by Emma Salvato

For his fourth feature length movie, British-Irish writer-director Martin McDonagh brings back the duo Colin Farrell/Brendan Gleeson, already tried and tested in his 2009 movie In Bruges, the story of two hitmen who are awaiting for orders from their superiors in the Belgian city. Cynical and darkly humorous, The Banshees of Inisherin (2022) sets to explore the themes of sorrow, ambition, and friendship as the last days of the Irish Civil War play in the background.

On the island of Inisherin, a fictional piece of land off of the Irish coast, lives a small community of people; there are farmers, musicians, pub owners, all their lives forcefully linked by the scarcity of land they can occupy. Amongst these people there are Pádraic (Colin Farrell), a farmer who lives with his older sister Siobhán (Kelly Condon) and his miniature donkey Jenny, and Colm Doherty (Brendan Gleeson), Pádraic's best friend and local fiddle player.

On Inisherin, Colm is known as a man of enviable culture: he's a skilled musician and has been able to built the reputation of almost being an academic, his interest for all things that lie beyond the rocky Irish coast manifesting itself through the purchase of Japanese men-yoroi masks and African trumpet horns, enough to decorate his entire house. His knowledge is so vast that the people of the island are quite surprised that the man has not yet tried his fortune on the mainland too, and would rather spend his days playing the fiddle at the local pub and chatting with Pádraic, who is but a lowly countryman with no interest for music and even less for culture and literature.

It's because of these different personalities of theirs, that the people of the island aren't surprised, when Pádraic begins moaning about his friend refusing to speak to him, merely asking if they're "rowing" and telling him to just follow Colm's wish of being left alone once and for all. Despite everybody telling him so, Pádraic cannot bring himself to follow their words: Colm is his best friend, has been so for years, so he needs to know if the man is enraged at him because of something he has said or done.

In one last, brief conversation Colm concedes to him, Pádraic discovers that the reason why the man doesn't want to be his friend anymore because he now considers Pádraic to be dull, and fears that his dullness might hinder his future as a brilliant player and composer. Colm wants to be surrounded by people like him, people who are cultured and engaging, who will stimulate his desire to produce art. Pádraic, as nice as he might be, doesn't inspire anything in him, and therefore he now considers spending time with him as a waste.

Confused and hurt, Pádraic seeks comfort in Siobhán, who reassures him that he's not dull, he's just nice, and in the company of Dominic Kearney (Barry Keoghan), the slightly slow-minded son of Paedar, the local police officer (Gary Lyndon). Although Pádraic treats Dominic with contempt and considers him to be a dimwit, when he discovers that his father beats him, he doesn't hesitate to house and feed him in his own home, despite his sister's initial objections.

Still, Pádraic is unable to leave Colm alone, and the man, frustrated with the other's constant need of attentions, decides to threaten him: "I have a set of shears at home, and each time you bother me from this day on, I will take those shears and I'll take one of me fingers off with them, and I will give that finger to ya, a finger from me left hand, me fiddle hand, and each day you bother me more, another I'll take off and I'll give you, until you see sense enough to stop, or until I've no fingers left."

Although this promise of self-violence leaves Pádraic shocked, he cannot control his desire to go bother Colm again, and he falls into temptation twice. The first time, when he's drunk, he approaches his former friend and asks him why being nice isn't enough anymore (Colm's answer, snobbish, further highlights the distance between the two men, as he says: "Ah, well... I suppose niceness doesn't last then, does it, Pádraic? But I tell ya something that does last? Music lasts. And paintings last. And poetry lasts."); the second time, he does so because of the information that Dominic wrongly reports to him, according to which Colm, after the scene Pádraic caused in the pub the night before, now considers him to be better than before. Both times, Colm takes a pair of shearing scissors and cuts off his fingers (the former time amputating only one finger of his left hand, the latter all of the remaining ones), throwing them at the door of Páedar and Siobhán's house so that they both can see the damage their family caused.

In the midst of the men fighting, Siobhán decides that she is done with the life on that small island, and disgusted by the pettiness of the people who inhabit it, and applies for jobs on the mainland, being hired as a clerk of a public library. On the day Colm throws his remaining fingers at their door, Pádraic accompanies her to the port and watches the ferry carry her to Ireland sail thorugh the water.

