Alice: The War Against Realism

In 1865 Lewis Carroll brought to life a subversive text that dared to challenge our perception of the world. Though often viewed as a children’s fairytale, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland would speak to various generations as a reminder of what we leave behind when maturing into adults. It’s often considered one of the first pieces of surrealist literature, showcasing drug-like visuals and nonsensical characters. There’s no real plot to Carroll’s adventure; it simply is.

With the book being centuries old at this point, it’s been no stranger to countless adaptations. The first film adaptation came in 1903, being a short silent film that made use of its limited capabilities. So many other adaptations have come and gone, a select handful being considered iconic, but one “adaptation” had skirted by with so much as a quick, traumatising Hello. The directorial debut of one Jan Svankmajer.

This Czech director had always wanted to reimagine Carroll’s iconic tale, but with how strict the government was about expressionism and his lack of credibility, Svankmajer felt the struggle any ambitious first-timer has to go through: seeing his dream come to life. And what is Alice in Wonderland without the word dream? It’s the very thing Carroll championed with his immediate piece of counter-culture in a time when such thing could label you as mad-mad as a hatter, you might say. So, with some help with cross-continental laws and legal loop holes, the ambitious director managed to make one of the boldest, most memorable, most terrifying versions of the story he could. This isn’t a simple adaptation, this Jan Svankmajer’s bold 1988 interpretation Alice.

To those expecting a simple retelling of this universally known story, you’ll be sorely disappointed. This particular story is more inspired by the tales of the young Alice (played here by Kristyna Kohoutova). Much like the original book, it starts with Alice being scolded by her mother for her overactive imagination. The wide-eyed girl finds herself in solemn seclusion amongst her various stuffed animals and taxidermy creatures-yes, taxidermy. Slipping out of consciousness, she sees the once stuffed white rabbit that sat in a glass case now come to life, removing a pair of scissors from a secret compartment and panicking over the time. Alice follows the rabbit into a wasteland of sorts, and finds herself immersed in a drearier version of the Wonderland we’ve heard so much of.

At this point, much of the story merely presents snippets of the iconography that Carroll created. We see Alice drink a size-changing potion, but rather than turn into a tiny version of herself, she transforms into a doll. We see her visit the house of the rabbit, but it’s made of building blocks and the creatures that surround him aren’t the colourful creatures of Carroll’s imagination, but skeletal heads placed on toy bodies. We have a society of sock creatures, a puppet Mad Hatter and literal playing cards come to life. The uncanny implications of Wonderland had suddenly become the vision of Svankmajer’s world.

Telling the same story again and again can be nothing short of exhausting. So much of Carroll’s surrealism may have been swung this way and that, but there’s typically a uniformity that makes each one blend into this single piece, with the same beats and general childish joy. Then there’s Alice. A film that is so different from these other versions because no other director has had the same experience. For Svankmajer, this has more depth than simply holding onto imagination.

That is, of course, not to say that the charm and wonderment of the original novel is lost. Alice is still as endearing a character as ever. But the world she faces is far more nightmarish. Svankmajer drew inspiration from the various oddities of his childhood. The focus on puppetry and stop motion effects spoke to his days putting on puppet shows for his family. Looking back to the original intent of the book, Alice blends both experiences together in a cacophony of general creativity and specific experience with said creativity. It’s a warped view of childhood from a man who experienced it so differently.

You see this contrast in how sewn together everything looks. It can’t be a simple case of wildly diverse animals lighting up the path. No, it’s a collection of objects and antiquities that would fit into a mad doctor’s lab. The White Rabbit cannot simply be a standard rabbit; it’s a stuffed rabbit that frequently leaks sawdust and looks as though it’s going to charge at the screen at any moment. We get a playground of maddening toys that seems unusual to us, but are perfectly normal for our titular observer.

It is still Alice that drives the film onwards. Something that was nicely implemented was the way Alice narrates everything going on. She provides the voices of the characters and narrates the dialogue as if reading book. We get this in extreme close-ups of the young actress’ mouth, being the ever-faithful narrator. This is Alice’s view of this fantastical world, and we’re just as lost and wide-eyed as she is.

What’s so perfect about this vision of Wonderland is that Svankmajer is subtly injecting himself into the perspective of Alice. The contrast of brown backgrounds and decaying designs is something that becomes nostalgic in a way that we may not fully understand. A lot of this is down to Svankmajer’s need to fight against the Czech government’s insistence of snuffing out surrealism. Everything here is in spite of those regulations, using the excuse of a child’s imagination to fight the very powers that oppress such things. After all, a child’s imagination is something sacred.

But then comes the argument of whether this is truly for children. The imagery in the film is disturbing in many ways. The designs are more abstract and the stop motion effects lend the typical uncanniness that comes with such animation. Even the simplicity of a sock coming to life, adorned with glass eyes and false teeth, feels frightening, even to an adult. There’s other details, such as the fact that the White Rabbit is consistently dropping his dust all over the place and sewing up his stomach. There’s the placid look in the Mad Hatter’s face, being an old-fashioned wooden puppet. And then you observe the surroundings, most of which take place in an old house with creaking floorboards and condensed spaces.

That imagery is partially down to the budget and the team being incredibly small. Svankmajer is having to use the fullest of his creativity to make use of what he has. But then that invokes the original intent Carroll always wanted to put through. Ultimately, the story of Alice in Wonderland is a tale of childhood innocence and the encouragement to restore that creative side of us that we have lost. Svankmajer understands this perfectly, and is showing us how much can be done with very little. The assortment of knick-knacks and liminal space become the greatest strength of the film, all without a soundtrack or secondary character to aid Alice on her journey.

I doubt you’ll find a more diverse or distinct interpretation of Carroll’s beloved novel. It blends fantasy with practicality, taking advantage of the space a child can occupy. We lose ourselves as we get older. We forget how wide our imaginations could be and how far they could take us. Some turn that into making pieces of art or anything else you could deem creative. Alice emanates this feeling of passion, the power to turn something so monumental to your life into something else.

Alice is a film I think of constantly. Some may have memories of this playing on Channel 4 not long after it’s initial release, suppressing it into a memory that reawakens upon seeing a single frame. I don’t have that experience, but I do have that sense of imagination that I’ve always maintained since my childhood. There’s a whole world of creativity we bury as we age, waiting to be used productively. Alice is that meeting of two mindsets. It’s a nightmarish, but oddly whimsical, interpretation that will never leave your head. Pray you don’t lose it.

Written review by Conor Johnson.

Marital Arts Madness: A Buried Genre Unearthed

Turn your minds back to the 1970s for one second. The film zeitgeist has evolved into something so perpendicular to everything that had come before it. Studios were taking a more cost-effective approach, leading to the rise of indie film makers and foreign ventures gaining a more worldwide attention. And one part of the world that benefitted from such a societal shift was that of East Asia.

It’s humorous to think of now, what with Japanese and South Korean media having become quite normalised in Western society. But it was the films of China, Hong Kong and Taiwan that had taken the world by storm back then, back when the film output of said countries were so overlooked. The genre that exploded onto the scene was that of the martial arts and kung fu niche. Bruce Lee heralded this era with his tendency to mix real-life fighting with acting, ingraining East Asia’s pride into the arts as it had been for decades before, now told to those so oblivious.

My own knowledge of the genre has been rather miniscule. I was inspired to write an article on my recent experience with these once-normalised films after watching the kung fu comedy Half a Loaf of Kung Fu. The film isn’t exactly a shining example of the genre, but it it did leave me lamenting how films like this appear to have faded away into obscurity as they once were. Even Quentin Tarantino’s homage Kill Bill is more than twenty years old, being the last seamless replication of the era.

So, with this article I wanted to highlight just a handful of films that were spurred by this casual, sudden thought. This is less a guide to the world of kung fu films, and more a chronicle of one man’s journey through his hardly-treaded regions. I wanted to go with more obscure choices, so no Enter the Dragon or Police Story. These aren’t all winners: some are, in this humble writer’s opinion, quintessential viewing, some are pretty awful, and some are a little more…we’ll say, adventurous. Enjoy my little ka-powwow.

The Good

Before the kung fu craze of the seventies had hit, the Shaw brothers had crafted a film company dedicated to making some of the greatest martial arts outputs. It was the sixties where they truly came to explode onto the scene, and one of their most prominent works was 1966’s Come Drink with Me. A film that broke tradition and dared to place a strong female into the role typically reserved for men.

Saying this, Pei-Pei Cheng’s Chang Hsuan-yen is not exactly the main character. It starts out with an immediate kidnapping, that of Hsuan-yen’s brother. The lone female warrior poses as a man, fending off any attempt on her life. She eventually runs into the drunkard Fan Ta-p’i (Hua Yueh), whom has his own quarrels with the criminal organisation that kidnapped Hsuan-yen’s brother. Though seemingly led by Ting Chung-yu (Hung-Lieh Chen), this shadowy organisation has a much stronger master behind it who shares a past with our drunken warrior.

Far from being my first foray into the genre, Come Drink with Me did manage to garner some perspective on what the genre entails. What you have here are actors who are not only dedicating themselves to the artform of performance, but also those of whom are blending their naturally-learnt kung fu skills into something symbiotic. This film, and all others going forward, is at its best when the action takes over and the performers become one with the combat. Brutality intervenes with bloody repercussions that aren’t gratuitous and rather serve to highlight just how intense the action is.

What struck me as most exciting was how director King Hu pushed a woman to the forefront. Many, many years before Hollywood clamoured for representation, King had found a way to make such a thing feel natural and empowering. Couple that with the time-honoured tradition of a drunken fool revealed to be a secret master of the fist, and you get this unique blend of deconstructed stereotypes. This, put up against memorable villains and even more memorable stunt work, and you have a film that need not be enjoyed only by those who love the genre, but by everyone.

Come Drink with Me is simple in so many ways, as are all the films that make up this article. But there’s a memorability here that is cast in a blanket of cathartic action that very few films today could replicate. One could speak of how Bruce Lee truly inspired the genre, but that would be better saved for another day, another article.

To continue on this path, the Shaw brothers gave us a slew of iconic kung fu films. I, being that one person that thinks it better to find the more obscure choices, went for Chen Chang’s 1980 film The Flag of Iron. Brothers is more than an apt word to use for this film, as the director explores the meaning of brotherhood, even that of unrelated kinship.

We are introduced to a clan that watches over the village they live in. Dealing with a plague of gambling and prostitution, two of the ‘brothers’, Tsao Feng (Feng Lu) and Yun Liang (Sheng Chiang) put a stop to the debauchery. But this upsets rival clans, causing their master to be assassinated. The eldest ‘brother’ Lo Hsin (Phillip Chung-Fung Wok) takes the throne, while Tsao Feng feels responsible for not stopping the assassination and exiles himself. Time moves on, but Tsao Feng finds that he isn’t able to live a life of isolation for long, having to deal with assassins. Yun Liang informs him that their eldest brother has brought back the illegal businesses, and a white clad assassin offers aid in usurping their former brother.

Familial vengeance is a running theme in these types of films, even when the characters aren’t truly related. China has always believed in this idea of respect and upholding tradition. Damaging as the effects have been in modern society, there is something admirable about that dedication. This is what makes the journey of our lead so endearing. Mix that in with these feelings of regret and low self-esteem, and you suddenly have this shockingly investigative tale of honour and pride.

As was said with the previous film, you’re mainly here for the action. All of this emotional weight is well and good, but we need to see people being brutally killed in intense and satisfying ways. Chang wastes no time on this front, practically throwing assassins onto the screen and letting them die in creatively obtuse ways-ever expect an abacus to be used as a weapon? It’s given a more realistic flourish by how all of the actors seen here came from a troupe of performers, ones that utilised both kung fu and acrobatics in their routines. There’s no movie magic here, the flips and leaping are all naturally honed.

Without spoiling the ending, you’ll find the journey satisfyingly wrapped up. Something that bares mentioning is how these types of films are typically packed with exciting and intense climaxes. It also serves as an opportunity for more creative clashes. I promise you that you’ll be more than satisfied. Never more has a flag carried so much power.

Both film I’ve mentioned so far have been prime examples of how the genre can be done right. But this Asian equivalent to the big action movies of the Western world also come with more than their fair share of duds…

The Bad

At the start I mentioned one particular film that inspired me to write such an article. See, I’m not too privy to the earlier works of Jackie Chan. His output for my-Millennial-generation comes from the Western kung fu comedies like Rush Hour and the obscure cartoon show Jackie Chan Adventures. Chi-Hwa Chen’s Half a Loaf of Kung Fu from 1978, was chosen purely at random. I had guessed that this would be more comical compared to Chan’s other works; I wasn’t expecting it to be as bad as it was.

Chan plays a buffoon of a man whose kung fu skills are subpar, to say the least. This ‘Jiang’ as he is named just so happens to come upon a fierce battle where a man known as the ‘Whip King’ is able to kill a criminal, only to be subdued himself. Jiang decides to take the whip for himself and is incorrectly labelled as the true Whip King-not that he protests. He eventually finds himself in the company of a genuine kung fu master who offers to train him in the way of useful skills, but most of Jiang’s victories are by pure coincidence. Jiang now faces the various clans that once went for the real Whip King, and must protect the household that has taken him in.

Calling this bad may not be entirely true. It certainly suffers from cringe-inducing humour and the easy fall-back of making silly faces, but there is much to enjoy. Even when purposely holding back for the sake of the character’s abilities, Jackie Chan still brings his all, carefully telegraphing each punch and kick so that it only hits went the script demands it. To be a talented and competent fighter is a huge accomplishment, but it takes true skill to hold yourself back to the point of mild skill. And when we do see Chan unleash his natural abilities, it’s as satisfying to watch as you might expect.

But all this balletic choreography is overshadowed by a weak sense of humour and a plot that forgets to set itself up properly. Before you even realise what’s going on, Jiang is suddenly on this path towards fighting a great evil and his various henchman, all with their own gimmick. The first half is entirely nonsensical, with events happening with little to no reason. The second half is overstuffed with characters and attempts at jokes, some crude, some that only a small child will find amusing. All this with a wacky soundtrack and even wackier sound effects. I really can’t fathom what this movie wants to be.

This isn’t something I’m going to recommend, even from a more comedic point of view. I sometimes wonder if this is simply down to cultural differences and our own penchant for what constitutes comedy, or perhaps it’s the change in time. Whatever the case, it’s not my basis for future Chan-ventures. But enough bashing one legendary actor: time for another.

I don’t think it’s too bold to say that Jet Li is somewhat of a poor man’s Jackie Chan. Of course, he has managed to craft an identity of his own, but much of his success came from the explosion of Jackie Chan’s Western popularity. Apparently Tsui Hark, who had more than a great share of successes, decided to capitalise off this phenomenon with the 1992 film The Master. A name that certainly sounds generic-especially next to the other titles I’ve mentioned-but has a fair weight to it.

Jet Li plays…Jet, a Chinese student who travelled to the States to find his master Tak (Wah Yuen). Problem is that Tak’s herbal shop, which he runs after having retired as a martial artist, is attacked by an American practitioner of the same kung fu. Johnny (Jerry Trimble) is intent on ending Tak’s life, but the former master has found refuge in the home of a young martial arts student Anna (Anne Rickets). The Chinese tourist looks for his master, is almost robbed by a group of Latinos, who want to be trained by him, and tries to stop his master’s store from being closed. All the while, he must take down the villainous Johnny.

The plot synopsis screams B-movie shlock. I wouldn’t blame you for thinking so; that’s exactly what it is. Given the predatory nature of this film’s inception, the way it shamelessly reaps away elements of Jackie Chan’s more successful films throws this into knockoff territory. There isn’t much to it that other B-movie kung fu flicks of the time didn’t already have. But there is a shockingly layered subtext to this that is only made so by how ‘cheap’ a lot of this feels.

Tsui Hark had a great reputation at this point in his career with films like Peking Opera Blues and Once Upon a Time in China. So there is a certain auteur aspect to him that gives him credit above other directors I’ve mentioned. This film perpetuates a point about how foreigners feel in America, and not just the Asian community. Frequently throughout the film, Asian characters acknowledge the struggle of fitting into the American mould. There’s criticisms of how America has commercialised East Asian martial arts. We even get some not-so-subtle imagery of how Latino people struggle to co-exist. This is not to say that the subtext is particularly good, but the effort is commendable.

The story is by and far the weakest aspect the film has to it. The action is what maintains the film. Li’s punches and kicks are encouraged by a some of the most satisfying sound effects. Barely any wirework was used, allowing the natural agility of the actors to speak for itself. Unlike other films that I’ve mentioned, it’s very much a one-man show. There are plenty of characters and tons of action to go around. But it’s Jet Li that takes over completely. It distracts from the paper-thin plot and uncomfortable stereotypes that contradict so much of the message.

This one comes under pretty forgettable territory. There’s not a lot that The Master does that couldn’t be done elsewhere. If you want a cheesy, serviceable kung fu movie then I’m sure there are worse choices. It feels wrong to harken on Li when I know he can do so much more. That nicely leads me to…

The Weird

I sat in deep concentration over what constituted weird. The kung fu genre has been laden with fantastical and mystical entries that go far above the standard, choregraphed fights mixed with the overbearing presence of gangs and sects. The films that go above this add a weightlessness-quite literally-to the action; films like Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon and even John Carpenter’s homage Big Trouble in Little China. But one is too obvious and the other is merely inspired. That’s where Zhang Yimou’s 2002 film Hero comes in.

