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...film... exists to consecrate the human face - AO Scott
Je suis venu ici pour écrire un roman. C'est l'histoire d'un homme que j'ai inventé. Il est silencieux, naïf, sans audace, et il laisse passer les chances du bonheur. Je l'ai fait vice-consul de France à Calcutta. Vice-consul, profession médiocre, mais sûr ... et qui trompe. Calcutta, ville infinie de la lassitude d'être... Je dois maintenant dire sa défaite, son rêve ecrasé, et comment Calcutta, lentement, mettre en plein lumière sa solitude, sa banalité, son angoisse, si court. - narration from Marguerite Duras' "Nuit Noire, Calcutta"
Ce soir dans le port il y a un place libre dans la Funchalense. Mais ne crois pas jamais des gens comme moi. - dialogue from Raul Ruiz's "Les trois couronnes du matelot"
REUNIS, LE SOIR, COMME DES CONSPIRATEURS, NE SE CACHANT AUCUNE PENSEE, USANT TOUR A TOUR D'UNE FORTUNE SEMBLABLE A CELLE DU VIEUX DE LA MONTAGNE; AYANT LES PIEDS DANS TOUS LES SALONS, LES MAINS DANS TOUS LES COFFRE-FORTS, LES COUDES DANS LA RUE, LEURS TETES SUR TOUS LES OREILLERS, ET, SANS SCRUPLES. - typewritten note in Out 1: Noli Me Tangere.
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I like films about the body and human lifecycle, and about how the mind works. I also like films containing images that strike me with awe. In the mix are films about outsiders and the ostracised, and films that provoke a feeling of being haunted.
Films containing aspects of bildung and spiritual progression are also welcome, as are films of pure aestheticism.
Like everyone I also like escapist cinema.
Below is my ordered top 100 (Oct 2024).
Stay safe and happy.
Le soulier de satin / O Sapato de Cetim / The Satin Slipper (1985 - Manoel de Oliveira)
Les Maîtres du temps / Time Masters (1982 - René Laloux)
Les enfants du paradis / Children of Paradise (1945 - Marcel Carné)
Morvern Callar (2002 - Lynne Ramsay)
Il deserto dei tartari / The Desert of the Tartars (1976 - Valerio Zurlini)
La maman et la putain / The Mother and the Whore (1973 - Jean Eustache)
La double vie de Véronique / The Double Life of Véronique (1991 - Krzysztof Kieślowski)
Les amours imaginaires / Heartbeats (2010 - Xavier Dolan)
有りがたうさん / Arigatô-san / Mr. Thank You (1936 - Hiroshi Shimizu)
Les bas-fonds / The Lower Depths (1936 - Jean Renoir)
Lady Chatterley (2006 - Pascale Ferran)
Cesarée (1978 - Marguerite Duras)
Nostos: Il ritorno / Nostos: The Return (1989 - Franco Piavoli)
Odd Man Out (1947 - Carol Reed)
Edvard Munch (1974 - Peter Watkins)
Limite (1931 - Mario Peixoto)
The Saga of Anatahan (1953 - Josef von Sternberg)
Per qualche dollaro in più / For a Few Dollars More (1965 - Sergio Leone)
The Last Picture Show (1971 - Peter Bogdanovich)
大菩薩峠 / Dai-bosatsu tôge / Sword of Doom (1966 - Kihachi Okamoto)
The Spiral Staircase (1946 - Robert Siodmak)
America America (1963 - Elia Kazan)
Camille (1936 - George Cukor)
Club de femmes (1936 - Jacques Deval)
Deadfall (1968 - Bryan Forbes)
Winter (2008 - Nathaniel Dorsky)
The Fanny Trilogy - Marius, Fanny, César (1931, 1932 & 1936 - Alexander Korda, Marc Allégret & Marcel Pagnol)
Fanny och Alexander / Fanny and Alexander (1983 - Ingmar Bergman) TV Version
Gymnopedies (1965 - Larry Jordan)
In the Stone House (2012 - Jerome Hiler)
秋日和 / Akibiyori / Late Autumn (1960 - Yasujirō Ozu)
The Swimmer (1968 - Frank Perry & Sydney Pollack)
Viskningar och rop / Cries and Whispers (1972 - Ingmar Bergman)
L'année dernière à Marienbad / Last year at Marienbad (1961 - Alain Resnais)
The Tree of Life (2011 - Terrence Malick)
耳をすませば / Mimi wo Sumaseba / Whisper of the Heart (1995 - Yoshifumi Kondô)
Panique au village / A Town Called Panic (2009 - Stéphane Aubier & Vincent Patar)
The Pumpkin Eater (1964 - Jack Clayton)
Footsteps in the Fog (1955 - Arthur Lubin)
The Doom Generation (1995 - Gregg Araki)
Vertigo (1958 - Alfred Hitchcock)
Consuming Spirits (2012 - Chris Sullivan)
Saraband (2003 - Ingmar Bergman)
Alaya (1987 - Nathaniel Dorsky)
World of Tomorrow Episode Three: The Absent Destinations of David Prime (2020 - Don Hertzfeldt)
Meshes of the Afternoon (1943 - Maya Deren & Alexander Hammid)
東京物語 / Tôkyô monogatari / Tokyo Story (1953 - Yasujirō Ozu)
Malmkrog / Manor House (2020 - Cristi Puiu)
Ferdinand the Bull (1938 - Dick Rickard)
おもひでぽろぽろ / Omohide poro poro / Only Yesterday (1991 - Isao Takahata)
天使のたまご / Tenshi no tamago / Angel's Egg (1985 - Mamoru Oshii)
À l'ombre de la canaille bleue / In the Shadow of the Blue Rascal (1986 - Pierre Clémenti)
La nuit fantastique / The Fantastic Night (1942 - Marcel L'Herbier)
Le Mepris / Contempt (1963 - Jean-Luc Godard)
King of New York (1990 - Abel Ferrara)
Gone with the Wind (1939 - Victor Fleming, George Cukor & Sam Wood)
Csillagosok, katonák / The Red and the White (1967 - Miklós Jancsó)
Get Carter (1971 - Mike Hodges)
Jauja (2014 - Lisandro Alonso)
Shutter Island (2010 - Martin Scorsese)
Krysar / The Pied Piper of Hamelin (1986 - Jirí Barta)
L'armée des ombres / Army of Shadows (1969 - Jean-Pierre Melville)
Fünf Patronenhülsen / Five Cartridges (1960 - Frank Beyer)
Eyes Wide Shut (1999 - Stanley Kubrick)
Aliens (1986 - James Cameron)
Gwen, le livre de sable / Gwen, the Book of Sand (1985 - Jean-François Laguionie)
A Pál utcai fiúk / The Boys of Paul Street (1968 - Zoltán Fábri)
Picnic at Hanging Rock (1975 - Peter Weir)
Au coeur de la vie / In the Midst of Life (1963 - Robert Enrico)
Accident (1967 - Joseph Losey)
The Secret of Kells (2009 - Tomm Moore & Nora Twomey)
Êxtase / Ecstasy (2020 - Moara Passoni)
Trys Dienos / Three Days (1991 - Sharunas Bartas)
Хрусталёв, машину! / Khrustalyov, mashinu! / Khrustalyov, My Car! (1998 - Aleksey German)
Liquid Sky (1982 - Slava Tsukerman)
Patterns (1956 - Fielder Cook)
Monsieur Verdoux (1947 - Charles Chaplin)
Bizalom / Confidence (1980 - István Szabó)
Red Riding (2009 - Julian Jarrold, James Marsh & Anand Tucker)
A Canterbury Tale (1944 - Michael Powell)
Accattone (1961 - Pier Paolo Pasolini)
Una giornata particolare / A Special Day (1977 - Ettore Scola)
Jofroi (1933 - Marcel Pagnol)
Meandre (1966 - Mircea Saucan)
The Long Day Closes (1992 - Terence Davies)
Davandeh / The Runner / دونده (1984 - Amir Naderi)
Dodsworth (1936 - William Wyler)
Il buono, il brutto, il cattivo / The Good the Bad and the Ugly (1966 - Sergio Leone)
At Sea (2007 - Peter Hutton)
Altair (1995 - Lewis Klahr)
Нежность / Nezhnost / Tenderness (1967 - Elyor Ishmukhamedov)
Manhunter (1986 - Michael Mann)
Deep End (1970 - Jerzy Skolimowski)
De helaasheid der dingen / The Misfortunates / The Shittiness of Things (2009 - Felix van Groeningen)
Семнадцать мгновений весны / Semnadtsat mgnoveniy vesny / Seventeen Moments of Spring (1973 - Tatyana Lioznova)
Frost (1997 - Fred Kelemen)
To Live and Die in L.A. (1985 - William Friedkin)
Careful (1992 - Guy Maddin)
Midnight Cowboy (1969 - John Schlesinger)
Ratings
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Moyen métrage - ICM forum implied
ICMF-FF8
Britannia - Heimat
Firm criteria, no international co-productions, and no violations of common sense, to be included a film has to feel British.