Already saddened by the departure of Siobhán, Pádraic goes home to find his dear donkey, Jenny, dead: while he was at the port, she found Colm's fingers and began nibbling on them, accidentally choking on one of them and suffocating. Truly enraged for the first time, Pádraic finds Colm at the pub and it's his turn to threaten him: "Your fat fingers killed me little donkey today. [...] Yeah, no, I'm not joking you. So tomorrow, Sunday, God's day, around two, I'm going to call up to your house, and I'm going to set fire to it, and hopefully you'll still be inside of it. But I won't be checking either way."

The following day, as he said at the pub, Pádraic loads his cart with gasoline and oil lamps and drives it to Colm's house, taking the man's dog before it can get injured and then douses his friend's house. Before setting it on fire, he checks through the windows for Colm and even seeing him sitting on a stool, smoking, he goes through with his plan, then watching the house be engulfed by flames.

Later, as he's standing on the beach that faces the coasts of the mainland, Colm reaches him, dirtied with tar but still alive. While they're there, watching the water and the land that war ravaged  for more than a year, Colm makes a comment about how the conflict must be finally coming to an end, prompting Pádric into responding by saying that, from some fights, there is no coming back from.

Proper to Irish folklore, the banshees are the spirits of cloaked women who appear to whose who are going to soon lose a loved one. These wailing figures (or, rather, "keening," word that comes from the Irish "caointeoireacht," meant to indicate the concept of sorrowful laments) are predictors of death, loudly announcing the death of a family member of a friend. In the movie The Banshees of Inisherin, however, no true banshee appears: these mythical creatures are only a metaphor, a ghost whose presence permeates every second of the story.

From a visual point of view, the specter is represented by Mrs McCormick (Sheila Flitton), an elderly woman who lives in a cottage by the lake. Clad in black clothes that are traditional to Irish costume, she wanders in front of the Súilleabháin siblings whenever they are in pain or uncertain about their future.

When the siblings are first introduced, they are already grieving: in a conversation between Siobhán and Mrs McCormick, it's revealed that both of their parents died seven years prior in an unspecified sudden accident that left them alone; their impossibility to process their parents' death is shown by having them still sleeping their childhood bedroom, in twin beds that are almost too small for them to rest comfortably in. Throughout the story, this feeling of oppression and sorrow only hightens: for Pádraic, such feelings are born out of his broken friendship with Colm (and, later on, caused by Jenny's death), while Siobhán is already grieving herself, as she worries she will be stuck on Inisherin for her entire life, cursed into sharing all human interactions with that group of bitter island people.

Colm too, although not as blatantly, is grieving. His sorrow, rather than being caused by outside sources, finds its roots within: he's desperate to become a famous musician, to be respected and beloved and admired, but he's subconsciously aware that his place is nowhere but Inisherin. Even his culture, for which he's widely praised, is put into discussion by none other than Siobhán herself, who, after listening to his speech about how he wants to be like Mozart, known for his music rather than his niceness, corrects him by telling him that Mozart was born in the Eighteenth Century, and not in the Seventeenth as he stated.

His sudden hatred for Pádric is nothing more than self-hatred he expresses by attacking his best friend, putting him at fault for his own actions. Colm already carries the desire of cutting his own fingers off, an extreme measure to put a drastic end to his career of fiddle player before what he fears the most can happen: discover that he's not as talented enough to make it.

The film is a two-hour long metaphor for the Irish Civil War, which, in The Banshees, appears as a background element. The conflict was fought by two Irish groups: IRA (the Irish Republican Army), which wanted Ireland to be its own, fully independent state, and the Irish Free State, which believed that Ireland should've remained part of the British Empire. Although the war was brief, as it only lasted eleven months (began in June 1922 and ended in May 1923), the consequences were dire: it was a particularly bloody conflict in which many, both soldiers and civilians, lost their lives, and that forced people to take a stand against their fellow countrymen. The divisions and tensions between these two faces of Ireland brought, on the long line, to The Troubles, which plagued the North of the country up to the late Nineties.

At the end of the movie, despite the both of them having lost everything because of one another (Pádraic lost his sister and his donkey, Colm lost his fingers and his home), Pádraic speaks the truth: some conflicts cannot be solved, and not everything that has happened between them can be ignored so that things can go back the way they were. In the same way, the conflict that took place between 1922 and 1923 changed the history of Ireland forever, making it impossible for its citizens to resume how they used to live before it.

