It is strongly implied in Flow that humans have long departed the Earth, yet there is hardly a note of melancholy or despair in this lyrical, wordless narrative. To the wild animals who roam its rainforests and mountains, our demise barely earns a passing thought, despite the remnants of crumbled civilisations which surround them. Nature has reclaimed that which we once stole from it, so even when a flash flood wreaks havoc on the land, still there remains a rousing beauty in life’s stubborn perseverance. The journey that one nameless black cat and its assorted companions set out on through gentle and treacherous waters makes for a simple narrative, yet within Flow’s hypnotic minimalism, the organic cycles of this ever-changing ecosystem fall into soothing harmony.
The immersive, fluid animation which Latvian director Gints Zilbalodis uses to compose this incredibly detailed world is made all the more impressive by the relatively small scale of his production. Starting with a tiny budget and relatively small crew, he decided to animate his film in Blender – a free, open-source computer graphics program that Pixar and DreamWorks would never even think of touching. Instead of using storyboards or concept art, Zilbalodis created expansive environments within the software and explored how his animal characters inhabited the space. Rather than aiming for the highly textured aesthetic of mainstream animations as well, he simulates naturalism through their graceful motions, watery environments, and of course that ever-moving virtual camera.
It is a little reductive to call water a motif given how omnipresent it is in Flow, but Zilbalodis’ choice to open the film with a reflection ingrains it within the cat’s journey from the start.The cinematic strength of Flow lies in its tracking shots, established early as the low-lying camera moves with the cat through the rainforest.Zilbalodis picks up the pacing of his camerawork when other animals are thrown into the mix, in this shot passing the cat from the whale to the secretary bird in one swift, seamless take, before dropping it back on the sailing boat.
Above all else, it is this elegant navigation of such a gorgeously constructed world which elevates Flow. Zilbalodis’ camera is as free as we’ve ever seen in an animated film, borrowing a little from modern video games, but perhaps even more so from live-action directors such as Alejandro Iñárritu and Alfonso Cuarón. Long takes often last for several minutes at a time, following the cat in low-lying tracking shots through gardens and valleys, before seamlessly shifting into kinetic action scenes when it is chased by a playful Labrador and threatened by rising flood waters. As the cat helplessly flails, we bob along with it, and when it eventually finds refuge on a boat with a capybara, we too sail with them over calm seas.
Zilbalodis simulates natural light sources with the sun, moon, and rippling reflections on the water, capturing magic hour as beautifully as any live-action director might. Meanwhile, the distant stone pillars are visually set up as this boat’s mysterious destination – a promised land of sorts for these companions.
In the absence of spoken dialogue, Zilbalodis’ active camerawork allows even greater room for visual storytelling, observing the clashing personalities which emerge when new members join this makeshift Noah’s Ark. As the cat’s initial caution gives way to curiosity, the capybara establishes itself as the level-headed leader of the group, keeping a cool demeanour while the obsessive lemur picks a fight with the secretarybird for kicking its precious glass float overboard. These are no anthropomorphised Disney cartoons, but rather heightened illustrations of distinctive animal traits, with Zilbalodis even using their real-life counterparts to provide voicework. That said, the cooperation between these creatures suggests somewhat developed social behaviours, underscoring the interspecies symbiosis which ensures the long-term survival of any ecosystem.
Even without dialogue or anthropomorphised traits, Flow efficiently distinguishes between each of its non-verbal animal characters, setting them up as allies on this journey across floodwaters.
Crucial to this equilibrium as well is its biodiversity, which Zilbalodis relishes in his vibrant animation. While marine life flourishes in the flood waters, land mammals and birds manoeuvre its obstacles, adapting their behaviours through trial and error. The differences between these creatures do not set them apart as adversaries though – in fact, the whale which initially saves the cat from drowning proves itself to be an ally on multiple occasions, and Zilbalodis finds vibrant splendour beneath the surface as colourful schools of fish revel in their rapidly expanding home.
Miyazaki influences in the slight warping of nature, gazing in awe and terror at the mutated whale breaching the surface of this half-submerged ancient city.The cat joins vibrant marine life beneath the surface of this new, confusing world, and Zilbalodis continues to relish its beauty in these gorgeous camera angles and compositions.
Not much can touch the picturesque grace of the world above though, where simulated natural light from the sun, moon, and bright reflections of both bounce off rippling oceans. The golden glow of magic hour has rarely been recreated so exquisitely in animation too, silhouetting animals against magnificent, picturesque landscapes. While Zilbalodis’ character designs are highly stylised, it is astonishing just how naturalistically detailed their environment is, particularly in the clear blues, swampy greens, and inky blacks of the water. The more we explore it as well, the further Flow departs from any recognisable reality, verging on the surreal as the boat drifts through an ancient, half-submerged city, and makes its way towards a peculiar series of stone pillars leering over the horizon.
Fascinating world building – the giant cat statue goes unexplained, adding to the mystery of a land without humans yet marked by remnants of civilisation.Auroras in the night sky – superb attention to detail even in throwaway scenes.The sunken city makes for an eerie set piece, paving the path this crew must sail through to reach their destination.
Hayao Miyazaki’s whimsical, ecological fantasies no doubt exert a significant influence here. The uncanny cat sculptures which litter the rainforest and the whale’s biological mutations suggest a distorted merging of spirituality and nature, and by the time we enter the cat’s first dream, Zilbalodis is explicitly binding both in an ethereal, otherworldly realm. There, menacing visions of the initial flash flood and an ominous, rotating circle of deer haunt the cat, trapping it in circumstances beyond its control. Even more mystical though is the cat and secretarybird’s transcendent experience upon finally arriving at the stone pillars, where they begin to float among bubbles, colours, and stars in a boundless astral plane. Above, a golden portal beckons them into another world, and the sheer beauty of Zilbalodis’ animation makes the prospect of leaving one life for the next seem both immensely soothing and wistful.
