AhmedSpielberg99

Ever since premiering at Sundance film festival to rave reviews, I've been looking forward to CODA but have always kept my expectations in check. CODA is a coming-of-age story sees Ruby (played by Emilia Jones in one of the best performances this year), a girl with a penchant for singing, grappling with chasing her dreams while helping her deaf family which she happens to be the only hearing member in. The story is nothing special, and the film itself is anything but groundbreaking. Rather, it's one that thrives off of its simplicity from which it yields enriching subtlety.

For starters, the family dynamic is priceless. Whether they're squabbling or having a laugh, their interactions with each other are like quickfire repartees that have you transfixed while at play, and are sunk in as soon as they end. The humour in this movie originally generates either from how crude and blunt Ruby's family is (more on that later) or from the complexity of non-verbal communication. Yet, the movie never looks down at deaf people or even regards them patronizingly, and each time we spend some moments with the family makes this more and more evident. Does the same go for the family itself and each member of it? And are they perfectly imperfect as they seem? Not really.

As the family has its own identity, each character has its own individual personality and unique mannerisms, too. And it's here where we get to see through the cracks in each one of them. Ruby is the one who communicates with them and the sign-language interpreter and mediator between them and the townspeople. Ironically, none of her family members is able to properly communicate their feelings to Ruby herself, the thing that made her dilemma more and more perplexing and befuddling.

Ruby's brother, Leo (Daniel Durant), grows tired of people regarding him and his parents as 'disabled'. He feels that he's seen as helpless and "freak" - as one once called him before getting into a bar brawl. That feeling is further amplified when he realises how much they rely on his sister to be their connection to the outside world. As a consequence, he puts the blame on Ruby because he feels that he lives under her sister's shadow, let alone she's his younger sibling. In his heart, however, he loves his sister dearly. And after knowing of her talent, he becomes worried her potential might go to waste as a result of staying with them forever instead of pursuing her passion.

As for the mother, Jackie (Marlee Matlin), things are much more complicated. She bans Ruby from listening to music while they're at the table because that's 'rude' since it's not something "(they) all can do together," and she's frustrated at learning she joined the school choir. Later on, she's desperate to do anything to stop her from heading off to the music school because that way they'd lose their only 'interpreter' they can't afford to keep their fishing business afloat. Thus, her actions and intentions seem to be solely based on the family's business' interests with a total disregard to Ruby's. She comes across as exploitative, and also as someone who clearly sees deafness as a deficiency that the whole family must suffer from. That said, it's revealed that all that has something to do with her past, which I'm not going to spoil but it shows how much Jackie's actually concerned about her relationship with her daughter.

However, it's not only about her family, as Ruby herself has her own internal conflict and restrictions that she's built for herself - unwillingly, of course. On the face of it, she's ashamed of her family because of how shamelessly frank they are, especially her father (Troy Kotsur), who legitimately got Ruby in some awkwardly embarrassing situations. On closer inspection, though, we see she's learned to adopt a new persona at school over the years because 'sounding like a deaf person' made her classmates make fun of her. Unfortunately, she learned to be normal by being different, only to become diffident. The whole thing about her inspiring, eccentric music teacher (Eugenio Derbez) telling her that her problem is that she's "holding her voice," as though she's suppressing it, is a metaphor for her true self and identity she's been nearly stripped of unconsciously, whether because she's confined to her familial obligation or to avoid feelings of inadequacy and mortification.

"The stars here, they don't look as good as they do on the water." The second half of CODA is undeniably the weakest. As I mentioned earlier, the story itself is pretty formulaic, with its ups and downs, romantic storyline that slipped into cliché territory before even we're halfway through, and 'too-good-to-be-true' moments by the end. Nevertheless, CODA overflows with emotional beats that are bound to melt even the stony hearts, which the second half, in particular, is replete with. I mean, I almost teared up in three scenes! If that doesn't eclipse its shortcomings I don't know what does. It's not a film about hearing or deafness per se, but rather about the expression of inner feelings suppressed by circumstances, and by doing so it sets itself apart from your conventional inspirational films about finding your voice and following your dreams, despite conforming to their exact same formula. Sweet, tender and earnest, CODA is a crowd-pleaser and one of the biggest surprises of the year.

After his father abandoned him, 11-year-old Cyril has his life put into a tailspin. The story starts off as he keeps relentlessly looking for his bike in hope it leads him to his estranged father. I loved how the Dardennes brothers deceived us into thinking that's how the film plays out for the rest of its runtime. It seemed to me that Cyril will just keep on trying to find his father endlessly to no avail. It turns out, however, that's only how the first third of the film is. But, and to Cyril's dismay, his father wants a new life without him as he think he couldn't manage to take care of his child, having seeing him now as a burden. From that point the plot kicks off. From the first scene where he's determined to call his father despite the phone being out-of-service, Thomas Doret is absolutely brilliant as Cyril as he's trying to be in denial of the fact his father moved away. Then, the news came to forlorn Cyril as a shock, and one could tell he's acting out like a brat lest he gets attached to anyone else, first and foremost his caretaker Samantha (Cécile de France) who's the only person who seems to really care about him and worry about his wellbeing.

Cyril saw Samantha as a mother figure; one who's worthy of trusting and who seems ready to contain him, but that's exactly the problem. Hearing the very person whom he depends upon for his survival, distancing himself from him for good. How traumatising that must be for a child; how his sense of self-worth would implode. So, it makes perfect sense Cyril would do his utmost to not have his heart shattered again by someone like his father. I imagine a different or, say, a parallel trajectory to Cyril's story: his pain would be too great, too huge to feel and he would end up repressing it. Over time, he would dissociate the roots of his trauma, but one day he'd visit that pent-up rage upon anyone who's in the place of his father, so long as he himself would be out-of-reach at that point. Luckily, and comparatively, Cyril is a freewheeling and spontaneous kind of a kid - he's 'The Kid with a Bike.' Cyril's rage is instantly let loose. While that's entailed tragic consequences, which the film painfully chronicles, I think they're, more or less, told as a chapter in Cyril's life that's due to take its course to teach him a lesson, and the narrative being registered as a karmic playback asserts this point to a considerable extent.

Similar to what the Dardennes have done with Sandra (Marion Cotillard) in Two Days, One Night, opting for a narrow focus on the Cyril for almost the entire film makes for a thoroughly engaging and affecting experience without diminishing the significance the secondary characters bear. The Dardennes' sensitive direction explores the touchy subject matter with an empathetic simplicity. It's a film full of nuances you can't help but wonder how accurately in its depiction of a child's trauma. Just keep an eye on how Cyril perceives every shock in his devastating life. Also, similar to said film, the handheld cam is used to lend this film a realistic sense, but is chiefly used here to ratchet up the tension after Cyril gets embroiled in a precarious world rife with crime and exploitation. I have no idea why it's taken me so long to check out another Dardennes' film since I adored Two Days, One Night. Plus, this one centres around a boy neglected by his father and having a hard time coping with that new life of his, and a film of that kind is right up my alley. Glad I finally get to around to seeing it nonetheless, and man did I like it! Aside from a few feel-good bromides one expects to find in a story with a moral value like this, The Kid with a Bike is nearly perfect in my book.

Chinese Roulette is a film fraught with cruelty and downright evil, lurking beneath sinister grins and betrayed by disconcerting laughs, waiting to be inflicted on everyone. Revolving around a married couple who are both having affairs, it's also a film of fraudulence and dishonesty. Just like Frau Kast's reaction after seeing the beggar who's been pretending to be blind all along taking off his glasses, the couple's, Kolbe and Ariane, reaction at seeing each other with their respective lovers is laughter; just jarring laughter, followed by silence and awkward intimacy. Then, themes of questionable and twisted morality are on full display, as we see Fassbinder toying with our views of what's right and wrong regarding fractured marriage and infidelity, while instilling it with a provocatively dark comedic tone in the process.

Michael Ballhaus's camera constantly moves around people, going to and fro and switching the perspectives between them. Often through over-the-shoulder shots, which are predominantly used throughout, we see the four characters perceive each other's feelings while their minds concurrently preoccupied by the same thoughts and concerns. In a Persona-like style, Michael Ballhaus' blocking uses the profile of one actor to cut off the other, so that each two actors of the four seem to occupy the same space at the same time. We also get shots through glass and see-through objects, and doors unlocked or left ajar. Yet, and as Angela says, "Eavesdroppers often hear the false truth," what our characters see in, or hear about, each other couldn't be further from the truth, which is demonstrated by shallow, medium close-up shots, where a certain character is showcased in crisp focus and from the chest up, yet somewhat also noticeably distant.