List is fully ranked from 1-100.
Red Riding is a series of three movies from three directors, all covering murders in the same part of Yorkshire, but over different decades, all released in successive weeks of 2009. I consider them a complete work (they can be viewed separately or together). The listing of Red Riding Hood 1974 is intended to cover all three.
The Wonderful Unloved
Wonder here I use both in the sense of bringing surprised joy (some of the films below are simply wonderful) and in the sense that James Ellroy defined it as term in his early novel "Clandestine", and which is found in profusion in his later novels, particularly the famous LA quartet. Wonder which is an ecstatic fascination with the extent of the depravity of others.
I list Cremaster 1 here separately from the other movies in the Cycle as it is the only one below 6.0. In various other lists of mine the Cremaster Cycle is listed as a whole.
Known to have graduated above 5.9 since I started: Un héritier / An Heir (2011 - Jean-Marie Straub). Water Wrackets (1975 - Peter Greenaway)
Known to have graduated in from my all-ratings favourites list by dropping below 6.0: De la guerre / On War (2008 - Bertrand Bonello)
My top 1000 movies
Currently all my favourites are on IMDb, been a long time since I have been able to say that, projects to add films have been successful!
Reviews
Die Theorie von Allem (2023)
Snowbound Mysteries: Love, Shadows, and Multiverses in The Universal Theory
The Universal Theory is a brooding and cerebral tale, blending mystery, science fiction, noir, and mad love. While it may disappoint genre fans seeking a pure science fiction experience, it excels as a haunting meditation on identity and desire. Rather than exploring scientific concepts in depth, it uses the aesthetic of science fiction to evoke pensive moods and profound existential questions. Though one of many recent multiverse movies, The Universal Theory stands apart, offering a unique and deeply emotional take on the concept.
Cultural touchpoints abound in reviews of the film, and rightfully so. Hitchcock, Truffaut, Lynch, Carol Reed, Dürrenmatt, and Maya Deren have all been referenced, and these comparisons feel apt. More surgically, I'd add Dead Mountaineer's Hotel (Grigori Kromanov's 1979 film and the 1970 novel by the Strugatsky Brothers) and Julien Duvivier's L'affaire Maurizius (1954). Dead Mountaineer's Hotel, another alpine-set sci-fi noir, seems like the film's clearest ancestor, while the paranoia, investigation, and shadows of Swiss-set L'affaire Maurizius resonate here too. And yet, for all its influences, The Universal Theory feels startlingly original, much like Alien-a film that, despite being a swag bag of looted stories and motifs, became its own iconic entity.
The story takes place in the 1950s, when a mysterious physics conference is arranged at a remote, snow-set Swiss hotel. Physics Professor Dr. Stratten and his doctoral student Johannes Leinert travel there, to find out more about the conference. However, the scientific gathering quickly fades into the background as strange occurrences and the enigmatic Karin capture Johannes' attention. Karin, with her jazz-inflected rendition of Couperin's Les Barricades Mystérieuses, embodies the film's central mystery: beautiful and endlessly elusive.
The Universal Theory uses its science fiction framework not for scientific exploration but to probe the fragility of human existence. There is a pervasive sense that something is slightly "off" about reality. A brilliant career reduced to mediocrity by an inexplicable obstacle. Profound declarations of love rebuffed by those we believed were our soulmates. Sliding-doors moments subtly alter the trajectories of lives: in one reality, a professor has ties to the Soviets; in another, he leans west. These questions linger: Could we be anyone? Are our identities largely circumstantial?
This is not a film for those who need clear answers or a neatly tied narrative. Like Couperin's piece, The Universal Theory is intricate and ambiguous, inviting viewers to reflect rather than resolve. Its particular cocktail of genres is niche, and its appeal may not be universal-as evidenced by the bemused silence of my fellow audience members as the credits rolled. Yet, I found myself deeply moved, clapping alone, the film's strange, shadowed beauty resonating long after the lights came back on.
The Universal Theory is a niche masterpiece of strangeness, shadows, and love-sickness. For those willing to embrace its haunting mystery, it offers an unforgettable cinematic experience.
Animals (2021)
Cruelty Without Catharsis: The Excesses of Animals
Animals (2021) joins a lineage of films like Irréversible and Kinatay, with extended scenes of the destruction of a human being forming its narrative core. I've never been a fan of this approach, and my reaction here is no different. The film follows a three-act structure, with its second act focusing on the humiliation, degradation, and eventual murder of Brahim, a 30-year-old man targeted for his sexuality.
After the murder, one of the killers deletes the photos from Brahim's phone, intending to give the stolen device to his partner. This moment recalled Clint Eastwood's line in The Outlaw Josey Wales: "It's a hell of a thing, killing a man. You take away everything he's got and everything he's ever gonna have." For me, this single, chilling act conveyed everything the middle of the film needed to say. The extended scenes of torture and humiliation added little of value and instead felt gratuitous, prioritising shock over insight.
Based on a real-life murder from 2012, the film's explicit dramatization risks alienating viewers rather than fostering understanding. While Animals is not itself homophobic-Brahim is portrayed with sympathy, and his killers as inhuman-it often veers into tastelessness. Its graphic approach, while undoubtedly intended to provoke, feels excessive and verging on exploitative.
The Dardenne brothers are credited as executive producers, yet their restrained and humanistic sensibilities are notably absent from the middle of the movie. One wishes they had exerted more influence, steering the film toward a more thoughtful exploration of violence and its aftermath. Instead, Animals lingers too long in its most brutal moments, failing to rise above the cruelty it seeks to condemn.
Flux Gourmet (2022)
Feeding the Gaze: Feminism and Fetishism in Flux Gourmet
Flux Gourmet delves into the eccentric world of "sonic catering," a fictional performance art where noises generated from food preparation are transformed into experimental soundscapes. Under the leadership of Elle, a domineering provocateur who often disregards the medium's culinary roots, a trio of artists navigates the power dynamics of an artistic residency at an institute devoted to this peculiar craft. The film aspires to the wry humour of early Peter Greenaway, satirising the bureaucracy of arts funding, but it lacks his trademark wit and charm. Another misstep is its reliance on scatological humour, culminating in an onstage proctological examination that detracts from its intellectual appeal.
One of the film's aims seems to be to explore the grievances of many women who were historically forced into the role of preparing all the food for their families. The "gender cooking gap"-the significant difference in the number of meals prepared by women compared to men-has all but been eliminated in developed economies. In Italy, for example, men now prepare slightly more meals than women. However, this gap remains a massive issue in developing economies. Elle embodies the tension in modern Western feminism, where genuine progress has lapsed into performativity: she theatrically destroys a long out-of-print misogynist cookbook-a hollow gesture that fights a battle already won-while hypocritically relegating domestic labour to her partner, another woman, during their relationship. While this meta-feminist commentary is intriguing, it is undermined by the film's lapses into the excesses of the male gaze, with its portrayal of women unrealistically acquiescing to fetishistic demands-scenarios that provoke anxiety more than empowerment.
Strickland's fascination with fetishism and scatology, central to The Duke of Burgundy (2014), resurfaces here with little evolution. While Flux Gourmet offers a provocative concept and bold satire, its indulgent excesses-scatological humour and unrealistic portrayals of gender-ultimately overshadow its thematic ambitions.
Mantagheye bohrani (2023)
An uncanny ride through Tehran-ian night
Critical Zone is a surreal and provocative movie exploring the life of a drug dealer called Amir in night-time Tehran. He's no ordinary drug dealer as he seems to give away a lot of product to those in discomfort and promotes the healing properties of hashish with sincerity, even more he seems to be appreciated as some sort of community medic.
There are strange and unusual elements to the film that are never really explained, but add to an uncanny atmosphere. Things that seem off include a car GPS system that might be sentient, and a highly organized drug network meeting in tunnels at the start of the movie. Every single scene seems calculated to annoy the Iranian authorities as much as possible, and to feed their paranoia, including scenes where Amir hands out blunts to transexual prostitutes and another where Amir's dog humps his leg. Dogs are seen as unclean in Islamic scripture and it is currently illegal to walk them or ride with them in cars, with legislators exploring how to make dog ownership illegal.