Heavy surrealism in the cat’s first dream, returning to the deer from the earlier stampede now ominously circling it.Jaw-dropping illustrations in Flow’s surreal climax, reaching to the heavens as gravity disappears and colours swirl in the atmosphere.
After all, this new adventure is simply a part of those natural cycles which Flow underscores with exquisite grace, particularly when that flood which once altered the entire landscape rapidly drains away. Zilbalodis’ narrative is a closed loop, returning a sense of normality to the cat’s land-dwelling companions, yet with it comes a poignant recognition of the equal adversity delivered to those who previously prospered in the endless waters. There is no perfect state of being in nature, Flow illustrates with breath-taking wonder, besides that of a balanced ecosystem which resiliently oscillates between different phases. As we float and soar through a world in perpetual transition, our restless movements match it every step of the way, basking in the chaos which somehow – amazingly – nourishes both the earth and water from which life is born.
Nature’s equilibrium – life for one brings death for another.An inspired final frame, bookending the narrative with shots of creatures gazing at their watery reflections
Not long after Black teenager Elwood begins at an internally segregated reform school, and after about forty minutes of looking at the world through his eyes, Nickel Boys shifts its first-person perspective. As a group of bullies mock him in the cafeteria, fellow student Turner quickly comes to his defence, beginning a friendship that will eventually become a lifeline for both during their time here. Before moving on though, RaMell Ross takes a leaf out of Ingmar Bergman’s Persona playbook and runs through the scene a second time, removing us from Elwood’s seat and placing us in Turner’s. For the first time, we see Elwood as a full being outside of reflections caught in shiny surfaces, granting us a fresh view of the world beyond his bright childhood and troubled adolescence.
From then on, Ross’s in-scene editing is freed up as he cuts between both points-of-view rather than sticking to long takes. On an even broader level though, his device also binds these boys within the film’s astonishing formal framework, presenting them as equal vessels through which we experience their growing disillusionment in a systematically racist institution. Nickel Boys may be Ross’ foray into narrative filmmaking, yet his avant-garde instincts come fully formed in his subjective camerawork and impressionistic montages, nostalgically slicing through memories that have been fragmented, reconstructed, and replayed in one’s mind a thousand times.
The first meeting between Elwood and Turner is played through twice – once from each of their perspectives. Bergman first pulled this off in Persona, and Ross remarkably recaptures it here.Nostalgia in the first-person camera and its endlessly creative angles, sentimentally recalling moments from Elwood’s childhood.We frequently return to this gorgeous timelapse shot from inside a train carriage, foreshadowing an inevitable escape.
Monumental historic events are deeply tied to these recollections as well, not merely using the civil rights movement of 1960s America as a backdrop to Ross’ narrative, but as a gateway into his characters’ minds. As Martin Luther King Jr. speaks to enormous crowds on television screens, we catch a young Elwood watching through the shop window, absorbing a message which would later inspire his attempts to expose the abusive staff at Nickel Academy. Sidney Poitier films also engage his curious mind, while archival cutaways to the space race underscore the bitter irony between America’s grand ambition and the marginalisation of its most disadvantaged citizens. Within this context, the primary split between Elwood and Turner takes clear form – one being an idealistic advocate for social progress, and the other a cynic just looking to keep his head down.
Reflections all through Ross’ mise-en-scène, steadily building Elwood’s sense of self.The civil rights movement of the 1960s is crucial to Elwood’s growing sense of justice, and Ross binds both together by imposing his reflection against Martin Luther King Jr’s speech.
As such, it is fitting that Ross should ground the visual style of Nickel Boys in first-person perspectives, playing with camera angles, orientations, and movements that we are intimately familiar with in our own lives. During Elwood’s childhood, the camera stares up at towering environments and reveals his growing sense of self through reflective surfaces. When he lays on the ground, the whole world seems to shift around him too, and it isn’t uncommon for his gaze to drift off to other distractions mid-conversation.
The camera tips and turns with Elwood and Turner’s eyes, shifting the entire world around them at its centre.The camera’s gaze wanders towards strange distractions and curious fixations, immersing us in these characters’ minds.Ross often denies us the chance to read his characters’ outward expressions, instead dwelling in abstract, ambiguous impressions.
Perhaps the most notable feature of this cinematic technique though is the abundant fourth wall breaks, seeing characters peer directly down the lens and invite us into their lives. What could easily be used as a gimmick instead melds beautifully with Ross’ evocative storytelling and cinematography, calling to mind László Nemes’ psychological dramas which hover the camera around his protagonists’ heads, and using similarly tight blocking of bodies and objects to crowd the frame. Striking an even closer comparison to Ross’ stylistic triumph here though is Barry Jenkins’ distinctive combination of shallow focus, close-ups, and direct eye contact, forging a profound connection with the ostracised subjects of his own films. That the dreamlike harmonies of this soulful score bear resemblance to If Beale Street Could Talk only deepens this likeness, and considering that both Nickel Boys and The Underground Railroad are based on novels by Colson Whitehead, it is evident that Ross and Jenkins inhabit a shared cinematic space.
Close-ups, shallow focus, and eye contact heavily evoking Barry Jenkins, directly connecting with characters while the backgrounds melt away.
