For the residents of this 17th century Danish village, the end times are near. Suspicions of witchcraft have escalated into full-blown trials and executions, sentencing women like the elderly Herlof’s Marte to burn at the stake, while more fortunate suspects are spared only through deals made with local authorities. Meanwhile, the ominous ‘Dies Irae’ motif reverberates through choirs of young boys, echoing the sinister poem which opens this tale.
“Day of Wrath, dreadful night,
Heaven and earth in ashes burning,
And the sun beset by dead of night.
That Day of Wrath, that sulfurous day
When flaming heavens together roll,
And earth’s beautiful castle shall pass away.”
These portentous warnings bear strong resemblance to those in The Seventh Seal, and the gale which at one point fills the soundscape with howling chaos may very well be the same which haunts The Turin Horse, yet Day of Wrath precedes both films. This apocalypse is one of forsaken marriages, religious paranoia, and helpless scapegoats, crushing whatever glimmer of passion might emerge between forbidden lovers. Still, this portentous drama never truly rules out the question of whether some unknown, transcendent power holds sway over the fragile lives of humans, sending the damned to early graves while the living remain in its grip of mortal terror.
Hymnal lyrics of doom and despair lay out the apocalypse at hand, damning the people of Earth to perish in their own cruelty.Choirs of young boys sing of the condemnation which awaits humanity on the Day of Judgement, chilling echoing the iconic ‘Dies Irae’ motif.
Young housewife Anne knows this feeling of dread too well. Her marriage to the local pastor Absalon was part of a bargain to save her late mother from accusations of witchcraft, and has since placed her under the thumb of Meret, her domineering, antagonistic mother-in-law. With Anne’s elderly neighbour Herlof’s Marte now knocking on her door, hoping to find refuge from similar charges, she can’t quite seem to remove herself entirely from the shadow of suspicion falling upon her either. Her eyes burn the same way as her mother’s did, Meret sombrely remarks, forewarning Absalon that one day he will find himself confronted with a choice between God and his wife.
Trapped within the confines of her husband’s home and subjected to her mother-in-law’s cruelty, Anne is set up as a victim of society – yet there resides an ambiguous power in her which underlies the spiritual mystery of Dreyer’s film.
Though it is apparent that the pastor has somewhat of a conscience, we can see in his rejection of Marte’s pleas for mercy that it is his passivity rather than any innate malice which lands him on the wrong side of these witch trials. Still, the same cannot be said of others in this town, who are spurred on by their need for a scapegoat to blame for their misfortune. The camera passes by spectators at Marte’s public torture as they lean forward in their seats, eager to see a confession drawn from her lips, and drawing strong parallels to another totalitarian regime occupying Dreyer’s homeland at the time of production. Just as he once aimed a critical lens at Joan of Arc’s political persecutors, here he angles his allegory towards the spread of Nazism, bitterly lamenting the grip of paranoid terror it held over Europe at large.
A slow, panning camera drifts past the faces of Marte’s interrogators, eager for her to break under physical and psychological pressure.Scenes of brutal torture underscore the sadistic malevolence of man, stripping it of spectacle.
As such, Dreyer’s slow, severe storytelling is an impeccable formal match for his chilling indictment of authoritarianism. Set and costumes designs are as starkly minimalist as ever, using bare stone walls as backdrops and imposing geometric arches and columns upon interior spaces. His roving camerawork is equally rigorous, often combining panning and tracking shots to explore thoroughly blocked tableaux, and particularly inviting our curiosity as we follow Anne through a hall of pillars where she eavesdrops on Marte’s futile plea for mercy. It is no wonder then that Anne wishes to escape these oppressive, greyscale chambers, making the arrival of Absalon’s son Martin all the sweeter for his romantic companionship.
Among Dreyer’s strongest shots, tracking through the columns of this hall before framing Anne within the funnelled archways.Stark, Gothic minimalism in Dreyer’s architecture, baring a stern facade.
Dreyer’s shift away from the harsh, Gothic architecture of the village and towards the natural scenery of Anne and Martin’s passionate affair is sharp, and further underscored by his deliberate intercutting between both locations. While Absalon visits the darkened home of a sick parishioner to deliver his last rites, we simultaneously join the lovers drifting down rivers and laying together in long grass, free from the rigid lines of their oppressive, austere home. Dreyer’s editing is not defined by quick rhythms here, but rather a slow, deliberate alternation between scenes, breaking through the dour monotony of emotionally restrained performances with warm smiles and tender affection. Still, even as Anne romantically poeticises about a tree on the riverbank, Martin’s guilt quietly impedes on their happiness.
“It is bowed in sorrow.”
“No, in longing.”
“In sorrow for us.”
“In longing for its reflection in the water. We can no more be parted than the tree and its reflection.”
Soft scenes of romance set among trees and rivers, contrasted against the harsh stone interiors of the village.
These lovers may be bound together emotionally, yet as Day of Wrath’s parallel editing so suggestively illustrates, they are also subject to a far more powerful bond metaphysically linking them back to Absalon. “Whosoever believeth shall live, though he die,” Absalon prays over his parishioner’s body, right before Dreyer cuts to Martin’s own pensive meditation on death.
“If we could die… together, here.”
“Why?”
“To atone for our sin.”
Absalon tends to a dying parishioner in this bleak frame, his meditations on death fatefully intercut with Anne and Martin’s.
It is not the disloyal son nor the unfaithful wife whom death shall ultimately visit though. Back at home Anne ponders aloud what their lives may look like if her husband were dead, and at that moment, we visit Absalon making his way through a vicious gale. He falters, proclaiming to have felt Death brush by him, before anxiously continuing his journey home. Dreyer is certainly no believer in witchcraft, and yet just as the climax of his later film Ordet is marked by the unexplained miracle of resurrection, there is a frightening ambiguity surrounding Anne’s apparently supernatural power. After derisively unleashing years of repressed anger over her stolen youth, she need only speak her desire aloud to strike him down.
“Therefore, I now wish you dead.”
A gale whips up on Absalon’s journey home, and death brushes by him.A vicious turn in Anne’s character unleashes a bitter wish for death, revealing what may or may not be a hidden power as her wish immediately manifests in reality.
Frightened by her words made real, Anne escapes the thick shadows of Absalon’s office and runs outside, hoping to find Martin in those gorgeous landscapes which once hosted their passionate affairs. Now shrouded in mist though, both are rendered as silhouettes, drained of light and warmth. There is no more room for love in this relationship, and therefore no hope for Anne’s salvation. She is not some defiant individualist, seeing through the narrow beliefs of an unjust society, but simply a woman who has internalised its prejudice so deeply that she confoundedly professes to aiding the “Evil One.” After all, how else could such a terrible catastrophe be arbitrarily visited upon one of God’s holy servants?