There is one major scene of ultra-provocation, when Amir meets up with a flight attendant and they proceed to indulge in a laundry list of vices. I felt a learned a lot about freedom from that scene, because of the sheer authenticity of the actress's performance, of her electrifying defiance.
Archipel (2021)
Flights of fancy, beauty, and refuge, also of regret, nostalgia, and anger
The title Archipel (Archipelago) refers to both the literal islands of the St. Lawrence River (Fleuve Saint-Laurent or Kaniatarowanenneh), such as Montréal, and figurative "islands" like Québec City-isolated yet interconnected spaces. Early on, the Thousand Islands, a sprawling archipelago near the river's source at Lake Ontario, are mentioned briefly but not deeply explored; instead, the film focuses on major historic-prismatic locations.
As a quasi-documentary exploring the river and the lands it nourishes, the film weaves animistic, political, philosophical, personal, and ecological themes into a kaleidoscopic, dreamlike journey. Contrasting the sacred designs of the past with the anomie of modernity, it mourns a way of life lost to atomised urban precarity and identity erasure. Nostalgia runs deep, particularly for Ville-Jacques-Cartier-once the anarchic frontier of French Canada, under-policed, destitute, yet vibrant-now tamed into a suburb of Longueuil. The narrators lament the rot of urban sprawl, recalling a time when small, tight-knit communities thrived before being swallowed by industrialised conurbation. They call for a return to the values and organising principles of the past, seeing hope in history.
As a non-Canadian viewer, I found the film challenging but rewarding. It assumes significant prior knowledge, spotlighting figures like Dr. Jacques Ferron and Pierre Vallières, whose legacies are now obscure. For instance, a fleeting sequence of a silhouette transforming into a rhinoceros references Ferron, founder of the satirical Parti Rhinocéros Party (akin to the UK's Monster Raving Loony Party). Another fragment shows a man kicking while held by police-assumed to be Vallières during the 1965 LaGrenade shoe factory strike.
The film omits darker truths, such as the mail bomb that killed Thérèse Morin, an elderly secretary, a year into the strike-a crime for which Vallières was convicted of manslaughter (though debates about his direct involvement persist, the FLQ, of which he was a key figure, claimed responsibility). By contrast, Ferron served as a physician among Ville-Jacques-Cartier's poor, using his experiences to illuminate the struggles of ordinary Québécois in his writing. Vallières also wielded a pen powerfully, famously comparing the hardships faced by French Canadians to those of African Americans. In later years, he renounced the FLQ and nationalism, championing gay rights and First Nations causes.
A sequence of flooding evokes the "Mer de Champlain," a prehistoric sea that covered much of modern Québec until it receded 10,000 years ago. The river itself, Kaniatarowanenneh, becomes a mystical character, shaping lands, histories, and identities. Yet the film conveniently overlooks the inhabitants of its southern banks, focusing instead on Innu and French-Canadian connections.
Beauty abounds in Archipel. Vivid sequences linger on a crucifix glowing at dusk as "wolves of the cold" lope past, a grandmother growing younger in animation, snow falling and ice cracking, kayakers in the mist beside a ghostly ship at La Malbaie, and even esoteric depictions like écorché sex (which beautifully de-genders the partners). Each wonder employs distinct artistic techniques, enriching the film's visual and emotional tapestry.
However, rough edges remain: casual barbs against the British and a disregard for animal suffering feel stereotypically brusque. These moments, alongside omissions of historical nuance, complicate the film's romanticised narrative of the past.
Ultimately, Archipel is a mighty epic compressed into 72 minutes-an education in a film, a meditation on identity, history, and the dream of a "New France in America." Its layered narrative and aesthetic daring make it a masterpiece, though one that demands patience and context to fully appreciate.
Vertical Features Remake (1978)
Fun and ultimately touching structural film making fun out of structural filmmaking
In Vertical Features Remake, "vertical features" is an academicised joke phrase for any upright objects: a telegraph pole, a tree, a fence, rugby posts, and so on. True to its title, Greenaway's moyen métrage (academic shorthand for a film of 30-59 minutes) teems with such features. The premise is appropriately labyrinthine: a filmmaker named Tulse Luper-whose name, a recurring fixture in Greenaway's work, hints at the looping structures of his films-has created a "structural film" about vertical features. This film has been lost, Luper has vanished, and a fictional cultural organisation, the Institute of Restoration and Reclamation, takes it upon themselves to remake it. Using Luper's notes and scattered clues, the Institute attempts several reconstructions, each iteration sparking conflict with various cultural nabobs, theorists, and panjandrums within the institutions.
A "structural film," in this context, rejects traditional narrative in favour of fixed shots and a rigorous mathematical or geometric logic. Such films focus on the medium itself rather than the subject it might convey, making them nearly impossible to recount orally without inducing a yawn. Greenaway uses this highly specialised form as a canvas for comedy and critique, skewering the bureaucratic absurdities of cultural institutions-arts councils, NGOs, and other bodies that entangle artists in red tape.
Beneath its satire, however, the film is also a reflection of Greenaway's creative process. By the fourth reconstruction, Greenaway-or his fictional Institute-achieves something quietly beautiful. The result is an elegiac ode to forgotten British spaces: rural sports grounds, gymkhana paddocks, old cottages, and fields from a time before modern hyper-connectivity bred today's restless anxieties. What begins as an intellectual puzzle blossoms into a gently melancholic portrait of an undervalued world.
Greenaway's early career reveals an intricate, often self-referential style that yields moments of unexpected beauty.
Khers nist (2022)
Authenticity and reason
No Bears is a metafictional exploration by Jafar Panahi, tackling the social and political restraints placed on himself and others. While the subject matter might seem daunting, the film is surprisingly accessible. Despite its gravity, it maintains a humble, understated tone, grounded by Panahi's calm demeanour, honesty, and politeness. Moments of dark-tinged humour-like Panahi reviewing footage accidentally left running on a camera-lighten the tension.
Panahi stars as himself, directing a film about two people attempting to migrate illegally, which is presented as a semi-documentary. In a unique twist, No Bears becomes a semi-documentary within a semi-documentary, blurring the boundaries of fiction and reality. Panahi has relocated to a small village near the Turkish border to direct remotely via webcam, as he was subject to a chronic travel ban at the time. Perhaps he sought proximity to his crew or a respite from the surveillance of Tehran. However, his interactions with the local villagers and the tensions of living near the border create a layered narrative that reflects both the film's themes and Panahi's real-life challenges. The frequent disruptions to his work caused by poor internet signal serve as a fitting metaphor for the control and limitations imposed on his creative freedom.
At its core, No Bears is a film about resistance. Panahi refuses to bow to Iranian authorities' attempts to silence him. His dealings with the villagers mirror his experiences with the regime-both characterised by arbitrary rules, superstitions, and traditions that he quietly defies. Acting as a beacon of reason, Panahi invites viewers to question the power of authoritarian systems, suggesting that their strength lies in collective compliance. The title, No Bears, reflects this theme. Villagers keep the young indoors with tales of bears prowling at night, but no such bears exist-a lie that encapsulates the broader dangers of imagined fears used as tools of control.
Panahi's calm rationality contrasts with the fabrications and self-deceptions around him. He resists not only the idea of leaving Iran to escape its constraints but also the notion that he should be forced to abandon his homeland to live freely. Why should he, or anyone, have to leave to live authentically?
Beneath Panahi's serene exterior lies a quiet yet profound frustration-his inability to fully integrate, to prevent tragedy, or to appeal to others' sense of reason. He is like Lemuel Gulliver, bound by the Lilliputians, constrained by a system of small yet unyielding forces.
Les dimanches de Ville d'Avray (1962)
A Fragile Sanctuary: Sundays in Ville-d'Avray
"Sundays in Ville-d'Avray" centres on an unconventional bond between a traumatised 30-year-old veteran of the Indochina War and a vulnerable 12-year-old girl, Francoise, who's been abandoned by her father and left at a convent school near Paris. Mistaken for her absent parent, Pierre is able to form an intimate but unusual friendship with her that unfolds each Sunday, bringing warmth and mutual healing to both. Pierre suffers from severe retrograde amnesia and post-traumatic vertigo, both likely caused by crashing his fighter plane, and also experiences PTSD-induced age regression, likely caused by memories of firing into a crowd, which included a horrified girl. In Francoise, he finds a safe yet unconventional connection, while she, having been let down by several adults before, tentatively trusts his new-found gentleness.
The film presents multiple societal views on the pair's Sunday walks and shared moments without pressing any single viewpoint. There are the bitter who resent others' joys, those who follow strict social codes and distrust such irregularity, the free spirits who would have them dream on, and the open-minded empiricists who might study and consider before judging. Søren Kierkegaard's sentiment, "What is youth? A dream. What is love? The subject of the dream," speaks to what many viewers feel: that awakening these dreamers would shatter something pure.
