to D.W. Griffith’s historical standard of epic filmmaking, Jackson makes a name for himself next to Georges Méliès with his in-camera illusions, shrinking hobbits and dwarves next to taller creatures with forced perspective angles. Meanwhile, CGI is judiciously used to elevate these practical effects rather than replace them, allowing an expressive motion-captured performance from Andy Serkis as Gollum that may have otherwise been limited beneath layers of prosthetics. As evidenced a decade later with The Hobbit trilogy, technological innovation does not equal art, but much like James Cameron and Christopher Nolan at their peaks, Jackson is primarily using it here as a tool for his grand storytelling and world-building.

Jackson uses forced perspective where he can to shoot actors in the same scene together when their characters have different heights – Elijah Wood is actually seated several feet behind Ian McKellen here.

*Another use of forced perspective to emphasise the ring in the foreground, using a specific version of the prop that was the size of a dinner plate.*

Some of the greatest motion-capture of modern cinema can be found in Andy Serkis’ performance as Gollum, tracing each facial expression that might have otherwise been lost beneath layers of prosthetics.

Even with all that stripped away though, there is no doubt to be had regarding the raw power of Tolkien’s narrative. In this epic battle between good and evil, there is a very simple objective uniting the Free Peoples of Middle Earth against Sauron, though it is often the smaller battles and personal motives which give a complex weight to this twelve-hour saga. The ensemble is huge, but the nuances of every relationship are worth savouring, from Aragorn’s love for the immortal Arwen, to Gandalf’s grandfatherly affection towards the hobbits. Even on repeat viewings, it still lands as a shock that his death takes place so early, foreshadowing the inevitable breaking of the Fellowship that splits the story into further subplots and develops individual characters through their isolation.

*Jackson’s battle scenes are some of the greatest of cinema history for their clarity, editing, and geography, positioning The Lord of the Rings’ epic set pieces right next to D.W. Griffith’s.*

Where Tolkien’s novels segmented each of these plotlines into individual parts, Jackson propels his narrative forward with brisk parallel editing, drawing heavily on the foundational rules of film language that D.W. Griffith developed in its earliest days. Much like the father of modern cinema, Jackson is both an artist and technician of staggeringly large set pieces, skilfully establishing the geography of fortresses and battlefields in sweeping long shots before cutting between the smaller conflicts within them. The orcs’ assault of Helm’s Deep with siege ladders and catapults is especially reminiscent of the fall of Babylon in Intolerance, while through the chaos Jackson continues tracing the movements of each key player, alleviating the tension with some friendly competition between Legolas and Gimli.

*The helicopter shots are another brilliant variation on Jackson’s long shots, circling characters as they traverse New Zealand’s grand mountains and valleys.*

Beyond the action as well, Jackson goes on to prove his mastery of epic visuals in the helicopter shots flying over New Zealand’s sprawling mountain ranges, while those static compositions overlooking lush panoramas and ancient cities often look like paintings in their spectacular beauty. Much like Griffith, there is also immense power in his expressive close-ups, framing Arwen like a stone statue beneath her mourning veil and teetering Frodo on the brink of obsessive madness at the Cracks of Doom.

*Conversely, Jackson’s framing of faces in close-ups also bring an intimacy to this sprawling epic – a superb staggering of Aragorn and Legolas’ profiles here.*

*An ethereal framing of Arwen beneath her mourning veil, posed like a stone statue.*

This balance between the epic and the intimate is the foundation of not only The Lord of the Rings’ tremendous narrative, but also its core belief in the mighty influence of the tiniest creatures. This extends past our four central hobbits, as Gandalf wisely notes that Gollum may play a crucial part in determining the fate of Middle Earth too. This is true on two levels – not only is he incidentally responsible for the destruction of the One Ring at Mount Doom, but to Frodo he also serves as a reminder of the disaster in store should he similarly fall to its temptation. The two opposed voices that split Gollum right down the middle manifest as entirely different beings in Jackson’s editing, alternating the camera position between his left and right sides while they argue, and thereby revealing the quiet, fragile innocence that persists in the mind of this corrupted being. Though Frodo recognises how easily his sympathy for Gollum might be manipulated, he still hangs onto it as a tiny shred of hope for his own redemption.

“I have to believe he can come back.”

*Gollum is a vision of Frodo’s future should he fail his mission, and Jackson composes our first glimpse of him beneath this beam of light with eerie beauty.*

While Frodo, Sam, and Gollum are continuing their uphill struggle, Tolkien’s ‘David and Goliath’ metaphor also sees Merry ride into the Battle for Middle Earth and deliver a crippling blow to the Witch King, Pip save Faramir from certain death, and both spur the peaceful race of Ents to action through their words alone. Because of them, the forests of Middle Earth rise against the armies of the white wizard Saruman, recalling the primordial imagery of the Battle of Dunsinane from Macbeth. Not content that nature’s vengeance in Shakespeare’s play was merely an illusion though, Tolkien manifests it on a literal level in The Lord of the Rings, pitting the tree-like Ents against the Uruk-hai orcs that Jackson associates with modern forces of technology, industry, and the careless obliteration of life.

*Nature itself joins the Free People of Middle Earth and rises up against evil, recalling the primordial imagery of Macbeth’s Battle of Dunsinane.*

It takes more than just the fury of the natural world to save Middle Earth from Sauron’s terrible reign though, but also a righteous spiritual grace. Between our heroes of Gandalf, Aragorn, and Frodo, Tolkien essentially splits his Messiah into a trinity, each taking on key characteristics of Christ. After being constantly underestimated as a friend to the meek and lowly, Gandalf is resurrected with new powers, saving Theodon from his brainwashed servitude and vanquishing foes with a dazzling white light. By setting the souls of the suffering free, Aragorn saves Middle Earth from devastation and reigns as its new King, bringing in an age of peace and prosperity. Finally, left to carry the sins of the world around his neck, Frodo offers up the greatest sacrifice of them all, and heads towards what he can only assume will be certain death.