"In their hearts, they blame me for their messed-up lives." In a world where love is neither important nor fulfilling, and marriage is as brittle as glass, it is hardly surprising that it has stony-hearted and awfully terrible parenting. The cheating spouses' daughter, Angela - who's disabled, walking with crutches - has one of the revoltingly cruelest mother-daughter relationships I've seen depicted in film. Nothing comes close to it save for the one in Autumn Sonata. However, in Bergman's film, mistreatment and neglect built up a charge over the years, exploding in the form of spitefully hurtful remarks, whereas here we're witnessing the build-up, displayed growing in silent insinuations, until eventually blowing up - at the wrong target. In the climactic protracted sequence of the titular guessing game, the film contorts itself into a game of allusions to the characters' identities. This is where the film is at its most suffocating and claustrophobic despite the plenty of room given to decipher each enigmatic character. Personally, I feel that what's revealed about them leaves much to be desired, but that's perhaps its intended purpose. Hence, the ambiguous ending.

It's insane how every main character in Chinese Roulette is hateful and despicable. Like, there's not a single one of them that could be called 'nice'. Nevertheless, it's easy to understand their deeds and comprehend their feelings. They feel like flawed, real people; incredibly horrible but real. Neither the husband nor the wife shows a visible sign of remorse whether towards one another or their daughter. Instead, they couldn't care less about any of these matters, and their actions appear to be solely driven by lust or unabashedly ruffling each other's feathers. Though undoubtedly a victim of a dysfunctional family and one whose only outlet to speak is through sign language with her governess, Trauntiz, Angela herself certainly ain't no angel. She even has some sort of a malevolent omniscient ability, enabling her to see through the rest of the characters and ultimately seems to have the upper hand on them. That's not mentioning there's a clear sense of creepiness about her, symbolised by her dolls. Kast is a cranky old woman confined to household chores who looks at anyone with a jaundiced eye, Gabriel Kast is a murky character trapped in adolescence and adulthood. He's the only one besides Angela, however, who seems to seek the truth, which explains the odd bond between the two of them.

Chinese Roulette is a bleak and distressing chamber piece that demands contemplation, but it's surprisingly accessible due to the stylish camera work and fleshed-out, if deliberately vague, characters. Set in a world of heinous people hiding their deep-rooted nastiness with lies and silence, the film shows an edifice of fascism of family, which they built, coming down upon them. Chinese Roulette also has a warped sense of humour at play, manifested in its absurdist undertones, and further reinforced by a light classical music. It's a film that doesn't stop at seeing the parents' failures paid for by the children, and decides to offer them a chance to revenge themselves in the most wicked of ways. Crude, cold and intellectual, my first Fassbinder sure won't be the last and most likely would serve as a springboard into his filmography.

Run Lola Run plays out like a race-against-time video game in which you have only one life, but every GAME OVER popping up on the screen propels you to keep trying again over and over. Lola tries to avoid making the same blunders. Luckily for her, every misstep, or every second went to waste because of giving in to her emotions, a slight temptation, or a force of habit, drifting her from focusing on making it to the end before it's too late, can be rectified later.

After her moped is stolen, Lola fails to pick up her boyfriend, Manni, a courier for a crime boss, who accidentally leaves 100,000 Deutschmarks on the subway, where it's stolen by a bum. Manni is dead if he doesn't bring it in, and Lola has only 20 minutes to raise that money for him. Otherwise, Manni would rob a grocery store near the phone booth he's hiding in.

"The ball is round, a game lasts 90 minutes, everything else is pure theory." Two things set this film apart for me. First, it's principally a film of small changes that cause larger consequences. Each time Lola bumps into someone, their life flashes before our eyes and we see how that a couple of centimetres alters the dynamic of people's lives drastically - for better or worse - à la butterfly effect. Thus, it's a film that rests upon a theoretical pillar, not an arbitrary one.

"Man... probably the most mysterious species on our planet. A mystery of unanswered questions." That said, it also acknowledges the mysterious and sophisticated nature of our feelings and, consequently, gives Lola and Manni more than one chance to shake off any qualms they have for one another regarding true love, devotion and fidelity. Actions speak louder than words, let alone when such actions are of 'fate-defying' proportions and those words are of ineffable emotions.

Running at a breakneck pace and merging multiple styles as diverse as animation and cinéma vérité, Run Lola Run is an adrenaline rush in every sense of the word that's cool and innovative in equal measure, and one that overflows with thematic significance, compressed into a compact 80-minute film. However, I think it would've benefited from a tad longer runtime to earn its weight.

A Short Film About Killing opens with three successive shots: a tree shadow obfuscating almost the entire frame save for a plate festering with cockroaches, half the screen black and the other half showing a dead rat lying in a swamp, and then a similar shot with a cat hanged by its neck while children in the background laughing and playing without even deigning to notice it. Cinematographer Idziak illustrates Warsaw in filthy sepia-drenched tones and obscures the edges of his camera lens with dark filters. And with that, Kieslowski plunges us into a world in which a happy smile is met with a cynical, judgmental sneering and seen as an anomaly, daubs and morasses of mud recur as images of normalcy, and cries for help are lost in the silence of passivity.

This is the world where our three characters live, with their lives more doomed than fated to intertwine. Both, the murderer, Jacek, and the victim, Waldemar, lead what are pretty much desultory lives. Jacek is presented as though he's a naughty child who obtains malicious joy at the expense of others. His acts show nothing but childish behaviour, with things similar to sticking gum at desks before leaving or indulging in silly acts of vandalism. But one can sense he does so out of misanthropic despair of human nature as well as a personal burden he carried with him through the years. Still, he seems to have just a hint of innocence as to be able to acknowledge the children around him, who are most likely foredoomed to the same fate. He also still has some memories to cling to, even though they're creased.

Something that piqued my interest is how Jacek and Waldemar are, more or less, two sides of the same coin. There's just a hair between the two. The stench of their sleazy world turned Jacek into an embittered teenager whereas it left its mark on Waldemar in the sense of corroding his soul, eroding his humanity, and leaving nothing but lustful impulses and sickening cynicism. As much as the minimalistic approach Kieslowski took here to condemn the societal environment depicted the three characters as clogs in a grinding machine, what's left from Jacek's tenderness proves there's still a glimmer of hope for humanity in spite of how things wind up for him. Moreover, there's yet even more hope when we consider the character of Piotr, the lawyer who's the only one who shows sympathy towards Jacek, even if it's too late. Accordingly, it's with him that Jacek felt like a child again.

If I can fault anything with A Short Film About Killing, it's that Kieslowski was blatantly manipulative in the final stretch of the film, raising as much sympathy as possible towards Jacek as he's about to meet his inexorable doom, and Zbigniew Preisner's affecting score amped up this feeling tenfold. Everything is impeccably pulled off, though, so I can partially look past that. A Short Film About Killing is grimy and brutal, and scenes detailing the murder and the execution will linger in my mind for years.

As an adaptation, this is quite faithful, only excising a couple of plot beats and characters, lending itself to a rendition heavily relying on repetition to accentuate its bizarrely and absurdly surreal nature. That definitely detracts from the overall flow of the film, but it more than makes up for it with an impressively tangible experience. It's still basically a world of make-believe, only ditching the hallucinogenic fantasy in favour of a more grounded one. A world of physical objects, tools and materials, all of which gives way to a far more relatable and accurate representation of a child's fears and relentless mindset. What if you found a foreign object (a sharp one) in your food, or when you're rummaging through a drawer? And the like of what might typified your silliest, or even irrational, fears as a kid. We also witness Alice (Kristýna Kohoutová) as she incessantly trying to make sense of all the nonsense; not of a Cheshire cat that appears and disappears out of thin air, but of everything her innocent mind fails to grasp, deconstructing what's (to her) unfathomable to its (seemingly) constituent parts - or actually to anything she's rather familiar with! It's here where the film gets a bit unsettling, especially with its uncanny production design and stop-motion animation that's nothing short of a nightmare, and its creepily tactile sound design that almost stings your ears. Is it for children, though? Perhaps, although I'm not sure about that after referencing The Shining!

Even though it sits somewhere between a sequel and a remake of Ayer's abysmal movie, it's safe to say James Gunn makes no bones here about erasing it from existence. We see people ripped in half, charred, eaten alive, or having their brains blown out, and the titular supervillains included! Needless to say, and regardless of some visceral moments that feel a bit gratuitous, The Suicide Squad earned its rating regarding the violence. Unfortunately, making it rated-R has done it no favours in terms of comedy. For about 20 to 30 minutes in, the humour basically stems from crass and irreverent jokes abound, or watching the members squabbling every now and then as a reminder their mission is bound to fail aborning, and none managed to elicit the faintest chuckles from me. I'm afraid that James Gunn's comedic schtick shows signs of wear and tear here. Like, he's still trotting out that undercutting of an emotional or romantic scene with a comedic or a violent one. That worked to some extent in both volumes of his Guardians but here it seems feigned for it lacks the needed build-up. Sebastian, the waving rat, is a cool wee stroke of comedic genius, though.

