Tag: french cinema

L’Atalante (1934)

Jean Vigo| 1hr 29min

Life aboard Jean’s canal barge L’Atalante is not quite the romantic escape that his young bride Juliette dreamed it would be. The men who sail it up and down the Seine are clearly unaccustomed to female company – particularly the eccentric first mate Père Jules, whose horde of cats, hand-drawn tattoos, and uncouth mannerisms clash with her more refined sensibilities. She appears truly alone as the camera follows her in a tracking shot across the entire span of the ship, and there is barely room for privacy in the clutter of Jean Vigo’s interiors, as bottles, lamps, and tools crowd out every frame. His trademark high angles not only serve a practical purpose fitting multiple characters into the same shot, but from this vantage point, we also grasp the suffocating claustrophobia of Juliette’s new home

None of this is to suggest that the barge is an irredeemable prison though. L’Atalante is a fable of ruptured innocence, jealousy, and temptation, tugging at the seams of Jean and Juliette’s fragile relationship while illuminating a path to the marital bliss that has eluded them. Salvation does not lie in the city’s worldly flights of fancy, as alluring as they may be, but aboard that very boat which she longs to leave behind. For Jean as well, contentment is only found once the chains of insecurity and mistrust are shed, guiding him towards an appreciation of the woman he has married. Although this ship may feel like an oppressive enclosure at times, Vigo’s lyrical direction also reveals it to be a sanctuary of healing, freely drifting from port to port with no anchors to tether it down.

A delicate arrangement of bottles and crockery to obstruct this romantic frame.
Vigo’s trademark high angles serve a practical purpose here, capturing the entire ensemble in close quarters while highlighting the ship’s claustrophobia.
A lonely tracking shot moving with Juliette from one end of the barge to the other.

Quite ironically, the character that L’Atalante affords the most personable qualities is Jules, who transcends mere comic relief and becomes Juliette’s closest friend aboard the boat. As subtly expressive as Dita Parlo’s performance may be, Michel Simon outshines both leads here, fully realising the endearing humanity in Jules’ idiosyncrasies. This is a man who joyfully dances around in a skirt that Juliette has sewn, and later on falls victim to a prank when he is astounded by his apparent ability to produce music by tracing a vinyl record, only for Vigo to reveal the cabin boy playing his accordion from the other side of the room. In his own time, Jules is also a collector of souvenirs from his travels across the world, ranging from a jar of grotesque, pickled hands to a mechanical puppet which conducts an imaginary orchestra. Wherever the camera sits in this wondrous cabin of curiosities, ornaments frequently obstruct our view, reframing what initially seemed to be a hoarder’s palace into a museum of exotic tales and warm conversation.

Père Jules’ cabin of trinkets and ornaments makes for a delightful set piece, displaying his eccentric personality via curious souvenirs amassed from his many adventures.
Cats and music – Père Jules’ identity captured in a frame, even without his literal presence.
Cluttered mise-en-scène worthy of Josef von Sternberg, impeding on the presence of this small ensemble.

Not that Jean is particularly happy about the hospitality which Juliette finds in his first mate’s quarters. It doesn’t take long after getting married for his envy to spike, smashing up Jules’ cabin upon catching them together, and glowering at flirtatious strangers when they journey into Paris. The camera glides with them into a dance hall where a handsome street peddler entertains Juliette with magic tricks, a song, and a dance, and even after Jean pushes him to the floor, he persistently seeks to lure her deeper into the city.

Lovely depth of field showing off the beauty of France’s canals and Jean’s playful personality.
Michelangelo Antonioni in the architecture – the harsh monstrosities of an industrial, modern society imposes on Juliette as she wanders without aim.
A decade before Italian neorealism would pioneer location shooting, Vigo was using the docks of France to ground his drama in a sense of authenticity.

And lured she is – just as Sunrise: A Song of Two Humans portrayed the city as a metropolis of excitement and danger a few years earlier, so too does L’Atalante tantalise Juliette with its urban thrills. Vigo’s location shooting thrives along the Seine’s industrial ports, setting his drama against warehouses, chimneys, and steam trains, while her journey into the shopping district of live bands and window displays carries a vibrant energy that her husband’s boat lacks. Still, the exhilaration can only last so long. Having been left behind, she tries to buy a train fare to reach Jean’s next stop in Le Havre, yet the dark reality of Paris is alarmingly revealed when a thief steals her purse and she is forced to find work.