Hero is not too dissimilar from Akira Kurosawa’s classic Rashomon. We meet a nameless warrior (Jet Li), who recounts his story of how he brought an end to the three warriors that make up the regions of Ancient China. The story is not so straightforward, as the hero speaks of the event from three different perspectives. Each carry the same characters, with the hero meeting Broken Sword (Tony Leung Chiu-wai), a warrior that chooses to end his battles through affection, and Flying Snow (Maggie Cheung), his star-crossed lover that cares more for vengeance and bloodshed. Moon (Ziyi Zhang), has fallen for Broken Sword, doomed to live a tragic third-wheel existence. Then there is Sky (Donnie Yen), whom marks the end of our hero’s journey.

If the names of the characters aren’t enough to clue you in on the film’s more fantastical approach, the mythology-soaked subtext will. Each story, all from the perspective of different characters, provides a different outlook on how important war really is. Given that China was founded off the backs of fallen soldiers, Yimou’s perspective has been bred through his own teachings. Amidst the flashy kung fu moves and literal flying manoeuvres, there’s quite a nuanced view of the world’s need for conflict.

That non-linear structure is what gives the film its identity. The three stories become progressively more subdued, but the characters remain the same. We see a deadly war full of betrayal and bloodshed, a singular tale of revenge vs benevolence, and a battle of love overcoming anger. Each retelling has the same heartache. There’s something so beautiful about a film that offers all sides of the argument without skewing from the idea of affection.

Again, it was difficult to call this weird. But with its unusual structure and tendency for characters to take flight and run on water, the word is quite appropriate. The action is still exhilarating, but there’s a subtlety to it you won’t see in the other films I’ve mentioned. As much as Li is the main character, it’s Leung and Cheung that elevate the film into being something truly masterful. It’s probably the only film on this list that will make you step back and look at your own morals and ponder the opposite side of things.

This is all well and good, but you’re really here for a truly weird film, right? Do I have the film for you.

In 1987, Masahiko Takajo created a manga by the name of Riki-Oh. Like most Japanese manga, this comic was known for its graphic nature and ridiculous premise. Apparently, an independent film company in Hong Kong was bold enough to try their hand at a live action adaptation. In 1991, we received Ricky-Oh: The Story of Ricky, directed by Ngai Choi Lam. If you were expecting a more grounded take, given how difficult it can be to directly adapt such wild material into live action, you’d be sorely mistaken. Ricky-Oh is everything you could want it to be.

The titular Ricky (Siu-Wong Fan) is sent to prison for killing the men responsible for the death of his girlfriend. It doesn’t take long for Ricky to cause some havoc, as the abusive prison guards try to attack Ricky, only to find he has a near-indestructability. While there, Ricky finds that all the prison guards, as well as the warden (Ka-Kui Ho) are completely corrupt, killing prisoners and allowing the more violent ones to run amok. Ricky no longer stands for this, and takes it upon himself to put an end to these violent sycophants.

Ricky-Oh is a treat like no other. For those avid readers, you may be disappointed to see the film make use of a more liminal space than the more open-world nature of the manga. Somewhat like the manga, however, there is a near-post-apocalyptic setting. The budgetary constraint of having this set in a single location honestly aids it. We get a playground of bloody, gory fun that is sure to satisfy the masochists out there.

I make no exaggeration when I say this film is gory. Pulling in the most degraded of violence from the manga, we get pools and pools of death, some seeming like they were ripped out of a Saw film, just with a far more comical feel. The main character is this superhero-like figure that can take more than his fair share of stabs to the stomach, and it’s all loosely explained away by a single flashback of him being trained. But you need to throw logic out the window, because it hardly matters. You’re here for the insanity, and to expect anything more is foolish.

The story is something you shouldn’t spend too much time worrying about. The more dramatic and emotional moments often reach an underwhelming thud, often strewn with misplaced sentiment. The reason for why Ricky is there hardly matters and anything else that happens is all in service to the chaos that is the fight sequences. Paper mache heads and rubber body parts are aplenty, given the charm that can only be achieved by a low budget.

And that was my shortened, abridged journey through the world of kung fu films. In time, I’m going to watch many more-possibly returning to make a second part-as I feel there’s untapped potential for more interesting writings. But for now, I walk away with a more insightful idea of what made this genre so once beloved.

It is a shame that this genre doesn’t quite have the grab it once did on Western culture. Films like John Wick and The Raid certainly have their audience, but these are splayed across various years instead of the barrage that once dominated the seventies and eighties. I have plans to further explore one particular martial artist, a certain dragon with a fiery fist of fury. But that is a story for another day.

Written by Conor Johnson.

My All-Time (20) Favourite Movies: 200th Special

It’s here! After almost five years (ignoring my failed attempt at starting a film blog in 2015) of writing articles, film reviews and other little ventures that didn’t quite pan out, I’ve reached my two-hundredth written article-just as long as we only include the articles situated on this particular blog.

Typically, whenever I’ve reached a fiftieth article milestone, I like to revisit a Tim Burton film, following in the vein of my first 2019 review, Ed Wood. I had a very different approach to revisiting older films when I started this, trying to find a balance of obscurities and beloved classics. But I’ve evolved quite a bit since then, preferring the hidden gems that lie beneath the crust of the casual moviegoer. But I still wanted to do something special for this landmark article; everybody enjoys a list.

Listed here are the twenty movies I consider to be my favourite films of all time. These are the films that managed to either strike a particular chord with me or are so closely linked to a personal experience or mentality that I can’t compare it to any other. Some of these I simply enjoy for just how thoroughly entertaining and rewatchable they are. My personal picks can change from time to time, but this is about as concrete as I can get. From lowest to highest, this is my top twenty films of all time.

20. Taste of Cherry (1997)

We’re starting off on a very grim tone here with Abbas Kiarostami’s Iranian gem. My experience with South Asian cinema is very minimal, but the allure of Taste of Cherry is something that breaks barriers.

With the film being centred around a man (Homayoun Ershadi) ready to commit suicide, you can expect the film to have a sombre atmosphere all throughout. But what’s most interesting about this is that the tone is mostly very flat. This man meets a revolving door of different people who he asks to help bury him alive, three of them with different outlooks and of different generations. Each conversation, bountiful in length, offers us varying views of mortality and mental health. In a country where suicide is such a reviled thing, condemned through religious belief, it asks the question of how justified one’s emotions can be in the face of everything you’ve been taught.

What appeals to me most about this film is how earnestly it tackles the debate. We’ve all experienced our own bouts of depression, even getting to that point of weighing up your options, ready to bite the bullet. Unless you’ve experienced those feelings, it’s difficult to describe just how empty you feel. It’s usually not a torrent of tears or a deep pleading for someone to help you: you’ve made your mind up. We know very little of why Badiei wants to kill himself; we’re witnessing a man at the end of his rope, trying to place responsibility on others as a subtle cry for help.

The beauty of this film is how it doesn’t necessarily put blame on to one particular figure. Even the first two people Badiei meets-a younger man who wants nothing to do with this and a middle-aged man who couldn’t care less-are not evil for not trying to help him. There is a criticism of religious teachings, acknowledging the problems with certain parts of them, but it’s also offering a helping hand to those in need. So much of that emotion, heavily veiled as it is, is something that permeated onto me. It doesn’t lay the message on thick, treating the viewer as a friend in need more than anything.

I’ve adored this film since the first watch. It’s hard to find films that so perfectly encapsulate many of my own anxieties this way. I haven’t ranked it any higher because I don’t think enough time has passed for me to fully fall in love with it. That said, it’s a film that tackles a regurgitated idea with a nicely sombre and still approach that will have you hooked to every word, encouraging your own feelings on such a sensitive subject. The taste of cherry is a sweet sensation, but there’s always a rock-like core at the bottom.

19. Before Sunrise (1995)

Subtle existentialism may be a running theme, considering the unmatchable exploration of life itself in Richard Linklater’s distinct trilogy starter, Before Sunrise. I spoke of the entire trilogy in a seperate analysis, being, what I consider, to be up there as the near enough the greatest film trilogy of all time. And it’s that first film that I’ve revisited so many times.

This film isn’t adorned in action set-pieces or any particular excitement: it’s an exploration of two ocean-splayed lovers that spend a single day together. Jesse (Ethan Hawke) and Celine (Julie Delpy) meet on a train bound for Vienna. Jesse is doing a European trip and Celine is simply trying to get home. This single meeting on a train leads to an emotional journey that invites us into the confines of an intimate relationship being birthed. From train to tram to simply walking about the streets of Vienna, the little musings on life and our ultimate reasoning for existence leaves you contemplating the same things.

I typically don’t gel with tired romance stories, but Before Sunrise is something else. It sticks quite closely to what you might expect from the genre, but it also allows us to deconstruct the essence of what a relationship is: what significance does it have in the grand scheme of things and why is it so beautiful? Hearing these two enigmatic figures speak about their aspirations, their failed relationships, even the state of the world, political or otherwise, is painstakingly explored. And it’s all done in a very naturalistic way. Boredom never sets in; you feel like a participant in one of the most salient, continuous conversations.

While not immediately accessible to those who look for a bit more action in their films, Before Sunrise and its almost equally superb sequels deserve the fullest of attention. Whether it’s through Hawke and Delpy’s playfulness or the little pitstops they make, you see the relationship grow organically. Walk through the streets of these European cities, experience the day-to-day life of those we rarely see, and simply exist as a spectator in the budding formation of two perfect lovers.

18. Fargo (1996)

Who doesn’t like to dabble in the macabre arts? No more prominent are directors in this style of storytelling than Ethan and Joel Coen. The brothers have given us many thriller-comedies over the years, sometimes leaning more on one side than the other, but one of the most significant for me is their chipper dark comedy, Fargo. The show that spun off from this years later may have overshadowed it, but there is something special about that classic Minnesotan kidnapper story that gets the toes a-burning.

The heart of the movie is Frances McDormand’s ever-optimistic, and heavily pregnant, Marge, sent out to investigate a mysterious murder and uncover an elaborate scheme to kidnap someone. McDormand’s peppy kindness makes even the most grisly of murders feel like a slight inconvenience, and we learn just as much about her as the plot instigator, Jerry (William H. Macy). Rarely ever trying to explore emotional themes or deconstructing specific quirks, the film is a rather straightforward contrast of Minnesota kindness meeting grim reality.

There’s not much weight to this one, especially when you stack it up against my previous two picks. What makes it stick out is just how thoroughly entertaining it manages to remain. The criminals that botch this attempted kidnapping are some of the most incompetent figures, powered by Steve Buscemi in one of his greatest roles. Even in spite of their incompetence, a wild card of uncertainty manages to take over.

Fargo is one of those films I think back to whenever I want something a little lighter. Sure, the whole kidnapping scheme, fully orchestrated by Jerry, certainly ventures down some darker avenues, but the juxtaposition is what you sink your teeth into. A situation of hilarity that builds and builds and builds until you reach a climax you never thought they’d go as far as to portray, it’s one of the most important films the Coen brothers have ever made. It’ll leave you chuckling in your boots, y’betcha.

17. Hot Fuzz (2007)

Believe it or not, there are films outside of the nineties that have managed to tickle the ivories. Case in point: the most quintessential British film out there. I could probably comprise an entire list of films directed by Edgar Wright, but the one that sticks out to me-undoubtedly everyone else as well-is the middle of Wright’s famed Cornetto trilogy. Quoted to nauseum, packed full of clever call-backs and foreshadowing, and presenting an editing style that should be studied in every film class, it’s certainly one my more obvious picks.

The adventures of Nicolas Angel (Simon Pegg) are fondly retold by anybody who has seen this film. His journey to a small village as a police officer sees him butting heads with more simple and passive people. Not the least of which is his police partner Danny (Nick Frost), a buffoon who only got the job because his dad is the sergeant. All of you know where this goes from here: murders start arising in this quaint town. A masterclass in action satire, Wright and Pegg specifically set out to make the most action-cliched film they possibly could. And yet, it still manages to keep its heart close to the screen.

It’s undeniable that Hot Fuzz has had such an impact on British culture, but many look towards the simpler presentation of the film. Deep down, there’s so much ingenuity that Wright has poured into the world and the atmosphere. Characters appear as simple caricatures, but it’s always done with a sly intent that audiences will overlook. There are call-backs to iconic action films, reaffirming that this is more of a tribute than a blatant parody. Each character is as memorable as the last, with Timothy Dalton hamming it up as a wonderfully sketchy character that the film telegraphs us to believe is the true villain behind it all. The twist is so much more shocking.

In the early days of my film-loving experiences, I aspired to be a film maker. This was far too ambitious for my abilities, but I knew that if I ever did become one, Edgar Wright would be the template. Now that my mind is more geared towards writing, I can still see myself utilising his ingenious structure. Hot Fuzz may be one of the most iconic films on this list, but any overbearing praise doesn’t ruin the subjective want of my mind. Anybody who has stepped behind a piece editing software could only strive to emulate the cut-throat pace of Wright’s vision. If you’re looking for any of Wright’s other films on this list, I’m afraid it’s just the one, actually.

16. Moonrise Kingdom (2012)

Can you believe that a film buff, such as myself, would place a Wes Anderson movie on a list like this? While not exactly surprising, many Anderson fans may be shocked to see this take precedence over films like Fantastic Mr. Fox or The Grand Budapest Hotel. Both are undeniable gems, but they, and Wes’ other films, have never reached the same personal allure that Moonrise Kingdom has. Don’t worry, there’s plenty of symmetry to go around.

In the wrong hands, a story of two children falling in love and running away together could fall apart due to the shoddy acting of its leads. Sam (Jared Gilman) and Suzy (Kara Haywood) never feel misrepresented. Anderson has a knack for switching up age dynamics in his characters, and it’s evident here with how Sam and Suzy, behaving like adults that already have their lives figured out, manage to outshine their adult counterparts. A boy-scout falls in love with a dancer; they run into the wilderness and simply enjoy each others’ company. The adults that chase them down simply don’t understand how children can so easily believe in love.

It is shocking how much this film managed to reach me on a personal level. As we grow into adults, we forget how good the feeling of a childhood crush can be. Even if these two characters never end up with each other in the future, it hardly matters. Yes, they behave more maturely than their adult chasers, but they still lack the foresight of what’s to come. It’s quite amazing how Wes has managed to recapture that innocence, giving us a contrasting side story with the adults, like with how Bruce Willis and Frances McDormand try to maintain an affair, or how Edward Norton’s camp leader wants to put a stop to all of this childish romance.

Wes Anderson’s films tend to have this uniformity to them that not everyone is going to vibe with. I have criticised films in the past for being too samey, but Anderson always manages to get around this problem. His style is comfortable and warm. Moonrise Kingdom isn’t all that distinct from his other works, but where it chooses to place the focus is what makes it stand apart. You still have all that wonderful cinematography and quirky dialogue and classic rock-tunes, so Anderson fans will get what they want. But the core of the film will always be the relationship the two leads share and the continuous development of said relationship. Childhood memories have never felt this visceral.

15. Logan (2017)

I’ve never been shy to show my distaste with the overexposure of superhero movies. Despite this, I’ll always have a soft spot for them. But just as anyone might, I tend to judge superhero flicks in a different realm from how I judge other films. The genre is so malnourished; so regurgitative that you have to look at them in the scope of how they compare to others of their kind. Then there’s James Mangold’s Logan. Say what you want about Fox’s superhero affair, they can sometimes dish out some creative and risky outliers in the genre. So much so that this film exceeds past that invisible box I have created.

Hugh Jackman delivers what was supposed to be his final bow as famed X-Men character Wolverine (aka Logan) in this dark, violent ode to what many, including myself, admire about the character. We see Logan on his last legs, in an age where mutants have reached near-extinction, only being accompanied by Patrick Stewart’s Professor Xavier and now a clone daughter in Laura (Dafne Keen). Taking inspiration from similar near-apocalyptic stories like Mad Max, the film is a grittier, more western-geared take on the colourfully vicious mutant hero.

The X-Men characters, comics and movies have always been very close to my heart, so it meant a lot to see the ideal vision of a standalone Wolverine movie come to life. After the first two botched attempts, to see Mangold tap into the core of Logan’s character-the bloodthirsty meeting the emotionally distraught tragedy-was more than pleasing. It’s contained in this beautiful tale of emotional breakage, powered by a brilliant trio of characters. When a superhero movie can do more than provide a thoroughly entertaining experience, you begin to stack it up against those films that have reached your favourites.

Though not incredibly deep and will probably mean more to the long-dedicated fans of the franchise than anyone else, there’s so much love and care put into crafting, at the time, the perfect swansong to a beloved character. But it also manages to be a fascinating character study that doesn’t shy away from the brutality. It’s the perfect example of what superhero films could be if studios were willing to take more risks. Excelling in extremity, excitingly entertaining; it’s an exceptional piece.

14. Raising Arizona (1987)

I never made any sort of vow to avoid double-dipping into the same directors’ works, and while I debated that decision for quite some time, to not have the Coen brothers’ Raising Arizona-or the aforementioned Fargo-would be a cardinal sin. One of the most comedy-centric films the brothers ever touched, that macabre sense of humour lends itself to what may be the greatest, or one of the greatest, direct comedies ever made.

Nicolas Cage, an actor I have not stopped defending and was long supportive of his renaissance, plays the lead role opposite Holly Hunter’s Ed as they kidnap a baby from a wealthy couple. Seeing as Ed can’t have children, they believe this is the only way. Cage plays a former criminal, Hunter being a former cop. The hijinks that ensue recapture the Coens’ knack for erratically climbing comedy in the most superb ways. This baby, of the wealthy Arizona family mentioned in the title, becomes this unstoppable force of love and care. Even criminals coo at the child’s existence.

