Alex Dewing interviews filmmakers Isa Mazzei and Daniel Goldhaber of the recently released horror film, Cam, discussing the film and themes explored. 

Isa Mazzei and Daniel Goldhaber’s passion project Cam is intense and gripping in every aspect, and a pleasant surprise especially as a debut feature. Revolving around an erotic webcam performer who finds her identity and channel stolen by a doppelgänger, the film ventures into the arena of sex work, in particular of cam girls, breaking the stigma and taboo that surrounds the sex industry and exploring questions relevant to our age of social media, where one and one’s online identity are indisputably linked. FilmSoc’s Alex Dewing had a chance to sit down with Goldhaber and Mazzei, the latter who based the story on her own personal experiences as a cam girl.

The transcript has been edited for clarity.

UCL FILM AND TV SOCIETY: So, first of all, I just wanted to say congratulations on the film, I managed to catch it at the London Film Festival and know that it is your directorial debut and your debut screenplay.

DANIEL GOLDHABER: Thank you.

FILMSOC: I thought I’d jump straight into the deep end. Cam doesn’t skate over the aspects of its backdrop of the sex work and camming industry and I wanted to ask how you achieved that balance of celebrating female sexuality without ever going too far into exploitation.

ISA MAZZEI: I think for us the main goal was to make a film where an audience would empathise with a sex worker. I worked as a Cam girl myself for a couple years so we were really sensitive to those issues and we never wanted any of the nudity or sexuality to feel exploitative or to ever invite the audience to objectify Alice’s body and so, we made a lot of conscious decisions in that we had a nudity writer, for legal reasons, but at the end of the day when [Madeline Brewer] showed up on set she decided how naked she was going to be. We trusted that she knew Alice better than we did, and so she knew “Oh Alice in this scene would be more naked than written or in this scene Alice would be less naked than written”. That was a really important collaboration between the three of us that really, I think, led to the authenticity of the nudity because Alice is only nude when Alice would actually be nude as a character in her own psychology and that’s really important. It’s never done for the audience’s gaze, it’s done as part of Alice’s journey.

DG: Something else that we were really careful about is [that] the movie is told from Alice’s point of view and so it was really important that the movie never felt like it had a male gaze from a kind of camera framing compositional standpoint. That was something I was reasonably familiar with, but only to a certain degree of how to strip a male gaze out of a movie. And so Isa was on set and she was extremely involved in that and we had a female DP, we had a predominantly female crew, but there were still moments we were shooting where Isa would run up to me and be like “This is a very problematic shot”. I would be like “No it’s not, we’re shooting the bow tie” and she’s like “No, but it feels like you’re shooting her tits”. It was this thing were, because there is such a legacy of objectifying imagery that dehumanises female characters, it was really really important that we don’t even incidentally bump up against it. So it’s really important that you have people and, as a male filmmaker, people around you who have that kind of vision and that you step back and listen to them.

IM: So often we default, just like Danny was saying, to the standards of filmmaking that cater to the male gaze. I know, not just with that shot, but there was also that time where Maddie took her top off and this call went around set: “Where’s the ice for her nipples?” And we’re all like, “Where’s the ice? Where’s the ice?” and a PA went to get ice and even for me it took a second to go “Woah woah woah, why would we ice her? Why would we do that?”.  It’s just an expected standard in the film industry that even a very enlightened crew, and mostly women all working together, still don’t think of it. So it takes this act of engagement constantly to strip the male gaze out of a film, you can’t just do it just by hiring women, it has to be a really deliberate thought process.

FILMSOC: That’s really interesting. I know you mentioned you had a sort of manifesto for the making of this so I imagined that had a large role in that thought process. What sort of rules did that contain?

DG: It was absolutely and, I don’t actually remember everything on it because a lot of them were general guidelines; in many ways the process of making the film was the process of translating the generalities of the manifesto to the specifics of a movie. They were things like ‘the movie is never going to judge Alice for being a sex worker’ and ‘the fundamental stakes of the movie is that she has lost agency over her body and over her work, not that she is a sex worker and needs to leave’. I mean that was kind of the fundamental one but there were a lot of other little things, like we knew we needed to have a female DP, we knew that Isa needed to be on set-

IM: We wanted Danny to cam actually.

DG: Yeah.

IM: It was really important to me that he actually go online and feel that vulnerability of exposing yourself to strangers on the internet so that he could kind of relate to Alice and the story a little more, so he actually cammed for a week- two weeks?

DG: A week.

IM: So there was a lot of different types of things on it.

DG: Wanting that our direction and thought process with the men in the film – the cam viewers – are always acting rationally for themselves, that even if they’re coming off as creepy, even if they are behaving violently, that the conversation that we’ve had with them about their intentionality, the way they’ve been written, was that for them they’re just doing all that they know. And that was something that I think both actors brought to those roles that makes their performances and those characters more complex.

FILMSOC: You mentioned Alice’s agency and how losing that agency is what the film explores and I read that you saw the film as a reflection on the digital identity. Something I thought was really interesting was that you don’t condemn the digital identity, you promote the importance of having one and having control over it. Was that something you always wanted to explore?

IM: I think we knew from pretty early on that it was about digital identity. I think we weren’t quite sure where we settled on it until we were really delving into the story, but I know for us part of Alice’s journey is, yes she goes back [to camming] which politically is about a return to sex work, but it also is this return to digital identity. If you’ll notice, something I think that was baked in to the story was that initially there isn’t really a distinction between Alice and the Lola she performs, she doesn’t really wear a lot of makeup, she’s just herself online and Lola represents this fracturing of this digital identity when all of a sudden this persona has split off from her. And at the end when Alice embraces makeup and performance and has fully separated herself from who she’s performing as EveBot, she’s nothing like her. For us, that’s just a commentary on being aware of these digital identities we create. We love social media, we love the internet, we love Twitter, we also hate it but we love it and don’t think it’s realistic to say “Stay off the internet”, but it is important to be aware that we are performing when we’re online and that other people are performing for us as well. That’s just an important thing to keep in mind and we really did want to point that out.

FILMSOC: Cam is marketed as a psychological techno-thriller rather than an out and out horror, which again I thought was really interesting as a Blumhouse production. Did you ever consider taking it further a supernatural route or even further in the horror genre?

DG: I don’t think so. Personally, I have trouble distinguishing between a thriller and a horror in a lot of ways and for a lot of ways it does have to do with that supernatural creepiness but also it has to do with jumpscares. And jumpscares aren’t something that particularly interest me as a filmmaker. But a lot of people absolutely classify Cam as a horror film and its generally been programmed in mainstream film festivals in the horror category, so I definitely think that for a lot of people, especially because there is that supernatural hook of the doppelgänger, there is that supernatural-y horror-y bend to it. But ultimately, what we imagined Lola as was an embodiment of the social media algorithm, the same way that Facebook is run by an algorithm or Twitter is. So in terms of clarifying it more as a supernatural thing, we didn’t feel like we wanted to because we were trying to reflect the way that for Alice – what she cares about is getting back to her show and that she doesn’t question, necessarily, how this is all working because none of us really question how social media works. We just accept it as a given, even when it goes horribly wrong.

FILMSOC: I feel like having that in mind when watching the film will really change the way you watch it.

DG: What was your experience in categorising it?

FILMSOC: Oh, I went in quite blind. I remember seeing the poster and being intrigued by that-

IM: It’s great right!

FILMSOC: Such a great poster – the whole design of this film is so strong. For the film, I didn’t know what to expect but it does quickly set itself up as not your typical horror.

DG: I think that’s the stage we want to be in. Movies that are creepy or flirt with all these different influences and genres, pulling from David Lynch or David Cronenberg, or another director named David maybe.

IM: [Laughs] Lots of Davids!

DG: We’re saying, “Yes this is a genre but it’s more than genre, it questions genre.” I think that’s a really exciting place to be.

FILMSOC: Definitely. Before we wrap up I just wanted to expand on the production design. How much influence you had, how it was working with CHIPS [New York based design studio] to get that look of the film.

IM: I mean, we had full control over everything. That’s what was great about working with Blumhouse, they let us do exactly what we wanted which I think is so rare in this day and age in Hollywood. Especially for young filmmakers and especially for female filmmakers. To have a major company like Blumhouse say “do what you want” was pretty cool. We built this site [the online Camming website], we designed it, we really wanted it to feel like cam sites feel. There’s a lot of different types of cam sites but fundamentally a lot of them feel pretty dated and they have these weird emojis and weird gifs, so that was a really fun experience for us, building the site. And we did build an entire interactive site so that Maddie would have something to respond to live, because when you’re camming your eye line is really important: you’re watching yourself, then you’re checking your rank, then you’re responding to your guys or reading messages and we wanted her to laugh at real jokes that were in those chats. And for the poster that was pretty much-

DM: – I mean we didn’t really have any money for a poster but we really wanted to do something that would feel special, so I found this designer through a friend of a friend. I met her and her work was really cool and I was like “I will give you, essentially, no money to design a poster” because it was what we had. And I was like “whatever you want to make is going to be our poster, make anything. I’m going to give you no requirements for it”. And that was her first draft. We fiddled with the size of the fonts but other than that-

IM: She’s insanely talented.

DG: And it was cool for her because rarely do you just get to make a thing for a film with no notes. So, that was a great experience. I think the other thing to call attention to in the design and look of the film is that it’s also one of those cool things where we were able to mine aesthetic territory from the story itself, and from wanting to make camming feel like this fantasy space, wanting the real world feel like this much less stimulating space, still aestheticised, still in the same world of the movie but the colour palette is much more drained whereas camming is this hyper-stimulating neon fantasy. That was kind of our idea at the beginning and it was just through collaboration with Emma Rose Mead, our production designer, and Katelin Arizmendi, our director of photography, that we were really able to breathe life into that. I am really insanely proud of the work the whole production team did. And, just to give him a shoutout because I don’t think it gets nearly enough credit, our locations manager. It goes down to somebody like that who has so much influence over the world of the movie. We wanted the world of the movie to have this anywhere-USA feeling, and we were shooting in Los Angeles so we decided arbitrarily to set it in New Mexico. We love New Mexico but there was no real reason it had to be there, we could have set it in Georgia or North Dakota. But that gave Jesse [Berger], our locations guy a target to hit. So really any aesthetic success, or any success at, goes down to the entire team and what they brought to it.

Cam is currently released and available to stream on Netflix. Check out its trailer below:

 

Alex Dewing remembers Stan Lee, co-creator of Marvel Comics, the brain behind iconic superheroes such as Spiderman and the X-Men, and the king of cameos. He passed away on November 12, 2018 – he was 95. 

It’s Friday 27th April 2012. It’s the day after term starts at my school and nobody’s too happy to be back. My Dad, in an attempt to cheer me and my brother up, decides to make a rare trip to the cinema; he’s heard a new blockbuster superhero movie just came out. He thinks, “That’s what we’ll see. I might enjoy it, and my son definitely will. Oh, and Alex might find some of it entertaining too”.

Little does he know that when we leave the cinema the only one who’ll be raving about The Avengers will be me, that my love for all things comics and superheroes will be born — his mistake. When I came home, babbling about an “enormous green rage monster”, a demigod with the weirdest of accents, and a desire to read more stories about this ragtag group of heroes, my mother didn’t hesitate in telling her self-appointed super Marvel nerd of a brother that I was hooked.

About a month later the biggest package I had (and still have) ever received arrived. It was full to the brim with Marvel comics. Comics which I then devoured, giving them prize spot on my bookshelf and bringing a new one into school every day. I tracked down the nearest comic book store and would go whenever I could, much to the dismay of my parents. I would be devastated when I couldn’t make it, missing the release of the latest issues of Thor: God of Thunder: The Accursed (one of my favourites) or whatever else I was reading. 

Now, it would be wrong of me to say that all of these comics were written by Stan Lee. In fact, I don’t think any of them were at all. But that’s no surprise. Original issues written by the man are pretty rare. Lee wrote his final comics back in 1972, putting down the pen and instead taking up the role of publisher. He wasn’t the founder of Marvel, as many wrongly believe, but he changed the world of comic books and, consequently, cinema and pop culture itself. 

Lee revolutionised the superhero comic by making it a genre not just for kids. The stories he worked on were focused on flawed characters, their psychology, and the less-than-easy dynamic between team members. He pushed so far that even the Comic Code had to be changed; allowing for Marvel’s storylines to challenge contemporary society itself. Not only that, Lee was the creator or co-creator of almost every big name in the Marvel superhero world. Spider-Man, Iron Man, Thor, Black Widow, Black Panther, Nick Fury — need I go on? Lee’s characters have gone so much further than he could ever have imagined. And all the better for us.

Like so many others, I self-identified through these worlds and characters that Lee helped create. I’m not the only person who has, over the years, accumulated far too much Marvel ‘merch’; or found themselves in an embarrassing number of debates about why Thor: The Dark World is an incredibly underrated film, or whether James McAvoy or Patrick Stewart made the better Professor X (okay, maybe the latter two are just me).

People from all walks of life flock to the worlds that Stan Lee created, for so many different reasons: they provide escapism, catharsis, and familiarity. Simultaneously, they’re otherworldly and fantastical while  imperfect and grounded in reality. 