As Colm said towards the end of the story, now earth is struck by enough grief for the banshees watch, amused and silent, as humans only bring more pain and death to one another.

by Emma Salvato

This essay contains spoilers

Hunched over a voice recorder, Martin Eden (Luca Marinelli) mumbles his disappointment for modern society: "Those who build prisons express themselves with far less clarity than those who build freedom," he says in a drawl, exhaustion making it impossible for him to keep his eyes open. As he begins to fold over the table, unable to support the invisible weight he carries onto his shoulders, the scene abruptly cuts to stock footage from the early Twentieth Century, people smiling and waving at the camera, excited by the novelty of the contraption in front of them.

This is how Pietro Marcello's Martin Eden (2019) begins: depicting its titular character nearing his end, apathetic and drained, disillusioned with the reality that surrounds him, and cruelly juxtaposing him to people who are able to find happiness in the simple act of being filmed.

Marcello, a young Italian director whose body of work mostly focuses on documentaries, took on the ambitious task of adapting Jack London's final (and most autobiographical) novel for the screen, modifying it to fit a reality he could better understand and represent. Rather than being set in the San Francisco of the early Twentieth Century, Marcello's Martin Eden takes place in the Southern Italy of an unspecified decade (the presence of flared pants and tightly collared shirts hints at it being set after the Protests of 1968, a time of collective disillusionment for all those who believed revolution was possible), but is nevertheless able to explore the story and themes presented in its source material.

After its abrupt beginning, the movie settles for a more traditional narrative style: the plot is spun back of several years, before Martin could become successful and discover discontent. The second time he is introduced to the audience, he is presented as a strong and handsome sailor, charming and carefree. His lack of formal education doesn't bother him, nor does the hard labor that pays for his meals.

His destiny changes when, the morning after a party, he saves a boy, Arturo Orsini (Giustiniano Alpi), from being beaten, and is invited to his house for lunch as a sign of gratitude. Arturo is not like the ones Martin was raised alongside with, initiated to the harsh lives of manual laborers while still in childhood: he was born into a wealthy family who owns mansions, cars, cushy lifestyles that allow for its members to spend their lives focusing on academia. In Arturo's home, Martin is incredibly out of place, his rugged clothes and swarthy appearance unable to fit within the pristine and delicately constructed world of the Orsinis, a world in which everything is fragile, pale, expensive.

Although Martin is self-aware enough to recognize the class differences between him and the Orsinis, his ignorance allows for him to deceive himself into thing that they, just like anybody else he has previously encountered, can be charmed into thinking of him as a peer with a couple of good chats.

It's Elena (Jessica Cressy), Arturo's older sister, who makes him realize that this is not the case: after a brief conversation before lunch, in which the woman corrects his French pronunciation in a rather patronizing manner, Martin finds himself smitten and tries to seduce her (in the scene right before this one, Martin was shown effortlessly flirting with another girl, indicating that, for him, it's almost a habit, to use his charms and good looks for such purpose), but Elena immediately makes it clear that she won't stoop down her social position for anyone.

If Martin doesn't abandon his working class roots and rises to Elena's social class, she will never pursue a relationship with him.

Resolute in his quest to prove Elena his devotion, Martin begins using all his wages to purchase books and educate himself, going as far as attempting to take the exams necessary to receive an elementary school diploma.

However, what began as a journey to seduce a woman quickly evolves into one of self-discovery: through his process of schooling, Martin reaches a new level of self-awareness, of understanding of the social class divide between him and the Orsinis, of the concepts of proletariat and bourgeoisie.

Frustrated by his incapability to earn an elementary school license, Martin sets a new goal for himself: he'll become a writer, and when his first work will be published, he'll go back to Elena and will ask for her hand, strong of his worth as an intellectual. Cargo ships and Naples abandoned in favor of a simple life spent renting a room in the house of a widowed woman, Martin writes and writes and writes, struggling by as he chips at all his savings, getting more and more discouraged as all the newspapers and publishing houses he submits his works to don't deem it worthy of publication

Even the letters he receives from Elena are a form of disappointment: she thinks his dream of gaining social footing by becoming an author is foolish, useless, and although the snippets of his writing he sends her are beautifully written, they are not in her taste. The differences between them are solidified through an in person encounter that takes place when Martin travels back to Naples for a few days: even now that he is educated and can mingle with the friends of the Orsinis without much effort, Elena thinks of the themes of his writing as crass, violent, unable to depict reality. Frustrated, Martin grabs the woman's arm and jostles her around, dragging her through the streets he was raised in, where prostitutes and thieves abound, scaring her.