The lights of Paris lure Juliette into its fleeting temptations, here reflecting storefront puppets in the window.
Perhaps the single strongest scene in the film, sinking Jean into surreal visions of his lost love beneath the Seine.

It doesn’t take long for regret to strike her jealous husband either, driving him into a deep depression. Wholeheartedly believing the myth that it is possible to glimpse the face of one’s lover in water, Jean impulsively dives overboard, and Vigo capitalises on the opportunity to sink us into his aching, dreamy mind through surreal dissolves and double exposure effects. There in the depths of the Seine, she floats like a doll suspended in the currents, and a light breeze ruffles her blonde hair as she lets out a silent laugh. Trying to cheer up his skipper, Jules plays a romantic melody on his phonograph, which Vigo further uses to underscore a montage intercutting their yearning search for each other. More long dissolves bridge match cuts between their restless tossing and turning, unable to get a good night’s sleep in each other’s absence, before finally ending this astounding sequence with a dishevelled Jean facing up to his displeased company manager.

Cross-cutting between both lovers as they longingly search for each other along the rivers of France.
Bound together by long dissolves and parallel montage editing as they toss and turn in their sleep.

Perhaps it is fate that ultimately draws friends and lovers together after their lonely parallel journeys, or maybe love really is that powerful a force in L’Atalante that it echoes across canals, calling them back home. After all, ‘The Bargeman’s Song’ not only provides comfort to Juliette during her visit to a music booth, evoking memories of her days with men who regularly sung this familiar tune on the boat. It also draws the attention of Jules, who happens to be passing by at the exact moment the melody is playing through a speaker on the street. In Juliette and Jean’s embrace, past misgivings are finally forgiven, rapidly dissolving all heartache. At last, their tiny vessel becomes a home where love takes root once more, and quiet freedom is found in its gentle, unanchored drift.

L’Atalante is currently streaming on The Criterion Channel.

Zero for Conduct (1933)

Jean Vigo | 43min

The rule of law is little more than an arbitrary imposition of authority in Zero for Conduct, and it is up to no one but the roguish schoolboys of its French boarding school to restore the natural order. For Caussaut, Colin, and Bruel in particular, a revolt is sorely needed for the students to counter that titular disciplinary punishment, condemning them to detention on Sundays. As such, they spend lunchtimes plotting against their teachers, planning a mutiny for commemoration day when staff and alumni gather to celebrate the school, and hoping to reclaim their liberty in a scaled-down yet equally impassioned French Revolution.

These three students are certainly not the only disenfranchised members of their cohort though. It is only natural that boys this age should seek to satiate their curiosity through play and pushing boundaries, so Jean Vigo often gathers them into what Sergei Eisenstein once labelled a ‘monistic ensemble’ – a sense of group identity achieved through complete visual unity. High angles are often used here to frame them in systematic formations, lined up along their dormitory beds or sitting at classroom desks, but so too do these same shots often capture them running through amok with gleeful abandon.

The high angle is Vigo’s trademark shot, often put to good use in wides that capture his ensemble.
Visual form in the high angle of the dormitory, mirroring order and chaos among the students.
This comparison is a running motif for Vigo, studying how the boys’ wild urges are restrained by authority.

Together, these children pass time with pranks and games, only really pulling themselves into line when ordered. Even then though, little can truly quell that stubborn streak of independence which interprets commands as challenges. When the oddly affectionate science teacher questions Tabard on why he isn’t taking notes, the student viciously bites back, and the arrival of a spirited class supervisor who does Charlie Chaplin impressions certainly doesn’t help to keep them under control.

Chaplin impressions from class supervisor Huguet, sympathising with the children’s playful spirit.

It isn’t too difficult to imagine how Vigo might have flourished during the French New Wave some 30 years later, though given the impact that Zero for Conduct bears upon François Truffaut, perhaps this would also defeat the point of its influence. The young director is evidently far ahead of his time, crafting a coming-of-age featurette which revels in its carefree naturalism and youthful outlook. Its brevity matters little with a director who knows exactly how long his story needs, and Vigo is economical indeed with his nonchalant pacing, smoothly shifting between vignettes that progressively mount a rising disenchantment.