Even less so than Fargo, many would not place this film above other, more iconic Coen films. Objectively, it’s not their best. But with how heartily and gut-crushingly I laughed, it’s difficult not to give this more credit. Cage and Hunter provide powerhouse performances, with Cage being his typical eccentric and Hunter elevating the already great material by playing certain scenes as straight as ever. The brief plot summary is not enough to explain why these characters are still likeable and sympathetic; you do get some genuinely depressing moments that make the characters’ journey feel more warranted. Add a couple of memorable villains-John Goodman being a particular highlight, and an ambiguous bounty hunter-and we get one of the most creatively bizarre films the brothers have made.

Bizarre is certainly the word to describe it. Raising Arizona may appear quite grounded, but the way characters enter and exit the movie is similar to a rotating door of misfits. Characters lose all sense of motivation when they meet the young infant and will try to adopt him into their routines. Much like Fargo, there isn’t any deep of intrinsic reason for why I love this film: it’s simply fun. If nothing else, you have to enjoy Cage’s commitment to being just as much of a lunatic as the characters on screen.

13. Grave of the Fireflies (1988)

I’ve never really resonated with anime the same way some of my friends did. It’s quite enlightening to see the genre become so normalised within the younger generations, considering you were almost bully fodder when I entered high school. That said, I have managed to expose myself to more anime over the last few years, and it all started with Studio Ghibli. The Japanese animation studio has dominated the market since their first true film, Nausicaa. And while Spirited Away sat comfortably on my list for some time, I couldn’t deny the film that impacted me more.

A depressing story set during World War II, Isao Takahata centres the narrative on a teenage boy and his younger sister as they set out into the world after the death of their parents. We are left to watch as these two children try to survive in a village that is consistently carpet bombed and where dead bodies keep turning up. Worst of all, the sister becomes sick. Takahata denied to the day he died that this film was specifically anti-war. While I certainly see what he means, being a story that centres on the loss of innocence, the stark imagery is undeniable, invoking the very real fear that Japanese people had during these times.

This film deals with heavy themes. While the studio’s other outputs haven’t been shy on exploring more adult themes, never has it felt more heart-breaking. The two siblings are such enigmatic figures. Trying to understand their pain and trauma, a concept that even they don’t quite understand, is almost impossible to do. The film can be so wrapped up in beautiful observations of the environment and the older brother teaching his sister about how to deal with such sadness, only to take a sudden shift into horrifying revelations. It doesn’t matter that these characters hide behind the shroud of animation. The horror and emotions are visceral.

I have a deep admiration for animation, even if there aren’t too many on this list, so it’s only natural to praise the visuals. Takahata takes advantage of the medium, using it to illustrate the intensity of the bombings and showing the gradual degradation of the kids as they try to survive. But it’s not the animation that pushes this into being in my personal list. It’s hard-hitting, never holding back and doing all it can within the limits of being family-friendly. The fact that this was released the same day as the studio’s more infamous My Neighbour Totoro is jarring. This isn’t a film you want to put on for your kids as an introduction to the studio, but it is something that needs to be viewed. Culturally important and ceaselessly tear-jerking, it makes you appreciate every bit of light left in the world.

12. The Blues Brothers (1980)

People who know me well won’t even bat an eye at something as ridiculous and, frankly, simplistic as John Landis’s jukebox musical/comedy. For those completely unaware of my usual film tastes, you may question why such a film lives amongst the echelon of movies like Moonrise Kingdom and Before Sunrise. The answer is as simple as the appeal of the film: it’s endlessly entertaining.

We all have that one film we can’t help but run to whenever we’re suffering a bad day or need a lighter film to break up the tension of a string of heavy-hitters. Dan Aykroyd and John Belushi lead a comedy caper that sees the two brothers looking to put their old band together to raise money for the orphanage they grew up in, only to cause havoc, get chased by the cops and suffer the near-death experiences at the hand of a bizarrely bloodthirsty Carrie Fisher. The fact that this was spun off from an SNL sketch explains the surprising sense of surrealism, and with Landis at the helm, the dry wit elevates it.

I’ve found myself loving this film with every watch. The style of comedy is perfectly levelled as to not take away from the central conflict, and the gags build and build to the point that you care little about logistics. Belushi and Aykroyd are consistently funny, making the most out of their straight reactions and delivering one-liners with a perfectly disinterested cadence. Rocket launcher-toting psychos, a vengeful group of country singers and even Nazis chase the brothers down, and it all just makes sense. Mix in some colourful and soul-popping cameos from famous musicians and you get a joyride you never want to leave.

This film is inextricably linked to my identity as a film critic. I first “attempted” to start this blog back in 2015 with a review of this film, but it largely failed and lacked the voice I have today. Even still, I always keep it there to remind me of how far I’ve come. I think about this film regularly; it’s burrowed into my mind. But I wouldn’t feel comfortable placing it any higher. This is one blues ballad that’ll leave you happier than ever.

11. Rosemary’s Baby (1968)

Horror movies are supposed to invoke fear. What a statement, right? I feel this is a necessary point to emphasise as very few horror films today manage to leave me with that same anxiety-ridden state of being that many older films have. The sixties are particularly unique for the genre, as many of them rely more on environmental terror and using the power of implication. Both are so very true of Roman Polanski’s beloved Rosemary’s Baby. It utilises those two key elements while also relying on the old faithful: religious guilt.

Mia Farrow delivers am inspired performance as the titular Rosemary, having moved into a new apartment with her boyfriend, Guy (John Cassavetes). It’s not long before their elderly neighbours start becoming friendly. But then, Rosemary has a devilish dream and soon becomes pregnant. But the pregnancy seems to be moving at a rather inconsistent rate. Rosemary starts to believe that her neighbours, and her boyfriend, may be part of some satanic cult. Why should she jump to that conclusion? They seem to know something of Rosemary’s supposed dream, and her boyfriend is overly keen in their involvement.

Rosemary’s Baby is a film that immediately has you grasping the edges of your sofa. Even just a simple scene of the couple walking around their new apartment carries with it an air of sinister intent. The use of empty space and shadowy corners have subconsciously morphed each scene into something unknowingly dangerous. Once the film kicks in to its main plot, you’re left questioning the reality that Rosemary faces. Nothing is clear; we don’t know how much is truly happening or if it’s simply the hallucinations of a pregnant woman. Themes of motherly anxiety, guilt over having a child out of wedlock and that need to protect yourself are so prevalent.

This is one of those horror flicks that many will acknowledge for its ability to stand out from it contemporaries but isn’t quite considered a comparable classic. It came out in the late sixties, when films were evolving into more experimental pieces, and that meant so much for the horror genre. Never has a film consistently left me grasping for shreds of light, always on edge and begging for the safety of the main character. Mia Farrow dominates every second of screen time she has, cementing the classic horror heroine long before the slasher genre became commonplace.

There are very few horror films that would come as close to everything else on my list, but Rosemary’s Baby is too important not to let in. Just how willing are you to possibly harness the Antichrist?

10. Ed Wood (1994)

Taking another trip down memory lane, Tim Burton’s ode to legendary ‘so-bad-it’s-good’ director Ed Wood-director of Plan 9 from Outer Space fame-this fascinating biopic was the first film I reviewed back in 2019, the year I began doing these reviews regularly. I had only just seen the film at the time, instantly falling for it. And time and constant re-watches have solidified it as one of my favourite films ever made. With Tim Burton no longer having the same powerhouse capabilities as a director that he once had, it’s a little bittersweet to speak such high appraisal for a film that defines his unique voice.

For those unaware, Ed Wood had gained a cult status for his terrible films. The reason you see such a niche community of the so-bad-it’s-good genre of film is because of him. He had a cheap and cost-effective approach to film making, lacking the funds and learned storytelling, but filled with ambition. Johnny Depp plays the eponymous director as the film recounts Wood’s journey from B-movie director to…slightly more known B-movie director. Most importantly, it delves into the relationship Wood formed with classic movie actor, Bela Lugosi (Martin Landau). The Dracula star saw a new life in Wood’s foolhardy films, but also struggled with feelings of insecurity and drug addiction. Their friendship is the heart of the film.

This is a film for the aspiring film maker; the outcasts that try all they can to get a foot in the door. Despite Burton’s presence, the film is so unique from anything else he’s done. A large part of this is because it lacks the usual gothic, abstract designs we identify Burton with. You can tell it’s labour of love. It’s a film that Burton sees so much of himself in, turning a social outcast into the perfect analogy for his own insecurities. Film is, above all, a transformative media that speak to the people behind their creation. Anyone who has experience making a film can relate to the struggles Wood goes through.

This film offers so much. The core friendship between Wood and Lugosi is powerful, and you really get the sense that they’re helping each other not because they think it will further their careers, but because they genuinely care about each other. Even Lugosi is given the same admiration; appropriate, considering that he is far more infamous than the obscure director. But there’s also much love in the way Wood makes his films and all the charming little mistakes he makes. We see movies today like The Room and Fateful Findings and you underestimate how much of that came from Wood. Burton doesn’t want us to forget about it.

Ed Wood will always remain a film I so closely attach to myself. The wide-eyed optimism of Wood is something I can’t help but admire. And while I don’t quite have the ambition to direct movies, that drive to keep making something, even if only a few people appreciate it, is continuously inspiring. The Blues Brothers may have been my first attempt, but it’s Ed Wood that got me to the point I’m at today…It just doesn’t quite beat out the films further in the list.

9. Banshees of Inisherin (2022)

It’s a tremendous for a film of the last few years to make it to my personal list. That’s not to say that there hasn’t been more than a heft of phenomenal films in those years, but none have quite scratched that personal itch quite like Martin McDonagh’s exploratory piece on leaving a mark on the world and whether that should be at the expense of alienating those closest to you. As someone who has lost friends, missed friends and wanted the best of both worlds, I’ve hardly found a film that resonates with me this powerfully.

The film centres around two friends living in the rural area of Inisherin, Ireland-a place that doesn’t actually exist-in the early twentieth century. Padraic (Colin Farrell) finds that his closest friend Colm (Brendan Gleeson) has stopped talking to him, seemingly out of nowhere. He soon finds out that Colm has reached a level of existentialism, worrying that he’s never going to make it as successful fiddle player if he keeps hanging around his layabout friend. Padraic doesn’t see it that way, holding on to the pintless conversations and enjoying the simplicity of life. Colm tells Padraic that if he keeps hounding him, he’ll start taking drastic measures.

We’ve all been in that state of questioning; deep questioning of what’s there at the end of our lives. Some find purpose in religion or their family, others look towards their work efforts. Many others, like myself, depend on their creative voice. Colm is very relatable, wanting to leave some sort of impact on the world before he eventually dies, but his method in doing so is destructive. That’s where the relatability of Padraic comes in. Like Padraic, I treasure the needless bits of conversation. Though they may be aimless and lack introspection, small talk and long conversation feels so powerful and enriching. As someone who pertains simple habits, I latch on to those moments of mindless chatter.

Whether you side with Padraic or Colm is unimportant. It’s about seeing both sides of the story and seeing the bad as well as the good. Other characters that come in and out of their lives, whether it’s Padraic’s sister Siobhan (Kerry Condon) or the village idiot Dominic (Barry Keoghan), their outlooks on life add an extra layer of conversation to the debate. Ultimately, your value is just as much as you perceive it. Kindness and good will towards others is something I carry with me as much as I can, but I also aspire to develop my writing into something more impactful. With the film being able to pick out every bit of me, I couldn’t help but fall in love with it (it also helps that the film is set in Ireland).

I think about this film constantly. There’s emotional moments that left me in tears and comical scenes that found me in a darkly jovial mood. You’ll find yourself screaming at both characters to see the other side of things, and what you get out of it and how you interpret it is totally up to you. I hold much of what the film says close to my heart, caring for both characters. Allow yourself to be open with others, don’t let that dream go.

8. Requiem for a Dream (2000)

Let’s get the obvious opinion out of the way: no, I do not believe Darren Aronofsky directly ripped off Perfect Blue. Did he take inspiration, despite pretending he never saw the film? Almost definitely. But I feel this cautionary drug tale has a voice of its own.

I have never experienced any sort of recreational drug, so I cannot speak for how accurately Requiem for a Dream captures the eventual downfall of such hard substances. But even so, there’s little reason not to appreciate Aronofsky’s warped and defamatory view of such a constant problem. Anyone who has seen the director’s other works knows that he brings a brutality to every single film he makes that leaves you reaching for the proverbial trigger. And in this early success, we may have his most sadistic commentary.

Exploring the damaging effects that drugs like heroin can have on a person, it mainly keeps the focus on three central characters, Harry (Jared Leto), his girlfriend Marion (Jennifer Connelly) and their friend, Tyrone (Marlon Wayans). Dealing with the culture, they slowly divulge into individual problems, from the decaying of an arm to being used as a whore to being total failures in the memories of those who raised them. Them there’s Harry’s mum (Ellen Burstyn), who starting taking these weight loss drugs so she can appear on her favourite reality TV show. She too, begins a downward spiral.

Some will toss their heads back at a film that loudly shouts its message, but sometimes we need something like that. While much of the drug crisis has been exaggerated by politicians and PSAs, you can’t deny the very real life-damaging effects they’ve had. Making the central characters young adults whom will do anything to get their fix makes the story that much more gut-wrenching. Though a lot of the decisions were wholly made by them, Aronofsky understands that the source of their problem comes from how society treats them. Even the elderly Sara-Harry’s mum-is influenced by weight standards.

The film is a continuous nightmare; never ceasing and getting worse and worse as the film goes on. This isn’t the type of story you can so easily sit down and enjoy in a more horror-centric way. Though heavily exaggerated, it works grisly wonders at making you squirm and reaffirms this idea that drugs simply aren’t worth the torture. Never have I felt so desperately pained for a cast of characters than this source of inherent nightmares. I will never forget the story of how a friend of mine watched this with his girlfriend, not knowing what the film entailed, and how utterly traumatised they both were. This is one for those with a strong stomach and can bare to have the words “ass to ass” give you the most uncomfortable feeling you’ll ever endure.

7. Mulholland Drive (2001)

On the subject of unnerving film makers, David Lynch isn’t exactly short of manic displays of his subconscious. That said, Mulholland Drive is one of his most comprehensible pieces. Tackling a subject I hold near and dear to my heart-the disillusionment of Hollywood-This biting commentary can get lost in the typical Lynchian absurdity. And while the director is known for never letting on the true purpose and subtext of his films, one doesn’t have to look to far to understand what’s being said.

While the film does start in a peculiar and surprising way, with what appears to be an actress left on the run with no memory of who she is, the film gives us a pretty solid story of an aspiring actress, named Betty (Naomi Watts), taking up residence in the Hollywood hills. There, she meets the amnesiac Rita (Laura Harring), and tries to uncover the mystery of who she once was. The two form a bond, with the wide-eyed Betty still hopeful towards her future career in the industry. But this industry is always relentless, and she’s pushed into doing uncomfortable things she naively accepts. And despite Betty’s recent arrival, she seems to share a lot more in common with Rita than either would’ve expected.

For fans of mystery novels and amnesia storylines, Mulholland Drive does fit perfectly into that mould. We all enjoy a good head-scratcher, so to have one of the vaguest and most nonsensical directors to hit the industry make such a film feels like a perfect pairing. There’s enough there for you to make your own assessment, putting the pieces together through interactions and small hints of Rita’s past. But then the typical Lynch-wildness comes in, and everything you thought you knew veers off into a bizarre realm that feels dreamlike. So much of it doesn’t make any sense, but you don’t care because you know that there’s a hidden story underneath it all that becomes apparent the more you analyse.

I’m a man of subtext. A great film is often defined by the intent, and while Lynch is purposely vague about this, the film does appear to criticise Hollywood and its damaging effects on actresses. Movies like Sunset Boulevard and All About Eve are paid tribute to, invoking the same sentiment that those two films championed. Women in the industry are quickly thrown to the side once they’ve served their purpose or have aged out of the roles they get. The next young, pretty face takes over. Lynch uses his name recognition to make, what I consider, to be the greatest critique of the system, providing a supporting voice for those who can’t speak up.

While Lynch’s library is full of more joyously ridiculous films than this, Mulholland Drive manages to hit every note I could want from a film of this ilk. The more bizarre stuff is never overindulgent and the characters are easy to like and root for. Part disturbing, part erotic, entirely transformative. It’s a film that’s perfectly Lynch.

6. The Shining (1980)

My journey with horror films has always been an odd one. I’ve already spoken an eternity’s worth of praise for Rosemary’s Baby. But when it comes to this genre that I once had a skittishness towards, only to find myself indulging in as many iconic films as possible, no film has done it better than Stanley Kubrick’s iconic classic. This adaptation of Stephen King’s novel may annoy hardcore fans, and King himself, but it’s undeniably one of Kubrick’s greatest achievements. And in the mind of this writer, it’s his best.

You all know the story; it’s ingrained in the public consciousness, even if you’ve never seen the film. Writer Jack Torrance (Jack Nicholson) takes his wife Wendy (Shelley Duvall) and son Danny (Danny Lloyd) to a remote hotel known as the Overlook. Taking a job as caretaker, strange things begin to happen in the hotel, and we learn that it has a history of murder and dismay. The groundskeeper (Scatman Crothers) seems to have a strange psychic connection to Danny known as the shining. This hotel has a power, and Jack finds himself becoming victim to it as he grows more and more unhinged.