Nevertheless, Ross’ style is very much his own, eroding our sense of linear time through abstract editing rhythms which flit through the past like old film reels and leap into the future with sober melancholy. The adult Elwood we meet in these flashforwards is far removed from the teenage boy living at Nickel Academy, as is Ross’ camera which hovers right behind his head rather than looking through his eyes. The effect is dissociating, recognising the lingering trauma which keeps him from moving forward despite his new start in New York City. All these decades later, he obsessively tracks news stories unearthing Nickel Academy’s sinister history, and watches fellow alumni come forward as witnesses to the abuse inflicted upon Black students. Perhaps the most affecting scene in this narrative strand though arrives during his run-in with former classmate Chickie Pete, where the buried torment of another ill-adjusted survivor is made painfully apparent in the subtext of what goes unsaid.
Flashfowards sit immediately behind Elwood’s head, dissociating us from his immediate perspective.
We can hardly blame these men for their instinctive psychological detachment though, especially given how much we are forced to suffer inside their minds with them. As several boys are woken in the middle of the night and forced to wait their turn in another room, Elwood’s gaze nervously lingers on a swinging lamp, the holy bible, his trembling leg – anything that might distract from the disturbing sounds behind that door he will soon be led through. At the very least, the reflection motif which permeates Ross’ mise-en-scène offers symbolic escapes from Elwood’s immediate reality, delivering one particularly astounding shot looking up at an overhead mirror as he and Turner discuss the prospect of fleeing the school for good.
An ominous door, a swinging lamp, the holy bible, a shaking leg – Ross paints a portrait of anxiety without so much as revealing a face.Both friends are captured in this ceiling mirror as they discuss the prospect of escape, and Ross continues to follow them from this angle as they make their way down the corridor.
Given the glimpses we are given of an adult Elwood, we feel assured that this freedom does indeed lie in his future, though the point where Ross connects both timelines makes for a formally staggering and heartbreaking transition. At the core of Nickel Boys’ first-person camera is the question of how one’s identity is formed from outside influences, and as such we see pieces of Elwood and Turner cling to each other, stoking both pragmatic caution and radical resolve. By minimising the display of outward expressions, Ross instead defines his characters by the indelible impressions they absorb from their volatile environments, internalising a shared, intrepid resilience that leads friends, communities, and an entire nation towards liberation.
Nickel Boys is currently streaming on Amazon Prime Video.
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.
The twelve days that Eunice Paiva spends detained by the Brazilian military dictatorship in I’m Still Here are physically and psychologically harrowing, but for this upper-middle class housewife, it is a particularly brutal break from reality. After being taken from her home, she is relentlessly questioned on her husband Rubens’ alleged Communist ties, and forced to identify faces of suspected strangers, acquaintances, and family members. Somewhere else in this prison, Rubens and their daughter Eliana are also incarcerated, though it is near impossible to get updates on their conditions. Instead, this air of chilling ambiguity is filled with sounds of clanging metal doors, echoed footsteps, and tortured screams, hinting at the terror which lies just beyond her immediate perspective.
Still, this jolting shock cannot compare to the existential dread that Eunice feels upon returning home. Eliana is thankfully safe, yet Rubens’ whereabouts remain unknown, adding to the mounting number of forced disappearances in 1970s Brazil. While tyranny reigns with the heavy hand of injustice, a quiet radicalism sparks in the Paiva family, and Walter Salles offers poignant insight into the aftermath of a tragedy riddled with agonising uncertainty.
The government’s assault on Eunice’s family is all the more jarring given their apparent social and economic security, carefully established along with the encroaching danger throughout the film’s first act. Salles takes his time laying the groundwork, delivering a touch of nostalgia through the formal thread of Eliana’s 16mm home video footage, while undermining the illusion of docile state compliance with glimpses of Rubens’ secretive phone calls and unexpected visitors. The military roadblock which pulls his children over one night also points to a growing threat they don’t fully understand yet, searching them for evidence of terrorist activities and feeding into a broader culture of political paranoia. Salles is not terribly efficient with his narrative economy here, meandering through subplots that overstay their welcome, yet the family portrait he creates is tenderly detailed by the time he begins to rip it apart.
Fernanda Torres plays Eunice as a force of resolute willpower through it all, desperately trying to shelter her family from the trauma of losing a father while bearing its brunt herself. Salles dwells on the everyday inconveniences here, seeing Eunice frustratingly blocked from her own bank account due to it being in her husband’s name, yet we are also reminded of an even greater menace when a symbol of innocence warmly established in the film’s very first scene is cruelly eliminated. Balancing all of this against the pressure to protect her children becomes particularly difficult when she receives unofficial confirmation of Rubens’ death, along with a warning to avoid publicly revealing this information – if the state catches onto her awareness of the situation after all, she could get in even deeper trouble.
In recreating what would come to be a defining photograph of the real Paiva family though, Salles captures a moment of hopeful defiance. When a journalist comes by to report their story, his request for them to pose for the camera without smiles is met with playful laughter, ultimately freezing their indomitable spirit in a single moment. Civilians who have given up their humanity are far easier to control by an authoritarian state than those who hold on, and here we see the power in their radical joy.
The two flashforwards which end I’m Still Here drag, particularly when we visit an elderly, non-verbal Eunice, but the resolution that Salles offers her children encapsulates the lingering psychological pain that afflicts those who survive disappeared loved ones. For the youngest, Maria, the point that she accepted her father wasn’t coming home came when they left Rio de Janeiro for good. For Marcelo, it was a year and a half later when Eunice donated all his clothing to charity. Without closure, each travel their own lonely, complicated journeys to healing. At least beneath the beacon of resilience that is their steadfast mother though, I’m Still Here affectionately unites their shared grief, transforming her sorrow into a testament of selfless, compassionate resistance.