When the action kicks in, things get astronomically better from that point onwards. Three scenes standout for me in particular. One has Peacemaker (John Cena) and Bloodsport (Idris Elba) - both have similar superpowers - pitting against each other by going on a killing spree. The showdown was a delight to watch, and features excellent, smooth use of rack focus too. In fact, the way the entire sequence is shot is pretty gripping from its beginning, with a tracking shot culminating in one that feels like straight out of a third-person shooter video game. Another scene shows Harley Quinn (Margot Robbie reprising her role, though taking a back seat to the previously mentioned members) fighting guards and beating them to death. It's pleasingly brutal, and, along with another action scene in the last third, features a floral and prismatic aesthetic singular to the character that works very well on both occasions, mirroring the manic pixie maniac she is and never feeling out of place. The third one is an unsparing hand-to-hand combat that ends in a conclusion I didn't see coming, which is one of the few times the movie managed to bring off its "no one is safe" approach in a surprising and satisfying result.

Aside from Peacemaker and Bloodsport, the rest of the newcomers are a mixed bag for me. On the one hand, we got Ratcatcher 2: a Portuguese girl who can communicate with and controls an army of rats using a certain device. Such a compelling character, and Daniela Melchior who plays it did a fantastic job, notably in a scene that required her to lash out about her past and her father, the original Ratcatcher. Plus, the decision to retain her meekness and endearingness characteristic of her throughout is an excellent one, given similar characters are usually upended over the course of the movie to negate any sense of helplessness one might attach to them. Well, innocence doesn't equal naivety or weakness, and I'm glad someone finally seems to acknowledge that in a superhero (or, for that matter, supervillain) movie. One the other hand, I found King Shark unbearable for the most part. He's a feeble near-facsimile of Groot, only naming everything he sees or comes across instead of repeating his name. Even worse, occasionally it appears there are attempts at making him a new Drax, being dumb and blunt with his interactions. By the end of the movie I was happily surprised at finding myself clearly have been developing connections with each and every character without even knowing. Gunn really has a knack for imbuing his group of misfits of nuances that draw them together almost imperceptibly while also giving each one considerable depth, with a banger of a payoff on the emotional level. We also have a nice score and a soundtrack full of needle drops that are perfectly implemented in the way they accompany their scenes.

As far as any qualms I have other than the comedy, I found the time-jumping structure really irritating. Sometimes, it interrupts the momentum and gives way to sub-plots of neither purpose nor interest to me. Other times, it just comes out of left field for the sake of it, and the same can be said about the on-screen text which I'm sure it was intended as a grace note on the scene-to-scene transitions, but it rather comes off as gimmicky and made the film feel patchy at times. Moreover, as admittedly silly as the movie is, the villain being a kaiju-like starfish controlling minds via little starfish facehuggers is something I found a bit hard to swallow, but I'll let that slide since there's a political background surrounding the villainy side, although that one is actually quite perfunctory as well in its exploration. All in all, whilst it left much to be desired as for the humour one expects from the man behind Guardians of the Galaxy films, The Suicide Squad is the gory fun ride I was urgently waiting for to scrub the 2016's one from my memory.

Subverting the Western genre would be an understatement compared to what Jarmusch achieved here. It's like he's got multiple styles up his sleeve and keeps sprinkling a dash of each one as the film progresses. On his way to Machine town to get a job at a mill he's been promised, we see William Blake (Johnny Depp) waiting for his arrival from what it seems like a quite long, boring train ride. The moment he's not checking his watch or playing solitaire, he's surely napping. Each shot showing Blake fades to black and followed by a shot of the wheels of the train. Finally, a soot-covered man warns Blake of the danger that lies ahead. Suddenly, the passengers shot a buffalo from the train's windows. That conversation is creepily stiff and stilted, and everyone, whether in the train or after Blake arrives at Machine, fixes their eyes on him suspiciously and shadily, with barely any movement and maintaining the same expression as if they're posing for daguerreotypes. By far, my biggest takeaway from this Jarmusch is the atmosphere he's established from the get-go and maintained till the very end. Yes, we can readily trace Jarmusch's signature in the oddball characters and languorous feel, but here they're carried through as to function beyond creating a sense of quirkiness and vibes. In Dead Man, Jarmusch imagines a world barren of humanity and reeking of prejudice.

The workers of Dickinson Steel Works mill are reduced to automatons, stuck in routine jobs and their only act of rebellion is badmouthing their boss behind his back. It's a world where the only language people can speak is violence - and we get our fair share of graphic and repulsively bloody images of heads squashed and wounds bleed profusely - as this is what meaningless interactions ends in, which, in themselves and along with a repetitive quality and Depp's always baffled state, foster the undercurrent of absurdity the film has. Despite the macabre humour vein running across the film, the pronounced b&w cinematography presents the world as real. Everything looks stark, and the compositions are dense. Then again, it also possesses a grainy texture, which lends the film a ghostly hazy sense that will step to the fore once Blake kills a man, followed by an abstractly cartoonish shot of a shooting star streaks across a sparsely-starred sky, only for Blake to find himself catapulted into a spiritual journey, accompanied with Nobody, with blurred lines between dreams and reality or living and dead. A strange film indeed, with a lagging, overlong second act, but it really worth seeing, if only for Neil Young's intentionally cacophonous score that undercuts an idyllic sense the film could've falsely developed.

It amazes me how different this Demy musical from The Umbrellas of Cherbourg that was released 3 years earlier. Whilst not a single word of Cherbourg's dialogue is spoken and rather sung, The Young Girls of Rochefort's musicality stems from its choreographed, highly-coordinated musical numbers and mellifluous jazz melodies that reverberate throughout. To my surprise, and delight, the lyrics mostly rhyme, even in English! Again, really can't express how much La La Land is indebted to Jacques Demy and especially this one: the gleeful, prolonged musical number that introduces us to the movie; the way the songs are turned into refrains hummed across the film; some clarinet playing felt very reminiscent of "Summer Montage/Madeline"; and I felt though I could hear some tunes from Justin Hurwitz's "Someone in the Crowd" in Michel Legrand's "A Pair of Twin"; and, honestly, I'd like to believe so! In fact, the entire movie is basically about that someone you're bound to meet and fall in love with.

At the centre stage, we have the twins Delphine (Catherine Deneuve) and Solange Garnier (Françoise Dorléac), the former is a dancer who gives ballet lessons and the latter teaches music classes and writes music pieces as well. They live in Rochefort, where every guy sketches, in his head or even literally, his "feminine ideal," while every girl longs to find "l'homme de sa vie." Dissimilar to the grounded, down-to-earth approach Demy took to craft his Umbrellas of Cherbourg, this one lurches into the fantastical visuals and exuberant colours straight away and carries on with that almost relentlessly. But, of course, in a giddy world where music is the driving force of love, and dancing is so graceful and expressive it's calligraphy in motion, it shouldn't come as a surprise Demy embraces this to the hilt, with a film wrought with delightfully ridiculous stuff: Daphine and Maxence yearn for each other although they've never met, and always only inches away from running across each other; her twin sister, Solange, falls in love at first sight with an American, Andy Miller (played by none other than the effortlessly charismatic Gene Kelly); and Yvonne Garnier, the twins' mother, and Simon Dame are mutually pining for each other after being 10 years apart while all that time they were both living in Rochefort not long after they went their separate ways. Oh, and did I mention that the reason they split up is that Dame is a silly name and Yvonne wouldn't accept to be called "Madame Dame"?

That said, and although the sense of darkness here is no near as intense as it is in Cherbourg, Demy still manages to imbue this film with just enough heavy undertones to make it stick and to flesh-out his characters even more. There's a subplot revolves around an axe murderer that makes one wonder what if Guillaume's attempts to marry Daphine unwillingly were taken to the extreme. On a less darker note, we have Étienne and Bill, an inseparable duo - even likened to Jules et Jim by the twins - whose love is always unrequited, assuming they're capable of loving sincerely and earnestly in the first place. If I had any issues with this film would be its relative dearth of musical numbers in its second half, losing an ounce of momentum as a result. Other than that, I think I enjoyed it even more than The Umbrellas of Cherbourg. The Young Girls of Rochefort is an enchanting romantic farce where it's all written in the stars, which, one day, will align.

A few spoilery bits throughout!