Perhaps you have seen lobsters with tied claws lying on crushed ice and felt sorry for them? Society often prescribes such narrow paths for friendships, leaving us, in a sense, trussed up and cold. This film awakens a sort of remembrance within us, a memory of a more freely associative spirit within ourselves. It raises questions about whether this friendship is inherently dangerous or if the danger stems from society's mistrust of their unconventional connection. Though chaste, the friendship holds a romantic quality, as Francoise dreams of the day she'll be eighteen and able to marry Pierre. Given their damaged states, some form of harm feels tragically inevitable.
Each time they meet, the couple throw a stone in the lake, watching their reflections in the rippling water, feeling safe as if they've entered another world once the ritual has begun. And is this not also the experience of going to the cinema?
The Letter (1940)
Heart of noir
"The Letter" is a midnight tale of deceit, adultery, and murder set on a rubber plantation. The backbone of its plot might seem uninspired, and in less capable hands, the story could easily have faltered. Yet, under the spells and incantations of Bette Davis and William Wyler, it comes hauntingly alive.
The film is very much of its time, predating the information age and exoticizing the East for Western audiences in ways that may feel troubling to modern sensibilities. Reconciling Leslie's description of her husband Robert as "good and simple" is particularly challenging-after all, he's a colonial plantation manager. But the past is a foreign country; allow yourself to travel there and accept its way of seeing. Here, you'll find yourself rewarded with an unnerving tale of sexual jealousy. The story centers on a secret rebel whose infidelity is nearly flawless-someone who casually sees through the mores and culture of her time, creating her own reality almost in plain sight. Here be subversion.
Davis is superb as the prim, gracious mistress who is not who she seems. She maintains the image of a dutiful, tasteful, and pliant housewife, yet we see brief flashes of the depths and capabilities her formal role conceals. The house may be surrounded by a rubber plantation, but in a sense, Leslie's environment is a cell with a secret door leading to a wild, unrestrained jungle-a world she secretly inhabits while her "jailer" remains none the wiser.
With noir and bourbon, I matched strong stuff with strong stuff. After the explosive start and mystical finale, we're left to wonder just what we've witnessed-and what lies beneath.
Absolute Denial (2021)
Pandora's box
"Absolute Denial" is a fine animated sci-fi marked by delicious ambiguity and experimentation, with a "Primer"-like feel. Introverted whizz-kid programmer David decides to build a supercomputer in a secluded warehouse and attempts to "wake it up"-to create a "strong AI" capable of general intelligence and understanding the world beyond narrow tasks. Knowing this is risky, he "air gaps" the computer, isolating it to prevent its intelligence from spreading beyond the warehouse.
The title Absolute Denial holds a dual meaning: it refers to both the AI failsafe-a protocol invented for the film to prevent an AI from acting autonomously-and to David's psychological state. As the AI challenges his authority, David avoids its arguments and distances himself from those around him, remaining in "absolute denial" about both his creation and the world outside his control-a kind of silicon solipsist.
David's precautions seem like a belt-and-braces approach to controlling an AI that might grow beyond his intentions. However, Manhunter fans may recall Hannibal Lecter's ability to manipulate others from his cell, casting doubt on the idea that David's measures can truly contain a supercomputer with vast knowledge and insight speeds 1,000 times beyond human capability.
The film raises complex questions: Would a superintelligent AI be malevolent or benevolent? Does opening this 21st-century Pandora's Box release evils-or might it bring humanity's freedom? There are particularly fun touches, such as the AI creating a simulation of David himself to manipulate him, and fascinating questions about how a general AI might experience time. Would a five-minute conversation with a human, to such an AI, feel like 500 years, each sentence taking as long as a tree takes to grow? The key with Pandora's box is that there's no going back. In some ways, David's reality becomes like those in eXistenZ or Fassbinder's Welt Am Draht: once the switch is flipped, David cannot know whether he's inside a simulation, suffering psychological collapse, or being manipulated.
As an aside, we still don't know what would happen if we created a true strong AI-or if it's even possible. Some experts suggest a strong AI must experience the world to truly understand it, requiring trial and error in 3D space to grasp it fully. A computer might mimic human descriptions of 3D space but lack an actual concept of it. Perhaps it's better to admit we don't know what strong AI could do. Current 'wisdom of crowds' predictions place a 50% chance of achieving the 'singularity' of strong AI by 2060-called a singularity because, like a black hole, we have no idea what lies beyond. Absolute Denial taps into the fear of this unknown future, which feels closer with every technological advance. Yet the story of Absolute Denial is centuries old, drawing not only on the archetype of Pandora's Box but also on the Golem of Prague; the value of this continuation of tradition lies in the film's nuanced details and cultivated ambiguity.
The film's evolving ambiguity is vividly captured by kaleidoscopic and surreal animation, with a grisaille aesthetic that blurs boundaries between man and machine, reality and simulation. Absolute Denial is inventive and thought-provoking-a unique experience that deserves a much wider audience.
Swiadectwo urodzenia (1961)
A landmark of world cultural history
"Birth Certificate" is an anthology of three stories that depict the German occupation of Poland through the eyes of children, each separated from their parents. The stories of Janek, Zbyszek, and Mirka each have their own merit, with the emotional intensity building from one to the next. However, the third story is a landmark of world cultural history-an astonishing achievement. "Drop of Blood" (Kropla Krwi) follows a young Jewish girl with the dark eyes of a Burne-Jones angel who has seen too much. Beata Barszczewska inhabits the role of Mirka, who, to escape the Gestapo's clutches, is given the Polish name Marysia Malinowska and a falsified birth certificate. The film comes alive visually in this segment's opening scene, as Mirka sombrely wanders through the rooms of a ransacked tenement. Torn, stained wallpaper suggests a cultural desecration, with the building's inhabitants likely 'resettled' to Treblinka.
This section is filled with heart-rending, deeply communicative moments that rely not on overt violence but on restraint. They are the whisper that follows the implied fire and earthquake. The segment concludes on a defining concept of a drop of blood, as the brainwashed Gestapo officers believe every drop of 'Aryan' blood is precious-a galling display of selective, arbitrary empathy. By focusing on children, the film forecloses any option of blaming the victim; it is simply impossible to cast guilt on such innocence.
Along with Górecki's Symphony No. 3, "Symphony of Sorrowful Songs", "Drop of Blood" (Kropla Krwi) should be preserved forever as an impeccable memorial to a time when cruelty became humanity's organising principle. The Holocaust has left an enduring existential crisis: how could men brought up listening to Mozart still end up feeding children to a brazen Molech? If our nature harbours defects this profound-gullibility, on-call callousness, and a malefic bent-we must remain watchful against the enemy within.
Doro no kawa (1981)
Commissioned animal cruelty and sentimental attitude to war in Manchuria compromise an otherwise compassionate slice-of-life movie
Muddy River is in many ways an excellent film. It has an earthy, empathetic, and unfiltered connection to the human struggles of post-war Japan. In an establishing scene, a child sings the type of obscene ditty that we know kids have always sung (here I'll call it "Grandpa poo"). Physical wounds are healed for some, psychological ones clearly remain. Later in the movie when a newspaper headline announces, "The post-war period" is over, the noodle shop proprietor's face reveals a deep reluctance to move on from this grief.
The overarching storyline of Muddy River concerns two families on either side of a muddy river on the outskirts of Osaka. A noodle shop owner, his wife and their child who all live on the premises, and a prostitute and her two children who arrive in a houseboat on the other side. The children from both sides hesitantly interact and share experiences, even though the boat mum appears to have gone through this dynamic before and is pessimistic about the possibility of sharing problems and mutual consoling due to her profession.
The film reaches moments of incredible poignancy as it broaches themes of illness and dying, but the sensitivity of these scenes, which rivals that of Ozu and more, is marred by creative missteps. Firstly thee crabs are dipped in paraffin and set alight, they cringe and writhe in agony as a result, and secondly the film has a sentimental attitude to war in Manchuria. This war was an aggressive, unprovoked and genocidal war, characterized by the almost obliteration of Oroqen and Hezhen ethnic groups, and by atrocities that are unfathomable in their cruelty, including human vivisection without pain relief and deliberately promoting epidemics. It is not enough to characterise this episode as one of nostalgic Japanese loss of comrades, as embodied by the singing of melancholic and misguided war songs, "our friends lie buried under rocks in the fields. It was only yesterday...sad yesterday...that they charged bravely against the enemy and gave them their just deserts." No Japanese soldier handed out any just deserts in Manchuria, rather they imposed a cruel and insane reign of terror.