Lee brought life to not only one world, not even one universe, but a multiverse filled with all kinds of characters and stories. It’s impossible to get bored of. Looking for an exciting and thrilling crossover? Then you check out Secret Invasion. Want something a little bit lighter? The Unbeatable Squirrel Girl is your best shot. It’s the same when it comes to the Marvel Cinematic Universe that Lee’s work made possible: Captain America: The Winter Soldier is as tense as any thriller film, and Thor: Ragnarok as funny as any comedy. Probably funnier.

Ask any Marvel fan and they’ll admit that getting lost in its world isn’t a difficult feat; I know from experience that a re-watch of Iron Man quickly becomes another Marvel marathon and before I know it I’m sobbing as Thanos (actually created by Jim Starlin and Mike Friedrich) takes to the screen. Marvel has never failed to provide fans with some of their most memorable cinematic experiences. I’ll certainly never forget sitting in the BFI IMAX, crying and cheering along with fellow fans as Infinity War broke us for the first time, just as I’ll never forget seeing The Avengers with my dad and  brother that April evening after school. Without Stan Lee none of that would have been possible. 

In his words: “Marvel is a cornucopia of fantasy, a wild idea, a swashbuckling attitude, an escape from the humdrum and prosaic. It’s a serendipitous feast for the mind, the eye, and the imagination, a literate celebration of unbridled creativity, coupled with a touch of rebellion and an insolent desire to spit in the eye of the dragon.”

Stan certainly spat in that dragon’s eye: he rebelled and he created, and his work will continue to inspire people to do the same for generations to come. So, thank you, from us all. ‘Nuff Said.

Milo Garner dives into the medieval in cinema and Outlaw King’s position in its genre. 

What does the medieval look like on film? While this question suggests a great variety of responses, a cursory glance at mainstream medieval cinema defies any such conclusion. The main mode, one adopted by the likes of Ridley Scott’s Kingdom of Heaven and Robin Hood, or Peter Flinth’s Arn – The Knight Templar, is that of almost docu-fiction. Considerable efforts are put into what Robert Rosenstone calls ‘reality effects’, elements of production design that replicate what we know of the past; an attempt to resurrect what has long passed. As according to this philosophy, the filmmaking itself is rarely daring, always preferring a sense of the real. ‘Sense’ being the operative word here – as much as these films seek to replicate the past visually, they often forgo such shackles in their storytelling. Kingdom of Heaven’s Balian is presented as the perfect knight, other than that he’s a philanderer (permissive now, but a mortal sin then); Robin Hood’s French invaders land on the beaches like the soldiers of D-Day; the eponymous Arn appears as the rare Christian knight utterly bereft of prejudice against his Muslim foemen. The result is a bizarre mismatch of visual acuity and narrative anachronism, the supposed conclusion being that this ‘sense’ of the medieval is of far more importance than an embodiment of the time, its norms, its vagaries.

This anachronism need not seem so contrary to the otherwise clear efforts for ‘accuracy’ (a claim that has been attached to all three of the above films by their publicists). To consider another vision of the medieval, Ingmar Bergman’s The Seventh Seal seems a useful analogue. This is a film almost defined by its anachronism – in terms of content, it features a Crusade to the Holy Land, Flagellants, the Black Death, and the persecution of witches as contemporaneous events, despite these phenomena being separated by centuries. Even more troubling might be its philosophical core, which delves to the recesses of nihilism – a 20^th century philosophy with no grounding in the god-fearing past. Yet these contradictions of historical record do not render The Seventh Seal a poorer representation of the past than the films abovementioned, but rather combine into a far more effective communication of that period and its anxieties. Through contemporary atheistic philosophizing, Bergman presents a world defined by fear and suffering, one in which the plague stalked and superstition reigned. Antonius Block almost serves as a modern man wandering through a tableau of the Middle Ages, experiencing an expressionistic collage of their struggles through a lens the audience may be more familiar with. Instead of sanitizing the past, Bergman exploits its thematic potential – the result is a story that both informs the past and present in equal measure.

But even this might seem dissatisfactory, as to use the medieval experience to contextualize the modern experience one must undoubtedly corrupt its character in a direct sense, as Bergman has clearly done. František Vláčil presents a further alternative, his Marketa Lazarová delivering a sense of the medieval far more directly. Instead of considering his subjects in a way that might relate them to an audience, Vláčil instead engages with an expressive, even avant-garde manner of filmmaking. His medieval Bohemia is non-specific in date, a vagueness permeating its whole; Vláčil sees the medieval as strange and distant, fearsome and chaotic. He envisions the encroachment of Christianity into polytheist lands, the story (adapted from Vladislav Vančura’s novel of the same name) embracing a grim brutality totally removed from even Bergman’s bleak imagination. Understanding the medieval cannot rely on the simple recreation of past events, supposes Vláčil, but must instead somehow represent something of the medieval mindset, replicate how these ancient people might perceive their own realities. A question of texture over content.

Aleksei German’s Hard to be a God seems to be an ultimate answer to this question. While technically a sci-fi picture set on a distant planet, one far less advanced than our own, the film is essentially set in an equivalent of the Middle Ages. German’s filmmaking almost entirely disposes with narrative, instead focusing on a feeling of the medieval; despite its monochromatic arthouse veneer, it feels as though it should be seen in 3D on the biggest screen possible. Every frame drips with unsettling detail, with blood and unnamed fluids, with an almost visual stench. Filth and dirt seem to envelop everything, violence and misery never far from centre-frame. In one sense Robin Hood is by far the better representation of the past – its dates are correct, its characters are largely real, it is set on Earth. But while entirely fictional in detail and content, Hard to be a God nonetheless suggests a physical texture that Scott’s film doesn’t even attempt to convey.

Outlaw King’s position in this environment isn’t entirely straightforward, but for the most part it sits squarely within the first paragraph. Its set design and period details are well realized, and while its events and characters may be morphed, they are also a recognizable reflection of reality. Its hero, Chris Pine’s Robert the Bruce, becomes much like Orlando Bloom’s Balian in Kingdom of Heaven – a gormless and hopelessly bland embodiment of the hero template, a man who we must support for his doing the right thing, and nothing more. The brutality of the Middle Ages is not shrugged off, but it is also held in visible contempt. Robert the Bruce is better than this, and he fights for this betterment. His mission to “free” Scotland from the English is never granted much context (for all its bullshit – historical and otherwise – Mel Gibson’s Braveheart at least established proper character motivations), instead leaving the viewer to simply suppose he is doing the right thing. The film leaves little room for anything else. This progression is complicated by the film’s own adherence to certain historical events, however. In his largely passive drift through the Scottish wastes, one of Robert’s sole direct actions is the stark murder of a rival claimant in a church (which carries poor connotations now, but then would be a whole other bag of beans). This action the creates a new contradiction – the brutalism of the medieval mindset meeting the romanticized hero narrative of David Mackenzie’s film.

Had Mackenzie considered this action critically it might be more permissible – perhaps Robert had no other option, or perhaps more intriguingly, his ambition for the crown outweighed the clear immorality presented before him. Or both. But instead of a more rigorous examination of the past as per Bergman, or a more expressive (and as such, detached) observation of distant savagery, Mackenzie instead decides to offer a scene of a repentant Robert and then resume the narrative of a romantic king, one who refuses to sleep with his arranged wife after marriage (an unsubstantiated anachronism), and one who will almost botch his bid for the crown in a seemingly idiotic appeal to chivalry, falling foul of a night attack by the English. This second event is particularly interesting as it is, at least in concept, accurate to history. But without prior knowledge of exactly how a medieval king might perceive the world, it seems both foolish and contradictory to his earlier behaviour; any potential for intrigue or interest in Mackenzie’s narrative is lost to the strange marriage of modern morality and historical (mis)detail that so consumed Kingdom of Heaven and its ilk.

Even beyond its conceptual strangeness, Outlaw King fails in its filmic construction. Despite being twenty minutes shorter than its Toronto cut (and a good two hours from the original assembly), it is a film beset by a constant stream of redundant or featureless scenes. It has a romantic subplot which falls out of the narrative (only to return for a saccharine beach-meet finale), a whole slew of wandering-through-Scotland shots, and a distinct lack of substantial character motivations. A few are granted surface objectives, such as Douglas the Black’s mission to reclaim his family lands, but these are so thinly detailed that they are difficult to fully invest in. This isn’t to mention the inter-character relationships, whereby only two distinct relationships can be considered in any way developed. First, Robert and Elizabeth’s, and then King Edward and his son. In fact, the dynamic between the English royals, however simple, might be the only engaging element among the film’s long slew of faces. That, along with the film’s best image – a shot of the young Edward mid-battle cry, a dead swan held by the neck in each hand. Perhaps one of the few elements that felt entirely medieval in a textural sense, reserved to demonize a villain. And I suppose this is where Outlaw King stumbles most as a medieval film – instead of presenting a king that is part of a medieval world, it presents one who seems at odds with it.

To present Outlaw King as wholly negative would, however, be disingenuous. Beyond its impressive production values, the film very much embraces a sense of spectacle that is often reserved for the medieval genre. Its first shot is very much an example of this, a swirling and intensely choreographed long-take that encompasses Robert pledging fealty to Edward, duelling his son, and then witnessing the firing of a trebuchet at a distant castle. The shot functions as a sort of microcosm of the larger film, and effectively lays out Mackenzie’s ideas with an elegance that is never resumed in the two hours or so that remain. Also well realized is the final battle, a grisly and blood-soaked engagement that manages to coax a stirring climax from a film otherwise so desperately limp. Like that first shot, it’ll probably get better play on YouTube than Netflix, but perhaps that’s for the best.

Outlaw King is currently available to stream on Netflix. It is also released limitedly in UK cinemas. Check out its trailer below:

Featured image: Malcolm X (1992), dir. Spike Lee

This Black History Month, Sam Hamilton takes a look at the timeline of African-American Cinema, and celebrates its prominent figures and iconic films. 

Roots: The Beginnings of African-American Cinema

The topic of ‘the first black filmmaker’ is too vague to ascertain any standing answer. What is more clear is the identity of black cinema’s first titan: Oscar Micheaux. Like many African-Americans of the early 20th century, he emigrated as a young boy from the still-bubbling confederacy of the South to the northern cities; Chicago, in his case. It was there that he wrote his first novel, ‘The Conquest’, which took off to considerable success, and there that the film adaptation of this novel, retitled ‘The Homesteader’ (1919), was written, directed, produced, and released by Micheaux himself. In this filmmaking debut, leading actress Evelyn Preer was acknowledged at the Oscars, if only for a ‘race picture’, and Micheaux’s name was out on the public stage – though it would be titles such as ‘Within Our Gates’ (1920), ‘Body and Soul’ (1925), ‘The House Behind the Cedars’ (1927), and ‘Murder in Harlem’ (1935) that would see him take his place in history.

And while his early work was both hailed and slated as reactionary to Hollywood’s white supremacist outlook, most notably found in ‘Birth of a Nation’, Micheaux’s contribution is undoubtedly much more than that. In boasting a directorial filmography spanning forty-eight films across thirty years, impressing on the world of film the humanity and significance of African-American culture, he marked the inception of a huge, persevering, crucial subset of American cinema and an example of perseverance in the arts that would lead the way for others to follow.

And they did. Spencer Williams’ ‘The Blood of Jesus’ (1941) stands to this day as one of the great filmic assessments of race and religion.Eartha Kitt stole the show in ‘Paris is Always Paris’ (1951) and ‘New Faces’ (1954). Director Michael Audley, who led Sidney Poitier in ‘Mark of the Hawk’ (1957), also starring Kitt, attained a public reputation, with Poitier himself going on to achieve the first black Leading Actor nomination in 1959 for ‘The Defiant Ones’ (1958). It was in the 1950s, perhaps out of political climate, that studios were taking interest in the rise of African-American cinema and the public demand for it. Zanuck and Preminger, a Hollywood power-coupling of producer and director, teamed up once again to to make ‘Carmen Jones’ (1954), giving us the first all-black Hollywood cast in addition to the first black Oscar nomination for Leading Actress in Dorothy Dandridge, just over thirty years after Micheaux’s first film hit the silver screen.

The situation was not yet wholly turned. Rarely were films about African-Americans directed, let alone produced, by individuals who themselves were black. This had been the case with ‘Carmen Jones’ and was the same in Camus’ ‘Black Orpheus’ (1959) even though it was awarded the Grand Prize (now Palme D’Or) of the Cannes Film Festival. Over the coming years, and especially in the sixties, African-American cinema had become adopted by the still predominantly white American production base. What entailed was a wide publicity of black cinema but also an outside perspective in these films that resulted in archetypal characters. In the case of ‘Porgy and Bess’ (1959) this side effect was so severe that, upon its release, it was met with protest in Washington DC.

The situation did, however, improve somewhat in conjunction with the Civil Rights Acts of ’64 and ’65, leading to a surge of African-American authority and autonomy over their own projects. Included amongst this surge was Gordon Parks, whose ‘The Learning Tree’ (1969) mirrored with delicate precision the social angst of the previous decade. And perceptions of the American mythology were altered to great effect by ‘Sergeant Rutledge’ (1960), which finally saw the folkloric American western hero be portrayed by an African-American, while Poitier returned in ‘Lilies of the Field’ (1964) to historically take home the first Leading Actor Oscar. By 1970, African-America was progressing considerably towards the forefront of the world of film and was on the brink of a huge creative cultural event in the “Blaxploitation” era.