*A trinity of Christ figures lead the ensemble of The Lord of the Rings, beginning with Gandalf facing off against a demonic beast, and then followed by his great sacrifice and divine resurrection.*

*Aragorn is the prophesied King, destined to save the souls of the dead and usher in a new era of prosperity.*

*Our final Christ figure is Frodo, bearing the sins of the world around his neck and prepared to give up everything he holds dear.*

There is no doubt that Jackson recognises the biblical connotations of the flood washing away Saruman’s forces at Isengard too, or the original sin committed by Isildur that led to the fall of man, though he never underscores this theological symbolism so blatantly. These narrative archetypes largely speak for themselves, emerging organically in Jackson’s storytelling that finds new visual expressions for Tolkien’s mythology, and which continues to build on its classical influences through Howard Shore’s operatic film score. Just as Tolkien drew significant inspiration from the 19^th century cycle of epic music dramas Der Ring des Nibelungen, so too does Shore borrow many of Richard Wagner’s classical instrumentations and techniques from that work, developing a rich assortment of leitmotifs that evolve with the narrative.

*Saruman poses a mighty threat as he rallies the forces of industry and technology at Isengard, marked as the enemy of the modern world by Tolkien.*

The very first of these we hear in the prologue is the Ring theme, played by a thin, double-reeded rhaita that slyly rises and falls along a harmonic minor scale, while Cate Blanchett’s deep, resonant voiceover informs us of its dark history. Because of this uneasy opening, we welcome the shift to the warm, sunny Shire with delight, and embrace the new motif led by a folksy tin whistle that, from this point on, will always remind us of home. Later when Frodo reunites with his uncle Bilbo at Rivendell, it matures with the elegant timbre of a clarinet, before breaking into destitute fragments when a partially corrupted Frodo pushes Sam away late in their quest. When the four hobbits do finally return to the Shire at the end of this colossal journey, the melody is mostly restored in its original form, and yet the flute which now takes over marks a melancholy evolution that keeps these four hobbits from recovering their lost innocence.

*Picturesque visuals in the Shire pair sweetly with Howard Shore’s folksy tin whistle motif, which from this point will always remind us of home.*

Shore’s music continues to reach even deeper into Middle Earth’s mythology as well, using Tolkien’s constructed languages in choral arrangements as the Fellowship descends into the dwarven Mines of Moria, and as they enter the elven woodland realm of Lothlórien. So too does it serve a crucial role in connecting these characters to their respective cultures and legends, transposing poems from the books into diegetic songs sung by characters in moments of celebration and reflection, most notably in Pippin’s lyrical lament ‘The Edge of Night’. As his soft voices echoes through the cavernous halls of Gondor, Jackson reverberates it across a devastating montage of Faramir and his men riding towards their massacre, intercut with his cowardly father vulgarly ripping into a meal that drips blood-red juices down his chin.

“Home is behind,

The world ahead,

And there are many paths to tread,

Through shadow,

To the edge of night,

Until the stars are all alight,

Mist and shadow,

Cloud and shade,

All shall fade,

All shall fade.”

Jackson’s intercutting between Pippin’s rendition of ‘The Edge of Night’ and Faramir’s brutal defeat at Osgiliath makes for one of the finest pieces of editing in the entire saga, revealing the massacre and tragedy which comes at the hands of cruel leaders like Denethor.

Even on a structural level, Shore integrates the mystical numerology of Middle Earth into his rhythms and notations, particularly using the number 9. There were nine rings created for Men, and nine heroes tasked with carrying the One Ring to Mordor, and so the musical leitmotif used in the themes for both the One Ring and the Fellowship are similarly composed of nine distinct notes. Somewhat poetically, that number also binds together the fates of Sauron and Frodo, with both eventually losing the Ring by having a finger severed and leaving them with only nine.

*Nine rings for nine men – this number is sacred in The Lord of the Rings, and so Shore even works it into the music of his prologue and Fellowship theme.*

It is in this repetition of history that The Lord of the Rings unfolds its second great subversion of the archetypal quest narrative – even after an immense journey across Middle Earth that has seen many give up their lives, our hero fails his mission. As Frodo turns to Sam atop the Cracks of Doom and chillingly claims the Ring as his own, he strikes a mirror image of Isildur doing the exact same many millennia before, finally falling to its corruptive influence. It would appear that no living entity can destroy Sauron, no matter how large or small they may be. There is only one force powerful enough to defeat an evil this powerful, and that is the evil itself, incidentally turning two of its own corrupted beings against each other in a jealous struggle and thereby sending the Ring plummeting into the lava from which it was forged. Should those who fight for all that is right fail in their mission, Tolkien is resoundingly optimistic that wickedness will collapse under its own unsustainable power.

*A mirror image of failure at two separate ages, with both Isildur and Frodo falling to the Ring’s temptation at the crucial moment upon the Cracks of Doom.*

*Gollum encased within the boundaries of the Ring in this superb frame, both their fates entwined in self-destruction.*

Like his fellow hobbits, Gollum’s purpose has been found, though there is no path to redemption for him as there is for Frodo. Jackson’s ending to the final film in The Lord of the Rings trilogy has often been accused of long-windedness, though such an expansive story necessitates a conclusion with weight and patience behind it. Even with Sauron defeated, Frodo’s arc is not yet complete, and continues to draw him towards a peaceful resolution in the Undying Lands with Gandalf, Bilbo, and the Elves. How fitting that Tolkien imagined the future of Middle Earth as our present reality where magic has died out and Men have lived on, because at the end of all things, Jackson’s fantasy epic stands as a monumental tribute to their greatest qualities of ambition, endurance, and pure, ingenious creativity.

The Lord of the Rings is currently streaming on Netflix, Prime Video, Binge, and Paramount Plus, can be rented or bought on Apple TV, Amazon Video, or Google Play, and the Blu-ray or DVD can be bought on Amazon.

Fanny and Alexander (1982)

Ingmar Bergman | 4 episodes (57min – 1hr 32min) or 3hr 8min (theatrical cut)

There is a whimsical horror threaded through Fanny and Alexander that only its ten-year-old protagonist has the open-minded curiosity to confront. He gazes in wonder at his toy paper theatre illuminated by nine flickering candles, before wandering around an exquisitely cluttered apartment draped in red, green, and gold fabrics, like a lonely child lost in a world of endless possibilities. He calls out to his family’s maids, but no one replies. The clock chimes three, a set of cherubs rotate on a music box, and a half-nude marble statue in the corner slowly begins to dance. Suddenly, a soft scraping noise emerges beneath the eerie melody, and we catch a glimpse of a scythe being dragged across the carpet. The grim reaper has arrived, but not for young Alexander. Though this magical realist prologue might be the most undiluted manifestation of his vivid imagination, the heavy presence of death underlies all five hours of this Gothic family drama set in 1900s Sweden, marking his childhood with both merciless damnation and divine salvation.