The Shining has been picked apart and analysed to death in the forty-plus years since its release, so in a lot of ways, it almost feels too cliché to add it to a ‘top’ list of any kind. But its undeniable accomplishments are simply that special that I can’t help but feel entranced by it all. You feel as though you’re there with the family, experiencing and embracing every shocking oddity that comes through those walls or out of that lift. Nicholson and Duvall both deliver memorably tense performances, showing the effect insanity can have on both the recipient and those around them. Everything is unsure, everything tense and tinged with a subtle hint of implication. It’s immaculate.

Kubrick was know for his meticulous eye when it came to crafting his films. This one is the shining example. Not a single second is wasted, bathed in a frequent sense of mastery and intimate care. The hotel comes alive more and more, and as such, Jack becomes a slowly-building threat. We value family as our comfort zone or our safety nets, so to have them lose their sanity and gain a certain manic nature is such a terrifying concept. There are ghostly images and phenomena that make up the film’s grisly atmosphere. But what really solidifies this as a horror classic is just how realistic that human terror feels. Shelley Duvall has received more than her fair share of flack over the years, but I absolutely love this performance, similarly with Danny Lloyd’s overachieving ability to make the ghostly threats that much more malevolent.

It’s been said again and again, and I doubt I could add anything more to the conversation, but The Shining simply is a masterpiece. Everything else I’ve spoken about before this has had its shortcomings-small as they may be-but it’s hard to find fault in this. This is one of the first horror films I truly fell for and I still think about it frequently and have my own interpretations of the deeper meaning behind it all. 2001 and A Clockwork Orange are certainly up there, but nothing shines quite as overwhelmingly as this instant classic.

5. Paris, Texas (1984)

We humans are fallible. Not exactly a controversial statement, but it’s always important to remember that we can make mistakes, some worse than others. Wim Wenders has directed many films that explore the nature of human imperfections, but none quite as succinctly and emotionally as Paris, Texas. The title appears quite odd-there is an actual place in Texas called Paris-and that oddity takes form in a rather slow rise of realism from the brink of abnormality. It’s rare to find a film that taps into such a personal mentality of mine that it leaves me in a state of tearful reflection.

Harry Dean Stanton, a man who crafted his career playing minor to supporting roles, finally finds his footing as a lead man as the rather ambiguous Travis Henderson. Found roaming the desert, dirty and haggard, by his brother Walt (Dean Stockwell), Travis is brought to Walt’s home. We find out that four years prior, Travis and his younger wife, Jane (Natassja Kinski) had suddenly disappeared, leaving their infant son in the care of his brother and his wife. Travis, not knowing where his wife went, and not letting the audience in on why they’re left, tries to reconnect with his son, but he hardly recognises him and doesn’t want that connection. As the film progresses, we slowly learn of Travis’s history, and our perception begins to shift.

The exact points that entail the story of the film is not what I relate to, but there is an idea of facing your past mistakes and vowing to improve that I find myself projecting onto very instinctively. Without telling you of what exactly happens through the course of the film, that altered perception I alluded to is what really solidified my love for the film. Stanton already plays the role in a very innocently naïve way, and his efforts to reconnect with his son is never short of charm and sentiment. We know so little of Travis’s history, but what we do know is that he’s deserved of some sort of resolution. There’s an endearing quality to Travis that makes the coldness his son has so heart-breaking, but you never question why or despise the kid for doing so.

Without going into too much detail of my own life, there was a lot I could connect to in regards to Travis’s son. Having my own personal history of not knowing my own father, suddenly having him become part of my life, that sense of unsure feeling is so powerful. Even though my story didn’t find its conclusion till I was an adult, there’s a universal, ageless trepidation that never washes away. Getting to how that affects the father helps to contextualise it from a different perspective.

While there is much to admire about the film throughout its entire course, the final act is what confirmed to me just how much I admire it. The where and why of Jane’s disappearance is delivered to us in one of the most insanely human ways possible. In one of the longest and most intimate monologues put to film, we aren’t left with much else to do but sit down and come to terms with everything we’ve known about Travis being thrown in the opposite direction. A man pouring his soul out and admitting he’s made awful, terrible mistakes; it has you reflecting on your own humanity and maturity. I always strive to improve on my inadequacies, so it’s hard not to tear up. The ending only brought the tears back.

Paris, Texas isn’t going to be for everyone, but it sure as hell managed to tap into my subconscious. With the themes of self-improvement and feelings of abandonment, there were two major nerves within me that were pricked. With a brutal honesty that never wavers, there’s so much to adore about this film. If you aren’t a blubbering mess by the end, you probably need a lesson in self-awareness.

4. Anomalisa (2015)

If we’re going to sit on the subject of existentialism and questioning our own states of existence, then no creative has done that better than Charlie Kaufman. The writer/director had already flexed his writing hand with films like Being John Malkovich and Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. His work has been something of an inspiration for me when writing about films. That openness that I displayed in those last couple of paragraphs is something I carry with me in my day-to-day life. Kaufman’s sentiments reached quite the apex in this co-directing gig with Duke Johnson in a stop-motion film like no other.

Anomalisa is as much of an anomaly as the title implies. We so often strive to stand out in society, looking for inklings of individuality. So much so that it can lead to a destructive path. Here, we meet Michael Stone (David Thewlis), an executive in the world of retail who’s attending a conference to talk about his blasé job and his book on how to succeed. Problem is, Michael seems to hate his existence, seeing the people around him as identically-faced figures with the same monotonous voice. Then Lisa (Jennifer Jason Leigh) appears, sporting a birth mark on her face and with a frumpy body. Michael falls in love with her because of how she stands out from the rest. The two begin an intimate relationship, but even Lisa begins to take on the same form he so despises.

Like any other film Kaufman has written, what you interpret from the film can be unique to you. That said, I think there is a specific vision that Kaufman had in mind. As I said, we often strive for individuality. Monotonous work can often lead to a decayed view of the world, and we begin to hate our own existences for making those choices. Michael is relatable to a point, bathed in his own frustration. But his actions and history of using people for his own benefit is where that connection severs. The exploration of Michael and Lisa’s relationship is where you really feel like you’re living in the world Kaufman and Johnson have-quite literally-created.

The stop-motion animation touts a realistic look to it which feels foreign to the medium. Characters are given detailed designs, but are also prominent with imperfections. The seams you see in the faces of the characters are more than simple mistakes: they serve a noticeable purpose during a later scene. That realism only strengthens the two leads, making them feel so organic. For a moment in time, we become part of this world, intoxicated in the fantasy Michael has finally realised. Then, when the film takes a sudden heel turn, you begin questioning everything.

I so admire the film’s entire point. The reason for why it climbed so high in my list comes down to my own feelings of inadequacy. As I write this, I am making a concerned effort in improving my aspirations, questioning how much time I’ll have to really get my foot off the ground. When a film like this explores that extreme anxiety so closely, the mind will latch onto it without letting go. There’s much to appreciate about the technical aspects, especially with how mesmerising the animation and muted art-style is. But above all, it’s the organic nature of the characters that allures me. Before you fall to pieces, glue your mind to a bit of introspection.

3. American Psycho (2000)

Don’t worry, I’m not the type to take Patrick Bateman and make it my entire personality. But I do feel as if the film has received quite the tarnished legacy. Before the incels began using this film as a basis for their entire lifestyle choices, Mary Harron’s adaptation of American Psycho was viewed as an instant classic and a clever deconstruction of everything wrong with upper-class America. The ingenuity of such a film is laden within a cookpot of various different ingredients, made up with the vaguest of hints towards what is real and what is the delusion of a psychologically damaged man.

This is another one of those films where you probably understand the basic plot through frequent talk. Christian Bale gives us a psychotic turn as wealthy businessman Patrick Bateman. He lives a luxurious life: nice apartment, expensive clothes and a slew of women at his beckon call. But deep within the recesses of his mind lies that of a killer; a man that will happily murder somebody he deems unworthy, killing hoboes and hookers. Life for Patrick takes a turn when he kills fellow businessman Paul Allen (Jared Leto), and he starts using his apartment for all his future killings.

On the surface, this appears to be nothing more than a sadistic fantasy for some repressed writer, but as I mentioned before, it’s a clever criticism of everything wrong with capitalist America. Bateman is the shining example of the one-percent. Always living life without care and knowing he can get away with even the most heinous crimes. His divulgence into the darkest depths of this life takes such sudden and horrifying turns. Bale’s performance is memorably sadistic, and it’s hard not to be entranced by his continuous glee over what he does-not to say what he does is at all understandable.

There’s a satirical and surreal edge to this film that has always stuck with me. Even minor things like characters never noticing Patrick’s sudden outrageous comments or how no-one can seem to realise that Paul Allen is dead give this film a humorous direction. The film brilliantly blends together horror with comedy and thriller, every element working seamlessly. You’re horrified and mesmerised all the same, and then you find yourself laughing at even the grislier moments. There really isn’t anything that feels comparable.

I really enjoy a good deconstruction of upper-class society. Though I rarely spread my political reviews, I have shown dismay for those of whom stand above us, while we working-class struggle so much. Like the best of films that wear this message proudly on their sleeve, American Psycho is able to pick apart this problem in intricate and entertaining ways. But other films don’t attach scenes of someone getting bludgeoned by an axe while Huey Lewis and the News plays or Christian Bale running through an apartment complex naked holding a chainsaw. And yet, we still don’t understand how much of this is true.

A tribute to the slashers that came before it, but making an identity for itself, this film will leave you scratching your head and afraid to use a cash machine. Don’t pick that cat up.

2. Birdman: or (The Unexpected Virtue of Ignorance) (2014)

Thinking about my favourite film, I realise how little it changes. Coming up with the nineteen others has always proven more difficult. Hell, I wasn’t even sure I could think of ten. But since 2019, Birdman had sat in the number one spot…until around three years ago. And while it may no longer claim my top spot, Alejandro G. Inarritu’s ode to the career of Michael Keaton has always stuck very closely to me. Providing a double dose of specific niches that weigh on my mind, Birdman deserves to be at the top of everyone’s list.

Michael Keaton is more than the star of the film: it’s almost entirely about him. Not exactly true, Keaton plays Riggan Thomas, a once successful actor famed for his role as a superhero Birdman-the parallels are already blatant. Now much older, he wants to be taken seriously as an artist, and puts on a play. Problem is that many theatre critics see him as an imposter of sorts, not fit to enter the world of theatre. We also see Riggan’s life working with his co-stars. He finds a relationship with the younger Laura (Andrea Riseborough), despite the waning of his ex-wife. Lesley (Naomi Watts) is cautious of Riggan’s behaviour, but grows furious with him after the hiring of a former lover and method actor, Mike (Edward Norton, also playing an allegorical version of himself). Then there’s Riggan’s daughter Sam (Emma Stone), who works on the play but can’t stand her father’s negligence. Riggan is now left to balance his aspirations with his personal life.

Birdman is more than a simple allegory for Keaton’s career. The whole film is indicative of what many actors suffer from: typecasting. Keaton, at this point in his career, had gone through quite the quiet period. In so many ways, Keaton was the perfect surrogate for this type of story. Having Riggan known for playing a superhero-the obvious connection of Keaton’s stint as Batman-really excels that point. There are a fair few jabs at the state of superhero movies and how they overshadow smaller works like this. Even in 2014, the market had become saturated, but very few were confident enough to call studios out on it. Keaton’s animosity and desire to be taken seriously as an actor is so poignant. Riggan also has these powers that may or may not be real. We see a progressive insanity as Riggan tries to impress those who have already dismissed him.

The exploration of the character is also just as fascinating. Riggan isn’t lauded as this perfect being that has been shot down by the industry. He has let the fame he once had dictate his entire life, with the people around him only working with him because of their admiration. Even this new girlfriend of his is more in love with the mythology of the man than his actual kindness. It’s also seen in Stone’s character, showing a deep disappointment in her father. It would’ve been so easy for the film to play victim, but it makes sure that the blame isn’t always on the industry. Even actors like Norton, being the overly involved method actor, are slammed in a bizarrely respectable way.

The film is also rich in technical quirks. Another film that tries the whole ‘made to look like one shot’ approach, this may be one of the greatest examples of it. Even if there are clever little editing tricks, the fact that so much of it was meticulously choreographed and planned out to a pinpoint perfection is still admirable. The soundtrack being all drums is something you may not immediately notice, but the drummer is literally there, reminding you of how minimalist the soundtrack is.

With every aspect in mind, blended together in a whirlwind of distinctions, you find yourself latching on from start to finish. It remains a powerful commentary on the state of film making as well as how uncaring a cruel the world can be to veteran actors, while also a deep exploration of turning yourself around and making the right choices. How far must one go to impress the crowd?

1. Adaptation (2003)

There are certain forms of media that you look at, read or play and you feel this immediate click. You don’t initially know why, but you enjoy that click, hold onto it. And as that thing you’re engaging in progresses, suddenly everything makes sense, and your life changes. You realise that what you have may be the closest a form of media has gotten to recapturing aspects of your life. I’ve spoken about how certain films in this list have managed to convey specific emotions or thoughts that are close to me, but none have done it exactly.

The mind of Charlie Kaufman rears its head, here being partnered with Spike Jonze, the two having worked on Being John Malkovich prior. Though Kaufman is only writing this one, the film is entirely him-quite literally. To those who have no idea of this film but know me well, my further explanation should tell you everything as to why I consider this to be my all-time favourite.

What started out as a literal adaptation of non-fiction book written by Susan Orlean called The Orchid Thie,. Kaufman suffered with severe writer’s block when adapting it. But from that came a new idea: to make the film about Kaufman adapting the book. Nicolas Cage plays Charlie Kaufman in this film, but also a completely original twin brother by the name of Donald. With Charlie not knowing how to adapt the book, he becomes frustrated and begins continuously putting it off. Meanwhile, Donald is finding success making mindless Hollywood drivel. Charlie continues to beat himself up, complaining about the lack of imagination the studios have, and wanting to make artful explorations. Charlie’s love-life isn’t going so great either, and he begins to worry about his future, worried that he’ll die alone.

On the side of this, we get a look into the backstory of Susan Orlean (played here by Merly Streep). Living a cushy lifestyle, she finds interest in writing about a bizarre man who finds plants from other countries and keeps them in his swamp. John Laroche (Chris Cooper) is our orchid thief, and despite his drastically different lifestyle, Susan begins falling in love with him-an aspect that is totally fictitious.

It’s rare that writers will be as blunt about their own perception within the films they write. Kaufman has a habit of putting himself in the films he writes, but simply in fragments. With him literally inserting himself into the story, we see everything thrown on the table. Kaufman comes across as slightly neurotic, highlighting his inadequacies and using the fictional Donald as a way to represent everything he hates about the system. The years have affected me in a way that has seen me stepping further and further from those big-budget fests in such a similar manner. Though I’m no professional writer, my choice to focus on smaller films within my film lookback section comes from my frustration with the current landscape. But it’s not just the writer aspects that appeal to me most.

Kaufman’s constant sense of self-criticism and worry for the future is something I wholeheartedly understand. It’s hard not to judge every step you make in life, analysing the worst-case scenarios. Though obviously very damaging, we all fall victim to that hard-to-escape trap. Allowing the writing aspect to interject, there’ve been so many instances where I find myself losing confidence in a review I wanted to write, or how I let go of ideas for books. Writer’s block can hit you so hard you feel depressed and start questioning your abilities. Then there’s Kaufman’s love-life. The fact that he is so open about his loneliness is such an admirable thing. So many struggle to make those moves and overthink the eventuality. Without going too much into that side of me, it is something that weighs on my own mind, even when I explore previous relationships, with that questioning always being a factor.

Even the side story surrounding the book’s author and her subject provides a fitting allegory for Kaufman’s need to make something more personal; more artistic. In a quite a bold move, Kaufman crafts his own narrative as to why Susan Orlean may have written her book. This sordid love affair, with its contrasting walks of life, is just as intoxicating for us as it is for Streep’s Susan. We prefer the obscene and unusual. And how that story connects with Kaufman’s own journey is powerfully satisfying.

I could speak of the mastery that is Adaptation for hours and hours, but I have spoken in depth of it in the past. Rarely do I come across a film that speaks so accurately to my own character, and even rarer does it manage to provide me with the most unique experience any film has. The more I revisit it, lament on it and pick apart each second, the more it reaffirms to me that no other film will come close to being my favourite film of all time. The gap between Birdman and Adaptation is a wide one. I implore anyone whom has never heard of this film to explore it, love it, adapt to it.

Written by Conor Johnson.

The Filmmaker’s House: Hospitality Has Never Felt So Natural

A country divided we may be, but the hope that we can unite in the face of financial and economical crisis is still a permeating hope in this optimistic writer’s head. We’ve escaped many a crisis. In 2020, the year this film came out, we weren’t sure there was any chance of normalisation off the back of Covid and Brexit. We’re paying the price now for the questionable decisions of the past, and we can either admit defeat and let ourselves crumble under the weight of this fragility Britain is suffering from, or we can keep pushing against that stubborn blockade that holds us down.

There’s probably many of you whom have no idea of what this film is, nor how everything I’ve said in that first paragraph even relates. The Filmmaker’s House is an anomaly of a film. Marc Isaacs, a documentary film maker who struggled to get his last film off the ground because of a lack of interest from investors, decided that the very idea of trying to make such a film was a good basis for a film plot in of itself. This film is a strange hybrid of fiction and documentary; a movie that posits real-life people into a fictional environment and plays around with expectations. It’s a clash of cultures that speaks to the diversity of our country, but it also feels a tad disingenuous.