Opera singer Maria Callas’ astonishing talent is both her greatest gift and curse in Pablo Larraín’s dreamy, melancholy biopic, giving her reason to live and simultaneously eating her up inside as she navigates the final week of her extraordinary life. “Happiness never gave us a beautiful melody,” she informs the filmmakers creating a documentary about her career. “Music is born of distress and poverty.”
It’s no surprise that a woman who was forced to sing to fascist officers as a child during World War II should attach such negative associations to her craft, yet the self-confessed intoxication she feels when performing nevertheless binds her to this deep-rooted sorrow. Callas is a woman of magnificent contradictions, and it is in the collision between those extremes where the disorientating, nostalgic surrealism of Maria takes form, painting a complex portrait of both soaring exultation and abject misery.
Maria Callas wanders around the golden glow of Paris in all black, keeping a low profile as her physical and mental health continue to slide.
These have been common themes throughout Larraín’s trilogy of historical female icons, beginning with Jackie’s intimate meditation on grief and Spencer’s interrogation of disintegrating identity. In Maria, the Chilean director once again weaves his protagonist’s declining physical and mental health into a fragmented narrative, though this time merging the pensive flashbacks and ethereal hallucinations of its respective precursors. Choruses and orchestras seem to manifest all through Callas’s Parisian wanderings, inviting her to take the stage, while shaky rehearsals are deftly intercut with visions of those elaborate performances that she once delivered to adoring audiences. Even the aforementioned documentary crew is revealed early on to be a concoction of her lonely mind longing for those bygone days of cultural relevance, consuming her in the crushing, psychological isolation of a life in the public eye.
Orchestras, choruses, and a documentary film crew follow Callas wherever she goes, summoning up the glory of her youth and fame.
Angelina Jolie’s celebrity status has often been more anchored in her star power than her acting talent, so the delicate vulnerability she displays as an ailing Callas quite easily stands as her finest achievement to date. She inhabits the troubled soprano as a fragile shadow of herself, lingering in a space between life and death where reality fades away and memories flood back stronger than ever. She is visibly pained when listening to her old records, overwhelmed by the musical perfection that her voice will never match again, even as she hopelessly tries to recover it along with her dignity during private lessons. When a resentful fan confronts her over a show that she cancelled years ago due to poor health, she bites back with indignant fury, yet still she carries immense guilt over her inability to live up to the divine, immaculate image of her younger self.
Angelina Jolie’s singular greatest acting achievement to date, piercing the depths of this tormented character with incredible vulnerability.
With the accomplished Edward Lachman by Larraín’s side too as cinematographer, Maria develops an elegant visual style to match Jolie’s enchanting aura. There is a touch of Jean Renoir’s poetic realism in the camera’s gentle gliding through her lavish Parisian apartment, using embellished doorways and mirrors as frames for Larraín’s grand production design. One wide shot angled into her living area from the next room over even makes for a gorgeous bookend, setting a stage which effectively turns her passing into an opera.
Lavish mise-en-scène in Callas’ Parisian apartment, decorated with chandeliers, luxurious furniture, and a grand piano she constantly has moved around.Beautiful framing through mirrors, isolating Jolie in her extravagant surroundings.
The handheld camerawork and zooms which mimic the archival footage laced throughout Maria don’t blend so smoothly with the otherwise graceful aesthetic on display, so Larraín is smart to restrain these elements. The shift to black-and-white photography in flashbacks rather stands as the stronger formal contrast to Callas’ present-day story, maintaining its visual majesty while underscoring another sadness which has long been by her side. After leaving her husband for wealthy business magnate Aristotle Onassis, she finds herself swept away by his charm, yet frequently subjected to his imposing demands. She was to reduce her public performances, he decided, and the abortion she got for him had devastating long-term effects on her body. Nevertheless, this is the man that Callas would harbour feelings for her entire life, eventually making peace with him on his deathbed.
Larraín maintains the visual elegance of tracking shots and gorgeous production design in flashbacks, but formally sets them apart from the present day with a melancholy monochrome.Recreations of archival footage blend historical authenticity with dreamy surrealism, simultaneously examining Callas from the inside and outside.
That Aristotle would marry Jackie Kennedy following his affair with Callas makes for a fascinating plot point in Maria, if for no other reason than the connection Larraín is consciously drawing to the first film in his unofficial biopic trilogy. While JFK is played by Caspar Phillipson, reprising his role from Jackie, the beloved First Lady influences the narrative entirely offscreen. Callas regards her with reverence and even a bit of jealousy, going out of her way to avoid crossing paths so that she needn’t face her former lover’s wife. The fact that these two distinguished women should be caught in each other’s orbits only further enriches Larraín’s framing of Callas’ life, constantly trying to measure up to a standard of sublime feminine grace that always seems out of reach.
Larraín is wise to narrow in on a critical moment in Callas’ life, just as he did in Jackie and Spencer. This is Callas at her most vulnerable, wracked with drug addiction, eating disorders, and poor mental health.
Clearly this pressure takes a physical toll on Callas as well, inflicting drug addictions, eating disorders, and strained vocal cords which inhibit her singing. Although she tries to sustain hopeless fantasies of a thriving career, it is only in understanding the root of her nostalgia that she is able to salvage the residual beauty of her art.
“My mother made me sing. Onassis forbade me to sing. And now, I will sing for myself.”