Dark silhouettes in misty landscapes as Anne seeks salvation with Martin, only to find their romance dissipated.
Above all else, it is the haunting ambiguity of Dreyer’s Gothic fable which lingers long after he has faded from Anne’s teary, smiling face. Very gradually, our doubt in the existence of witchcraft is twisted into vague hesitancy, even as we remain sympathetic to her tribulations. Perhaps it was a supernatural manifestation of an emotional outburst, or maybe it truly was incredibly unfortunate timing. Regardless, Day of Wrath reserves its ire not for the women of this village, but those who shape reality around their own fear and cruelty. Where Anne is a sinner, a victim, or both, Dreyer’s greatest anxiety lies in a prejudiced culture beyond moral redemption, masquerading its darkest impulses as divine, heavenly will.
Dreyer holds on Anne’s teary, smiling face as she confesses her sin, submitting to the persecution and accusations levelled at her.
Day of Wrath is currently streaming on The Criterion Channel.
Tormented by a lack of answers to his perpetual misfortune, Jewish physics professor Larry Gopnik meets with three rabbis in A Serious Man. The first is a young optimist fresh out of college, naively suggesting that Larry simply needs to shift his disposition. “The parking lot here. Not much to see,” he ponders, staring out his office window. “But if you imagine yourself a visitor, somebody who isn’t familiar with these autos and such. Somebody still with a capacity for wonder. Someone with a fresh… perspective.” Larry’s frustration with his frivolous metaphor is plain to see.
The second rabbi chooses to share an anecdote from a member of his synagogue – a dentist bewildered by the Hebrew scripture he finds engraved on the teeth of a non-Jewish patient. Driven to uncover what this could mean and how it got there, the dentist pursued the mystery to all ends, and eventually approached the rabbi to hear his insight. “So what did you tell him?” Larry eagerly asks, only to be met with curt indifference.
“Is it relevant?”
Still searching for a shred of guidance, Larry does not even make it all the way into the office of the final and most senior rabbi. He is busy, the secretary tells him, despite our view of the clearly unoccupied old man sitting at his desk.
The first rabbi – a young, naive optimist with nothing to offer but shallow metaphors.The second rabbi – a spinner of yarns who sees life’s mystery, yet lacks the curiosity to pursue answers.The third rabbi – a shrivelled old man whose potential wisdom remains just out of reach.
The fact that this seems like the run-up to a joke with no punchline is absolutely intentional on the Coen Brothers’ behalf, typifying their darkly ironic sense of humour. In these three rabbis, we find three answers that religion commonly gives to tough philosophical questions, including one total non-response. There is no grand revelation that inspires or consoles us. Instead, we find a mirror to the long, elaborate setup that is Larry’s life, prompting us to similarly ask – what is all this leading to? Is there a guiding hand behind the breakdown of his marriage to Judith, his brother’s legal woes, and his son’s troubles at Hebrew school? And if so, why must this suffering be inflicted on a man who by most accounts is a relatively good person?
Surrounded by books in the mise-en-scène, and yet none of these volumes can answer Larry’s burning spiritual questions.A magnificent frame – Larry is quite literally overwhelmed by figures and vharts in his attempt to understand the cosmos. He is a man of science, yet he remains deeply unsatisfied by his worldly knowledge.
That Larry makes a career out of searching for meaning through numbers certainly complements this existential character study too, and is perfectly distilled in his lecture on the Schrödinger’s cat thought experiment, suggesting that two conflicting states of being may simultaneously exist until they are observed. He is a man of both science and faith, and as far as he is aware, God both exists and does not. The mise-en-scène surrounds him with books in his attorney’s office and shrinks him beneath a colossal blackboard of equations, but all the information in the world cannot point to a simple yes or no answer.
The film as a whole is no great cinematographic triumph from Roger Deakins, yet in moments like these he draws a clean minimalism through Larry’s cookie-cutter neighbourhood and local synagogue, then every so often tips it off balance with canted angles, hazy drug trips, and surreal nightmares that bleed into reality. The discomfort is pervasive, eroding our trust in the security of Larry’s day-to-day existence, and prompting us to adopt his tentative doubt. Perhaps it would be comforting to believe in God, but then why is he being punished so cruelly? If there really is no sense to it all, how can he reckon with the random whims of pure chaos?
Oblique shots and high angles in the local synagogue, tipping the clean, orderly setting off-balance.Much like his son, Larry turns to drugs, and Deakins’ visuals hazily shift with his reality.
Although Larry’s journey from one tribulation to the next is not difficult to follow, the formal intricacies and allusions to the Book of Job place A Serious Man among the Coen Brothers’ most profoundly enigmatic works. We are condemned to the same ungratifying search for answers as our protagonist, so the decision to set the first scene of his story far outside his perspective is a bold one indeed. This prologue grounds the film in 19th century Jewish folklore, recounting the tale of a married couple faced with a terrifying uncertainty. Is the man they have invited into their house truly human, or rather a dybbuk – that is, an evil spirit in disguise? After the wife stabs the visitor, he wanders outside into the snow, leaving this question frighteningly ambiguous. If these are Larry’s ancestors and the old man was indeed a dybbuk, then perhaps this is the source of the curse which would ruin his life over a century later. If the visitor was a living being, maybe our protagonist is just a very unlucky man.
The Coen Brothers’ haunting prologue plays out an ambiguous fable foreshadowing Larry’s spiritual uncertainty, as well as his incredible misfortune.
From there, the Coen Brothers weave a tapestry of subplots through A Serious Man that mirror Larry’s identity in others. In his wife’s lover, Sy, he finds the well-respected “serious man” he wishes he could be – albeit one who coincidentally perishes in a road accident at the exact moment Larry crashes his own car. In his brother Arthur, he sees an even more broken version of himself, to whom he offers the same impractical guidance that others try to give him. As for his son Danny who struggles to fit in at school, there the Coen Brothers model a smaller scale version of his own ethical dilemmas. Is Larry justified in sleeping with his neighbour and experimenting with marijuana, now that he has split from his wife? What about accepting a monetary bribe from another student in exchange for a passing grade? If he is already being unjustly chastened by God, surely crossing these moral boundaries won’t make difference – and if God doesn’t exist, then who really cares?