This decision to make a film that blends together the two storytelling formats will certainly anger some, annoy others, and can at least be appreciated by a smaller group. Quite frankly, I’m not sure where I fit into. It’s a film that deserves some focus, regardless of the choices made. This is Marc Isaacs’s The Filmmaker’s House.

As I said, the film opts to take a more documentarian approach to a fictional story. Marc Isaacs wants to create a simplistic documentary about people as they are, but the financiers are more interested in something that is shocking and violent at the same time. Marc decides to go ahead with his original plan anyway, filming his day as it goes on, in the hopes that the footage will convince his bosses. What we get is a revolving door of different people that enter Marc’s house on a single day.

Luckily for Marc, the people that surround him provide an excellent display of the multiculturalism that makes up Britain. Initially presenting us with a homeless Slovakian man by the name of Mikel, propped up in a hospital bed, the film flashes back to when Marc is having work done on his garden fence. The lead builder, Keith, is a deeply patriotic person and avid supporter of the Arsenal football team. He doesn’t care much for Marc’s Muslim neighbour Zara, but she soon finds a way to make her own way in to the house, providing a well-cooked meal. We, of course, meet Mikel properly: a homeless man who practically barges his way into the house for the hope of a good sleep and some proper care.

As much as this fly-on-the-wall approach is the most prominent identity of the film, there is a story that unfolds. Marc’s reason for never wanting to make films on terrible life events is due to an uncomfortable past. He opens up about this to his maid, Nery, who has recently lost her mother and is anxious about going to her funeral. This house of unlikely comrades soon evolves into a strange sense of unity, with each character getting a moment to shine.

Isaacs has made no effort to pretend this was anything other than a fictional story. The word documentary being attached will create a certain expectation in the viewer’s head. I was certainly fooled into thinking that the more fictional elements would be only minor. This film may feature very real people, even telling real stories of their troubled pasts, but they are more caricatures of who they really are.

There is quite a varied and bountiful cast of characters. Marc himself is merely the puppet-master in this story, but his ability to gather these different walks of life is still something to be commended. Zara was actually Marc’s neighbour, Nery being both his maid and nanny for his children. Even Mikel is a genuine homeless man. False as much of the extra character deconstruction may be, there’s an authenticity that many conventional films of this ilk could never hope to replicate. Isaacs was sure to have a vague idea of the plot, never telling the actors what he wanted from them as to find beautiful moments of spontaneity and improvisation.

None of the “actors” in the film had any sort of history in front of a camera. They simply had faith in Marc’s abilities. Sometimes the stiffness of the performances can get in the way, often met with jarring cuts that clearly try to hide their little imperfections, but this direction gives it a more organic atmosphere. Isaacs understands that trying to get these non-actors to memorise lines will only cause them to stumble over themselves. Sometimes little comments are fed through the performers’ mouths, like when Keith makes a comment about Marc’s neighbours being Muslims, but it’s mostly filmed in a way that allows these people to react as humanly as possible. Mikel is the most notable example of how naturally one can adjust themselves to a camera.

I’ve mentioned that there are little sub-stories within this film that give these characters some more depth. People will take issue with the fact that these stories are exaggerated or shifted about time-wise. Most notable is Nery’s reluctance to attend her mother’s funeral. In reality, Nery’s mother had passed away years prior. This was simply brought forward as to give her character a certain arc that helps further the point of the film.

That point being made should be as obvious as anything: Britain should not be divided. Brexit showed that our country could be cruel to foreigners, that they weren’t wanted. Even if that’s not necessarily the reason you may have voted for it, it certainly pertains this image of total ignorance. We see the good immigration has done, with Zara being so dedicated to her religion, yet also providing food as a gesture of good will. The fact that the real Zara was so wrought with personal responsibilities-cooking, cleaning, learning, working, etc.-and still wanted to take part in the film speaks volumes to how invaluable someone from another country can be. Nery always comes to mind as well, with her never-ending kindness and her little connection to Marc’s own dilemma of letting go of the past.

But by far the biggest heart that screams out of the screen is Mikel. Isaacs has stated that Mikel was a well-known member of the homeless community, known for his kindness and tendency to help others. While the film does slightly alter this perception by having him turn up uninvited to crash on Marc’s sofa and pushing himself into other people’s business, he remains largely respectful and charming. Mikel says little of his past life, only that he has a mother back home he never sees, worried that she will be disappointed with his life. Seeing him enjoy the lavishness of a bath or enjoying a hot meal becomes so powerful. It leads you to wonder where he, above everyone else, is at this very moment.

Isaacs was very smart in picking the people he wanted to spotlight. I haven’t spoken much of Keith, but his pure-bred Englishness is something that is worth the attention. While being the only person (besides Marc) to not be of a particular foreign ethnicity, his character goes through the most growth. Played up as a typical working-class builder-very true to the real Keith-his uncomfortableness with foreigners is indicative of how our society can be. If this were a documentary this would be far more uncomfortable, but Isaacs manages to make his progression and overall kindness feel more natural. It is, after all, Keith that lifts that fence that separates Marc from Zara: no more a fitting and foreshadowing bit of imagery.

This isn’t an amazing film by any standards. The choice to turn this into something fictional while also keeping up a documentary style will certainly turn a lot of people away. The choices made do cause a sense of annoyance, as if you simply cannot trust anything that is presented. Certain pieces of emotional backstory are altered or happen too quickly to work coherently, even with that reaffirmation that the story is still fictional.

What keeps my mind turning back, however, is how indicative it is of the societal shift. This was made before lockdown, so the idea of all these people meeting in a single house could have baffled some at the time. But it does allow us to reflect on how united we were in this universal pandemic. It was almost as if the universe was punishing us for the abhorrently racist divide in different societies. It’s but a distant memory now, but I am reminded, largely in part to this film, just how much I appreciated the company of others.

Being stuck in another minor isolation after a comical accident, it was a film that circled back to the front of my mind. Suffering with plot issues and ethical dilemmas of using past grief to illustrate the story, the film still manages to tell something we may have seen elsewhere in a unique way. It’s true that the media is too focused on the sadness and grimness of the world, so why not provide a bit of hopeful comfort? Never quite exceeding past the middle of the quality meter, it does work as this little nugget of experimentation.

Written review by Conor Johnson.

Dogtooth: Society, Isolated

It’s humorous to think that the idea of living in self-isolation was once an impossible thought. We escaped the degradation of warranted lockdown with an almost non-existent urgency. The world of Covid restrictions feels like a distant memory, with no more than a financial impact. But back in 2009, Grecian director, Yorgos Lanthimos, pondered the very idea of self-contained isolation and how it would effect the world around us. With Lanthimos’s most recent film, Poor Things, being on my mind, I wanted to turn back the clock to one of his most important Greece-based adventures. Before The Killing of a Sacred Deer or The Lobster

As is typical for the director, Dogtooth is difficult to explain. Lanthimos has gone on the record of saying that the film should not be expanded, but to let the audience understand the meaning through their own means. What we do know is that Lanthimos made this film from the perspective of someone who feared for the future and how progressively more isolated we were becoming. Surreal in a shockingly grounded way and featuring uncomfortable and downright terrifying imagery, there’s not much like it. This is Yorgos Lanthimos’s Dogtooth.

As has been stated, the story of the film takes place in a confined space. It centres around a family living in a house isolated away from the rest of the world. The father (Christos Stergioglou) is the only one that leaves, travelling to work so that the family can survive. The mother (Michele Valley) helps her husband discipline their three children, often treating them like dogs, teaching them lessons of obedience and occasionally rewarding them for accomplishing goals.

The eldest daughter (Angeliki Papoulia) is the most eager to fly the nest. She becomes obsessed with movies like Rocky and Jaws, despite these movies being prohibited in the house-only home videos are aloud. She obtains these films through a security guard (Anna Kalaitzidou) that is brought to the house to sexually serve the son (Christos Passalis). But the security guard begins teaching the older sister sexual joy herself, with the promise of a reward for every ‘lick’. All that is left is the youngest daughter (Mary Tsoni), who is the widest-eyed of the bunch and forms a deep bond with her sister.

With little to no contact from the outside world, the three siblings, all of whom act far more childish than their actual ages, view the world through a specific and manipulated lens. They believe they have a brother on the other side of the fence; they don’t know what a cat is and kill it once it enters their garden; they think planes are far smaller than they are; and all the while, are told that they can only leave once their “dogtooth” has fallen out (their canines).

When walking into a Yorgos Lanthimos film, it’s important to remember that the Grecian director has a very unusual and distinct view of the world. Though heavily influenced by the more mainstream films of the public consciousness-some of which are referenced here-he has an alternative style that borders on the experimental. I only mention this because to describe this film as both hilarious and terrifying would seem perplexing for those who simply read the plot synopsis.

As mentioned, Lanthimos is pondering how society would be if it were plunged into isolation. Again, not too foreign a concept today, but the idea was very specific to Lanthimos’ worries at the time. In the most extreme example, you can see how damaging the effects are. No more is that clear than in how the father teaches the children to be totally obedient to him, hiding away almost every aspect of the real world.

The father is the most intriguing character. We don’t know how long he has lived in this state of segregation, but we understand that it’s been long enough that the kids have no knowledge of the outside world. He consistently lies, promising freedom only when this supposed dogtooth falls out-a complete farce. But what’s most interesting is how dedicatedly he weaves this idea of obedience. The title is more than a simple, humorous observation about our canines: he orchestrates the family like animals, rewarding them for good behaviour. Even the wife, who has clearly experienced the outside world herself, receives similar treatment. Though his behaviour can often be comical, and the exaggerated nature of his lies and stunts paint a picture of alternative humour, he’s also a terrifying figure.

The surreal nature of the film can often lead you to question how seriously you take certain scenes. There’s moments, like when the father convinces everyone that a cat is a dangerous creature that has torn apart their non-existent brother, that feel funny. But these can be undercut by moments of pure violence, like a scene where the father violently bashes his daughter over the head with a videotape or brutally attacks somebody in their apartment. It’s disorientating, but it leaves you in such heightened emotion that it’s difficult to find anything as distinct.

Ultimately, this is a cautionary example of how overprotective we can become for our family. While that care and affection can be admirable, there must be risk. Exposing children to the bad side of the world is just as important and is far more manageable than shielding them from any extremity that might seduce them.

It’s as much about exploring the children as it is about the father. Calling them children feels apt, as while they are of older ages, they behave as if never given the chance to mature. At the centre of this conflict is the eldest daughter.

While there is no obvious main character, the eldest is certainly the one given the most exploration and growth. Most apparent is how she views people and their actions. Her relationship with the security guard is both fascinating and disturbing all the same. The guard takes advantage of her innocent nature, often encouraging her to give her oral sex with the prospect of a reward. To the daughter, this is simply a means for more discovery. The video tapes of classic movies are merely a gateway into discovering the world. She’s so confused by this that she offers her sister the same prospect, but only understands the idea of licking more so than where to lick; she asks her sister to simply lick any part of her body.

The other two siblings view the world in different ways. The brother is left with the luxury of outside enjoyment, but only through the watchful eye of his father. It’s disturbing and unusual, but fascinating as well. He’s like a child observing something he knows he likes but has no idea why he likes it. The younger sister is the most immature of the three, often being the most obedient. The three outlooks represent different reactions to an isolated world looking out at another. The irony is that we are doing the very same thing.

We don’t really think about how odd our lives may look to outsiders. There are societal norms we take for granted, often overlooking specific quirks unique to us. While the imagery in this film presents itself as very obscene and bizarre, there is a certain acceptance your mind appropriates. Sure, the kids doing stuff like cutting off a dolls legs while pretend-screaming or them inhaling chloroform to see who wakes up first is strange, you stop thinking about the legitimacy of it all and anticipate the next oddity.

Lanthimos is very careful not to overbear us with exposition. He slowly introduces new concepts as the film progresses, not intent in boring the audience but allowing them to witness the story in real-time. Lanthimos stated that this was something he actively tried to do, and it’s apparent all throughout. For those who admire narrative above anything else in film, there’s a masterclass in screenwriting happening before your eyes. Sometimes the narrative is simpler than what are minds are already overcomplicating.

Dogtooth has only gotten better with age. Coming out of several lockdowns, we understand how restrained a world of isolation can be. Some luckier people had the benefit of being stuck with their families, others had to struggle on their own. Whatever the case, this film has retroactively been made an immaculate representation of how unstable it can make people.

It can be difficult to recommend any Yorgos Lanthimos films, especially one with such heavy themes and disturbing content I have purposely held back on mentioning. But it’s certainly worth your time. It’s engaging and off-putting at the same time. It cross the line on several occasions but always brings itself back with a spontaneous energy foreign to many like it. That statement almost feels needless: there’s nothing quite like Dogtooth.

2023 Movie Catch-Up

2023 was yet another year for the loud and independent voices in cinema to be overshadowed by the typical Hollywood affair. That said, it appears that the usual slew of superhero flicks and personality-less remakes and sequels to older films are starting to wear thin. People just don’t seem to want these emotionless, cynical cash-grabs anymore.

That last point is worth the focus. While many are starting to grow tired of the industry, these same people will also complain about the lack of more inspired work. But I assure you that these films are very much out there; you just have to look a little harder. Sadly, the reality is that the world is suffering through quite the recession, and this writer has also struggled to section which films are worth visiting. Some notable choices are missing like Saltburn and Killers of the Flower Moon, while others have seen more detailed reviews-which you can find on this very blog.

For this list, I wanted to showcase a few of the films I never got around to reviewing last year. There will be a fair mixture of smaller films and the usual extravagant products, but the reviews won’t be as long as my more extensive pieces. With a mixture of plastic dolls, plasticine figures and plastic noses, here are just a handful of films I missed out on or didn’t feel I could review at the time, ordered from worst to best. Here’s hoping for a more eventful year of movie watching…

Renfield

We all know the story of Dracula by now. No horror icon can come as close to matching the universal knowledge of the vampiric count. And with countless reimaginations of Bram Stoker’s original novel, you may feel that the well of creativity would’ve been heartily rummaged at this point. Sadly, that statement feels correct in the face of Chris McKay’s Renfield. A film that takes two of the more recognisable characters from said novel and brings them into the modern day with a more comedic and satirical approach. While not the most unique idea, the potential for this to be entertaining was right there, especially with Nicolas Cage helming the role of our favourite count.

Obviously, the film isn’t so much about Count Dracula as it is his psychotic, mind-controlled slave, Renfield (Nicholas Hoult), who has served his master through two centuries. Renfield finds unwitting victims, brings them to the count and has them brutally harvested. But Renfield has had enough, joining a support group for people in abusive relationships. Finally putting aside his controlling abuser, things seem to be going alright. That is, until Dracula catches on to this, and employs the help of local gangster, Lobo (Ben Schwartz). Renfield then teams up with police officer Rebecca (Awkwafina), who has a score to settle with the Lobo family for the death of her father. It’s about as entertaining as a buddy-cop movie can be, just without any of that vampiric edge you could want from a Dracula movie.

It is worth noting that while the concept isn’t executed all too poorly, it feels as though it veers away too much from the main appeal: the relationship between Dracula and Renfield. What this film should’ve kept the focus on was Renfield being abused and gaslighted by Cage’s wonderfully hammy count. Renfield’s decision to leave Dracula’s side happens too briskly, and we’re left subject to a rather flat dynamic with the ever-irritating Awkwafina (and actress of which has had only one good role behind her-figure that one out for yourself).

While there is a fair amount of entertaining gags and an excessive amount of gore that fits the film nicely, it never takes full advantage of the novelty of this allegorical abusive relationship dynamic. The gang stuff is horribly forgettable and makes the film feel needlessly cluttered. If you are going to go down the root of having an odd couple story about Dracula and Renfield, you should really commit to the idea. For every solid joke there’s another equally bad one that rips away the fun that could’ve been had. It sucks every bit of excitement out of you.

Maestro

Leonard Bernstein was a revolutionary composer. A man who may not be instantly recognisable to the average person, but one of whom has composed some of the classic musicals of the earlier days of cinema. Films like On the Town and West Side Story simply wouldn’t exist the way they had if it weren’t for his immaculate compositions. So a biopic in the same vein as those we have been so drowned in would only make perfect sense. Bradley Cooper, still riding the high of his A Star is Born remake, directs what is mostly a cry for an Oscar. Skimming along the surface, this Netflix original is pretty forgettable.

Cooper stars as the eponymous Maestro, wearing a prosthetic nose that many complained was anti-Semitic. Trust me when I say that Cooper’s fake nose is the least of the film’s problems. It charts the composer’s life from the first crowded concert he performed, of which he only did because the original composer was unavailable. It shows the turbulent life of Bernstein from his theatre compositions to his Hollywood fame, while also detailing his life with his wife Felicia Montealegre (Carey Mulligan) and his frequent affairs with other men. You better believe this is hitting all the standard biopic beats.

Most may be enticed to believe this would be a biopic of a different calibre. Leonard Bernstein is not exactly a Freddie Mercury or Elvis Presley, so some fine tuning could stop it from falling into those expectations. The problem is that Cooper plays it very safe. There is a certain artistic merit to this one. The pacing is rather seamless and the more important events in Bernstein’s life are given those moments to breathe. It never glorifies Bernstein to the point of trying to excuse every little behaviour quirk, but it does celebrate the genuine achievements the musician accomplished.