Vigo does not focus on individual characters so much as he does the group identity, blocking them as a single unit in his high angles looking down from above.

This is not even to mention the form-shattering irreverence that comes with Zero for Conduct’s brief dip into animation, bringing to life a caricature the childlike supervisor Huguet draws while performing a handstand to impress the students. Its resemblance to the their tall, moustachioed teacher is no mistake, entertaining the children for a short time before its subject arrives and discovers the drawing. Taken by surprise, the lanky cartoon leaps into the air, before transforming before our eyes into a stout, potbellied figure of Napoleon. Vigo is harsh in his comparison of the school staff to iconic tyrants, though given the role these students have taken as revolutionaries, his political metaphor falls cleanly into place.

Mischief and irreverence as this caricature leaps to animated life, satirising the tyrants who rule this school.

Especially once we reach the boys’ day of emancipation, it is impossible to deny that their rebellion is anything other than a repeat of history. “Liberty or death!” they cry in their dormitory, raising flags and declaring war on the staff. Those glorious high angles return as the young insurgents form a procession, before launching an assault on their teacher using bed frames, blankets, and pillows. In this moment of euphoric anarchy, Vigo also initiates one of cinema’s earliest and greatest displays of slow-motion, revelling in the joyous mutiny. Feathers float through the air as the children carry their leader out on a chair, their elation blissfully stretched out in time and spurring them on to the next phase of their revolution.

Pure elation as the boys prepare for war and Vigo captures it all in slow-motion, spurring them on to the next phase of their revolution.

From atop the roof, the boys pelt guests visiting the school for its commemoration day with junk, much to the staff’s humiliation and displeasure. With the pomp and circumstance dissipating and Huguet cheering them on below, it is apparent that Vigo cares little for whatever consequences should arrive after Zero for Conduct’s final shot of the boys victoriously reaching the top of the roof, finally earning a heroic low angle. Their voices sing a proud anthem as the screen fades to black, and in this single, fleeting moment of their stifled youth, the taste of freedom is the purest they will ever know.

A heroic low angle as the boys joyously proclaim victory, standing atop the school building.

Zero for Conduct is currently streaming on The Criterion Channel.

Jeanne Dielman, 23 quai du Commerce, 1080 Bruxelles (1975)

Chantal Akerman | 3hr 18min

When Jeanne Dielman stops by her son Sylvain’s room to wish him good night at the end of each monotonous day, she has what may be the deepest conversations of her life – not that her standard is terribly high. Her mind is a clockwork contraption that sees no value in abstract discussion or personal growth, but which rather dedicates itself to a single, methodical task at a time, maintaining a stable household for the benefit of her offspring. She is a Sisyphus for the modern age, each day pushing that boulder up the mountain as she polishes shoes, folds clothes, and cooks dinner, only to find herself starting all over again the following morning.

Despite remaining largely ignorant to his mother’s endless toil, Sylvain is the sole stimulus for introspection in Jeanne’s life, gently piercing her insular, middle-class bubble. “You’re always reading, just like your father,” the widow remarks the first night we join them, prompting him to ask about the early days of their relationship. “I didn’t know if I wanted to marry, but that’s what people did,” she ponders, dispassionately reflecting that “sleeping with him was just a detail” like any other in her meticulous daily routine. This comes as no surprise to us, of course. Every afternoon a different male client visits her apartment to pay for sex, and although Chantal Akerman usually cuts away from the act, it evidently unfolds with about as much excitement as making the bed or washing dishes.

Jeanne’s life is in service of her son, who barely recognises her sacrifices. Through him, ideas from the world outside penetrate their bubble, considering notions of sex she would rather ignore.

On the second night, Sylvain’s topic of choice turns to his friend Yan, whose experiences with dating have sparked a deliberation on the nature of sex.

“He says a man’s penis is like a sword. The deeper you thrust it in, the better. But I thought, ‘A sword hurts.’ He said, ‘True, but it’s like fire.’ But then where’s the pleasure?”

Jeanne is not nearly as eloquent as her son, but her dismissive response nevertheless articulates the sexual insecurity she has been stifling for years. Sylvain’s confession that he hated his father upon learning about these bodily functions as a ten-year-old verbalises that Freudian relationship between them too, giving her even greater reason to shy away from the topic despite conforming to its associated gender roles. Sex is a messy, complicated thing, and its distillation down to a simple business transaction allows her to rationalise its functionality beyond childbearing – so anything which endangers the pleasureless system she has built her life upon may very well reach the magnitude of an existential threat.

