Natalie Wooding reviews Federico Fellini’s iconic film, in celebration of its 60th anniversary.

La Dolce Vita is a party. It is a world of glamour and sophistication inhabited by larger than life characters, ranging from the mass of scrambling paparazzi (a term this film coined, from the character Paparazzo) jumping from walls and tumbling over each other in an effort to get the most scandalous shot, to the glamorous Swedish movie star, gliding around Rome at 3am in a full length ball gown topped with, instead of a hat, a kitten she has found and picked up along the way. The film follows Marcello (Marcello Mastroianni), a jaded veteran reporter as he chases celebrity after celebrity through party after party, each one outdoing the next in decadent celebration.

Fellini’s hyperbolic style is often contrasted with the Italian neorealist movement that was popular when he began his cinematic career. With the aim of faithfully depicting the everyday lives of Italians suffering after the war, neorealist directors sought a sombre and objective style that distanced itself from Hollywood artifice and glamour as much as possible. In the words of Zavattini, a leading theorist and neorealist screenwriter, the aim of cinema was to represent “living social facts.” Films such as Ladri di biciclette, which depicts the struggle of a father trying to raise his son to be morally just in an unjust world, are heart breaking in their honesty and immensely powerful in their restraint.

By the end of the 1950s, Italy’s economy was thriving, and flourishing “made in Italy” design was quickly becoming world-renowned. In La Dolce Vita, life is an exciting celebration of opulence and entertainment, as the title affirms: ‘Life is Sweet’. In this world of glamourous parties, Fellini only refers to his neorealist forefathers playfully, with a knowing wink and a smile; when the audience are led down a series of broken steps into a flooded basement of a war torn building, the scene is not dire but comical – the professional prostitute who owns the house is swearing loudly and the two people she is leading fall into each other’s arms in a torrid affair. “Credi che il neorealismo italiano sia vivo o morto?” (Do you think Italian neorealism is alive or dead?) is one of the unanswered questions thrown from a horde of reporters to the glamorous actress Sylvia (Anita Ekberg) amongst “Do you practice yoga?” and “Do you like men with beards?”

Where neorealism offers sombre observation, Fellini uses all the tools of cinema at his disposal to offer scene after scene of beautiful, sensual and hypnotic cinematography. It is impossible to not get swept up in Fellini’s parties; to try to tear your eyes from the screen as the camera sways rhythmically, following Sylvia’s dancing to Nino Rota’s upbeat jazz soundtrack, leading a line of dancers as she sweeps across the screen; to not be enraptured watching Marcello decorate a drunken young show girl with feathers, the down from the ripped cushion swirling slowly around him.

La Dolce Vita is a film that does not shy away from the make-believe of cinema – it happily embraces spectacle to the point of being carnivalesque. The sets are vast and opulent; the costumes are heaving with feathers, adorned with glittering necklines and glimpsed suspenders between split skirts. Be they paparazzi, celebrities or wannabes, Fellini’s characters look up to professional actors, dancers, party-throwers, all happily immersed in the fairy-tale mythologizing of Hollywood. In the world of La Dolce Vita, everything is pretend and everything is wonderful.

Where Fellini differs from Hollywood’s superficial indulgence in visual glamour and movie star celebration is in the thread of existential anxiety he weaves throughout the film, an anxiety that eventually constricts every single character. La Dolce Vita follows characters’ drinking and sexual escapades without judgement, allowing the existential dread to manifest itself naturally through small details. In a hilariously chaotic scene where crowds of Italians run around chasing a miracle sighting of the Madonna, Marcello’s long-suffering fiancée Emma confronts an old woman who does not believe the miracle matters. “Why would you say such a thing?” presses Emma, who has just prayed that Marcello will finally marry her. By the time the most shocking and poignant scene of the film transforms La Dolce Vita into an ironic tragicomedy, we are already resigned to watching the characters entangle themselves in their superficially happy but empty lives. Fellini’s opulence and his cheeky joie de vivre conceal an underlying melancholy; for all their celebrating and elaborate costumes, all of the characters ultimately find themselves uncertain, lost and alone.

Fellini’s masterpiece is both a sumptuous visual feast and a social commentary on the post-war culture of excess. Perhaps, in his quiet observing and capturing of a generation’s existential ennui, he remains a neorealist after all.

You can catch La Dolce Vita at the BFI now, and the film is available to buy or rent online or in stores. Check out the 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 reconsiders #20 on the BFI’s Best 100 British Films list, recently restored and returned to the big screen.

By late 1945, Anglo-American relations were particularly frayed. Despite their support in the final defeat of the Nazis, Americans had earnt themselves a sour reputation with their British allies. Famously referred to as ‘overpaid, oversexed and over here’, American GIs were repudiated as latecomers with a penchant for letching after the local womanfolk. This reputation was not entirely unearned, but it was also not conducive to postwar diplomacy. Efforts by the British Government to improve the situation included the commissioning of a script that might bring the Brits and Yanks closer together; and who better to front it than writing-directing dream team Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger, two of Britain’s finest cinematic minds. Collectively known as the Archers, their 1944 A Canterbury Tale had already endeavoured to soften the British to their American allies, meaning they were a natural choice for the project.

This unusual premise resulted in the now-classic A Matter of Life and Death, a film as much about Englishmen and Americans as it is about our world and another, reality and fantasy. This dichotomous centre does not result in a sense of conflict, but instead a perfect balance between elements otherwise at odds – as confirmed by its daring opening. Panning across the universe, a narrator informs the audience: ‘this is the universe,’ adding, ‘big, isn’t it?’ The camera passes various galactic phenomena that are described with equal cheek – but detail is not shirked for comedy. The images shown are based on the advice of Arthur C. Clarke, the much-lauded science-fiction writer and space travel enthusiast, to ensure a sense of accuracy. As such fairy-tale meets hard fact, the fantastical voiceover providing whimsy to authentic spectacle. This asserts the thematic basis of the film, which will function both in the real and the very unreal.

Following this planetary overture, the camera enters Earth’s atmosphere, down into the cockpit of a Lancaster bomber, shot through with no chance of landing. Piloting this doomed craft is David Niven’s Peter, who, after ordering the rest of his crew to bail out, contacts a radio operator in England. Enter Kim Hunter’s June, an American aiding the war effort in England. Peter, with the stiffest of upper lips, calmly explains to her that his time is more or less up, given he lacks a parachute, and asks if she would send a telegraph to his mother. They speak for a while, and an immediate connexion is apparent. Jack Cardiff’s beautiful technicolour photography captures June in a fantastic red light, provided by her instruments. Peter is lit by the fires slowly consuming his bomber. There is no one else in the scene, save Peter’s dead comrade. No chatter, no referral to higher authority. Peter and June are alone, together, and apart at once. Peter jumps from his aircraft, preferring the fall to the crash, and bids a final farewell to June. A five-minute love affair, it would seem, captured and written with hands so deft that the inherent illogic of the encounter is totally lost. We are instantly under the Archers’ spell.

Suddenly the camera is in another place. The florid technicolour is replaced by a pearly monochrome, the romantic tones dropped for stark modernist design. The opening titles said the film was a story of two worlds, ‘the one we know and another which exists only in the mind,’ and it would seem this is the latter. I consider this unambiguous assertion that this other world is make-believe to be a placation of those who can see little further than the crosses round their neck (a genuine problem in 1946), enhanced by the impudent notice following: ‘any resemblance to any other world known or unknown is purely coincidental.’ Put simply, this other place is an afterlife – not heaven exactly, that would be far too limiting (read: dull), but where we go after dying. Inversing the ‘other world’ of The Wizard of Oz, this place is black and white; Powell’s explanation is typically pithy – we know that our world is in colour, but for others we cannot be sure.

Here waits Bob Trumbshawe (Robert Coote), Peter’s dead spark last seen beside him in the forsaken Lancaster. He was informed by Kathleen Byron’s character (credited as ‘Angel’) that Peter’s invoice was in, and he was expected shortly. As such he tarries in the waiting room for his friend to arrive. Waiting room is not a euphemism either – the afterlife here is typified by a sense of bureaucracy and bookkeeping. Even the wings granted to the deceased are provided in sealed plastic wraps. Combined with the modernism and monochromism we are left with a world suitably lifeless. ‘We are staved for technicolour up there,’ says Marius Goring’s Conductor in the film’s best-known line. The snag is that Peter doesn’t arrive – said Conductor missed him in the fog over the channel – he has literally cheated death. Inexplicably surviving his fatal leap, Peter awakes on the beach and, as chance would have it, passes by June. Romance quickly ensues. When the Conductor arrives to correct his error, Peter rebukes him: conditions have changed since his supposed passing, and to take him now would be unjust. He appeals against his own death, and his appeal is granted.

The brilliance of the film is in the way it presents this fantastical plotline while maintaining a consistent ambiguity to its authenticity. Peter has, on occasion, visions of this other world, but in the real one he is treated by Dr. Frank Reeves (Roger Livesey), who diagnoses him with chronic adhesive arachnoiditis. Like in the opening exploration of the universe, the film nimbly balances scientific reality with the romance of fiction. Much research was conducted to ensure accuracy regarding the condition Peter was diagnosed with, including and especially the olfactory hallucinations he experiences – the smell of burnt onions. Though of course, that could well be what heaven smells like. Many elements of the afterlife presented onscreen suggest that it is a hallucination. Consider the focus on various historical figures, nearly all European, accordant with the not-accidental detail that Peter read European History at Oxford. Everything in his fantasy has some basis in knowledge he has already accrued. Even people he doesn’t recognize, such as the great chess player Philidor, he may well have encountered and forgotten, in his immediate conscious at least. Diane Broadbent Friedman has made the curious observance that many of the various great figures featured on the ‘stairway to heaven’ set, such as Plato, Beethoven, and Muhammed (only the base of his statue is shown in a respectful gesture) were thought to suffer from epilepsy in 1945, perhaps a subtle nod to Peter’s neurological problem. The apparent confirmation of the unreality of Peter’s otherworldly encounters is the revelation that the judge of his life/death court case is the same man as the neurosurgeon who was simultaneously operating on him. Yet despite this, his impossible survival remains unexplained – the proverbial jury must remain out.

The life/death case is also where the film’s political purpose becomes most clear. The prosecution is led by the first casualty of the American Revolutionary War, Abraham Farlan (Raymond Massey), and as such is prejudiced against the British defence. Notably, Farlan is the only character to show any bigoted behaviour throughout, with all other interactions between Brit and American strikingly positive. Elements of national stereotypes are employed, such as the cultured Englishman and the brash American, but always with good humour. The only direct conflict between the two peoples otherwise is an accident, perhaps representing the sometimes imperfect, but always workable alliance as far as the Archers’ are concerned. The court case, which takes up the majority of the film’s final third, is set around whether Peter and June are truly in love – and, for Farlan, whether an Englishman and an American could ever, truly, be in love. The improvable nature of love is appropriate for the film itself, given the rather thin basis for Peter and June’s partnership in terms of narrative. Only through action can such a commitment be shown.

But to get to this point, first Farlan and Peter’s counsel (the recently deceased Dr. Reeves) trade blows regarding Britain itself. Farlan declares that America is the land of the free, and offers a stirring speech to its support of individual liberty. Reeves responds by claiming, in a statement about as true now as it was then, that in practical terms an Englishman is close to as free. Farlan then suggests that the jury, an international group including a Frenchman, a Russian, and an Indian, will naturally be prejudiced against the British due to past conflicts. Farlan, quite accurately, adds that Britain has conflicted with all the world, and so should face such prejudice with any jury. With some gall Reeves demands an American jury, a request Farlan welcomes. And in one of the film’s best moments, each jury member becomes an American. One by one we see their dress change to the fashions of that country, but their ethnicity remains just the same. While the reality may be far off, this is the American dream, where a Frenchman, Russian, and Indian can be held as equals under one flag. Churchill decisively used the phrase ‘special relationship’ regarding Britain and the US eight months prior to A Matter of Life and Death’s release, but it is in this film that it is first felt so solidly.

If a potential criticism is that the Anglo-American subtext is laboured a little heavily, it cannot be said that it is at the expense of other aspects of the film. Jack Cardiff’s cinematography is one such aspect that shines in every frame, technicolour or monochrome. After working as camera operator on the Archers’ exuberant masterpiece The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp, Cardiff was promoted to director of photography for not just this film, but the two subsequent features to follow, Black Narcissus and The Red Shoes, both as beautiful as this one. The use of colour is wonderful, ironically rejecting realism in the scenes that emphasise reality. ‘I love you, June, you’re life,’ says Peter as they first speak across the radio – and therein is the explanation. Life is held synonymous with love in the moment. The golden hues of Dr. Reeve’s house, or the great blues of the sky and sea, are so expansions of the love that is life. As perfect as that other world might seem, it surely cannot compete.

9/10

A Matter of Life and Death came out in 1946. It was restored in 4K and re-released in late 2017.

Madeleine Haslam revisits North by Northwest, recently shown at BFI Southbank.

“The Hitchcock picture to end all Hitchcock pictures” is how screenwriter Ernest Lehman envisioned North by Northwest. He saw a film that would act as a self aware anthology of the beloved parts of the great Alfred Hitchcock films: a blend of wit, style, sophistication, and action. The collaboration between Lehman and Hitchcock began with a planned adaptation of the novel The Wreck of the Mary Deare, but this was quickly discarded by the pair as “too static”. What ultimately resulted from this change of plan is a film in which movement is fundamental – from the first use of kinetic typography in the opening titles to the grand frantic chase across America in cars, planes, trains, and buses, through train stations and deserted landscapes and over national monuments. It is a film that is anything but static.

In a simple but easy-to-miss case of mistaken identity, advertising executive Roger O. Thornhill (Cary Grant) is confused with elusive secret agent George Kaplan. Kidnapped by prototypical Bond villain Phillip Vandamm (James Mason), then accused of murder, he is pursued across the country with both the help and hindrance of the deceptive Eve Kendall (Eva Marie Saint). North by Northwest is a frantically absurd yet captivating thriller now hailed as one of Hitchcock’s best, if not one of the best films ever made.

It is a film full of iconic scenes, recognisable even to those who haven’t seen it before. The frankly gratuitous crop duster sequence has been referenced in everything from Family Guy to From Russia With Love, and thus the image of Grant fleeing the crop-dusting plane has entered the collective cultural memory. This does not diminish the effect of watching the scene, but enhances it in anticipation. The staging of the crop-duster scene is more broadly interesting: it subverts expectations as Thornhill waits to meet Kaplan, the mysterious agent he has been mistaken for. The genius of the sequence lies, as Hitchcock noted in his 1962 interview with Francois Truffaut, in its antithetical approach to how such a scene normally looks; “a dark night at a narrow intersection of the city…the waiting victim standing in a pool of light under the street lamp…a shot of a window, with a furtive face pulling back the curtain to look out…”. But Thornhill is alone, in the middle of nowhere, bathed in bright light and surrounded by 360 degrees of ominously empty land, where any threat should be clearly visible. More importantly, the audience notices that, surrounded by nothing, Thornhill has nowhere to hide – he is an exposed target. Tension and paranoia builds as the audience waits for something to happen. Cars approach only to go by without stopping. A stranger appears, and swiftly leaves, but not before making the troubling observation that the plane in the distance is dusting crops where there are none.

As Hitchcock notes in the same interview, “absurdity is the nature of this film”, and this scene proves it. A man being chased by a crop-dusting aeroplane is ridiculous, but this acts nonetheless as one of the more dangerous moments within the film, as emphasised by the lack of music and absence of the usually-playful dialogue. Bookended by the darkly serious Vertigo the previous year and the shocking Psycho the year after, it is easy to see how different in nature North by Northwest is. It allowed Hitchcock to create a light-hearted, highly saturated adventure, devoid of the detailed symbolism that permeates his other movies. This direct contrast is emphasised by watching Alexandre Philippe’s new documentary 78/52, a captivating and extensive analysis of the iconic shower scene in Psycho, which makes apparent the strikingly different approaches taken by Hitchcock in directing these two films, with only a year between them. Both films can be seen in the cinema this week, but beware of analysing North by Northwest in such detail. Screenwriter Lehman had words for critics who try to search for deeper, existential meanings in the film. He labelled their musings “pretentious crap”.

North by Northwest is showing as part of the BFI’s ‘Who Can You Trust?’ season of classic thrillers until the 2nd of November. 78/52 is showing at the BFI until November 9th.

Alexandra Petrache revisits a Coppola classic, recently screened at BFI Southbank for its Thriller season launch.

Found in a brutal-looking brown glassy building with a friendly and welcoming restaurant on the ground floor, the inside of the BFI Southbank throws you into an overwhelming mixture of red velvet, interactive sound installations and – as my friend Mariam put it the moment we walked in, getting a drink before entering the screening – a “21^st-century take on a 1920s bar”.

The Conversation is a 1974 thriller written, directed and produced by Francis Ford Coppola, whom I had shamefully only known for “The Godfather” trilogy. It tells the story of Harry Caul, a surveillance expert with strong work ethics, who faces an internal struggle upon listening in to what sounds like a potential murder – should he get involved, or should he be “professional” and give his client the tapes regardless?

The film’s introduction follows a street mime who tries to impersonate rushing passers-by. Although superficially cheerful and relaxing, the scene feels claustrophobic, taking place in one square – San Francisco’s Union Square. Oddly enough, I felt watched and restless observing it. The camera pans to a character holding a large microphone (had I not known what the film was about, I would have thought it was a bazooka) behind a neon panel. We are being introduced to the world of surveillance experts. A cacophony of sounds and information emerges: musicians, random conversations, footsteps, everything else you might hear on a trivial day in a city square, and a couple just about raising their voices above everything else. We meet them again and again – when they comment about a homeless person who has fallen victim to the cold, when they talk about Christmas presents, when they wonder whether they would be able to “do it”. They look like they are being chased, constantly looking around and pretending to be having a regular conversation. A man knocks on the door of a van turned into a surveillance station: enter Harry Caul, the best in the field of surveillance, with unsuspecting looks and clothing. His only signature item is a grey long raincoat he takes everywhere.

Coppola gives away the turns of the plot little by little, giving audiences minute pieces of information to pick at. Although Harry does not talk much about himself, other characters drop small hints about his past and present – like the fact that Harry is “number one” surveillance, or that he started working in New York.

A parallel to how we use technology nowadays?

Harry is considered the best in this field, a true legend, and perhaps because he is always on the spying side of conversations, he is paranoid and obsessed with his own privacy. He barricades himself inside his flat and makes sure no one goes in. He pretends he doesn’t have a phone and does not answer any personal questions from other people. The film is an excellent parallel to how technology shapes the world and it is still very relevant to our days. We are the opposite of Harry Caul: we live a life very much made public through photos, check-ins and “likes”. We store our bank details online, pay using fingerprints and sign up to text alerts from the local ostrich egg farmer.

The colours of the film also depict a sombre and metallic reality, where privacy is apparent and even a conversation can be misunderstood. Palettes of grey, brown, green and yellow take over,  giving the film a visual aspect that feels safe and predictable, while colours like red introduce key moments in the film and turns of plot.

Oddity

Being such a freak for privacy and not even opening up to those closest to him, it seems odd that Harry allows his work colleagues to come back to his workplace after a conference and have a party. It is not only an invasion of his privacy, but also a risk for his work, with many tapes just lying around, including the ones that held the recent conversation he was obsessing over.

You should definitely watch it

The Conversation is a concoction of paranoia, fear and internal dilemmas. It still resonates strongly with today’s society, the use of technology and aroma of slight fraud.

Harry’s existence is a hypocrisy. He says he doesn’t “know anything about human nature […], anything about curiosity”, but he is curious in his own way – his fight with himself and obsession with the couple’s conversation show him unconsciously reaching for that sheer human nature he so vehemently despises.

The calibre of his work and the obsession for professionalism should offer Harry a safe and warm routine, but that turns against him when he has the slightest doubt; his world built on a foundation of high-quality well-done work starts wobbling when the conversation comes into his life. Perhaps it has echoes in another past job he had completed?

8/10

The Conversation was screened at BFI Southbank on October 20th for the launch of Thriller film season ‘Who Can You Trust?’.

[Coppola & Hackman on set]