Just like a constellation you're unable to decipher yet sure its stars are linked together to form a certain pattern, the lives of Weronika and Véronique are inextricably, and inexplicably, linked by an invisible thread only intuitively felt. The former lives in Poland while the latter in France, they were born on the same day, share a knack for music (Weronika is a choir singer with an ethereal, angelic voice; Véronique is a music teacher), and suffer from a cardiological problem. They're, in a mythological sense of the word, doppelgängers, who'd better live in two parallel worlds lest bumping into each other would result in putting one another's lives into a tailspin. In one sense, the film is about that person in your dreams who you think, besides looking exactly like you, complements you in ways beyond your capacity even if you're sharing the same affinities as well. A splitting image you'd easily mistake for your other half even though you're pretty much a whole. Someone you long to meet to be fulfilled, and when awake, you grieve for the implausibility of it all. And I think it's within this realm where the movie operates on a subconscious level so that you're effortlessly connected emotionally with it by merely letting yourself immersed in its sepia-drenched images and its downpour to wash over you. However, I wouldn't buy that description at all. In another sense, it's a film about discovering one's own identity. Insofar this seems a proper description that I can't refute, I still think this is just scratching the surface; focusing on obvious details and disregarding the overarching theme. For me, The Double Life of Véronique is about grieving for your younger, juvenile self despite the naivety that led to its demise; about a deep-seated longing for the past that grows on while growing old even though you're more mature and successful now than you were way back when. And this is exactly where the film manages to hit some nostalgic notes, for the film seems to celebrate that desperate longing in one way or another. Besides the puppets show I'll mention later, there's a scene that sums up all this in a few words: Véronique's father shows her a fragrance to try it, she tells him it's nice but the one he showed her the other day was more pleasant. "This is from the end of Autumn, the other was from the beginning," is her father's reply, which he follows by wondering whether people would need this fragrance at all. The movie is chockablock with subtle visual and narrative details carry multi-layered symbolic significance that I couldn't get my head around in my first watch.

The Double Life of Véronique is an enigmatic metaphysical tale with an expressionistic set design and cinematography littered with subtleties functioning as an objective correlative, stressing every emotional beat along the way. There's a lot of reflections in The Double Life of Véronique and the look-alike characters see themselves, or rather sense each other, in many things: images; objects. Throughout the first half, we see recurring distortions, upside-down images and mirror-like reflections, some show convexity and others concavity. We see plenty of objects such as a tram window glass, a man's magnifying spectacles, and a starry marble. They're all suggestive of something wrong rippling Weronika's life and irking her of late while bringing her fears of not being "alone in this world" to the fore. Besides, there are many juxtapository images the editing mix in that accentuate the dual nature at the core of the film. Indeed It's a film where objects and images hold immense value to the characters but also work as clues of revealing significance, and expository tools to the viewer as well. It's not until the marionette show where I started to fathom the film through the "metamorphosis by death" metaphor. The shroud is a cocoon? No wonder why there's a shot from the point of view of a corpse! Through this scene, Kieslowski makes a parallel to Véronique's double life, indicating that with the death of Weronika, Véronique began a fully-fledged new life. Moreover, by letting the camera linger on Jacob's face, Kieslowski captures the intensity of her internal conflict, and by ending the dizzying fits of Weronika with an off-kilter, tilted angle, we collapse with her. Thus, the camera is both a guiding force and a participant in Weronika's crumpling life and Veronique's quest of love and working out her existential issues. The Double Life of Véronique is just a flawless harmony or a poetic mood piece, buoyed by Idziak's ravishing cinematography, Preisner's haunting score, and sees Irène Jacob - in one of the most riveting performances I've ever seen to date - emoting endless feelings across the film's fleeting runtime, taking you on a rollercoaster of emotions from start to finish.

Yehia has big dreams of Hollywood, utterly preoccupied with the American Dream. His classmates are lighting their cigarettes while he's entranced by the glitz and glamour of cinema, before paying for another ticket to see the same movie again. He's obsessed with acting and filmmaking but confined by financial circumstances. Though I can't say I identified with any of the remaining characters nearly as much, I still think their storylines are all given, to varying degrees, enough consideration to be of interest. Some people are mislead and blinded by the status quo, with their only concern being to change it, oblivious to the danger that may entail. Case in point, we see people anticipating an imminent German invasion in hope it would liberate them from the British occupation. Others are pretty content with things as they are for they're technically surviving, and thriving, on sleaze. And then there are people who are simply passive, some of them are yet to be disillusioned.

Besides the main storyline revolving around Yehia, the script attempts to juggle multiple subplots but hits only a few barricades in the process. For one thing, it lacks a smooth flow due to muddled editing, resulting in some distracting shots. For another, it's unpolished when it comes to its tonality, as if the film regularly tries to attune itself to the characters focused-on at certain moments, coming across as out of place. Additionally, Chahine seems to adopt here more than one cinematic style, the thing that made the movie feel inconsistent. Then again, I think Chahine successfully managed, by and large, to squeeze all these characters, with their own plot threads, under the umbrella of WWII, which provides the backdrop of the story.

Alexandria... Why? Is an ambitious and clever effort, which shows in every inch of its mosaic structure and artistic decisions. Cheerful music played over scenes interspersed with footage showing destruction to emphasize that war has become an essential part of their life, while underscoring the nefariousness of their world in a comedic light, and POV shots that involve us in Yehia's dreams. It's a film of cosmopolitan proportions; centring around British occupation yet flicking through other parts of the globe, all while being quintessentially Egyptian, even giving singularity to each household of different cultures and classes. Occasionally, it may feel a pretentious, jumbled mess or a pastiche of Italian cinema - with Fellini being the main inspiration, for sure - Mostly, though, it's a dramatic allegro of making the most of one's opportunities, executed at full throttle with a comedic vein running throughout, cemented by a genius ambiguous ending.

For a film called "Before the Revolution" and centres around a young man grappling with whether he should conform to his bourgeois life or let his rebellious zeal - further triggered by his friend's death - take over him, pursuing a life of political radicalism, I was genuinely surprised how almost apolitical this turns out to be. Adopting an abstract approach to zero in on Fabrizio's struggle is more than welcome by me, since this should allow his emotional turmoil to be more universal. But themes of cowardice versus rebellious tendencies are barely there, and those related to the central illicit affair as well as conflicted ideals are drowned out in Bertolucci's indulgent influences. Before the Revolution is loaded with febrile energy for its own good. With discombobulating non-stop mobility of camerawork, tonnes of tracking shots and frequent zooming in and out, and rapid-fire editing and jump cuts that rendered some scenes nearly vignette-like, I found the story so hard to follow and my interest tapped out about 15 minutes in. Plus, none of these devices amount to much really, and neither is the frivolous and histrionic dialogue. Only some incredible aerial shots of Parma and Ennio Morricone's feverish and emotive score are what kept me from giving this an even lower rating.

Waiting for her first love's, Michel, return who's been gone for about seven years, Lola seems to have come to terms with the fact he's gone forever. It's just some sort of a desperate longing that would easily fade away hadn't been for lasting memories that one can't help recalling. In Jacques Demy's Nantes, poignancy of loss reigns supreme - whether it's of love or dreams or whatsoever - in spite of its breezy air. In Lola, there's also effortless interlacing between each character that cross paths with another, dredging up each other's long-forsaken memories and, more or less, rejuvenating them through mutual interactions. Having been introduced to the background of Roland Cassard here, I loved how Cherbourg continued his path while bolstering the circular nature of Lola. Aside from a silly plot diversion revolving around Frankie and fourteen-year-old Cécile, cabaret numbers tossed in for some reason and a few plodding moments as it's nearing its third act, Lola is a decent debut of unrequited love and disillusionment, injected with a sense of ennui and a spirit of carefree in equal measure, and featuring beautiful black-and-white wide shots, hand-held constantly-moving camera and light-weighted humour.

I've been meaning to dive into Demy's filmography since hearing he had a huge impact on Chazelle's La La Land, with this one being singled out as the primary influence, that's not to mention it's often cited as Demy's chef-d'oeuvre. Infused by jazz melodies as well as thumping percussion for an added flair, featuring eye-candy pastel-coloured set and costume design on full display, and cycling through seasons in a way thematically suggestive, Chazelle's musical is definitely not far removed from this one although each has its own approach to its distinct story. What grabbed my attention the most is how Demy progressively jettisons the fantastical, iridescent world in favour of an otherwise grounded one. From the opening sequence of an aerial view of raindrops pitter-pattering on cobble stones and the titular umbrellas, to the bold, bright colours, to the constant singing, Demy muster all technical tools, congregating to lend a lulling effect that sent me into a delightful stupor, and to kaleidoscopically play up the emotional union and jovial state of Geneviève and Guy who're enamored with each other.

Cherbourg is almost presented in pink, before giving to brown-ish and blue hues to emote Geneviève's feelings of forlorn and sadness respectively, and fuchsia and red to suggest warning and uncertainty, when Guy leaves to Algeria due to his conscription, leaving Geneviène facing a tough decision that threatens their relationship. Even colours brimming with joy at first, such as yellow, gradually wane and pale, giving way to some of their dull and faint derived shades. All these create melancholic undertones along the way that ground the film in reality while portending its bittersweet ending where there isn't a dry eye to be found. But The Umbrellas of Cherbourg is a film of the of vicissitudes of life and how one has to resign to fate so long as latching onto hope becomes more and more difficult, and it's more than just a matter of counting the days.

The Umbrellas of Cherbourg is also of teenage love and recklessness, and it's here in particular where it sets itself apart from the rest with its sense of verisimilitude. "People only die of love in movies," said Geneviène's mother who neither believes in love at a young age nor love at first sight. She's pragmatic and even cynical, and maybe that's her main impetus for wanting her daughter to get married to the wealthy jewellery merchant. Yet, her happiness at seeing her blear-eyed daughter a bit cheered up when handed a letter from her lover is real and indicative of a true motherly affection. Make no mistake, this is far from the flawless film I was expecting. The editing is a bit clunky, which shows most in the continuity of music. It also took me a while to adjust to the dialogue, entirely being recited and sung, but soon I started to appreciate the unconventional lyricism of it all. A visual and emotional stunner that's not to be missed by all the fools who dream and lovers of musicals in general.

