Reviews

French director Eva Husson's 2021 film, which is based on Graham Swift's novel of the same name, is a beautifully observed, slow take on (English) tragedy and class. OK, director Husson has Swift's novel (and English writer Alice Birch's screenplay) to work with, but (as a 'foreigner') one of Mother Sunday's notable strengths is its perceptive take on (post-WW1, 1920s) English class - with all its repressed emotions and pretence - as Odessa Young's 'lower' class, orphan maid, Jane Fairchild, embarks on a (brief) sexual liaison with Josh O'Connor's privileged nice guy ('He's one of the good ones'), Paul Sheringham (in a variation on a 'Lady Chatterley's Lover' arrangement, say). Husson reveals a highly skilled (arguably too skilled!) aptitude for storytelling here, switching time-period at will between three incarnations of Fairchild's life (including the, brief, latter episode in which Jane's now prize-winning author is played by Glenda Jackson in her final film role). The film's overall mise-en-scène also signals Husson's talent, creating some memorable images of the English countryside (near Guildford, apparently, not the supposed Henley-on-Thames setting) accompanied by Morgan Kibby's shimmering (often string-based) score.

Of course, the other thing Husson has going for her is the film's superlative cast. In addition to Young, who impresses throughout, we get Olivia Colman and Colin Firth (particularly good at doing 'repressed') as the Nivens (Jane's employers), rising star O'Connor and Emma D'Arcy as Sheringham's intended, Emma Hobday. There are many scenes of the Nivens and their uptight acquaintances and none better than the 'Henley-set' Sunday garden party - as they await Paul's arrival - in which D'Arcy is outstanding ('Are you allowed to speak to me like that?'). Aside from the film's portrayal of the 'classless, taboo-breaking' sexual encounter between Fairchild and Sheringham (the film has more nudity than any film I can recall of recent vintage!) Mothering Sunday's main theme is that of loss, not only as a result of the film's central tragic event, but the memory of 'the fallen' - including Paul's close family members - prompting Colman's Mrs Niven to lose her cool at one point (albeit briefly). Husson just about manages to stay the right side of maudlin in this respect, albeit we get little in the way of any light relief.

Comparator (period) films are no doubt many - but this not being one of my favourite genres, the exemplar that kept occurring to this viewer was The Remains of the Day. Husson's film is not in the same league, but nevertheless does have plus points that make it worth catching.

This 1950 'British film' by director Alfred Hitchcock is perhaps one of the man's more overlooked works, but the film still has more than enough positives to raise Stage Fright well above mere run-of-the-mill fare. One reason cited for the film's relatively middling reputation is that Hitch followed it the following year with an undisputed (well, by me, at least!) masterpiece, in Strangers On A Train, but rather here we get the film-maker harking back in many ways to his earlier 'British classics' like The 39 Steps and The Lady Vanishes, with another man on the run and much comedic British banter (courtesy of the film's London setting and impressive character cast), plus an undeniable touch of Hollywood glamour from stars Jane Wyman and, particularly, Marlene Dietrich. The film's theatrical setting, as Wyman's budding actress, Eve Gill, attempts to save Richard Todd's 'innocent', Jonathan Cooper, from his murderous obsession with Dietrich's femme fatale and actress/singer, Charlotte Inwood, is another nice touch, allowing for an element of a 'drama within a drama' and numerous plays on the thespian theme.

The film is also famous, some might say infamous, for its use of a 'false flashback', indeed Hitch himself regarded this (retrospectively, at least) as a flaw. The critics' jury is (seemingly) still out on this aspect, but I do not consider this in the least a flaw, but merely the source of another plot twist (and quite an effective one at that). Depending on personal preference, the film does suffer somewhat from a lack of memorable Hitchcock set-pieces and true (or, certainly, chilling) suspense, until its final 10 minutes at least, but much entertainment is had along the way (largely in the tradition of the man's earlier British films). Cast-wise, even though the US/British mix does not gel entirely, the film has some great turns. Both Dietrich and Wyman impress, the former's sultry appeal is captured brilliantly by Hitch (and cinematographer Wilkie Cooper) - particularly during Charlotte's rendition of the Cole Porter song, The Laziest Gal In Town - whilst Wyman does some impressive, particularly comedic, work as Charlotte's stand-in 'cockney' maid, Doris, in an attempt to uncover the singer's role in the film's pivotal murder. Elsewhere, two great British stalwarts excel as Eve's separated parents, namely Alastair Sim and Sybil Thorndike (the latter in a typically Hitchcockian mother depiction à la Mrs Antony in Strangers On A Train, Mrs Thornhill in North By Northwest, and many others). Also look out for nice cameos from Joyce Grenfell, Miles Malleson, (a young) Alfie Bass, Ballard Berkeley (the Major from Fawlty Towers), plus Kay Walsh's great turn as Charlotte's busybody maid, Nellie.

Visually, the film does not reach the heights of Hitch's later American classics, but there are still some trademark highlights. We get a number of PoV sequences plus an inventive tracking shot of Cooper entering a house and closing an invisible door behind him! The film's opening credits sequence as a theatre safety curtain rises to reveal London in all its (admittedly post-WW2 bombed-out) glory, the use of a young boy to present Charlotte with 'blood-stained evidence' and the film's theatre-set finale (particularly the use of shadow on Gill and Cooper's faces) are all highly memorable (the latter calling to my mind the setting of Fry in Radio City Music Hall in Saboteur).

As a big Hitch fan, Stage Fright is a film that was off my radar for a long time, but now discovered, I would recommend as an intriguing and solid entry in the film-maker's 'second-tier' films.