Arthur’s brokenness reveals the true depths of Larry’s despair, as well as his inability to help either himself or his brother.Danny wanders through adolescence without moral certainty or guidance, and as we see in his father, answers don’t come easily with age.
It is along this line of thinking though that Larry lets his sense of accountability gradually wear away in A Serious Man, spurred on by a helpless passivity. Danny’s subscription to the Columbia Record Club under his father’s name isn’t exactly fair, yet Larry is still responsible for making the overdue payments anyway. He reasons that he shouldn’t be punished for not doing anything, but since new vinyls are automatically mailed without customer intervention, it is precisely his inaction that has landed him in this situation.
The more we begin to recognise this dysfunctional trait in Larry, the more we see how his inclination to dwell in self-pity is at least partly responsible for many of his other problems too. He did not need to move out of his family home without standing his ground, and neither did he need to give into the pressure of paying for Sy’s funeral. Michael Stuhlbarg’s sheepish demeanour embodies every bit of this unassertive meekness, barely pushing his soft, reedy voice past a moderate speaking volume even when he shouts. Instead, he focuses all his anger at a God whose old-fashioned retribution seems ill-fitting to his upstanding lifestyle, and who conveniently isn’t present to verbally retaliate.
A Serious Man put Michael Stuhlbarg on the map, playing to his strengths as an immensely introspective actor who can communicate entire thought processes through a simple facial expression.
If there is a divine message to be found anywhere in A Serious Man, then it is ironic that it should come from the reclusive senior rabbi who previously declined a meeting with Larry. Instead, it is Danny who is chosen to receive his cryptic wisdom, delivered in the form of song lyrics.
“When the truth is found to be lies,
And all the hope within you dies… then what?”
Even those who aren’t familiar with ‘Somebody to Love’ by Jefferson Airplane would recognise these words from the film’s recurring musical motif. Its urgent rhythms accompany Larry’s philosophical journey with a raw, driving intensity, yet still he overlooks his life’s missing purpose hidden plainly in the song’s very title. As if to answer the question he has posed Danny, the rabbi ends their brief meeting with a simple yet valuable instruction.
“Be a good boy.”
Finally, we hear the esoteric wisdom from the third rabbi – though Larry is not the one to receive it, and its meaning is far from apparent.
Living with such uncertainty, is this moral imperative not the best we can do? If every one of Larry’s trials has been a test of his integrity, then has he succeeded? The Coen Brothers rarely give us the endings we expect to their films, yet with the mighty coincidence that turns up at Larry’s doorstep the moment he takes his first truly sinful action, they once again prove why they are among their generation’s best screenwriters. Drowning in legal fees, the bribe his student left on his desk begins to look very attractive, and no more than a second after he decides to give into temptation does the phone ring with dire news on the other end.
A turning point for Larry as he transgresses his own moral boundaries – pain, desperation, and self-loathing in his expression.
The tornado which simultaneously approaches Danny’s school only compounds our suspicion that Larry is being punished for a relatively minor transgression, once again suggesting a visitation of the father’s sins upon his children, and referencing the Book of Job where God appeared to his tormented follower as a whirlwind. The Coen Brothers’ parallel editing evocatively binds both the fatal disease and natural disaster together as a chilling, fateful condemnation, yet still we must question – isn’t this totally disproportionate to the sin that was committed? Must Larry now endure the ultimate catastrophe for cutting a moral corner that anyone under similar duress would also disregard?
Biblical symbolism as a whirlwind threatens to end the life of Larry’s offspring – retribution sent from the heavens.
Or is this merely a convenient explanation we would like to apply to the chaotic winds of chance? After all, those with who listen closely may pick up on the phone’s muffled ring first sounding immediately before Larry changes his student’s grade, even though the sharp interruption of the second ring is the one we consciously notice. It seems a minor difference, but if we are considering cause and effect in broad ontological terms, then it bears incredible weight on how we view the universe. Maybe Larry was always going to meet this unremarkable end, and maybe living a moral life won’t save any of us from what’s coming. Without any firm assurances though, the Coen Brothers simply leave us to dwell in A Serious Man’s eerie, senseless ambiguity. When all is said and done, perhaps being a “good boy” is the best we can do with what little we’ve got.
A Serious Man currently available to rent or buy on Apple TV, YouTube, Amazon Video.
Early in Queer, we delve into writer William Lee’s nightmare of his friends in prison, an abandoned baby, and a naked woman bisected along her torso. The symbolism opaquely hints at the guilt harboured by William Burroughs, the real-life novelist who based this troubled character off himself, though it is his response to this woman questioning his sexuality which articulates the film’s most layered metaphor.
“I’m not queer. I’m disembodied.”
The separation between Lee’s self-loathing thoughts and pleasure-seeking instincts drives a wedge into the core of his identity as a gay man, and is further reflected in Luca Guadagnino’s dissociative direction, often letting the writer’s mind escape his physical being. Early in his relationship with the much younger Eugene, Lee’s yearning is often rendered as a transparent, ghostly version of himself reaching out to caress his face or lean on his shoulder, though it also manifests even more darkly in his indulgent vices. Drugs and alcohol offer easy escapes from the shame of his sexuality, and even sex too ironically satiates that desire for euphoric sensation as it simultaneously feeds that underlying guilt.
Guadagnino calls back to silent cinema techniques with his double exposure effects, ethereally manifesting Lee’s longing.
The 1950s was not a particularly hospitable time for the gay community, yet there was also a certain level of privilege that came with living as a white man in Mexico City which Lee and his similarly ostracised friends use as a social counterbalance. This circle of outsiders is relatively insular, so when Eugene arrives at their local bar flirting with both men and women, Lee is instantly drawn to his mysterious allure. This is a man who hides his emotions so well that others question whether he really is gay, striking an intense contrast against our verbose protagonist’s overbearing tendency to persistently chase interactions. When Lee leans in, Eugene often hesitantly pulls away, making the few moments of organic connection between all the more valuable.
Vibrant set designs lifted a layer from the real world, saturated with colour yet often underscoring Lee’s loneliness.
There was never any doubting Daniel Craig’s talents during his time as James Bond, though the performance he delivers here as the eloquently eccentric Lee is his most layered yet, leaning into the weariness of a middle-aged man whose existential insecurities are only amplified by his ageing. He inhabits a world that is one level removed from our reality, filling in the malaise with the bold, bright colours that often decorate Pedro Almodóvar’s melodramas. Within the lush purple and red lighting of a hotel bedroom and the yellow décor of his apartment, his inner life is given passionate outward expression, though Guadagnino’s stylistic achievement does not end there either. From a distance, the city is often whimsically rendered through miniatures, making cars look like toys and buildings like dollhouses. In an ending that thoughtfully borrows from the final act of 2001: A Space Odyssey, this visual motif pays off when Lee hallucinates another version of himself inside a diorama of the hotel where he is staying, further splitting his mind and his body between entirely different realms.