What really elevates this film is Bernstein’s relationship with Felicia. Carey Mulligan continuing to prove herself as one of the greatest modern actresses really steals the show. You feel every bit of conflict going on in her brain; her need to keep a hold of her husband without denying his homosexual instincts. Even that aspect is handled delicately and rather matter-of-fact. But it’s the relationship between the two that the film is relying on. The problems arise whenever Cooper feels the need to fall back into those obvious clichés of the innocent guy corrupted by his own fame; his struggling rise to his eventual fall; his damaging lifestyle. Everything is so formulaic that it becomes too bland to watch.

While certainly not a bad film, Maestro feels too soulless to really judge it in any unique way that couldn’t be applied to other films like it. It does have some fun moments of flourish like the choice to film in black and white during the earlier years, then transition to colour to show the evolution of where cinema was going. But it also suffers from bizarre editing choices, like the constant freeze-framing that made me think my internet was lagging. With some moments of composed bliss, Maestro suffers from a tenor too high for its own good.

Ferrari

Unless you have dedicated much of your life to NASCAR and its various contributors, I doubt many have genuinely pondered the life of Enzo Ferrari, the man who created the car company synonymous with the sport. That said, there is still much to unearth. Well, Michael Mann, who has brought us sly successes during the eighties and nineties, felt it appropriate to bring to life just a fraction of Ferrari’s life. And while the Collateral director does manage to skew away from the typical biopic formula, it still feels just as barren and uncreative as anything else.

While we do get a snippet of the young Enzo Ferrari’s (Adam Driver) life, the film is mostly centred around a troubled event in 1957. We see the aged mogul preparing himself for the Mille Miglia, a racing event across Italy. But Ferrari’s history of drivers who have lost their lives to faults in his cars’ manufacturing has led his reputation down a diminishing path. We also peer into Ferrari’s personal life, with his bitter marriage to his wife, Laura (Penelope Cruz), put into question after Ferrari suffers possible bankruptcy, a company of which Laura has stock in. We also see that Ferrari has been juggling a second life, secretly having fathered a child with Lina Lardi (Shailene Woodley). The affair distracts Ferrari from the death of his first son, but the charade can only persist for so long.

So often have I, and many, complained about biopics feeling too derivative. With the musician biopic in particular starting to peter out, we’ve seen a rise in corporate biopics like Tetris and Blackberry. Ferrari is no different from those, in essence. It’s admirable to see Mann divert from the encompassing career; a choice to not spend too much time on the less interesting parts of Ferrari’s life. But unless you really know your history with the man, there feels like a gaping hole missing in the plot.

Driver and Cruz give us excellent performances, something that one would expect from such esteemed actors. But even this is not enough to forgive the lack of context for most things. The drama starts to feel monotonous and the family tensions are only so intriguing. The focus on Ferrari’s professional and personal life are nicely split, with some great examples of intense driving and compelling domestic drama. But that only goes so far, with little done to really develop these “characters.” You get those pretty visuals and Mann’s trademark penchant for contrasting visual representation, but there’s too much lacking in the plot department.

Ferrari is too forgettable for me to rank any higher. It has its moments, but there’s such a stock feeling to it. Michael Mann has given us more than enough films to really employ some faith in him, but this is not one of those films. Adam Driver is drifting this movie through an acceptable territory.

Chicken Run: Dawn of the Nugget

Who asked for a sequel to Chicken Run? I mean, seriously, did people really want them to make a sequel to what is ultimately a very enjoyable but singular movie from twenty-three years ago? Aardman’s feature debut has certainly stood the test of time, wreathing in charming animation and jokes that toe the line of being overtly sadistic. The studio has evolved so much since then that a sequel just felt unnecessary. Well, that wouldn’t stop Sam Fell from bringing us back to the world of these escaped chickens.

While the first film was largely a fun little take on The Great Escape with chickens, this one opts for a more Mission: Impossibleesque tone. Years after the fowls flew from their farm, Ginger (now played by Thandiwe Newton) and Rocky (now played by Zachary Levi) have settled on an island with the other chickens-and Fowler-away from any harm. But Ginger and Rocky’s daughter, Molly (Bella Ramsey) wants to explore the rest of the world. She does, but is caught up in a heavily guarded chicken farm that seems like heaven for the poultry. But far more sinister forces seem to be lurking. It’s up to the rest of the crew to save Molly.

Complaining about the repetitive nature that many kid’s sequels go through, what with the offspring of the first film’s character wanting to rebel and go off on their own, only to find danger, is pretty pointless. As tired as the concept is, you can certainly have fun with it. And while it certainly isn’t as entertaining or as memorable as the first film, Dawn of the Nugget does still manage to be pretty fun. The stakes are upped, with a fun reverse of the first film, where the chickens are now breaking in. The film also doesn’t try to replicate the jokes of the first, allowing these new set-pieces to thrive on their own, and to let Molly be just as enjoyable as the veterans.

I suppose there’s not much to the film. There are some neat little unexpected moments that were somewhat ruined by the trailer, and that darker, more sadistic edge is still here, though it does feel more underwhelming. Even in comparison to Aardman’s other feature films, this just feels very generic. There’s plenty of good gags, and the quintessential Britishness of the studio is present as ever, but it feels so bottom of the barrel. The animation style is still stunning all these years later, with the style hardly changing outside of a few modern technical improvements and a charm that reminds us of what Aardman is. I just wish it had more personality than its feather-light plot beckons.

Asteroid City

Wes Anderson makes another movie that feels like every other movie he’s made…but this one’s actually not that great. The director has managed to craft a specific niche that very few directors have been able to replicate. Some have come damn close, but they always fail to capture the perfection of Anderson’s pinpoint symmetry. This latest film, only two years after the overlooked The French Dispatch, sadly takes the spot for what I consider to be his weakest one yet.

Like any other Wes Anderson film in the last ten years, this oddly quirky film boasts an all-star cast in an outlandish idea. Narrated by Bryan Cranston, he introduces us to a in-universe play written by Conrad Earp (Edward Norton). At the centre of this is Anderson regular Jason Schwartzman as Augie Steenbeck, who is taking his kids across the desert after the death of his wife. While staying at a motel, Augie meets several characters. Midge (Scarlett Johansson) is a talented actress looking for her next role; June (Maya Hawke) is a teacher taking her students through all the usual teachings of the world; J.J. Kellogg (Liev Schreiber) is dealing with his always daring child. This plethora of characters is subject to a major area lockdown after the arrival of a strange, stop-motion alien.

You can’t very well judge this film without the weight of Anderson’s previous films. With great classics like The Grand Budapest Hotel and more underrated gems like Moonrise Kingdom, the man has an identity that would feel repetitive anywhere else, but is handled with such care each time that you feel like each experience is as much a treat as the last. Asteroid City is an example of how this style Anderson has so carefully nurtured can veer too far off the opposite end. Yes, it’s beautifully shot and edited, and the characters are pretty memorable with their own distinct conflicts. But much of this is overshadowed by the ludicrousness of the atmosphere.

The play within a film is a nice idea. You don’t really question the whole legitimacy of it because of how already fantastical the tone is. It captures this fifties setting, using the alien panic of the time, and contextualises it into a analogue for our own lockdown crisis. There’s plenty of obvious parallels to the pandemic, with each set of characters reacting to this lockdown in different ways, from sheer panic to complete rebellion. As fun as all that is, the characters suffer as a result. It’s hard to care about the characters outside of their few quirks when none of them feel fully realised.

This film really feels like an endurance test for those who can’t quite get into Anderson’s films. There were a lot of elements I thoroughly enjoyed, but they were almost all stylistic choices. It tiptoes too heavily in the direction of weirdness that it makes it feel more like a parody of a Wes Anderson movie than anything. Though hardcore fans may enjoy this, casuals are going to feel alienated.

The Old Oak

One of my greatest regrets is never getting the chance to review this when it came out. Ken Loach’s final film is here. After nearly sixty years of film making, the British director is hanging his hat with one last furious bow. The Old Oak is also the last of a thematic trilogy of films, after I, Daniel Blake and Sorry We Missed You, centred around Loach’s despising of the Tory government. It feels appropriate to follow up a political film with another. A director that puts a spotlight on the northern part of England, one that typically struggles the most, this one also tackles the issue of Syrian immigration.

This third tale of woe follows that of TJ Ballantyne (Dave Turner), the owner of the titular pub. The Old Oak is on its last legs, only raking in the regular patrons. But TJ’s life is suddenly flipped upon the arrival of Syrian refugees, housed in estates next to those of the English-bred. Naturally, the refugees suffer terrible racism, but one particular refugee, Yara (Ebla Mari), stands up to the abuse. The kindly TJ decides to help her, trying to promote a more friendly environment. After Yara’s camera is broken, the two bond over their respective pasts, TJ being brought up to fight for his rights, Yara immigrating from a war-torn country where her father is imprisoned. The patrons of the pub don’t like this, seeing TJ as betraying his own kind. TJ, with the help of kinder residents, decides to put on a charitable event for the whole village, welcoming all walks of life.

If you’ve ever seen a Ken Loach film, or simply just the aforementioned preceding two before this, then you know that subtlety is not his forte. That overt anger and frustration can sometimes be grating in a film handled by anyone else, but Loach’s passion for what he believes in is so strongly conveyed that you’re willing to throw subtlety out of the window. England still has a racism problem. We can pretend there isn’t, but you see this same issue every time a new set of immigrants makes their way to the country. Loach is trying to unite us, not to villainise those who are ignorant.

The film gives us a very simple and honest message of banding together in the face of recession. We see this in TJ, one of the few residents of this village that still believes in the idea of unity. Even when his pub is that close from suffering closure, he still keeps his head high and tries not to let those frustrations bleed out into unnecessary hate. His connection to Yara is powerfully shown, with the two being the heart of the film. The oppression and hardships the two overcome, in spite of how horribly transparent much of it is, is so gratifying to watch.

The way the film handles its message can be a little too comical. Characters can act overtly and cartoonish-ly racist, never conveying that same reserved attitude most Brits have when confronting a race they don’t care for. That said, racist bigots like this, who speak before they think, do exist, and many of the comments are quite true to what you might hear in more xenophobic communities. There is a certain silliness to much of the film, with dialogue that feels like it was written on a first draft-Ken Loach venting in the form of mad scribblings. But the tiredness is there. Not a bad, lazy tiredness. But a fed-up tiredness.

What keeps this film raised on its legs is the overall point being put across. The Tory government, regardless of where you sit on the fence, has made several mistakes in regards to both immigration and how it treats its own people. This is a man that has shouted time and time again about his frustrations. And since 2016, when this film is set and when I, Daniel Blake came out, nothing has changed. It’s that feeling of unity that this film portrays that makes this such a strong film. Don’t fall into the habit of racism; we need to stand united.

El Conde

We’ve talked about vampires and we’ve talked about real-life figures. So why not combine the two? Well, apparently director Pablo Larrain couldn’t help but combine these two things in a not-so-subtle jab at the controversial Chilean dictator known as Augusto Pinochet. This strange foreign language film is not your simple biopic, instead opting to use the mythology of vampires to add a comical twist on the usual biopic formula. Larrain previously directed other, more genuine biopics with Jackie and Spencer (based on Jackie Kennedy and Princess Diana respectively), but this one is far more fantastical.

Set during the final days of the Chilean dictator (played here by Jaime Vadell), we learn that Pinochet has actually lived his life as an immortal vampire. Now, however, Pinochet is ready to die, with the possibility that he will leave a fortune to his various, selfish children. Pinochet’s wife, Lucia (Gloria Munchmeyer), has never been given the luxury of the same immortality, and so desperately wants that life. But Pinochet has other plans. When he meets the nun sent to make his final moments peaceful-Carmencita (Paula Luchsinger)-he suddenly finds a new lease on life. Carmencita’s goal is to destroy the vamp, but to also end his bloodline.

El Conde is one of the more bizarre films. To us non-Chileans, the figure depicted isn’t exactly in our consciousness. To Larrain-a Chilean himself-I can imagine that much of this comes from a long-standing resentment. The vampiric angle is what sets this apart. It isn’t simply done to provide a fun little novelty, but instead works to symbolise how many Chilean people felt about Pinochet. We have this narration that spells out Pinochet’s long, insufferable life. The revelation of who that narrator is will surely make a certain subset of viewers cheer in hysterics. From a political angle, you can enjoy the jovial jabbing, even if you don’t understand the person behind the film.

Seperating the film from its political identity is when you start to see the cracks. While the story surrounding the nun sent to kill Pinochet is enjoyable, going in a direction I wouldn’t have expected, everything surrounding Pinochet’s family is rather bland. It’s fun to see Larrain tear apart everyone in the Pinochet family, but many of them simply don’t have an interesting enough personality for one to care. The film is honestly at its best when it becomes a mindless slasher-the kills of which are wonderfully beautiful.

The film certainly feels on the nose with its political statement, and sometimes it loses itself in the violence. But the film is still pretty enjoyable. It’s worth the watch simply for how unique it feels. It sure was a better vampire movie than Renfield.

Barbie

If you had told me even a year ago that a movie about Barbie coming to life, based on one of the most successful brands, would end up being an amazing film about female empowerment, I would’ve probably…hoped so. Because I’ve been anticipating this since the announcement that Greta Gerwig would be taking the helm. We’re so used to the presence of this film now that it’s easy to forget that, at one point, many were ready to brush this off as a corporate product with no substance. But with the creative mind behind Lady Bird being able to turn this into a meta commentary on not only Barbie but modern society as a whole, you know there’s something special about this one.

Gerwig’s vision for Barbie is just as meta as you might expect. Set in the dreamscape that is Barbieland, where every Barbie is called Barbie and every Ken is called Ken, one particular Barbie (Margot Robbie) begins to question her existence. The world very much operates on toy logic, with everything being made of plastic. The main Ken of the movie (Ryan Gosling) desperately wants Barbie’s affection, but she’s stuck in an existential crisis. Upon the advice of Weird Barbie (Kate McKinnon), Barbie (and Ken) decide to travel to the real world, where they meet the head of Mattel and one of their key workers (America Ferrara). Barbie discovers her reputation in the real world, and Ken discovers the joys of the patriarchy.

I should start by talking about the discourse this film has had. The hilarious fact that so many insecure men have been complaining that the Barbie film is woke propaganda will never not be humorous. The film is very tongue-in-cheek, understanding that it was made with a cynical mindset and even jokes about Hollywood’s obsession with cleansing everything. Mattel and Warner Bros. happily accept a handful of jabs, with one of the villains literally being the head of Mattel. But it doesn’t shy away from addressing those insecurities so many men feel. Ken is not supposed to be this terrible person, and he’s not any more airheaded than Barbie. The idea is that these are characters who are so easily influenced by the outside world and how people perceive them that they go down their own paths of destructive behaviour.

Even aside from whatever socio-political message the film is putting across, it ultimately remains an entertaining and expertly-crafted film that always manages to get some hearty laughs out of its audience. The way each Barbie and Ken follow their roles to a tee, only being good at one thing, is such an entertaining concept. We get an array of doll-accurate costumes and sets that any kid who grew up with a Barbie is sure to get a little high from that glorious nostalgia. It’s difficult not to love a film that is so intent on trying to be everything but a corporate product. And it almost entirely never feels like such a thing.

Though not everything about it works, with the real-world mother and daughter that come along for the ride just not being very interesting, and some jokes feeling a little too immature for my liking, Barbie still manages to be a thoroughly entertaining meta piece about the state of society. That sentence doesn’t feel right attached to a Barbie film, but it sure as hell applies.

Passages

Love is love, no matter what way you define it. In this age of constant progression, with the eve of inclusivity being more integrated in societal norm, it’s pretty expected for movie studios to want to make more LGBTQ+-friendly material. But this compelling romantic drama is not one of those cynical attempts at trying to come across as allied. Ira Sachs understands that those fears and blatant xenophobia haven’t gone away completely. With Sachs’ latest film, Passages, he opts to flip the perspective on its head in one of the most poignant pieces about discovering yourself in the storm of change.

A seemingly happy marriage between film director Tomas (Franz Rogowski) and artist Martin (Ben Whishaw) is thrown in to dismay when Tomas meets a young woman and teacher, Agathe (Adele Exarchopoulos). The very feminine Tomas, who has never experienced a sexual relationship with a woman, finds himself slowly falling in love with the passionate teacher. Tomas abandons Martin, leaving behind their loving relationship with little care. As Martin moves on, finding a new romantic partner, and Tomas has gotten Agathe pregnant, he starts to yearn for his old lover. Without even a second thought, he barges his way back in. And as much as Martin knows he has to let Tomas go, he can’t help but fall under his spell.

Typically, those of us who live in the majority of heterosexual existence will turn our heads at the idea of a gay relationship. It isn’t strictly homophobic; we simply aren’t used to it. Ira Sachs understands that and tries to contextualise it through the guise of a heterosexual affair. It’s a testament to Rogowski and Whishaw’s performances that they tell such a compelling romance from the first ten minutes. There’s tension there, for sure, but you understand they have had a long and (supposedly) loving relationship. When Agathe comes into play, it disrupts everything. Suddenly, the idea of a gay man hooking up with a woman feels entirely taboo. In a moment of recognition, you start to realise Sachs’ intent.