Muddy River is a compassionate slice-of-life movie from post-war Osaka that suffers from blind spots. The film's attempts to illustrate Kiichi's developmental damage through animal suffering create a profound disconnect between empathy and ethical responsibility. The positive reception of the movie highlights the risks of engaging with arthouse material superficially. If a film fails to change the way we see the world or help us recognize moral wrongs, but instead invites passive indulgence in an aesthetic of empathy, it ultimately fails in its mission.
Billy Budd (1962)
Pressing Matters: Freedom and Coercion in Ustinov's Billy Budd
Billy Budd is Peter Ustinov's ambitious and finely crafted passion project-a cut above the typical high-seas tale. Set in 1797, the film captures a moment of intense tension between republican France and monarchist Britain, when sailors glimpsed the promise of freedom yet faced the harsh reality of impressment into the Crown's service. Billy Budd, a "pressed" (or kidnapped) sailor aboard His Majesty's ship Avenger (changed from HMS Bellipotent in Melville's novel), is eager to make the best of his situation. Despite his forced conscription and exposure to liberal ideals, he harbors no resentment toward his captors, least of all the devilish master-at-arms John Claggart-a villain drawn from nightmare.
Melville's story is rooted in real-life events, notably his experience with mutiny and the infamous 1842 hanging of Philip Spencer aboard the USS Somers. Though Spencer's case differs in time and circumstance, the Somers incident captures themes of loyalty, betrayal, and command that loom large in Billy Budd. The drama of impressment heightens the story's tension, though Spencer, as a wealthy man's son, was never conscripted. By setting the story in a tyrannical British navy, at war with revolutionary France-a nation then seen as a democratic beacon, albeit briefly before Napoleon's disillusioning self-coronation-the film intensifies its exploration of power and individual agency. British merchant sailors even initially wish the approaching ship were a French corsair, preferring robbery by free men to conscription by their own navy.
Life aboard the Avenger is marked by coercion. Though some men receive slightly better rations or quarters, all are subjects of the Crown-or, more accurately, its force. Claggart, played with electrifying intensity by Robert Ryan, is particularly condemned. The film alludes to his mysterious past: "He was once arraigned at the King's Bench on some mysterious charge..."-a possible reference to a way of loving then illegal (and which remained so in the UK until five years after the film's release, with the Navy excluded from this liberalization). It seems Claggart enlisted to escape more conventional punishment. Claggart contra mundum, filled with malice toward his fellows, holds his hand raised against the world. He sees himself, as the film puts it, as a "Pharisee among lepers," meaning that he sees himself as several cuts above those he sails with. He hates both his attraction to Billy and the penitent situation into which he is forced. It is implied that internalized homophobia sublimates into flogging for the men.
"Billy Budd" is close to flawless, and chief among its merits is the cast. Terence Stamp, here freshly plucked from acting college, embodies Billy as a mellifluous, angel-faced peacemaker with calm sincerity. The film's structure is immediately engaging, introducing each role seamlessly through the opening credits and establishing an atmosphere rich in injustice and the tang of salt air. Ustinov does well here both acting and directing and his familiarity with theatre here proves useful as he incorporates some wonderful lines from the 1951 stage adaptation of Melville's story. The film has a certain nature of multi-decipherability, also known as poesy. We are free to interpret the ambiguity at the heart of the relationship between Claggart and Budd as we will. Claggart can be seen as a straightforward sadist, or a complicated man, fallen from pride, working out his anguish on the men. Likewise Budd can be seen either as an innocent or a prodigy.
While Billy Budd undoubtedly comments on the historical treatment of homosexuality, it also speaks to a broader theme of damaged and unsalved homosociality. The film yearns for an amity and camaraderie among men-a shared esprit de corps untainted by the designs of the powerful. The emotional core of Billy Budd is its longing for this new Eden, a dream of unity and freedom that remains elusive to this day. For a companion piece with thematic parallels to Ustinov's adaptation, see Sto dney do prikaza / 100 Days Before the Command (1991, Hussein Erkenov), a film set in a Soviet army regiment marked by strict discipline with homoerotic overtones and a warped camaraderie, where harassed soldiers yearn for escape.
The Sweet East (2023)
Tongue in cheek travelogue of the eastern seaboard
In "The Sweet East", Lillian, a terminally bored, blunt-affect student from South Carolina, goes walkabout during her school tour to Washington, partly motivated by her airhead boyfriend flirting with another girl. On her Alice in Wonderland adventure, she encounters a QAnon conspiracy theorist, a trustafarian Antifa hippy, a sweet yet rotten Neo-Nazi academic, some mixed-up filmmakers, and members of a techno-tripping Islamist mannerbund, among others. It's essentially the full gamut of internet whackjobs, but everyone here is grounded in a geographical reality.
This film feels far from what one might expect from a cinematographer making their directorial debut. Sean Price Williams, known for his work with the Safdies and Alex Ross Perry, embraces a rewarding lack of caution and avoids the trap of creating a visually appealing but hollow film-an all-too-common pitfall for many cinematographers turned directors.
Lillian is an unusual heroine; she is the exact opposite of most film protagonists, functioning as a tag-along or, in modern parlance, an "NPC." In her own words, she feels like her personality is in a cocoon, uncertain whether it will eventually emerge as a maggot or a butterfly. There's clear evidence that she is a work in progress, as she often mimics the last person she met to fill gaps in her personality. Her presence provides the narrative with trajectory, plausibly attracting the attention of various characters who seek a docile, boho-looking girl to engage with. This choice of heroine is particularly funny; despite appearing unaccomplished, unformed, and uncultured, Lillian effortlessly skewers the ideologies of the polarized people she encounters with basic comments and queries.
At the same time a cheeky and chilling movie that speaks to a modern reality where conspiracy theories abound and are very funny to read, yet occasionally turn out to be true; where the true-heart local kid who complains about the government sometimes end ups clutching a rifle on a rooftop. A particularly dark moment in the film involves a visual gag with children's toys in a Washington bar basement, evoking the longstanding conspiracy theory surrounding politician paedophile rings. One critique of the movie is that some episodes are better sketched out than others. Lawrence the Neo-Nazi stands out as the most intriguing and nuanced character. He is gentle with both Lillian and his Cecropia moths, and yet his fears of cultural erosion and his despair at the rising cost of living have fuelled a racism that cripples his soul and endangers others. The feeling of the light and dark battling inside of him is well achieved, and this makes him less of a caricature others encountered by Lillian.
The playfulness is refreshing, with fun visual effects popping up: a painting used in matte or green screen-possibly a recreation of an Edenic landscape by Thomas Cole or another Hudson River School painter-alongside a model of an eyrie-like castle and some bawdy cartoon footage. This impudent style endears the film to its audience. While we may feel powerless against the cultural rot in America-a shared responsibility among all participants-we can certainly laugh about it. By adopting a humorous approach, the film offers insights into the true motivations of the modern American "ship of fools" we meet along the way, humanizing its passengers.
The Good Heart (2009)
A strange apprenticeship
A nostalgic, rugged exploration of masculinity that felt out of time even in its 2009 release, The Good Heart takes viewers into a world seemingly untouched by modernity. Brian Cox's Jacques, a grizzled, grumpy New York bartender, befriends Lucas, an oversensitive young homeless man, and together they carry on the legacy of a backstreet, regulars-only bar called "The House of Oysters." The name might seem ironic for an all-male retreat, as oysters have their own, ahem, feminine associations. The stated reason in the film is that the bar used to be a seafood restaurant. Jacques, in failing health, longs to see this forgotten, creviced bar-untouched by time-live on in the hands of someone who can appreciate its value.
What makes the surrogate father-son bond between Jacques and Lucas so compelling is its depth and authenticity. Their relationship recalls the words of "philosopher entertainer" Alan Watts, whose soothing voice is so often heard layered in today's music. Watts once said, "Dad is a clown. Why? Because he goes away to a mysterious place called the office or the factory, in which the family as such have no part and no real interest." The father then returns from this distant occupation with only an abstraction called money, creating an alienation within the family unit. We see this illness everywhere now, but it's absent in The Good Heart. Here, Jacques owns his bar; his investment is real. He provides Lucas not only with life skills but also with a genuine upbringing, embodying a largely forgotten, premodern model of mentorship.