Black Dynamite: The Explosion and Effects of “Blaxploitation”

Wendell Franklin, who had ten years before become the first African-American inductee in the Director’s Guild of America, helmed the socially topical cult hit ‘The Bus is Coming’ (1971) before publishing his memoir (aptly titled ‘Wendell Franklin’), in which he recalls the long hard slog of an early career endured before conditions improved for black directors.

It was the improvement of these conditions that saw one of the most bombastic and exciting phases in cinematic history; “Blaxploitation” cinema. In terms of success, it was a lucrative subset of the American film output, but in style it was revolutionary. New definitions for “flashy”, “stylistic” and “cool” are found in the work of directors Melvin Van Peebles, Michael Schultz and (returning with slick mega-hit ‘Shaft’ (1971)) Gordon Parks. They and their colleagues in the genre created cinematic waves that continue to ripple in the often colourful, sometimes brutal, and always cool-to-the-core modern films of John Singleton, Spike Lee, Bill Duke, Antoine Fuqua and the Hughes Brothers, not to mention Quentin Tarantino. Moreover, a beautifully authentic and delightfully deliberate imitation of the Blaxploitation era can be found in Scott Sanders’ recent and underrated ‘Black Dynamite’ (2009).

Yet in cases Blaxploitation cinema was still made via white producers and directors like Larry Cohen, Robert Hartfield-Davis and Jack Hill. However the time of ‘Porgy and Bess’-type simplification and stereotyping seemed to have passed, since these three men made great contributions to the furthering of the genre; Hill was the director of legendary Pam Grier films ‘Coffy’ (1973) and ‘Foxy Brown’ (1974). Taking great inspiration from the latter, Tarantino’s ‘Jackie Brown’ (1997) functioned both as a tribute to and a reboot of the Blaxploitation era, casting Grier herself in the starring role.

In terms of the energetic thrill ride that garnered its widespread audience, Blaxploitation cinema to some extent functioned as a more plot-centric, culturally relevant, and fundamentally American alternative to the exploding industry of Hong Kong martial arts movies that were simultaneously capturing American audiences (at the time the Bruce Lee ‘Dragon’ series and Sonny Chiba’s filmography). Among others, black actor Jim Kelly bridged the gap between the two in the effortless and eclectically cool ‘Enter the Dragon’ (1973).

From the serious, subtextually dark, and challenging ‘Across 110th Street’ (1972) and ‘Killer of Sheep’ (1978), to the more tongue-in-cheek genre films of William Crain in ‘Blacula’ (1972) and ‘Dr. Black, Mr. Hyde’ (1976), Blaxploitation as a wider subset of American cinema ranged from the political to the explosive to the absurd. The constant was radical style, content, and outrageous titles (see Van Peebles’ ‘Sweet Sweetback’s Baadasssss Song’ (1971)).

Yet one of the main features of Blaxploitation that had a profound effect on worldwide cinema was the use of mainstream-oriented music for original film soundtracks. James Brown’s soundtrack for ‘Black Caesar’ (1973) remains a prominent example to this day, with Donny Hathaway’s for ‘Come Back, Charleston Blue’ (1972) and Bobby Womack’s for ‘Across 110th Street’ also being historic examples of this trend-setting tradition, one that has that has carried over into the mainstream film circuit of today.

New Faces: The Modern World

In the mid 1980s, once the dust had settled on Blaxploitation, after Spielberg’s elegiac tribute to the harsh ways of early 20th century Southern life in ‘The Color Purple’ (1985), a young auteur raised in Brooklyn emerged onto the American scene with ‘She’s Gotta Have It’ (1986). Spike Lee followed up his competition-crushing 1986 debut with the inventive ‘Do the Right Thing’ (1989), ‘Mo Better Blues’ (1990), ‘Jungle Fever’ (1991) and ’Malcolm X’ (1992) in what should be regarded as among the finest year-by-year runs of consecutive, energetic, directorial bullseye hits in modern American cinema. What becomes more impressive is that the “little master” went from strength to strength, with a continuation of form in this year’s political powerhouse ‘BlacKkKlansman’ (2018) which took home the Grand Jury Prize at Cannes. In retrospect many including the BFI name Lee as the herald of a “New Black Wave” in 1990s African-American filmmaking. One disciple-piece of that “Wave” could be Cheryl Dunye’s ‘The Watermelon Woman’ (1996), a touchstone in late-century black LGBT cinema.

On the turn of the millennium, it was filmmakers such as Fuqua and Silverton who emerged. The momentum of black cinema at the same time increased and has continued to do so for over fifteen years until now. For in the past two years alone, some of the most talked-about and highly-rated pictures have promoted and centred on the African-American experience, shining examples being ‘Moonlight’ (2016) and ‘Get Out’ (2017). Before them, Steve McQueen lit the film world alight with the huge success and cultural impact of ‘Twelve Years a Slave’ (2013).

Besides these three great successes, there have been many more; the filmographies of Dee Rees (see ‘Mudbound’ (2017)) and Ava DuVernay (‘Middle of Nowhere’ (2012) and ‘Selma’ (2014)), Ryan Coogler (‘Fruitvale Station’ (2013) and ’Creed’ (2014)) , and F. Gary Gary (‘Straight Outta Compton’ (2015)) have together grown wider in audience and stronger and impact. All are presently held alike in the highest regard among the contemporary elite of modern-day Hollywood. The astronomical success of ‘Black Panther’ (2018), its own history deeply rooted in the mid-century Civil Rights movements, demonstrates this tenfold.

To name some names on the explicitly indie African-American would be to mention Andrew Dosunmu and Terence Nance, whose respective ‘Restless City’ (2011) and ‘An Oversimplification of Her Beauty’ (2012) both profited from DuVernay’s founding and leadership of the African-American Film Festival Releasing Movement (AFFRM), as well as her figurative leadership in this new era of black arthouse film (catalysed by Dee Rees’ ‘Pariah’ (2011), quoted as “a precursor to [Jenkins’] Moonlight” (BFI on Rees)). The AFFRM’s value as a promoter of quality cinema can not be denied, nor the value of DuVernay’s efforts understated. Meanwhile, the sometimes-sidesplitting, suddenly-serious, strangely-slapstick-yet-seriously-significant debut by Boots Riley in ‘Sorry to Bother You’ (2018) has by virtue of its own bold genius turned heads towards the prospect of a new and talented writer-director.

The successes of modern African-American cinema, alongside the now-legendary ‘Three Amigos’ (Cuarón, Iñárritu and Del Toro each enjoying great critical and commercial successes), mean that minority cinema has been dominant over the past four years of awards seasons – especially when one considers the likelihood of ‘Roma’ (2018) and ‘If Beale Street Could Talk’ (2018), among others, continuing the trend.

More specifically on the relevant topic of African-American filmmakers, we are left with three names that spring two questions. The names: Spike Lee, Barry Jenkins, and Steve McQueen. The questions: firstly, which of them could be the first African-American winner of the Best Direction Academy Award? And secondly, why does that honour remain a bragging right to be had? I have no doubt that both questions will be the subject of keen discussion as awards season progresses, but the latter is undoubtedly a confusing anomaly, even more so when you step back and take a look at the history.

Black History Month occurs every year from October 1st – October 31st. It focuses and leads a nationwide celebration of Black History, Arts and Culture throughout the UK. Look back at this year’s Black History Month here. 

Raphael Duhamel runs through Anderson’s impressive career leading up to Phantom Thread.

“We’re all children of Kubrick, aren’t we? Is there anything you can do that he hasn’t done?”

– Interview with The Independent, 2008

Paul Thomas Anderson is no stranger to Kubrickian themes. The filmmaker has always been attracted to larger-than-life stories, and his two most popular works, the epic 1999 drama Magnolia, and the 2007 Oscar-winning There Will Be Blood, both match the 2001 director’s grandiose style and remarkable skill. Throughout his illustrious yet still relatively short career, PTA – as many of his admirers call him – has constantly renewed his approach to storytelling and characterisation, while remaining faithful to his penchant for the themes of loneliness and family, regularly depicting characters who are on the fringe of society.

Most of Anderson’s films are set in California, where he grew up among his father’s videotapes and semi-famous actor friends. The Golden State is an inherent part of the director’s work, imbued with the sunny yet wistful atmosphere of the San Fernando Valley, particularly well reflected in the wandering and hopeful souls of Boogie Nights. Though Anderson is trademarked by his lively direction and supported by quick editing and dynamic camera movement (notably achieved through Steadicam, tracking shots and whip pans), his style has greatly evolved since the days of his first features. Frequently collaborating with cinematographer Robert Elswit, they are both avid users of the anamorphic lenses which are almost always employed to achieve a more cinematic effect with a noticeably shallower depth of field.

Anderson’s first movie, Hard Eight – also known as Sydney – was not shot with an anamorphic lens due to budget restrictions, but already showcases the director’s preoccupations. A rewriting of his Sundance short Coffee and Cigarettes, the 1996 film opens with Sydney (Philip Baker Hall) offering to help John (John C. Reilly), a young lost man looking for enough money to bury his mother. It establishes early on the motif of the absent mother in Anderson’s filmography, as well as the one of surrogate families, since Sydney takes John under his wing, providing him with everything he needs to start anew. Gwyneth Paltrow stars as a cocktail waitress who prostitutes herself to make ends meet, and Samuel L. Jackson features as an unscrupulous antagonistic figure, in this Reno-set neo-noir, shot on location in smoky casinos and sordid hotel rooms. As Anderson’s least known film, Hard Eight qualifies as a hidden gem, more minimalistic than any of his other movies. It does mark the beginning of his significant collaboration with Jon Brion, composer of the gracefully melancholic piece “Clementine’s Loop”, which would also appear in his subsequent film.

Boogie Nights, his 1997 follow-up, was developed during the chaotic post-production process of Hard Eight. Anderson’s anamorphic debut tells the story of Eddie Adams (Mark Wahlberg), a young man realising his dream of becoming a porn star in the San Fernando Valley of the late 70s, taking on the name of Dirk Diggler. A recreation of his own 1988 short mockumentary The Dirk Diggler Story, Anderson’s film takes its inspirations from Robert Altman’s compelling ensemble movies such as Nashville and Short Cuts. The movie’s opening Steadicam scene is a breath-taking combination of virtuosity and craftsmanship, as the camera flows flawlessly around the dancing cast, recalling Altman’s 8-minute opening in The Player. Philip Baker Hall and John C. Reilly return for Anderson, who brings in many new faces in the likes of Julianne Moore, Philip Seymour Hoffman, and William H. Macy. Burt Reynolds makes his grand cinematic comeback as Jack Horner, a director and patriarch at the head of a small pornographic empire, who looks after and cares for Diggler. Boogie Nights explores once again parent-son relationships, as the protagonist’s continual conflict with his mother is alleviated by Julianne Moore’s character, who assumes a surrogate-mother role. Their relationship is still very problematically marked by systematic “incestuous” intercourse, showcasing the era’s sexual frenzy and AIDS-free carelessness. The film ultimately portrays Diggler’s downfall, as he turns away from his friends and sinks into drugs, acting as a cautionary tale on the importance of family.

Magnolia is considered by many, including Anderson himself, as his magnum opus. After Boogie Nights’ success – earning him an Academy Award nomination for Best Original Screenplay – the director had the opportunity to make his passion project come to life in the form of a three-hour-long choral movie, set once again in the San Fernando Valley. Most of Boogie Nights’ cast returns, with the notable inclusion of Tom Cruise, playing a misogynistic motivational speaker.  Anderson’s anamorphic lens is more present than ever, in addition to his rapid camera movement and quick editing style, all giving rhythm to the overlapping narratives. The 1999 Golden Bear-winning film features one of recent history’s most famous sequences in the form of a sudden frog rain, a Biblical reference which ties the nine main characters’ stories together, and consequently helps Magnolia’s troubled souls come to terms with their personal problems. This deus ex machina’s sheer ambition demonstrates Anderson’s incredibly confident filmmaking, but it also conveys the movie’s main idea, namely that there is no such thing as coincidence. Most surprisingly, the sequence notably shows Stanley (Jeremy Blackman), a gifted and precocious child who is forced by his father to feature on a game show, watching over the frog rain with a smile, repeating “This is something that happens”. Stanley appears to know much more than the other adults, and especially the audience, who is further confounded after witnessing a previous scene where every main character is shown singing, on their own, Aimee Mann’s “Wise Up”. George Toles expertly analyses this sequence, explaining how Anderson “confronts a crisis of truth telling and attempts to resolve it by replacing speech with music”, an unsurprising feat considering the fifteen music videos (to this date) that he has directed for the likes of Fiona Apple, Radiohead, and HAIM. This succession of two audacious scenes further confirms the director’s artistry, as he breaks conventions and redefines the cinematic medium. Magnolia would also, however, mark the end of an era for Anderson, who considered his epic mosaic as the culmination of his San Fernando Valley chronicles, a resolution that would take him on new and unexpected artistic grounds.