A fantastical prologue setting up Alexander, his imagination, and the huge, magnificent apartment of his grandmother, Helena. Drapes of green and gold hang over cased openings and windows, creating immaculate frames all through the interior space.

In the haunted Christmastime setting of Fanny and Alexander’s opening, an air of Dickensian fantasy settles over the extended Ekdahl family, revelling in the warm festivities of their annual traditions. Religious celebrations and commemorations form the basis of these gatherings, rotating through the generational cycles of life in funerals, weddings, and christenings. Accompanying these occasions are large meals spread across expansive dining tables, though none are so magnificent as the spread on Christmas Eve night which dominates the first act of the film.

Here, Ingmar Bergman delights in splendidly designed sets of vivid crimson hues, weaved all through the patterned wallpaper, velvet curtains, and holiday decorations illuminated by the golden light of chandeliers and oil lamps. With such profuse warmth commanding the mise-en-scène, there are abundant opportunities to embellish it with small flourishes of emerald-green, popping out in festive wreaths, holly, and indoor plants that snugly crowd out the foreground of his shots.

One of Bergman’s finest achievements in production design, dotting his rooms with candles and festive decor, and filling them out with red, green, and gold hues in stunning arrangements. These shots are cluttered but cosy, immersing us into 1900s Sweden.

Matching Bergman’s rich use of colour is his impeccable blocking of a large ensemble, defining the status and identity of each character by their position within immaculately staged shots of family unity around overflowing dining tables and across plush lounges. For all the misgivings and arguments that arise within the theatre-loving Ekdahl family, there is no doubting the intimacy between them as they gather in the vast, splendid apartment of their widowed matriarch, Helena.

*Warmth and unity in Bergman’s blocking during the first act over Christmas Eve, bringing the entire extended Ekdahl family together within gorgeously composed frames.*

*A noticeable shift in the staging following the death of Oskar – reserved distance between each family member, each relegated to their own position and pose.*

It is a lengthy setup which Bergman conducts here, insulating us in these family celebrations like a warm, protective barrier from the freezing snow that blankets the village outside. Within its open living areas, we witness their artistic passion emerge in scenes of poetry recitations and musical performances late into the night, each becoming extensions of the plays they perform for the local community. Between the elegantly draped frames connecting each room as well, Bergman stages them like actors within proscenium arches, turning the apartment into its own theatre brimming with enormous personalities. Even greater depths are revealed behind closed doors, bringing a delicate texture to the family’s joys and troubles – Alexander’s uncle, Adolf Gustav, is a cheerful womaniser with a fragile ego, and Carl Ekdahl possesses significant contempt towards his German wife.

Bergman transforms the Ekdahl family home into a theatre of sorts, with the drapes framing its key players in a proscenium arch – remarkable formal mirroring between these scenes and those sets in actual theatres.

It isn’t hard to see where Alexander fits in here with his elaborate tall tales and instinct to escape into fiction when reality grows too harsh. Right from the film’s first frame of the young child peering into his toy paper theatre, there is a robust formal mirroring between the Ekdahls and their art, manifesting with levity in their lively Christmas festivities, and tragedy in the Hamlet-adjacent death of Alexander’s father, Oskar. It is fitting too that he first collapses during a rehearsal of the play, while he is performing the part of Hamlet’s deceased father. “I could play the ghost now really well,” he jokes on his deathbed, leaving his wife to remarry the cruel Bishop Edvard who presides over his funeral – a truly compelling stand-in for Hamlet’s treacherous uncle Claudius if there ever was one.

*Even outside the scope of family homes, Bergman finds a bright but chilly beauty in the frozen streets of Sweden, even while he lights up his interiors with a blazing warmth.*

The narrative that follows is heavily Shakespearean in both structure and characterisation, though there is also a touch of dreamy self-awareness as Bergman considers the multitude of stories woven into the fabric of his art. “We are surrounded by many realities, one on top of the other,” Alexander learns as he takes refuge within a curiosity shop of puppets, and indeed he seems to possess an imagination that can penetrate each of its metaphysical layers. When the voice of God speaks to him from a dark cabinet, he is filled with a great existential terror and total belief in its veracity, right up until he sees its true form – just another puppet, propping up the artifice of Christian piety.

In this consideration of organised religion as a hollow construct, Fanny and Alexander becomes an act of catharsis for Bergman who, in playing to these archetypes of corruption and innocence, reflects large portions of his own childhood. The fond memories of a flawed but welcoming family exist in stark contrast to the oppressive dynamic that pervades the bishop’s bare, colourless home, and caught between the two is the overly active imagination of a boy who struggles to differentiate between fantasy and reality.

*The curiosity shop of puppets once again turns theatre and art into a sanctuary for Alexander, and doubles as a metaphor for the many stories that make up the lives and worlds beyond our own.*

As such, there is also a distinct fairy tale quality that takes hold of Fanny and Alexander, accompanying the introduction of the wicked stepfather with ghosts and demons directly inspired by those religious tales which the children are raised on. Being deprived of a supportive father figure himself, Bergman carries great empathy for Alexander, understanding his immaturity and naivety as a natural stage in his own creative development.

Perhaps it is this lack of emotional inhibition which grants the young boy the means to deal with his grief, letting him lash out in ways which, while not entirely polite, are honest to his thoughts and feelings. In one evocative scene after he hears his mother’s guttural cry erupt from somewhere in their grandmother’s apartment, he creeps out of bed with his sister Fanny to peer through the crack of a door, where they see her wailing in private over her husband’s cold body. Unlike Alexander’s coping mechanisms that are freely expressed out into the world, the overwhelming feelings of adults must be repressed to those small, remote corners where no one else can see. This is a lesson that the bishop beats into him even harder with a “strong and harsh love,” reframing Alexander’s innocent efforts to understand the world as sinister transgressions that will damn him to hell.

*A thin frame caught in the crack of a door, as the children get out of bed to see their deceased father and their wailing mother pacing back and forth.*

With a shift in location to the bishop’s house, the splendid drapes and decor of the Ekdahl home is replaced with austere, colourless walls and quiet, unwelcoming dinners. Not a trace of eye contact to be found in these family gatherings.