Guadagnino’s use of miniatures feeds into Lee’s feeling of disembodiment – the world doesn’t seem quite right, driving a wedge between his mind and reality.A dream sequence inspired by 2001: A Space Odyssey with multiple versions of Lee occupying the same space.Inside the surreal dollhouse hotel, drenched in deep red.
The height of Queer’s surrealism though arrives when Lee and Eugene venture into the deep jungles of South America, seeking a plant which is said to grant telepathic abilities. It is no wonder why Lee should be so obsessed with such a prospect – if the rumours are true, then perhaps this higher form of communication is a treatment for his emotional isolation, allowing a union of souls which regular conversation and sex cannot attain.
A search for enlightenment through experimentation with hallucinogens, transcending the restraints of the physical world.
Although Guadagnino largely maintains the novella’s literary quality through his chapter breaks, he takes creative liberties in departing from its depiction of the drug trip here. Where the source material saw Lee disappointed by its underwhelming effects, the film submits to the psychedelia, having him and Eugene literally vomit out their hearts before exposing their truest feelings. “I’m not queer,” Eugene asserts, formally echoing Lee’s earlier words as his body fades from view during their hallucinogenic drug trip. “I’m just disembodied.” Indeed, these two men have never been more detached from their physical beings, and have never been more in synchrony as their bodies grotesquely merge into one. Limbs move beneath fused skin as they dance, and for one precious night, Lee truly escapes his shame and transcends his loneliness.
Body horror and surrealism as Lee and Eugene merge into a single being, making a euphoric yet fleeting connection between divided souls.
This drug is not some portal into some other place though, their dealer Dr. Cotter is sure to warn them. It is a mirror into one’s soul, offering a glimpse at whatever desires and fears lurk beneath their consciousness. Its euphoria is short-lived, particularly for Eugene who wakes up the next morning anxious and eager to leave. It is a terrifying thing losing a part of oneself to another person, and when faced with the truth of his relationship with Lee, he sees its toxicity for what it is.
The recurring centipede is one of Guadagnino’s more cryptic symbols in Queer, and its unsettling appearance in Lee’s dream of Eugene many years after their breakup continues to hold him in an unresolved state of suspension. Just as it first appeared around the neck of a one-night stand, the centipede now marks Eugene as another fleeting lover, manifesting the real-life Burroughs’ self-confessed fear and cherished literary motif. Lee’s story is unfinished in Guadagnino’s eyes, leaving him a half-complete man torn between dualities – shame and indulgence, connection and independence, mind and body. As long as he strives to separate rather than reconcile these parts of his identity, he will continue to live in a world of dissociative nightmares, spiritually and psychologically divorced from himself. Through the colourful, eerie patterns that Guadagnino consequently uncovers in Lee’s character, Queer delivers an unflinching fever dream that denies easy answers to his internal contradictions, constantly unravelling his capacity for love by his fear of being seen.
Guadagnino’s narrative is brimming with symbolic motifs, particularly borrowing the unsettling centipede from Burrough’s own works as a manifestation of Lee’s insecurity.
Queer is currently available to rent or buy on Apple TV and Amazon Video.
Prison inmate Divine G may not have committed the crime he was found guilty of, but the shame and atonement which Sing Sing interrogates has nothing to do with the eyes of the law. Not once do we even learn what the other incarcerated participants of Divine G’s theatre program did to wind up here. Their rehabilitation is purely a matter of the soul, placing each on the same level regardless of their past. “We’re here to become human again,” one of them explains to the troupe’s newest member, Divine Eye, justifying the playful whimsy with which they conduct themselves in this safe space. “To put on nice clothes and dance around and enjoy the things that is not in our reality.”
So sincere is Greg Kwedar in humanising these inmates that many are played by the actual men of the story this film is based on. Not only did the Rehabilitation Through the Arts program at Sing Sing Maximum Security Prison provide them a means of self-expression, a supportive community of fellow Black men, and a path forward – it also honed their talent enough for them to effectively fill in the ensemble of this character-driven prison drama. Through the act of performance, Divine G and his troupe find realer versions of themselves beyond a criminal record or their public infamy. Emotional wounds are revealed beneath outward displays of anger, and in the case of the kind, intelligent Divine G, flashes of bitterness escape his sensitive resolve.
Among the few professional actors in this cast, Colman Domingo leads Sing Sing with calm composure, acting as the unofficial leader of his troupe. When Divine G isn’t leading productions of Shakespeare, he is writing original scripts and modelling emotional maturity as a mentor for his fellow inmates. He passes no judgement, and neither do his fellow actors, until the arrival of Divine Eye threatens the community he has carefully cultivated. Their theatre exercises are goofy, Divine Eye remarks, and Divine G’s dreary dramas are far from exciting – so why not consider a zany time travel comedy for their next show?
While most of the troupe supportively rallies around Divine Eye’s suggestion, Divine G can’t help but feel threatened by this shifting power dynamic. His theatre group is his life, and Divine Eye’s inability to take any of this seriously cuts to his core. As such, the friction between both personalities takes centre stage in Sing Sing, with both Domingo and the real Divine Eye thoughtfully navigating a pair of intertwined character arcs. Kwedar does not fare so well in letting us feel the span of time spent with these men, but the bumpy road they travel towards a lifelong friendship is nevertheless a compelling one, seeing both step in for each other at different points when they are at their lowest.
For Divine G, this support is delivered through the conquest of his own ego, understanding Divine Eye’s desperate need for someone to help him articulate deeply buried emotions. Bit by bit, we see his development as an actor, bringing intonation to monologues rather than falling back on the anger and aloofness that he knows too well. For Divine Eye on the other hand, it is that newfound ability to relate with others which motivates him to reach out to his demoralised friend. After all Divine G’s hard work building the theatre group, we can feel his frustration when it is barely considered in his clemency hearing, and instead gives them ammunition for their harshest, most insulting question.
“So are you acting at all during this interview?”