Colour me impressed for the first time by a Bresson film! Finally, it's safe to say his minimalistic approach works here for me for the most part. A story with a misanthropic world view of a girl that bears the indifference and abasement with her mouth shut most of the time is definitely one that suits if not even demands such method. In the other two films I've seen by him, Pickpocket and L'Argent, scenes showing physical attack or intense emotions - especially in the former - came across as laughably robotic whereas here similar scenes further accentuate the apathy and lack of compassion plaguing Mouchette's village. The striking austerity apparent in some of the abrupt cuts accompanied with economical compositions and extreme close-ups here implemented to bring far more effective results. By suddenly moving from a scene to another, the contrast stemming from such jarring succession hits harder than usual, and by showcasing the subject solely in a frame, every revelation, however subtle it is, is highlighted. This is not saying the film doesn't have moments that had me yawning every now and then, like pretty much every scene has to do with the storyline revolving around Luisa.

Even before the opening titles show on screen, Mouchette starts with a woman in tears, lamenting her ill-fated children. No wonder why she does so. Mouchette lives in a cruel, merciless world of bootleggers and poachers. She's humiliated in school by her teacher for refusing to sing or singing off-note while being laughed at by her classmates she's an outcast among them. The only sign of recognition from her alcoholic father is when she's done something wrong and chastised for it. Her bedridden mother has no one but her to do all the housework and care for her and the baby. But who cares, nay, acknowledges her existence. Even when she gets back at her classmates while low-key trying to get their attention, they just run away from her without showing a hint of either annoyance or regard. She's simply a persona non grata in her village.

Spoilery points and vague allusions to the ending!

Early on, we see a bird trapped in a snare not long before it's set free. Whilst this could be seen as a glimmer of hope in the sense it's a foreshadowing metaphor for how things end up for Mouchette, it turns out to be a quite misleading one. Moreover, in a considerably cheerful scene, which are a rarity in this film, we see Mouchette riding a dodgem, bumping into a car of a young man in some sort of filtration, only to be slapped on the face twice by her father a minute or so later. Aside from how it ends, the way this joyous scene of dodgems stands out in such a film shrouded with misery had it hewn in my head throughout the film's runtime, only to recall it later with a similarly-edited scene at the end of rabbits hopelessly dodging the poachers' bullets as our girl witnesses such brutality in mixed emotions of rage and mourning. But this time there are no longer tears rushing out over her cheeks. This was her witnessing an affirmation of her fateful destiny led by ruthlessness and rejection, resulting in confused emotions and unfocused rebellion, and ending with killing innocence and purity. Disregarding the drastically different themes, I couldn't help recalling Jack from Lord of the Flies. Weeping would've been a far more hopeful note to end on, though.

P. S. Nadine Nortier delivered one of the best child performances ever in my book.

I think whenever you crave a late night out but can't get out of your bed you'd better watch a Jarmusch film instead while lying on your bed under a blanket with a big cup of tea in your hand. The common element that can be traced in all of his films is that he captures these laid-back vibes of such nights to a tee. In Night on Earth, we see nocturnal cityscapes of gloomy, empty streets before getting in a taxi with eccentric yet amicable strangers of different cultures, ceaselessly chatting over trifles of otherwise moral value, all while the tires humming over the asphalt roads and the cool, fresh night air tapping on the car windows. This is basically the whole movie!

The five-segment anthology takes place inside taxi cabs across five different cities on the same titular night. The first one is set in Los Angeles, and features a chain-smoking, gum-chewing, tomboyish taxi driver (Winona Ryder) and a classy casting agent in Hollywood (Gena Rowlands). This is probably my favourite out of all the five vignettes next to the second one, which takes place in New York where a German cabdriver (Armin Mueller-Stahl), with a background that remains ambiguous, is lost in a city and culture he doesn't understand. This one genuinely got a few chuckles out of me. The third episode, that's in Paris, is relatively a bit heavier on its message but is more than made up for it thanks to a brilliant Beatrice Dalle as a woman with hyper-acute senses compensating her lack of sight. In the fourth one, which takes place in Rome, we witness Roberto Benigni being Roberto Benigni as he confesses his sins to a priest (Paolo Bonacelli). The final one taking place in Helsinki is by miles the bleakest of them, imbued with a deadpan undertone but suffused in a sorrowful and grieving tone.

Jim Jarmusch values the brief, ephemeral encounters of people who had never met before, and likely would never meet again. People of nature peculiar to yours but actually quite normal once you get to know them. It's all about everyone's own attitude to life; everyone's priorities shaped by their own environment or according to their life path of their own choosing. And without Jarmusch's signature languorous aura that ties up all the segments together and casts a magical spell on the mundane to turn it to something rather celestial, this night on earth would've been a lackadaisical one with nothing memorable.

Mild spoilers from third paragraph onwards

Johan and Marianne lead a life of security, order, contentment, and loyalty, the four factors that constitute a happy married life as per Marianne. The one seminal factor that's missing is love, which they seem to regard as dispensable in their case. What they don't realize is that in their attempts to hinder their hearts from deciding their way once in their life they would inevitably end up giving in to their emotions that have been pent up for years by a systematic yet flimsy veil of spurious perfection. At a dinner party, their friends Peter and Katarina quarrel about setting restrictions on each other and emotional and material ties. It creates ripples on Marianne's part, and subsequently, her relationship with Johan. She grows more vulnerable and finds herself bewildered and perplexed amidst a decision that seems to have never been used to be, important as it is, of that decisive significance to her. Later, Johan tells Marianne he's fallen in love with another woman and are leaving to Paris for eight months at least. Consequently, their clinically cold bed that was only heated up by tirades has become a festering one of infidelity.

"Marianne: Sometimes I long to simply float along, and maybe even sink.

Johan: Who doesn't?

Marianne: You. You don't.

Johan: What would you know about that?

Marianne: I know you pretty well by now. You're too well-adjusted. You like things to be tidy.

Johan: So do you.

Marianne: Do I?

Johan: You're a perfectionist.

Marianne: Really?

Johan: You detest disorder in mind and body."

Marianne and Johan's marriage wasn't out of love, but rather because both of them were unhappy after both are divorced from previous spouses. Thus, it's shaped by practical terms not emotional ones. Every idea and decision must be meticulously thought out, even if it's one of pleasure. As Marianne once said, (their) vacations are even more tightly scheduled. There's basically no room for consulting one's heart. The mere concept of being "romantic" is distasteful to Marianne, something that she's apparently implicitly dictated. They seem to view it as something that's liable to stain their relationship regardless of the myriad of connotative meanings this term has. However, they both possess a romantic notion and lack it all at once, and all for the worst. The fact they view themselves as well as their relationship as one of idealism based on the "happy life" they lead is romantic to a fault. That's especially apparent one Johan talks about himself and how a perfect husband, father and son he is. Whilst Marianne is actually quite the opposite (she can't even find a word to describe herself with), she's the one who dismisses the term "romantic" her interviewer labelled the life Marianne seeks according to her talking about ideals on the top of which is fidelity. It was there friends' quarrel that triggered the sensitive sore in Marianne and Johan's souls, respectively. Alas, and in the words of Johan himself later on, they're "emotional illiterates."

The idea of loneliness looms large over Johan's head. If the fact he's used to Marianne is what keeps him ensnared in that toxic relationship, then its his fear of loneliness is his impetus for getting back to such draining cycle. He'd rather raise a toast to loneliness with Marianne than drinking alone. Johan sees that one should embrace the fact loneliness is absolute. It's predominant, only interspersed with some illusions of a sense of togetherness that would eventually fade after a while. By being cognizant of that fact, one would never gets tricked into believing loneliness isn't the norm, and would lead a secure life. This quote seems uttered by none other than a classic Johan. Nevertheless, when Marianne tells him she wishes she was as assure and certain as him, he admittingly dismisses her description of him, saying: "it's all talk." By doing so, Johan divulges the change that's taken over him after his affair with Paula. It seems that such relationship changed how he views life as he said. He became a different person: a frail and depressed one.

"Marianne: I'm not so certain.

Johan: Of what?

Marianne: I'm not certain I know who I am."