The move from Helena’s vibrant, festive home of expressionistic décor to the stark white halls of the bishop’s Spartan house lands with a quiet dread, and with it comes a shift in Bergman’s blocking. Gone are the large family gathering of characters arranged in relaxed formations across plush couches and dining halls. These rooms are made of stone and wood, unembellished and projecting the bishop’s cold hostility through every communal space. The housemaid, Justina, effectively becomes a scary old witch in this household as well, using the children’s wild imaginations against them through her unsettling cautionary tales. Harriet Andersson refreshingly proves her range here in playing the total opposite of what she represented in her earliest collaborations with Bergman – tedium and severity, in place of youth and beauty.

Harriet Andersson is superbly cast as Justina the housemaid – she is thin, severe, and unsmiling, representing the inverse of the young, beautiful protagonists she played in Bergman’s earlier films.

The grip that both villains hold over our protagonists is suffocating. The bishop’s demand that Emilie and her children lose all their old possessions as if “newly born” is delivered with a faint chill, forcing them to conform to his pious standard of sparse minimalism, and kicking off a long line of attempts to rewrite their identities. Bergman captures this devastating isolation wreaked upon the young siblings with harsh, angular frames, gazing out the windows of their depressing bedroom, and crumpled on the attic’s grey, dusty floor beneath a fallen crucifix, as if slain by a domineering force of spiritual corruption.

*Bergman shoots the bishop’s house like a prison with his desolate compositions, trapping Fanny and Alexander in these restrictive frames.*

*A fallen crucifix and the crumpled body of Alexander, banished to the attic for his disobedience, and slain by a domineering force of spiritual corruption.*

His immaculate staging of his actors goes beyond wide shots too though, as he particularly focuses on the thoughtful arrangements of their faces to understand their joys and frustrations on a psychological, intimate level. As Oskar lays on his deathbed with his face turned to the side, Emilie’s profile leans up against his cheek in pensive mourning, simultaneously revealing both the intimacy of their final days of marriage and the tension that is pulling them apart. In contrast, a later shot at the bishop’s house which frames Fanny, Alexander, and Emilie lying on their sides in bed captures them all looking towards the camera, united in their melancholy. With each face slightly obscuring the one behind it, Emilie is set up at the back as the quiet protector of her children, shielding them from the bishop who stands alone and unfocused in the background.

*Bergman shoots arrangements of faces that uncovers the subtlest emotions, expressing melancholy longing, maternal protectiveness, and a ghostly terror.*

Jan Malmsjö brings a sadistic venom to this role, though he takes care to only reveal his villainy bit by bit. His first handling of Alexander’s lies is stern but relatively fair, keeping us at a distance from the bitter, angry man who lies beneath the cool veneer. It is difficult to get a good reading of him here, but by the time we arrive at his next chastisement of Alexander, his malevolence is exceedingly clear. In response to the bishop’s degradation and punishment, the young boy grows more obstinate in his disobedience, and yet even he can only stand so many beatings before being forced into submission. Watching on, Fanny silently recoils from the bishop’s touch, and Emilie’s contempt for her husband grows. With all paths of escape cut off, they become a broken, trapped family, suffering in an austere hellhole.

*Alexander facing the bishop’s wrath, isolated even from his own sister in this shot while the bishop sits back with his family and house staff.*

Still, visions of Oskar’s ghost continue to haunt Alexander like reminders of a brighter past, bearing witness to the depression left behind in his wake. These transcendent experiences extend to other family members too, as late in the film Oskar also appears to Helena, his bereaved mother. He speaks little, instead simply becoming the audience to her eloquent soliloquy on the process of accepting her grief, as well as the multiple coexistent truths at the core of Bergman’s dramaturgical metaphor.

“Life, it’s all acting anyway. Some roles are nice, other not so nice. I played a mother. I played Juliet and Margareta. Then suddenly I played a widow or a grandmother. One role follows the other. The thing is not to shrink from them.”

*Oskar’s ghost manifesting to both Alexander and Helena, always in his white suit and silently pacing the halls of the family home.*

And yet, even as an actress with a deeper understanding of the human condition than her grandson, the pain is no less present.

“My feelings came from deep in my body. Even though I could control them, they shattered reality, if you know what I mean. Reality has remained broken ever since… and oddly enough, it feels more real that way. So, I don’t bother to mend it.”

Bergman’s screenplay flows like poetry through these thoughtful contemplations of life-changing events, bringing this story full circle with the restoration of the family unit. Just as celebrations of Christ’s birth open the film, so too is new life breathed into the Ekdahl clan with the christening of Alexander’s newborn baby sister, reviving the cycles of tradition which connect one generation to the next. Still, even as the conclusion of this epic drama sees the bishop damned to hell in a house fire, four words punctuate its ending with a lingering thread of trauma, keeping his ghost alive in Alexander’s mind.

“You can’t escape me.”

*Surreal visions emerging at moments when Alexander is overcome with emotion, transporting him to a new location altogether as he is entranced by a story*.

The fantastical imagination of Bergman’s young protagonist is evidently as dangerous as it is enchanting, filtering the world through a lens that distorts every intense emotional experience into a memory that will never fade away. Not only does it manifest as supernatural creatures and visions, but it is also baked right into those dazzling bursts of colour that decorate the fabrics and textures of his family’s home, leaping out like nostalgic recollections of a youth that was only partially lived in the real world. By simply dwelling within this perspective, Fanny and Alexander becomes a deeply sentimental work for Bergman, magnificently distilling his own dreams into expressions of childhood wonder and terror.

A return to family tradition, though with a change in decor – the reds and greens of Christmas Eve are replaced with pastels to represent a christening, signifying a birth and renewal within the Ekdahl clan.

Fanny and Alexander is currently streaming on The Criterion Channel, and is available to rent or buy on iTunes.

Face to Face (1976)

Ingmar Bergman | 4 episodes (40 – 48min) or 1hr 54min (theatrical cut)

The firm line that Dr Jenny Isaksson draws between her professional work as a psychiatrist and her own personal traumas can only hold the façade of composure together for so long before it shatters. At first, it is barely shaken when she meets with her mentally troubled patient Mari, played by Kari Sylwan as the exact inverse of her saintly character from Cries and Whispers – tormented, withdrawn, and disdainful of those who claim a higher moral ground. On one hand, her cutting accusation of Jenny as a woman incapable of love could be little more than an attempt to inflict her self-loathing on others, but there are also psychological parallels here between doctor and patient that offer her vitriol a measure of truth.

