Disclaimer: There are some spoilers in some of the reviews so don’t read if you haven’t seem them.
Goodfellas
Goodfellas is a first-person account of the life and exploits of Henry Hill (played by Ray Liotta) as he rises and falls through the ranks of the Mafia. What Scorsese does brilliantly with the largely singular narrative perspective and screenplay is create a sense of intense claustrophobia within this secluded world; the feeling that the mob is inescapably reality. For the first hour or so of the film, you don’t pick up on the negative ramifications of this because Scorsese isn’t afraid to express the extent to which the lead characters love the lavish lifestyle and rewards it provides, and as an audience you get sucked in with them (accentuated by its jaunty use of music). The beauty is that it almost romanticises the world that its examining without actually committing that egregious error – only someone like Scorsese who had grown up in such proximity to this environment in Little Italy could handle the subject matter so stylishly and confidently.
The balance lies in the harsh realities that are delivered to Hill and the rest of his mob associates in the film’s second half. Yet Scorsese manages to add considerable flair to this section of the narrative with the infamous time-stamped day sequence: a manic, endorphin-inducing rush of unfiltered paranoia that perfectly captures how inevitably, everything that Hill had built up and cultivated professionally comes crashing down around him. Within the entertainment, it allows Scorsese to deliver the ultimate Aesop’s Fabel regarding the mafia lifestyle: crime doesn’t pay, and this is made all the more stark and brutal by the heady tone of the first hour or so.
This also extends to his personal life, and another uniquely brilliant aspect of Goodfellas is the dual- gendered narrative focus of Henry and his wife Karen (Lorraine Bracco). We see their entry into the criminal world simultaneously through both their eyes, and the iconic tracking shot through the Copacabana nightclub exemplifies their collective merriment at the vast power at their disposal. Again, it is Scorsese’s use of juxtaposition between this and the wretched image of the two embracing on the floor having lost everything that better informs both the film’s poignancy and realism. They finish as broken shells destroyed from the inside and out.
Aside from all of this, the film is most greatly remembered for the three towering performances of its leads. Ray Liotta is the film’s anchor and conveys his increasing kaleidoscope of moods through a constant state of livewire facial acrobatics, whilst always maintaining the slight aura of a kid just hustling for a few extra bucks. Robert de Niro’s calculated and disciplined Jimmy Conway plays off beautifully against the unquestionable star of the show: Joe Pesci. Every moment he’s on screen feels like an elastic band being stretched to its limit; he’s set to breaking point and nothing else, and this is perfectly conveyed through his performance. I would argue there’s a fourth towering performance from Lorraine Brasco – it never falls into the category of cliched hysteria despite everything she is shown to put up with and her chemistry with Liotta completely sells the relationship: both the good and bad moments.
Vertigo
Simply enough, Vertigo is one of the most disconcerting films I’ve ever seen. Right from the beginning, Hitchcock manages to establish an atmosphere of something just not being quite right within a seemingly conventional narrative of a private detective (Scottie – James Stewart) who has reluctantly agreed to follow his friend’s wife (Madeleine – Kim Novak) in light of her apparent strange behaviour.
One of the most noteworthy things about this film is its incredible propensity for visual storytelling and “show not tell” cinema. A great example of this is a five-minute scene of Scottie following Madeleine to various locations around San Francisco. It’s gripping, largely because of the cinematography: the use of the Scottie point-of-view angle looking at her really plays up the forbidden nature of the escapade and as an audience makes you feel complicit in the act as well. On top of this, light and dark shades are juxtaposed alongside constant cutbacks between the two which creates an unsuspecting intensity – once the scene ends you feel like you need to readjust your focus somewhat. Hitchcock also plays up Scottie’s acrophobia and fractured mentality with a terrific psychedelic dream sequence: again showing how visuals here are the primary source of conveying characters’ situational state of mind.
The interplay between Scottie and Madeleine is also so fascinating primarily because of its ambiguity; initially they are both trying to work each other out but there’s also permeations of co-dependence and shared experience that ties them together. Every encounter they share feels both fleeting and significant, allowing Hitchcock to perpetuate a sense of mysterious intrigue within their relationship.