That Divine G’s appeal should be rejected when Divine Eye is granted release seems totally unfair, and very gradually, we begin to see both men’s attitudes cross over. Where the mentor once guided the troublemaker into a welcoming community, he now rejects the brotherhood with biting resentment, broken by a system that is fundamentally rigged against Black people. Clearly Divine G is not immune to the repressed anger that so many of these incarcerated men reckon with, and the raw despair in Domingo’s performance makes for a particularly bleak contrast against his earlier self-assuredness. Nevertheless, the seeds that he spent years sowing into the community have finally sprouted, and in a rehabilitated Divine Eye, he finds his own compassion and wisdom reflected right back at him.
Each of these prisoners are fighting their own internal battles, and Divine G is no exception, learning to accept his place among peers despite his lawful innocence. What Kwedar lacks in visual style, he makes up for with delicate attention to character detail, demonstrating an inspired approach to casting which blurs truth and representation. Through this metafictional angle, Sing Sing merges its sensitive consideration of art’s healing power with its very form, producing a fresh, nuanced understanding of those disenfranchised by an institution specifically designed to break them down.
When David’s Jewish heritage tour group sits down for a dinner together late in A Real Pain, he recounts a joke that his grandmother once told him. “First generation immigrants work some menial job. You know, they drive cabs, they deliver food,” he begins. “Second generation, they go to good schools, and they become like a doctor or a lawyer or whatever,” he continues, building to the punchline. “And the third generation lives in their mother’s basement and smokes pot all day.”
Quiet chuckles echo around the table, yet David’s cousin Benji remains silent. “She said that?” he asks, obviously offended. “I lived in my mum’s basement.” Although the joke is a vast over-simplification of generational immigrant patterns, it is also the cleanest distillation of trauma’s many faces in A Real Pain, fitting David and Benji’s clashing characters into a broader cultural context. While one pushes his “unexceptional” pain down to avoid burdening others, the other openly wrestles with it, swinging between uncomfortable emotional extremes. At the same time though, Jesse Eisenberg’s comedy-drama is not blind to the sensitivity and empathy that are tied deeply to Benji’s turbulent personality. As these cousins reconnect to their Jewish ancestry in Poland, we also witness their reconnection with each other, binding polar opposites together through humour, compassion, and aching grief.
Benji is the first of the two we meet, introduced at the end of a tracking shot which flies past other passengers at JFK International Airport. Eventually it settles on his quiet presence, as still and subdued as we will ever see him. He has been waiting here since the airport opened, he tells his surprised cousin – and why wouldn’t he be? He claims that this is a great opportunity to simply watch the world go by, but given his unemployment and lack of close family, it is evident that he has little else to occupy his time. Despite his laidback nature, there is an underlying loneliness fuelling Kieran Culkin’s incredibly funny performance, longing for authentic, honest relationships. This is ironically something he proves himself very adept at forging too as we see him easily bond with his fellow tourists, yet still deep-seated issues keep him from holding onto anything for the long-term.
There is one major exception here though, represented in Benji’s relationship with this film’s most influential unseen character. He and his grandmother were close like no one else, and her passing has affected him in ways that not even David can understand. Despite their differing life experiences, they shared a mutual respect as blunt yet caring outsiders, trying to make it in a society that cares little for them. Her final parting gift to both Benji and David before passing was this trip to her homeland, and now as they tour its towns, monuments, and concentration camps, the impact of her struggles as a Holocaust survivor manifests in their lives clearer than ever.
Jesse Eisenberg’s flair for playing neurotic, highly strung characters is no surprise, and his visual direction of A Real Pain is modest at best, so it his talents as a screenwriter which stand out here. Both David and Benji are immensely well-realised characters, and each scene in which they are together efficiently exposes new sides to their dynamic, often seeing the latter passionately engage in the tour while trampling over his cousin’s expectations of polite conduct. Whether Benji is posing with memorial statues or criticising the tour for its clinical approach, David’s embarrassment gradually gives way to tender appreciation, joining the others in embracing his cousin’s playfulness, sensitivity, and jarring honesty.
After all, if this Holocaust tour is not the place for Jewish people to communally ponder their complicated feelings of guilt, pride, and heartache, then what is? Eisenberg’s choice to set this story against the Romantic piano music of Polish composer Frédéric Chopin firmly anchors it in a culture of rich artistic expression, playing his airy preludes, nocturnes, and waltzes beneath montages of the nation’s modernist and neoclassical architecture. When the group inevitably visits Auschwitz concentration camp though, Eisenberg drops the soundtrack altogether, dwelling in a grave solemnity which reaches the depths of Benji’s soul. On the bus back to the city, he sobs into his clenched hands, and Culkin pours out a profound, visceral anguish.
It is rarely made explicit, but there is evidently a deeper reckoning with mental illness present here, intertwined with David and Benji’s complex family history. Both characters are inverse portraits of managing this, and although David seems to function more smoothly, he does not do himself any favours by sealing off his emotions. In fact, despite the appearance of having his life together, he even admits to harbouring jealousy over Benji’s ability to connect with anyone through pure charm and sincerity – not that the modern world always allows room for such public self-expression. When they finally arrive at their grandmother’s old home, this barrier becomes particularly apparent, as their effort to pay humble tribute is quickly shut down by a nosey neighbour.
As for whether this journey of enlightenment and reconnection will stay with the cousins upon returning to New York, the conclusion of A Real Pain remains poignantly ambiguous. While David carries a sentimental souvenir with him, Benji appears to be just as directionless as he was before, sitting alone in the airport as Eisenberg formally mirrors the film’s very first shot in its last. David’s invitation to his place is right there, but Benji nevertheless resigns himself to the isolation he is most familiar with, falling back into cycles propagated by generations of unresolved trauma. Eisenberg’s dual character study examines shared bloodlines with affectionate humour, yet history continues to live on in its fragmented offshoots, revealing the depths of human vulnerability and resilience through the burden of inherited sorrow.
A Real Pain is currently streaming on Disney Plus.
When a stubborn iconoclast is forced into the rigid confines of celebrity culture, it is inevitable that one will eventually break the other. When that rebel is Bob Dylan and the entertainment industry that he inherits specifically elevates stars with clearly defined images, the friction is enough to instigate a social turning point, confronting the inherent uncertainty within modern art, philosophy, and politics. As such, there is a challenge that comes with fitting his unorthodox story into a genre which often falls too easily into a ‘Greatest Hits’ playlist, appealing more to cheap nostalgia than thoughtful re-examination of an icon’s legacy.
A Complete Unknown is not as boldly experimental asTodd Haynes’ I’m Not There, which offers a far more compelling insight into Dylan’s multitude of identities, yet James Mangold also fortunately saves it from the flavourless banality of Bohemian Rhapsody. Focusing on those first few years of the musician’s career at least grants the film some leeway, catching him at a point in time when the question of who he would be still hangs in the air – though truthfully, this mystery has never quite been settled. Ironically, Dylan’s most distinguishing feature may very well be his elusiveness, and it is there where Mangold’s biopic effectively captures the countercultural icon’s inscrutable essence.