When Jenny comes home to her empty house one day and finds Mari curled up on the floor, Ingmar Bergman splits the space between them with a wall, manifesting that line dividing the two isolated halves of Jenny’s mind. Her confident authority as she calls for help on the telephone is almost instantly destroyed the moment a pair of trespassers appear and try to rape her, only to find penetration too difficult. Instead, they leave her lying on the floor in the same wounded state as Mari, with Bergman mirroring their anguish across both sides of the split shot that he has held for the entire agonising scene. Jenny’s psyche is still as fractured as before, but the bitterly repressed trauma that speaks to her through Mari has finally spilled out into reality, forcing a violent reckoning with her own physical and emotional fragility.

Bergman splits this frame right down the middle with a wall in Jenny’s house, and holds the shot for several minutes as she is confronted by a pair of intruders who try to rape her. By the end of the scene, she too is left lying crumpled on the floor like Mari – a mirror image of her inner and outer self.

Much like Scenes from a Marriage, Bergman’s intent with Face to Face was to produce a miniseries for Swedish television, and then to cut it down to a film version for international distribution. Unlike his marital epic though, this intensive study of mental illness has faded into relative obscurity and consequently become broadly underrated. Neither this nor Scenes from a Marriage necessarily stand among his greatest aesthetic accomplishments, but his intuitive staging of profound personal struggles in both supports a pair of sharply written screenplays, seeking to understand the psychological weaknesses that force humans into emotional isolation.

So too is Face to Face yet another showcase of Liv Ullmann’s immense acting talent, earning Bergman’s close-ups with a vulnerability that exposes the raw horror of her internal conflict. In Jenny’s mind, pain and pleasure are virtually indistinguishable, as she confesses her dark desire that those trespassers were able to follow through with their rape just so she could feel some sort of connection to her humanity. With these conflicting emotional responses suddenly surfacing all at once, Ullmann seamlessly shifts from manic laughter into full-bodied sobbing and back again, and in refusing to cut away from his long takes of such visceral turbulence, Bergman proves himself equally dedicated to the realism of her plight.

This showcases some of Ullmann’s greatest acting in an already incredible career, seamlessly shifting from manic laughter into full-bodied sobbing and back again. Her character is deeply tormented, and can only hold her cool composure together for so long before it cracks and reveals her vulnerability.

At a certain point though, realism is not enough to express the depths of her emotional torment. As she silently wanders through the bare, furniture-less house that she intends to sell, and later the cottage of her grandparents she is staying with, both become surreal limbos not unlike the hotel of The Silence or the family manor of Cries and Whispers. While her former home isolates her in bare rooms and corridors stripped of all their comfort, the dark green interior of the other is cluttered with photo frames and antique furniture that reek of old age. There, ticking clocks resonate through the repetitive sound design, as she disappears into dreams of an elderly woman with a single black eye. It isn’t just death that she fears, but the degradation of the mind and body that foreshadows its inevitable arrival at the end of one’s life, and Bergman wraps it all up into this sinister omen of mortality.

Superb production design noting the difference between Jenny’s empty home mid-move, and the cluttered, green decor of grandparent’s cottage. Both become claustrophobic limbos that she uneasily wanders through.

*A one-eyed crone stalks Jenny through her dreams, becoming a sinister omen of her deepest fear – death.*

The mental disturbances that one man expresses to Jenny early on in Face to Face manifest even more tangibly as she sits on the verge of taking her own life, planting the self-destructive paradox in her head – could anyone feasibly take their own life out of fear of dying? It is certainly possible at least for Jenny, who seeks to take control of her fate by leaving a suicide note, overdosing on prescription pills, and quelling the inner turmoil that she has repressed for so long.

“I suddenly realise that what I’m about to do has been lurking inside for several years. Not that I’ve consciously planned to take my life, I’m not that deceitful. It’s more that I’ve been living in isolation, that’s become even worse. The line dividing my external behaviour from my internal impoverishment has become sharper.”

This is her “recovery from a lifelong illness” she claims, confessing that she cannot even find the tears to cry over her inability to appreciate beauty, before submitting to the creeping unconsciousness. Bergman’s camera gracefully follows the movement of her hand tracing the patterns of the wallpaper before it drops out of the frame, and as if accompanying her soul out of the room, we continue to drift along to the persistent ticking.

A lengthy tracking shot follows Jenny’s finger tracing the patterns on the wallpaper as she slowly submits to the creeping unconsciousness. It drops out of the frame, but Bergman’s camera continues to float through the room, as if following her soul outside.

This is not the end for Jenny though, but merely a journey deeper into her subconscious, where Bergman’s surreal imagery exposes the fears that she has only ever verbalised to this point. This is also where Sven Nykvist’s cinematography truly strengthens, absorbing her into shadowy, decrepit dreams of her grandmother reading grim fairy tales to unsmiling audiences, inaudible whispers, and patients begging for her to cure their existential ailments. Her ineffective prescriptions do little to calm the crowd who grasp at her like lepers, holding her back from her daughter, Anna, who keeps running away.

Though Jenny drifts in and out of consciousness at the hospital, her grip on reality remains hazy in Bergman’s dreamy long dissolves, constantly pulling her back into those uneasy nightmares. The vivid red robe that she wears on this slippery descent to the core of her trauma makes for a number of striking shots against otherwise dark backdrops, framing her as a denizen of her own personal hell with that one-eyed crone as her only companion. Very gradually, the deathly terror surrounding this peculiar figure falls away, until Jenny embraces her strange maternal compassion by accepting her shawl for warmth.

*The darkness threatens to swallow Ullmann hole in her dreams, but she stands out with her blood red robes. This section has some of the strongest visuals of Face to Face, submitting to the surrealism.*

*Long dissolves bridging Jenny’s consciousness and dreams, forming some stunning compositions through close-ups.*

Still, the foundations of her insecurities are not so easily vanquished, as Bergman finally draws her to the childhood ordeal that started it all – the sudden death of her parents in a car accident. Ullmann reverts to the mind of Jenny’s nine-year-old self as she faces their abandonment, banging on doors and heaving with sobs over her guilty conscience, only to hatefully scream at them to leave the moment they return.