To Marianne, however, loneliness, technically, has never exists yet has always plagued her in the sense she only finds her identity when lying with Johan, sharing the same thorny bed. As she said herself, she's become a masochist of sorts, and her sole consolation all her married life until she became the masochist she is has been the tentative sense of settlement shaped by their false notion of happiness. What further bolsters these views upon Johan and Marianne is the fact they've never achieved a luscious intimacy. The ephemeral flame ignited after meeting one another following a long separation is soon quenched with a lukewarm affection followed by a severe altercation. As we see in the fourth episode as Marianne reads aloud a journal entry and Bergman uses photos from her childhood and her adolescence in montage. Her mother made sure she and her sisters would be agreeable so she punished them anytime they broke the conventions she set for them. Marianne was ugly and awkward and was reminded of that. Her thoughts revolved around nothing but sex. She enjoyed her secretive inner persona which was her only refuge from her mother, and decided to behave in a sycophantic manner from then in on order to impress men so much so she ultimately lost her identity; she no longer knew who she was. She obliviously lost herself in the process of being liberated from her suppressive family ties. That explains a lot about her being a malleable woman in the hands of her husband, as well as being entrapped in that 'perfect' systematic relationship.

Shot on 16mm and featuring grainy images à la cinéma vérité style, Sven Nykvist here homes in on the faces of Johan and Marianne, observing their features as they weather, and wither with, age. The subtle, pithy facial expressions of Ullman, in particular, are the series' primary subject. Whenever a bitter truth is revealed to Marianne or a layer is peeled off from the façade of her ostensibly ideal marriage, Nykvist's camera relentlessly pans rapidly to zoom-in on Ullman's face, ending in a long-take close-up that unabashedly lingers on her appalled, mortified countenance. That's notable in episode two where a woman, Mrs. Jacobi, comes to see Marianne in order to file for divorce from her husband after 20 years together because their marriage is devoid of love. As much as I found it a bit on-the-nose that this woman mirrors Marianne's marital state, the execution of that scene left me stunned by its sheer brilliance. Marianne sees herself in that woman after yet another 10 years of loveless marriage, causing her emotions to dilapidate. Her words pierce Marianne's bound yet lonely soul and echo deep inside of her until they reach the arid bottom. And with a sharp, quick cut ending with a zoom-in on Marianne's face, we see her shocked at the cankering loveless marriage with its potential of numbing her senses.

Scenes from a Marriage offers a pessimistic view on relationships and life in general, and the more you dig deeper into its core, the more its dark themes manifest themselves. Neither the grainy texture that permits light to permeate it and lend it a pseudo-nostalgic sense nor the ending credits that are read over a beautiful landscape of Fårö seems to hardly mitigate the bitterness of the relationship of Johan and Marianne. Rather, they serve as a perfunctory artifice that cynically reflects the self-seriousness and bourgeois-esque mannerisms the couple used to adopt as well as a painfully effective contrast that grows more and more acrid as the characters mature, seemingly fulfilling their whims and filling their voids only to face the fact they'll never find comfort. The lack of love their relationship terminally suffers from from the get-go and the societal norms their marriage is bound to are revealed to be more of forces that shoveled their marriage into a fragile comfort zone of fabricated perfection than integral accumulative causes of their ever-aggravating breach. It's not that their loveless marriage should be acquitted of their dysfunctional relationship, but their upbringing is the real culprit that magnified each one's human flaws tenfold, which led them to summon their inner demons once they bear their overburdened, tormented yet grudge-bearing souls. To nitpick about something, I think its intentional straightforwardness rather betrayed how the story winds up, but I'll happily let that slide to make Bergman break my 4-month 5 stars drought.

By tackling some hard-hitting themes of childhood trauma, loss of free will, family (or lack thereof), grief, and haunting guilt, Black Widow could've easily deceived us into believing it really justified its existence, hadn't it eschewed drama for comedy and action. What we got is a middling Marvel effort with a rehashed spy thriller story and its affiliated action set-pieces and plot clichés. Granted, that very spy flavour that bleeds into each act more and more evidently endows us with a couple of slick action sequences that are pulled off with aplomb. It's just unfortunate all of them are devoid of the slightest tension. While on the subject, there's no real sense of danger I feel each time either Natasha or Yelena are supposedly at risk, and The Taskmaster completely fails to prove an imposing threat, that's not to mention it's a villain that's clearly merely skimmed over, with the result of falling victim to the plot's mishmash of clichés. The humour isn't the worst, largely due to Pugh and Harbour whose chemistry elevates each scene they share a great deal. The third act feels the most superhero-y, with a fair share of explosions and CGI-heavy scenes that almost feel incongruous with the relatively small-scope MCU installment Black Widow aims to be. However, It's also here when we get some emotionally-charged moments where Pugh - yup, once again - and Scarlett get there moments to shine, serving a fitting send-off for our titular superhero. Moreover, all of these shortcomings can be tolerated given the joy one gets out of this movie. I was surprised how much time flew by minutes before reaching its post-credit scene that got me really pumped up to see what's coming next.

• Miss Giddens, may I ask you a somewhat personal question? Do you have an imagination?

= Oh! Oh, yes, I can answer that. Yes.

• Good.

With that Miss Giddens seems to be fitting to take up the position of governess to two orphans. It's like being "imaginative" is the only caveat the kids' uncle has towards Ms. Giddens having the job, even if this is, in fact, her first position. Quite hesitant at first, Giddens agrees to be a governess for his nephew and niece, as she finds him "most persuasive." From the reclusive aristocratic bachelor, to the old mansion that Giddens is flabbergasted by its vastness, to the ominous sense that's been established in the first twenty minutes by the inexplicable occurrences and a sense of foreboding, the film is full to the brim with Gothic elements that just keep heightening as the story proceeds.

Thematic spoilers ahead!

The Innocents has a lot of themes that's inextricably linked to its Gothic style. First, hiding the secret that's fostered by the intentional repression of imagination. Mrs. Grose always tells the children to "pretend" they heard nothing whenever disconcerting noise blare at night, and it's only in a slip of the tongue that she gives away a glimpse of Bly's secretive quality to Miss Giddens. Considering her well intention, we can deduce she's nursing a secret that can entail grave repercussions. As the Uncle says early on, "Truth is very seldom understood by any but imaginative person," and Mrs. Grose tries her best to block even the faintest hint of imaginative thinking to bury the unwelcome truth. Another thing that could also be inferred from the Uncle's quote is that Miss Giddens is set up by him for a task, which is bringing this truth to light. The increasingly claustrophobic interiors of the mansion, and the environment as a whole, asseverate said suppression while contributing to Miss Giddens doubting her sanity. In the house, Giddens also often appears as if confined by light; when outdoors, the incandescent sunlight is depicted as a blinding glint that obstructs Gidden's vision and, thus, making what she aims to see as a blurry unattainable mirage.

There's something about omnipresence as well. Flora once mentions to her governess that the idea of someone could be sleeping in different beds at the same time crosses her mind. Later, she asks Giddens if she's in the picture of Giddens' family. That slowly paves the way for the whole 'haunted house' thing story-wise, and makes us ready for some spectres and apparitions that, personally, scared the hell out of me! Speaking of which, Freddie Francis, the cinematographer, utilises the double exposure technique quite to great effect, blinding in superimposed images to create some impressive ghostly shots. That's not to mention that almost every scene-to-scene transition is a dissolving transition that lingers on the screen for more than usual. One more technique that's adeptly implemented is the deep focus, and it's so sharp it could be easily confused for being shot with a split-diopter lens. It keeps both characters in frame, juxtaposing Miss Giddens' bewilderment with the children's baffling indifference. Furthermore, it also suggests something sinister is cooking while lurking beneath the surface.

We also get plenty uses of ingenious foreshadowing throughout that go hand in hand with amping up the tension and feel of unease. For instance, there is a slow-motion scene of a cockroach slithering out of a statue of an angelic baby followed by yet another slow-motion scene of pigeons flying by the tower. Both lend a sense of discomfort, but the former, in particular, emphatically foreshadows there's something not-so-innocent about the children. The 'O, Willow Waly' song is a recurring refrain. Whether it's hummed by Flora or played by a music box, it's as spine-chilling as it's implicitly melancholic, betraying a sense of sadness that has to do with the ambiguity of the film. All of these are quintessentially features of Gothic horror. What keep it away from earning a full-mark rating is that the detective diversion the story took near its denouement seemed a forced detour to get the conflict easily resolved, while also resulting in some exposition moments that are a bit out-of-character for a central character in the story. Putting that aside, The Innocents is the epitome of classic Gothic films that I've been craving for a long time, and I'd be hard-pressed to say there's any other film that had scratched my itch that perfectly.

I will never forget the first time I saw La Luna with a crowd. The look of the glowing stars scattered in millions and covering the moon left us in awe - like, we literally wowed at the look of them. Was it the first time for our eyes to be graced with the wonder of magical cinematic experience? Definitely not - or at least not for me. But there was a certain tactile sensation the animation in that short evoked in spades like no other. They seemed tangible. I felt like if I stretched my hand I could touch them, and even feel their weight, bolstered by the glass-like sound they make when they are swept up. Luca has no dearth of that quality. Enrico Casarosa's first feature film has an animation reminiscent of that of stop-motion films. Its 3D animation possesses that malleable look that almost could be mistaken for claymation. That brings a sense of vibrancy to the already-vivid idyllic Italian setting. And when you see the tide soaking the beach pebbles and listen to the pitter-patter of the rain, it's guaranteed you'll feel the breeze coming off from all around you with the redolence of childhood summers. I also adored the underwater world. It's nearly as if it exists in a parallel realm that happens to be in the Mediterranean Sea, where fish bleat and crabs bite when they "sense weakness". No wonder why its inhabitants consider humans "Land Monsters"!