The reality Elena is accustomed to is simply one that is for the very few, her privilege made her blind and deaf to the struggles of the normal people, and even now that Martin has presented her with them, she would still prefer to close her eyes and ignore them, finding them undignified.

Fully disillusioned with Elena and the feelings he has for her, Martin abandons her and goes back to writing.

The climax of the story is presented little after: Martin, after a severe illness, finally receives a letter of congratulations from a publishing house, its editors so enthralled by the work he submitted that they'd like to publish everything else he has written.

Now that his talent has been discovered, Martin becomes an overnight sensation, pays back all his debts, keeps writing while the flame still burns. With the help of Russ Brissenden (Carlo Cecchi), an eccentric older writer he met at a party held by the Orsinis, he navigates the world of success, and learns an extremely important lesson: he has to fight for those who can't, for those who, just like Martin at the beginning of the story, don't recognize the inferiority their ignorance and low economic status gives them within society. Martin's unique position in the world, that of a man who was able to rise against all odds, allows him to be their voice. "How many people do you see starve to death or go to jail because they're nothing but wretches, slaves, ignorant and stupid?" Russ asks him. "Fight for them, Martin."

Initially, he tries to do so, participating in conferences organized by unions, but soon enough his face and words are noticed by a journalist who writes an article about him, leading to Martin being misunderstood and disliked by many for his political views, which are branded as being those of a communist. The last spark of the Martin that was dies when Russ suddenly commits suicide, leaving him to navigate the world that wants to tear him apart in complete solitude.

The more Martin's works are praised and paid, the more he finds himself alienated from his roots. He doesn't belong to the working class anymore, his days as a sailor long gone, but is also unable to properly fit in the society he was so desperately wanted to join, as he is aware that they see his works about the poor and struggling as nothing more than fantasies they can entertain themselves with.

Life embitters him, further makes him sink into disillusionment. Now wealthy, he purchases a luxurious apartment that resembles the Orsinis' mansion and dresses only in the finest of clothes, bleaches his hair to be blonde (a characteristic that, at the beginning of the story, was discussed as being a recognizable sign of someone belonging to the bougeoise class), hires the last longtime friend he is still in contact with (Nino, played by Vincenzo Nemolato), but his new state of indifference and exhaustion turns him ugly. Like the nobles who spent their days lounging at the Palace of Versailles, he too can pull his teeth out, blackened and rotten.

On the day he is supposed to leave for the United States to promote his new book, he meets Elena for one last time and then goes to the beach, enters the water, and swims until the end credits begin rolling.

Marcello's filming style is saturated with his past as a documentary-maker: the shots are mostly handheld, their target seemingly that of simply archive the rise into stardom of this Neapolitan writer.

Of the shots realized with the use of a tripod, the more notable ones are those depicting Elena's letters: to avoid the stereotypical scene of Martin reading them while a voice-over tells the audience what was written, they were realized by making Jessica Cressy stand in front of a bright red wall (a color that, in the palette of the movie, seldomly appears) and look directly into the camera as she recites out loud their contents.

The way this shot is set can remind of the sorrowful scenes presented in Ingmar Bergman's  Cries and Whispers, a movie from 1972 whose plot revolves around two sisters (and a maid) grieving the death of the third one. The film, whose plot is divided into four chapters, allows each of these female characters to have their own part to better display the anguish they are going through. Each part begins with a shot similar to those of Jessica Cressy reading the letters: the actress, the one whose character is going to dictate the point of view of the next part of the story, stands in front of a bright red wall and looks into the camera.

Although the story is never told from Elena's point of view, it is easy to see why Marcello would choose to be inspired by such a scene: in both movies, those moments signal the beginning of a discussion regarding death, loss, and grief, and in Martin Eden, the latter part of the plot is spent crying the identity the titular character lost.

Martin Eden is, most of all, a story of identity and class struggles.