Punch-Drunk Love is probably Anderson’s most idiosyncratic piece. In an effort to challenge himself, the director set out to make a romantic comedy, casting Adam Sandler in one of his best roles to date, as Barry Egan, a neurotic and disturbed novelty supplier who falls in love with Lena Leonard, played by Emily Watson. The movie sticks to rom-com conventions while deviating from them, featuring colourful interludes by artist Jeremy Blake, complemented by Jon Brion’s Hawaii-infused music. The anamorphic lens, favouring blue horizontal lens flares, contributes to Punch-Drunk Love’s binary visual scheme: Barry is only seen in his slightly oversized blue suit, while Lena is mostly shown in a red dress, the colour of passion. The story is a strange yet simple one, as Barry gets scammed by a phone-sex line, headed by a mattress-shop owner, Dean Trumbell (Philip Seymour Hoffman), while he exploits a loophole in pudding offers in order to accumulate frequent flyer miles. The audience clings onto Barry’s child-like behaviour and naivety, embodying the oblivious and innocent lover, in a world ruled by racketeers and criminals who take advantage of his solitude, as he mistakes sexual desire for love. Barry is excluded from society – he is rarely seen in the centre of the frame – and his seven emasculating sisters only perpetuate his suffering, reminding him of embarrassing childhood moments when his nickname was “Gay Boy”. Lena, therefore, acts as a welcome maternal presence, echoed by the recurring song “He Needs Me”, taken from Altman’s Popeye. Anderson’s film was a critical success, earning him Best Director at the 2002 Cannes Film Festival, but it barely recovered its budget, impeding greatly the development of his next movie, which would only come five years later.

There Will Be Blood, loosely based on Upton Sinclair’s Oil!, marked the beginning of a new stylistic era for Anderson. After the large-scale experiment that was Punch-Drunk Love, the director matured and delivered, in 2007, what is considered to be one of the best movies of the 21st century. Significantly, none of Anderson’s recurring cast appears in this movie, and features Jonny Greenwood’s music, who would go on to replace Jon Brion as the director’s preferred composer. The Radiohead guitarist’s eerie classical score echoes Kubrick’s flamboyant use of Richard Strauss in 2001: A Space Odyssey, whose beginning sequence is celebrated in There Will Be Blood’s mute opening. Indeed, the film’s first fifteen minutes feature almost no speech, apart from Daniel Plainview’s (Daniel Day-Lewis) groans, as he drags himself through the desert with a broken leg. This opening is a powerful affirmation of cinema’s visual potency, also demonstrating the protagonist’s incredible willpower and unrelenting ambition. Plainview drives the story, shown arriving in California at the turn of the 20th century with his adopted son H.W. (Dillon Freasier) in order to exploit land for oil. Anderson delves into parent-child relationships, portraying Plainview as an unaffectionate father who abandons his son, which ultimately leads to his downfall: once again, those who turn away from their family are punished. Plainview’s trade is also significant, since his incessant search for underground resources allegorises his own hidden origins, which the audience never gets to truly discover. Day-Lewis’ character repeatedly faces Eli Sunday (Paul Dano), the local church’s pastor, determined not to let him exploit the land freely. This conflict leads to memorable confrontations between the two, such as when Plainview is forced to confess, in church, that he has abandoned his child. There Will Be Blood was both a critical and commercial success, with a particularly resonating political message in the wake of the Iraq War, and it signified the beginning of Anderson’s steadier, more cerebral direction, aided once again by cinematographer Robert Elswit, who went on to win one of the movie’s two Oscars.

The Master perpetuates the filmmaker’s stylistic evolution, focusing on what has become a familiar Anderson theme of power dynamics in a father-son relationship. Philip Seymour Hoffman returns as Lancaster Dodd, the leader of “The Cause”, a religious movement partly inspired by Scientology, along with Joaquin Phoenix, who plays Freddie Quell, a World War II veteran suffering from PTSD. The movie’s premise resembles Hard Eight’s, since it features a powerful and wealthy mentor taking a vulnerable man under his wing as well. Both characters act as mirror images: Quell has an aggressive and uncontrollable temper, suffering from regular fits of uncontrollable fury, whereas Dodd is a much more reliable figure, with an air of Charles Foster Kane. The Master’s prison scene is a perfect example of that dichotomy, showing Phoenix and Hoffman in adjacent cells, as the former trashes it in an outburst of rage, while the latter stands stoically, waiting to be released. The sequence ends with both insulting each other, but their contrasting behaviour reveals their innate differences, in an opposition as simple as that of the savage versus the civilised. The film’s main female character, Peggy Dodd (Amy Adams), completes the triangle, acting as a steady and orderly figure balancing out her husband and his protégé’s improprieties. For the first time since Hard Eight, Anderson’s trademark anamorphic lens is absent, while Mihai Malaimare Jr. replaced the unavailable Elswit as cinematographer, privileging 65mm for the majority of the movie to attain a better image resolution – an extremely rare yet judicious choice, which greatly influenced camera movement, due to the device’s sheer size. The Master won the Silver Lion at the 2012 Venice Film Festival, while also earning Academy Award Nominations for each member of its exceptional trio.

Anderson’s 2014 adaptation of Thomas Pynchon’s Inherent Vice is an enigmatic piece. It has perplexed critics and audiences alike, who have found it to be an imperfect yet enjoyable addition to the director’s filmography. The movie follows Doc Sportello (Joaquin Phoenix), a stoner and private detective, as he investigates the disappearance of his ex-girlfriend Shasta (Katherine Waterston) in 1970s Los Angeles. Inherent Vice notably marks Anderson’s return to ensemble casts: the film stars Joanna Newsom, Benicio Del Toro, Owen Wilson, Jena Malone, Martin Short, and Reese Witherspoon, all contributing to the confused and marijuana-infused Californian atmosphere. The story expands to an incomprehensible extent, as Phoenix’s character teams up with Lieutenant Bigfoot (Josh Brolin), a stern, old-school cop from the post-war era, whose temper contrasts with Sportello’s nostalgic 60s hippie spirit. Their shared enemy is a mysterious criminal organisation called the “Golden Fang”, which is surrounded by vague conspiracies, greatly contributing to the film’s paranoid post-Manson killings atmosphere. Inherent Vice’s puzzling narrative proves to be a double-edged sword, since it captures incredibly well Pynchon’s idiosyncratic voice and story – Anderson was nominated at the Oscars for Best Adapted Screenplay – while also challenging audiences’ expectations, and therefore possibly spoiling their enjoyment of the movie. The filmmaker’s looser direction, featuring a lot of handheld camera movement, suits the story and setting, as well as Elswit’s grainy cinematography, who returned to shoot Inherent Vice on 35mm. The movie also features many instances of slapstick comedy, usually including Sportello in comical situations, and complemented by Jonny Greenwood’s ever-present distinctive score, punctuated by classic rock pieces such as Can’s “Vitamin C” playing in the background of the opening as the green neon title appears onscreen.

Phantom Thread sees Paul Thomas Anderson exploring new territory, as he leaves the United States for 1950s London, in what is supposed to be Daniel Day-Lewis’ final role. It is inspiring to witness such an accomplished director in a constant quest for the renewal of his craft, and his nomination at the upcoming Academy Awards, whatever the outcome may be, further cements his place as one of the 21st century’s greatest directors.

Phantom Thread is out now in UK cinemas. It is nominated for Best Picture at upcoming 2018 Academy Awards, and in the fields of Lead Actor, Supporting Actress, Original Score, and Costume Design. Paul Thomas Anderson is nominated for Best Director.

Milo Garner takes a look at the celebrated Japanese director’s feminist legacy.

Kenji Mizoguchi, born in 1898, was a giant of Japanese cinema. Active from the 1920s, he made his breakthrough in 1936 with Osaka Elegy and Sisters of the Gion. These films, sometimes considered in the genre of ‘new realism’, centred on wronged women in a male-dominated society. As written by Gilberto Perez, ‘women in Mizoguchi are consistently central and consistently portrayed with a sympathy that has no need for idealization.’ Japan’s intense conservatism in this period marks this as especially surprising, though he was not alone. Fellow director Mikio Naruse also concerned himself with the plight of the modern woman, and Yasujiro Ozu too, while more traditional thematically, depicted women in a deeply sympathetic light. A popular counterpoint to Mizoguchi might ironically be found in the Western-influenced Akira Kurosawa, whose women are typically stuck between wickedness and weakness, sidelined in male-led stories.

Mizoguchi’s apparent proto-feminism has, however, been criticized in a personal context. A frequenter of brothels (though not exclusively for sex), he was once described as ‘fond of sake and women – too fond of women.’ After living with a call girl for some time, he was admitted to hospital with a deep gash in his back, which she had given him with a razor. On the incident he later claimed, ‘you can’t understand women unless you’ve got something like this to show.’ The apparent contradiction between Mizoguchi’s personal conduct and filmic preoccupations has sometimes been interpreted as a form of expiation. His personal interest in opposing Japan’s heavy patriarchy – regardless of his hand in it – may be more historical than that: in Mizoguchi’s youth his sister, Suzu, was sold into geishadom by his father (an event mirrored in The Life of Oharu). It seems likely this event had a profound impact on his outlook on life, and was an injustice his films attempted to confront.

By the end of the Second World War, Mizoguchi’s reputation had waned in Japan. His films were considered old-fashioned in style, especially when compared to his up-and-coming rival in Kurosawa. The 1950s came as a second breakthrough point for the director, particularly with The Life of Oharu itself. Released in 1952, it was the first of his films to be screened at an international film festival – Venice, specifically. Here it was received rapturously by European critics, particularly the Cahiers du Cinema. Jean-Luc Godard said of the film: ‘as foreign as Mizoguchi’s language and culture may be, he spoke the language of mise-en-scène. And anyone who loves cinema could not help but understand it and be moved by it.’ It was awarded the silver lion (bested by Kurosawa’s Rashomon for the top prize), and his two subsequent films, Ugetsu and Sansho the Bailiff, would win the same award in 1953 and 1954. The Life of Oharu was also a success in Japan, reviving not only Mizoguchi’s career but that of its lead actress, Kinuyo Tanaka, who would go on to become Japan’s first female director one year later. Critic Jonathon Rosenbaum, writing in 1974, considers this no coincidence. For him, The Life of Oharu ‘comprises the most powerful feminist protest ever recorded on film.’

The film began its life during the shooting of Utamaro and his Five Women in 1946, at which point Mizoguchi and regular screenwriter Yoshikata Yoda began work on an adaptation of Ihara Saikaku’s 1686 The Life of an Amorous Women. Saikaku was a famed Japanese poet and author, responsible for the ‘floating world’ genre of Japanese prose. He was also famously prolific, having allegedly composed over 23,000 haikai stanzas over the course of a single night in 1677. His Amorous Woman was primarily work of satire, set around an anonymous prostitute who would tell tales of her life for coin. It is told in first-person and focuses on the lewd and erotic, a biting social critique lingering close to the surface. The eponymous amorous women is the daughter of a samurai, and as such begins as a lady of some stature, but after falling in love with a lowly page (and consummating that love), she is exiled from Kyoto. From here she falls across the social strata, becoming a concubine, a geisha, and a nun – among other things – across the novel’s length. The satirical potential is evident.

The Life of Oharu, while surprisingly faithful to much of the content, is notably contrary to its source material in tone. Described by Dudley Andrew as a ‘pure and unremitting example’ of the suffering of women, it abandons comedy for a deeply affective melodrama, following the tragic decline of a woman in society. Mark Le Fanu considers Mizoguchi’s version ‘an effort to humanize, or deepen, Saikaku,’ with its central character ‘endowed with a soul.’ Notably the version of the script first submitted to the censorship board in 1948 – and declined – was more satirical and featured far less pathos. Whether the script accepted in 1951 was a tempered edition of the original or indeed a reconsideration by Mizoguchi is unclear, but makes for a drastically different product. Filming took place in 1951. Mizoguchi directed with near dictatorial presence: he would avoid leaving the set unless absolutely necessary, employing the use of a urinal bottle when need be, and would be consistently unreasonable in the pursuit of his art, firing crew on a whim. His regular set designer, Hiroshi Mitzutani, is perhaps the undersung keystone to Mizoguchi’s production, building authentic and complex sets to accommodate for Mizoguchi’s intricate camera movements and the crane accompanying them. Takana immersed herself completely in the role of Oharu, which at this point in her career was very much against type, helped by the utilization of actual antiques throughout the production. The stage was very much set for what would become one of Mizoguchi’s finest achievements, a searingly beautiful examination of the suffering of a woman under a cruel patriarchy. But how women are represented in The Life of Oharu deserves further scrutiny.

The camera of Mizoguchi is, from the first frames of Oharu, essential in understanding its thematic direction. The first shot of the film tracks a woman walking alone, her face set away from the lens. The initial line of dialogue identifies this as Oharu, but it is the camera that has set her as the progenitor of the story, her movement motivating the cinematic space as much as it will the following narrative. Mizoguchi’s camera is unique in style, often compared to the floating world of woodprint art; particularly to that of Kitagawa Utamaro, with whom Mizoguchi felt an artistic kinship. Distant long-takes from a high angle are the basis for this style, with the camera tracking and panning across Mitzutani’s sets. This is complimented by theatrical and kinetic acting, comparable to Kurosawa’s style in its Kabuki origins. Starting with 1948’s Women of the Night this style was tempered with what some have suggested (such as Noel Burch) may be Western sensibilities, such as the use of shot/reverse shot on occasion, though others have argued this is related to technical limitations in ever-more complicated sets. One element that remains is the interaction of the camera-as-narrator to the diegesis. Contrary to the classical Hollywood style, designed to imply the viewing of an objective reality via an invisible camera, Mizoguchi’s camera is granted an agency of narration that isn’t at all concealed. That the camera might reveal elements of a scene, or focus in on a certain area, is displayed as a third-person exploration of the narrative. As explained by Chiharu Mukudai, ‘the narration of Mizoguchi’s films is inscribed within the text by obvious camera movements.’