The homosexual angle isn’t all the film is. It’s largely a tale of egoism and manipulation. It’s a destructive path caused by one man who only wants happiness for himself. Tomas is so wonderfully arrogant, only seeing his two lovers as a means for his self-satisfaction. This isn’t going against Sachs’ intention, it’s simply elevating the story to being something more than just a gay romance story. Whether it’s through a romantic strife or just a relationship that’s been held down by a single person, many can relate to the idea of someone you care about so much destroying your life. It’s a far more nuanced approach that I can’t help but admire.

Passages doesn’t care for modesty. To be exposed to other walks of life is so important for us. But whereas a major film studio may do this with cynical methods, Sachs gives us an intimate and passionate voyeurism. The sex in the movie, both from a straight and gay angle, is presented graphically. Done in such a way that forces you to accept what’s going on, that gung-ho attitude is simply a part of life. It’s a universal language that speaks to the varied cultures that are represented: from French to British to German.

Passages has had quite the divisive reaction. The film has generally been well-accepted, but others have felt that the film does more damage than good. As someone who ticks the typical cis-gendered box, it’s difficult for me to fully understand that perspective. But from what I took away, I found this to be deeply fascinating and enjoyable. It’s sadistic, charming and passionate all the same, and I think the passage of time will only be kinder to it.

Past Lives

I lamented last year the fact that I hadn’t seen as many films as I wanted to. There were many universally beloved films that I simply didn’t have the time for, whether it was because of work, my recent studies or the depressing fact that cinema prices have become way more expensive. But I knew that there was one film I would be forever mad with myself for not seeing: Past Lives.

We’ve all sat there one fine day, thinking about those big choices we’ve made in life, wondering how different our world would be if we had chosen a different path. In some cases, there never was a choice, and we ponder what would’ve happened if life hadn’t steered us in that direction. For director Celine Song, her path in life will be forever immortalised in this directorial debut. A story of being ripped from her homeland in South Korea, whisked away to Canada then America, her past catches up with her.

In this semi-autobiographical film, we follow Nora (Greta Lee), a Korean woman who is taken away to America after her parents secure immigration. But for the young Nora, she’s leaving behind a childhood sweetheart right before they have the chance to be together. Advancing twelve years, we see Nora studying at university in New York. Meanwhile, her childhood friend, Hae Sung (Teo Yoo), remains in Korea, finding new love and joining the army. The two reconnect through social media, communicating frequently through Skype. But after the frustration of not being able to physically see each other, they stop talking.

Another twelve years advance, and Hae Sung is finally travelling to New York. While there, he arranges to meet with Nora, who is now happily married. Old wounds are opened and Nora questions what her life might’ve been like had she stayed in Korea.

We can’t help but turn our heads back to the past, ruminating on ‘what if’ scenarios. What I loved about Celine Song’s approach is just how emotionally exact most of Past Lives is. Seeing these two characters at different points of their lives really drives the point home. We see these monumental marks in their lives take hold, and we want to see them evolve into the best versions of themselves. But we also feel this well of sadness fill up as we think about how strong their connection is. The film invokes the strongest feelings of melancholy, knowing that no matter how hard these two try to stay connected, distance, career and ultimately life is going to tear them apart. That is so heart-breaking in of itself.

The relationship between Nora and Hae Sung is both sweet and purposely distanced. In a lot of ways, they’re perfect for each other, but the differences in culture and life paths makes the outcome feel more agreeable. Even Nora’s husband acknowledges the chemistry the two share, feeling insecure but never cruel. It’s powerfully conveyed by simple conversation and small signs of body language that indicate a deeper thought process. It requires the audience’s undivided attention and rewards it with such powerful emotion.

I think the core reason this film has been so well-received is how undeniably organic much of it feels. As much as we tell ourselves not to revisit the past, our minds will always wander back. The idea of having someone just waltz back into your life after years of no contact is a frightening thought, but one that I have had myself. It leaves your mind racing; you’re filled with all these different emotions fighting for dominance. You mostly can’t make sense of how to feel, and the answer is often not clear. That struggle and restrained indifference Nora feels was so poignant. Our minds are so fragile, so something like this can leave you in a protective cocoon.

I’m a story-centred person. Nice visuals and stylistic choices have made up many of the films leading up to this one. But a narrative will always take precedence. Past Lives is a dialogue-heavy reflection on life and the choices we make to get to the point we’re at. It’s important not to live life with regret and embrace the decisions that narrate our lives, good and bad. I’m at a point in my life where a film like this perfectly reflects how I feel. While perhaps not being the objectively best film to come out of last year, it was the one that spoke to me the most. There is no clear path for life, you simply have to enjoy the one you have, in spite of the broken branches that you may have trodden on.

Written by Conor Johnson.

The Four Times: The Humans, the Animals, the Nature and the Cycle

Who are we in this vast cosmos? We are but a simple grain of sand in a vast desert, contributing minuscule effort to the preservation of the universe. This almost reads as some poor writer’s existential dread, and perhaps it’s not too far off. Italian director Michelangelo Frammartino has contemplated the meaning of existence before, but never has it been said so interpretably than in his 2010, non-genre film, Le Quattro Volte (The Four Times for we English-speakers). A film that explores our simplistic presence in an otherwise complicated world, it doesn’t give you the answers upfront.

The Four Times was heavily inspired by Frammartino’s upbringing. During his childhood, the director was taught that there were four different states of existence. It’s quite a vague statement, offering up a slightly Buddhist idea of picking apart different sides of us and lumping them into a category. But actually sitting down and watching the film doesn’t immediately invoke such feelings. The Four Times is a superbly vague idea of mortality and our progressive disconnect from nature. As we continue to move forward and the environment continues to burn around us, perhaps we should take a moment to observe the sights we so often overlook. This is Michelangelo Frammartino’s Le Quattro Volte.

Set in a decayed, yet iridescent, village in Italy, the film’s central focus is not on one character, but four different entities. The title obviously gives that away, but the figures we follow aren’t exactly the most conventional. Starting out with an elderly farmer (played with passive subtlety by Giuseppe Fuda), we see an average day for the man. Tending to his goats and providing milk for the village, his life is but a modest one. But a looming illness persists. The second life is that of a new-born kid (baby goat), an excitable little creature that learns to live in this life of dependency. The third life is that of a tree, uprooted from its spot and used as a festivity attraction for the village. The final life is that of a log-pile, burned and resourced to the villagers.

There isn’t much depth to the plot. Think of this film as something akin to a documentary, but not exactly a ‘mock’umentary either. The Four Times is a subtle journey through just a day in each “character’s” life. But be warned: the film’s pace is almost non-existent.

A synopsis of this film cannot adequately capture its essence. What this piece is is the culmination of nature and how Earth’s more intelligent species may very well be desecrating it. The first character we focus on is a humble old man with little care for luxury. We don’t know anything of his backstory, nor do we hear a single line of dialogue-the whole film remains dialogue-free. But what we understand of the character is how dedicated he is in maintaining his livelihood.

Through small interactions of the farmer meeting other townspeople and watching over every goat he shepherds, we can understand he is a caring and simple man. That simplicity is something many casual movie-goers may not appreciate. We usually expect some form of excitement, letting the quieter moments come to us at intervals. Frammartino isn’t worried about exciting us: he wants us to think. Who is this man in the great nature that surrounds this village? He’s almost presented as the last link between human and nature, overcome by an unpreventable illness.

There’s a subtle moment early in the film where we are given a closeup of the man’s face. Looking down with a decipherable expression, we see an ant slowly crawl around his face. This moment certainly feels like a pleasant coincidence, but Frammartino has commented on the idea that it changes perspectives. Suddenly, the farmer’s face has turned into a landscape for the ant to traverse. Much like the goats that are led through the fields to do their duty, the ant is finding its own way across this facial fissure.

Animal lovers, you’ll be in for a treat with this one. The second segment is often regarded as the strongest part of the film. We so often empathise more with animals than humans because of their seeming innocence. Observing the goats in this film invokes a certain purity that not even a humble farmer can maintain.

We follow this one particular kid, watching as it observes the environment around it, playing with the various objects in its pen. There’s a charming sense of comedy that pervades these scenes, done so naturally without any real choreography or script. Some audiences have said of these sequences to be genuinely funny, and it’s not hard to see why. The greatest humour is often derided from the accidental moments in life. There’s a reason film makers often get excited over little mistakes; these mistakes often make for an entertaining miracle. Frammartino has commented that the goats were hard to shepherd, especially the main kid, so miracle is certainly the best word to use.

If you were anticipating some excitement in this second act, then I’m afraid you are looking for the wrong movie. This film is dependent on your patience, pleading for you to observe and take in every act of nature. The story of the goat is dependent on your ability to follow the old man, and the transition from goat to tree requires even more patience. The tree isn’t exactly the most dependable actor. In fact, its static nature can allow for some rather creative playing around.

Once you reach that third act, the purity of nature takes its hold. Lamenting the previous scene before the transition, overcome with emotion, part of you begs for a sombre moment. We watch this impressive work of the natural world loom over the forest, only for it to be torn down and used as a plaything for the nearby villagers. Used in a festival, allowing people to climb up it, there’s this shocking sense of anger towards such ignorance. Nature-lovers such as myself will easily condemn the actions of tearing down a behemoth of a tree, but there is a comforting sense of community that rises from such an act.

The final act, of which we see a dome of charred wood, is symbolic of the course of nature. Reincarnation is also something that the film explores. The idea is that these four central ‘characters’ are inextricably linked. Much like the subject of nature evolving into a more concrete structure, our own essence is merely passed down from our ancestors. We humans have intervened and turned this nature into something artificially renewable, but is it justifiable? I don’t believe that even Frammartino has a definitive answer.

The film opens the discussion of environmentalism. I can hear the grumblings of anti-lecturers that have already accepted our doomed fates, but this discussion bares repeating. For all the efforts our societies have made to make the Earth more eco-friendly, the damage has been done. Frammartino had grown frustrated, feeling that the line between human and nature has become far too blurred. We use nature as a tool for enjoyment, cutting down trees for the sake of a temporary entertainment. The film isn’t necessarily talking down to us, and leaves the message vague.

The vagueness is what embodies the film the most. Despite the inaction of the story, emotions continue to swirl. You feel happy, sad and angry by the end of the film. Happy at the perseverance of simplistic life, sad at the sudden changes, and angry at the acts of ignorant people. It’s easy to brush this off as a slow, unimportant film that has nothing to say. But that ability to let yourself observe and take the message in is what makes this so special.

The sweeping shots of this village landscape encompasses the contrast of nature against society. Beautiful and serene as the village is, there’s a contradiction in how it celebrates the desecration of nature. Long takes soak up the film, with one particular shot taking almost nine minutes. In a strangely sentient way, nature takes over, with the farmer’s dog freeing the various goats that are locked up in their pen with a destructive truck. It’s more impressive when you consider the amount of training the dog would’ve gone through to bide his time and remove the cinder block that kept the destructive truck in its place.

The film shows a continuous perseverance from the natural side of the world. Whatever happens to the simpler life, they strike back with a firm reminder of how important it is. We see a cycle close out the film. It isn’t clear whether we’re supposed to agree with such a thing, but it does leave the mind running. As someone who is very pro-nature, there was a deep sadness left in the pit of my stomach. This film was made in 2010, and the world has only grown more damaged. As I write this, we’ve been enduring the results of continuous pollution. Storms are invading Britain like never before, and the hotter countries are only growing hotter. It’s extremely saddening that a film from over ten years ago can still feel relevant to today.

Le Quattro Volte is not an easy film to talk about. Some will take away from this film a very simple outlook of it being ‘bland’ or ‘boring.’ I’ll admit, that incredibly slow pace is definitely sure to shoo people away. But if you’re willing to give it your patience and observe it the same way you would visit a nature reserve, then you may find something worth your time. It poses questions that are hard to answer, but we all have our own outlook on the state of nature. It’s undeniable that a disconnect has grown more and more over the decades, but even the more technologically-minded people have a right to state their opinion.

Serene and emotionally compelling, Frammartino speaks passionately with subtle direction. Observing the most basic of life on Earth, he looks towards the never-ending cycle. Always churning and circling back to where we once started, the purity of preservation can feel impossible to achieve. But if you give it your time, you may find yourself yearning for greener pastures.

Written review by Conor Johnson.

The Perverse Musings of Peeping Tom

Somebody could be watching you. Maybe they’re at the bow of your window, or hiding conspicuously between a couple of trees, waiting to pounce. Is there justification to such a ludicrous statement? Not so much today, but in the 1950s, when cinema was so sanitised, people were still willing to leave their doors unlocked at night. Serial killers had little issue finding their way into somebody’s house. So, to have a film address such a realistic possibility at a time where censorship was still under heavy scrutiny was sure to shake a few heads.

Michael Powell had found great success as a director alongside the genius of Emeric Pressburger, who was Powell’s main collaborator. With films like The Red Shoes and Black Narcissus making waves throughout their careers, Powell’s choice to flourish on his own seemed like an obvious setup for success. Powell would give us a striking and then-explicit look at the nature of not only voyeurism, but also how film captures a small part of the people on camera to the point of subtle exploitation. 1960’s Peeping Tom shook the core audience, giving them a very realistic horror that was hardly seen at the time. Predating Psycho‘s ‘in the mind of a killer’ approach, Peeping Tom quietly brought about the eve of the slasher. Critically panned to oblivion, killing Powell’s career, the film saw a new life after Martin Scorsese re-released the film during the eighties. Continuing to amass a bigger fanbase as the years have gone on. This is Michael Powell’s Peeping Tom.

Starting ever so tensely on a dark street in London, a prostitute is approached by our lead role, but only through the perspective of his camera. What already feels like an exploitative lens into the mind of a stalker diverges into a grisly murder we only see the leadup to. We then see the aftermath the next day, now getting a good look at our photographer, Mark Lewis (Karlheinz Bohm, delivering a hauntingly dissonant performance that only he could master), a focus puller at a film studio and erotic photographer on the side. Mark lives in the former house of his parents, renting out space below him. Upon one return to his home, he attracts the attention of his downstairs neighbour Helen (Anna Massey). Despite Mark’s oddball demeanour, Helen seems to grow quite infatuated with him. He eventually invites her to his dark room where he edits and cuts his films, trying to keep his murders secret. He shows her a video his father created, which highlights the psychological abuse Mark went through.

As Mark and Helen become closer, he starts to question his own activities. It becomes very apparent that Mark only murders these women for the sake of capturing otherwise unobtainable emotion on film. But in spite of his remorse, he continues to commit these crimes. After murdering a stand-in actress from the film he’s helping shoot-done in a way that sees a dagger released from the end of his tripod-police discover the body and begin to investigate. Such an act should stop Mark from continuing his sadistic need for the perfect sequence, but he simply cannot help himself. All the while, Helen is not the least bit suspicious. But her blind mother (Maxine Audley) begins to suspect that there is more to Mark.

To be placed in the shoes of a killer is something modern audiences would probably enjoy more than anything. Our generation is so obsessed with learning more about killers, which is largely in part to the boom of killer-focused horror films that came after Peeping Tom. In an almost symbiotic way, we ourselves are fascinated with the musings of the killer. We never leave Mark’s side, always following him through every murder and every tragic backstory beat. And the movie poses a question of whether we can truly sympathise with such a character.

Mark isn’t the most deplorable figure. Many killers in films are treated with a blunt disdain, as they typically should be. But Powell is careful to play with our emotions and moral compass. When we’re introduced to Mark, it’s more darkly fascinating and reprehensible, but as the film goes on, there’s a shocking sense of likeability to him. He views the world in a very filtered, artistic way. You can tell he doesn’t want to commit these murders, but the years of abuse from his father have lead him to having such a warped outlook. That isn’t to say that his actions are justifiable, and it’s certainly an excuse many others will use to justify killers’ actions. But with how delicately we are guided through this history, you do feel a tinge of compassion.

The thing that makes Mark more of a tragic character is just how hard he tries to fight his instincts. There’s a scene late in the film where he asks a doctor if there’s any cure for voyeuristic behaviour, but much to his dismay, it’s a process that takes several years. We become these unwitting passengers on Mark’s journey, feeling every emotion he does and are forced to endure these terrible murders. The murders at hand aren’t gory in any particular way, but the implication is so strong that it leaves you feeling merciless and wishing to shake Mark out of his sadistic dream.

The voyeurism is such a key part to understanding this film. Mark himself is prone to staring and watching the world run through a lens. At frequent points, we are left at the mercy of that window-like lens, fully encompassing the idea that we are just as voyeuristic as Mark. And there is this uncomfortable urge to see more; to see how far the film will go in showing us tragedy. It’s certainly in most people’s nature to want to explore the even the darkest recesses of human emotion, and Mark’s deconstruction of that is done through the familiar gaze of a camera. It’s just as Scorsese lamented: film does trap a little bit of you, leaving you exposed.

The cast of characters left at Mark’s expense, fodder for his artistic drive or not, seem to make up different parts of his conscience. Mark’s father is the source of his trauma and the reason he remains so fascinated by cameras. Helen is the humanity in him, trying to drag him back to reality, even without knowing what he’s done. But the characters that feel most exemplary are the few unconventional players. Helen’s mother suffers with blindness, and that has caused her to have a slightly bitter outlook. Much like Mark, she sees the world through unconventional means, it causes Mark to admire her. There’s one model early in the film that has a glaring facial deformity. Mark is absolutely intoxicated by her noticeable “ugliness.” Just like us, Mark is fascinated by the unusual.