Its titular character is initially presented as being sure of both his personhood and status: he is a hard-working sailor, his body is marred by the scars of past fights, his education level is low but functional, his wages are enough to keep him fed and clothed. In the ignorance that Elena considers to be inferior, Martin is content. It's when the status quo is shaken, that he begins drowning and loses his sense of self: those things that were normal, to his eyes, are now unfair injustices he has to oppose himself to.

As the minute count of the movie advances and the story progresses, Martin's hatred for himself grows, further cultivated by the notion that he has brought this situation upon himself for a woman who, simply, couldn't love nor understand him.

Ultimately, Martin Eden makes its audience pose questions about themselves, their position in society, and if they are willing to ask themselves questions about them both.

by Hope Roberts

By Lau Lu-Zheng

​
    The Palestine-American critical thinker Edward Said (1935-2003) in his book, Orientalism regards the term Orientalism not just as “the academic study of the Orient”, but historically, the subjugation of the Orient. He continues to say that the “Orient”, then is not just the homogenized Middle East, East and Southeast Asia, but the advantageous(lucrative? shrewd?) epistemological mindset of the Western, as he writes:  “(the) Western style for dominating, restructuring, and having authority over the Orient.” (3) From sensual depictions of Middle Eastern women in paintings of the 1800s, to the films we indulge in to this day, Said heightens our senses to the historical and present-day media that subconsciously play into this idea that the Westerner domineers over the eroticised, sensual and mystical Easterner. However, Said’s discourse and exposure of Orientalism does not conclude with his advocacy for boycott, much like we do in our hypersensitive present. Instead, in the 1970s when the book was published during the height of Orientalist Hollywood filmmaking, his total focus was against the “distortion and inaccuracy”(9) of the communities depicted.

by Emma Salvato

French director Julia Ducournau (1983 - ) is not new to stories that focus on the horrors of the flesh: her first movie, a short titled Junior (2011), tells the story of a girl who goes through puberty through the metaphor of a snake shedding its skin, posing it as an unpleasant (and sometimes disgusting) rite of passage. Similarly, Ducournau depicted the passage from adolescence to adulthood in her feature length movie Raw (2016), in which the change from adolescence to adulthood is represented as a horrific experience dictated by insatiable and uncontrollable cravings. In her latest work, Titane, Ducournau settles her characters into adulthood, focusing on the depiction of parenthood, gender roles, and generational trauma.

Alexia (Agathe Rousselle), an exotic dancer who performs on the hoods of muscle cars at motor shows, is a ruthless serial killer: robbed of her natural ability to feel empathy when she was a child, during a car crash caused by her father, she has very little tolerance for whoever bothers her. After murdering a fan who forcefully tries to kiss her, Alexia has sex with one of the cars left in the warehouse where the show took place. A little latter, while in the company of Justine (Garance Marillier), Alexia notices that her belly has become swollen and rounded, and is shocked to see the pregnancy test she takes give a positive result. This sudden discovery ignites her homicidal rage and, to the rhythm of Caterina Caselli's Nessuno Mi Può Giudicare (No One Can Judge Me), Alexia goes on a killing spree, murdering Justine and all her roommates except for one. Aware that she's going to be reported to the police, Alexia flees from her parents' home and seeks refuge in another identity: she steals that of Adrien Legrande, a boy who disappeared ten years prior and whose father, Vincent (VIncent Lindon), is still desperate to find.

Forced to mask her true identity and instincts, Alexia begins her new life with Vincent, slowly learning how to take care of other people and how to let others take care of her as, under the weight of her sci-fi pregnancy, her body begins breaking down.

Despite the emphasis on body horror (Alexia bleeds motor oil, the skin of her belly splits open and reveals that, underneath its thick layer, lays a rounded titanium plate; and at the beginning of the movie, when Alexia takes Adrien's identity, she breaks her nose by violently slamming her head against the corner of a public bathroom sink) the movie does not aim to disgust its audiences. Just like in Junior and Raw, the story's interests lay in the relationship between the characters, how their pasts can be represented through their present day actions. Trauma, in Julia Ducournau's films, is always a pivotal theme, and in Titane, its great generator can be found in faulty parenthood.