Sex as a transaction is the easiest way for Jeanne to rationalise its functionality outside of childbearing, stripping it of pleasure and denying herself release.

Perhaps the only thing longer than the title Jeanne Dielman, 23 quai du Commerce, 1080 Bruxelles is the film itself, stretching out over three hours which force us to feel every passing minute. Its selection as the greatest film of all time according to the 2022 Sight and Sound list is no doubt an odd choice, but for those who deny its lack of artistic value, its lofty ranking has ironically proven to be the most common argument against it. Overrated it may be, but Akerman’s slow, laborious study of domestic anxiety is far from a failure, constructing this plotless narrative around rigorous formal patterns before incrementally eroding them with Jeanne’s psychological state.

Beginning on the afternoon of the first day and ending on the afternoon of the third, we watch every detail of her routine play out twice, with one major exception. The rendezvous she conducts with three men visiting her apartment mark the opening, midpoint, and conclusion of Jeanne Dielman, each one escalating in psychological impact and rippling out to the rest of her life. The delicate balance which Akerman cultivates in this character study attunes us to her habits, finding peace through meditative, dutiful repetition of familiar actions such as turning off the lights whenever she leaves a room.

Extraordinary form in the repetition of shots, familiarising us with Jeanne’s dutiful routine throughout the day.

Although Jeanne treats her home like a palace, Akerman’s drab mise-en-scène of beige tiled walls and chequered floors tells another story of soul-sucking mundanity. The film may not possess the compositional precision of Yasujirō Ozu’s domestic dramas, but Akerman is his equal in long, static shots, distantly sitting as a neutral observer while Jeanne’s movements fill the frame and often leave it altogether. The camera primarily sits at square angles relative to whichever room it occupies, rejecting the disorder of diagonal lines and maintaining Jeanne’s systematic harmony in whichever perspective we take. Outside as well, Akerman layers each shot using her full depth of field, tunnelling the sidewalk outside Jeanne’s home between buildings and parked cars, while the green park bench across the road from her apartment building sets a firm boundary between the foreground and background. Of course, there is barely a shot in Jeanne Dielman which Akerman resists calling back to either, ingraining this perfectionist’s strict regimen within the very language of the film.

Lovely depth of field in Akerman’s tableaux, shot on location in Brussels and centring Jeanne as she walks the same sidewalks each day.
Defined layers of the foreground, midground, and background – each segregated in the mise-en-scène, maintaining orderly perfection.

As a result, the first time Jeanne misses a crucial step in her routine and forgets to flick off the light switch after leaving a room, we are totally thrown. Akerman’s extratextual clarification that it was an orgasm with the second client which instigates this chaos seems a little lazy given that we never see any specific suggestion of it in the text, yet we can at least reach the conclusion that this encounter is somewhat responsible given how soon afterwards the breakdown begins. She has deeply internalised the idea that pleasure is a luxury that women are not allowed to experience, and the slightest breach of that doctrine may very well destabilise the life of tedious self-sacrifice that has been built upon it, setting off a catastrophic domino effect.

Because Jeanne must return to the bathroom and switch the light off, she accidentally lets the potatoes boil for too long, and is left wandering the house unsure where to place the pot. Eventually sitting down at the kitchen table to peel them, Delphine Seyrig’s performance shifts from mechanical indifference to silent frustration, slicing into the vegetables with harsh, aggressive motions. When Sylvain arrives home, dinner is served late, and his desire to go to bed early rather than head out for their evening walk is promptly rejected.

Seyrig’s performance is one of subtle variations, shifting from mechanical indifference to harsh, aggressive motions as control slips from her grasp.
Jeanne arrives early at the store, and we must wait with her for the shutters to roll up, throwing off her perfectly timed routine.

Unfortunately, the start of a new day doesn’t exactly bring relief for Jeanne either. When she polishes Sylvain’s shoes in the morning, her strokes are just a little too forceful, causing her to drop the brush. When she wakes him up, she accidentally turns the light on, before quickly switching it back off in a panic. At the kitchen sink, she rewashes the same dishes several times in a row, unsatisfied with her work. Even when she leaves home to buy groceries, she arrives early at one of her regular shops, and must awkwardly wait for the shutter to be rolled up. This day is even more of a disaster than the one before, leaving Jeanne scrambling to adapt to what may be considered minor inconveniences in anyone else’s life, but which to her are cataclysmic acts of violence escaping her impeccable control.