“It’s always the same. First I say I love you, then I say I hate you, and you turn into two scared children, ashamed of yourselves. Then I feel sorry for you, and love you again. I can’t go on.”

*The core of Jenny’s trauma emerges in this encounter with her deceased parents. There is little resolution to be found as she reverts to the mind of her nine-year-old self.*

It is one thing for Jenny to enter an unimaginable grief as an orphan, but it is another entirely to be completely cut off from any chance at resolving her troubled relationship with them, effectively damning her to a life of loose ends. It is no wonder she chose to become a psychiatrist. On some subconscious level, she sees herself in her patients, and through them feels just a little less alone in her suffering.

“To hold someone’s head between your hands… and to feel that frailty between your hands… and inside it all the loneliness… and capability, and joy, and boredom, and intelligence, and the will to live.”

Not that she has ever been able to offer them the same comfort. In its place she has established a cold emotional detachment, deciding that death is little more than a vague concept rather than a reality that encased her childhood in a tomb of endless mourning. Only now can she see it for what it is, as in one last dream she traps a copy of herself inside a coffin, nails it shut, and sets it alight, stifling her own panicked screams.

*Profound symbolism as Jenny shuts her double inside a coffin, damning herself to her deepest fear of death.*

Healing may not come so easily through this renewed self-awareness, especially with the news of her grandfather’s stroke still hanging the shadow of mortality over her life, and yet for the first time she is able to view his old age with neither aloofness nor fear. As she watches her grandparents face their final days together, instead she sees “their dignity, their humility”, and confesses feeling the presence of something she has never experienced before.

“For a short moment I knew that love embraces everything, even death.”

Behind Jenny’s façade of stability is an overwhelming numbness, further masking a deeply repressed terror, yet buried even deeper than that within her psyche is an innate, abiding belief in humanity’s capacity for selflessness and devotion. It isn’t that she is incapable of love, as Mari tells her, but she has simply let it lie dormant to protect herself from the pain of continual loss – a pain that can only be ignored for so long, and whose only cure is a gracious acceptance of its inevitability. Even by Bergman’s standards, Jenny’s characterisation is profoundly layered with immense psychological depth, treading a fine line between realism and surrealism as thin as that which stubbornly divides her outer and inner identities. Only when this denial dissolves entirely and both come crashing into each other can any sort of self-actualisation be found in Face to Face, finally drawing a resounding peace from the chaos and trauma of being.

Face to Face is currently available to rent or buy on Vimeo.

Scenes From a Marriage (1973)

Ingmar Bergman | 6 episodes (41 – 52min) or 2hr 47min (theatrical cut)

True to its title, Scenes From a Marriage never sways from its tight focus on six isolated episodes of Johan and Marianne’s married life, using each to piece together a collage of a fragmenting relationship across ten years. The couple often speaks of other people who are important to them, including their unseen children and extramarital lovers, yet the only characters who ever take up a substantial amount of screen time are those who act as counterpoints to them. In one scene we watch Marianne’s mother reflect on how disconnected she felt from her late husband, while at a dinner party two married friends, Katarina and Peter, pour out a verbal stream of visceral disgust at each other.

“I find you utterly repulsive. In a physical sense, I mean. I could buy a lay from anyone just to wash you out of my genitals.”

At first, Johan and Marianne might seem like the most ideal couple of them all, and their friends even acknowledge this when considering the awkward situation that has arisen from their unbarred scorn. “It will do their souls good to catch a glimpse of the depths of hell,” they joke, but perhaps that glimpse was more of a stimulus than they realise.

*An awkward dinner party with friends Peter and Katarina foreshadows the vicious conflict to come between Johan and Marianne.*

*Bergman plays with the distance between his actors all throughout Scenes From a Marriage, emphasising their disconnection in these perfectly staged wide shots.*

*And then bringing them together in these tightly framed, intimate close-ups.*

When we first meet Johan and Marianne, they are pushing the false image of their unwavering love in a magazine interview, speaking about the ten years they have been wed. Conversation unfolds organically in Ingmar Bergman’s dialogue, painting a portrait of Marianne as a woman who is no stranger to separation. Not only has she ended a marriage once before, but she continues to see clients undergo the same experience in her profession as a divorce lawyer. Perhaps it is because she is so familiar with others’ problems, or maybe she just possesses a deep-rooted desire for stability, but clearly she has considered the subject from every angle save for a personal one. In this interview, the illusion of her marital contentment is only ever broken in the journalist’s uncomfortable interruptions, as she constantly arranges them into poses for the camera which expose the artifice behind it all.

Bergman sets his film in motion with a naturalistic conversation between Johan, Marianne, and a journalist interviewing them on their marriage, intermittently breaking up the flow with her requests to pose for the camera.

Ingmar Bergman’s writing is some of the strongest it has ever been here, dispensing with his usual traces of surrealism for a realism that confronts the awkward complexities of his characters head-on. In doing so, he is also creating his most forthright examination yet of bitter conflicts that divide once-passionate lovers, in slight contrast to almost every other film of his over the past decades which have lingered such interrogations on the edges of other more faith-based questions.

Also quite unusual for Bergman is his move to a television format, simultaneously serving the extended, episodic structure of his story, yet unfortunately compromising on his usually impeccable visual style. Even with his regular cinematographer Sven Nykvist at hand, the tiny budget that the network gave them does not allow for the sort of lush production design of Cries and Whispers.

Despite being largely contained within small, minimalist sets though, Scenes from a Marriage is anything but stage-bound, as Bergman lifts it into a cinematic realm through his reliably sharp blocking bodies of faces. By cutting between wide shots and close-ups, he paints out the flow of isolation and connection between Liv Ullmann and Erland Josephson. Doorframes often confine them in oppressive compositions, but both actors especially excel in tightly framed shots of their faces partially concealing each other, or otherwise slightly turning away from the camera in displays of restraint.

*Some very solid framing through doorways in wide shots, closing the domestic space in around them.*

It is just as much about how Bergman frames his actors in close-ups as it as about their expressions, at times partially concealing their faces through profile shots, and in this key scene, flipping them upside-down.