When Alexia is introduced, she is a child playing in the backseat of her father's car. Annoyed by the noises she is making, the man turns around to punish her and loses control of the vehicle, causing it to crash at the side of the road. Alexia, who was not wearing a seatbelt, hits her head against the window and is urgently brought to the hospital, where she has to undergo a surgical operation in which a titanium plate is welded onto her skull, leaving her with a gnarly scar and robbed of the innately human sense of empathy. "Watch out for any neurological signs," one of the doctors recommends the day of Alexia's discharge. Her mother and father both utterly fail to follow the advice, either because they are unable to recognize how differently their daughter is acting or because, to put it bluntly, they cannot bring themselves to care enough to notice. Their faulty parenting style, detached and unwilling to prioritize Alexia, is what brings to the catastrophic events depicted in the movie.

In the same way, Adrien's life too has been ruined by his father's inability to be a good parent: throughout the movie, it is hinted that the disappearance of the boy was caused by none other than Vincent, who was an inattentive father. The plot does not seek to give further information regarding what happened to the boy after he went missing: he is to be forgotten by all, even by the screenwriter.

Adrien is, in all senses and purposes, Alexia's mirror.

Keywords of this story are "generational trauma": Alexia was left scarred, both physically and mentally, by her parents' inability to take care of her, while Vincent trudges through life riddled by guilt, blaming himself for Adrien's disappearence.

When Vincent picks Alexia, who is posing as Adrien, from the police station, a detective states that they are going to run a DNA test to guarantee that the person claiming to be the missing boy is, in fact, none other than the missing boy, Vincent stops him. "Think I can't recognize my own son?" he asks. It is left open for the audience to decide if the man was always aware that Alexia was tricking him, or if he deluded himself into thinking that the woman is actually his son. By the time he finds out, stumbling into Alexia fresh out of the shower and not yet wrapped in the oversized clothes that conceal her identity, Vincent declares that he does not care for her identity, or why she took Adrien's place: she is her son, and he loves her deeply.

Finally offered this second chance at fatherhood, Vincent struggles to find a healthy place between his old and new ways. The old part of him inhabits the world of toxic masculinity: captain of the local firefighter station, he has become a gym rat with a steroid addiction in a desperate attempt to show the younger men that surround him that he is still superior to them, no matter how old he might get; while the new wants him to be soft-bellied, milk as milk, caring father he never was before. He wants to teach Alexia/Adrien how to shave their face, gives them a piece of titanium that will give their broken nose a more natural shape, employs them at the fire station and immediately ensures that the other guys will not pick on them for their weird looks and frail body, but also wants to keep his position of tough man.

In a similar fashion, the depiction of Alexia's gender sways from the traditional roles ascribed to women. When she is first introduced, she is an over-sexualized woman - as a showgirl, she is depicted wearing nothing but fishnets and a bikini, and dancing seductively while looking right into the camera, seducing both her diegetic and non-diegetic audiences - who suffers the consequences of being an over-sexualized woman; even her pregnancy, which the movie indicates as having been caused by her sexual encounter with a muscle car, is nothing but what is considered to be the natural consequence of being a woman: it does not matter how much you might not want a child, you will get pregnant and find your true calling in motherhood, one day. Despite everything, Alexia is still not delicate nor in need of protection until she begins posing as Adrien: under Vincent's obsessive attentions, Alexia is suddenly shielded from every harm and critique - Vincent intimidates any of the firefighters who push Adrien around, telling them that they will be fired if they do not respect his son, and later on, when one of them notices that there is something wrong with how the "boy" is acting, the man scares him with the threat of physical violence.

In the world of Titane, women are ruthless serial killers always able to conjure back-up plans on the spot, and men are weak creatures who cower in front of difficult situations, unable to protect what they cherish the most, and haunted by the consequences of their own actions.

In an interview, writer-director Julia Ducournau revealed that the story was inspired by the Greek lore behind the birth of the Titans, the pre-Olympian gods who were banished by Zeus from the upper world. Gaia, the ancestral mother of everything, emerged from the Tartarus and generated Uranus, the personification of heaven, so that he could hold her from every side; laying together, the two created the Titans, imperfect creatures that brought great shame to Uranus, who was so offended by the sight of them that he hid them in Gaia's body. Unable to free them herself, Gaia requested that her children organize an uprise against their father, but only Cronus obeyed the order, surging from his mother's body brandishing a sickle and using it to castrate his father.