This is a rare film for men; while countless movies cater to male tastes and mostly male directors, few speak to men's hearts. In this dialogue with men, the film treads a fine line between exploring a sensitive topic-the impact of sharing one's life with a woman-and flirting with misogyny in its portrayal of that impact. Jacques is certainly not pleased when April arrives and seduces Lucas. Jacques' resentment may stem from an old wound or even a grudge warped into bigotry; regardless, he sees April as a threat to Lucas's "upbringing." The resultant strife disrupts the rhythms and routines of The House of Oysters, and while April is portrayed as both a positive and negative influence, Jacques sees her presence as destabilizing.
One of my favorite takeaways from the movie is a wonderful analogy about life: it's like a coconut-hard and unyielding on the outside, but with sweetness inside if you can figure out how to break it open, and something you have to share once you do. The film's strong twist ending offers another good message: when we meet others on a deep level, both parties should be transformed. In the end, Jacques is changed by Lucas just as much as Lucas is by Jacques.
Visually, The Good Heart is a masterpiece. The muted tones and warm lamplight seeping through years of varnish create an amber glow, transforming the bar into a timeless cocoon. The setting feels like a liminal space between waking and dreaming, adding to the story's melancholic charm. This film would pair beautifully with Light Years Away (Les Années lumière, 1981), Alain Tanner's exploration of another peculiar apprenticeship. The Good Heart is a rare gem, and we may not see its kind again-not until our society fully reckons with the crisis in masculinity.
Rapture (1965)
Rapture in my rags
"Rapture", a haunting portrayal of chastised love set on the Brittany coastline, deserves far more exposure than it initially received. Despite its origins in a best-selling novel, the film suffered from a reluctant UK release, relegated to the back of a double bill with a throwaway sex comedy, and failed to recover its costs. Actor Dean Stockwell, who portrays the escaped prisoner and love interest, dismissed the movie, however director John Guillermin pronounced it his most perfectly realized work, a sentiment gaining support in recent years.
Patricia Gozzi stars as Agnes, a teenager whose sense of rapture manifests in her joyful communion with nature: the birds, the water, the cliffs, her own garden. She is starved for connection but cannot abide the docility her patriarchal environment demands, which has led to her removal from school. Gozzi's magnetic performance captures her raw, uncontainable energy, heightened by a swelling chromatic score and stunning, sweeping cinematography.
Frederick Larbaud (Melvyn Douglas, delivering an excellent performance) plays Agnes's father, a broken former judge who now writes pamphlets on mercy to a silent, uninterested audience of "Christian" "friends". His situation mirrors his daughter's in chastised love, as his humane insights are rejected by the society he once served. Frederick embodies the 'soppy stern' archetype, as described by poet Philip Larkin-both sentimental and severe, an aging Victorian at heart. Their house is filled with locks, and he alone carries the key ring. He's a deadeye at target shooting with his pistol and manhandles his daughter during unforgiving tirades; and yet there is a sheer softness to him at other times. Frederick is a metanoiac, struggling between the austere worldview of his upbringing, and an emerging empathy.
The makeshift family in social exile is completed by handsome Joseph, a sailor on the lam, and a knowing vivacious housekeeper, Karen. Disaster seems all but ensured as the gendarmes comb the district and Joseph must navigate the competing demands of his housemates-serving as both an archetype and protégé for Frederick, and as a love interest for both Karen and Agnes. Joseph brings a liberating influence for Agnes, challenging the perception that she is "ill" for wanting more than her constrained life. However, this idealized view is disrupted by a feral, relentless outburst from Agnes midway through the film, complicating our assessment of her character. While Agnes is a solipsistic misfit, she is authentic, whereas her 'normal' sister, the bourgeois Genevieve, appears repugnant, inauthentic, and grasping.
Gozzi's performance is magnetic; her brief but memorable film career began with Sundays and Cybele, only for her to later step away from acting. In "Rapture", her Agnes radiates a raw energy that the household struggles to contain. Her revels in nature, dancing in the surf are the most beautiful shots in the film. The film's incisive construction of space is typified in the opening shot: a sweeping aerial along a coastal road, closing in on a car packed with discordant family members-freedom and isolation just beyond their reach, separated only by glass and acceleration.
In this remote, windswept perch above the sea, fatalism hangs heavy. Ultimately, "Rapture" serves as a meditation on society's demands and the freedoms it withholds, leading us to ask: what must we sacrifice for acceptance, and is what we gain always worth the cost?
Prospect of Doom~ (2012)
Haunted liquid architecture
The word Prospect in the title here refers to a rarer use: "an extensive view of landscape". What Manuel Knapp delivers here using animation is a view of cold doom, a single continuous statically shot scene in a dark space. Strange rectilinear shapes loom out of the void, shimmering lattices and humungous beams. Everything appears to move very slowly, or quickly but on a gargantuan scale. What are we seeing here, a deep space depot for an alien species, an AI homeworld, a mutating palace with a dark matter numen? Impermanence is the only rule here in this shifting arena where shadows have substance. Madness is the mindset for watching the mercury lakes, sick stones, palisades of light, desecration pools, strange catafalques with inky inquisitors, and creeping death in the futuristic Gardens of Babylon. Slow here move the gears of unfathomable purpose, strange sights viewed from the Barrabas balcony of the viewer.
Die letzte Stadt (2020)
Dark star
The viewing public often asks for originality, but when it arrives, they can't get to grips with it. This film is wild and provocative. I think as an orientation to it, the first thing to note is this is a comedy, but not signposted as one, so get your laughing gear ready. The second main thing to notice is that every single shot is a new camera position. I often find myself wincing in films when a really good shot is reused, it feels a little desperate, un-novel, and like the optical staff don't have access to visual abundance. This movie is kaleidoscopic, every image is new and fresh. No "shot reverse shot" nonsense here for the conversations. It is maybe worth referencing some speech from the characters, where they agree that they do not like either classical music or rock because it is too predictable, and they even refer to them as being the "soundtrack for war", the film avoids this belligerent aesthetic by never repeating itself visually or otherwise.
With the scripted part of the story, we are subject to conversations that are very unusual and baroque. It's tempting to pull out the adjective Brechtian, but Emigholz himself has referred to the acting as deadpan. Each of the conversations is concerned with a taboo albeit the first of these taboos, as Emigholz calls them, is psychoanalysis. I think not many people would see psychoanalysis as a taboo, so you don't get an easy entrance to the movie in terms of trying to understand its structure. However the movie does start to become almost insanely transgressive. Whilst almost any speech is going to be forgiven by those with an iron stomach, the choice to use actual photography of atrocities is genuinely hair-raising. The other taboos are: war (specifically here war guilt in Japan and Germany, and the philosophy of weapons manufacture, relationships between the young and old, incest, and cosmology (our complete irrelevance in that perspective). There is a fine line between discussing genuinely interesting but fraught subject matter, and outright provocation. There's an animated shot where a pixellated computer game girl crosses a street in an oil painting and gets splatted by a bus. That's provocation, laced a pitch black humour, but mostly I did find the conversations interesting and not provocation for the sake of it. I watched an interview with Emigholz about this movie and in it he referred to Guy Debord as a "bourgeois", yes the Marxist philosopher who came up with the concept of The Society of Spectacle. Emigholz is not worried about expressing outré opinions.
It is the section about war guilt that is the most shocking. It also contains a slight error in research, it says that no-one from Japan signed the Geneva Convention, in fact they did, but the signature was never ratified back home. There is a suggestion that modern Germans and Japanese are being turned into war guilt sausages. He does not of course shy away from talking about the actual war crimes of the past, in fact Japanese war crimes are hideously and exhaustively enumerated. There is also a question of whether Shinto-ism as an ideological broth, made committing atrocities more easy. I think the general point is hinted at, that you can get anyone to do something nauseatingly abject if you find the right buttons to press. The movie contains a strong joke about how to convince men from various nations not to board lifeboats in favour of women and children which is the link (you appeal to various key ideological symbols).
This film was a massive surprise to me because I only knew of Emigholz's purely architectural films - the films where he just points his camera at interesting architectural images and puts together a documentary. To be clear, he hasn't abandoned his interest in architecture, the film's genesis started with architecture, he wanted to make a film about the cities here since the start of the millennium. However what he has done is place actors and a spoken narrative in there, mostly unrelated to the locations excepting the occasional visual metaphor. This is quite a remarkable creative leap in Emigholz's career, and, I've since learned, started with Streetscapes (Dialogue) in 2017. Watching this movie feels a bit like being offered whisky in a barbershop, not exactly unwelcome, but unexpected.
It is a very beautifully lensed film, there is very little blurring and most compositions are complex, here is a quote from Emigholz: "I like an image that's totally saturated, saturated with content you know... and this is pleasure to do". It's a pleasure to watch as well!
A genuinely innovative film that has been massively unappreciated.