When emotional extremes run high at the climax of Marianne and Johan’s breakdown, the two collapse on the floor and begin to make love. As they finish, Bergman frames their faces resting against each other from an upside-down angle, literally turning this intimate expression of love on its head in the midst of a bitter feud. That she almost immediately tells Johan afterwards that all she felt was “lukewarm affection,” Bergman once again damages any hope that they might reconcile. Instead, it appears as if they are doomed to fluctuate between passion, civility, and loathing for eternity.

*A classic Bergman composition with the parallel heads on the bed, illustrating the unity and division between lovers.*

*Ullmann’s head partially obscures Josephson’s face in this shot, fusing them together while impeding on his physical presence.*

When Bergman’s camera pulls back from close-ups, these intimate interactions effectively turn into tennis matches, staging his actors symmetrically on either side of a bed, table, or couch as they trade barbs across the court. When Marianne begins to consider how their separation might be judged by her parents and friends, Johan impatiently shuts her down, demanding that this separation remains solely about their own personal issues, though even he cannot stand by his own rules.

One thing the couple can agree on at least is that Katarina and Peter’s troubles come from not speaking the same emotional language, and Johan and Marianne are eventually forced to admit that they are guilty of this too. Despite being highly intellectual individuals, they are self-described “emotional illiterates” who don’t understand a thing about their own souls. There is certainly some therapeutic growth here in recognising this, as Marianne reads aloud self-reflections from her diary on how she has hidden her true self to please others, but when Bergman shifts his camera to Johan, the only reaction we find is his sleeping face. When he awakes, he is apologetic and Marianne offers forgiveness, but the distance between the two has only widened.

So ingrained is this mutual miscommunication that even when Johan’s affair with Paula first comes to light, Marianne expresses total disbelief that anything was ever wrong between them. Ullmann’s eyes widen in fear and anguish, but most of all it is confusion we read on her face as Bergman’s camera lingers in close-up, tracing those tiny micro-expressions that flicker and disappear within milliseconds. Only now does Johan reveal that he had been desperate to get out of this marriage for years, and when Marianne calls her friends to tell them the news, they too admit their knowledge of his cheating. Clearly the reality of this marriage was evident to everyone but those wrapped up in its raw emotions, incapable of turning their perceptive minds inwards.

Ullmann is a powerhouse in Scenes from a Marriage, even more than Josephson. It is also a very different performance from Persona with the heavy verbal acting, but the subtle facial expressions are still there.

More than just an interrogation of a relationship, Bergman dedicates his series to examining the institution of marriage itself, and how the limitations of this contract restrict their bonds rather than nourish it. No longer do Johan and Marianne feel comfortable being their natural selves as husband and wife, as these rigid roles are thrust upon them by a one-size-fits-all culture. Their identities have been warped beyond recognition, and Marianne even reflects on how little the two resemble their younger selves who got married all those years ago.

“When I think of who I used to be, that person is like a stranger. When we made love earlier, it was like sleeping with a stranger.”

When Marianne considers remarrying too, Johan cynically articulates that she will just move through the same cycles all over again, finding only disappointment. He should know as well – he has not found love with his mistress, but just another kind of loneliness worse than being alone. Paula has ultimately turned out to be little more than a distraction from the inadequacy he feels from having his identity so closely intertwined with Marianne’s, and even in that role she is failing.

*Johan and Marianne find a strange unity outside the boundaries of marriage, the closest thing either will get to a resolution.*

What are we to make then of the affair they conduct with each other so many years after finalising their divorce? Has the absence of a rigid contract freed them from their bitterness? There is evidently still a deep love there, as in Marianne’s sleep she is haunted by nightmares of losing her hands, and thus being unable to reach out to Johan for safety as she crosses a dangerous road. In this imagery though, she also implicitly blames herself for their separation. They might never recreate what they used to have, but there is some hope that they might forge something new outside the boundaries of marriage if they can somehow resolve the fact that they would be threatening their own current relationships. “We love each other in an earthly and imperfect way,” Johan reassures his ex-wife, putting to rest her concern that she has never felt true love.

When words can no longer do these lovers justice, all that is left for them is to sit in silence, whether it be out of contempt, understanding, or both. For all the acerbic quarrels that Scenes from a Marriage expresses so eloquently, it is through a pair of silent images that Bergman creates the most perfect representation of this relationship.

On the verge of signing their divorce papers, Johan sits across a table from Marianne with his head in his hands, and she reaches a hand out to comfort him, only to pause and withdraw before he notices. Later in the same scene as they sit on either side of a couch, he reaches out to hold her hand, and they finally make contact. Within this formal mirroring, Bergman reveals the chasm which exists between these “emotional illiterates”, turning their marriage not into a battle of husband versus wife, but rather lovers versus the space between them.

*Wide gaps between Johan and Marianne, often either driving them apart or filled in a simple act of openness.*

Scenes From a Marriage is available to stream on The Criterion Channel.

Copenhagen Cowboy (2022)

Nicolas Winding Refn | 6 episodes (47 – 56 minutes)

Nicolas Winding Refn’s enigmatic odyssey through Copenhagen’s criminal underworld of sex traffickers, drug lords, and vampires is not the sort of Netflix series that flies by with propulsive momentum. It demands patience, a stomach for the grotesque, and a certain willingness to fall under its violent, neon-soaked trance, effectively playing to the same niche portion of viewers who could abide the icy detachment of Only God Forgives and The Neon Demon. Copenhagen Cowboy feels much more epic in scope than either of those films though, marking Refn’s second foray into television following 2019’s Too Old to Die Young, and his first in his native Danish language since 2005’s Pusher 3. Elements of the supernatural have certainly crept into his slow-burn thrillers before, but by centring the mysteriously superpowered Miu in his nocturnal vision of Denmark’s capital city, this Gothic neo-noir western effectively marks his most surreal venture into the paranormal yet.

The full extent of Miu’s skillset only really comes through gradual revelations though. Of this six-episode series, episode 1 may be the weakest overall, taking its time to set her up as a ‘lucky charm’ hired out by wealthy clientele. The first person we meet seeking this good fortune is Rosella, the middle-aged matriarch of a peculiar crime family, who wishes to fall pregnant with Miu’s assistance. At a house party, the androgynous young woman is passed around, stroked, and has snippets of her hair cut off by guests, effectively being objectified in a similar manner as the undocumented immigrants being pimped out from Rosella’s basement. The escape of one of these women, Cimona, in the final minutes of this episode sets in motion one of the series’ main plot threads, which sends her into the murderous hands of the blond, baby-faced Nicklas.