It is a story that depicts a desperate, incestuous kind of love, much like the one presented in Titane, in which the lines of what is acceptable and what is not are blurred. Per Ducournau's words, the baby Alexia conceived with the muscle car marks the birth of a new, monstrous humanity.

by Aaron Argot

by Ned Kuczmynda

            Making a Batman movie must be a daunting task. Not only is there the legion of fans with high standards and strong opinions that comes with every fandom adaptation, but whoever directs the film must pick up the mantle of a trilogy that changed what it meant to be a superhero film. Some people are begging for more from the caped crusader, others (this reviewer included) question the necessity of a third Batman in the space of a decade. Hearing all of this, director Matt Reeves has done something special with his take on the material, finding his own lane with a more mysterious plot, and a distinct visual language.
            Much has been made of The Batman’s visual references to classic noir cinema and detective stories, as well as its rootedness in the neo-noir of the 1990s. While all of this is true, most importantly this film is steeped in the best thing a comic movie can be: comic books. Watching this film felt like a deeper immersion into the Gotham imagined by the likes of Grant Morrison (Batman Omnibus), and the city presents less like a teeming metropolis than it does a fever dream of shadows and vice.  ​

by Sammi Shuma

by Sebastian Tow

This style reached the threshold of tolerance in The Grand Budapest Hotel. It’s no wonder that The French Dispatch, Anderson’s first non-animated film since Grand Budapest, has gone past the point of recovery. The pace of the film is excessive, reducing the time for characters to utter a quip here and there, as the plot attempts to cram as much visual nostalgia into two hours as possible. In the third story, that of the police commissioner’s son, the levels of narrative are cramped and confused in pace. The story jumps back and forth to Jeffory Wright’s character, the journalist recounting the story to a TV audience, clad in a ‘70’s jacket that looks like it belongs to a guest on The Dick Cavett Show. The rest of the narrative is depicted by animation and hurried takes between the myriad of characters. In the second story, Revisions to a Manifesto, the logic of nostalgia culture built on business ontology is laid bare in its reference to Paris ‘68. We see here another hallmark of postmodern cynicism, the depoliticisation of culture. In this way, a past event such as the Paris student riots of ‘68, an earnest, yet failed attempt at political and cultural emancipation, is the perfect reference point for Anderson’s aesthetic. Out of the film's sense of nostalgia, covering an unconscious true nostalgia for earnestness and emancipation, it ends up mocking this nostalgia itself, visualizing it with black and white cigarettes, stacks of books, and stylishly dressed students playing chess in Parisian cafes. McDormand’s character blandly comments on the students, writing up their movement as nothing more than the  “touching narcissism of the young.” Anderson’s mocking depiction of the sixtyeight-er zeitgeist speaks to the central contradiction that sustains us as inhabitants of nostalgia culture: it is impossible to get out of the loop of cultural recycling, cynical distancing, and depoliticization, yet we long for earnestness and artistic emancipation in culture. We mock the culture of the past, yet we wish it were actualized today. In this way, The French Dispatch is completely turpitudinous; the finality of the Liberty, Kansas Evening Sun as it ends with its last issue, echoes the very finality of The French Dispatch itself. The cast that has remained in Anderson’s work for years are but variations of the characters they have played in films before, reduced to proliferating the deadlock of nostalgic logic further, so there is no out, no way to go forward. 

Analysis of the film raises a question as to how conscious Anderson is of these dynamics. From one angle it appears as though he is aware of the social and cultural dynamics at play in his own work, and one may venture to say that in The French Dispatch he chose to take the logic of nostalgia and cynicism to its endpoint in an attempt to critique this logic itself. This must be partially true, due to the very conscious choices made; was naming the setting for the film ‘Boredom-on-Jaded’ a mistake, or was it merely a sally of wit? Yet, whether or not Anderson is conscious of these dynamics does not redeem the film. I would predict that Anderson’s style has no place left to go but to reproduce a variation of the same blueprint pictured in The French Dispatch in his next film. It is not up to Anderson to break the postmodern logic inherent in nostalgia culture. For art and film in the wider sense, the only way to break from this deadlock is to be liberated from cynicism by emphasizing a new earnestness, non-referential to any imagined aesthetic of the past. The French Dispatch should be seen as the prime example of the existing order of cultural production that needs to be destroyed if there is any hope of taking art to a place of possible new creation.