It is here where Akerman’s recurring shots begin to pay off as well, instilling remarkable form in the disintegration of Jeanne’s strict procedures. In the diner that she visits for lunch each day, she has previously been positioned in the middle of the frame – though now she enters to find a stranger sitting in her usual seat. As a result, she may no longer occupy the centre of this once-balanced composition, but rather the humiliating, undignified seat on its edge.

Theme and variation in repeated shots – we expect to see Jeanne take her preferred place centre frame in this diner, so the discovery that another customer has taken her seat literally pushes her to the edge.

When the culmination of Jeanne’s frustration intersects with the arrival of her third client, Akerman no longer even cuts away from the intercourse as she writhes and struggles beneath him, holding on one of the few standalone shots that isn’t doubled anywhere else. Is this an assault, we wonder, or another orgasm, provoking intense discomfort as she tries to rid herself of this forbidden pleasure? Either way, her reaction is the most visceral we have seen from her at any point – not that it holds this distinction for long. The following shot catches the reverse angle in the dresser mirror, dissociating Jeanne from herself as she rises from the bed, retrieves a pair of scissors, and stabs the man in his throat.

The only time we watch a scene play out in a mirror is the climactic murder, as if to dissociate Jeanne from her own actions.

The dam was bound to break eventually, but never do we expect it to happen so violently, shattering the illusions of mundanity which conceal Jeanne’s mounting aggravation. Is this her escape from a limbo of domestic servitude? Is she trying to conquer an inconsistent world which has undermined her need for absolute control, or does the object of her forceful suppression lie within, secretly longing for pleasure? As Akerman’s final shot hangs on her at the dinner table, blood staining her blouse and hands, an ambiguous, peaceful smile makes its way across her face. Perhaps not even she has the words to express the gratification she has discovered, but with the boulder wilfully released from the top of the mountain, it is clear that this lonely, fastidious homemaker will never have to trek that torturous Sisyphean journey again.

Jeanne relinquishes control and accepts whatever comes next, escaping her eternal, Sisyphean punishment.

Jeanne Dielman, 23 quai du Commerce, 1080 Bruxelles is currently streaming on The Criterion Channel.

Two English Girls (1971)

François Truffaut | 2hr 10min

The first time François Truffaut adapted the young adult literature of Henri-Pierre Roché on film, he shook up the entire artform with Jules and Jim, telling the story of two male friends who fall for the same woman. When he directed Two English Girls nine years later, the love triangle which forms between aspiring French writer Claude and English sisters Muriel and Ann bore extraordinarily close resemblance to its gender-swapped counterpart, though it is evident that this is no accident. Much like Roché himself, Claude distils the romantic experiences of his youth into a semi-autobiographic novel pointedly titled ‘Jerome and Julien’, trying to heal his broken heart through artistic self-expression.

An incredible accomplishment of mise-en-scène for Truffaut, working wonders with the colours and textures of 1900s Europe.

Once again, Truffaut makes Roché’s work his own in Two English Girls, casting himself as our omniscient narrator. Through this voiceover he lifts passages directly from the source material, imbuing Two English Girls with a literary quality that probes the interior thoughts of his characters, and condensing lengthy conversations into prosaic summaries. Particularly in the early days of Claude and the Brown sisters’ burgeoning friendship, the rhetoric devices that Truffaut attaches to their leisurely adventures tenderly defines each individual in relation to the others, while uniting them as a whole under self-reflective similes.

“They stopped to gaze at a waterfall. They agreed that the upper smooth falls were like Ann, the turbulent splashes were like Claude, and the calm pool beneath like Muriel.”

Truffaut’s voiceover is not alone though, as letters and diary entries written by our three leads are often expressed in this pensive form too, while on a couple of occasions he even cuts to them directly addressing the camera. “Your ironic raised eyebrow, your face when you laugh, are etched inside me,” Claude romantically writes with Muriel on his mind.

“Each day is a new step. I imagine you as my wife, raising a child in our home. This vision enthrals me.”

The ocean and house become scenic backdrops from high angles, basking in the green, rugged coast of Wales.