As she stands by her apartment window and delivers a final, aching rendition of ‘Vissi d’arte’ from Puccini’s Tosca, she once again connects to that joy and sorrow which fuelled her passion for many years. “I lived for art, I lived for love,” she exults in Italian, while begging for a heavenly answer to her lonely prayer.
“In this hour of grief, why, why, Lord, why do you reward me thus?”
Larraín is not one to end his biopic with expository text spelling out his subject’s legacy. Maria’s blend of archival film and ethereal impressionism paints a far more complete, evocative portrait of the legendary prima donna than any biography ever could, framed in a fleeting moment of vulnerability when her tormented soul was thoroughly exposed. There within the dimming spotlight, where art is produced solely for its creator, the liberation it ushers in is enough to release the most weary, forsaken artist from a lifetime of agonising perfection.
Recapturing the sublime beauty of her art, even if for a brief moment – Callas ascends to divine heights.
Will likely win: Anora. After big wins for The Brutalist and Emilia Pérez at the Golden Globes, both have since fallen behind with controversies related to AI and some controversial past tweets. As a result, the path to victory for Sean Baker’s dramedy is clearer than ever, cleaning up at the Critics’ Choice Awards, PGA Awards, and DGA Awards. If Anora wins, it will join three other films to have clinched both Best Picture and the illustrious Palme d’Or – Parasite, Marty, and The Lost Weekend.
What should win:Dune: Part Two. There is some stiff competition here with The Brutalist and The Substance, but Denis Villeneuve’s epic sci-fi sequel is an accomplishment that tops even its first part. Paul Atreides’ character arc is brought to a resounding climax with some astounding visuals to match, crafting an insurmountable parable of fanatical hubris.
What’s been snubbed: Nosferatu. Robert Eggers’ remake of F.W. Murnau’s silent horror has four nominations elsewhere in Cinematography, Production Design, Costume Design, and Makeup and Hairstyling. This is an achievement in itself given the Academy’s bias against genre films, but it still isn’t enough for what could possibly be Eggers’ strongest effort yet.
Anora (Produced by Alex Coco, Samantha Quan, and Sean Baker)
Will likely win: Brady Corbet for The Brutalist. This is tougher to parse out – logically the winner of Best Director should also nab Best Picture, but it isn’t uncommon to see them split. In recent years, we have seen this split when the Best Director winner has possessed a far grander vision than the Best Picture winner, like The Revenant/Spotlight split in 2016 or the Roma/Green Book split in 2019. In this instance, Brady Corbet’s achievement in The Brutalist is far grander than Sean Baker’s, and is the far more traditional pick.
What should win: Coralie Fargeat for The Substance. Fargeat’s body horror brutally attacks Hollywood’s beauty standards with kinetic montage editing, gruesome practical effects, and a brilliantly inventive premise, but the Academy clearly appreciates its message more than its magnificent craftsmanship.
What’s been snubbed: Denis Villeneuve for Dune: Part Two. This is a huge miss for one of our great modern auteurs working at the top of his game. Villeneuve pushes the limits of big-budget spectacle to extraordinary lengths, experimenting with a greater sense of visual wonder and terror than ever before.
Will likely win: Adrien Brody for The Brutalist. Timothee Chalamet is on a hot run right now and could break Brody’s record for the youngest Best Actor winner ever, but Brody could very well hold onto his crown, placing another Oscar on his shelf. This is the best role he’s had since The Pianist over two decades ago, and the Academy knows it.
What should win: Adrien Brody for The Brutalist. Brody gives a raw, battered performance as Jewish-Hungarian immigrant László, oscillating between creative passion, supreme confidence, and soul-destroying despair.
What’s been snubbed: Timothee Chalamet for Dune: Part Two. A Complete Unknown isn’t Chalamet’s best performance of the year, even if the Academy believes otherwise. In Dune: Part Two he stands upon platforms and delivers rousing speeches to both followers and enemies, shifting his voice to a deeper register and striking a jarring contrast against his humbler performance in Part One.
Will likely win: Mikey Madison for Anora. Madison plays on Giulietta Masina’s performance from Nights of Cabiria as a jaded yet unexpectedly naïve sex worker. She is the darling ingénue of this awards season – energetic, charming, and incredibly talented.
What should win: Demi Moore for The Substance. Unlike her character Elisabeth Sparkle, there are no inhibitions or insecurities on display in Moore’s big Hollywood comeback. She is unabashedly committed to the extravagance of the part, literally transforming into a haggard old crone as she spirals into bitterness and self-loathing.
What’s been snubbed: Lily-Rose Depp for Nosferatu. Depp takes inspiration from Isabelle Adjani’s landmark performance in Possession, shifting wildly between emotional extremes and falling into convulsive demonic seizures. Again, the Academy’s anti-horror bias likely locked her out here.
Will likely win: Kieran Culkin for A Real Pain. His success has been relatively unchallenged through all the major awards shows, and it is unlikely the Oscars will break his streak. He somehow makes a difficult person incredibly likeable, revealing his joy, depression, and guilt in wild mood swings throughout the film.
What should win: Guy Pearce for The Brutalist. His performance as wealthy industrialist Mr. Van Buren is his best since Memento, played with a roguish allure that masks a deep-seated cruelty and narcissism.
What’s been snubbed: Chris Hemsworth for Furiosa: A Mad Max Saga. Hemsworth breaks out from his typecasting as musclebound heroes, and takes a villainous turn as the boisterous, charismatic warlord of the wasteland, Dementus. He never really had a shot at being recognised by the Academy for this role, but it is a miss on their part nonetheless.