Unfortunately, I can't muster up similar praising words when it comes to the story. Sure it's a sweet fish-out-of-water story - I mean, literally - about our titular kid breaking the protective shell built around him by his overprotective parents, while tackling themes of friendship and acceptance. But haven't we had enough of this already. I mean, I'd lose count if I tried to mention how many children-oriented movies that have taken such basis to build their stories upon. The story here hasn't much substance to keep it from dragging. It's definitely a joy watching the trio of under(the)dogs daydreaming about the dream they share of winning the Portorosso Cup and Alberto being the daredevil he is or even bickering with Giulia. Other than that, there's not too much that really happens. Even Luca's antagonist, Ercole Visconti, that garnered plenty of admiration from many people because of how a typical villain in the vein of Toy Story's Sid he is, is nothing more than a bully that no one can stand against.

Regardless, there's at least one thematic choice that reinvigorated this traditional fable near its bellissima finale. Without getting into detail, it's something that has to do with doubt in Luca and Alberto's friendship. It's not about it per se - it's nothing new and you can even see that moment coming from a league - but it's the way it ties up how Luca perceives Alberto's quasi-hedonistic view over the course of the story with Luca's fear of destroying the image his parents would like him to present was kind of brilliant. He's striving to satisfy his innate thrill-seeking desire and sense of curiosity while fitting the mould of the "good boy". I think that added an extra layer to the character of Luca. Really enjoyed Pixar's latest effort that, small-scale as it is, overflows with wholesome vibes.

It's a whopping traffic jam. Cars are aligned as in multiple adjacent assembly lines. The camera shifts focus from our protagonist, Guido, in an over-the-shoulder shot to someone setting in a nearby car. The frame freezes before it does the same after moving once again to a woman in the driver's seat in the same car. A smoke incrementally fills the car, suffocating Guido. He tries with all his might to get out of it while everybody in their cars apathetically staring at him, with robotic smiles in their faces. Finally he gets out of his car, and begins to ascend in an ethereal way, with the camera moving as if in a 360° photo. Guido soars high and levitates in the sky. He is, at last, free from this static and stifling world, right? Wrong. That was only a sip of freedom that's too short to savor, as he realizes that somehow there's a rope tied around his leg. Controlled by someone who looks like a member in a production crew on the other end of the rope like a kite, the man let go of him in a sea, following an order from a clergyman, "Down for good." These men symbolize both Guido's sinful childhood and stressful present that form the inescapable force of the confusing and barren life Guido has descended into its maze. Tell me if there's any other opening sequence that paints the picture and draws the lines for what's to come in a movie in a more sublimely emblematic way!

Aged 43 and suffering from a bad liver, Guido is a renowned filmmaker who's been in a hiatus after being wrung out of ideas and lacking inspiration. "So, what are you cooking up? Another film without hope?", these words are said to him by his doctor before prescribing him a drink of 'holy water' at a spa. Loaded with mostly elderly, some aristocratic, people, everyone at the spa seems to recognize Guido. The point-of-view shot technique is recurring throughout the film and it's employed to lend a connotative meaning. Whether the camera is floating in the air, moving back and forth (like in a fever dream-like sequence where he meets his late mother and father) or panning the camera, focusing on each face gazing directly at the lens and addressing Guido (which happened frequently in the movie, one scene taking place in the aforementioned spa is a case in point), Guido being the subject of focus asserts his esteemed and famed status while simultaneously implying the stress he feels due to his exposed dwindling imaginative faculty. All eyes are on him and judging of him: his infamous reputation precedes him wherever he goes. In a scene early on in the movie, Gloria, his old friend Mezzabotta's fiancée, spontaneously tells Guido she had an argument with her fiancé because she was very critical of Guido's last film. Guido also tends to elude any question he's being asked about his next project, as he himself has no precise itinerary for it.

"A crisis of inspiration? And what if it weren't a passing one, my dear? What if it's the final collapse of a filthy liar with no glair or talent?"

This quote marks a major turning point in the story. The stakes are raised, and Guido at this point seems to doubt the very talent that made him the famous filmmaker he is. He begins to have fear of being a fraud. As the movie adopts a stream-of-consciousness narrative, Guido's conscious suddenly connects a certain moment in his present life to one memory from his childhood that significantly attributed to his sexual awakening that led him astray from the Catholic Church. Chalking his failure up to a sin in the past, Guido even seeks repentance. But although he never attains absolution, it's from here on that the movie probes into what regards his relationships in a mature way rather than tracking his lustful whims. At last he tries to reunite with his estranged wife, Luisa, according to his father's advice in one of the same dream-like scenes I referred to above. Things didn't work out as intended, and the artificiality of Guido and the authenticity and intelligence of Luisa are never reconciled even when the two characters are at their most intimate. Here comes to mind a certain scene. After having an argument while sleeping in bed, Guido and Luisa are revealed to be sleeping in separate beds, suggesting that the gap between them still exists. This phase in the story reaches its peak in the magnificent harem sequence. It's a prolonged dream-like sequence about 20 minutes long where Guido is reunited with his harem of every woman that left a mark in his memory. At first, the dream plays out like a euphoric fantasy, before gradually descending into a nightmare in which his harem rebel against him. Finally, he triumphs over them, taming his wild, lustful imagination.

My only major issue with this film is that I felt it overstayed its welcome by the end. The last 15 minutes could've been easily trimmed and the movie would've come to a closure that's more satisfying for me. The circus-like parade scene at the end didn't appeal to me either. Nevertheless, 8½ is a tapestry of labyrinthian proportions, weaving in and out of different memories that burden Fellini's alter ego's soul and trouble his mind. It's an in-depth exploration of an auteur's block that's at once chaotic and considerably digestible due to Fellini's masterful directing and co-writing as well as Leo Catozzo's exquisite editing that if it hadn't been for it the movie would've ended up being a fragmentary mess. Nino Rota's equally playful and evocative score also adds up to the large picture, gingering up Guido's experience and making it more accessible.

With a masked killer and piled-up dead bodies spurting buckets galore of blood, the first installment in the trilogy that will be released weekly over the course of July screams at you that it will be crammed with 90's slasher sub-genre tropes to the hilt. And it is. The story zeros in on a group of teens living in a the town of Shadyside, which is in a feud with the neighboring town of Sunnyvale, with an advantage to the latter due to the stigma that surrounds Shadyside for being notorious for a bloodstained history of murders. The plot takes ages to actually kick off, as I think the movie got carried away quite a bit in laying out its 90s-inspired setting. Our teenage heroes are: Deena (Kiana Madeira), who, despite witnessing an accident, spends a big chunk of the movie in denial of the real threat, underestimating it and regarding it as a series of pranks. Her brother, Josh (Benjamin Flores Jr.), is a nerd, internet-obsessed introvert who's a firm believer that what happens in the town is an entailment of darker secrets. Accordingly, he spends his time tracing the murders over the history, attempting to put the pieces together. Additionally, there are Kate (Julia Rehwald) and Simon (Fred Hechinger), classmates who serve as the comic relief characters at first before the story takes a darker, more earnest turn in its second half. Things improves significantly from there onwards. We finally get a glimpse at the lore the other two parts would expand on. But it's how the film unfolds is what impressed me for it somewhat managed to dodge the traps similar films that try to capture the characteristic features of a genre in a certain era it pays an homage to fall into: either ending up being a mere flimsy imitation of the movies in question or a self-serious film that tries too hard to keep things on a light footing.

First, I think it's a pretty smart decision that of taking a seamless diversion in its general tone from a full-on cheesy horror flick to a more serious and more dramatically hefty one while keeping on the campiness with no skimping on jump scares, juicy blood splatter, rapid zoom-ins, to name a few, to the last minute, as well as occult and possession (sorta!!) elements, which are even at the core of the plot. That's not to mention a plethora of references to classic horror films such as Night of the Living Dead, Dawn of the Dead and Jaws, as well as an allusion to The Shining and the door-breaking axe scene, but that's beside the point, anyway. Secondly, and as faithful to the 90s era as it is, the movie doesn't shy away from borrowing the distinct Stranger Things-approach that has been the go to for any film lately that tries to balance out the dread of horror films with a nostalgic flavor, the thing that also, somehow, heightens the intense spooky moments and renders them quite unsettling, due to the discordance between the warm ambiance - that of nostalgia - that prevails the scene and the gory, shocking happenings that penetrate it. Finally, in its exploration of the mythology, the movie clearly takes a page or two from the modern horror films that revived the genre in the recent years. However, with the exception of some twists, the story is very predictable and also has a formulaic structure. And one could see how the arcs of the characters would wind up from a mile. To end on a positive note, the soundtrack is chock-full of cool, adeptly implemented needle drops. Can't wait for the even more messy and gruesome 70s horror!