*Parts of the first episode feel reminiscent of The Neon Demon with scenes in neon-lit change rooms and beautiful, stoic women.*

*Miu’s first instance of payback ends episode 2 – a glorious, blazing set piece.*

From here, Refn continues to develop Copenhagen Cowboy as a psychedelic battle between abusive patriarchal institutions and the women they exploit. In episode 2 we meet Mother Hulda, the owner of a Chinese restaurant who we later learn has had her daughter taken by local gangster Mr Chiang. Though Refn’s dialogue is impassive and his actors’ facial expressions are stoic to the point of being inhuman, the strongest connection between any two characters may be the one here between Hulda and Miu, who sets out on a mission to get her daughter back. Just as she can bless people, so too can she apparently bring bad luck to those who deserve it, and as a skilled martial artist and clairvoyant, she poses a threat formidable enough to take down one major villain in a ludicrously anticlimactic fight.

*For all the slow pacing and long takes, Refn remains a very active editor, using long dissolves over Miu’s first direct interaction with Nicklas.*

In essence, Miu is an avenging angel of sorts, even framed in one key shot preceding a significant showdown with a ring light around her head like a halo, and in another with eagle wings stretching out behind her. She keeps any strong emotions she might possess locked up under the blue tracksuit that she wears like armour, its stiff turtleneck reaching all the way up to her chin, and simply through her penetrating gaze she can bring Siberian gangsters crumbling to the floor, wracked with fear and regret.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“I’m just looking at you.”

*Inspired framing of the eagle wings and halo behind Miu’s head, setting her up as an avenging angel.*

With what feels like several seconds of pause between each line of dialogue, Refn tunes us into the constant, synthesised ambience that fills the silences, thrumming and reverberating to the distorted rhythms crafted by Cliff Martinez and his team of composers. As is often the case with his and Refn’s collaborations, their work is a perfect formal match, soaking us in the ambience of electronic drones and vibrant neon lights that illuminate virtually every shady establishment in Copenhagen. These vivid fluorescent hues are often shaped through practical light sources built into Refn’s sets and making for some striking visual clashes, with Mother Hulda’s Chinese restaurant of red lanterns precisely arranged along green and blue curtains being a standout. As we come to understand Miu’s transcendent nature in more detail via a dream sequence as well, it almost appears as though these lights are radiantly pouring off her own skin and clothing, bathing her in an otherworldly glow colour against an entirely black background.

*For a television series, this is loaded with these dead gorgeous colour compositions, laying out these red lanterns in the Chinese restaurant.*

*Psychedelic dream sequences are everywhere, here emitting light from Miu’s body as her origins are revealed.*

*Like every Refn film since Drive, this is soaked in his characteristic neon lighting – dogged commitment to an aesthetic.*

Refn’s introduction to episode 5 also uses these vibrant contrasts to set up its gang war conceit particularly well, as he horizontally splits the screen and tracks his camera in opposite directions to examine both sides of the conflict – the blue half arranged in a tableau depicting the Last Supper, and the red posing on motorcycles. It is in those moments where rich displays of mise-en-scene and glacial camera movements combine that we feel fully immersed in his eerie environments, whether we are pointedly inching forward on character close-ups or floating around the golden apartment office of Miu’s old associate, Miroslav. Easily the most formally robust choice here though are Refn’s camera pans, frequently positioning us as distant, passive observers of Denmark’s urban underbelly.

*A superb opening to episode 5 which focuses on a gang war, with the split screen, camera pans, and conflicting colour palettes.*

Manipulating the golden light in Miroslav’s apartment office to throw these shapes across the ceiling. The use of darkness and lamps is particularly reminiscent of Gordon Willis’ photography in The Godfather.

The other major motif weaved through Copenhagen Cowboy’s scenes of animalistic greed and brutality are the pigs. Rosella’s passive husband, Sven, barely utters a word besides the bestial snorts and squeals he emits when beaten by her brother, Andre. It is revealed in episode 3 that Mr Chiang disposes of bodies by having them fed to Mother Hulda’s swine. In a simple yet deft cut, Refn moves from this scene to Nicklas playing with his own pet pigs, which we also met in the series’ very first scene. These men are the lowest of humanity propping themselves up as the greatest through their wealth and influence, though in such direct comparisons Refn exposes them as creatures of thoughtless instinct, constantly seeking to fulfil their most base desires.

*Refn’s world is unforgiving and twisted, and his pig motif is part of that, emphasising the worst of humanity as thoughtless animals.*

*Refn stages tableaux with stillness and absolute attention to detail, leaving his camera as the only moving part of the scene.*

Of these three men, it is Nicklas who is the most purely bone-chilling as an antagonist, possessing vampiric qualities that drive his bloodlust and make an enemy out of Miu. It is often in his house where Refn detaches from his neon aesthetic and turns to brighter, natural light, even offering a pastel, floral wallpaper backdrop to a Norman Bates-like monologue. He keeps a coffin in his basement too, and though one might initially presume that he sleeps in it, beneath its lid lie darker secrets which rear their head in Copenhagen Cowboy’s last two episodes.

*The camera zoom and floral wallpaper in this shot frames Nicklas as an eerie figure.*

The forest set piece where Nicklas’ surprise finally emerges to face Miu makes for a mesmerisingly surreal finale, shedding a dreamy natural light over a field of mysterious, tracksuited allies and her own terrified face, now showing emotion for the very first time. As Refn winds the ending towards a pair of cliff-hangers though, it is hard to not feel like we are being cheated of a final punch, leaving us wishing that this series was its own self-contained project. Still, as far as television goes, Copenhagen Cowboy is an exceptional cinematic triumph, traversing the psychological terrain of its otherworldly protagonist with disquieting stoicism and formal intensity. If Refn has another season of ideas in him to continue building out this hallucinatory Danish underworld, then let it be done. There’s nothing else on TV quite like it.

*Even Refn’s natural light looks otherworldly, shedding a purple hue over this finale.*

Copenhagen Cowboy is currently streaming on Netflix.