This camera movement is used to reveal key thematic elements of the film. One of the initial scenes of Oharu’s extended flashback features an admirer, Katsunosuke, appearing outside, having misled her into believing she would be met by a man of higher stature than himself. The camera, positioned inside the house, tracks on Katsunosuke as he attempts to win Oharu’s favour from outside, following him as he opens several shogi doors; he is creating vulnerability both literally and metaphorically. Oharu’s eyes are averted, as Andrew points out: ‘if they look at each other she is lost.’ She eventually does look, and so falls into Katsunosuke’s arms – a secret love reciprocated, it appears. The camera has by now followed them to a funerary garden outside, and here Oharu faints. Katsunosuke carries her out of frame, and the camera tilts down, two grave markers creeping further into the now empty frame as it does. Between these lies Oharu’s slipper – an omen for the life she has now unwittingly abandoned, and the doom she and Katsunosuke will face.

Shortly after this incident the two are accosted at a sort of brothel, and sentenced – Oharu to exile, Katsunosuke to death. Katsunosuke’s death scene concludes with a similar downward tilt, here focused on the executioner’s sword; a synthesis of these two shots is established in a third, Oharu’s death run. After discovering Katsunosuke’s fate, and reading a letter from him that encouraged her to marry for nothing but love, she runs into a bamboo grove, her mother on her heels. The camera tracks her run for over a minute, as she tries to kill herself with a knife. She fails, but the resting frame again features two grave markers in the background. Her death will not be physical like Katsunosuke’s, but it will be perhaps as severe. That both might suffer in such a way indicts the classicist feudal state in which they live; that Oharu might live, but a life of suffering, foreshadows the irreversible consequences a woman might be subject to, even if she is not killed outright.

The camera also uses perspective and angle to convey the film’s substance. An example of the former is in Oharu’s positioning relative to other family members. Shortly after her exile she is seen approaching her new home, her mother on the veranda and her father within. These three distinct dimensions of the frame are clearly designated as separate, suggesting the distance between Oharu’s father and herself, both physically and emotionally. In a later scene featuring a potential suitor this is reversed, with Oharu in the background and her father occupying the foreground, her mother again separating the two between. Relative to the scene, the father always occupies the position of power, feeding into the general tone of male dominance throughout the form and content of Oharu. The use of angles is also key, particularly regarding bridges. Prior to the flashback, we see Oharu as a prostitute taking refuge under a bridge. A holy man looks down on them from above – a clear representation of the social stratum Oharu finds herself in. This is a shot reflected later in the film, after Oharu is banished from Kyoto in flashback. The camera tracks across the bridge as Oharu crosses, the angle growing lower as she reaches the other side. Then, in a single graceful movement, the camera pushes below the bridge and peers at the exiles travelling beyond it. The camera has, in this instance, taken the point of view Oharu will eventually occupy, implying a future already established in the narrative. Like Oharu, the film often finds itself in descent.

However, as abovementioned Mizoguchi’s style had wavered since its zenith in The Story of the Last Chrysanthemums in 1939 and The 47 Ronin two years later. By the 1950s there were many more instances of shot/reverse shot, and one of Oharu’s crucial moments is captured in this manner. Shortly before the commencement of the flashback that will encompass most of the film, she enters a Buddhist temple filled with Gohyaku rakan statues. Here she fixes upon one, and sees the face of her lover, Katsunosake, which induces her to remember all that had led her to where she now was. This interaction is captured from both Oharu’s point of view and the statue’s. In an interesting subversion, Oharu is the subject in this scene, and the statue (and, by extension, Katsunosuke) the object. Robert N. Cohen argues, via Laura Mulvey, that the use of shot/reverse shot is generally an extension of an inherent patriarchy in classical filmmaking. Women are almost always the passive object, and men the active subjects. Though this scene does subvert that theme, it is an exception in the film.

Cohen’s position holds that, while sympathetic, Mizoguchi is more disparaging to women than many acknowledge, in form and content. For example, Oharu’s daydream could be interpreted as an extension of the trope that holds women as hysteric and psychologically unstable. That this daydream finishes with a dramatic faint, one of many in the film, supports this notion. This can be countered by the suggestion that such histrionics are essential to the melodramatic form, but this is Cohen’s point. That genre, and many other elements of The Life of Oharu, are built on an inherently patriarchal framework. While Cohen’s argument is not inherently incorrect, its utility must be questioned contextually. The Life of Oharu is not radical feminist cinema, and that expectation should not be placed upon it. Mizoguchi was a mainstream director working in Japan during the 1950s; his work reflects this, even if it does subvert elements of the society in which it was created. It is unlikely that Mizoguchi would have defined himself as a feminist in the modern sense, or even that he believed in the equality of the sexes. Rather, the content of Oharu speaks to a sympathetic humanism core to much of his ideology.

The question of passive object against active subject pervades the film in other ways. Beyond simple questions of the male or female gaze, the men of the film ‘initiate the actions… carry on the way of the world… [and] are suited for action [and] progress,’ according to Dudley and Paul Andrew. Though Oharu has some moments of agency, she is by and large considered and treated as an object by the men who surround her. This, however, seems to be part of the point. While Oharu is not an empowering film by any means, that it presents a realistic world that portrays women as they were, or indeed are, treated is the very basis of its text. More curious is Oharu herself – is she an individual woman, or simply ‘woman’ in general? The basis of the film’s story lends itself to the latter, with Oharu occupying a cross-section of social roles across Japanese society from opening to closing. While some have identified as many as ten separate positions, the film implies eight distinct sections, each divided by a fade transition; this conclusion is supported by the eight headshots of Tanaka featured on an original poster.

Mukudai goes further than this, suggesting that Oharu herself is not written a psychology that might allow her to be considered a particularly complex character. This feeds into a more general theory that links to Mizoguchi’s change of style in the 1950s, here suggesting that his later films are defined by an ‘absent cause’. As writes Mukudai via Kinoshita, ‘events cannot be anticipated before they occur and cannot be rationalized until the following scene is given as the consequence of the events.’ He notes that Oharu is quick to identify with any social role she is given, and some of her actions, such as her decision to become devoted to Daimyo Matsudaira during her stint as concubine, cannot be justified by any evident psychology. His argument is strengthened via Carole Cavanaugh, who compares Oharu to Ayako, the protagonist of Osaka Elegy. Ayako, who might be quickly described as a ‘modern woman’, has a consistent identity as ‘an “unwritten text” which leaks from the “prewritten” social texts that determine her destiny.’ Oharu, on the other hand, only resists her later ‘prewritten’ texts due to her attachment to her first position in society, which she longs to return to.

While it is certainly true that Oharu is a less psychologically interesting character than those of Mizoguchi’s earlier films, and that this is reflected in other later films of Mizoguchi (such as 1954’s The Crucified Lovers), Oharu is not governed by such an ‘absent cause’ as suggested. The basis for much of her action seems to be focused on Katsunosake’s dying wish that she find love. This is an idea that might explain her intention to become Matsudaira’s lover, but also her continued efforts to discover and contact her child with him after she is cast out. A very brief spell of happiness in the middle of the film, in which she is married to a kindly fan merchant, seems to distil the point Mizoguchi was making through Katsunosuke: that, in finding genuine love, women might be spared from the worst of patriarchy. It’s hardly an ideal solution, as is made clear across the film – upon the fan merchant’s death Oharu is again left in misery – and certainly not feminist by a modern definition. But, in the context of the film, it is certainly reasonable. Cohen finds further issue with the conduct of Oharu, though in his mind she is presented not as psychologically empty, but as a narcissist. While Katsunosuke died with the hope that society might change, Oharu spends the rest of her days simply reaching for happiness; it’s likely that if she could regain her former position, she would. Cohen considers this tacit support of the patriarchy, at least at a structural level. This theme might well be identified in the film’s narrative. While playing samisen for coin on the street Oharu spots a palanquin going by. The initial suggestion is regressive – early in the film she is seen carried in one. But it is then revealed that she is not looking to her past, but the future, as her son is revealed from its interior. Cohen perhaps expects too much of Oharu, and values too heavily the words of a man in no position to execute them.

The Life of Oharu also considers another notable concern for women, both in its 17^th century setting and contemporary release – that of appearance. In the first shot of the film, which tracks on Oharu, she is veiled and keeps herself unseen; the camera respects her dignity. Not long after, it is remarked that ‘a woman of fifty can’t make herself look twenty,’ as Oharu tells her friends of an episode with an old man earlier that day. This man had approached her, and apparently wishing to solicit her illicit service taken her to a dingy building. Here, he revealed her to his students, telling them not to fall foul of the temptations of the flesh – they age poorly. When this scene is later shown in flashback, the humour of Oharu’s retelling is replaced by an intense pathos. That a woman treated with such immorality should be used as a moral lesson is difficult to watch, but also a relevant comment on society. As written by Mark Le Fanu, this is ‘the double-edged spell of female beauty: that, for a beautiful woman who has fallen from caste, there is not escape from the flesh.’ While in her position as a lady of the court her beauty was admired, but never expected, as soon as she is considered ‘fallen’ male-dominated society considers her differently.

A nun at one point tells Oharu, ‘all is truly impermanent in this world,’ but that is untrue – her past is indelible. Consider Jihei, the merchant who takes Oharu in during a time of struggle. He is kindly and respectful, until he discovers she had been a geisha. At this point he becomes lascivious, remarking on how ‘naughty’ Oharu must be, making sexual passes; finally, and predictably, he rapes her. Despite her conduct in the present, her actions of the past – generally beyond her control – dictate her fate. It should be noted that the men of Oharu are not presented as particularly evil. As Roger Ebert writes in his review, ‘Mizoguchi makes no attempt to portray any male character as a self-aware villain. The men behave within the boundaries set for them and expected of them by the traditions of their society.’ It is this society that Mizoguchi rails against. Even the women, such as Jihei’s wife, often find themselves enabling it. Yet she is also a victim – having lost her hair during a bout of illness, she hides her baldness from her husband. She fears that should he find out, she might be cast out, or lose favour. Her appearance is essential to her stake in society – by the time Oharu’s fades, so does any chance of her climbing that ladder.

Yet so long as it survives, she is commodified to an almost comedic extent, with Daimyo Matsudaira’s requirements for his concubine being so exact as to include ‘detached, translucent lobes.’ Even her uterus undergoes this treatment. A servant corrects her after she says she has given birth: ‘you’ve been “allowed to give birth.”’ Rosenbaum describes it as ‘a materialist analysis – a depiction of women treated, traded, valued, degraded, and discarded as material object,’ and in that he is correct. In fact, the only moments Oharu might feel some sense of safety are those in which she is veiled. Mukudai notes that the fall of her veil often coincides with victimization in some way. Her veil falls before she enters her long flashback; before Katsunosake seduces her; before Jihei rapes her. By the time her beauty does fade, the scenery reflects this: a dilapidated wall forms the architectural centre of what appears to be a red-light district. Her fellow fallen women seem to take some solace in their position, in that they are now free from stringent female responsibility. ‘We’ve fallen this far. Might as well do what we want,’ says one.

The final shot of the film is significant, and has been interpreted in several ways. After attempting to see her son, and being threatened with restriction to the late Matsudaira’s court, she absconds and becomes a mendicant. The camera tracks her as it did in the first shot, and stops as she does, praying for a moment to a pagoda in the distant background. She begins to move again, but the camera permits her to leave the frame – her ordeal is done. Audie Bock takes the position that this represents the end of a spiritual journey to transcendence, and that she has suffered enough to cast away her social identity and discover a greater truth. Her prayer, according to Bock, is one for humanity. Mukudai takes issue with this conclusion, seeing Oharu’s lack of agency throughout as an inherent contradiction to the ‘spiritual journey’ Bock implies. Cohen introduces a valid consideration when he discusses the desexualization of Oharu by this final shot. She is now dressed in ambiguous clothing, and presumably sexless given her new occupation. As said by Mary Ann Doane, ‘in a patriarchal society, to desexualize the female body is ultimately to deny its very existence.’ Here we see Oharu’s only escape is to totally disown her identity – not only her personal history, but her womanhood. In doing this, we might hope Oharu finds some modicum of peace.

The Life of Oharu was released in 1952.

Calvin Law examines a common television archetype through two cult shows.

(WARNING: spoilers for Stranger Things and Stranger Things 2, Twin Peaks and Twin Peaks: The Return)

In many ways, David Lynch and Netflix could not be more diametrically opposed. Nonetheless, the long-awaited return of Twin Peaks and the arrival of the new Stranger Things begs the opportunity to draw parallels between the two series. There’s an argument to be made that, as much as Stranger Things loves Spielberg, Dante, Carpenter, and Carven, it has its own fair share of Lynchian themes. Outsiders with strange abilities, an otherworld one can be trapped in for a long time, a quirky sheriff’s department, and – perhaps most notably – the intriguing fashion in which it handles its two principal ‘jock’ characters: Dana Ashbrook’s Bobby Briggs and Joe Keery’s Steve Harrington.

Given how indebted it is to nostalgic 80s pop culture references and homages, one might have expected Steve to bite the dust in the first season of Netflix hit Stranger Things. Jocks with mousy hair don’t end well in 80s fare: from Johnny Lawrence in The Karate Kid and Biff in Back to the Future, to Stand By Me‘s redneck hooligans and the hapless secondary characters in any number of horror films, they’re usually obnoxious jerks who at best learn a bit of humility, and at worst die. Keery, however, so impressed the Duffer brothers on-set with his charismatic performance as Steve that they decided to not only let him (Steve, not Keery) live, but make him an essential part of the series’ climax.