The quiet depth that Timothee Chalamet brings to the role certainly pierces some of that obscurity, offering greater insight into those romantic and professional relationships which shaped his early career, yet never does he completely bare his soul. Not even his girlfriend Sylvie is quite able to figure him out, lamenting the strange gaps in his story that keep others at a distance, but we can also see that he feels just as much an outsider to himself. Instead, music and experimentation pave the path to self-awareness, and as his profile grows, he is quick to defy those who keep him from satiating his curiosity.
Chalamet hits all the right notes here in his interpretation of Dylan, striking a fine resemblance in his recreation of the musician’s drawling mumble, yet also building on his persona in a manner that transcends mere mimicry. This Dylan can be both deeply contemplative and abrasively blunt in his own aloof way, drawing out an affair with singer Joan Baez while continuing to live with Sylvie. Later he walks offstage mid-performance when he feels pressured to sing his most popular songs, and when he introduces his new, electronic sound Newport Folk Festival, he stubbornly persists through the jeers of the audience.
Mangold plays loose with his dramatisation of Dylan’s story, at worst exaggerating the committee’s rush to pull the plug on this pivotal performance, and elsewhere undercutting a breakup scene with an awkward metaphor about spinning plates. After all, a certain level of sensationalism is unfortunately needed in bringing a story like this to the mainstream. For the most part though, A Complete Unknown smooths over these contrivances for the sake of its character work, drawing tension from Dylan’s peculiar, incongruous standing in American pop culture.
The vintage aesthetic that absorbs Chalamet in a world of smoky bars and spotlights also offers some authenticity here, replicating the fashion of 1960s Greenwich Village where bohemian counterculture thrived. With acoustic guitars and soulful vocals filling these spaces too, notes of Inside Llewyn Davis are felt strongly, though Dylan’s tale is not one of existential malaise. Instead, there is an impassioned energy in Mangold’s moving camera and abundant lens flares, blearily underscoring this rise to stardom in an era of artistic revolution.
For the disillusioned audiences of mid-century America, no longer are the glamorous, untouchable idols of Hollywood enough to earn their attention and reverence. News reports of the Cuban Missile Crisis and JFK’s death anchor Mangold’s film to a specific, turbulent point in time, embedding them just as much in Dylan’s character as he is ingrained in the culture at large. The unity of art and politics was not exactly a new concept in the 60s, but to invent a new brand of celebrity that can be both radically outspoken and mysteriously private is a feat which inspires absolute awe in A Complete Unknown. There in the unresolved and unexplained, true artistry is born, and Mangold leaves us entranced by its confounding, extraordinary contradictions.
A Complete Unknown is currently playing in cinemas.
When the niece of Major Allshard first dons a yellow ribbon in her hair, there is much chatter among the men at Fort Starke regarding who it is for. As lyricised in the folk song which gives this film its name, it is traditionally worn as a symbol of love and loyalty to a man fighting in war, although Olivia is not so open about the identity of her sweetheart. As such, a rivalry is born between Lieutenants Ross and Flint, incidentally tempering the harsh nature of their larger mission at hand with lighter touches of romance and humour.
For a film that places such a great emphasis on duty and honour, She Wore a Yellow Ribbon is brimming with warmth in its side characters and subplots, though this should be no surprise to those familiar with John Ford’s mythos of America. After all, what are these Frontier Army troops really fighting for, if not the prosperity of their families back home? As for honourable men like Captain Nathan Brittles who have suffered great loss, grief does not wither their hearts, but rather gives them even greater reason to fight for the happiness of others. Consequently, She Wore a Yellow Ribbon meets him during a significant time of his life indeed – ruefully facing down retirement from the only thing that gives his him purpose.
A yellow ribbon in Olivia’s hair hints at a sweetheart among the young cavalrymen, weaving romance and humour into this otherwise high-stakes tale.Blue and yellow uniforms stand out against the red, earthy tones of the desert, and even more so thanks to Ford’s rigorous blocking.
Brittles’ last detail comes in the wake of 1876’s Battle of Little Big Horn, which saw Native American warriors overwhelm the United States Army and break free of their reservations. War is brewing in the West, and Fort Starke is no longer the sanctuary it once was. Not only must he and his troop of cavalry soldiers drive them back home, but they must also escort Olivia and her aunt Abby to an eastbound stagecoach, which will take them to safety. The stakes are immense, and with Brittles’ last day of service approaching, there is an acute pressure to fulfil his assignment before bidding farewell to the only life he has ever known since his wife’s passing.
Brittles’ backstory lends his final mission personal stakes, as he prepares to farewell the only life he has known since his wife’s passing.Ford and his cinematographer Winton C. Hoch are laying the groundwork for The Searchers, shooting Monument Valley in Technicolor for the first time and crafting these stunning landscapes.
Besides the native tribes and the petty divisions among his own men, there is another adversary the ageing captain must contend with, taking the form of America’s rugged wilderness. This was not the first time Ford shot among the astounding vistas of Monument Valley, and he was already well acquainted with colour filmmaking by 1949, yet She Wore a Yellow Ribbon marks the union of both. Much of the bold beauty here is thanks to the genius of cinematographer Winton C. Hoch, whose proficiency in Technicolor photography far surpassed his peers in 1940s Hollywood, though Ford’s own eye for composition should not be underrated. Blood-red sunrises silhouette the company’s bugler as plays a brassy melody to herald the new day, while the land of vast plains and towering buttes draws deep, earthy tones through the mise-en-scène, swallowing up armies of blue-uniformed specks in spectacular establishing shots.
A blazing red sunrise cuts out the bugler’s silhouette – an image of patriotism and remembrance.High horizons use the red rock valleys as mise-en-scène, here situating us behind a Native American surveying the view.Low horizons stretch the blue, cloudy skies out over the cavalrymen, putting them at the mercy of the elements.
Perhaps most breathtaking though are those visions of Monument Valley that impressionably shift with the weather, beating down the travelling cavalry beneath the scorching sun and later shrouding its rocky outcrops in grey, ghostly clouds. Even after spotting a thunderstorm brewing in the distance, Ford reportedly demanded that they continue rolling, forcing both his cast and crew to trudge through slurries of mud. It is surely no coincidence that this led to one of the film’s most memorable and visually striking scenes – there is a raw, practical authenticity to such imagery which connects Brittles’ quest to the land itself, accordingly revealing the sheer perseverance of those who seek to navigate its formidable challenges.