The Terminator (1984)
Machines vs Hearts: Revisiting The Terminator
The Terminator is an iconic Hollywood property that blew the minds of teenagers who found ways to see it in the eighties. Despite its explosive reputation now, it was a bit of a gamble for the studio at the time, backed by a modest budget of $6.4 million-a factor that is evident in the effects, particularly in the future battleground scenes shot with miniatures. Terminator 2 followed with a budget more than 15 times larger, breaking new ground in special effects.
The original film presents a grungy, guerrilla aesthetic, mostly shot at night and often filmed without the necessary permits. The story centres on a courageous man battling to save the future against a relentless machine. And what a machine! Arnold Schwarzenegger's Cyberdyne Systems Series 800 Model 101, a remorseless tissue-moulded android (or flesh-wrapped robot), serves as the film's formidable antagonist. His standout moment may well be the storming of the police station, which may have drawn inspiration from Carpenter's Assault on Precinct 13 (1976), but his badassedness is established when he wipes the floor with Bill Paxton's punk leader.
The movie boasts great action and humour-primarily through witty repartee-and takes us on a chaotic journey across an already dystopian modern day Los Angeles. From dimly lit malls to dark alleys inhabited by the homeless and high-tech assembly lines, the film immerses viewers in its world. At its emotional core, however, lies the accelerated romance between Michael Biehn's Kyle Reese and Linda Hamilton's Sarah Connor. Their rapport is established at lightning speed yet feels authentic. Connor shines as the kind-hearted but beleaguered waitress with leonine hair, who transforms into a formidable kick-assing warrior by the film's climax, fully justifying that iconic hairdo.
While the obstacles faced by the production are readily visible, Cameron navigates them skillfully, treating them like a nimble bar-room moggy dancing between the glasses without knocking a single one over.
The Terminator remains a compelling and highly original thrill ride, exploring themes of love, fate, and resilience that still resonate powerfully, it looms large in cinematic history forty years later.
La bête dans la jungle (2023)
Both a love letter to multiple eras of clubbing and a great adaptation of Henry James's short story
Patric Chiha's "The Beast in the Jungle" is one of two adaptations of Henry James's short story released in 2023, alongside Bertrand Bonello's version, simply titled "The Beast". Both films feature top French actresses - Léa Seydoux in Bonello's adaptation and Anaïs Demoustier in Chiha's. I recommend both, though they take remarkably different approaches: Bonello's film delves into the risks of artificial intelligence and critiques incel culture in relation to past masculinities, while Chiha's adaptation adheres closely to the original message, whilst delightfully exploring multiple eras of clubbing.
This story resonates personally with me, as a terminally ill friend and old movie buff often quoted its key line in relation to his own life. Increasingly, we find ourselves grappling with loneliness, and James's cautionary tale becomes ever more prescient. A 2018 Ipsos poll revealed that over 54% of Americans sometimes or always feel that no one knows them well. Many remain unmarried and lifelong strangers to love's intimacies.
The drama unfolds in an unnamed Parisian nightclub, where we meet May and John, linked by an unusual promise of companionship - he, the sentinel of the space, and she, the soul-flower. The costumes on display are simply fabulous; Demoustier's May is first seen in a dramatically ruffled white shirt topped with an embroidered bolero jacket, evoking the glamour of classic Hollywood. Other memorable outfits include a flouncy organza piece and a boldly minimal jacket that accentuates her figure. The film not only captures the essence of various club vibes but also reflects poignant political and cultural events from the eras depicted. The heartbreaking moment, "Klaus Nomi is dead," transitions into a stunning visual of smoke dissolving, akin to a personality fading-an effect that lingers in the mind. For those unfamiliar, Klaus was a unique performer with a versatile voice, reminiscent of Bowie-a true visitor from another planet.
The romantic narrative is thought-provoking but may resonate differently with viewers. Why does John so intently listen to his internal voice? What drives his resistance to deeper companionship? Is it a contemporary equivalent of sacrilege to flout love's imperative? I found myself wondering if autism influences John's behavior; his self-oriented neurology may render him casually disrespectful without awareness. Throughout the film, I hoped he would allow May to gently take his hand and lead him onto the dance floor.
In a world increasingly marred by disconnection, the film reminds us to love fully, love wildly, and cherish one another-everything else is for the birds.
Gritt (2021)
Cringe and Catharsis: Navigating Gritt's World of Failure
Gritt (2021) presents us with an ambiguous protagonist: is she a tragic figure struggling to fit into a world indifferent to her ambition, or a comic embodiment of self-delusion? The answer lies in how we choose to view her.
Gry-Jeanette - or the condensed "Gritt" as she has decided to call herself to accompany her edgy performance artist persona - is going through a difficult time. Almost everyone trying to be an artist fails, though some carry on through failure as mimics, bodgers or indulged self-deceivers. Gritt is one who is failing. I say this not to demoralize anyone, I bear in mind strongly Kipling's suggestion to treat both "success and failure" as "imposters". Trying in and of itself is magnificent, Gritt is magnificent. I was also reminded of a quote from Stay (2005, Forster), "Bad art is more tragically beautiful than good art because it documents human failure" (attributed within the movie to a made-up artist). Watching this movie involves sticking with Gritt through her travails, and it's worth paying attention to a precisely observed drama.
Though we may look between our fingers, the film rewards us with comic relief to ease our encounter with the abject. My favourite bit is Gritt telling a bunch of Syrian refugees about how the prospect of jobs and families were traps or indeed tunnels within what she called "The White Inflammation", her all-embracing concept about a deluded world sleep-walking into ecocidal Armageddon. She cannot understand that those people who have just lost those things, see the prospect of regaining them as paradisiacal. Gritt's perception of the world is shaped by the broader socio-environmental crises she sees around her, and although she may be comically off tune with some of her reflections on that point, at times, her observations hit much closer to the mark.
Gritt's interactions often reflect a deep disconnect between her abstract ideals and the realities others face. In clinical terms, we might say she displays narcissism (making everything about herself) and sociopathy (disregarding the rights and agency of others), but as one character with Down syndrome points out, labels like these can feel reductive, more like a tag in the ear of a cow.
It's perhaps more relevant to think of Gritt in a social context. When thinking about the movie an image appeared in my head of a rainy street at night, and all the doorways and spaces under awnings offering shelter are filled, Gritt runs down the street being pushed away into the torrential rain as she tries to squeeze in. What we call sociopathy and narcissism are perfectly tolerated in those in society who have found their place, are pathologized in the socially isolated. Some of us, like Gritt, find ourselves outside the shelter of society's approval, though we might find stability via emotional self sufficiency and transactional engagement with society, or wearing oilskins to continue the metaphor. We are free to interpret the end of the movie as the start of a descent to madness or a more hopeful trip.
The mathematician Nassim Nicholas Taleb once remarked, provocatively, "In any profession, 90% of people are clueless but work by situational imitation, narrow mimicry & semi-conscious role-playing. Except social "science" and journalism where it is 99% and 100%, respectively." He is right, even if obstreperously, in my estimation, and his observations apply sharply to Gritt, who sprinkles Antonin Artaud's name into conversations after hearing it from an established theatre producer, or picks up the story of Lilith at a party and then regurgitates it without fully grasping her symbolism. Her attempts to create meaning as an artist are as authentic-and perhaps as artificial-as the successful artists who have mastered the performance of creativity.
It is simply fascinating to watch her try to adapt to her situation, finding shelter, and getting involved in art projects. Would she be better off watching staged dating competitions on the television, like one of her settled-down friends? Gritt's mental health has been impacted by climate fear, but whilst she seems completely overwhelmed by the prospect of climate change and biodiversity collapse, is this any less sane than those ignoring the current mass extinction? Scientists warn we are close to a tipping point, where a collapse in the Atlantic Ocean's circulation could have dramatic effects on Scandinavia. As Gritt grapples with this overwhelming reality, it prompts us to ask whether our own inaction is any less rational. The time to act is now. We can help by embracing thrift, reusing and sharing resources, relying more on public transport, and reducing our consumption of animal products.
I'm promoting this movie amongst friends as I'm really interested to see the kind of discussion that comes out of it. Gritt as a movie is like a Necker Cube, it's up to you what you want to see, is this a comedy about a sociopathic wannabe artist, or is it a drama about an authentic woman trying to fit into an inauthentic and crazy world. For me, it's both. Gritt's journey is as tragic as it is comic, and her failures speak to the difficulty of living authentically in a world increasingly hostile to those who don't fit the mold. Her desperation for meaning in a world indifferent to her efforts is both painful and endearing. Her struggle, however misguided, resonates with anyone who has tried and failed to live authentically. Personally, I think the world needs more Gritts-just don't expect your money back.