The film is considered a horror, and just by listening to me explain Mark’s actions can certainly confirm that. But the horror elements aren’t treated with the same apparent overtness that many would be used to. Many have compared this to Alfred Hitchcock’s Psycho, and not just because they were released the same year. Much like Norman Bates of that film, Mark is very much this psychologically damaged, but seemingly good, person. Their actions contradict what we would know of them up front, but that in itself is a terrifying concept.

Monstrous and violent killers aren’t always scary. They may be adorned in a mask and wielding a blade of some sort, but there’s often not much else to them. What makes Mark stand out is how normal he appears. In the context of the film, he certainly separates himself from the other characters, but his attitude is still very human. Much like real life, the deadliest and most unsuspecting of killers often hide behind a face of warmth and familiarity. What makes this film more terrifying is the knowledge that Mark is going about his day like anyone else. What’s also refreshing is how quickly the film drops the shroud of who the killer is. It doesn’t mess with your head into guessing whether Mark is the actual killer: it tells you upfront as if to give you warning about what’s going to commence.

Peeping Tom is a masterclass in psychological horror. We are the killer from start to finish, but we also learn more about ourselves as the film goes on. It tackles the perverse in a way that marries itself to cinema. Watching a film or even a TV series will make you feel like an observer. The best media are often the ones that make you feel as though you’re part of the scene, taking everything in.

Watching films is a voyeuristic experience. We watch actors give a part of themselves up for everyone to see, sometimes in graphic ways, but we usually don’t question the technical moral complexities of what we’re doing. Like any form of art, it is typically down to the viewer to interpret what they see. Powell may have been lambasted for this film, but I think it came down to audiences simply not being ready for that sort of challenge. People weren’t striving for individualism in film during this time, but the proceeding decades proved to be quite kind to such risky ventures.

Besides its layered and defining look at the human psyche, Peeping Tom works well on several, simple levels. It’s shot like a colourful canvas of bright colours illuminating dark backgrounds. There’s a sheen to it you wouldn’t expect to see in most other horror films. It’s intensely paced and follows a lot of unpredictable turns. Even the more expected moments keep you in a terrified struggle for the eventual kill. A film that had a lot to say, but no one to listen to it, Peeping Tom has creeped back into the minds of an audience willing to hear it out.

Written review by Conor Johnson.

Shabu: Stuck in a Daydream

We are all our own solar system, but sometimes we fall into the orbit that surrounds us. Each planet and moon that makes up our entire body may be an essential part of our existence, but we can often ignore just how important each one is. For those who pursue a creative avenue, too often will you fall into that axis. But even when you fail and fall back into space with a decimated ego, you can at least proudly tote the exclamation that you tried to get back unscathed. Which leads me to today’s film, Shabu. A tale of a boy having to face the reality of the adult world as he strives to express himself creatively-even if it’s spurred on by a compromising situation where he’s literally forced to grow.

This Dutch film, Shabu is labelled as a documentary, but you wouldn’t think it was. What we have here is something so noticeably orchestrated, yet still very visceral and organic. Shabu is a bit of a conundrum in this sense. I was unaware that the film was considered a documentary going in-watching it at the Bute Street Film Festival in my hometown of Luton-and I even came out complaining about certain structural issues. It’s quite humorous in retrospect, but this newfound knowledge leaves me circling around my own orbit. Whatever the case, this film is a cautionary tale to the young people who dream but never pursue. And while the main audience are the hungry teenagers stuck in a rut, there’s something there for adults as well. This Shamira’s Raphaela’s Shabu.

The narrative of this so-called documentary is in service of the fourteen-year-old Shabu, an aspiring rapper living in the obscure slums of Peperklip. After having crashed his grandmother’s car, Shabu has to find a way to repay her. With a dream far bigger than his ambition, Shabu begins organising a live event at the local park. Working with his brother and trying to stay close to his girlfriend, Shabu eventually realises that he’s going to have to take responsibility for his own actions. Shabu starts by selling popsicles throughout his sun-baked town, and then gets a job at a convenience store. All the while, his dreams to become a music star persist, with urges to play the drums and rap about his life always coming to the forefront.

Simple in its vision, what accentuates the film far above your typical coming-of-age stories is just how hopeful it is. Shabu may have caused his own downfall, but with that mistake comes a journey of self-reflection and accountability: a message some adults would certainly benefit from.

That basic plot summary almost paints the picture Raphaela is aiming to present: a documentary. I still stand firmly on the idea that this isn’t a true documentary. But I’m not necessarily saying that this is a bad thing. In fact, the lack of knowledge helped me to enjoy the film a lot more thoroughly. Shabu is not exactly the most exploratory effort, but there’s a pure heart to it that I don’t think could’ve been capture in a more conventional documentarian way.

Shabu, the character, is a relatable figure. At some point in our lives, we’ll have this hunger to chase our dreams. What you value is unique to you, but to actually take that step and pursue those dreams is always difficult. Having Shabu be this layabout who on says he’ll be this big musician is something that we adults can look at with experienced dignity and a slight understanding smirk. In a sense, that laziness becomes something we almost wish we had. To be back in that headspace of non-urgency; it was excusable. It’s hard to put Shabu down because we have the benefit of hindsight.

I think this film is perfect for the demographic portrayed. Your teenage years are often the most troubled years of your life. Some kids don’t take that next step until they’re forced into a situation they can’t control. This film almost delicately tells them how to pursue their dreams without talking down to them. You will never achieve the things you want without bucking up the courage to say, “I can do this. I’m going to do this.” Making Shabu’s aspirations so music-focused speaks to a common dream for many kids today, but add an impoverished city where death and violence seems to be commonplace and suddenly, you invite an entire sect of minorities to the discussion.

We, who grow up in one of the most privileged countries, tend to take our luxuries for granted. While the Dutch aren’t exactly stuck in a third-world situation, they don’t get the same rewards we do. Though I will continue to argue the legitimacy of the film’s documentary status, it still feels organic in a way you’d hardly ever see in most ‘Dreamer’ films. Take for instance the scene where the kids see blood in the lift of the apartment complex. The kids are almost completely desensitised towards it, with Shabu being the only one who can’t quite stomach the atrocity of it. Death and violence is brought up occasionally, and even the way people are more than willing to help Shabu without a second glance is something we don’t see much of in our well-to-do countries.

The biggest joys of watching Shabu is simply seeing the titular teen interacting with the world around him. His interactions with his family are met with a striking nostalgia of the days when your parents would nag at you about getting a job or going out and finding something to do. Shabu’s efforts with getting involved with the creative community, mainly through his dance classes and how he encourages others to take part in his efforts to raise money for his grandmother’s car, are sure to leave you with a big, wide grin on your face.

The structure of the narrative (fictional or not) does fall apart. The first act feels a little too pointless, meandering around and only serving to introduce us to the world this person inhabits. The sudden jump into the second act is quite clumsy, but at least climbs tremendously in quality from there. The whole time, you want to see Shabu become the person he can only dream of being. While his efforts to cut people out of his life in this journey are something to revile, you can’t help but soak in that always-elative atmosphere.

The film carries so much energy with it. The look of the locations contradict the violent surroundings, and the cinematography is downright picturesque. Some scenes are given a tinge artistic nuance, like in the moment where Shabu is diving into the water or when we see a dingy-looking room as he fights with his girlfriend. In this respect, the editing is sublime and creative. Whatever way you look at this film, its artistic vision cannot be denied.

Shabu is excellent for those with a soft spot for the ‘Dreamer’ genre. Hopeful and beautiful in its execution, that good vibes rarely ever dissipates. While I do have some issue with the structure and the needless conflict towards the end-which would’ve been rectified if we were given a proper resolution-the film mostly exists as this stunning portrayal of the dreamer inside all of us. Getting up off your seat to make those steps can be difficult, but your efforts will always be rewarded in some way. Even the most minimal accomplishments can feel like the weight of universe all on its own.

Shabu is a little difficult to find, but I was lucky enough to see it during a late screening in Luton. It’s fully worth the watch if you’re looking for a refreshing take on the whole coming-of-age story. Rich in emotion and with a message so important to the youth of today, Shabu is more than a pipedream.

Written review by Conor Johnson.

Bute Street: The Independent Voice of Film in Luton

This isn’t my usual shtick. No, I’m not referring to any film in particular, but the very place I experienced such a film is also getting its spotlight. More recently, I retraced my steps quite contently with a need for academic improvement. Picking up a course in Freelance Journalism, I felt I could combine that with my undying love of all things cinematic. You see, I live in a maligned town by the name of Luton. This rather large town just north of London has had an endless amount of vitriol thrown at it. But what many often overlook is just how passionate its many creatives are. From the theatre-focused Next Generation Youth Theatre, which gives young people the chance to express themselves on stage, to the Step Forward Luton movement that highlights different events around the town, to the subject of today’s article: Bute Street Film Festival.

This company was founded by a group of young and talented creatives some years back, they have brought to light independent film makers from across the globe. And while we have yet to see their next festival, Bute Street has also provided us with widely inclusive film nights. This was something that I saw as an honour to take part in and, quite honestly, I wouldn’t have been alerted to had I not done my course. This isn’t so much a complete overview as it is just a small slice of what I experienced.

The key founder of this group is a man by the name of Benjamin Cyrus-Clark. Cyrus-Clark isn’t Luton-born, but he clearly has a passion for this town that I’ve sparsely seen in my own kin. We all had this dream of escaping what we are told to believe is a cesspool. But there’s always something that draws us back to it. Benjamin was able to find a small group of creative minds around Luton-some of which I was already familiar with-who all aim to spread the word of this gravely misunderstood town. With a host of film premieres and even a recent BIFA status, Bute Street Film Festival is deserved of its attention. But even with these accomplishments, I couldn’t help but feel that the studio was missing the crowd it so rightly deserved.

Part of my coursework involved finding somebody interesting within my preferred field that I could interview. My mind immediately turned to that of the Luton arts scene. Daily, I pass by Luton’s claim to fame: The Hat Factory. Named after the trade that put the town on the map, our milliner heritage slowly drifted away. What was once a bustling town of hat factories has now turned into something far more nuanced. The Hat Factory is now a space for creatives to meet and produce something they could be truly proud of. I reached out to two of the creative minds behind such scenes, pleasantly interviewing both.

For Benjamin Cyrus-Clark, this opportunity came in the form of a film discussion night; being something that I’d been looking for in the brief time I lived in Leighton Buzzard. As my four years of writing about films have no doubt shown, I love to talk about films. So when I discovered that Bute Street was holding a night talking about how important film is in maintaining our heritage, and the prospect of watching a short film by the name of Reflection, I couldn’t wait to get involved. The interview was only a brief, special consultation for me. But what I got out of that night was an introspective and rather informative view of how the minds of creatives, Benjamin and co-founder Megan Hoang, truly worked and how they viewed the creative world.

Entering the Hat Factory one evening, I was immediately greeted by the calm and inviting demeanour of our impassioned host. Benjamin greeted me with a handshake and proceeded to finish setting up. Not long after, Megan walked in with an enthusiastic wave, not even knowing what I was there for other than simply to watch the short film. What proceeded was a rather insightful look into how history and heritage is often immortalised in film. While I will say that the presentation could’ve used a bit of fine tuning and some extra time, it opened up the perfect discussion. There weren’t many attendees, but just about everyone contributed to the topic. I went in with the silent observer mindset, but I would eventually throw in my own straw hat.

Benjamin also showed us a project he had worked on in Mexico. This visual ad provided an insight into a piece of heritage we Brits may not typically think of. Using examples of films that capture points in time and specific cultures from around the world, we were able to discuss the importance of how film can maintain the heritage we so often forget about or wish that we had preserved. It left me thinking of my own experiences and the pieces of work I completed in my college days more than ten years ago. Reminiscing of the times spent finding my passion for films and the friendships I had. Knowing that the building we once studied in had now been torn down in favour of a more lavish structure left me feeling a little melancholic and nostalgic all the same. Benjamin knew exactly how to invoke these discussions all through the power of film.

After this discussion, we all diverted into a short break, where I was able to speak directly to the man who made these events possible. In this conversation, I was able to truly unravel the passionate creator behind the shining logo of a mysterious figure with the words, ‘Bute Street’ making up the follicle details of his face. Benjamin revealed how he has worked closely on creating adverts for different places and in different countries. We spoke of his feature debut, Brick City, a film he rushed into with an ambition far greater than any form education could teach you. We talked about his joy in being BIFA-rewarded and how he views the current state of cinema. Just like myself, there’s this need for more independent voices to be heard. I even had a chance to reminisce on old college-mates that we both knew through different means. But the most admirable thing I learned was how quick to put down the idea that Luton is a ‘bad town’ he was. One member of the audience was quite sure of his negative outlook on the town, but Benjamin very assertively disagreed.

The short film we watched was named Reflection, which tells the tale of a man who visits the diner of a single mum struggling with her rather troubled son. This man seems to know quite a bit about these troubles, but his relationship to these two is better left unexplained. It’s a great short that manages to make us think about how much we often fixate on our past mistakes. Everyone has made some bad choices in their lives, but we can’t do much else but learn from them. In a way, those mistakes are very important in shaping the better person we become. It resonated with a past version of myself. As the film is titled, it really makes you reflect.

This night proved to be an enlightening experience. Speaking briefly again with both Benjamin and Megan, you could really see the excitement in both of them. Yet, there was also a longing for these nights to be more occupied. I can’t pretend that I wasn’t a little miffed to see a lack of attendees. It could be down to a number of things, whether it be a lack of interest for independent cinema from the general public, Luton’s reputation, or even the struggle to get people off their sofas and make their way to something far more interactive. Whatever the case, my own experience was bountiful. Though this was spurred on by a regimented course, I knew I wanted to come back, if only to keep supporting this medium I adore so much.

Our River…Our Sky

The following week, I decided to take part in one of the occasional film nights that flutter between the weeks. The film pictured and titled above, Our River…Our Sky was an Arabic film released in 2021 and directed by Maysoon Pachachi. Having very little experience with South Asian cinema myself, and with the lack of independent representation in major chains like Cineworld, I was quite excited to see this award-winning film. Completely foreign to me (in more ways than one), there was certainly a draw to it.

Centred on a close-knit community in Baghdad during the 2006 war, we get a glimpse of life amidst the turmoil. Darina Al Joundi plays the doting mother who tries to support her family, but the increasing dangers of the destruction around her leave her in a desperate plea to escape. We see glimpses of others’ lives. A couple who is expecting a baby, a paraplegic looking for romance online, and a boy being manipulated into taking part in these atrocities. Being more of a lens into the life of the innocents caught up in the conflict, the story is very loosely tied together.

That final point is worth highlighting. While the film can be very emotionally gripping, it’s difficult to get past the severe lack of narrative. The film is almost like a series of vignettes, but not told in any sort of collection of short stories format. Had the film perhaps cut the stories into fifteen to twenty minute sections each, I think it would’ve been a lot easier to follow what was going on. The film meanders around far too much that it lead me to forget which characters were which and what relationship they shared with the central character.

Seperate from the narrative is the strong characterisation of specific players. Each character is defined by rather recognisable and organic caricatures of South Asian culture. Many fellow Lutoners will recognise the personalities portrayed through our increased exposure to these communities that make up the bustling and multicultural town. I was especially drawn to husband of the pregnant woman, who panics over the prospects of being a father, even though he already has a child. There’s a great scene where a rebellious young woman proudly walks about the street without a hijab to rebel against the older man who is too set in his own ways. This a humorous spark that electrifies its way through the mist; but that doesn’t go unchecked either.

When the film wants to hit you with that emotional baton, it can really sting. There’s a horrifying reality that washes over the film through the streets of the city. Explosions go off unexpectedly with little reaction. We see a moment where two teens come across a dead body and try to ignore it. There’s this moment where someone is almost recruited to join a cause, but he sways him off because of how scared he feels. To us, it sinks our stomach into a cold abyss. But to those who have lived through this country during this period of time, it’s a reality they were forced to accept. When the film wants you to feel that emotion, it does so in such a churningly sickening way, but with the safety of a ’12A’ rating.

I’m very conflicted with this film. It does a lot in the way of seeping the most damning emotions out of us, but its narrative is distractingly weak. I’m somebody who appreciates a strong, tightly-wound narrative that isn’t afraid to diverge when need be. It’s hard to fully appreciate these characters outside of their little quirks, and while there’s plenty to like about the visual presentation, it ends up feeling like a messy bag of tricks. Not exactly rife with subtlety, it does manage to salvage itself with its important message. Our rivers all run separately, but our sky is very much the same.

With my slightly mixed review of the film shown, you may wonder why I bothered to include it in an article where I want to speak so highly of Bute Street. It’s quite simple: their out there to give people an experience that many would hardly think to have. My aim with my own reviews has always been to get people to look at films through the eye of somebody who treats this medium with the respect it deserves. In both Benjamin and Megan, I can see that same passion. They take it one step further by promoting those very films.

Our social film landscape is falling to the wayside in favour of big budget extravaganzas that have hardly any depth. People might complain that there aren’t any original ideas anymore, but I argue that they’re very much still here, and right on your doorstep as well. While I may not have completely enjoyed the film, just getting the chance to watch something I never would’ve thought of is such a great experience. We need to open ourselves up taking risks once again. The people at the Bute Street Film Festival are trying to do just that.

Take some time to really search for these things. Speak to the people that know more and can give you advice on where to follow them. I know I’ll continue to visit these nights for as long as they continue, and you should certainly do the same. Independent cinema is out there, and Bute Street’s got you covered.

Special thanks to Benjamin and Megan for taking the time to help me in my studies.

Written by Conor Johnson.