Fog hangs low around the buttes of Monument Valley, offering an unusually ghostly atmosphere.Lightning strikes and rain pours during this thunderstorm, yet Brittles’ men and Ford’s crew persevere through the natural challenges thrown their way.
This admirable quality is perhaps most plainly illustrated though in Brittles’ attempted peace talks, careful manoeuvring, and resistance to unnecessary bloodshed. Nonviolent offence is clearly the preferred tactic here, especially given that hostile conquest would only spur on further aggression, but even then victory is not guaranteed. The burned-out remains of another military fort shake Brittles’ men to their core, and their failure to keep firearms out of the hands of Native Americans drastically shifts the odds against them further, eventually driving the entire troop back to Fort Starke in shame-faced defeat.
Excellent blocking of actors in this expansive landscape, trailing these Native Americans along the top of a hill and against the sky.Ravaged villages and innocent lives lost – this is a mission of many failures, testing Brittles’ mettle as a leader.
Brittles’ final hours as Captain are approaching, yet the prospect of letting his men continue this mission without an effective plan or assured leadership is difficult to stomach. The silver pocket watch they gift him as a farewell present certainly doesn’t help to ease the sorrow either, earning a moment of genuine poignancy as John Wayne tears up – a rare sight to behold in any Western, let alone one directed by Ford.
Still, when else does one’s dutiful commitment shine brighter than at one’s lowest point? Against all else, this is the American ideal that She Wore a Yellow Ribbon holds in greatest esteem, especially when Brittles resolves to launch one last campaign before he is officially retired. At 12 minutes to midnight, he orders his bugler sound the charge and leads his troop into the Native American camp of renegades – not to inflict violence, but to scatter their horses into the wild. Silhouetted against the clouds of dust being kicked up behind them, Brittles’ cavalry rides swiftly with the stampede, grounding what is one of Ford’s finest set pieces in peace rather than subjugation. With no herd, these tribes have no means of mounting attacks, and are consequently forced to return to their reservations on foot rather than stoking further conflict.
A grand set piece in the dead of night – no blood is spilt as Brittles and his men drive the renegades’ horses into the wild, accomplishing their mission with peaceful diplomacy and tact.
Even in the aftermath, Ford continues to flex his mastery of sweeping landscapes as Brittles riding off into a red and purple sunset and towards new settlements in California, though this new civilian life is fleeting. As an officer delivers a letter recalling him to duty as Chief of Scouts, She Wore a Yellow Ribbon optimistically upholds that those who seek to serve their country will always find a place among the ranks of their fellow soldiers. After all, there is still much joy to be found in this community at Fort Starke, especially with Olivia and Flint finally announcing their engagement and becoming a perfect picture of an American idealism worth defending. “Wherever they rode and whatever they fought for, that place became the United States,” the closing voiceover proudly proclaims – and for all its dewy-eyed patriotism, Ford’s grand mythologising of historic archetypes cannot be criticised for a lack of sincere, rousing conviction.
Riding off into a jaw-dropping sunset, painting the frame with shades of red, orange, and purple that all bleed into each other.
She Wore a Yellow Ribbon is currently available to purchase on Apple TV and Amazon Video.
For the first half hour of Letter Never Sent, the most pressing dramas that arises on our four adventurers’ journey into the wilderness are their romantic tensions and jealousies. Tanya’s affection for Andrei particularly irritates the insecure Sergei, resulting in a physical altercation that leaves Andrei picking himself up out of a swamp, and further complicating their already challenging quest for diamonds in the secluded mountains and forests of central Siberia.
Perhaps the only level-headed member of this party is their guide, Konstantin. Unlike the others, he is not a geologist, yet he has traversed this region many times before. It is clear from the letter he is writing to his wife that their juvenile antics are of little interest to him, and instead his heart and mind linger elsewhere.
“Remembered sitting in the hallway with you. I saw love and anxiety in your eyes. But again and again some overpowering voice keeps carrying me off. I’m even glad not to have sent this letter. Now during every stop near every campfire I’ll write to you about our itinerant life in the taiga.”
Each character is beautifully established in the opening scenes, as Kalatozov creates intimate arrangements from their faces.
Konstantin knows better than anyone how unpredictable the natural world can be, though even he isn’t prepared for the overwhelming turn of events which shrinks these emotions into minor trivialities. This rugged environment does not exist to profit humans, but is indifferent to their aspirations and suffering, tenderising vulnerable minds with its unfathomable, primordial chaos before swallowing them whole.
Where Mikhail Kalatozov once dedicated his handheld camerawork and canted angles to the soul-destroying grief of war in The Cranes Are Flying, here his aesthetic revels in a maddening struggle for survival, bowing down before ravaging elemental forces. We can feel every breath and shiver through his ultra wide-angle lens, pressing intimately against actors’ faces while stretching out daunting landscapes behind their weary expressions. His shift in location away from the urban centres of Russia only further demonstrates the versatility of his high-contrast photography as well, studying the evocative textures of rippling water, fresh fallen snow, and charred forests with equal parts wonder and terror.
Textured ripples in the water – a Tarkovsky trademark here that precedes his first film by two years.Low angles as well point up at overcast skies, forming these gorgeous, minimalist compositions.Griffith, Dreyer, Bergman – Kalatozov joins that list of directors who perfected and innovated the art of the close-up.
Even before these explorers begin dropping though, Kalatozov is already wearing away at their sanity, sinking his majestic orchestral score into a crashing, dissonant cacophony of strings, woodwinds, and percussion. “We are straining ourselves to wrench out the mystery from the bowels of the earth,” Konstantin continues to write in his letter, his voiceover playing beneath a frenetic montage of the party trekking across mountains and fruitlessly hacking at the earth, while the faint, double-exposed imprint of a fire rages over the top. The foreshadowing should not go unnoted here. As if sparked by this raging delirium, the forest itself catches alight shortly after, tragically dooming Sergei to perish beneath a fallen tree.
Foreshadowing in the double exposure effect of a raging fire.
“Nature has turned herself against us,” Konstantin’s voiceover poignantly reflects, though truthfully it was never on their side. Black smoke and haze rises into the air, and Kalatozov uncharacteristically uses a telephoto lens to cut out the survivors’ silhouettes against a grey sky, creating the impression of a two-dimensional image as they vainly call for help into a radio. The smog is far too thick for even a passing search helicopter to pick them out, and so they soon find themselves isolated once again, with nothing but their wits and stamina to outlast whatever the land should throw at them next.