Will likely win: Zoe Saldaña for Emilia Pérez. This is a tight race with no clear frontrunner, but Emilia Pérez has a whopping 13 nominations – and if it is going to win for anything, it will be here.
What should win: Isabella Rossellini for Conclave. Rossellini plays Sister Agnes to stern, authoritative perfection even with her limited screentime, and is additionally crucial to Conclave’s overarching consideration of gender roles in the Catholic Church.
What’s been snubbed: Kirsten Dunst for Civil War. The Academy’s distinction between lead and supporting performances is not clearly defined, but if we consider Dunst’s role as secondary to Cailee Spaeny’s, then she should have surely earned a nomination here. She is world-weary, cynical, and earns an excellent shift in character in the final minutes.
Will likely win: Anora. If it doesn’t win Best Director, then it will surely win for its screenplay. Its recent success at the Writer’s Guild of America Awards certainly points in this direction as well, and its charming, crowd-pleasing appeal shouldn’t be underrated.
What should win: The Brutalist. The flaws in Corbet’s screenplay pale next his spectacular triumph in epic storytelling, knotting together one immigrant’s relationships to both the United States and his homeland across thirteen years of his life. The character work is impeccable, closely examining the complex relationship between an artist and his benefactor.
What’s been snubbed: Civil War. Alex Garland’s gruelling wartime odyssey uses a modern civil war to further examine the struggles of objectivity in media. The journey that one small team of journalists takes from New York to Washington DC is a series of consistently superb and terrifying set pieces, held together by a pair of character arcs moving in inverse directions.
Will likely win: Conclave. Peter Straughan’s screenplay won this award at the Golden Globes and the BAFTAS, delivering a thrilling crowd-pleaser that probes the inner workings of the Vatican. It is pulpy and engaging, but it doesn’t probe terribly deeply into the conflicting philosophies at play.
What should win: Nickel Boys. RaMell Ross and Joslyn Barnes’ story of two friends at a segregated reform school in the 1960s packs a punch in its inventive formal structure, thoughtful character work, and use of the 60s civil rights movement to inform its internal debate between idealism and cynicism.
What’s been snubbed: Nosferatu. Eggers’ attention to historic, linguistic detail makes for hauntingly poetic dialogue, underscoring the 19th century European setting with Gothic flair. Dune: Part Two may be considered another major snub, and although television is strictly ruled out from Academy consideration, Disclaimer and Ripley both deserve shoutouts here.
Will likely win: The Brutalist. Daniel Blumberg’s booming, four-note motif is undeniably powerful. While other nominees like Wicked rely heavily on existing material or feature downright terrible songs like in Emilia Pérez, The Brutalist’s score is grand, operatic, and excitingly avant-garde.
What should win: The Brutalist. Blumberg blends classical orchestrations with experimental sound design, positioning László as an artist caught between the Old World and the New. It is easily among the strongest scores of recent years.
What’s been snubbed: Dune: Part Two. Hans Zimmer’s score was controversially ruled ineligible to compete for Best Original Score at the Oscars due featuring too much music from the first film. This rule is inconsistent at best, especially considering that The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers suffered the same fate, while The Return of the King won the following year. We can at least take solace in knowing that Part One won this award in 2022.
Will likely win: ‘El Mal’ from Emilia Pérez. The Oscar for Best Original Song has extraordinarily weak competition this year – no ‘What Was I Made For?’, no ‘Naatu Naatu’, and no ‘No Time to Die’ to carry this category. Emilia Pérez has the passion of the Academy behind it, and ‘El Mal’ is the best song in a relatively weak soundtrack, so it looks like it will be the winner by default.
What should win: ‘Like a Bird’ from Sing Sing. Again, this wouldn’t be an overwhelming victory, but Abraham Alexander and Adrian Quesada’s folk-rock ballad is easily the best of the bunch. Its soothing, soulful vocals fit beautifully within Sing Sing’s tender prison drama.
What’s been snubbed: Nothing. This is a scant category to begin with, and there are so few original songs from 2024 worth awarding. Consideration was given to ‘Compress/Repress’ from Challengers and ‘Kiss the Sky’ from The Wild Robot, but neither are that far ahead of the nominated competition.
‘El Mal’ from Emilia Pérez (Music by Clément Ducol and Camille, Lyrics by Clément Ducol, Camille, and Jacques Audiard)
Will likely win: Wicked. Movie-musicals tend to be well-represented in this category, and for good reason. Wicked in particular is a fan favourite that brings some big Broadway hits to the silver screen, smoothly weaving its numbers into longer sequences of action and dialogue.
What should win: Dune: Part Two. This could potentially threaten Wicked’s chances at Best Sound. The sprawling battles and gladiator fights feature some excellent sound design, but the use of deep, guttural bass notes in the sandworm riding sequence and Sardauker chanting is especially impressive, feeling like earthquakes in the cinema.
What’s been snubbed: The Substance. The ASMR sounds of Dennis Quaid tearing apart prawns with his teeth sets the tone perfectly in the opening minutes. From there, we sink into viscerally uncomfortable soundscapes that repulsively emphasise Elisabeth and Sue’s physical transformations.
Wicked (Sound by Simon Hayes, Nancy Nugent Title, Jack Dolman, Andy Nelson, and John Marquis)
Will likely win: Wicked. The task of translating this hit musical from stage to screen was no small feat. The intricate visual designs reimagine Oz beyond Dorothy’s dream, skilfully blending the steampunk aesthetics of the stage show with the Art Deco whimsy of The Wizard of Oz. Wicked may not be prestigious enough for the top prizes, but it will claim these smaller ones wherever it can.