In season 2 of the series, Steve not only returns but takes on a much expanded role; he becomes a sort of guardian angel to the kids, like Josh Brolin’s character in The Goonies with even nicer hair. It’s an inspired choice by the screenwriters, and makes great use of a character’s change of heart to turn him into an endearing, goofy, and altogether pretty awesome hero. It’s particularly fun to see him interact with Gaten Matarazzo’s Dustin, as they make a winning team.

Steve is a great example of making an unlikeable character gradually likeable. That brings us to Bobby Briggs. At the start of Twin Peaks, Bobby, Laura Palmer’s ex-boyfriend, is – for lack of a better word – a bit of an ass. He’s callous, uncaring, indifferent, obnoxious to pretty much everyone, and doesn’t seem to care much for Laura or her demise. One of the most brilliant parts of Twin Peaks is its ability to take apart soap opera caricatures and makes them vivid, realistic human beings. We begin to see the more tender side to Bobby over the course of the series; we see his hopes, his worries, and in a brilliant scene between him and his onscreen father (the magnificent Don S. Davis), the potential to become a better person – which he certainly fulfils in The Return. It may seem a bit odd at first to see Bobby Briggs in a position of authority, but as a deputy in the Twin Peaks’ sheriff’s department, we see he has grown from young punk to a wiser man. Steve and Bobby are two fantastic examples of how the medium of television can be used to create such complexity in its characters; whether over two years, or twenty-five, so much can be done with care and attention to detail.

FilmSoc’s Screenings Producer Sarah Saraj reflects on today’s weather phenomenon.

The sky today was pretty incredible. It got a lot of us feeling like we were in a film. In fact, it reminded us of many films shrouded in memorably sepia-coloured hues. I guess life really does imitate art. Here are some films with the dreamiest of amber skies that we believe we may have been living in today:

1. Blade Runner 2049 (2017)

Is all of this yellow sky business just promotion for Villeneuve’s new blockbuster? Are we all being duped? Is this some elaborate Hollywood novelty trick plaguing the entirety of England?

2.  Apocalypse Now (1979)

‘Is the Apocalypse literally now?’ I ask myself. Sure, the government wants us to think it’s all due to Hurricane Ophelia and Saharan dust but does anybody really buy that? Maybe our disgusting rate of pollution is finally catching up with us — I mean, it’s pretty hot for October. End of the world, global warming, or both?

3. The Wizard of Oz (1939)

This would corroborate my theory that we have been transported to a new, filmic world, namely the boring Sepia one Dorothy inhabited before she jumped ship to the glitz and glamour of Oz.

4. The Lion King (1994)

From the day we arrive on the planet,

And, blinking, step into the sun.

There’s more to see than can ever be seen,

More to do than can ever be done.

5. Life of Pi (2012)

Thank God books get made into films because how else would we have these dreamy visuals? This film literally made me want to get separated from my entire family and left for dead on a lifeboat with a Bengal tiger, anyone else?

6. Lawrence of Arabia (1962)

And who doesn’t love a vaguely problematic but highly praised classic? The weather today definitely made me feel like I was in the Middle East!

7. Mad Max: Fury Road (2015)

The idea that we are living in a United Kingdom on its way to becoming a post-apocalyptic wasteland, as featured in the 2015 return of George Miller’s Mad Max, is increasingly plausible.

8. Enemy (2013)

Another Villeneuve? Boy, did he know this was coming! But seriously, who feels like today was just one of those psychological-thriller days? I know I definitely hate Mondays.

9. Sicario (2015)

…Another Villenueve?!

10. Days of Heaven (1978)

Terrence Malick’s 1978 religious romantic drama is possibly the most beautiful film ever made. Evangelical and quasi-religious setting prevail in this absolute masterpiece.

11. The Yellow Sky (1949)

I guess when you type something into Google the internet will graciously impart its knowledge to accommodate you; Yellow Sky is the title of a 1948 Western. The film features a ghost town by the same name.

Calvin Law revisits Tom Ford’s 2009 debut in anticipation of tomorrow’s FilmSoc screening.

Through his first two features, renowned fashion designer Tom Ford has proved to be – for lack of a better word – a stylish director. Whether or not he’s a good director has been a point of division. Some think his talents befit the medium of cinema, creating aesthetically pleasing visuals to match stylized narratives; others contend that his beautiful aesthetic fails to make up for often hollow and meandering narratives. I’m somewhere in between in this regard. I found Nocturnal Animals a failure on a storytelling level, failing to create any naturalism with its Lynchian dialogue and performances, and its visual style completely ill-fitting to the heavy and often gritty themes it was trying to convey; A Single Man, perhaps less ambitious, is far more assured a film.

There is debate over whether Ford is the right person to tell this particular story, which covers a day in the life of middle-aged English professor George Falconer (an Oscar-nominated Colin Firth), during which he decides to commit suicide that evening. Through recurring flashbacks we learn about his long-term relationship with Jim (Matthew Goode); in the present we watch him go about his day, interacting with his students, neighbours, and best friend Charley (Julianne Moore). Now I’ve read of reservations from those who believe that the film, though depicting a gay character dealing with grief and societal issues surrounding his sexuality, diminishes the importance of LGBT culture through its stylized approach and lack of representation. Well, though the film’s focus is indeed rather limited, and fairly glossy in its approach to sexuality, I’d say that is perfectly fitting to the story of a very emotionally repressed man who despite a fairly luxurious lifestyle finds his existence truly empty without his partner. A grittier or more earthly approach would have removed it of its distinctive style and made it too ‘slice of life’; the stylized approach, this time round, helps enhance the narrative. It is at the end of the day, a portrayal of a single white male’s grief, but that shouldn’t be held against it: I think it tells this sort of narrative fairly well.

Of course, A Single Man is certainly no Moonlight, Carol, or even a Brokeback Mountain or The Kids Are Alright when it comes to LGBT film. As I’ve mentioned, it is a fairly simplistic film on the whole. Besides the nice cinematography, the other standout element is Colin Firth’s performance, which was rightfully acclaimed; it’s probably his best performance to date. Julianne Moore is also solid in her single scene with Firth. Otherwise the performances are bland script-reads by pretty people (including Nicholas Hoult, who’s since proved himself to be way more impressive than his dull turn here would indicate). And yes, as a Weinstein distributed film it features pretty much every Oscar-bait trope in its pursuit of the Oscars. It’s showing this Tuesday at the UCL Film Society screenings – check it out then and make of it what you will.

A Single Man will be screened in UCL’s DMS Watson Building, Room G15, at 6pm.

> All details on the Facebook event.

UCL Film & TV Society hosts a weekly screening from a diverse programme of relevant and interesting films. Check out our Facebook page to discover what’s showing every week. (NOTE: society membership is required for attendance; info on website.)

With the release of Wonder Woman upon us, Podcast Producer Thom Hetherington looks at the way we watch and respond to films today.

There has been a tectonic shift in the way we watch movies. And I’m not talking about the rise of 3D, the age of IMAX or even those godawful vibrating chairs that spray you with disturbing smells and jets of water. I’m talking about you. When did you get so cynical?

Audiences seem increasingly reluctant to engage with films, often before they’ve even seen them. The desire to enjoy is being trumped by the desire to get one’s money’s worth. Suspension of disbelief seems to be supremely lacking in modern cinema audiences and it’s a crying shame. The more time I spend at the pictures the more I find more that people are laughing not with films, but at them.

Indeed, cynical film watching has become a kind of cottage industry in recent years. Showings of Tommy Wiseau’s The Room regularly sell out across the globe, often frequented by the director himself. People gather not to watch the film, but to point and laugh at it. And whilst this isn’t a problem in of itself, certainly not given it has Wiseau’s full participation, it does point to a wider problem. These screenings are part of a world of YouTube videos that surgically dissect a film’s plot piece by piece, TV shows centred around mocking continuity mistakes and entire blogs and social media channels specifically targeted at strategically shit-bombing the work of numerous filmmakers, actors and writers. Namely that there seems to be an increasing desire for failure on the part of the cinema going public.

Nothing seems to delight people more than when a film bombs at the box office. When Shia LaBeouf’s recent thriller Man Down failed to sell more than one ticket in its UK opening weekend, everyone lined up to have a giggle. But at what? As Simon Brew, editor of Den of Geek, pointed out on Twitter; ‘a small distributor took a chance on a half-decent movie, and we’ll now sneer at them for trying.’ We know full well, given the box office receipts, that the dissenters hadn’t bothered to watch the film in question. The same is true of recent ‘flops’ such as Live By Night (our review), John Carter, Jupiter Ascending and Tomorrowland (a film all about cynicism bowing to wonder) and countless others. I am, admittedly, an outspoken defender of all of these films but this is partly because, and here’s the rub: they swing for the fences. And, yes, their batting average may look a bit skewed from afar but so what? When did it become so delightful to heap scorn upon derision instead of stepping back and admiring a bold creative choice and direction? To heave up a bitter cackle before stopping to think? Jupiter Ascending, for example, features a fascinating exploration of class and exploitation whilst also being incredibly beautiful and featuring Sean Bean as a half Bee man. Yes, it’s a bit silly sometimes, but it doesn’t take itself as seriously as half its critics seem to do. If people stopped laughing at its Rotten Tomatoes score and actually watched it, they might be pleasantly surprised. There are an alarming number of people who seem to be baying for cinematic blood to gorge themselves on. And it isn’t particularly pleasant.

This is reflected, too, in the number of people who seem to delight is smugly pointing out the similarities in plot between the original Star Wars and Star Wars: The Force Awakens. They are, of course, being wilfully stupid in ignoring the fact that the storytelling in these two films is entirely different. The characters, and the way that they interact with each other, in Abrams’ film are vastly different way to Lucas’ original creations. The same is true of the super intellectuals who point out the kinship of Avatar and Dances With Wolves, who seem to be vitally missing the point that one of these films is a groundbreaking piece of visually breathtaking cinema that is, crucially, set in space. If viewers can’t lose themselves in the visual majesty of a world where a six foot blue Sigourney Weaver lives, then there’s something wrong. Whilst this may all be a snag for certain viewers, it shouldn’t ruin their enjoyment entirely. Movie watching is an emotional, escapist, experience and it shouldn’t be hampered by a fixation with plot. 2001: A Space Odyssey, Stand By Me and Clerks barely have a plot between them, but we’re all happy to accept them as masterpieces in their own right. If you want to get stuffy about plot, then you will, I assure you, be much happier staying at home reading summaries on Wikipedia.

There are, of course, many contributing factors. A night out at the cinema is no longer a cheap affair, if you want to go all in with snacks and drinks then it can very quickly become more expensive than a trip to the theatre. The temptation to write a film off as absolute baloney purely from a trailer makes sense, particularly if you want to save money. And a quick glance at Rotten Tomatoes can be misleading too; there might be a five star review from someone whose opinion you deeply value, but you won’t find it by quickly glancing at the ‘fresh’ percentage. Financially too, it makes sense to laugh at a film rather than with it once you’re in the cinema watching it; at least then you’re getting some fun for your money. But as the world increasingly becomes a cynical place, shouldn’t we be trying to escape in the cinema? Or learn something? Not guffaw because we think we’re more intelligent than the filmmakers?

However you, gentle reader, cannot be entirely to blame in this large and complicated game of self-righteous finger pointing that I’m playing. It’s hard not to feel that audiences are merely becoming savvy to the rising cynicism of the film studios. It’s not uncommon now to get five sequels announced to a film that hasn’t even been released yet and cinematic universes seem to be popping up left, right and centre like dandelions, just begging to be uprooted by schadenfreude. Even within the movies themselves, we’ve seen Captain America fighting against the United States instead of for them, and Batman repeatedly smashing a bathroom sink into Superman’s face. Cynicism, it seems, is all around.

But for all this loathsome negativity and impending misery there does seem to be a turn in the tide. Most notably the recent Wonder Woman (our review), for example, feels alarmingly retro in its protagonist’s heroics; Wonder Woman fights for a cause as much as she fights against an enemy. It feels like a direct response to the cynicism in and surrounding the underrated Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice. Wonder Woman is a film all about the power of love in a world that’s seriously lacking it, it’s about a humanity that needs saving not from sky portals or inter-dimensional beasties but from itself. It’s sad that it seems to be so timely. But perhaps we could take a lesson from it as viewers, to find the good in films, to will for something beautiful, not something that we’re more coldly intelligent than. George Carlin once observed that “inside every cynical person is a disappointed idealist”, it’s time we each dug them up. It’s better to walk out a cinema disappointed than walk in bitter. Call me schmaltzy, but to escape into the warmth of wonder seems far more inviting than to sit and nitpick. I dare you to suspend your disbelief. After all, once those nits are picked, they’re only going to end up biting you.

Our Podcast Producer Thom Hetherington pays tribute to the acclaimed stage and screen actor, who has sadly passed away at the age of 70 this weekend.