A rare instance of Kalatozov using a telephoto lens, pressing his actors’ silhouettes against a dark, smoky sky to create a two-dimensional effect.
The cleansing rain that falls in the wake of this devastation helps to douse the remaining embers and quench the adventurers’ thirst, though it is little more than temporary relief as they trudge through the spindly, black trees of the forest’s ashy remains. Weakened to the point of total exhaustion, Andrei’s dazed expression floats by in close-up as he is carried on a makeshift gurney, and we too take his immediate point-of-view as he gazes up at the trees in a trance. Realising the burden that he is inflicting on his companions, he decides to disappear into the misty swamp one night and, much to Tanya’s horror, becomes the second to perish.
Letter Never Sent covers a huge range of natural environments, revealing central Siberia’s vast scope of danger.Kalatozov specifically styled these mounds for this shot – painstaking attention to detail, even when shooting in nature.
As the party’s numbers dwindle throughout Letter Never Sent, Kalatozov reveals a robust formal structure, not so concerned with narrative convention than his characters’ psychological disintegration. That each should meet their end in a totally different environment only further reveals the vast scope of the peril which encompasses them, particularly when winter falls and Tanya succumbs to the cold. As Konstantin carries her through the snow, Kalatozov recalls Andrei’s floating close-ups and point-of-view shots, though this time taking her perspective with a blurred lens that fades into a deep, empty darkness.
Horizontal close-ups and disorientated point-of-view shots formally connect these two devastatingdeaths.A lonely trudge through snowy wastelands, accompanied by a sparse quiver of strings.
By the time Konstantin is left as the party’s sole survivor, the score has settled into a sparse, lonely quiver of strings, accompanied by that constant voiceover. Unlike his companions, he was never motivated by the promise of riches – he has something far more valuable waiting for him back home, driving him to persevere against all odds.
“Vera! My darling Vera! My life doesn’t belong to me. I must deliver the map to people. I can’t die. I can’t. I must live. Too much has been lost. Too much has been found.”
Floating on a makeshift raft down an icy river, hallucinations of industrial ports, cranes, and boats entice Konstantin in haunting long dissolves, while a warm vision of Vera gently calls him back to the harsh reality he must face to survive. This is just as much a psychological struggle as it is a physical one, and only those who are prepared to fight both battles may live long enough to find salvation on the other end.
Breathtaking vistas in central Siberia as Konstantin floats down icy rapids. Hallucinations of industrial ports, cranes, and boats entice Konstantin in haunting long dissolves, evoking Murnau’s masterpiece Sunrise: A Song of Two Humans.This is as much a psychological struggle as it is a physical one, manifesting visions of Konstantin’s wife as he is on the verge of giving up.
For Konstantin, it takes reaching the brink of death for that lifeline to finally arrive, and the deep focus image of a rescue worker descending from a helicopter above his unconscious face in the foreground is all the sweeter for it. Suddenly, our weary explorer’s eyes flutter open, and Kalatozov ends his film the way it began. Flying through the air in a reverse tracking shot, all we can do is admire the terrible beauty of this desolate, untamed land, and the chilling insignificance of those who dare to challenge it.
Salvation arrives in this incredible shot, foregrounding Konstantin’s unconscious face while his rescuer descends from a helicopter in the background.Bookended helicopter tracking shots, flying out from the personal to the epic.
Letter Never Sent is currently streaming on The Criterion Channel.
When Marine Corps veteran Terry returns to the Louisiana police station where the $36,000 intended for his cousin’s bail has been confiscated, Chief Sandy Burnne and his colleagues are not prepared for the hell about to be unleashed on them. Jeremy Saulnier’s narrative has barely raised the heat past a gentle simmer up until now, matching Aaron Pierre’s cool performance with an equally composed pacing, though it is only matter of time before that patience wears thin. The police officers’ assumption that he lacks combat experience simply because he never served overseas during his military career is a dire mistake. Like so many action heroes of cinema history, Terry proves himself more than capable, using his unique set of skills and tactical wits to take down an entire squad.
Still, vengeance does not arrive through bloody carnage for this veteran. Violence is merely a non-lethal means to an ends, and so despite its proliferation in Rebel Ridge, the total fatalities remain remarkably low. Terry never killed a man during his service, and he is not going to start a John Wick-style rampage now, mowing down leagues of enemies before reaching a final boss. Institutional corruption must be dealt with at its source, and through his unlikely alliance with law student Summer, he begins to embrace a new fight for justice.
Of course, this is all purely tactical for Terry. Right from the opening scene when he is rammed off his bicycle by officers Marston and Lann, it is clear his identity as a Black man factors deeply into his careful interactions with the police. He is not going to pick any fights that he knows he is going to lose, and he is certainly not going to aggravate anyone looking for an excuse to detain or shoot him. In response to their extreme brutality, he responds with the least amount of force necessary, ironically demonstrating the ideal behaviour they should be modelling. Where Saulnier’s 2015 film Green Room veers far more heavily into gore and horror, Rebel Ridge makes for a far more sobering thriller, understanding the nuanced stakes that lie in this conflict beyond life and death.
Unfortunately, the dedication to murky, ambient lighting which gave Green Room such a distinctive visual character is largely absent here, leaving Rebel Ridge struggling to aesthetically set itself apart from the fray of modern action movies. At least beyond the remarkable fight choreography creatively tailored to Terry’s no-killing principle, Saulnier delivers a small handful of locations that play to his stylistic strengths, illuminating the police evidence room with a subtle blue wash and later piercing the darkness of the courtroom basement with green and orange light sources. Scenes like these do much of the heavy lifting when it comes to imbuing the setting with a sense of peril, hinting at the insidious exploitation lurking beneath the police force’s veneer of law-abiding respectability.
After all, the prejudice that Terry experiences is not an isolated incident. What starts as a quest to free his cousin inevitably gets wrapped up in a much larger conspiracy at play, raising suspicions when an unidentified whistleblower points Summer towards a strange anomaly in police records – over the past two years, many people who committed misdemeanours were held in jail for exactly 90 days before being released. The exposition which peels back the mystery here drags a little, though the payoff in Terry’s final confrontation with Burnne and his lackeys is certainly worth it, ultimately revealing where individual loyalties truly lie. Our veteran hero only may be alive due to his combat expertise, though physical conflict alone is never going to heal a broken system. Patience, discernment, and cunning are virtues embodied in his pursuit of justice, and superbly carried through in Saulnier’s tense, brooding storytelling.
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.