What should win: Nosferatu. Eggers extends his extensive follore research into the architecture of 19th century Germany and Count Orlok’s 16th century Transylvanian castle. The result is nightmarishly beautiful, paying homage to expressionistic masterpieces such as the original Nosferatu and The Cabinet of Dr Caligari.
What’s been snubbed: The Substance. There is a severe, Kubrickian minimalism to Stanislas Reydellet’s production design, conforming wholly to unified colour palettes and strong geometric shapes. It is enormous fun watching its clean, sanitised aesthetic descend into putrid chaos.
Wicked (Production design by Nathan Crowley, Set decoration by Lee Sandales)
Will likely win: The Brutalist. Cinematographer Lol Crawley shot this in VistaVision – a high-resolution format that fell from popularity in the 1960s – and the Academy can’t help itself when it comes to big, ambitious swings that throw back to Hollywood’s Golden Age.
What should win: Nosferatu. Eggers’ regular cinematographer Jarin Blaschke goes all in with his expressionistic lighting, floating camerawork, and desaturated colours. This is his finest work to date, making for a daunting visual triumph of horror filmmaking.
What’s been snubbed: Furiosa: A Mad Max Saga. George Miller’s hyper-stylised visual storytelling pushes a young Furiosa to the brink in this surreal, malformed world. His silhouettes and rigorous blocking of actors are often admirable within still compositions, though the jerky movements of his visuals stand out even more, rushing vehicles towards the camera and dramatically hurtling the camera towards actors.
Will likely win: The Substance. This shouldn’t be tough competition, yet Wicked is the dark horse threatening to steal what would likely be the most deserved win of the night.
What should win: The Substance. As admirable as Nosferatu is in this category, it isn’t close. Each time we think Fargeat has pushed her body horror prosthetics to the edge of sanity, she continues to reveal whole new levels of depravity that would make even David Cronenberg proud.
What’s been snubbed: Furiosa: A Mad Max Saga. You would be pressed to find a single cast member here that isn’t wearing some kind of greasy beard, fake nose, prosthetic teeth, or body paint. In this apocalyptic wasteland, everyone stinks of sweat and petrol, and the makeup artists do a magnificent job of rendering this visually.
The Substance (Makeup and hairstyling by Pierre-Oliver Persin, Stéphanie Guillon, and Marilyne Scarselli)
Will likely win: Wicked. This Broadway musical adaptation is the favourite to win, and for good reason. Although based on existing material, Jon M. Chu’s visual design further builds out the world of Oz through whimsical school uniforms, robes, and gowns with well-defined colour palettes.
What should win: Nosferatu. Eggers’ dedication to historical authenticity extends to his characters’ period-accurate wardrobe as well, not only reinventing Count Orlok as a medieval Slavic nobleman, but also reflecting the class hierarchies of the 19th century German setting in the costuming.
What’s been snubbed: Furiosa: A Mad Max Saga. George Miller’s high-octane prequel is even more dedicated to its worldbuilding than Fury Road, introducing a whole host of new characters and gangs whose primitive, apocalyptic fashion calls back to Ancient Roman gladiators, Napoleonic soldiers, and Nordic Vikings.
Will likely win: Conclave. The slow-burn pacing is superbly executed, keeping the narrative tight and suspenseful. The odds are looking good here, even if Anora is close behind.
What should win: The Brutalist. This three-and-a-half-hour epic is masterfully and precisely structured, using both long takes and sharp, jarring cuts to create rhythms that take us inside the traumatised mind of a Holocaust survivor.
What’s been snubbed: The Substance. This snub wouldn’t be as shocking if this film hadn’t already defied expectations with nominations in many other categories. Fargeat wields precise control over her montages and parallel editing, using harsh cuts to underscore her gruesome body horror and paying homage to Requiem for a Dream. Just as shocking here is the Academy overlooking Furiosa: A Mad Max Saga and Dune: Part Two.
The Substance (Edited by Coralie Fargeat, Jérôme Eltabet, and Valentin Feron)
Will likely win:Dune: Part Two. If this is the only award that Villeneuve’s sequel wins this year, then it will be a sad night indeed, but so far this seems to be a lock-in.
What should win: Dune: Part Two. No other competitors have a single scene which can match Paul riding the sandworm or Villeneuve’s largescale, futuristic battles. This is one of the finest uses of digital effects from the past few years, revealing incredible imagination while maintaining visual tactility.
What’s been snubbed: Furiosa: A Mad Max Saga. George Miller previously showcased a magnificent blend of practical and digital effects in Fury Road, and he continues to use these techniques to build out the vast deserts and fortresses of the wasteland in Furiosa, servicing a string of thrilling action set pieces.
Dune: Part Two (Visual effects by Paul Lambert, Stephen James, Rhys Salcombe, and Gerd Nefzer)
The Oscars Ceremony will be televised live (AEDT) on Seven and streaming live on 7plus nationally from 11am on Monday, 3rd March.
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.
What unfolds behind the closed doors of the Sistine Chapel in the wake of a pope’s death is an esoteric mystery for the public, and a tantalising source of intrigue in Conclave. Those untouchable pillars of virtue who make up the College of Cardinals represent one of the most powerful patriarchies in the world, yet only a fool would believe they are above the messiness of material, bureaucratic machinations. Especially when the time comes for them to decide the future of the Catholic Church, factions solidify into cliques, demanding unwavering loyalty amid profuse uncertainty. The only death that takes place in Conclave is the late Pope’s, and the film’s sole action set piece is merely a footnote within the broader narrative, but the tension that Edward Berger weaves into this historic landmark is rich with all the conspiratorial speculation of an exhilarating political thriller.