Bollocks. It isn’t the most profound word in the English language, it isn’t the most sophisticated, and it certainly isn’t the best word to start an obituary with. But bear with me. I start this article with profanity not as a means of flippant disrespect but as the very opposite. Swearing is commonplace in film nowadays; it’s hard to find true examples of offensive language being actually that. But Tim Pigott-Smith was an actor who could easily twist his snarled lip around the most mundane of sentences and make them crackle with malice. Nowhere is this more true than in the climax of James McTeigue’s V for Vendetta when Pigott-Smith’s Mr Creedy sneers out the aforementioned single word with more quiet, powerful, effortless malice than most actors could muster in a whole career. It’s one of many incredible scenes in an entire film chock full of dynamite performances from which Pigott-Smith emerges as the standout. He makes Hugo Weaving’s masked assassin look like a pussycat. And it’s a scene that encapsulates his career as a whole both on screen and on stage. He was able to muster up characters, moods and invoke feelings from the most infinitesimal words and gestures. From the high drama of Shakespeare to the crazed colours of the Wachowskis’ Jupiter Ascending and Tim Burton’s Alice in Wonderland, there was no world in which a Pigott-Smith character was out of place.

Tim Pigott-Smith was one of the most captivating and accomplished actors in a generation that included many greats, none of whom bested him. He oozed a charming menace, a polished sophistication and a smile that could flip into something far more sinister at the drop of a hat. He lit up Quantum of Solace with a dry, bookish charm and made impact amongst the stellar casts of many TV shows including The Hour, Strike Back and North & South. He proved an unbeatable straight man to Rowan Atkinson’s buffoonery in Johnny English, and could regularly be found keeping his head whilst all those around him lost their’s (see also Alice in Wonderland). His performance as the titular character in King Charles III garnered him outstanding reviews as well as Tony and Olivier Award nominations. It seems oddly appropriate with that in mind to say that he was truly one of Britain’s finest actors, and that he will be missed.

Tim Pigott-Smith | 1946-2017

Podcast Producer Thom Hetherington pays tribute to the acclaimed character actor, who sadly passed away at the age of 61 this weekend.

When I was nine years old, most of my friends wanted to be Michael Owen or David Beckham. When I was nine years old, I wanted to be Bill Paxton. See, when I was nine years old, Bill Paxton was Jeff Tracy. Bill Paxton was the very definition of cool. He ruled International Rescue with a Southern twang and extreme swagger. He was the ultimate Dad (who else gave their sons a spaceship each?) and the definitive badass.

Whilst for me he’ll always be Jeff Tracy; to many, Paxton will never be forgotten, or bested, for his role as Private Hudson in Aliens. He brought life to another gung-ho marine and stood tall in a cast full of peppy, unique performances. Aliens was one of Paxton’s many, many contributions to pop culture. His collaborations with James Cameron made them the De Niro and Scorsese of spectacle filmmaking. He brought weight and gravitas as Master Sergeant Farell in Edge of Tomorrow, handing Tom Cruise his bottom with a hammy delight. He dug up love stories from the bottom of the ocean in Titanic, went to space in Apollo 13, and was fabulous in the brilliantly barmy Twister. Paxton was the definitive bad guy in Marvel’s Agents of SHIELD too, brightening up the screen, being the crown jewel of the show’s best storyline. He was, and still is, the only man to be killed by the Predator, the Xenomorph and the Terminator. As a key part of pop culture, his place is absolutely undeniable.

Bill Paxton didn’t just get the good roles, he owned them. He always buzzed up the screen no matter how good the material was; whatever a film was doing around him, Paxton was always enjoyable to watch, and more often than not, the best thing in it. It’s a skill that shouldn’t be underestimated. And neither should his work. People will be quoting Private Hudson and watching Bill Paxton films until the cows come home (or spinning around in a tornado). And so they should.

 

The big day is nearly here – the festival debuts, clever (or not so clever) campaigning, (leaked) screeners, rants over total wild cards somehow making it (oh hi, Deadpool), the hot takes, the think pieces, the frontrunner backlash and ‘frontlash’, the guild awards, the Golden Globes, the BAFTAs: they have all led to this moment. Or rather, will lead to Sunday night/early Monday morning, which is when the 89th Academy Awards will be handed out at Hollywood’s Dolby Theatre.

Before flicking on that Sky box (with a bit of Twitter on the side) for what is sure to be an eventful late night, we’ve gathered the team here at the FilmSoc blog to deliver our predictions. Given there’s more than a few of us on the team, we have decided to do this by a vote; and given all the factors outside of a film’s actual merit, each of the 24 categories will have both a Will Win and a Should Win choice. So without further ado, read on after Screen Junkies’ brilliant Honest Trailer for our picks:

Best Picture

Arrival (SHOULD WIN) – our Best Picture Spotlight

Fences – our review

Hacksaw Ridge – our review

Hell or High Water – our Best Picture Spotlight

Hidden Figures – our review

La La Land (WILL WIN) – our review

Lion – our review

Manchester by the Sea – our review

Moonlight – our review

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Best Actor In A Leading Role

Casey Affleck, Manchester by the Sea (WILL and SHOULD WIN)

Andrew Garfield, Hacksaw Ridge

Ryan Gosling, La La Land

Viggo Mortensen, Captain Fantastic

Denzel Washington, Fences

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Best Actress In A Leading Role

Isabelle Huppert, Elle

Ruth Negga, Loving – our review

Natalie Portman, Jackie (tied SHOULD WIN) – our review

Emma Stone, La La Land (WILL WIN/tied SHOULD WIN)

Meryl Streep, Florence Foster Jenkins

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Best Actor In A Supporting Role

Mahershala Ali, Moonlight (WILL and SHOULD WIN)

Jeff Bridges, Hell or High Water

Lucas Hedges, Manchester by the Sea

Dev Patel, Lion

Michael Shannon, Nocturnal Animals

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Best Actress In A Supporting Role

Viola Davis, Fences (WILL and SHOULD WIN)

Naomie Harris, Moonlight

Nicole Kidman, Lion

Octavia Spencer, Hidden Figures

Michelle Williams, Manchester by the Sea

Best Animated Feature Film

Kubo and the Two Strings (SHOULD WIN)

Moana

My Life as a Zucchini

The Red Turtle

Zootopia [aka Zootropolis] (WILL WIN)

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Best Cinematography

Bradford Young, Arrival

Linus Sandgren, La La Land (WILL and SHOULD WIN)

Greig Fraser, Lion

James Laxton, Moonlight

Rodrigo Prieto, Silence

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Best Costume Design

Joanna Johnston, Allied

Colleen Atwood, Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them

Consolata Boyle, Florence Foster Jenkins

Madeline Fontaine, Jackie (tied SHOULD WIN)

Mary Zophres, La La Land (WILL WIN/tied SHOULD WIN)

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Best Director

Denis Villeneuve, Arrival

Mel Gibson, Hacksaw Ridge

Damien Chazelle, La La Land (WILL and SHOULD WIN)

Kenneth Lonergan, Manchester by the Sea

Barry Jenkins, Moonlight

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Best Documentary Feature

Fire at Sea

I Am Not Your Negro

Life, Animated

O.J.: Made in America (SHOULD WIN)

13th (WILL WIN)

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Best Documentary (Short Subject)

Extremis (tied WILL WIN)

4.1 Miles

Joe’s Violin (tied SHOULD WIN)

Watani: My Homeland (tied WILL and SHOULD win)

The White Helmets

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Best Film Editing

Joe Walker, Arrival (SHOULD WIN)

John Gilbert, Hacksaw Ridge

Jake Roberts, Hell or High Water

Tom Cross, La La Land (WILL WIN)

Nat Sanders and Joi McMillon, Moonlight

Best Foreign Language Film

Land of Mine

A Man Called Ove

The Salesman

Tanna

Toni Erdmann (WILL and SHOULD WIN) – our review

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Best Makeup and Hairstyling

Eva von Bahr and Love Larson, A Man Called Ove 

Joel Harlow and Richard Alonzo, Star Trek Beyond (WILL and SHOULD WIN)

Alessandro Bertolazzi, Giorgio Gregorini, and Christopher Nelson; Suicide Squad

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Best Original Score

Mica Levi, Jackie

Justin Hurwitz, La La Land (WILL and SHOULD WIN)

Dustin O’Halloran and Hauschka, Lion

Nicholas Britell, Moonlight

Thomas Newman, Passengers

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Best Original Song

“Audition (The Fools Who Dream)” from La La Land – Music by Justin Hurwitz; Lyric by Benj Pasek and Justin Paul (SHOULD WIN)

“Can’t Stop The Feeling” from Trolls – Music and Lyric by Justin Timberlake, Max Martin and Karl Johan Schuster

“City Of Stars” from La La Land – Music by Justin Hurwitz; Lyric by Benj Pasek and Justin Paul (WILL WIN)

“The Empty Chair” from Jim: The James Foley Story – Music and Lyric by J. Ralph and Sting

“How Far I’ll Go” from Moana – Music and Lyric by Lin-Manuel Miranda

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Best Production Design

Patrice Vermette and Paul Hotte, Arrival

Stuart Craig and Anna Pinnock, Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them

Jess Gonchor and Nancy Haigh, Hail, Caesar!

David Wasco and Sandy Reynolds-Wasco, La La Land (WILL and SHOULD WIN)

Guy Hendrix Dyas and Gene Serdena, Passengers

Best Animated Short Film

Blind Vaysha

Borrowed Time

Pear Cider and Cigarettes

Pearl

Piper (WILL and SHOULD WIN)

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Best Live Action Short Film

Ennemis Intérieurs

La Femme et le TGV

Silent Nights (tied WILL and SHOULD WIN)

Sing (tied WILL and SHOULD WIN)

Timecode (tied SHOULD WIN)

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Best Sound Editing

Sylvain Bellemare, Arrival (SHOULD WIN)

Wylie Stateman and Renée Tondelli, Deepwater Horizon

Robert Mackenzie and Andy Wright, Hacksaw Ridge

Ai-Ling Lee and Mildred Iatrou Morgan, La La Land (WILL WIN)

Alan Robert Murray and Bub Asman, Sully

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Best Sound Mixing

Bernard Gariépy Strobl and Claude La Haye, Arrival (SHOULD WIN)

Kevin O’Connell, Andy Wright, Robert Mackenzie, and Peter Grace, Hacksaw Ridge

Andy Nelson, Ai-Ling Lee, and Steve A. Morrow, La La Land (WILL WIN)

David Parker, Christopher Scarabosio, and Stuart Wilson, Rogue One: A Star Wars Story

Greg P. Russell, Gary Summers, Jeffrey J. Haboush, and Mac Ruth, 13 Hours: The Secret Soldiers of Benghazi

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Best Visual Effects

Craig Hammeck, Jason Snell, Jason Billington, and Burt Dalton, Deepwater Horizon

Stephane Ceretti, Richard Bluff, Vincent Cirelli, and Paul Corbould, Doctor Strange (SHOULD WIN)

Robert Legato, Adam Valdez, Andrew R. Jones, and Dan Lemmon, The Jungle Book (WILL WIN)

Steve Emerson, Oliver Jones, Brian McLean, and Brad Schiff, Kubo and the Two Strings

John Knoll, Mohen Leo, Hal Hickel, and Neil Corbould, Rogue One: A Star Wars Story

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Best Adapted Screenplay

Arrival – Eric Heisserer, based on the short story “Story of Your Life” by Ted Chiang (SHOULD WIN)

Fences – August Wilson, based on the play by August Wilson

Hidden Figures – Allison Schroeder and Theodore Melfi, based on the book “Hidden Figures” by Margot Shetterly

Lion – Luke Davies, based on the book” A Long Way Home” by Saroo Brierley

Moonlight – Barry Jenkins, story by Tarell Alvin McCraney, based on the play “In Moonlight Black Boys Look Blue” by Tarell Alvin McCraney (WILL WIN)

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Best Original Screenplay

Hell or High Water – Taylor Sheridan

La La Land – Damien Chazelle

The Lobster – Yorgos Lanthimos and Efthymis Filippou

Manchester by the Sea – Kenneth Lonergan (WILL and SHOULD WIN)

20th Century Women – Mike Mills – our review

Agree? Disagree? Who do you think will win? Let us know in the comments…and stay tuned for the Oscars themselves, airing on Sky Movies Oscars at 1:30am GMT, Monday February 27.

Editor Chloe Woods takes a spoiler-filled dive into Denis Villeneuve’s stunning sci-fi drama – which took home a BAFTA award last night and is now nominated for 8 Oscars.

If you have not yet seen Arrival, please be aware that 1) this piece is chock-a-block full of spoilers, 2) this piece won’t make much sense and 3) this piece strongly advises you to beg, borrow or otherwise obtain a copy of the film as soon as humanly possible.

The screen goes dark. The credits roll. As the lights come up people stretch, hunt for bags, and remember their half-finished popcorn by tripping over it. Two rows in front of me I hear this pronouncement:

‘The aliens had visited before.’ A middle-aged man, offering words of wisdom to a beffudled companion. ‘That’s why she’d already been having the visions.’

Normality, we might say, is restored.

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You could make it up. You just wouldn’t want to. Denis Villeneuve’s Arrival received its wide release in the USA two days after the election of Donald Trump: a demagogue who on first, second and all subsequent glances is the precise antithesis of everything Arrival says and appears to be trying to stand for.

This is what we call “timely”.

Arrival’s particular release date almost certainly fed into the rave around the film, since critics rarely fall into Trump-voting demographics, and at least passing mention of that timeliness made it into every review of the film I’ve seen. The comparison was generally kind to Arrival. The USA might be on a path to isolation, brutal populism, and social if not literal self-destruction (and Britain apparently determined to shackle itself to America’s star-spangled fate); but at least there is this film – this brave, clear-sighted, wonderful film – to show people a better way, just when it’s most needed. If films like this can be made, seen, nominated for Best Picture at the Oscars – surely the situation’s not all that dark?