In the early 90s in London, and in the eve of his execution, Louis Mazzini - played by Dennis Price - writes down his memoirs in prison. His calmness regarding his looming death is mystifying to the prison guards. Almost the entirety of the story is told in flashback, with Louis' novelistic voice serving as the voice-over chronicling the consequences that led to the status quo. As a result to her eloping with and marrying to someone beneath her status, his mother is not only deprived of her birthright, but also seemed to be disowned of her heir status in the royal D'Ascoyne family, as her dying wish to be buried with her family was not granted. Louis' true love, Sibella, denied him until he'd become a duke. So, he concocted a sinister plan that would simultaneously able him to miraculously climb the dukedom ladder he's entitled to and revenge for his mother, and thus serves as of both self-interest and vindictive purpose, respectively. He carefully, and fiendishly, observed and tracked on a family-tree chart on the back of a picture hanging in his room the passing and advent of every D'Ascoyne family member, "Sometimes the deaths column brought good news. Sometimes the births column brought bad."

Kind Hearts and Coronets is an example of a Comedy of Manners, in which the superficiality of the upper classes is revealed. Typically, each character in this type of drama stands for a certain manner or folly prominent in the upper class which the work aims to satirize. Here, and in large part due to the amazing performances from the cast all around, the characters are fairly well-realized to give a sense of verisimilitude to their otherwise purposefully phlegmatic nature and lack of significant development. Sibella, marvellously played by Joan Greenwood, is an unabashedly exploitative to the point one wonders how Louis ever fell in love with her - but, after all, he himself is a real "cad" - while Edith D'Ascoyne presents the opposite. This sort of dichotomy between these two characters is an eminent feature in comedy of manners. Not to deviate from the mockery which the story aims at in the first place, that of denouncing those who marry for love instead of for rank, the movie's approach is explicitly not-so-subtle. In a monologue speech, Louis addresses the subject of satire quite directly before ending the life of one of the D'Ascoynes. That said, the movie is also snarky, and that can be clear from the witty dialogue, the reversal of roles and the fact one never gets away with what they've done and would be exposed at last sooner or later in a most ironic way imaginable, the latter two features also unmistakably belong to the comedy of manners.

Besides the brilliant acting, what prevents the lethargy and heavy-handedness expected from all of this to sabotage the experience of the film is the delicate sense of emotion that prevails in spite of the ingenious dry British humour that engulfs the entire film and that the protagonist is, in fact, an anti-hero of sorts. There's a distinct film noir look to the cinematography that fits in with the grim undertones and subject matter that are overshadowed by the effectively wry humour. Employing Alec Guinness to play every role in the D'Ascoyne lineage with differences in gender and age is a stroke of genius. Fortunately, this then-novel gimmick has never been the main thing the movie resorts to whenever it wants to churn up a couple of laughs. The pacing drags every so often and the editing feels choppy at times. Regardless, Kind Hearts and Coronets is an extremely clever and special British satirical comedy with a gravitating performance from Dennis Price in the lead role.

Seems like the vast majority of the movie reviews I read denounce it for lacking in cohesion, and I simply think they're missing the point. In The Heights plays out like a rhapsody, with each character's storyline thread is given singularity and distinct nature to stand out, yet they're all integrated partly due to the free-flowing structure the movie has as well as its main theme that encompasses the entire story - the classism of gentrification and its impending repercussions. Thus, the story offers a sort of communal experience, that it reflects not only its characters, but the whole block that was "disappearing." The story's goings-on spans several days before and after "the blackout" amid a scorching summer. It's Washington Heights where everyone chasing their own little dream (or sueñito), hoping one day they finally reach for the heights that seem to be just there over the horizon yet actually no one can see as they're beyond the blinding streetlights of the soon-to-be-gentrified Nueva York. At the centre stage, we have our narrator, Usnavi. A small little corner store (bodega) owner with a dream of returning home to the Dominican Republic, Usnavi also has a longtime crush on Vanessa - a girl in the neighborhood with an artistic talent for fashion designing, working in a beauty salon and dreams of moving downtown. There's also Sonny, Usnavi's younger cousin and sidekick who works with him. On a side note, Lin-Manuel Miranda decision to leave the role of Usnavi, which he originally played, to Anthony Ramos is a really smart one. Ramos gives his character an amiably rogue-ish charm that Miranda would no longer be able to emanate.

"So please don't say you're proud of me when I've lost my way."

Nina's storyline, though, is by miles the richest, more compelling and intricately detailed-albeit more conventional-one. Her father had sold half his share in business to pay for her education, only to find out that her daughter dropped out after her freshman year. Nina's story touches on a few interesting topics as it unravels. She grew bitter at the idea of being an outsider and couldn't stand seeing herself through the prejudiced perspective of her colleagues. Her family of first and second-generation immigrants had managed to assimilate with the new culture without losing their identity, ultimately partly seceding themselves to form their own community. But as for her, she experienced some sort of weltschmerz when she discovered that the hurdle of inherent prejudice still exists. She's unwelcomed, and even humiliated and treated as a dodgy person solely because of her ethnicity. What further exacerbates Nina's adversity is the fact she has always been regarded from her father, as well as her whole neighborhood, as the genius kid from whom they anticipated a lot. Even as an undergrad, the small girls in the block look up to her as an inspiration. All that proves a burden to her already self-disparaged self.

"Let me listen to the block"

All that said, we always see that community standing in solidarity and resilience in the face of their hardships, sustaining their Washington Heights with hectic and lively atmosphere. We get plenty of insert shots that focus on, in the words of Abuela Claudia-the barrio's matriarch, "the little details that tell the world (they) are not invisible." Speaking of the character of Abuela, she's basically the heart and soul of the community. She inherited the "American dream"- that of barely surviving the new environment-from her mother. When she was young, she managed to cope with the challenges she faced on a daily basis. As an old woman, she burnt herself like a candle for illuminating her neighbourhood in ways that seem to surpass the metaphorical sense of the word. Furthermore, the matriarchal power of the neighborhood, in general, lays on the acculturation basis of "integration" rather than either "assimilation" or "separation." As Carla sings, "My mom is Dominican-Cuban. My dad is from Chile. Which means, I'm Chile-Domini-Curican. But I always say I'm from Queens." Here we get that they aim to simultaneously adopt the new culture while retaining their heritage proudly.

"A dream isn't some sparkly diamond we get. You know, sometimes, it's rough. And it's not so pretty."

On multiple occasions throughout the movie, and especially in the titular musical number, we see the players' movements synchronized with music perfectly. And it's clear there was a painstaking attention given to the choreography of every musical number. Whether they're jumping in the air, splashing water or dancing in the streets, all the players are seen engaged in unison in jubilant celebrations of the potential for realizing their dreams, or for warding off the their troubles along with the heatwave. It's worth noting that many of the tunes are syncopated (the offbeats are emphasized; the weak beats are stressed instead of the normally strong ones), which lends the music a more human quality due to its decidedly imperfect nature. The tonal shifting is blatantly inconsistent at some points, but that's the only complaint I can think of.

Rummaging through the movies that really helped me at my lowest points, You've Got Mail was the first one that came to mind. So instead of giving it a rewatch (I do hate it when movies don't live up to my first viewing of them), I thought it was a sign I should finally get around to the other Hanks/Ryan Nora Ephron film. Again, this one proves how exceptionally good Ephron was at balancing out the gooeyness of her far-fetched romantic stories with some sincere dialogue that grounds a story about a star-crossed lovers in reality. The premise of two people who have never met and live on opposite ends of the country become infatuated with each other seems destined to leave viewers incredulous. But at its core, it's a story about a man (Sam) overcoming grief after losing his wife, instantly thawing the cynicism of a woman (Annie) once she hears on a radio about his "magical" love story he once had. Consequently, Annie goes to great lengths to meet Sam while grappling with the idea of leaving her strait-laced fiancé in the process for fear of leading more of a satisfactory life rather than a genuine one. That's why Annie's storyline proved more interesting to me, and Meg Ryan did an amazing job at expressing this kind of a dilemma Annie goes through from the moment she's crying while listening to the radio to the very end. She managed to express a myriad of troubling emotions that can only be inferred because of the lighthearted nature of the film. The chemistry between her and Hanks is once again undeniable despite, sadly, sharing very few scenes together. Crammed with humorous cynicism and self-awareness, Sleepless in Seattle also elicits more than its fair share of chuckles, whether coming from its endless movie references (with An Affair to Remember being at the top of them) or Hanks's sweet interactions with his on-screen son. Definitely not near as tightly-scripted as You've Got Mail, as its plot sometimes may feel like is stretched-out to death. Plus, despite being perfectly paired with some scenes, the soundtrack is full of on-the-nose choices. Nevertheless, Sleepless in Seattle is just the mood-booster I wanted right now.