Ralph Fiennes’ performance as Dean Thomas Lawrence must also be credited for anchoring this sacred assembly in a weary apprehension, both disillusioned by the church and anxious that its leadership should fall into the wrong hands. With Berger’s camera frequently circling him and hanging on the back of his head in tracking shots, we are placed right in his uneasy state of mind, aggravated further by the deep, staccato strings restlessly driving each scene forward. It seems cruel that he should be the man to preside over the papal conclave given his personal troubles, but still he remains true to his duty. This is a process heavily entrenched in ritual and tradition, and there can be no allowance for unorthodox interferences at any point – so when the candidates themselves are caught up in self-aggrandising games of sabotage, to whom can their followers turn for spiritual guidance?
Fiennes is weary, anxious, and subdued as he takes on the responsibility of leading the papal conclave, worry lines creasing his forehead.
Thoughtfully adapted from Robert Harris’ novel, Conclave possesses a screenplay that is more concerned with archetypes than characters, both to its benefit and detriment. These cardinals stand for opposing sides of an internal conflict more than their specific doctrines, vaguely labelled here as reactionaries, moderates, and liberals with little regard to what these practically mean. On one hand, this broadly helps to shape the story into a microcosm of modern politics, rendering their philosophies as secondary to their trivial antagonism. On the other, it struggles to distinguish these characters beyond their shallow alliances, each equally obstinate in their goal to elect whoever best serves their own interests.
Precision, order, and tradition in Berger’s visuals, from his blocking of large crowds to their resplendent garments.
While Conclave does not engage deeply with Lawrence’s particular crisis of faith either, it at least positions his perspective as perhaps the most compelling of this religious debate. “Certainty is the great enemy of unity. Certainty is the deadly enemy of tolerance,” he preaches in his homily before the first vote, encouraging his peers to vote for someone who recognises doubt as a great virtue. After all, it is from that space between two absolutes that faith is born – not that many in his audience are ready to listen with open hearts. This is nothing more than his own personal ambition speaking, they believe, coming across as an attempt to throw his name into the ring.
On some subconscious level, perhaps there is some truth to this as well. Along with Lawrence’s spiritual turmoil, he must also grapple with his own opportunistic tendencies, driving him to step forward when he realises his friend Aldo Bellini cannot lead the church’s progressive faction to victory. As such, the universe’s timely intervention at the exact moment he casts a vote in his name almost seems to be a biblical rebuke from the heavens, humbling him before a righteous, divine God who has a plan for all things.
Uncanny timing in what seems to be an act of God, rebuking Lawrence for committing the sin of pride.
Lawrence is far from the only ego present forced to face his sin though. The secrets that simmer beneath the surface of the papal conclave hold the potential to topple candidacies, and as they are gradually brought to light, each one also exposes the moral weaknesses of those religious leaders who hide behind facades of reverence. Whether they concern long-buried mistakes from thirty years ago or recent acts of deep-seated corruption, the humiliation that comes with their revelation brings prideful men to heel, begging the question of who can really be trusted with such consequential responsibilities.
A tremendous use of architecture and colour, letting the red of the cardinals’ robes pop against white colonnades.Another visual highlight as the cardinals make their way in unison through the rain beneath white umbrellas, finally coming to a majority decision on their next pope.
That Berger brings such solemn gravity to his staging of this confined drama only deepens the burden upon these characters’ shoulders as well, seeing him constantly underscore the sharp angles and perfect symmetry of the Vatican’s Renaissance architecture. Beautiful marble interiors, plazas, and colonnades host crowds of cardinals in their black and red attire, collectively moving in uniform patterns around the Apostolic Palace and the Domus Sanctae Marthae, and forming a particularly striking composition as they head towards their final vote beneath white umbrellas. Even as they wait around between votes, Berger turns yellow and red plaster walls into striking backdrops for their idle smoking and texting, while inside he casts the eyes of history upon them through montages of the Sistine Chapel’s vibrant frescoes.
The weight of history bears down on the cardinals from the Sistine Chapel above.Colour and texture in Berger’s use of these walls as striking backdrops.
This is evidently an environment bound by precise order, and the fact that Berger took liberties to make the cardinals’ living quarters even more prison-like than real life only further emphasises its severity. As a result, when this rigidity is compromised to even a minor extent, we can feel the full weight of its implications. This particularly comes into play when we consider the role of women in Conclave who are relegated to minor and supporting roles, much like in the church itself, yet who bear incredible influence upon the formal proceedings. Isabella Rossellini’s stern, authoritative turn as Sister Agnes stands out here even in her limited screen time, balancing her devotion to the church against her desire to see unworthy candidates held accountable, and eventually allying with Lawrence to see the Lord’s will be done.
A small but standout performance from Rossellini, reassessing the role that women play in the church.
With this consideration of gender roles in mind, the final secret revealed in Conclave makes for a particularly earth-shattering subversion of the Catholic Church’s dogmatic power structure, treading a narrow line between stringent dichotomies. If the lead-up to it were not so hinged on a contrived, idealistic plot device that overrides all the political game-playing we have witnessed, Berger might have stuck the landing even more, but the resolution nonetheless gives tangible meaning to Lawrence’s acceptance of a life without certainty. As this entire process has demonstrated, an institution that is focused on tradition more than the future is damned to fall on its own sword, blinded by a strict adherence to icons loaded with influence and stripped of moral substance. In Conclave, these icons do not necessarily need to be demolished – it is the periodic reinvention of what they stand for which grants longevity to the fundamental principles of their diverse, devoted followers.