This is what we call “optimism”.

How the hell are people supposed to learn from something they barely begin to understand?

The aliens had not visited before.

“Before” is a fluid concept for Louise Banks (Amy Adams). Time itself is perfectly linear, and – being part of time – so is Louise’s own life. It’s her perception of her life, and the passing of time, that decouples itself from simple forward motion over the course of the film. We see best how this works when Louise uses it to crucial effect in the telephone sequence: she looks ahead to gain information from a later point in time. From the presentation of the scene, she doesn’t simply observe her future self but is, in the moment, both at once. A life does not need to be experienced in order.

I used to think this was the beginning of your story. Before the heptapods, before the impossible ships, before the decipherment of an alien language, Louise Banks lived through highlights of her daughter’s birth, childhood, and death. If the future, why not the past? Why not show her younger self what is to come? (If she deliberately showed herself anything at all. Maybe some events simply echo through your life, spilling over into a time you didn’t know such things were possible. It’s not the aliens she sees, after all. It’s the important things.) Equal parts explanation and promise, the visions that haunt Louise through the film don’t mean anything extraordinary occurred before the heptapods’ arrival. They mean “before” no longer matters. They mean “beginning” no longer matters, and so never did. I used to think this was the beginning of your story – where? At birth? Louise knows better than that. In the dreams? The dreams both lead to and are the result of future events. This is the unbreakable loop of causality time travel so often traps us in. If the future is known, how can it be chosen?

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The first obvious message of this film is: talk to each other.

There is a theory in linguistics called the Sapir-Whorf hypothesis, which posits that the words we use structure the way we see the world. Orwell was a fan of the concept. At its extremes it fails: our thinking shapes our words as much as our words shape our thinking, and in a sense we invent all the words we use. We may be able to judge what words like table and spoon mean to the people around us – but what about words like hope, or justice, or – tool?

Though it becomes harder when we speak different languages, the real difficulty arises when we must accommodate different ways of seeing the world. This is the case in Arrival, not only with the heptapods, but most strongly illustrated by them.

All conversations are an act of translation. Talk.

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I would be extrapolating, if Villeneuve didn’t spell all this out quite clearly in the structure of the heptapods’ writing. And if the main character was not a linguist who could literally, liberally, spell it out.

The heptapods have never seen time as linear. They, like Louise, are capable of using that knowledge: all of their actions are based on an understanding of what they will meet on Earth, and what will happen afterwards.

Did you realise, watching the film, that Abbott must have embarked on this mission knowing it was going to die?

The second obvious message of this film is: trust each other.

Arrival has no villains. It does not even, really, have antagonists. The people who cause the film’s climactic conflicts are good people presented with the utmost of sympathy. They do not act out of greed or selfishness, and are to be found on all political “sides” – and because of their choices the world teeters on the brink of cataclysmic crisis.

The handful of military and national leaders who shut down the previously international effort to understand the heptapods do so motivated by genuine fear of others’ intentions. They have no evidence to support this fear. It is rooted in their own biases. People who want nothing more than not to be attacked will believe others wish to attack them.

Trust, the film says, that those others only wish to attack you because they believe you wish to attack them. That there would be no such wish if each saw the other’s desire driven only by mortal fear. That we do not, at the beginning, wish more harm than good on our fellow beings. And so trust.

(This is one point on which I truly wish I could believe Villeneuve was right.)

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Time is not linear. It may not even exist.

Children ask, “Why can we see the past and not the future?” We can’t. If we could, the study of history would be simpler. We see the impressions left on us by a place we have passed through, and time itself consists of a series of moments. But this is the kind of philosophy real philosophers sneer at. Are we the same beings, from one now to the next? Or are we destroyed utterly in one second, to be recreated in the next?

“Beginning” and “ending” have no meaning. That’s why it’s not the promise of a full, long life that makes it worth living. We see that Louise’s daughter Hannah brings laughter to the world, and knows it. Does the pitiful end of her life discredit that? Do ours?

Because the less obvious message of this film is: live.

Some people have commented on what this film says about great revelations. The film says, they’ve argued, that most people when faced with world-shattering discoveries will quietly file them and return to worrying about everyday life. This is not untrue. Some have also interpreted Arrival to mean it would make no difference to us if we knew our own futures, because we would still be obliged to live them, and this, too, is not untrue.

All fiction is rooted in reality. Arrival can say these things because they are already real aspects of our own lives. We don’t know our futures, you say? Nonsense. We know that we will die. (All comments on immortality should be redirected, unless you’d like a lecture on the heat death of the Universe.) We know that, unless we are very exceptional, people we love will either die or be left to grieve for us. We know that, unless we are very exceptional, we will have people to love. There you are: your future, in its most critical points. But when we were small children we did not know this, and learned with horror of the inevitability of death – and, in most cases, returned to worrying about everyday life.

So this is nothing new.

But you must remember it. This is the point. Louise will not forget, now. Nobody in that world will forget the day the heptapods came or the gift they brought, even as book deals are signed and lectures dozed through. We live in our everyday lives, but we live poorly unless we carry our understanding with us. We can’t drop it when the credits roll and return to normality. Normality contains everything.

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If this is time, then what of choice? This is the old difficulty of time travel: if we know our own futures, to what extent can we be said to choose them?

But we are still thinking linearly. We know the future because it is what we did choose. Even in the world of Arrival, alternatives can only be guessed at.

This is hard – there are no words for this.

Louise’s actions will not be the same as if she had no knowledge of the future. That factor cannot be removed. But they will be her actions, and create that future; and choices made in her future will affect her present. Don’t think of time unfolding: think of ripples in water spreading out to meet each other.

This is where the film departs from all sense of reality. We cannot see the world like that. But science fiction does not have to be possible.

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We call it timely, and we do have reason.

In the months since this film was released, we have watched the country it was made in retreat further from the rest of the world. Commenters have made the obvious points, about communication, and trust, and the aching similarities of all living beings in their beautiful fragility and so their shared right to an unpersecuted existence. And etcetera. These are points, but I do not believe they are the point.

Don’t be afraid to live for fear of pain. Accept that you will suffer: you know enough of the future to understand that.

Trump’s supporters deny it. Not all those who voted for him, but the ones who bought into his message and continue to. Make America Great Again. Those who fear a future both known and unknown build walls to keep the world out, and hide from reality, and lash out at anyone or anything that poses the slightest risk. A country as much as a person can do that. This is what America is doing now.

Louise Banks had a daughter knowing she would lose her. Abbott came to Earth knowing it would die. Maybe that makes it easier – knowing the shape of things as well as the colour. Maybe it is easier to face difficult things if you have no alternative but to acknowledge them. Unlike them, we can forget our futures. We must strive not to. This is frightening; but ultimately, Villeneuve suggests, it is the way to achieve less pain. What would have happened if no heptapod had been willing to make the sacrifice Abbott did? The humans would never have noticed, but the heptapods’ society would have been forfeit.

Arrival is not only timely because it sends a message of tolerance. It is timely – at all times – because it challenges us to be braver in our very approach to the world.

I’m imposing myself on the film. I apologise. Maybe all I’ve read into it isn’t there; or maybe it’s there because it’s part of life, not because anyone intended, and you could see the same in any film. But I don’t think so.

Denis Villeneuve is working in the best tradition of sci-fi: visions of other worlds held up as a mirror to our own. Deceptive in its simplicity, this is not only a beautiful film, or a well-acted one, or a timely one, though it is all of those things. Arrival is important. And – being a non-blockbuster, a popular but still relatively niche work of science fiction – it will not be seen by nearly the number of people who should see it; nor, most likely, will many of them understand what it is trying to say. Important but, in the manner of many of the most important statements, liable to be forgotten.

We’ll never be able to quantify what effect it might have had.

But time will tell.

Arrival is still screening in select UK cinemas, and will be released on UK Digital HD services on March 6, followed by Blu-ray and DVD on March 20 (for the less patient, it’s out now on the U.S. iTunes store). See the trailer below:

Calvin Law discusses David Mackenzie’s thrilling neo-Western – now nominated for 4 Oscars including Best Picture.

The conceit of David Mackenzie’s latest film, Hell or High Water, seems simple enough: two brothers in Texas hold up banks for money to save the family ranch while outwitting some colourful lawmen. It’s the sort of old-fashioned crime yarn Martin Ritt would’ve spun something out of back in the day, probably with Richard Beymer and Steve McQueen as the outlaw siblings and James Stewart as the wily lawman. Here, however, we have film that, as much as its plot is a throwback to the old-style thrillers, can also be characterised as a neo-noir that paves its own way into the genre. It’s a film requiring a great deal of patience; after opening with a terse, heart-pounding series of heists by the volatile Tanner (Ben Foster) and his younger brother, the more subdued Toby (Chris Pine), the film soon settles into a slow-burn in terms of both its plot development and pace.

Of all the Oscar nominees this year, this may be the most understated film. Arrival, Manchester by the Sea and Moonlight present taut, clinical character studies with outbursts of emotion; Hacksaw Ridge, Hidden Figures, and Lion highly stylized biopics which go for the jugular; and La La Land and Fences draw attention to the loud theatrics and showmanship of their characters, albeit in very different ways. Hell or High Water is the ‘quiet’ sibling of this lot. It is a modern-day thriller filmed in the style of a 60’s period piece, with archetypal characters of that time: the violent criminal (Tanner), the straight arrow turned rogue (Toby), the Texas Ranger on his last case (Jeff Bridges’ Marcus Hamilton), and even the colleague he good-naturedly ribs about his Mexican and Comanche heritage (Gil Birmingham’s Alberto Parker). Treated carelessly, these archetypes could have been simplistic or even offensively outdated; luckily it’s the expert hand of Taylor Sheridan, who penned 2015’s underrated Sicario, responsible for crafting these figures. Sheridan makes them multidimensional and vividly realized. The parallel storylines of the brothers and the lawmen, the main characters Toby and Marcus and their ‘supportive’ partners Tanner and Alberto, are given equal depth. Their tones may vary – the Texas Rangers share a far more humorous rapport than the tense dynamic between psychotically jovial Tanner and stoic Toby – but they never clash, and credit must go to editor Jake Roberts for seamlessly segueing one half to the other.

Mackenzie’s direction establishes an impressive sense of place and time in the Texas midlands. As La La Land and Moonlight more recently showed, it’s possible to turn a modern-day setting into one with a genuine retro feel. The camera pans over vast, desolate and dirty landscapes where the brothers drink beer and shoot the breeze. Marcus, contemplating his retirement and the drudgery of the years ahead, walks out at dawn with a long blanket draped over his shoulders like a cowboy whose poncho has gotten too big for him. Such images contrast with the clean but cold interiors of the banks and casinos. The outdoors provides characters with respite, relaxation, room for thought; the indoors is where money can obtained – by ill means – and spent. When the final act arrives and the film emerges from its quiet shell to release a visceral, no-holds-barred shootout, the effect is enhanced by the aforementioned stylistic choice.

This West is no Wild West, though. There’s no clear Good or Bad, and even the Ugly is subdued. Hell or High Water‘s characters are very subtly developed, and it might take re-watches to truly appreciate what Jeff Bridges and Chris Pine do in their roles: one as a man whose whole life has been driven by the law, and one whose life has driven him against it. Bridges, giving his best performance since the Big Lebowski, may seem initially to be reprising his quirky Rooster Cogburn from True Grit, but his portrayal here is far more complex. Marcus is a fairly easygoing guy, very professional but also very approachable; the rapport he strikes up with Birmingham is endearing. One of his reaction shots late in the film, lasting a few seconds, might be the best acting of Bridges’ career. Pine, an underrated actor who always delivers in his more zany supporting turns and straightforward leading roles, is impressive as the grungy, divorced but far from deadbeat dad, with a sincere conviction that his criminal acts are for the greater good. He and Bridges anchor the film’s central conflict between law and disorder perfectly, with Birmingham as a suitably loveable foil to Bridges. The highlight of the film, however, is Foster. The king of cinematic intensity delivers another compelling portrayal of an unhinged psychopath. Toby is menacing yet strangely entertaining in his anti-establishment ethos. Whether he’s confronting a fellow gambler, taking potshots at the cops, or holding up banks with such unhinged expertise, you can’t take your eyes off him; but the script never loses sight of the fact that above all he is a loving brother, and the relationship between Foster and Pine’s characters is surprisingly emotional. Like Moonlight, Hell or High Water deconstructs the hardened criminal trope by showing that, masculine and tough they may be, these men have souls and affections.

The film isn’t perfect. A few lines are on-the-nose when the philosophizing of our lawmen gets a bit abstract, and a Coen Brothers-lite scene with an abrasive waitress feels very much out of place. The restraint of Mackenzie’s direction, while admirable, makes the film halt at certain points when it should be moving along, particularly in the second act. These, though, are quibbles, considering the incredible third act, and a powerful conclusion which succinctly summarises the film’s themes and manages to provide a fitting end despite the lack of real resolution. As one of Hell or High Water’s final lines notes, ‘It’s gonna haunt you, son. For the rest of your days.’  Fittingly, the film is one that does not strike at you or enforce its message upon you, but one that will haunt you afterwards.

Hell or High Water is out now on Blu-ray, DVD and Digital HD platforms in the UK. See the trailer below: