Category: Directors

Othello (1952)

Welles distinctive Shakespeare epic is a masterpiece of turning the Bard into film

Director: Orson Welles

Cast: Orson Welles (Othello), Michéal Mac Liammóir (Iago), Robert Coote (Roderigo), Suzanne Cloultier (Desdemona), Hilton Edwards (Brabantio), Nicholas Bruce (Ludovico), Michael Laurence (Cassio), Fay Compton (Emilia)

In the early 1950s Orson Welles was in the wilderness. After the implosion of his career in Hollywood, he was grifting a living in Europe, juggling multiple ventures and paying for things (or not) with cheques from quick film cameos. But the fire was still there. Welles wanted a project which he would have complete control over. Shakespeare was the ideal collaborator: both free and dead, here was a man who offered an ocean of ideas and not a word of criticism, who would make no demands he re-cut the picture. A marriage of convenience but it led to cinematic triumph.

Othello would be an Welles production from top-to-bottom. Largely self-funded, a few investors chucked in liras for a share of profits (you can imagine Welles as Shakespeare in Love’s Fennyman grinning that was fine because “there never are any”) it became a labour of love over years. Welles begged, borrowed and flat-out stole film stock and camera equipment from assorted productions, kept costumes from for-the-money roles he did to keep the operation flowing (famously his Othello coat was a costume which he’d requested a fur-lining added to, that went unseen in the film it was made for but came rolling out in Othello). Actors were summoned, sometimes months apart, to shoot. Scenes would start filming in one location and finish filming months later somewhere completely different. Welles sat in the middle holding the entire film in his head.

It’s extraordinary that Othello is even coherent. The fact that it’s also a masterpiece of film Shakespeare is a miracle. But, cut loose from the bonds of Hollywood studio execs and not giving a damn about the bills (he had the cheek of genius so never picked up a tab) allowed Welles the scope to experiment and do things “his way”. Othello is the most purely “Welles film” since Citizen Kane, and a tour-de-force of cinematic inventiveness with poverty and lack of resources drawing the best out of a director who marshalled all his gifts of editing and lighting to make resourceful use of limited resources. It’s guerrilla film-making that looks like an epic.

What you could argue Othello is not is a truly original look at Shakespeare’s play – or really an actor’s piece. Welles’ passions for Shakespeare always felt as much about having a grand canvas of poetic language to impose his own vision on, cutting and changing as needed. Thematically, Othello is pretty much what you would expect. Welles’ Othello is the noble Moor pushed into a spiral of jealousy. Michéal Mac Liammóir’s (the finest performance) Iago is a dastardly liar, with faint hints of sexually motived envy. Desdemona is as pure as the driven snow, Emilia a faithful servant, Rodrigo a simpering idiot, Cassio a pretty boy. Our sympathies lie firmly where Shakespeare would expect.

Everything that is unique about the film lies in its telling. Othello is a breath-takingly beautiful film, which uses its locations to astonishing effect. Column lined castle rooms and towering walls create caverns of light and shadow. Welles uses the fixed points of columns to add a dizzying level of speed to camera movements that see these columns whip past the frame. The shadows of grills are frequently cast across faces and light creates looming shadows across the floor. Welles plays into this with the creation of light pools, concentrating it on single fixed points, often faces, with the surroundings bathed in black. The film presents real locations in defiantly expressionistic ways, giving each of them an elemental power that heightens the tragedy.

It’s a film made up of stunning set-pieces. It’s opening funeral cortege – like Citizen Kane, Othello starts at the end with Othello and Desdemona dead and Iago in chains – follows a march over city walls, playing out in striking shadow against the brightness of the sun, with booming, Gothic music giving the sequence an imposing sense of inevitability. Iago is paraded by a mob and placed in a cage, lifted above the city wall (this same cage frequently appears throughout the movie – including, once, having Iago walk nonchalantly under it – as a grim reminder of where this is heading). It’s a perfect marriage of sound and music, disguising the small scale with cinematic force.

Taking advantage of limitations time-and-again makes Othello great. Another striking sequence was born from necessity. With most of the costumes impounded for non-payment of shipping bills, the attempted murder of Cassio is re-staged in a Turkish bath (who needs costumes when we have towels!) a decision that turns the sequence into a masterpiece of light through steam, increased by the frenetic energy Welles shoots the sequence with culminating in its Lang-inspired super-imposing as Iago thrusts his sword down into the floorboards to dispatch Rodrigo.

Othello is frequently filled with imaginative camera angles. Often characters observe others from great heights – twice through sky lights, starring down at conflicts, murders and suicides. Iago and Rodrigo spy on Othello’s gondola romance with Desdemona from a distant bridge. The ramparts of Cyprus provide towering angles, over soldiers or wave-crashed rocks below. The camera also takes a number of low-angle positions, making characters (often Othello) tower over us. Clever angles and perspective work create whole ships out of sheets of fabric and basic models.

It’s also a triumph of editing. Welles assembled the film from a never-ending supply of fragments. Frequently actors appear with their backs to the camera while we hear them speak – as Welles said, a sure sign the actual actor wasn’t there. Like few other films, Othello feels like a film excavated from its shooting. It’s a film almost constantly in motion, rarely stopping to focus on an actor delivering a line (Othello’s first speech, parts of Iago’s speeches and Emilia’s speech to Desdemona being the main moments the film focuses on actor’s delivery – no doubt connected to those three actors being the ones Welles trusted).

Away from that, the camera often fast cuts and delivers scenes in motion, with actors speaking off camera as we focus on the events around them. This means the dialogue is repeatedly chopped, changed and trimmed to meet the needs of the scene. It helps make the film even more pacey and frighteningly interior – conversations become snatched and fast, words flung from angles we cannot see, ramping up the paranoia. Large chunks of it is redubbed by Welles himself – a light version of his distinctive tones clearly emerges from Robert Coote’s mouth and Michael Laurence’s Cassio has a familiar cadence. In some cuts, Welles also replaced Suzanne Cloultier’s voice with Gudron Ure (with whom he played the role on stage).

If there is a major flaw in Othello it’s probably the acting, frequently looking under rehearsed, with Welles himself a leading culprit. His Othello is underpowered and feels under-defined. There is little sense of an interior to his mind and Welles’ surprisingly somnolent delivery tends to crush much of the emotion. It’s hard not to think Welles was so focused on juggling every other factor, that he compromised on his acting. Only Mac Liammóir, Compton and Edwards look truly comfortable with their roles – and even they offer traditional readings.

But Othello is about turning Shakespeare to cinema and if Shakespeare himself is slightly sacrificed in the push, it doesn’t detract from the stunning theatrical beauty we get instead. Othello becomes a lean, pacey thriller, crammed with stunning imagery and imaginative flourishes (Rodrigo’s faithful dog, following sadly after his master, is a gorgeously little playful touch). It’s a film where light and shadow are major plays, where footsteps in subterranean water pools create ripples of motion and echoes of noise, that shows the greatness that can be born from necessity. It’s one of the greatest Shakespeare films.

The Big Sleep (1946)

Bogie and Bacall flirt their way into legend in the iconic Chandler adaptation

Director: Howard Hawks

Cast: Humphrey Bogart (Philip Marlowe), Lauren Bacall (Vivian Sternwood Rutledge), John Ridgeley (Eddie Mars), Martha Vickers (Carmen Sternwood), Sonia Darrin (Agnes Lowzier), Dorothy Malone (Acme bookstore owner), Regis Toomey (Chief Inspector Bernie Ohls), Peggy Knudsen (Mona Mars), Charles Waldron (General Sternwood), Charles D Brown (Norris), Elisha Cook Jnr (Harry Jones)

The Big Sleep was actually shot in 1944 – you can spot the odd wartime reference, from a female taxi driver to Marlowe’s special gasoline permit – but was released almost two years later. A lot had changed since then (the end of the war for starters) not least the fact that Bogart and Bacall had become the most famous couple in the world. After previews, Warner Bros quickly twigged they could have a mega-hit if they took out some of the dull bits and replaced them with Bogie and Bacall flirting instead. Which they duly did, helping turn The Big Sleep from what could-have-been a fairly routine Chandler gumshoe adaptation into a sort of genre-defining phenomenon.

The first thing they sacrificed was the plot. Famously, nothing in The Big Sleep really makes that much sense – and it hardly matters. Bogie asked Hawks at one point just who exactly shoved the Sternwood unconscious chauffer’s into the river – neither Hawks or the several scriptwriters (including William Faulkner and Leigh Brackett) had a clue. It doesn’t matter, because few films are about “the ride” as much as The Big Sleep. Every moment has something in it to appeal to the hard-boiled detective fan. Not a scene goes by without either a glamourous lady eager to bed Bogie, a fight, a shooting or some combination of all three. All washed down by a hard-bitten Bogie at his absolutely best, over-flowing with charisma and an impish sense-of-fun at how cool it all was.

The Big Sleep sees Philip Marlowe (Humphrey Bogart) hired by General Sternwood (Charles Waldron) to investigate a series of mysterious debts run up by Sternwood’s carefree and wantonly flirtatious daughter Carmen (Martha Vickers). The plot inevitably thickens as Marlowe uncovers blackmail, prostitution, pornography rings and lord knows what else, all circulating around a sinister bookseller with a sideline in naughty photos, a brazen femme fatale (Agnes Lowzier) manipulating a series of weak-willed men and a tough gangster Eddie Mars (John Ridgeley) willing to use his secrets to win advantage. That’s not even mentioning Carmen’s austerely arch sister Vivian (Lauren Bacall) whose sultry flirtatiousness captures Marlowe’s attention.

The Big Sleep really is a series of hugely entertaining scenes, loosely tired together with a vague plot. The original cut had featured a dull scene with Bogie laboriously explaining what was going on to his dull-as-ditch-water police friend. What Hawks and co realised is no one really wants to see that when they could see Bogie and Bacall puffing cigarettes and talking suggestively (brazenly!) about how you need to ride a horse hard. They were probably right: after all, no one thinks about Psycho and says “my favourite scene is the bit with the psychiatrist’s explanation at the end”. Hawks realised if the viewer enjoyed themselves, no one would give a damn if it made almost no sense.

How else really can you explain scenes like Marlowe’s drop-in on an Acme bookstore where he meets the sort of drop-dead gorgeous bombshell store owner (Dorothy Malone, sexy as hell) who only exists in movies and happily closes the store in the middle of the afternoon to drink a bit of whisky (and more) with Bogie? It offers nothing to the plot that couldn’t be covered with a brief time-lapse montage – it’s all about the mood, the dialogue and the sensual charge between the two characters, with the illicit promise of no-strings sex (which, rather nicely for a 40s movie, they both seem well-up for). Who hasn’t dreamed of that?

It’s the same frisson that lies behind the whole Bogie and Bacall appeal. These two set the screen alight with the sort of temperature that came from basically watching them have an affair right in front of us. The two became an illicit item while filming To Have and Have Not and large chunks of The Big Sleep were held up due to Bogie drinking away his guilt. By ’46 they were an official item, but you couldn’t doubt it from the lingering, heated looks they give each other. Or the screwball lightness – and the one-upmanship and delight in making the other laugh – during their telephone call to the police department, as they pass the phone between each other putting on voices and pretending to be various members of an entire clan of troubled curtain-twitchers.

Humphrey Bogart was in his element here. Literally no one before or since could play this sort of super-smart, more-sensitive-than-he-appears hero who covers himself with a cynical, wise-cracking front than him. His Philip Marlowe has a joke for every occasion but also a strong moral sense close to the surface. He’s playful – the delight in which he affects the fusspot demeanour of a book collector early on is delightful – but superbly unruffled by threats.

No wonder Bacall’s Vivian is drawn towards him. Bacall is sultry and husky voiced, a slice of imperial sexiness. If the film doesn’t call for her to do much more than that, she certainly can deliver it. It’s a performance that is left surprisingly one-note (after all that one-note was all Hawks wanted from her). Chandler believed Martha Vicker’s inspired performance of childish selfishness and sexual shamelessness as her sister Carmen was if anything even better – and he’s probably right. But then Bacall has those famous scenes with Bogie – somewhere between His Girl Friday and Basic Instinct – and it’s those moments that cement themselves in your mind.

That and The Big Sleep’s effective moments of hard-edged violence. Elisha Cook Jnr gets his greatest role as a weakling who bungles his way into an early grave in a partially-silhouetted murder. There is a cracking shoot-out between Marlowe and Mars’ hired gun and a neat (if barely logical) final face-off between the outraged Bogie and Joh Ridgeley’s expertly judged Mars who crumbles from arrogant superiority to snivelling cowardice. There are equal delights in numerous other scenes that play out like stand-alone treats – from Bogie’s imperious swatting of bully-boy Brody to his greenhouse hiring by General Sternwood. Every scene in the film plays out with hard-boiled zing like its own cool little stand-alone movie.

It makes for a fun package – and it’s easy to see why The Big Sleep is the sort of film people list as “their favourite”. It’s playful and manages to seem extremely cool without seeming to make any effort. Bogart is sensational and every second of the film offers something good. What the hell does it matter if none of it really makes sense?

Dr Mabuse, der Spieler (1923)

Lang’s crime drama is a sprawling silent mini-series, still gripping today

Director: Fritz Lang

Cast: Rudolf Klein-Rogge (Dr Mabuse), Bernhard Goetzke (State Prosecutor von Wenk), Aud Aged Nissen (Cara Carozza), Gertrude Welker (Countess Dusy Told), Alfred Abel (Count Told), Paul Richter (Edgar Hull), Robert Forster-Larringa (Spoebri), Hans Adalbert von Schlettow (Georg), Georg John (Pesch), Karl Huszar (Hawasch), Grete Berger (Fine)

In a world before television, there were only two places for long-form stories – and Fritz Lang wasn’t a novelist. His four-and-a-hour epic Dr Mabuse der Spieler is really a sort of gargantuan mini-series, a rollicking action-adventure about a conscience-free conman wiling to go to any lengths to get the things he wants. It’s pulled together as a pacey, episodic yarn – each reel is basically an individual act (or episode) and filmed with such visionary vividness that it remains compelling today. Whether you decide to settle in for the long haul or split its parts and acts over a series of nights (and why not, the film was released in two parts, months apart) it won’t fail to entertain.

It was based on Norbert Jacques novel, a publishing sensation (so much so this was rushed into production while Jacques novel was still being serialised). At its heart: Dr Mabuse (Rudolf Klein-Rogge), practically the dictionary definition of an omnipotent, amoral villain. Mabuse is a practiced liar, master-of-disguise, ruthless murderer, conman and has such demonic will power he is capable of extraordinary levels of hypnotic control, whose gang of acolytes switch between terror and outright worship of him. He can manipulate the rich into handing over their money as easily as he can the collapse of businesses on the stock exchange. No one knows who this malign spider is. But State Prosecutor von Wenk (Bernhard Goetzke) will make it his business to know.

Lang’s film is a gorgeous mix of the sort of urban realism he mastered in M and little touches of mystical realism more reminiscent of The Cabinet of Dr Caligari, wrapped up in the sort of action that inspired everything from The Sting to Mission: Impossible. It’s opening section is a brilliant example of both. Essentially a twenty-minute prologue to introduce Mabuse’s nefarious genius, it sees our anti-hero masterfully execute a plot mixing heist, disguise, manipulation and brazen self-confidence to make a fortune on the stock exchange. The theft of a secret commercial contract from a train involves the sort of disguises and split-second timing (to throw the contract from a train passing over a bridge into a car passing under it) which would make Ethan Hunt’s heart race.

It’s a perfect entrée to our villainous lead, Mabuse. First introduced rifling through photos of the many expert disguises he will effortlessly assume during the film – he becomes everything from banker to magician, psychologist to hypnotist, tramp to member of high society – Mabuse has no moral code what-so-ever other than the accumulation of things. That ranges from wealth, to an obsessive desire for ownership over attractive women (and his desire for Gertrude Welker’s Countess Told eventually contributes to his undoing) to simply the having power over the wills of weaker men. Rudolf Klein-Rogge is magnetic as this monster of the dark, ruthlessly calm but equally wild-eyed, unflappable but willing to go to any lengths.

Spieler is often translated as “gambler” – but it’s German meaning is richer than that and many have commented a better translation might well be “player”. Mabuse is certainly that. He is a master actor, who can be lose himself in different roles, undetectable to others. He weaves elaborate games around his victims, where only he knows the rules (and, often, only he knows a game is even being played). Other people are pawns to moved and gambled with. He’s a monster, but one born from disillusion of the end of the First World War, part of the hedonistic self-regard of dissolute Weimar. We can see touches of this environment throughout Lang’s film, in its hedonistic gambling dens and the casual thoughtlessness of the rich. Mabuse flourishes because he is the rash an age has come out in. (Retrospectively, you can detect the shadow of Hitler in this ruthlessly power-mad monster who hides in plain sight but demands absolute control).

Mabuse is “the Great Unknown” and the natural target of methodical if uncharismatic von Wenk, played with a stolidness by Bernhard Goetzke, balancing Klein-Rogge’s larger-than-life portrayal perfectly. The duel between these two moves from gambling rooms to elaborate houses, from the streets to the jails of the city, taking in chases, bombs, shootings, kidnappings and all sorts of attempted moves and counter-moves, culminating in a shoot-out that surely inspired countless Hollywood gangster movies.

Through it all Lang directs with astonishing freshness and invention. Dr Mabuse der Speiler throws a slice of cinematic visual inventiveness into almost every scene. Lang makes extensive use of superimpositions, cross-fading, location shooting, fast-paced editing and brilliantly evocative lighting to create a world both highly realistic and also dancing to the tune of its demonic lead. Some of this has become such a part of cinematic language that it’s unlikely to draw comment from modern viewers today – we are unlikely to be wowed by night-time footage of Wenk pursing Mabuse in a car, but to viewers at the time such scenes of photorealism taken in darkness were unheard of.

There is plenty that will continue to thrill audiences. Lang’s visual portrayal of Mabuse’s hypnotic powers is superb. In his first confrontation with von Wenk (both men are disguised at the time – this really is a game of move and counter-move), Mabuse attempts to implant a hypnotic suggestion in von Wenk. Lang demonstrates with an astonishing use of lighting which slowly concentrates the light into a small pool on Mabuse’s face before his face seems to grow to fill the frame (technical effects like this were a small miracle in 1923). On a second attempt, the hypnotically suggestive words are imposed on the screen as a set of animated letters which loom over von Wenk and later seem to be almost leading him (in his car) to the clifftop Mabuse has suggested he drive off. It’s a superb way of showing the power of Mabuse, building on the intimidating cross-fade from our stock-exchange opening that briefly shows Mabuse’s face super-imposed over the clutter-filed room.

Lang mixes this imaginative dynamism with some superbly done realist scenes that help make Dr Mabuse der Spieler a gripping crime thriller. That stock-exchange opening is followed by car chases and murders – one character is dispatched in the streets after dark with a brutal suddenness. Lang creates a series of locations, all perfectly detailed but instantly recognisable, from the distinctive look of each gambling den (from art deco lined walls to a strange rotating gambling pit filled with cards and erotic dangers) to the objet d’Art packed rooms of Mabuse’s mark Count Told (a gloriously ineffective Alfred Abel – unrecognisable from the world controller he would become in Metropolis) to the white-lined jails and careful detailed offices of von Wenk’s police headquarters.

Dr Mabuse der Spieler uses these real locations to constantly remind us that, underneath the Moriarty genius of its lead, this is also a tragedy of real people caught in the web of an uncaring spider. Mabuse cares nothing for his underlings, sacrificing them as readily as pawns. None more so than Cara Carozza, beautifully played by Aud Aged Nissen, a seducer in love with Mabuse who dedicates her life to him, at the cost of her own. She makes a dark mirror for Countess Told, drawn into Mabuse’s web but drawing strength from her admiration of Cara who is, in her own way, deeply principled. Mabuse’s victims are prodded, pushed and outright shoved into punishing and often self-destructive behaviours, their lives flourishing or ending according to his whims.

As a sort of epic mini-series, Dr Mabuse der Speiler is sublime entertainment. Each act follows its own clear arc and the culmination in a brutal shoot-out throws in a nightmare of surrealist imagery at its close as a crucial character tips, under pressure, into madness and delusion. (This series of horrors, the ghosts of fallen characters arising to torment him, is a masterclass in ghostly horror). It gripped audiences then and its surprisingly brisk pace and pulpy sensibility still do now.

Lancelot du Lac (1974)

Bresson’s bleak film is the least romantic, most depressing Arthurian film out there

Director: Robert Bresson

Cast: Luc Simon (Lancelot du Lac), Laura Duke Condominas (Queen Guinevere), Humbert Balsan (Gawain), Vladimir Antolek-Oresek (King Arthur), Patrick Bernhard (Mordred), Arthur De Montalembert (Lionel)

Only Bresson could have made a King Arthur film like this. Lancelot du Lac takes Bresson’s spare, thoughtful style and applies it to that most unlikely of genres, the historical epic. What we end up with (for better or worse) is something perhaps bleaker and more difficult than any other King Arthur film out there. Bresson repackages Camelot not as the dreaming spires of hope, but a spare, vaguely mechanical world where Arthur and his knights are going through the motions of duty and honour, while stumbling towards inevitable death. However much the characters want to believe in a higher purpose, they can’t escape the cynical truths of the world, or their own lusts and desires.

Lancelot du Lac opens with the return of the knights from a disastrous Grail Quest. The best of them, Percival, never came back. Neither did most of the rest, all dead in some distant land. Arthur (Vladimir Antolek-Oresek) is a worn-out man who doesn’t seem to know what to do next. He’s delighted to see Lancelot (Luc Simon) return. Just as pleased is his queen Guinevere (Laura Duke Condominas), whose historical affair with Lancelot is an increasingly open secret in Camelot. Lancelot talks about letting it lie in the past, but temptation inevitably fractures the kingdom as Mordred (Patrick Bernhard) plots a coup.

Bresson doesn’t compromise on any of his distinctive style. Scenes mix between carefully structured longer takes, that frequently feature on obscure parts on the body (in particular legs, whose motion frequently fills the frame) and simple cutting between the faces of two people in conversation. He casts non-professional actors and, as before, ruthlessly drills them until they deliver every line with a flat, defiantly non-actorly, monotone. Nearly every event of note happens off screen. Every human is a choiceless cog in a much larger machine, unable to impact or effect the actions around them.

There is no romance whatsoever in Lancelot du Lac. The film is bookended with what passes (in Bresson) for moments of action. A clash between knights at the start ends (after a very short and perfunctory swinging of swords) with a blood spurting decapitation and another blood spurting disembowelment. (The blood spurting style was effectively piss-taked within a year by Monty Python and the Holy Grail.) It ends with a deliberately underwhelming Battle of Camelan, in which we see no fighting only faceless knights dead in a woody clearing, as archers rain arrows down. There is no glamour here, no glory or honour in combat – just pointless, mechanical sacrifice.

It’s the same with the jousting tournament which takes up a surprisingly large portion of the film’s runtime. Bresson shoots this almost with an almost irritatingly cheeky lack of spectacle. As horses charge at each other, the camera lingers on: the arms of a bagpipe player, the legs of horses, the ends of spears and the impassive faces of Arthur and Gawain in the crowd. Occasionally flags go up to denote new jousts and helmets crash down over faces. But any sense of what’s going on, or the point of it, is secondary to the sense of the knights as nothing more than humble parts of a great, pointless machine, churning out martial events by rote.

That sense of a machine is behind all of Bresson’s vision of Camelot. The actors all wear armour, all the time, clunking around the set like clumsy automatons, every flinch accompanied by the clank of armour. (John Boorman’s Excalibur would present the Wagnerian contrast of this same aesthetic choice.) Towards the end, Bresson repeats four of five times in sequence near identical shots of knights slamming helmets over their faces making them look like even more like robots.

It’s here where the actors deliberately lifeless performances work, and actually create a sort of hypnotic power. Bresson’s style makes them all feel like tired, exhausted figures at the end of their tethers, scarcely knowing the point anymore. Lancelot looks like a middle-aged bank manager sticking to the letter of a code because it’s all he’s got. Arthur is so disengaged from any sense of the ‘dream of Camelot’, he practically allows a civil war to break out due to apathy. Gawain is so constrained by his idea of duty that he allows himself to be killed, seeking revenge for the death of a brother he couldn’t stand. Mordred is the only guy who really feels aware of the world he lives in, a middle-manager who stirs up trouble and then gets others to deliver for him.

No wonder Guinevere constantly questions the whole set-up and the point of anything anyone is doing. Why shouldn’t she and Lancelot try and cling to something real, even if it will destroy everything else? After all it’s not the original sin: Camelot was already long since corrupted, way before they hooked up. There is no sense in Bresson’s work that medieval honour really means much to anyone, and the only people who really talk about it (Gawain and Lancelot) respectively die for no reason and betrays everyone after convincing himself his betrayal was an act of honour.

There is a fatalistic, hypnotic quality to this after a while as we watch characters square their actions against abstract ideals irrelevant to the situation they are in. So, Lancelot steals Arthur’s wife and then rides to a pointless death for the man he betrayed. Arthur allows men to die on crusades, allowing his kingdom to become fatally weakened in pursuit of purity. Everyone talks about honour all the time, but no one does anything to turn the situation into something actually honourable. Instead, their lives are ones of empty, unknowing fatalism leading to inevitable ends. It makes for a powerfully bleak Bresson tale – and faith and Christianity is notable by its absence in this world. Without it, it seems the knights have nothing to cling to.

Napoleon (2023)

Scott’s epic of the most famous Frenchman of all time looks good but is empty at heart

Director: Ridley Scott

Cast: Joaquin Phoenix (Napoleon Bonaparte), Vanessa Kirby (Josephine Bonaparte), Tahar Rahim (Paul Barras), Ben Miles (Caulaincourt), Ludivine Sagnier (Thérésa Cabarrus), Matthew Needham (Lucien Bonaparte), Sinéad Cusack (Letizia Bonaparte), Édouard Philipponnat (Alexander I), Ian McNeice (Louis XVIII), Rupert Everett (Arthur Wellesley, Duke of Wellington), Paul Rhys (Talleyrand), Catherine Walker (Marie-Antoinette), Mark Bonnar (Jean-Andoche Junot)

Is Bonaparte cinema’s White Whale? Filmmakers have often tried and failed to bring this epic life – who else so dominated their era that’s its literally named after them? – to the screen. Abel Gance’s silent epic could only squeeze his early years into five-hours and the planned five sequels never materialised. Famously, Kubrick spent decades planning a Napoleon film (he had a veritable library of Napoleonic research) but could never deliver. Napoleon has popped up in films as wide ranging as Time Bandits and Waterloo, but the definitive film has never been made. Is Scott’s Napoleon it?

Napoleon takes a rather old-fashioned approach to the biopic. The fashion now is to focus on a single event that becomes a window into its subject’s life. Napoleon, in its two and a half hours, takes a far more cradle (or revolution) to grave approach. We join Napoleon Bonaparte (Joaquin Phoenix) as an anonymous artillery captain and leave him (via 13 Vendémiaire, Egypt, the 18 Brumaire coup, self-coronation, Austerlitz, Borodino, Moscow, St Elba, Waterloo and Helena) dying in exile. It’s as swift and pacey a run-down of his life and times as it sounds like, with the film’s main focus being on his complex, love-loath relationship with Josephine (Vanessa Kirby).

Scott’s film is a visual treat – don’t those uniform’s look gorgeous! – and it works best as a coffee-table book of the life-and-times of one of History’s most controversial figures. What it doesn’t work as is as film where you feel you gain any real understanding of what motivated Napoleon or where the charismatic energy that made millions of soldiers flock to him time-and-time again came from. Scott’s Napoleon emerges as a maladjusted, emotionally-stunted oddball, apt to glower and sulk who is never the master of events or people. It’s a revisionist view that doesn’t ring true.

It’s not helped by a surprisingly low-key performance by Joaquin Phoenix, bulked up and lumbering, playing up the “Corsican Brute” angle that so alienated the Emperors he negotiated with. Phoenix’s performance is all pout and emotionally inarticulate self-pity, with small flashes of domineering force that come across as childish sulks. But it’s never the performance of a man who looks like he could motivate a nation to march with him into a mincer (several times!). Nor a performance that brings a sense of the fierce-ambition of a man who wanted to control and reshape the world. It focuses instead on one small aspect of his personality and misses vast swathes of his rich, autodidact personality.

It doesn’t help that filtering Napoleon’s life through his relationship with his wife feels like a gossipy approach used because tackling Napoleon’s complex attitudes towards his Corsican ancestry, contradictory interests in instituting democratic systems in a dictatorship and desire to bring peace to Europe via a series of destructive wars would be too tricky. Instead, we get a Napoleon who plans his movements and campaigns to compensate for his sexual inadequacy at being cuckolded by his wife, rushes back from Egypt to confront his cheating wife and seemingly escapes from exile because he’s pissed at his wife flirting with the Tsar. It’s not helped that the most interesting mechanism in their relationship – she was older and more experienced than him, with two children already – is compromised by Vanessa Kirby clearly being far younger than Phoenix.

Saying that Kirby is good in the film, conveying a complex set of emotions towards a husband who sometimes amuses her but, just as often, repels her with his bullying possessiveness (not to mention his militaristic sexual technique). Napoleon uses their relationship as a constant frame to interpret events, not only as motivation but also as a narrative device, letters between them constantly updating us on events off-screen. But the film only lightly sketches what drew them together in the first place (basically his attraction and her use of her sexuality to win protection) and the film ends up stuck in the same cycle of fall-out followed by Napoleon’s desperation to possess her again.

The time given to sketching out the broad strokes of this relationship means we never get a sense of history behind events or where the qualities, that made Napoleon the guy who governed most of Europe, came from. Scott’s film is (which, with its stressing of the deaths caused in his wars, settles for an anti-Napoleon stance) plays up his negative qualities and gifts him few positive ones. Phoenix’ performance is almost perversely anti-charismatic: he never laughs, is constantly shown as a pompous windbag who only children are wowed by, loses all his raconteur charm and is frequently victim to events – be that panicking at his attempted coup (where he’s bailed out by his brother) or only at Austerlitz looking like he has any particular military skill.

Still the film bowls along, too fast to ever really engage with events. A host of strong British Actors pop-up (their character names and functions plastered on the screen), but their appearances and dialogue are often so truncated it’s hard to really understand why they are there. Julian Rhind-Tutt’s Sieyes pops up to announce he plans to seize power with Napoleon and is never heard of again. Ben Miles and Paul Rhys rush through exposition as Caulaincourt and Talleyrand. A host of actors playing Generals stand in the background and snatch lines when they can. There are a few inadvertently comic casting choices – I did snigger when former News Quiz host Miles Jupp pops up as Francis I.

This historical gallop means years frequently pass between scenes and we often get very little idea why developments are taking place: for example, Napoleon seems to become Emperor on the basis of a half-muttered suggestion from Talleyrand. Conquests of whole countries are skipped over in seconds. Josephine’s offspring appear as children and are next seen as adults. Other than them, no one ages at any point over the film’s near 20 year span, with Phoenix and Kirby in particular looking little different at the end as they did at the start. (The film also rewrites heavily the comparative ages of its two leads – Josephine was in fact several years older, partly why conceiving an heir became such a problem.)

The battles are impressive though – even though they take up not quite as much screen time as you might think. The campaign in Egypt boils down to essentially a single cannon ball pot-shot at the Great Pyramid (never happened of course). Borodino is a cavalry charge. Austerlitz and Waterloo are the only battles that get real screen time, with both offering remixes of the actual history (Waterloo, incidentally, looks less impressive and smaller in scope than the Bondarchuk film managed). The photography is beautiful (as it is throughout) and the film doesn’t flinch on showing the impact of bullets and cannon balls. But it has no interest in understanding Napoleon’s actual strengths as a general (essentially, skilful movement of forces from a distance) substituting them with him leading not one but two cavalry charges – a suicidal risk he never took.

“At least it looks good” pretty much sums up the strengths and weaknesses of Napoleon. It’s enjoyable enough and buffs might enjoy the odd Historical Easter Eggs, but it never gets to the heart of understanding its subject and settles for a ticking off events and personalities rather than placing them into an informative context. You’d come out of this wondering how this guy got to where he was – and that makes you feel the film has failed to answer its implicit question in the tag line “He came from nothing. He conquered everything.” How, eh? How?

Caché (2005)

Haneke’s fascinating puzzle is a profound and challenging modern masterpiece

Director: Michael Haneke

Cast: Daniel Auteuil (Georges Laurent), Juliette Binoche (Anne Laurent), Maurice Bénichou (Majid), Lester Makedonsky (Pierrot Laurent), Walid Afkir (Majid’s son), Annie Girardot (Georges’s mother), Daniel Duval (Pierre), Bernard Le Coq (Georges’s boss), Nathalie Richard (Mathilde)

Is any film more aptly named than Caché? Haneke’s film keeps its cards so close to its chest, it’s entirely possible revelations remain hidden within it in plain sight. Caché famously ends with a final shot where a possibly crucial meeting between two people we’ve no reason to suspect know each other plays out in the frame so subtly many viewers miss it. It shows how Haneke’s work rewards careful, patient viewing (and Caché is partially about the power of watching and being watched), but also how unknowable the past can be. It’s a chilling and engrossing film that fascinates but never fully reveals itself.

Georges Laurent (Daniel Auteuil) lives a life of success. A wealthy background, host of a successful TV literary debate show and living in an affluent suburb of Paris, he’s married to publisher Anne (Juliette Binoche) and father to young champion swimmer Pierrot (Lester Makedonsky). But there’s a serpent in his Garden of Eden. Georges and Anne are plagued by a stream of videos arriving at their house. These show long, static shots of their home and are accompanied by crude, graphic drawings. Someone is watching their house and the dread that this could escalate at any time is consuming them. But does Georges know more – do the messages chime with guilty memories in his past?

Haneke’s film is a multi-layered masterpiece, a haunting exploration (free of clear answers) into the things we prefer to forget, the hidden horrors we supress. It’s a film all about the shame and guilt buried amongst the everyday. Haneke even shoots the film on hi-definition video so that the surveillance footage of Georges and his home visually merges with the ‘real’ images of the couple. Within that, Caché starts to unpack the hinterland we hold as individuals (and, quite possibly as entire nations) of the guilts of our past that keep bubbling to the surface to bite us.

Caché is shot through with Haneke’s genius for menace and veiled threat. Can you imagine anything creepier than a camera set up outside your home, filming everything you do – but never knowing where it is? It’s an invasion of privacy that is insidious and covered in the additional menace that, at any time, it could escalate to something worse. The creeping, invasive tyranny of surveillance is in every inch of Caché, its omnipresence giving every interaction the feeling of being watched (something Haneke plays up – watch a man watching Anne when she sits in a café with a friend).

So gradually the book-lined world of the Laurents becomes a base under siege, a feeling amplified by Haneke’s mix of smooth camera movements adrift from establishing shots: constantly the camera glides through a space where we feel we neither truly understand the geography or are confident about the time. It’s accentuated by the window-free room the Laurents largely inhabit. In fact, their whole home feels window free, with curtains frequently drawn and rooms plunged into darkness, the family throwing up a shield to protect them from the outside world.

Or is it to cut them off from the unpleasant facts of life? It becomes clear Georges has built a world around himself, where he is the hero and all traces of the unpleasant or disreputable in his past have been dismissed to the dark recesses of memory, never to be accessed. Played with a bull-headed arrogance by Daniel Auteuil, under his assurance Georges is prickly and accusatory, liable to lash out verbally (and perhaps physically, considering the threat he carries in two key scenes). Auteuil masters in the little moments of startled panic and stress that cross Georges’ face, a man so used to a world that matches his needs, that anything questioning that is met with rejection.

It’s why he lies to Anne about his growing suspicions about the source of the tapes. The cartoons hint at a series of (deeply shameful) interactions, when he was a child in the 60s, with a young Algerian boy, Majid, who his parents considered adopting after the death of Majid’s parents. It was Georges lies that forced this boy out of his perfect farm-house into the cold-arms of the unfeeling French orphanage system. This is the original sin of Georges’ life, arguably the foundation of his success – a guilty secret that so haunts and disgusts him, even the slightest mention of it brings out the muscular aggression he otherwise keeps below the surface.

Of course, it’s hard not to see an echo of France’s colonial past. One of the things that works so well with Caché, is that this subtext is there without Haneke ever stressing it. Just as Georges’ lies forced Majid into a life of depression and misery, so France’s treatment of Algeria is the terrible shame the nation would rather forget. Majid’s parents died in a famously brutal stamping out of an Algerian protest in Paris in October 1961 (the deaths of over 200 people at the hands of French government forces only came to light decades later). The anger many show when presented with inconvenient, horrible past deeds (both personal and national), only feels more relevant today with our culture battles over history.

Georges sees himself as a victim of a vicious campaign. But, when Georges meets Majid, played with startling vulnerability by Maurice Bénichou, he seems light years away from the sort of man who could possibly be capable of such a campaign. Indeed, when a video of Georges encounter with Majid is widely shared, it is Georges (as even he admits) who appears the bully and aggressor. Majid has been demonised in Georges’ memory – in his nightmare he becomes an axe-wielding monster-child – but he’s an innocent, who had everything taken from him in a micro-colonialist coup carried out by a 6-year-old Georges. A coup the adult Georges has let himself forget, making him little different from France itself. (We are reminded the cycle continues, with constant background news footage of Iraq, ignored by the Laurents.)

The mistakes repeat themselves, but they don’t trouble the complacent middle-classes who benefit from them. Georges will even use his influence to have Majid and his son bundled into a police van. Of course it leads to an outburst that will shake this world up. Haneke’s films have always been realistic when it comes to the visceral horror of violence, and Caché contains an act of such shocking violence that it will leave the viewer as speechless and distressed as the witnesses.

And still the question hangs: who? It could be anyone. At one-point Georges storms out of his front door to confront the mystery video-sender, only to return to find a video wedged in the door. It’s literally impossible for this video to be placed without him seeing it done. Haneke is so uninterested in the whodunnit part that, perhaps, he’s implying the perpetrator is the director himself, using the mechanics of film-making to entrap the guilty parties. It fits with the coldly intellectual steel-trap part of Haneke’s mind, the part that uses films (like Funny Games) to tell off and preach. What other director would be more likely to set himself up as unseen antagonist in the film?

And does Georges learn anything? He will continue to confront characters who challenge his world view and dispatch (like nations) his guilt to the recesses of memory. His begrudging peace with his wife – a superbly restrained Juliette Binoche, increasingly resentful at her husband’s secrets – seems built on the shaky ground of their continuing mutual comfort. And suspicions linger over his son, an increasingly hostile figure who (just perhaps) is learning more about the flaws of his parents than they would be comfortable with.

Of course, this might all be open to interpretation from multiple angles. After all the film is called Caché. Haneke has hidden enough subtle implications in it that it can reward analysis from multiple angles. Shot with his characteristic discipline that suggests a dark, creeping fear behind every corner, it’s a masterclass in suggestion and paranoia. Brilliantly unsettling and constantly reworking itself before your eyes, it’s a masterpiece.

The Killer (2023)

Fincher’s lean, spare film is a perfectly constructed thriller and an intriguing character study

Director: David Fincher

Cast: Michael Fassbender (The Killer), Tilda Swinton (The Expert), Charles Parnell (The Lawyer), Arliss Howard (The Client), Kerry O’Malley (Dolores), Sophie Charlotte (Magdala), Emiliano Pernia (Marcus), Gabriel Polanco (Leo), Sala Baker (The Brute)

A man sits in monastic silence, starring out of a window at the best hotel in Paris that money can buy. He moves only to sleep, exercise with a monotonous rigour and consume a carefully calculated daily calorie amount from McDonalds. He wears gloves all the time, never moves from the sheeting he lays across surfaces and sometimes assembles and reassembles his rifle. He’s a nameless hitman for hire (Michael Fassbender) and a freak accident on this job will shatter his world of pristine order and leave him hunted by his employers and on a campaign of revenge to guarantee his safety.

The Killer is a lean, slimmed-down thriller full of Fincher’s love for procedure and detail, that delights in every beat of its detailed look at how a professional killer might go about his daily business. Be it lock-ups crammed with mountains of equipment, from guns to false number plates and endless zip-bound folders of fake IDs (all using character names from 70s and 80s TV shows) to the practised ease with which he penetrates even the the highest security building with an Amazon purchased card copier and light-fingered pick-pocketing. All of it assembled with Fincher’s pin-point precision and clockwork eye for detail.

On the surface, you might expect The Killer to be a sort of twist on Le Samouri, Melville’s look at a zen-like hitman. The Killer seems to fit much of the bill. Embodied with an athletic suppleness by Fassbender (his body seems to be almost elastic in the parade of physical stretches and exercises he performs, not to mention the fingertip press-ups he relentlessly pumps his whipper-thin body through). But Fincher gives us a seemingly never-ending insight into the Killer’s inner-mind, via a prolonged (near continuous) monologue of his inner thoughts, ideologies and mantras that dominate much of the film (the first twenty minutes plays out in near on-screen silence, just watching Fassbender and listening to his voiceover).

What’s fascinating is this interior monologue is only a shade away from a stream of corporate middle-management think. (It’s even implied the Killer was originally recruited while training as a lawyer). There are mantras with the air of an assassin’s version of positive thinking (“Stick to your plan. Anticipate, don’t improvise. Trust no one. Never yield an advantage. Fight only the battle you’re paid to fight.”) and passive-aggressive demands to hit a personal standard (“Forbid empathy. Empathy is weakness. Weakness is vulnerability.”). Far from the glamour of an unknowable force acting to a mystical code, this Killer sounds alarmingly similar to a self-doubting white-collar worker using Sun Tze to plan out his pitch meetings.

Beneath the sheen of Fincher’s beautifully dark film, is the suggestion we are watching a character study of a man perhaps only partially aware that his life, and his inner picture of who he is, is falling apart. For starters, despite his mantra of perfection and continued assurance of ‘every detail covered’ and ‘every angle anticipated’, our Killer makes a host of errors. Almost everything we see him do goes wrong in some-way: from that initial hit that takes out the wrong target, to stabbings that leave victims bleeding out faster than he intended, doses of knock-out drunks that are incorrectly calculated, house invasions that fail to surprise the victim… The mantra is clearly an ideal not quite a reality and the Killer’s greatest strength actually turns out to be his ability to improvise in unexpected circumstances.

In addition, for all he maintains he acts only professionally and things are never personal, the entire film chronicles a campaign of revenge in which he takes out a host of targets for personal reasons. The idea of the killer as a man separate from connections is already shattered from his obvious distress, returning to his home in the Dominican Republic after his botched hit, to find his girlfriend seriously assaulted and hospitalised. Michael Fassbender’s mastery of micro-features throughout the film, suggests waves of doubt and insecurity flooding behind the eyes of a man who has tried to master himself as an unfeeling violent limb of faceless masters.

As such, The Killer is a sort of pilgrim’s progress of a man discovering small, unexpected elements of himself while as impassively as possible knocking off anyone he considers a threat (effectively anyone who might know where he lives). No attempt is made in this to make the Killer entirely sympathetic – he ruthlessly kills at least one completely innocent person, and doesn’t hesitate to murder those he has identified, no matter how much he might sympathise with them.

But the monastic chill he aspires to is cracking. You can see it in his conversation with “The Expert” played with a mix of relish and resignation by Tilda Swinton. A professional killer like him, the Expert has not let this stand in the way of “a normal” life outside her trade. She’s married, is a popular regular at a posh restaurant and has achieved a level of compartmentalism the Killer can only dream of. Is the envy and self-doubt in his eyes as he listens to her emotionally articulate reflection on the life they have chosen?

Fincher’s film quietly explores this alongside some skilfully assembled sequences. In many ways the film mirrors its lead character: limber, dedicated, obsessive, executing its sequences with clockwork exactitude and following a fit-bit like a metronome. But it’s also a dark character study of a man (perhaps) realising how empty he has made himself, drowning out doubts with the music of The Smiths. Fassbender is the perfect actor for this, few matching his skill to be both blank and overflowing with suppressed emotion at the same time.

It makes The Killer a fascinating film, a Fincher film that feels at first like a minor work but offers more and more depths for reflection. On one level an auteur John Wick, which brilliantly outlines each trick of its expert lead character. On another level, a sort of dark character study of a man in the midst of an epic breakdown, falling back on mantras and mottos, processing his doubts and guilt through the only thing he really knows how to do: kill people.

Sansho the Bailiff (1954)

Mizoguchi’s masterpiece, a stirring, humane fable tinged with the tragedy of the real world

Director: Kenji Mizoguchi

Cast: Kinuyo Tanaka (Tamaki), Kyōko Kagawa (Anju), Eitarō Shindō (Sanshō the bailiff), Yoshiaki Hanayagi (Zushiō), Ichirō Sugai (Minister of Justice Niō), Ken Mitsuda (Fujiwara no Morozane), Masahiko Tsugawa (Zushiō as a Boy), Masao Shimizu (Taira no Masauji), Chieko Naniwa (Ubatake), Kikue Mori (Priestess), Akitake Kōno (Tarō), Ryōsuke Kagawa (Donmyō Ritsushi)

You could imagine the lead characters of Sansho the Bailiff as Hansel and Gretel. There is a fairy tale quality to Sansho the Bailiff, combined beautifully by Mizoguchi with a throbbing humanism. Imagine a fairy tale named after The Wicked Witch of the Gingerbread House then spliced with the trauma of captivity. Mizoguchi’s film is a gorgeous, deeply moving and heartbreaking fable, that yearns for us to hold to our inner goodness but shows the terrible struggle to sustain this in a cruel world and the terrible costs we go through for glimmers of hope.

Based on an old Japanese folktale, an eleventh century feudal official is unjustly dispatched into exile. He leaves his family with a mantra: “without mercy, man is a beast. Even if you are hard on yourself, be merciful to others.” A few years later, while travelling, his wife Tamaki (Kinuyo Tanaka) and children are tricked and sold into slavery. Tamaki becomes a prostitute on the island of Sado, her children slaves on the estate of the brutal Sansho (Eitarō Shindō). As young adults, the son Zushiō (Yoshiaki Hanayagi) has buried his humanity as a cruel overseer but his sister Anju (Kyōko Kagawa) still clings to hope and her father’s principles. Can Zushiō’s principles be reborn, despite the brutality of their surroundings?

Mizoguchi’s film is a masterpiece on man’s capability to inflict suffering and cruelty, most particularly on women. Although full of qualities of a classic folk tale, Sansho the Bailiff is grimly realistic and unflinching about the suffering that slavery can inflict and remarkably unblinking in the human cost escaping from such a world can be. There are no fairy tale endings in Sansho, no clear victories, no satisfying conclusions. For every flash of hope, there is the grim realisation of the cost others have paid to achieve it. In particular, women carry an appalling burden of sacrifice.

The family is cruelly invaded in Sansho suffering a double separation – first the other members from the father, then the wrenching separation of mother from children. Shot throughout with a calmly controlled focus by Mizoguchi, with long takes combined with carefully controlled angles that frequently give a terrible distance to events, making the viewer feel powerless to prevent them. Tamika – played with extraordinary humanity and depth of emotion by Kinuyo Tanaka – suddenly understands what is happening and responds with a desperate struggle (which sees her faithful servant unceremoniously dumped off a boat to drown) while her children struggle hopelessly on land. Superbly subtle editing and framing that stresses distance (placing mother and children at opposing ends of the frame in alternate shots) only add to the sense of a family being torn apart.

This is as nothing to the grim world of Sansho’s estate. Slaves who do not work are beaten. The children are thrown into a shack and bluntly told to work or die. Anyone attempting to escape the estate is brutally branded. Old retainers at the end of their working life are expelled to die in the hills. Even Sansho’s son Tarō (Akitake Kōno) can’t bear life on the estate, refusing to brand recaptured slaves (much to the contempt of his father) and leaving for a life as a priest. Mizoguchi wants to show us a world where humanity has no concern for its brothers and sisters. Later we will see no one in power really gives a damn about the morality of estates like Sansho.

In this environment, the son gives up and makes the sacrifices he needs to survive. He becomes dead-inside, forgetting his father’s words and killing his humanity, the man Tarō refused to be. He will brand a recaptured slave (an old man who welcomed him on his arrival years ago) without a second glance. Yoshiaki Hanayagi’s eyes are dead, his spirit a curled animal which has forgotten itself. It’s his sister Anju, beautifully played with sensitivity and hope by Kyōko Kagawa, who clings to their past life and the belief that they can return to it.

To make that return, it’s Anju who will make terrible sacrifices. Sansho the Bailiff is awash with the cost of the world’s cruelty and lack of humanity on women. Tamika is torn from her children, her faithful servant drowned. On Sado, Tamika’s desperate attempt to escape and find her children sees her dragged back to the brothel and hamstrung to prevent her trying again. The dream of seeing her children again – captured in a beautiful sequence as she hobbles to the top of a cliff and sings notes of her sad song of longing for her children – becomes almost a curse, a continual beating on a bruise that will never heal, a longing others will taunt her with.

Memory lies through Sansho the Bailiff like a golden thread. Moments of quiet nature remind Tamika of her husband. His words will be constantly repeated by his family, the last-remaining link to an old life and principles that feel impossible to sustain in their new one. To close your mind to memory and the past, as Zushiō does, is to kill part of yourself. Tamika’s song of yearning is a new memory link. These memory links are strong – they have to be to try and sustain us.

And the words of her song travel. A new slave in the estate speaks of the sad song, to Anju’s delight – finally contact of a sort with her mother. In a moment of magical spiritualism, the words Tamika sang on the cliff seems to travel across the wind to be heard by her children at their lowest point. Zushiō in particular seems to wake from a deep sleep, and suddenly finds the humanity he had so brutally repressed. Mizoguchi shoots these moments with the same affecting simplicity – but it’s that carefully composed, painterly minimalism that gives them such huge power.

This powerful minimalism is nowhere more effective than Anju’s supreme sacrifice (the fate of women in Mizoguchi’s world). Giving Zushiō the chance to escape, Anju becomes aware that torture for knowledge of where her brother went is inevitable. With serene certainty she walks into the river to drown herself, moving with a sense of freedom she has not known for years. In a single shot we see her walk until Mizoguchi cuts away then back to show bubbles calmly rising to the surface of the water. It is an act of love, stunningly simple and hugely moving – and apiece of a world where freedom and any trace of goodness can only come about through irreversible sacrifices.

Like a folk tale Zushiō is restored to his father’s office, but finds he can make few changes. Slavery is abolished at Sansho’s estate – but the system cannot really be changed. The slaves know this to – they take their chance to sack the estate, aware that fortune’s wheel could return them once again to servitude. Sansho learns nothing from the events, and the suspicion is the next governor will pardon him (after all he brings more revenue in than anyone else). Sansho is the real world and he is inescapable – so much so he even owns the name of a film in which he is a minor player.

It builds towards the final conclusion on a windswept beach, perhaps one of the most heart-rending moments on film. In a Western film, this would be a scene of joyful reconciliation in which two damaged people heal through sharing grief. Mizoguchi had lived through the horrors of war and knew this would have been a lie. Reuniting doesn’t wash away the pain or heal the wounds – physical or spiritual – and doesn’t change the world. It’s just two people on a beach, clawing towards a moment of peace in a difficult world.

Sansho the Bailiff is clear-eyed and realistic about a world where people hurt each other and care nothing. Told with a classic, artistic simplicity, it is both a deeply moving and deeply spiritual piece, a great humanistic artist making his ultimate statement on the nature of the world. An essential film.

Spellbound (1945)

Hitchcock dives into psychiatry with mixed success in a middle-brow effort

Director: Alfred Hitchcock

Cast: Ingrid Bergman (Dr Constance Petersen), Gregory Peck (Dr Edwardes/John Brown/John Ballantyne), Michael Chekhov (Dr Alexander Brulov), Leo G Carroll (Dr Murchison), Rhonda Fleming (Mary Carmichael), John Emery (Dr Fleurot), Norman Lloyd (Mr Garmes)

Spellbound was born out of Selznick’s faith in the magic of psychiatry. It opens with a touchingly naïve dedication that stresses a little touch of Freud is a magic bullet: “once the complexes that have been disturbing the patient are uncovered and interpreted, the illness and confusion disappear and the devils of unreason are driven from the human soul”. Oh, would that it was so easy. Spellbound turns psychiatry as a sort of detective game, the subconscious a sort of smorgasbord of clues that, when shuffled into the correct order, will produce the answer.

The mystery is what exactly has happened to the new head of Green Manors Psychiatric Hospital, Dr Edwardes, here to replace the not-exactly-happy-to-retire Dr Murchison (Leo G Carroll)? The man who has arrived claiming to be Edwardes (Gregory Peck) may be charming but his odd obsessions with dark parallel markings on white surfaces, tendency to faint and lack of familiarity with psychiatry in general raise suspicions. Dr Constance Petersen (Ingrid Bergman), leading light of the Hospital, deduces Edwardes or “JB” as he vaguely remembers his initials being, is suffering from guilt-induced amnesia. Petersen refuses to believe – despite mounting evidence – that this man she has fallen in love with could be a killer. On the run, she recruits her old mentor Dr Brulov (Michael Chekov) to help analyse JB’S dreams, convinced the answer to the mystery is there.

Selznick hired his psychiatrist to act as a consultant on the film. This didn’t matter that much to Hitchcock, who considered the film essentially another murder-mystery thriller with a bit of Freudian dressing and bluntly told the advisor at one point when she protested yet another inaccuracy “my dear, it’s only a movie”. Spellbound is a decent, mid-level Hitchcock effort, with a touch or two of the master’s invention and magic, but which slows down for an extended act three analysis scene crammed with dodgy psychiatry and a detailed Salvador Dali-inspired dream sequence.

Of course, no one watching the film (rather like Cary Grant in Suspicion) could ever believe for a minute that the charming, handsome Gregory Peck is actually a murderer. Hitchcock’s trick is to keep the tension up, since (at best) there are only two suspects (and only one of them has a heavily advertised motive). You could argue here the trick is a “howdunnit” rather than a “who”. What mystery is Peck holding in his head and why can’t he remember who he is? Hitchcock throws in a host of little flourishes to keep us guessing, and if he clearly cares very little about Freudian insight (just as well, imagine the field day Freud would have had with Hitch) that hardly seems to matter.

Spellbound still manages to fairly barrel along, with a sparky script by Ben Hecht interweaving screwball banter between Peck and Bergman with cod-psychiatry. Hitchcock lets most of this play out fairly traditionally, but punctuates it with moments of flair. An early romance dialogue takes place in voiceover over a series of shots of doors opening to reveal a never-ending corridor (a neat visual metaphor for delving inside the mind). A tracking shot on a disturbed Peck down a flight of stairs, focuses on a cut-throat razor in his hand, ending with the razor alarmingly large in-shot. Disturbing POV shots make objects appear ultra-large, from a glass of milk (echoes of Suspicion) to a gun barrel turned to face us at the film’s conclusion. All of this is accompanied by an excellent score by Miklos Rosza which brings together romantic strings and the theremin to suggest the unsettling undercurrents of the subconscious. Rosza, rightly, won an Oscar for his hugely atmospheric work.

Spellbound is also notable for the way it inverts gender expectations. Peck effectively plays the damsel-in-distress here. Vulnerable and scared about what he could do, he lapses into catatonic panicked silence as much as smooth banter. Instead, for all the film stresses her feminine weakness when in love, it’s Dr Petersen who is the protagonist here. Played with a relaxed authority by Bergman, Constance is an assured professional and a dedicated campaigner for the truth. It’s she who constantly drives the plot forward and its her who plays both doctor and detective to crack the case and confront (with an assured coolness) the killer.

Hitchcock’s film provides a subtle commentary on the experience of women. Searching for JB in a hotel lobby, Petersen is first pestered by a drunk traveller who drunkenly all-but calls her a cock-tease when she asks him to leave her alone. Even when saved from an unpleasant scene by a hotel detective, he assumes her to be a schoolteacher or governess, and Petersen immediately recognises that disguising her accomplishments is a perfect way to gain this would-be-saviour’s help. Petersen also has to shrug off the pestering attentions of a colleague (John Emery).

But it’s her who eventually deduces the meaning of JB’s dream. This dream was heavily promoted as the work of Salvador Dali. While full of striking imagery, it feels more like a pastiche of Dali, as if a Hollywood art director threw The Persistence of Memory and Eyes for Your Eyes at the wall see what stuck. Which is pretty much what happened: Dali’s work was largely discarded for being too weird and overlong and William Cameron Menzies was bought into create something in Dali’s style. Selznick hardly cared – what mattered was promoting the Dali collaboration (Hitchcock had little to do with the scene, until it drew praise and he then claimed authorship).