This section is so important as it helps provide the necessary context in dissecting the manifestations of Scottie’s obsession with recreating Madeleine in his own perfect image. One of Hitchcock’s greatest tendencies is making us as viewers recognize our personal anxieties through his main characters, and nowhere have I felt this more deeply than the unerring and constant nature of Scottie’s pursuit. In relation to the twist, the film is razor-sharp in how it manages what I would call the known unknowns (for example Judy slowly becoming aware of her own metamorphosis and doing nothing to resist it). The disconcerting atmosphere which is subtly induced at the film’s beginning gets continuously layered right up to the climactic finish, which is disturbingly abrupt. Throughout the film as well, Bernard Hermann’s score perfectly captures the film’s mood. It’s hauntingly anxiety-inducing but retains tiny hints of refined grandeur, which always seems present on the outskirts but just outside the reach of the main characters, particularly Scottie
The performances of James Stewart and Kim Novak unquestionably hold the film together. Considering he was the invariable Mr Nice Guy of the Golden Hollywood era, Stewart is seriously playing against type here, but executes the meticulous and (by the end) downright sinister aspects of his character magnificently. Kim Novak’s double act is impeccably polished; first with her etherealness and cold, severity of delivery as Madeleine, then the crushingly enamouring Judy. She shows herself to be so desperate for Scottie’s love that she resigns herself to be a living embodiment of her previous sins – allowing Judy to arguably become Hitchcock’s most sympathetic female character. From his own perspective, Hitchcock seemingly set out to confront his own issues with the male gaze and its fixed desires that had been a feature of many of his previous films. Scottie’s unadulterated objectification of Judy works as an active condemnation of this, showing the extent to which Vertigo was a personal and self-confessional project for the great director.
Inception
Inception has largely been described as a high-wire act and other metaphors of this nature, which is apt considering both the ambition and skill of narrative execution that Nolan displays here. Essentially, he manages to coherently put together a very complex story, (a heist team aims to plant a life-altering idea into someone’s subconscious) without using massive amounts of unwieldy exposition. In the cinematic context of its release, Inception was more important than it’s given credit for; in that it showed that in the era of multiplex and box-office influenced film, you could engage each and every one of the audience’s brain cells whilst keeping them entertained and streaming through the doors (film grossed $62 million on opening weekend and collectively over $850 million).
It is a film that is epic as much in spectacle as in concept, and this spectacle allows so much of the narrative to be conveyed visually, which of one of Inception’s greatest assets. Examples include the Paris scene where the protagonist and head of the team Cobb (Leonardo DiCaprio) guides the creative dream-maker Ariadne (Ellen Page) through the hypothetical process of the dreamworld. Even during the fleeting exposition Cobb gives, our eyes are instead fixated on the three-dimensionally shifting buildings and inwardly exploding cafes which hold the narrative drive much more effectively than any form of dialogue could. This is continued throughout the film; when the team enter their target’s subconscious there are three levels which have to be traversed to reach the endgame, and each layer is beautifully distinct and unique (especially the eye-popping beauty of the snowy mountain fortress in the 3rd level: shot on location in Alberta). Nolan’s distaste for CGI and tendencies instead towards procedural detail makes the different stages of the narrative both so much conceivable and immersive.
Not keen on just wowing your eyes, Nolan wholeheartedly fulfils the cerebral side of the film as well. Inception tackles complex and emotionally psychological themes head on, notably the consequences of actions and how memory and past experiences are integral in shaping our subconscious. It understands the niche aspect of its subject matter regarding dream worlds and thus takes great lengths to not theoretically separate them significantly from the real world. Nolan’s ambiguity in how dream worlds can be interpreted is another one of its strengths but one that leaps out at me considering the medium is the synonymity between dreams and cinema. Fundamentally, when you enter a cinema to watch a movie, you are entering the space of the director/writer’s projected dream and Nolan links this potential idea with how the team take advantage of dream-sharing by manipulating and coercing their target. But like the best films handling multiple complex ideas, Nolan isn’t making any concrete statements; instead, he allows the audience to bring their own subjective viewpoints to this masterpiece.
The one asterisk people place by Nolan’s films is his failure to engage the audience emotionally (a problem incidentally I had with The Prestige). Here though, none of that is relevant, due to the relationship between Cobb and his deceased wife Mal (Marion Cotillard). To cut a long explanation short, Mal can be considered as the film’s primary antagonist – as she continually haunts Cobb’s subconscious in the wake of the tragic misunderstanding of her death. Nolan describes her character as the femme fatale, and this neo-noir aspect is effectuated every time she’s on screen (limited screen presence actually working in the film’s favour). Cotillard’s performance is extraordinary: there’s a mysterious yet highly dangerous quality about her that consistently ratchets up the tension, and when the time comes for her to pull on the audience’s heartstrings, she delivers. The rest of the ensemble cast also hit the heights. DiCaprio is the emotional anchor of the film and is more than credible in flipping between measured confidence as the group’s leader and troubled, guilt-ridden emotional turmoil when confronted with the memory of his wife. Page also balances initial vulnerability with a genuine defiance which is evident in the film’s closing stages. Some comic relief is also provided in the churlish banter between two other team members Eaves and Arthur – both pitched perfectly by Tom Hardy and Joseph Gordon-Levitt respectively.
Se7en
In mainstream film folklore, David Fincher’s most notorious film is evidently Fight Club, considering the mass cult following it received and infamous lines that can still be recited today. Yet, Se7en is undoubtedly his best; a film about two detectives (Somerset and Mills) at the opposite stages of their careers hunting down a serial killer who stages his murders according to the seven deadly sins. It’s as, if not more, stylish than his later work but not in the same brash and extravagant manner. Se7en is stylish unconventionally, and it predominantly relates to the incredibly tangible neo-noir atmosphere that Fincher is able to create. The film is shrouded in darkness literally as well as metaphorically; Darius Khondji’s cinematography constantly finds the two leads in darkened hues occasionally interspersed by seemingly out-of-place glimpses of light, and the near-constant climate of precipitation only adds to the barren and downtrodden vibe that Fincher is attempting to cultivate.
One thing that separates this film from a traditional noir-type is its handling and depiction of death. Films of this nature can often make this subject feel slightly superficial and inconsequential, but the opposite is true of Se7en. Each new homicide discovery manages to re-emphasise the cold-blooded brutality of life being taken without shirking on detail. That isn’t to say that Se7en is too gore-heavy; again it’s all about balance and Fincher provides enough to detail to leave a lasting impression visually but he also knows what to not to show – anyone who’s seen the film will know what I’m referring to here.
Ultimately though, Se7en is a pure thriller, through and through. Like all the best ones, it excels at creating and maintaining tension, aided by a lean and course script that doesn’t waste a single scene and an excellent score by Howard Shore that hovers on the periphery whilst capturing the feelings of uncertainty and at times helplessness of the two detectives, who are dealing with a killer that is way out of their league. Freeman and Pitt play their contrasting natures off against each other brilliantly as the weary cynic and naïve fresh-face respectively. This tension accumulates continuously before coming to a head in one of the most captivating and frankly monumental climaxes in cinema history. The way Fincher plays it with some apparently innocuous jibing between the hunter and the hunted before knocking you out with the twist more than inverts expectations, and he maintains total control of the tonal shifts that occur as the scene develops.
Yet the cherry on top of this awesome cake of a film is Kevin Spacey’s performance as the killer John Doe, who completely steals the film despite only appearing on screen for the last thirty minutes. From the moment he walks into the police station covered in blood, he conveys a frightening mixture of detached unemotionality yet meticulous fascination and, more concerningly, justification in his tasks. The extent of which he gets under Mills’ skin sets up the end perfectly, along with the way Pitt had consistently upheld and forefronted the more impulsive aspects of his character. The culmination of this is so much more emotionally-charged because of how Fincher humanises the characters in the film’s early and middle stages, notably a light-hearted dinner scene between the two cops alongside Mills’ wife. Amongst all the intricacies of the narrative, we care about the fate of the characters and Fincher shows his awareness of this right down to the final line.
Princess Mononoke
Princess Mononoke was my first Studio Ghibli experience and wow what an experience it was. Honestly, nothing could have prepared me for the aesthetic beauty of the visuals and the animation. What makes it all the more astonishing is every single frame is hand-drawn, and this level of incremental detail and artistic toil really pays off in drawing the viewer into Miyazaki’s world; which in this case is a 14th century woodland. The story is widely considered the most grown-up of Miyazaki’s famous works, and details a conflict arising out of the increasing disharmony between the humans against the animals and deities of the forest, seen from the first person perspective of a young diseased prince who finds himself reliant on these gods to save his life.
There is one specific shot that embeds itself in my mind and conveys the sense of imbalance much better than my attempt to explain what’s going on: the human settlement of Irontown set against the sweeping rocky landscape, which immediately displays the incompatibility of the urban and the rural side by side. Yet what this film does so brilliantly in its unfolding narrative is the way it examines the conflict between the humans and the natural world with moral ambiguity. It easily transcends a simplistic tale of good and evil by equally giving time to both sides of the argument; the human need for development and nature’s need for preservation. If it does lean in one direction, it would be to nature but does so in a very delicate and non-preachy way.
The best character example of Princess Mononoke’s astute judgement is Lady Eboshi, the defacto human leader of Irontown. In black-and-white terms, she’s the closest thing the film has to an antagonist because of her purging desires against the environment but she still manages to retain a significant amount of audience pathos. This comes right from in the early stages of her development, as she is shown subverting gender roles by taking women out of brothels and giving them more morally reputable and productive jobs, while also giving the town’s lepers key roles manufacturing weapons. The film makes us feel the sense of newfound purpose these otherwise outsiders now possess, and this, alongside the almost childlike joy on their faces, shows how Eboshi defies the traits of a conventional villain and humanises her within the wider narrative. Without wishing to delve too deeply into plot, her eventual plan is a harsh means to a much more admirable end in terms of helping her fellow citizens.
Aside from this balance, the most impressive aspect of the film by far is how it tackles so many different themes with depth and precision. Midway through the film, we encounter Princess Mononoke herself; a strong-willed, individualistic girl who has detached from the human world and aides the fight of the forest. Despite her self-conviction that she is a wolf, she struggles to gain the complete respect and acceptance of the natural world, and her fractured identity here is mirrored by the prince. Ironically, throughout the course of the film, he is constantly asked which side he’s on without himself having much conviction either way, and because we see the film through his eyes, it exacerbates the general feelings of identity crisis it perpetuates. The climax is also really where the film’s powerful environmental message is thrust before us; humans’ exploitation of natural resources results in them being architects of their own downfall. This obviously has an immense contemporary relevance but considering Princess Mononoke was released in 1997, it shows the extent to which Miyazaki was ahead of his time.
Casablanca
The aptness of the title is one of the first things that struck me upon watching Casablanca, as rarely has a city felt so integral to the narrative dynamic and general ambiance of a film. In this infamous story of two former lovers reuniting within the circumstances of a daring war escape, director Michael Curtiz immediately succeeds in establishing Casablanca and Rick’s Café in particular as characters in their own right. The city pervades a kind of enigmatic purgatory, full of colourful and self-interested characters such as the corrupt police chief Captain Louis which belies the dark undercurrent of desperation amongst some of its residents. Contextually, refugees from all over Europe came to Casablanca in the hope to finding safe passage to neutral territory, and one particular scene involving a young Bulgarian girl shows how the glitz and glamour the film throws at you in the opening 10 minutes is just a smokescreen deftly concealing the serious plight of these figures.
Generally, the overhanging war narrative thread is perfectly judged; stripped down enough while providing an added dimension to the eventual love triangle that emerges. In staging one of the main characters as an important figure of the resistance movement, it also does extremely well to avoid this potential rabbit hole and maintain strong focus on the present, situational aspect of the story. Instead, it exhibits all the tensions and antagonism through a brilliant scene where the Allied sympathisers sing a rousing rendition of Le Marseilles in response to the earlier chorus of the German anthem. Show not tell cinema at its finest.
Great filmmaking nonetheless, this is not the reason Casablanca is widely considered to be one of the greatest films of all time. Instead, it is the heartbreaking and tumultuous romantic relationship of the two leads; Rick, an American expat who owns the most popular nightclub in Casablanca, and Ilsa, his ex-lover who is now together with Laszlo, a hard-nosed fugitive leader in the Czech resistance. So much is evoked in their first on-screen encounter – Rick angrily striding into the bar area and stopping dead in his tracks as the camera does a 180 degree pan from him to Ilsa, who manages to hide her shock much better. The history between the two, though unspoken, is clearly recognisable and manifests itself through the stunningly beautiful ballad As Time Goes By. Structurally, the film then layers this teasing introduction with a deeper flashback into their lives together in Paris before the German occupation, and while initially I thought it was closely traversing the whimsical side, it provides essential context and if anything else, a base conformation of the pair’s infatuation with each other.
Rick and Ilsa are one of the most iconic on-screen romances in cinematic history, and this arguably would not have been the case had it not been for the two stratospheric performances from Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman. The former embodies the stone-faced cynicism and evasiveness of someone trying to keep his cards as close to his chest as possible, but this makes the occasional flickerings of genuine emotional turmoil, notably when he’s alone in the bar at the end of the night, all the more impactful. For me, Bergman is the star of the show. Quite apart from the nuances of her performance, she has one of the most evocative faces I’ve ever seen: capable of switching from the most sincere smile to a visage of deep melancholia and confliction. The chemistry between the pair is outstanding as well, and their shared mutual passion makes the ending so perfect unfulfilling. It’s crushing in its correctness – we know Rick is doing the heroic and noble thing but the finely crafted events of the previous hundred or so minutes means we actively don’t support it as much as we do. But the film understands the concept of desire, and how sometimes desire can be so much more potent when not consummated.
2001: A Space Odyssey
In all honesty, everything that could have been commented on about this film already has, and that speaks serious volumes about its pioneering status. My major impression of 2001 is simply its grandeur; Kubrick’s use of classical music (Blue Danube, sprach Zarathrusta etc) massively supports this, but it’s also the way the music exists complete outside of the film’s action that just elevates certain scenes. The gothic and almost apocalyptic tones that reverberate as the mission team approach the Monolith on the moon are both haunting and wonderful; it’s practically impossible not to get swept up in the mass sensory experience and is definitely one of the most synaesthesically concentrated and enriching film moments I’ve ever seen.
This is also down to the technically groundbreaking visuals, which are continuously eye-popping and mesmerising from beginning to end, to the extent where the film becomes transcending at times. The famous juxtaposition edit from the Dawn of Man scene at the start to the first image of space is extraordinary, and aptly described as the longest flash forward in the history of cinema. The visuals are also accentuated by the incredible sound design, and the general economic use of sound, which really raises the atmospheric intensity and the sense of engagement. This is best exemplified by arguably the most emotionally charged moment of the film; where all that can be heard is the faint inhale and exhale of one of the astronauts as he attempts to re-enter the airlock. It’s hypnotic in its immersion.
It’s very difficult to actually give a synopsis of 2001, but simply it details humankind’s journey from the Dawn of Man to the 20th century, and the genesis of space travel. Plot-wise, there is a sizeable sequence in the middle concerning five scientists on a mission bound for Jupiter alongside the notorious Hal 9000 supercomputer which has elements of a human personality. By using these extremely contrasting locational time periods, the film crafts a parallel about the significance of self-preservation, and how as a fundamental characteristic this extends beyond humanity from the origins to future technology. Literally, it’s a hypothesis that’s played out back to front in the universe, and in terms of scale, it’s an awesome conceptual idea about the base human nature of mankind, and its necessity for survival.
Despite being a disembodied machine, there are some subtle emotional nuances within the voicing of Hal (great work by Douglas Rain) that make the events of the film more poignant and impactful and allows it to garner some unexpected sympathy, notwithstanding his actions. It is one of the few films where the antagonist and the protagonist can be argued to be the same figure. The ending is fantastically ambiguous and offers so many possible interpretations from the evolution of humanity to the potential birth of a new species. Frankly, it’s above my intellectual paygrade to offer a specific opinion but the lack of clear answers invites both cerebral contemplation and slack-jawed wonder: just what Kubrick would have intended.
The Dark Knight
The Dark Knight is the purest and most gratifying example of what a superhero movie looks like when directed by an auteur. That’s not to say that there’s a predictability or pretentiousness about this film, but Chris Nolan gets the balance of setpiece entertainment and character analysis just about perfect. This duality is epitomised by the show-stopping opening heist scene; apart from simply being an enthralling introduction, it’s an immediate indication of the boundary-less nature of the Joker and the extent of his isolation, which is very important infrastructure for his character.
Ideologically, the best thing about the film is how Nolan sets out to subvert the conventional tropes of a superhero film through his villain. The Joker’s intentions are to expose the fallacies and obsoleteness of do-gooders in general, but he specifically targets Batman because he provides a distinct and so far unsuccessfully challenged beacon of hope to the city of Gotham. Aside from base-level anarchy, Joker’s two main aims are unmasking the Batman and bringing figures of authority around him down to his level of vigilantism, which is cruelly later conveyed through the ark of Harvey Dent. The oxymoronic nature of the title is further proof of what the Joker is trying to illuminate; the lines of good and evil are blurred, and the wider point to repeatedly staging a series of ethically impossible situations (the barge scene) is to show those on the supposed “good” side the extent to which they are powerless and have no control.
Yet, as well as being the most philosophical film of the franchise, it’s also the most fervently energetic and powerful in terms of its action sequences. There is something so stripped down and raw about the chase scene through Gotham, culminating in the iconic shot of Joker playing chicken with the Batmobile, one of numerous occasions where Wally Pfiser’s gritty, realistic cinematography takes over the film. Narratively, the first hour progresses at a rollicking pace without being heavy on exposition or overly sequential, and has its own confined climax when the Joker crashes Bruce Wayne’s fundraiser; all the tension that had been slowly bubbling up coming to a head here.
While the first half absolutely belongs to the Joker, the second is held together by the character triangle of Batman, Gordon and Harvey Dent; another intricate and engrossing element of the film’s narrative. What originated between them as an ambitious collective escapade to rid Gotham of organized crime becomes a fractured, ill-fated concoction of blind vengeance and blurred morality lines, and the stark transformation of Harvey Dent (clean-cut, legitimate authority figure) to Twoface transcends comic books, and becomes something entirely conceivable in everyday life. It also shows the extent to which Joker is making a mockery of both attempted order and again the simplistic notions of good and evil; similarly to his opposition to Batman, he aims to manifest a chaotic state of nature out of Harvey’s downfall, with the sinister edge of the final scene showing how perilously close he is to succeeding.
There aren’t enough superlatives to adequately credit Heath Ledger’s performance as the Joker – he created one of the most iconic characters in mainstream cinematic history and for me that says all it needs to. What shouldn’t get lost are the other outstanding performances, notably from Aaron Eckhart and Gary Oldman as Dent and Gordon respectively. In particular the former does a tremendous job considering both the nuances and extremities of his metamorphosis. It’s an apt summarisation of the film itself; beginning with hope before lapsing into dark dissociation.
The Godfather
Some films are heralded as classics for a reason and The Godfather most certainly deserves this status. It sets the precedent that GoodFellas so excellently follows in terms of being aware enough of its subject matter to display it as a closed-off, gritty type of subculture. There’s no glamorisation here: all the consequences that befall the Corleone family are seriously grave and stripped bare for all to see. The first thirty minutes seem slightly unassuming, but on reflection there is so much going on in this setup. The wedding introduction embeds the significance of the family dynamic, whilst establishing minor but key characteristics of the three brothers as well as the easy and measured respect Vito commands as the Don of the family.
Power dynamic is what is constantly being examined here, and literally just through mood, the film manages to capture the unerring sense of unease and instability that ripples through the family when Vito’s life hangs in the balance. The tension is slow-building but with this dynamic becoming more enigmatic as the narrative progresses, it also becomes more gripping and enveloping. Essentially there are two brothers in contention for the vacant leadership position; Sonny, the eldest, whose hot-headed tendencies mean he’s not in the best standing with his father, and Michael, who has Vito’s favour but is shown from the beginning to actively contempt the affairs of his family. Yet Michael’s conscience and principles are skewered after the attempt on his father’s life, and it speaks to his gravitas within the family that he is able to seamlessly slip into the day-to-day goings of plotting the family business. Not only this, but his ideas rise straight to the top, and his ascent coexists alongside a wider changing of the guard with the Corleone family. On the surface of things, it was Vito’s blunder which instigated this chaotic war, and there’s a terrific scene encapsulating this towards the film’s end; him looking jaded and decrepit while Michael sits comfortably and clearly at the head of the Corleone table. The balance of power has shifted, and Michael’s brutal replacement of Tom as Consigliere is further evidence of his readiness to put his own stamp on what is now his criminal empire.
As well as professionally, the personal relationship between Vito and Michael is delved into deeply. Interestingly, most of the connection between the two is not directly depicted, being largely established through Vito’s clear favouritism in the opening section and Michael’s bravery in protecting his father when he was vulnerable. Thus, the authenticity of the garden scene and the way it flows naturally as a typical father-and-son conversation is seriously impressive to behold. From memory, this is the first and only singular face-to-face interaction these two characters have through the course of the film, yet the way Brando and Pacino play the scene leaves us in no doubt as to the layers and mutual understanding within their familial bond.