These days spent in the Browns’ seaside cottage atop the craggy, green cliffs of Wales may be the most joyful of their lives, held up as a vision of youthful bliss by Néstor Almendros’ ravishing cinematography. Truffaut often frames their interactions outside the house from a high angle, turning the ocean into a serene backdrop, and the lush gardens into a fertile paradise. There, Ann finds immense inspiration for her oil paintings, while Muriel is given the time and space to soothe her damaged eyes. The 1900s period décor that adorns the interiors here are equally handsome, especially in Truffaut’s use of bright blue, mottled wallpaper that sets an oceanic contrast against the harsh red walls of Claude’s home back in France.

Oceanic blue wallpaper in Wales, offering a soothing respite from Paris.
Blazing red backdrops at Claude’s home in France – locations defined by colour palettes.

With both Muriel and Claude’s mothers objecting to their proposed matrimony, Paris is where he inevitably returns, abiding by their deal that the two lovers may marry if they are able to spend a year apart from each other. While Muriel yearns for her fiancé back home though, it unfortunately doesn’t take long for Claude to fall into bohemian circles and promiscuous affairs, eventually driving him to eschew all romantic commitments so that he may focus on his career as a writer.

This might almost end their connection altogether were it not for Ann’s visit to Paris some time later as a successful painter, thus beginning a new relationship – at least until she heads off to Persia with another man. Over the following years, the two sisters’ irregular visits to the French city keep Claude in a constant state of turbulence, cycling between the outgoing, adventurous Ann and the quiet, sensitive Muriel.

Quaint iris transitions close out chapters in these characters lives, calling back to silent cinema.
Gentle long dissolves between scenes, bringing a lyrical quality to Truffaut’s storytelling.

Though Two English Girls spans almost a decade of these characters’ lives, Truffaut does not rush his narrative, but much rather prefers to savour each individual encounter before skipping ahead in time. In the absence of literary chapters, his elliptical editing frequently bridges scenes in gentle fades to black, while closing out episodes in their lives with iris transitions calling back to cinema’s silent era. The playful energy that these bring is distinctly set apart from the melodramas of Truffaut’s classical Hollywood precursors, especially given his light-hearted indulgence in his characters’ sexual exploits, though he has certainly at least taken on their influence in his picturesque recreation of 1900s Europe.

Ann’s art studio is a bohemian mess of paintings, sculptures, and art supplies laying around the room.
Claude and Ann consummate their relationship during a brief escape to a lakeside cabin – a picturesque, nostalgic paradise.

Ann’s art studio which she sets up in Paris is a highlight of bohemian production design, its rough sketches, relief sculptures, and messy array of supplies curiously studied by Truffaut’s floating camera, while the cabin that she and Claude stay in by a lake makes a gorgeous setting for the consummation of their relationship. Elsewhere, Muriel’s most beautiful scenes keep her at a lonely distance, seeing her write broken-hearted diary entries from behind a rain-glazed window and super-imposing her face over passing country views outside a train. The love that Claude holds for both women cannot be compared, though Truffaut elevates them equally in his protagonist’s eyes, even as their desires and insecurities frequently escape his efforts to keep one or the other by his side.

Muriel is kept at a lonely distance behind rain-glazed windows as she writes broken-hearted diary entries.
Muriel reads her letter to Claude, her face superimposed against the passing countryside view from a train as Truffaut visually infuses her monologue with passion and vigour.

That Claude is still single fifteen years later in the epilogue of Two English Girls reveals just how deeply both women scarred his heart, with an ailing Ann eventually passing away and Muriel deciding that he could never be a father to her children. “We only recognise happiness in hindsight,” she once wrote, and now as he observes a group of young English girls playing in Paris, it is apparent that these words have stuck in his mind. Perhaps if there is one who bears resemblance to Muriel, then it could be her daughter, returning a trace of her mother and aunt’s essence to the streets of their youth. As far as Truffaut is concerned though, these are simply the musings of a middle-aged man who only chased after real love when it was too late, now left to mourn the memories of two beautiful women who disappeared with his heart into the ether.

Truffaut leaves us on an ambiguous note, denying the resolution that Claude seeks as he wonders if a remnant of his treasured memories still lingers somewhere in the world.

Two English Girls is currently streaming on The Criterion Channel, and is available to purchase from Amazon.