It’s another striking moment in Spellbound. But truthfully the film is a careful construction of striking moments and performances, which power a simplistic and unrealistic plot which relies on coincidence and bizarre logic gaps. Psychiatry is a magic bullet – it’s hard to imagine anyone in real life reacting with the sort of glee JB does here when he discovers he didn’t murder his brother in his childhood, only accidentally fatally impaled him on some railings outside his house. The “revelations” from the analysis takes an over-extended single session with the unconscious yielding a series of Agatha Christie-style clues.

But then that fits Spellbound in the tradition of Hollywood psychiatry, from this to Ordinary People to Good Will Hunting, a touch of confession on a couch eventually solves all problems (all the kissing Peck gets from Bergman – which didn’t stop off camera – also clearly helped). Hitchcock’s work here is professional, but middlebrow. However, the odd imaginative shot, and the impressive performances (Bergman, Peck and also famous acting-coach Michael Chekov, immensely playful and Oscar-nominated as Constance’s cuddly mentor) still make this an entertaining watch.

Killers of the Flower Moon (2023)

Scorsese tries to tell an Indigenous story – but from the persecutor’s perspective

Director: Martin Scorsese

Cast: Leonardo DiCaprio (Ernest Burkhart), Robert De Niro (William King Hale), Lily Gladstone (Mollie Kyle), Jesse Plemons (Thomas Bruce White), Tantoo Cardinal (Lizzie Q), John Lithgow (Peter Leaward), Brendan Fraser (WS Hamilton), Cara Jade Myers (Anna Brown), JaNae Collins (Reta), Jillian Dion (Minnie), Jason Isbell (Bill Smith), Louis Cancelmi (Kelsie Morrison), William Belleau (Henry Roan)

In the 19^th century, the American government forcibly shifted Indigenous nations from their rich, fertile lands to unwanted backwater reservations. The Osage nation was moved from Missouri to Oklahoma, land no-one wanted… Until oil was discovered there in the early 20th century. Suddenly hugely rich, the Osage nation’s land once again became the focus of white Americans, as keen to dispossess these Indigenous people as they were in the last century. This ruthless grab of oil rights – and the brutal exploitation and murder of dozens of Osage people – is the theme of Scorsese’s epic Killers of the Flower Moon.

Ernest Buckhart (Leonardo DiCaprio) returns from war service (as a cook) to live with his uncle William King Hale (Robert De Niro) in Oklahoma. Hale lives on a ranch in the heart of reservation country and has built himself a powerful local presence by acting as benefactor of the Osage people. But Hale is, in fact, a ruthless sociopath who smiles cheerily at his neighbours, while plotting ceaselessly to steal their oil rights. Hale persuades Buckhart to marry Mollie Kyle (Lily Gladstone), whose family own headrights. While the gullible and easily-led Buckhart truly loves Mollie, he also willingly takes an active part for years in Hale’s schemes to murder the rest of Mollie’s family, so that their oil rights will collect with Mollie – and, in effect, with Hale.

Scorsese’s film is certainly a rich tapestry, but also a curiously mixed viewing experience. It feels at times like what it is – a film that dramatically changed its focus several times during its development, eventually reaching towards bringing the Indigenous experience to the screen, only to find that reach exceeding its grasp. The original book by David Grann focused on the FBI investigation into the crimes with DiCaprio originally set to play FBI investigator White (now played by Jesse Plemons). DiCaprio instead was drawn to the role of Buckhart, with the film repositioned to focus on the killers rather than the investigators or victims. During Scorsese’s extensive work with the Osage nation, the filmmaker became increasingly compelled by the exploitation of the Indigenous people.

Watching the film, it feels like a late swerve in focus Scorsese isn’t quite able to deliver on. However, some of the film’s most compelling content is its commentary on the Indigenous experience and the brutal exploitation and murders by a white community that sees the Osage people as second-class human beings. As a sort of twisted natural progression from encroaching on land a hundred years ago, people like Hale talk of marrying into Indigenous families, breeding out the blood and turning these communities into extensions of their own white families so they can control their wealth.

Over the course of the film, Scorsese carefully shows community gatherings becoming more and more dominated by white faces. Even tribal functions and ceremonies become awash with white faces, staring on with paternalistic, unfeeling smiles. From an early montage of Indigenous people enjoying their unexpected wealth (in a mix of historical and recreations photos and film stock), we progress ever more sharply into seeing whites take over. These fall into two firm categories: Masonic pinstripe types who stick together to cover-up crimes, and trailer trash and inept lesser-family members who are farmed out like cattle to soak up Osage wealth.

Scorsese’s film doesn’t shirk from depicting the casual racism of this community. A KKK march heads through the town. When Hale attends the cinema, he first sees newsreel footage of the Tulsa massacre then The Birth of the Nation. A montage of suspicious Osage deaths is marked by a Mollie voiceover stressing the lack of investigation. Osage oil owners are dispatched with increasing blatantness, as pretence of staged suicides and accidents degenerates into shootings, executions and finally bombs. Hale rants about the need to “take back control” and coldly states that they can escape any retribution because, fundamentally, no one cares or will remember.

But yet… this is still a film where we see a traumatic event happen to a group, but which focuses overwhelmingly on the perpetrators rather than the victims. I find myself agreeing with one reviewer that it feels at times like Get Out, told from the perspective of the white people. Scorsese’s film’s main beat feels like regret and guilt and perhaps what it needed was anger. For all its noble efforts, it’s hard to escape the fact that Mollie is the only Osage character in its epic runtime who is made to feel like a character, and she remains a person things happen to. The other Osage characters are, by and large, victims – Mollie’s sisters or William Belleau as Hale’s drunken, depressed neighbour – people who pop up in order to be dispatched.

I was reminded somewhat of The Searchers. In 1956, a film that criticised a John Wayne hero as an unpleasant racist was a big statement – but in a film where the Indigenous characters were still faceless nobodies, villains or comic relief. It’s similar here: Killers of the Flower Moon shows us the vileness of its white villains, but doesn’t really give us a full Indigenous perspective. And it feels, in 2023, we should do better. Even the impact and workings of reservations, land displacements and white-guardians isn’t explained in the film. Gladstone is marvellous – her eyes are full of suppressed pain, suspicion, fury and glimmers of the possibilities of forgiveness – but her character remains somewhat of a cipher, never quite receiving the exploration the killers of her family receive.

It feels like a realisation made during the filming, but without the time to deliver (after all the stars are playing the killers). Scorsese gives two beautiful Osage-themed bookends (and his carefulness around avoiding cultural appropriation is to be applauded), but the Osage themselves become passengers in their own story, allowed only a few brief moments to protest or express their anger. In a film that stretches over 200 leisurely minutes, more really should have been done.

Saying that, the film is blessed with two wonderful performances by Di Caprio and De Niro. DiCaprio, his mouth stuffed with rotten teeth, his body stumbling from scene-to-scene, expertly walks a tightrope between weakling and coward. Does he realise the moral morass he has climbed into? Or does he not care? How does he manage the mental gymnastics of plotting the deaths of his wife and her family and yet also convince himself that he is protecting her? It’s a fascinating performance. De Niro gives his greatest performance in 25 years as a polite, gentle man who warmly means every word of his friendliness but is also capable of acts of shocking murder and violence towards ‘his friends’ without even batting an eyelid. De Niro’s avuncular presence chills noticeably over the course of the film, brilliantly letting the egotistical dark heart leak out into the surface.

There is a lot to respect about Scorsese’s film, not least the way the late Robbie Robertson’s heartbeat-inspired score constantly creates an air of menace. It’s beautifully filmed – even if it is incredibly stately in its huge runtime – and it’s trying, very hard, to address an under-addressed issue in American culture. But it fumbles the ball because, for all its good intent, it still tells the story of an Indigenous group through the eyes of white people. Worse – their white persecutors. A braver, better (and shorter) film would have centred Gladstone’s Mollie rather than making her, at times, a passenger on a very long ride. Killers of the Flower Moon strains to make amends to Indigenous Americans – but instead it feels like a long guilt-trip for its white film-makers.