These two performances are most celebrated, and again this is warranted. Brando’s voice and facial expressions somehow works despite threatening to trip over the tightrope of caricatured over-the-top-ness, and he manages to master the movements and mannerisms of someone basely accustomed to possessing power. Pacino is immense; he undergoes a serious transformation from unabashedly principled figure on the outside looking in to cultivating an added firmness and conviction that allows him to slowly but surely rise to Don status in both Sicily and New York. The quality of his performance lies in how subtly these characteristics are pieced together, while the sinister nature of the ending makes you look back to the film’s beginning and realise Michael has become exactly what he had held in contempt. Coppola’s direction is masterful as well and interlinks beautifully with Nino Rota’s ponderous but haunting score. This is most felt in the Sicilian scenes; the timing and placement of the main theme matching the slow, nostalgic and yet acutely romantic setting, showing how Coppola crafts the locational switch around the score and blends the two effortlessly.
The Shawshank Redemption
The Shawshank Redemption, with its focuses on hope, freedom and the small individual against the wider collective, is a definitive American story. It details a man, Andy Dufresne, who has been wrongly incarcerated for the murder of his ex-wife and her partner, and his journey to eventual redemption. In this case, this collective is the prison system, which allows the film to expertly pick apart the subjugation of the standard American inmate. In the opening 5-10 minutes, the film very quickly gets the message across that prison “ is no fairytale”, and the cliched convention of bullies and the bullied amongst the prison populous is also put to rest fairly swiftly when one of the characters is brutally beaten and hospitalised by a prison guard.
Most importantly, Shawshank clearly conveys how prison is essentially a Catch-22 for the inmates because of how cripplingly institutionalized they become over time. Tragic evidence of this is the fate that befalls one of the longest serving prisoners Brooks, and there’s a real sense of prolonged inertia and manufactured adaptation to their environment which means that the majority of the inmates badly struggle to adjust to life on the outside upon being released. Something that is so unique and brilliantly appropriate in relation to this is that the film is pretty ambiguous about how much time is passing. It’s marked more by objective changes (e.g. Andy’s new projects, or new posters on his cell wall), and this lack of chronicled narrative gives us a more centralised perspective of the group and their respective difficulties. In particular, Andy’s closest confidante Red, who we see repeatedly going through seemingly formulaic rehabilitation examinations before another 10 years is casually thrown onto his sentence. Only during the final one do we see how the years have shaped him; the time has made him able to fully confront the sins he has committed and allowed him to succeed in his unconscious quest for salvation.
The character of Andy is accomplishedly handled, and critic Roger Ebert identified it best by saying the film isn’t about Andy himself but how he is perceived and eventually deeply respected by the characters around him, notably Red through the overlaying narration. He’s immediately a very arresting central protagonist, initially his juxtaposition as mild-mannered and carefree amongst the cynically pugnacious individuals around him, then his bravery in daring to negotiate with the guards. He also shakes up the mould in terms of actually being the only innocent prisoner. The film is ironically self-referential in how everyone jokes that they’re not guilty before being confronted with someone who actually isn’t, and this is another aspect which makes Andy more alluring. Many people who have analysed Shawshank attempt to paint Andy as a type of Messianic, Christ-like figure, and while this to me seems slightly hyperbolised, there is a real sense of unprecedentedness about how he sets out to challenge the general psychology and self-confinement of the inmates. He’s ridiculed for raising the principles of hope and freedom, and incidents such as the shockingly cold-blooded killing of one inmate by the devilishly wicked warden (magnificently played by Bob Gundon) kind of explain why; any potential power shift is farcical and the prisoners are constantly at the infinitesimal mercy of their governors. But there are tiny slivers of victory. These include Andy forcing the building of a new library and his hijacking of the warden’s gramophone to play an excerpt from The Marriage of Figaro, which is exquisitely captured by a single shot pan up from the prisoners looking up in the yard to the warden’s office, and Roger Deakins’ cinematography general accentuates the film massively.
The film sticks its landing perfectly by not being too cushy or sentimental but allowing Andy and Red to have their own deserved moment of reconciliation. Tim Robbins and Morgan Freeman both give stellar knockout performances respectively and their friendship undoubtedly ties the film together.
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