Writer-director (and cinema legend) Bily Wilder's penultimate film (made in 1978) is a delightfully biting satire on the machinations of Hollywood - a kind of Sunset Boulevard updated by a quarter of a century (if you like). Here, instead of Gloria Swanson's ageing film star, Norma Desmond, suffering the delusion that she can resurrect her (predominantly silent screen) career as if the intervening years never happened, Wilder injects (no pun intended) some 'modern day realism' in his tale of Hildegard Knef's insecure titular Hollywood star's realisation that 'preservation of youth' is a must have at the 1970s box office. As for the great 1950 film, we again get William Holden (here as film producer Barry 'Dutch' Detweiler) atmospherically narrating (primarily in flashback, at times multi- flashback) his and Fedora's tale, with (again) the Holden character unearthing the mystery in a 'secluded mansion' (this time on the Greek island of Corfu), where Fedora is (supposedly) holed up with the equally mysterious Countess Sobryanski. What follows is an 'old fashioned melodrama' (a little fanciful at times, maybe), mixing tragedy with Wilder's (and co-writer I A L Diamond's) characteristic quips, beautifully shot using production designs by the legendary Alexandre Trauner and with a sweeping score by Miklós Rózsa.

Undoubtedly, the most memorable of Trauner's designs relates to the opening (Fedora) funeral sequence, from which Dutch angrily narrates, picking up on espying the Countess and 'that weird entourage of hers' (a description that could have been lifted from Sunset Boulevard, with Desmond, Buster Keaton, etc.). Throughout, Wilder paints Hollywood as a 'busted flush' dropping topical references like confetti, as Dutch namedrops faded stars from the 'golden age' (Gable, Tracy, Crawford) and notes the selling off (cheaply) of the MGM lot. The 'mystery' of Fedora and the Countess is genuinely enthralling and, at times, distinctly eerie, as Dutch discovers notebooks with 'I am Fedora' repeated throughout (anticipating a Jack Nicholson-The Shining moment) alongside a hidden wall photomontage. Such moments of suspense are, though, interspersed with some delicious Wilder one-liners ('What's a cheeseburger?', Don't let this earring fool you', 'No not there, that's the cat's chair', 'Acting, that's for the Old Vic', etc.).

Acting-wise, the 'lived-in' Holden is, as ever, excellent, as is José Ferrer as Fedora's surgeon, the creepily defiant, Dr. Vando. The pairing of Knef and Marthe Keller is rather a mixed bag - likely not helped by Wilder being forced (for understandability reasons) to dub both actresses' voices with the voice of Inga Bunsch. Keller, in particular, does rather overdo the OTT melodrama, at times. I found the film's biggest weaknesses to be the 'Dutch concussion' interlude and (after the film's 'reveal') the rather lengthy 'story explanation' (which came across as anticlimactic).

Despite being a long-time Wilder fan, I had not seen Fedora until just recently and, whilst I would not rate it in (quite) the same league as the man's absolute best (in which Fedora's closest comparator, Sunset Boulevard, would feature heavily) it is a fine late effort and a worthy testament to one of cinema's greatest artists.

On the face of it (and, indeed, on first viewing) director Jean Renoir's 1951 film, which is based on the book of the same name by Rumer Godden, might come across as a 'simple love story'. However, The River is much more than this (as repeated viewings serve to emphasise). The first film to be shot in colour in India - and what colour it is, with Jean's nephew, Claude, delivering lush technicolour, restored to perfection on the BFI DVD - The River has an 'other-worldly' ambience, in which the local Indian culture, traditions and spirituality transcend Godden and Renoir's central romantic narrative (inspiring the noted Indian film-maker Satyajit Ray, who met Renoir during the making of The River, to embark on an illustrious career). On first sight, The River also appears to be a total departure from Renoir's earlier 'great' (1930s/40s) French period, but closer inspection reveals similar (if slightly less caustic) themes of class and anti-war sentiment present in masterpieces such as La grande Illusion and La règle du jeu.

Cast-wise, in addition to mining the traditional English theatre with Esmond Knight and Nora Swinburne playing, respectively, the patriarch and matriarch (anonymously badged The Father and The Mother) of the central family, Renoir also (intriguingly) cast non-professional actors, Patricia Walters and Thomas E Breen taking the roles of teenage daughter Harriet and visiting disabled, US army man, Capt. John, the latter who becomes an 'obsessive object of (immature) desire' (and mutual jealousy) for Harriet, Adrienne Corri's more mature Valerie and (most remotely) Radha Burnier's reserved Melanie. There are one or two moments where Walters (in particular) and Breen display (with slightly stilted delivery) their lack of screen experience, but, in the main, the actors' inexperience works in favour of the film's authenticity. Breen, in particular, impresses as the reluctant 'love interest', instead conveying his sense of alienation and rejection (following his war-time experiences) and need to seek some form of spiritual salvation (in this novel culture). Elsewhere, Renoir does a spectacularly impressive job in conveying the nature of the local Hindu culture and symbolism during the extended scenes of the Diwali festival celebrations. The other, culturally-linked, theme here is that of the significance and power of nature, which manifests itself in the tragic fate that befalls Harriet's young brother, Bogey. The sense of guilt arising in Harriet also adds a dramatic twist to Renoir's tale before the film's (and the family's) quite marvellously uplifting denouement, culminating in 'It's a girl'!

The most obvious comparator for Renoir's film is that other, uniquely brilliant, cinema adaptation of a Godden novel, namely Black Narcissus by master British film-makers Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger. I would still have a slight preference for the earlier (1947) Archers' film, due to its (for its time) more 'edgy' and ground-breaking themes. However, The River is a film whose impact (and sophistication) grows on repeat viewings and can certainly stand as something of a masterwork in its own right.

British-Iranian film-maker Babak Jalali's 2023 film is a beautifully observed (and subtle) tale of alienation, (gradual) assimilation and love. We follow Anaita Wali Zada's Afghan refugee and ex-US army-employed translator, Donya, now employed in the titular Californian city as a writer of fortune cookie messages, in her search for some form of 'cultural acceptance' and new identity. Jalali's film, with its monochrome, slow look-and-feel, is about as far as you can get from franchise multiplex fare and is all the more welcome for that! Jalali and co-writer Carolina Cavalli give us an authentically naturalistic mix of Donya's reflecting on past traumas (and potential feelings of guilt for having made it out of a war-torn home whilst others did not), some moments of ironic humour and Donya's own ambitions to 'fit in' and (just maybe) to find love herself. Fremont's thoughtful and frequently melancholic vibe is cemented via Mahmood Schricker's haunting, sparsely instrumental score, which forms another memorable feature of Jalali's film.

The film's (minimalist) cast is consistently impressive. In addition to Zada's captivating (and central) presence, we get Gregg Turkington's idiosyncratic psychiatrist, Dr Anthony, (who parallels Donya's plight with that of White Fang - from the Jack London novel), Eddie Tang's kindly factory manager, Ricky (who gives us another telling moment of symbolism as he spins his world globe, reminding us of the universal nature of humanity) and Jeremy Allen White's (similarly reserved) garage mechanic, Daniel, whose late encounter with Donya (as she travels to meet a blind date) is an achingly moving highlight. Jalali's handling of the emotions here is never over-sentimentalised or trite, rather always naturalistic and subtle. The film-maker even finds time for some nice (semi-comedic) moments, reflecting cultural differences, as Donya first struggles with an uncooperative vending machine, and then discovers both the bureaucratic delights of a western doctor surgery booking system and the US obsession with all things capitalistic as (due to the malfunctioning drink dispenser) her work boss charges her $2.5 for a (replacement) coffee.

Subject-wise, Jalali's film, with its tale of migrant 'assimilation', is, perhaps not surprisingly given the rise of global migration, not exactly original cinematically. Each of Ken Loach (The Old Oak), Ben Sharrock (Limbo) and Aki Kaurismäki (Le Havre, The Other Side of Hope) have tried their respective hands with the topic and Jalali's film, with its slow, observational qualities and moments of dark humour, bears particular comparison with Kaurismäki. Style-wise, with its offbeat qualities, the film also called to my mind the cinema of Jim Jarmusch and Wim Wenders. Suffice to say, Fremont comes recommended.

Norwegian writer-director Eskil Vogt's 2021 film is a never less than intriguing exploration of childhood learning, development and morality, all with a supernatural bent. We follow Rakel Lenora Fløttum's Ida and her older 'nonverbal autism'-suffering sister, Alva Brynsmo Ramstad's Anna, and family to their new home, a sterile, high-rise apartment block where 'strange goings-on' surface. Despite the (relative) strict supervision of their parents, the sisters soon befriend neighbouring children Sam Asgraf's Ben and Mina Asheim's Aisha and it transpires that the quartet (to a greater or lesser extent) share the abilities of telepathy and telekinesis. Vogt's writing is authentically naturalistic and captures quite beautiful the impetuosity, innocence and (at times) cruelty of childhood impulses, delivered on screen by his impressive, diverse, rookie cast - all of whom (as far as I can tell) are making their acting debuts here. Fløttum, in particular, is a standout (amongst the quartet) in a role which requires the greatest range of emotional versatility.

Vogt does a good job in blending the drama's more 'positive' and 'negative' vibes, as the stimulation to Anna provided by Ben and Aisha's company leads to the hitherto mute daughter uttering a few words (much to her parents' ecstatic delight), whilst the film's (overridingly) unsettling atmosphere (as exacerbated by Pessi Levanto's often atonal score) eventually starts to dominate as Ben (in particular) realises that his 'newly realised powers' can be used to settle old scores and rivalries. I'll admit that I found the film's earlier passages to be the most interesting - as the quartet are discovering new facets to their developing lives - whilst the later 'revenge plotting' (despite containing further learning experience for the children) did resort largely to fairly well-worn 'horror drama' tropes. That said, I thought the film's denouement sequence was quite brilliantly done - constituting a fitting celebration of sibling unity and (maybe also) a push for burgeoning feminism!

As for comparators, the film's subtlety and tone reminded me of fellow Scandi Tomas Alfredson's 2009 film Let The Right One in. Director Vogt, who has written frequently for fellow Norwegian director Joachim Trier (Thelma, The Worst Person In The World), is clearly a talent worth keeping tabs on.

Francois Truffaut's 1959 directorial debut film, Les Quatre Cents Coups, remains one of the most poignant, and portentous, coming-of-age films ever, as well as being (particularly for the 27-year old newcomer Truffaut) one of the most assuredly promising film-making starts. The film's tale of Jean-Pierre Léaud's misunderstood, rebellious 13-year old Parisian schoolboy, Antoine, also provides one of the most subtle (but increasingly powerful) big screen commentaries on the potential 'slippery slope' of negligent parenting, failing education and embryonic juvenile delinquency, giving the film a social (and, at times, poetic) realist feel - rather like a cross between, say, The Bicycle Thieves, La Strada and Billy Liar. Truffaut's cinematographer Henri Decae does a brilliant (black-and-white) job in portraying the hustle, bustle and (frequently) dinginess of Paris (arguably the real star of the film) - establishing credentials early on with the superb opening credit sequence as the camera homes in, via an extended tour, on the Eiffel Tower - and the film's crowning glory is Jean Constantin's evocative and dream-like score, which imbues the film with its deceptively light feel.

Truffaut demonstrates particular adeptness in the management and portrayal of his teenage cast - the classroom scenes are full of brilliant observational detail (showing the influences of Jean Vigo's Zero de Conduite), as well as depicting an amazing set of bemused child faces witnessing a puppet show. And, at the heart of Truffaut's semi-autobiographical tale is the friendship between Léaud's Antoine and Patrick Auffay's René (both actors' performances astonishing in defying their inexperience), whose scenes (playing truant) wandering the Paris streets, visiting the cinema (a recurring theme) or the 'fair' (with the remarkable 'centrifugal ride') are some of the film's most memorable - a highlight being that where a crocodile of boys following a PE teacher all gradually 'bunk off'. Although Truffaut maintains (initially, at least) a relatively playful atmosphere for Antoine and René's antics, there is no sentimentality here - the negligence shown by Antoine's parents, Claire Maurier's 'real' (but unfaithful) mother, Gilberte, and Albert Rémy's straight-talking (though distracted) stepfather, Julien, is played very matter-of-factly, oblivious of the potential consequences for the boy.

Following Antoine's sortie into 'big-time theft' and his subsequent apprehension, the mood changes dramatically as he (and we) are faced with the stark reality of the criminal justice system (fellow adult prisoners, police vans - a superb shot of a despairing Antoine behind bars - fingerprints and mugshots). And, as Truffaut allows us to follow Antoine on his 'escape bid to freedom', bounding down the beach to end with one of cinema's most powerful freeze frames, we ask ourselves the unpalatable question of the boy's future, 'Where will it end?'.

Writer-director Ryusuke Hamaguchi's 2021 film goes hand in hand with the film-maker's extended exposition (made the same year) of the Murakami short story, Drive My Car, in demonstrating that Hamaguchi is one of the most perceptive and subtle observers of everyday life currently working in cinema. Here, the film-maker gives us a triptych of tales, each rooted in 'romance' (predominantly from a female viewpoint) but also addressing much wider concerns on the (modern) human condition, including social alienation, fidelity, love, sexual desire, (borrowing from Mike Leigh) secrets and lies, and the impact of modern technology on human relationships. As far as I can tell, Hamaguchi has cast relative unknowns (in Japanese cinema) - the film-maker has made fewer than a dozen features in a 25-year career which started in short films and documentaries - for WoFaF, but their performances here are quite beautifully naturalistic and understated. Visually, with its modern-day, urban settings, Hamaguchi's film is relatively unfussy, but the film's subtle, at times mesmerising, mood is reinforced by the chosen soundtrack, which features solo piano music by Robert Schumann.

The opening tale - Magic (or Something Less Assuring) - is probably the most 'conventional', a love triangle (if you like) in which all three actors excel (Kotone Furukawa's 'maverick', Meiko, perhaps being the marginal standout) during the story's various extended head-to-heads. Hamaguchi builds a degree of tension - via the narrative's sense of coincidence - with some brilliantly written (and deeply felt) dialogue. Door Wide Open is at the other end of the 'conventionality spectrum' as Katsuki Mori's mature student, Nao, is 'put up' (by a fellow student) to play a honey-trap trick on her college professor (involving the reading of a sexually explicit passage of the professor's work), which, despite Nao 'retreating' from her original intention, backfires spectacularly, courtesy of the vagaries of the email system. The final tale - Once Again - is a quite brilliant examination of social alienation, identity, loss, memory, coincidence and what it means to be 'happy' in the modern world, as Fusako Urabe's loner, Natsuko, and Aoba Kawai's family woman, Aya, 'recognise' each other from school (20 years ago) and go on their own individual voyages of discovery (Aya memorably concluding at one point, 'Time is slowly killing me') over the next few hours. The tale builds to a quite wonderful denouement, recalling for me the conclusion of Woody Allen's films Broadway Danny Rose and Manhattan (no higher personal pinnacle is possible!).

All three of Hamaguchi's stories are intimate, small-scale and (almost) theatrical in nature, however, the perception of the film-maker's writing and naturalistic performances of his cast, transform the film into something (never less than) intriguing and (at times) bordering on the profound. All in all, with Wheel of Fortune and Fantasy, Hamaguchi cements his place as a film-maker worth following.

Director Henry King's 1958 western - albeit with a fairly standard genre plot of a man seeking revenge for the murder of his wife - has enough good character turns, relatively subtle plot reveals and a morality twist to raise the film well above your typical genre fare. To be honest, I was not overly hopeful at the outset with Gregory Peck and (would you believe?) Joan Collins at the top of the bill! OK, Peck has been memorable in a few things, To Kill a Mockingbird (obviously), Hitchcock's Suspicion, Gentleman's Agreement and another King-directed western, The Gunfighter, spring to mind. Collins' nuggets are harder to find, only 1953's Turn the Key Softly being lodged in the old grey matter. No matter, King and writer Philip Yordan deliver a more than respectable effort here, particularly during the film's set-up as Peck's Jim Douglass mysteriously rides (Eastwood-like) into town for the purposes of witnessing a quadruple-hanging, keeping us and the townsfolk guessing as to his motivation.

King's supporting (townsfolk) cast here includes (familiar faces) George Voskovec's (he of juror #11 Twelve Angry Men-fame) and Andrew Duggan's (he of TV's Bonanza, Wagon Train, etc. Fame) Padre, plus languishing in the cells four 'baddies', including Lee Van Cleef's Alfonso Parral and Henry Silva's (2nd only behind Jack Elam in the 'evil western baddie' chart), Lujan. As the (supposed) hangman arrives to take care of business (curiously played by he of Three Stooges fame, Joe DeRita), the film nicely ratchets up the tension and sense of mystery - the sheriff quizzing Douglass, 'You sure they're the same bunch?', good vs evil to the fore as a church service proceeds in the background, plus a Hitchcock-like sequence as the quartet struggle to reach the jail key. As Douglass subsequently finds himself at the centre of a chasing posse, some of earlier character-based subtlety is rather lost, but Douglass' one-to-ones with the fleeing quartet remain intriguing, as well as exacerbating the avenger's doubt as to his 'mission'. Throughout, King's film looks meticulous in its Mexican locations, perhaps not surprising giving that his cinematographer, Leon Shamroy, was the (joint) most (18 times) Oscar-nominated in screen history (though not for The Bravados).

The film's (seemingly) modest budget, subtlety and element of morality tale reminded me frequently of the series of low-budget films Budd Boetticher made (with Randolph Scott) during the same period. The similarities were particularly prominent during The Bravados' denouement final 10 minutes, where an element of humanising the 'baddies', specifically the 'Indian', Lujan, sets King's film apart from much of the (overly) plentiful supply of films in the genre.

Columbian film-maker Alejandro Landes' 2019 film, examining the dynamics and dysfunction of a group of teenage Columbian 'guerrilla fighters', has a deal of potential, but which, for me, remains largely unfulfilled. First, the positives. Composer Mica Levi's typically sporadic, (often) dissonant, but deceptively mesmerising, score is quite superb and, unsurprisingly, is associated with most of the film's memorable sequences. Similarly, the look and feel of Landes' film is raw, visceral and often spectacular (courtesy of Jasper Wolf's cinematography) which, given the film's South American setting (majestic mountains and perilous rivers) reminded me a tad of Werner Herzog's classic Aguirre, Wrath of God. Unfortunately, that's where the comparison ends, the Landes film having no-one to compare with the all-consuming presence (and stare!) of the great Klaus Kinski.

Where Landes' film principally falls short is in its lack of character development. This may (potentially) be down to the guerrillas being intended as 'cyphers' to represent the result of a 'failed state' but it does nothing to help in audience investment in Landes' characters or narrative. To describe the film as 'disturbing' is predicated (for me, at least) on having some context for characters' behaviour, otherwise the shock value of the violence and sex here merely comes across as gratuitous. The symbolic (cypher-like) qualities are further enhanced by the guerrillas dealing through the anonymous 'Organisation' from which they get their orders. Some of the more intriguing (and even darkly comedic) moments include that where the group's prisoner, Julianne Nicholson's Doctora, is bizarrely quizzed (via radio) by The Organisation as to which superhero is superior (Superman, Spiderman or Batman) - thankfully Doctora gives the 'correct' answer! Similarly, as Doctora is being held at gunpoint by one of the female guerrillas, asking her captor what she wants from life, getting the response, 'I want to dance on TV' (well that's as maybe, but joining a group of armed guerrillas seems a rather extreme response!). As a final positive, the film's closing scene with its 'What do we do with these people?' probably sums up the entire preceding 100 minutes (and the 'point' of the film).

The film is said to have been inspired by the likes of William Golding's book The Lord of the Flies and Joseph Conrad's Heart of Darkness. I can see the similarities, but Landes' film falls short of both the literary works, as well as the cinema adaptations - Peter Brook's 1963 film and, of course, of Francis Ford Coppola's 1979 masterwork.

To describe Ingmar Bergman's 1955 exemplary exercise in film-making 'simply' as a comedy is really to underestimate the extensive virtues of Smiles Of A Summer Night. That's not say that the film isn't funny - it is, in fact, it is frequently hilarious. The comedic elements of Bergman's script, which seamlessly mix satire and elements of farce, would give a run for their money to the likes of Billy Wilder, Preston Sturges, Charles Lederer (His Girl Friday), etc. And no doubt the film's qualities gave Bergman-fanatic, Woody Allen, palpitations (in his attempts to match it)! But, even though Smiles may lack the levels of profundity (and, certainly, the solemnity) of Bergman's most lauded works, the film's juxtaposition of tragedy and mockery, across a range of themes, is done so pitch-perfectly as to lend the film much poignancy, in the process contributing significantly to what is in toto a great spectacle in accessible entertainment. The film undoubtedly scores most highly by dint of Bergman's screenplay, but its faultless cast, memorable black-and-white cinematography (beautifully evoking the turn of the 20th century period setting) by Gunnar Fischer and atmospheric score (mixing Erik Nordgren's original composition with the likes of Mozart, Chopin and Schumann) perhaps understandably led noted critic Pauline Kael to equate the film to something nearing perfection.

At a simplistic level, Bergman is giving us a 'battle of the sexes', the fairer sex needing to resort to underhand machinations to get the better of the pompous, deluded male of the species, against a backdrop of widespread amorality. Gunnar Björnstrand is outstanding as the self-centred lawyer, Fredrik Egerman, torn between his rekindled feelings for his ex, Eva Dahlbeck's equally nostalgic actress, Desiree Armfeldt, and his 'paternal affection' for his young, unsullied wife, Ulla Jacobsson's Anne, whilst his weak-willed, idealistic son Björn Bjelfvenstam's Henrik aspires to the priesthood, whilst despairing at his world's loose morals. Vying for Desiree's affections is Jarl Kulle's officious army officer, Count Carl-Magnus Malcolm, in open defiance of his feisty, resentful wife Margit Carlqvist's Charlotte, and completing Bergman's outstanding cast is the pairing of Harriet Andersson's flirtatious maid, Petra, and Ake Fridell's rustic servant Frid. Bergman plays off these two quartets of characters against one another, via a series of complex, predominantly sympathetic, character two-handers, whereby his more tragic themes around human frailty and longing are invariably undercut by moments of witty, often scathing, satire. An exemplar of this is the early stand-off between Fredrik, Desiree and the Count, the former two characters initially sharing wistful moments of what might have been, before the arrival of the latter, and the departure (comic farce-style) of Fredrik into the night, bedecked only in a nightgown.

The film's final set-piece midsummer night dinner at Desiree's mother's (the excellent Naima Wifstrand) house is another cinematic pièce de résistance, during which Mrs Armfeldt's mysterious 'potion' (wine) seemingly casts a spell over Bergman's protagonists (across whose faces the director gives us a nice series of camera dissolves), before resolving the potentially tragic consequences in keeping with the film's continuing sense of (good-natured) irony.

As an example of an ensemble satire, an obvious comparator film for me would be Renoir's La Règle du Jeu and here Bergman does touch on class, as well as religion, the theatre and royalty, as a source for mockery. As a satire on the roles of the sexes, plus the film's ornate period setting, I would opt for Max Ophuls, particularly La Ronde. Certainly, the designation of 'comedy' should not detract from Smiles Of A Summer Night's status as another major Bergman work.

The Swedish master was, of course, well known for his dark psychodramas and 1961's Through a Glass Darkly is another fine example. The film showcases Bergman's recurring themes of the struggle to attain (or even define) love and God, often (as here) in a family context, the film forming the first of a thematic trilogy (followed by Winter Light and The Silence). The favoured Bergman setting of the island Faro, despite its obvious airy, coastal setting, adds to the feeling of isolation and claustrophobia being endured by the film-maker's troubled quartet. Harriet Andersson's mentally unstable Karin, in a quite astonishingly visceral performance, is the focus of our attention, alongside Gunnar Björnstrand's detached author and father, David (returning from a spell abroad), Max von Sydow's thoughtful (but rather creepy) doctor and wife to Karin, Martin, and Lars Passgård's (in his film debut) still 'innocent' 17-year old brother to Karin, Minus, who has artistic aspirations himself. It's the 'dysfunctional family from hell' syndrome, about as far from a 'barrel of laughs' as you can get and made all the more admirable (and troubling) courtesy of Sven Nykvist's stark black-and-white cinematography and the sombre (and perfect) score of J S Bach's cello sarabande.

One of the film's most impressive (and symbolic) passages is the brief 'drama within a drama', Minus' own play 'Tomb of Illusions' in which the sibling pair 'perform' their own microcosm of Bergman's film, with themes of mortality ('Only death shall love me') and deceit (typified in Karin, Minus and Martin's reactions to David's presents i.e. Negative in private, positive in public, and in David and Martin failing to be transparent with Karin around her condition). Equally memorable is Andersson's portrayal of (supposed) burgeoning insanity - the sequence in which Karin sensually feels along the wall (calling to mind Catherine Deneuve in Polanski's later Repulsion) before descending into a near epileptic-orgasmic fit is highly unsettling (which is added to by the repeated and distant boat foghorn sounding in the distance). There is, however, a nagging doubt as to whether Karin really is suffering any kind of physiological condition or whether she is merely reacting to her isolation, lack of spirituality and treatment by, in particular, her self-obsessed father (whose persona here hints at Bergman himself). Interestingly, the film's 'bombshell' development - that of the relationship between siblings - is only hinted at, in a 'blink and you'll miss it' moment, but is probably the better for it.

As was Bergman's wont, much is packed into the film's relatively concise duration - less than 90 minutes - and there is much to admire here, not least (if you're in the mood!) the film's unrelenting trauma. In terms of where it fits critically in the film-maker's oeuvre, I have a preference for each of Wild Strawberries and (a rare comedy) Smiles of a Summer Night, whilst Through a Glass Darkly sits (respectably) alongside the other 'trilogy' films - Winter Light and The Silence - and the later masterwork, Persona.

I've long thought that a film's beginning (or, indeed, ending) leaves a permanent mark on one's recollection and that certainly proves to be the case in writer-director Ben Sharrock's memorable 2020 asylum-seeker drama set on a remote Scottish Island. As the pairing of Kenneth Collard's bumbling Boris and Sidse Babett Knudsen's (yes, she of TV's Nordic Noir Borgen fame, hat's off to the actress!) Helga jive to Hot Chocolate's It Started With A Kiss as part of a 'cultural awareness' training programme (with asylum seekers looking on) my mind inevitably turned to the black comedy of Finnish film-maker Aki Kaurismaki, whose work is redolent with deadpan humour, but frequently with a serious underlying message, most recently also relating to people fleeing conflict and oppression and seeking a better life in The West. Perhaps the greatest compliment that I could pay to Sharrock is that he (as near novice film-maker) achieves as much as (arguably more than) his more experienced (approaching two dozen films) Finnish counterpart. Focusing on the isolated existence of Amir El-Masri's (in a film-stealing and deservedly BAFTA-winning turn) Syrian, the Oud-playing Omar, Sharrock's remarkable drama gets to the heart of the traumatic, highly personal dilemma of abandoning one's culture (in the face of war) with all the heart-rending implications.

The film's island setting - that of the Uists (themselves somewhat nostalgic for me having visited a number of times) - with its wind-swept, barren landscapes, establishes itself as a central 'character' to Sharrock's film, whether it be during the more temperate seasons or (latterly) as a snow-bound wilderness. Omar's sense of isolation and distance is exemplified by his repeated phone box calls home - his mother focused on his 'domestic well-being' (changing bed sheets!), relationship with his 'missing in action' brother and his father's encouragement to take up (again) playing of Omar's precious Oud (whose symbolic presence grows throughout the film). Also, significantly, the film's episodic, multi-vignette structure mirrors exactly Omar's day-to-day, 'random' existence. Elsewhere, Omar's fellow travellers include Farhad, a Freddie Mercury-obsessed fellow Zoroastrian, and African Wasef, suffering delusions of grandeur and ambition to become a Chelsea footballer. Sharrock blends (again, à la Kaurismaki), with seemingly consummate ease, the film's serious issues with some hilarious, offbeat passages - including a confrontation with a group of seemingly hostile (but really rather considerate) Neds, an opera-loving postman, an encounter with Derek the dolphin and a confrontation with Sanjeev Kohli's (yes, Navid of the great Still Game fame!) racially-aware shopkeeper.

The film's narrative arc is relatively predictable (I guess) but this really does not detract from its impact. Comparators (aside from Kaurismaki) would include the recent (2023) impressive Matteo Garrone film Io Capitano, but I would put Sharrock's film on an even higher plane than Garrone's.

Watching writer-director Thomas Clay's innovative 2016 17th century-set feature you could be forgiven for being unaware of the film's chequered history (being over a decade in conception and production). Such is the visual beauty on show here - with a seemingly idyllic 'Shopshire setting' (the featured 'farm complex' being entirely constructed for the film!), authentic period costumes and brilliantly conceived visuals (slow pans and zooms, medium and close-up shots) - that the film's themes of oppression, alienation and, ultimately, brutal violence take time to seep through to the viewer, even if Clay's brooding mood-setting is undeniable from the outset. Apparently, Clay wrote his lead role of the titular, Fanny - suffering under the puritanical authority of Charles Dance's husband John - with Maxine Peake in mind and the actress accepts 'Clay's challenge' whole-heartedly, delivering a bravura turn as Fanny painstakingly slowly morphs from the put-upon wife to a more liberated version, inspired by the sudden arrival into her insular family existence of Freddie Fox and Tanya Reynold's 'free-thinker' pairing of Thomas Ashbury and Rebecca Henshaw.

Clay does an excellent job of marrying (relatively seamlessly) multiple genres, chief amongst them a proto-feminist drama and mystery-horror - the latter by dint of some suggestive visuals (e.g. Revealing pans), the eerily misty setting and the film's haunting score. This latter element is worth dwelling on briefly, Clay having tied himself in knots exploring potential music options, before (having been 'trained' in the field) simply having a go himself (with amazing results)! The other genre element here is that of black comedy (of the sort one might find in the work of someone like, say, Ben Wheatley, whose work also bears some stylistic comparison to Clay's film). The scene where the Lye family, plus John and Rebecca receive more 'surprise guests' in the form of the local 'bigwigs' (read still more extreme puritan 'pleasure haters') is a highlight in the darkly comedic vein. There is a degree of inevitability that as the 'cloak' is removed from the mysterious Thomas-Rebecca pairing and their true role as 'high attainers' i.e. Hedonists, is revealed Clay will make his film more explicit (and violent) and this proves to be the case, thereby losing some of the early atmospheric subtlety.

Nevertheless, largely due to the cast performances and the film's visuals, Fanny Lye remains an engaging watch, right through to the film's slightly more upbeat denouement. Here, there's an interesting contrast between John's undoubted puritan and 'the establishment's' still more extreme version. As comparator films there are relatively few that I could think of, certainly with the proto-feminist content, whilst from a purely (puritan) period perspective perhaps The Crucible and (even) Witchfinder General. What Fanny Lye undoubtedly demonstrates, however, is the talent and craft of Clay (hopefully now recovered from the controversy surrounding The Great Ecstasy of Robert Carmichael).

I'm sure the likes of Alfred Hitchcock and Fritz Lang would have tipped their caps in respect to Sam Fuller for the use of his MacGuffin (a roll of film containing 'secrets' wanted by 'the Communists') in this thrilling 1953 noir, and the fact that Fuller manages to (largely) gloss over a fanciful (albeit topical in an era of paranoia and McCarthy witch-hunts) plot-line to give us an 'excess fat-free' 80-minute noir-fest, fuelled by the director's own sharp script and some great character performances, is quite some achievement. The look and feel of Fuller's (essentially low budget) film is greatly enhanced by Joseph MacDonald's slick, dynamic black-and-white cinematography (containing some nice overhead, mirror, simulated prison bar, close-up and reverse angle shots) and Leigh Harline's alternately dramatic and sultry score.

Fuller's film is riddled with hard-bitten, downtrodden characters - arguably originating as much from social realism as from a more stylised 'noir background' - from Richard Widmark's cool, cynical, wise-cracking New York City pickpocket, Skip McCoy, and Jean Peters' provocative moll, Candy, both 'innocently' caught up in the plot's 'communist machinations' through to (the great) Thelma Ritter's film-stealing turn as the world-weary 'stoolie' and necktie-saleswoman, Moe, whose tragic presence represents Fuller's film at its 'deepest' and serves to transform it from merely a good film into an outstanding one. Of course, there are certainly moments of 'noir cliché' here, as well as throwaway, clunky lines ('You'll be as guilty as the traitors that gave Stalin the A bomb'), but these are lost within the film's street-wise mood (Fuller's dialogue captures the local vernacular brilliantly with its 'cannons' and 'muffins') and series of outstanding set-pieces.

These set-pieces include the (Bresson-like?) forensic examination of Skip's trade as Moe, alongside Murvyn Vye's police chief, Dan Tiger, and his FBI sidekick Willis Bouchey's Zara (both actors delivering impressive turns), blags her way to a 50 buck 'informer fee' via her dissection of the morning's subway events and that in which Candy and Skip first 'erotically couple' (in the latter's evocative, isolated dockside hideaway). Peters was apparently reluctant to take roles playing sexy femme fatales, but here she proves every bit as effective in the role as the likes of Lauren Bacall, Rita Hayworth, etc, with her swaying walk and risqué dialogue with Widmark (who, at one point, quips, 'You look for oil, sometimes you hit a gusher'). Indeed, the film, unsurprisingly for its time, hit trouble with the censor both for its sexual and (in particular) violent content.

And, even if the film's barely convincing romantic thread brings us to a rather corny ending, what has preceded it still cements the place of Fuller's film in the top echelons of noir.

I remember after seeing writer-director Paolo Sorrentino's 2015 film at the cinema that it did not really impress - I certainly found it weaker than the earlier Consequences of Love, Il Divo and The Great Beauty and probably marginally weaker than The Family Friend and This Must Be The Place. On a rewatch my view has changed - there are details that I just didn't pick up on on a single viewing - giving an overall marginal positive rather than marginal negative view. As ageing 'artists' Michael Caine's music composer-conductor, Fred Ballinger, and Harvey Keitel's film director, Mick Boyle, come together for one of the pair's reflective 'holidays' in the spectacular Swiss Alpine setting, Sorrentino gives us another flamboyant (if slightly more subdued) watch, the pair pontificating on their respective arts, past romantic flings, deteriorating health and family dysfunction. As ever, Sorrentino's tale is episodic and somewhat meandering - the most telling emotional segment is that where Ballinger (inadvertently) admits to his daughter Rachel Weisz's Lena why he will never again conduct one of his most popular works - but Youth is another visual treat (brilliant framing, editing and some typically outlandish sequences), as well as containing an eclectic, mesmerising soundtrack (enhancing the emotional heft) including the unforgettable Simple Song #3 by David Lang.

The theme of youth becoming a fading memory for Fred and Mick is particularly sharply portrayed in relation to Boyle's trade, as the 'youthful' team of screenwriters Mick is working with begin to grate whilst fellow resort vacationer, Paul Dano's Hollywood 'star', Jimmy Tree, is constantly being wound up by people recognising him primarily for a throwaway part as a robot (calling to my mind similar 'travesties' with great actors like Michael Gambon and Jim Broadbent being 'best remembered' for work in kids' fantasy films!). There are plenty of memorable sequences, including Ballinger 'conducting' nature (cows mooing, birds singing, woodpeckers drumming, etc.) and a (climactic) levitating monk, plus some nice cameos (Alex McQueen quite brilliant as the Queen's Emissary trying to persuade Fred to conduct his Simple Song #3 for Her Majesty, Jane Fonda doing something of a Norma Desmond antithesis by espousing the small screen over the big screen). Equally there are a number of (for me, at least) more variable surreal, non-sequitur sequences (the presence of an overweight Diego Maradona, Paloma Faith ousting Rachel Weisz as the girlfriend of Mick's son (highly unlikely I would say!), Jimmy dressing up as Hitler, etc.).

The particularly 'slow' sequences do drag a tad and perhaps 20 minutes could have been pruned from the running time, but the concluding sequence of Fred conducting his Simple Song#3, with soprano Sumi Jo singing and Viktoria Mullova playing the violin is a beautifully judged 'denouement'. Rather a mixed bag, therefore, but as is typical of this film-maker worth seeing, nevertheless.

I'll admit writer-director Brian Duffield's highly promising 2020 black comedy about a group of high school students spontaneously combusting was, latterly due to its overly maudlin focus, heading for a lower rating from me until the film-makers 'pulled the cat out of the bag' giving Katherine Langford's precocious 17-year old Mara, a closing defiant diatribe worthy of someone like Christina Ricci's potty-mouthed rebel Dede Truiit from 1998's The Opposite of Sex. Duffield's film gets off to mightily impressive start as the first school 'explosion' prompts all manner of potential 'metaphors' for its cause, from terrorism through 'pandemics' (COVID, AIDS, prescription drugs) and gun control ('we thought it was a shooter') to (for me most likely) a parallel with Gen Z's mental state and inability to come to terms with the modern world (social media, etc.). As part of this opening both Mara and her increasingly 'serious' boyfriend, Charlie Plummer's nerdy Dylan, deliver impressive turns, largely driven by Duffield's street-smart dialogue (some of which breaks through the fourth wall and is delivered direct to camera). Throughout Duffield's film the debutant director displays skills beyond his apparent experience, particularly in terms of the editing and the coaxing of his cast.

The other major plus (for some of us) are the cultural references Duffield includes. Dylan is cast as something of a film buff, allowing for references to Carrie (tying in with the film's depiction of the school prom), ET, Clint Eastwood and (for me, best of all) Kubrick's Dr Strangelove. Similarly, we get a number of musical references including Springsteen and Bon Jovi, plus a soundtrack featuring music by Sufjan Stevens and whole load of other artists I'd not heard of!. In the wake of the 'explosion epidemic', Duffield steers his narrative towards the authorities (FBI-CIA) taking a controlling line (incarcerating Mara and her fellow students in a 'study lab') and coming up with a 'cure' ('snooze button'), but latterly, following another destructive 'bout', pushes Mara into a state of seemingly unending depression. This period of grief I found to go on rather too long - the film could easily be cut by around 15 minutes in this segment - but thankfully Duffield still had Mara's closing rant up his sleeve. Comparator films (even if a little tangential) occurred to me including Let The Right One In, Ginger Snaps, Raw and even Liquorice Pizza (purely for the 'teen romance'). Spontaneous, whilst not flawless, certainly marks out director Duffield as a promising talent.

It really is quite amazing to think that the director of this classic 1951 science-fiction yarn, Robert Wise, went on to make such 'homely' films as The Sound Of Music and West Side Story (OK, the latter did have a knife fight in it as I recall). In fact, someone buried deep in the Hollywood vaults must have remembered the man's 'genre credentials', as he was (at 65) commissioned to direct the first Star Trek film in 1979. But with this black-and-white, original film version (don't even think about the much-inferior Keanu Reeves 2008 remake - arrghh!), based on a Harry Bates short story, we have an authentic, no-frills, simple morality tale. Forget the mind-numbing special effects of the Star Trek, Star Wars, Close Encounters-kind, here, we have (what looks like) a latex-clad 10-foot robot conquering all, of the type frequently featured in those great science-fiction double-bills at the (now sadly very rare) repertory cinemas like London's Scala (in its original Tottenham Street incarnation, of course).

Of course, behind The Day The Earth Stood Still's illusory facade (ho, ho) are the various theories about the purpose of Michael Rennie's Klaatu visiting the earth to plead for an end to all wars. Certainly, screen-writer Edmund North's account that this was a (subliminal) version of 'Christ's second coming' is pretty convincing, what with Klaatu's adopted identity of a Major Carpenter (as in Joseph's trade) and the MPAA's apparent insistence that Rennie's character should deny that Gort, the robot, had complete power over life and death, and that 'that power is reserved for the almighty spirit'.

What the film also conveys quite clearly (and also perhaps surprisingly, given the censors) is its cynical take on humanity's predicament, with its knee-jerk hostility and its propensity for war. The 'shoot first, ask questions later' approach to Klaatu and the radio broadcasts assertion that there is a 'monster at large' and that 'he must be destroyed' are hardly the stuff of peace and conciliation. There is also something of a (recurring) dig at the UN, in whom no-one seems to trust to bring together humankind's warring factions. Although these 'messages' are (for 'modern' cinemagoers, certainly) now rather blatantly preachy (albeit, certainly still relevant), they still make for engaging viewing.

From a film-making perspective, Wise's film (which also features a variously sweeping and eerie score from legendary film composer Bernard Herrmann) is fairly standard fare for the times, with plenty of shots of police and army vehicles scurrying around in terror, but with standouts (for me) being Klaatu's (as Major Carpenter) silhouette-lit entrance into the 'innocent' household of Patricia Neal's Helen Benson, and then the brilliant King-Kong like sequence as Helen attempts to dissuade Gort ('Klaatu Barada Nicto') from (yes, you've guessed it) obliterating the earth!

One final question. I'll admit Michael Rennie did look a bit peaky in the film (well, who wouldn't be, having orbited the earth at 4,000 mph?), but was he really ill the day the earth stood still?