World of Tomorrow Episode Three: The Absent Destinations of David Prime (2020)
Star-cross'd lovers with a twist
World of Tomorrow Episode Three takes the open-ended series of stick-man animated science fiction to even greater heights than the previous two episodes. Whilst the first two episodes felt largely expositional, Episode Three has a throbbing dramatic pulse. Multiple timelines and clones are involved in a race to stop an assassination across hundreds of years! The humour is well-judged, largely the result of a spaghetti-like plot deliberately designed to be nigh on impossible to keep up with in the cinema. Hertzfeldt plays with us.
World of Tomorrow Episode Three blurs the line between science fiction and horror, highlighting the shared ability of both genres to tell stories without boundaries. Science fiction has the potential to produce the greatest horror, because everything can be put in peril. Suddenly, a timeline can be disrupted and we never existed, or human suffering can dramatically increase (referred to in contemporary ethical literature as an "S risk"). Though David exploits his clones, we still sympathise with him as he's subjected to these horrors and torture from the future, which may either be sadistic revenge or an utterly miscalibrated intervention. It's darkly funny and horrific.
The film introduces intriguing concepts about the future through invasive advertising, making us question the nature of human achievement and experience. What value is there in achieving concert pianist skills instantly, via a cash transaction? Is a perfect moment you lived through inherently more meaningful than one you merely downloaded? Hertzfeldt continues to probe these philosophico-neurological questions with his characteristic acerbic wit. He also plays with complex sci-fi ideas, such as the possibility that time might be quantised, existing in discrete bits rather than as a continuous stream.
The film's title, The Absent Destinations of David Prime, ties back to an incident in Episode Two, where a man - revealed to be David Tertius, the third of his line - transports himself to a state of nullity. It's hinted that this event may have created multiple timelines or even a multiverse filled with grinding suffering, an S risk coming to dark fruition, though we're left in uncertainty.
The final scene of star-cross'd lovers Emily and David brims with suspense, leaving viewers on the edge of their seats and eager for what's next, will they shoot at one another or embrace? One can only hope a fourth episode is on its way from this masterful filmmaker.
World of Tomorrow Episode Two: The Burden of Other People's Thoughts (2017)
"Dying is one of my least favourite things to do"
Hertzfeldt's follow-up to his multi-award-winning animated short World of Tomorrow slightly increases in length and largely focuses on the merging of the minds of baby Emily Prime and the #6 backup clone of third-generation Emily, or as I like to call her, Emily Tertius. If that sounds hard to grasp, it's well worth a visit or revisit to World of Tomorrow. The theme of casual sociopathy between genetically identical individuals continues in this film. #6 has travelled back in time to erase her implanted memories (hence the episode's subtitle, "The Burden of Other People's Thoughts") and replace them with those of baby Emily Prime, seeking a simpler life. She acknowledges that the machine used for this process, "is partially broken and may delete part of your brain" - specifically the judgement part, if this and subsequent developments in Episode 3 are to be believed.
If this all sounds pessimistic, the merging process does offer some uplifting moments, taking us to beautiful psychic meadows and on a journey through the projections of a child's polymorphic imagination. All this is accompanied by a soundtrack to delight the ear, mostly obscure audiophile picks, including two pieces from Romantic composer Friedrich Burgmüller and the Coriolan Overture from Beethoven. It ends in a hugely touching moment where Emily Prime offers up a present.
Cloning in Hertzfeldt's work represents a method of perpetuating the class system, ensuring that with each generation nothing is left to chance; offspring remain genetically identical, inheriting not only physical traits but also perspective. Backup clones, though genetically identical and theoretically of equal potential, are treated as second-class citizens, often abused and marginalised without fair reason.
Emily #6 regularly dreams of four people with their heads buried in sand - a reference that may be explored further in a future episode (three is the most recent in what is said to be an open-ended series), much like a puzzling time travel accident in this episode is addressed in the next.
Episode two is a mesmerising excursion into inner space, though its exploration of the politics and mechanics of cloning serves primarily as setup for the mightily impressive Episode 3.
World of Tomorrow (2015)
"What a happy day it is": A Contrast of Innocence and Experience in Don Hertzfeldt's Mind-Expanding "World of Tomorrow"
"World of Tomorrow" is an animated stick-figure science fiction movie that breathes new life into the genre by exploring themes of innocence, emotional decay, and the cost of technological progress. Whilst "Bitter Films", as creator Don Hertzfeldt's production company is known, often aims for an edgy, nihilistic tone, the film reveals a surprisingly soft centre. At its emotional core are recordings of Hertzfeldt's niece, Winona Mae, whose spontaneous and curious interactions with the world form the basis of the character Emily Prime. What follows is a heart-wrenching contrast between the naïve wonder of childhood and the cold, detached future awaiting humanity if our current trajectory continues unchecked.
The film is also a chilling reflection on contemporary western living. Children are encouraged to play, learn morally, and value community, but adulthood ejects us into a world of atomisation and consumption, where moral learning ceases-regressing, even. Hertzfeldt amplifies this disparity in a sci-fi narrative of stunning originality. Emily Prime, the "original" of what becomes a lineage of clones, serves as an embodiment of childlike innocence . She is visited by her future self, an older version of Emily who is now hundreds of years old. She has come to steal Emily Prime's most cherished memory. This casual sociopathy-the willingness to ignore the rights of others-is not only a hallmark of this film but continues throughout the series (now up to Episode 3). It reflects a future where personal autonomy is disposable and ethical considerations are trivialised. But perhaps it is not just a feature of the future; after all, why do we lock our doors?
Class is another poignant theme, with cloning becoming a metaphor for social stratification. The precariat-those who live in instability and rebellion-are left to navigate upheaval, while the wealthy preserve their identities across generations, much like aristocratic families passing down titles. Progress, in this future, is deeply stratified. The Outernet, a fully-realised metaverse, serves as a space where the lower classes disappear into obscurity. Hertzfeldt suggests that technological and moral progress are not moving in tandem, rejecting the popular misconception that they're tied into a three-legged race.
Beneath the film's surreal humour and clever sci-fi constructs runs a seam of sadness, reflecting the emotional isolation of the future. As time 'progresses,' love becomes increasingly elusive. Adult Emily, emotionally stunted by the coldness of her society, falls in love first with a rock, then with a fuel pump on Quaoar (an actual celestial body in our solar system-an obscure astronomy nod that demonstrates nerd cred). The future is marked by rapid technological advancement but emotional glaciation and increasing isolation. Emily adopts heart-breaking principles, taking pride in her sadness because it makes her feel more alive-an achingly familiar sentiment. After all, time drags when there is no love in one's life.
In its 17-minute runtime, "World of Tomorrow" offers more than a glimpse into a possible future; it holds up a mirror to our present. Hertzfeldt's surreal landscapes and biting humour belie a deep sadness-a realisation that in the rush towards progress, we may risk losing what makes us most human. He also explores what it means to be human, how we are defined by external threats and internal constraints.
Each subsequent episode in the World of Tomorrow series builds on these themes, expanding the story in distinct ways. Episode One offers a guided tour of the future, Episode Two delves deeper into the internal landscape or innerspace of identity, and Episode Three leans fully into drama, exploring the emotional and philosophical depth of this remarkable series even further.
Exordium (2013)
Potent existential sci-fi fantasy short
"Exordium" is a short about a winter warrior on a quest to save his people, who must face a champion at the gate of ancient ruins. Momentous events and a strew of dead bodies lead up to this encounter. It is a hugely evocative piece that seems to plunder happily from the best parts of the science fiction and fantasy canon, all within a compact running time. On the science fiction front, it recalls elements of "2001: A Space Odyssey" and the Strugatsky Brothers' "Hard to Be a God". On the fantasy front, the 1980s "Conan" films, William Morris' "The Well at the World's End", and Václav Svankmajer's short "Svetlonos" come to mind. Animation-wise, it harks back to "Fire and Ice".
Around the turn of the 19th century, William Blake painted "Elohim Creating Adam", a work that, like many people, I have on my wall. The question posed by the painting is a huge 'why?'-why do we exist, what is the greater plan, will we ever understand it, or are we merely victims, crushed under the juggernaut of a fate far beyond our comprehension? In the painting, Adam wears a look of disbelief and woe. This enormous 'why?' is the central theme of "Exordium". If beings greater than us exist, why do they stand by without intervening? As the Strugatskys suggest in "Hard to Be a God", guiding or intervening in less advanced civilisations can be as futile as herding cats-a fool's errand.
In "Exordium", these many influences blend seamlessly, creating a short that brims with dread, wonder, and a haunting sense of 'why?'