The early films of Park Chan-wook such as "Joint Security Area" (Gongdong gyeongbi guyeok JSA, 2000) and the so-called "Vengeance trilogy" - "Sympathy for Mr. Vengeance" (Boksuneun naui geot, 2002), "Oldboy" (Oldeuboi, 2003), and "Lady Vengeance" (Chinjeolhan geumjassi, 2005) - brought South-Korean cinema to western awareness and made Park an acclaimed auteur of world cinema. The trademarks of Park's films, which have sometimes seemed to become equivalent with the reputation of South-Korean cinema in general, are shocking violence, the eccentric portrayal of love, and complex narratives that employ surprising twists. The latest film from the director probably will not disappoint the dedicated global audience of such films, but "Decision to Leave" (Heojil kyolshim, 2022) is also something much more.

Hae-jun (Park Hae-il) is a married police officer who suffers from insomnia as he keeps driving between two cities on misty roads. His work is in Busan, but his wife (played by Jung Yi-seo) awaits him in Ipo. When a businessman dies in what seems to be a mountain climbing accident, the police immediately pick up the businessman's Chinese wife Seo-rae (Tang Wei) as a primary suspect. The case seems clear to most, but Hae-jun's feelings for Seo-rae cloud his vision and judgment. In typical Park fashion, the situation quickly turns more complicated, Hae-jun's feelings become obsessive, and soon there seems to be no way out from the mist of emotions.

There is a touch of Masumura's "A Wife Confesses" (1961) and, obviously, Hitchcock's "Vertigo" (1958) in the film's premise, but Park has stated that "Decision to Leave" was in fact inspired by a Korean love song "Angae" (or "Mist") sung by Jung Hoon Hee in the 1960's. In the song, someone, who has lost their lover in the past, gets lost in the fog. We speak of "brain fog" or "clouding of consciousness" when describing the experience of indecisiveness and lack of focus, which are also signs of depression. Hae-jun is not necessarily clinically depressed, though his compassionate if a bit over-caring wife is concerned. After all, Hae-jun, a middle-aged man, belongs to a high-risk group. His wife thinks that Hae-jun needs violence and death in order to be happy, but the cop, who has dedicated a wall in his Busan flat to unsolved cases, does not seem jovial. Hae-jun needs his job or, more specifically, the attempts at solving mysteries to feel a sense of meaning in his life. This is the reason he initially falls for Seo-rae; she would fit perfectly on his wall of unsolved cases. She is a walking enigma.

Alongside Hae-jun, the spectator must constantly guess whether Seo-rae is leading the cop on or not. Some of Seo-rae's behaviours, actions, and decisions may remain a bit unconvincing, which casts a faint shadow of implausibility to the film. On the other hand, the inability to fully grasp the character fits this film like a glove. An additional air of mystery is added to the character for the simple reason that she is Chinese. Since Seo-rae does not speak perfect Korean, she and Hae-jun must occasionally rely on apps on their smart phones for translation. As is well known, of course, things get lost in translation. And the multiple screens between them are not helping. In the end, the spectator is -- just like Hae-jun -- left incapable of having the final verdict on Seo-rae, this ephemeral character in the foggy landscape.

Communication is thus clouded not just between characters but also the film's narration and the spectator. Both Park's style and narration obfuscate the sense of space and time. The complex plot is told in a fast pace, and narration keeps jumping back-and-forth between scenes, many of which have been executed with unprecedented innovation. For just one example, there is a scene where Park is able to combine Hae-jun in bed with his wife, him staring at mold on the corner of their wall, Seo-rae watching a Korean soap opera, and x-ray images related to the crime. Even if Hae-jun and Seo-rae were in different places in different times, Park constantly cuts their looks together. As a result, there is this continuous impression of a gaze that defies dimensions of space and time in the poetic space of the film. By means of editing, Park creates a luring kaleidoscope of ambivalent emotions. At times, this formal approach might make the following of the story a little challenging for the spectator, but the facts of the story do not in the end seem to matter that much. The atmosphere of Park's neo-noir melodrama is clouded by a brain fog in which it is difficult to concentrate and make decisions.

Although "Decision to Leave" treads on familiar terrain for Park, as a film about love and obsession, I must say that I enjoyed it more than any other film from him. Even with his best films, I have always found Park's complicated narratives and his shocking violence somewhat self-deliberate, self-indulgent, and a bit bloated. Here, there are less gimmicks, and the film just feels more earnest, even though it is still a complex story. Given that "Decision to Leave" resembles "Vertigo", some might have presumptions regarding Park's eroticism, which invaded his previous film "The Handmaiden" (Ah-ga-ssi, 2016), but such reservations are unfounded. Curiously, "Decision to Leave" holds back in its portrayal of romance and erotic tension. In the film's most intimate scene, Hae-jun and Seo-rae exchange a bit of lip balm. "Decision to Leave" may not persuade completely, but it is still, to my mind, Park's most intriguing work. Form and content merge into a hazy cloud of fog which one finds difficult to leave behind.

"Septet: The Story of Hong Kong" (2020) is a collection of seven short episodes, each with their own director, each focused on a story that somehow relates to Hong Kong. There is a teenage love story in 80's Hong Kong, there is a story about young people training martial arts, and there is a tale of inter-generational relations between a kung fu grandpa and his westernized granddaughter.

The cardinal sin for episode films with multiple directors is awkward unevenness and lack of cohesion. However, "Septet" does not suffer from the common shortcoming of the genre. That is because the film is very evenly terrible. What is supposed to be a heartfelt love letter to an iconic city with its own vibrant film culture is nothing but a sub-par collection of sentimental and cringe-inducing stories that ring a bell to anyone who has checked out soap operas on daytime TV or picked up a cheap joke book at the grocery store.

The premises for comedy are the likes of a grandfather denying his granddaughter western delicacies only to enjoy them himself. So funny. On the other hand, many episodes try to invoke feelings of nostalgia by simply setting up some uninteresting events in a past decade and then cutting to a later period -- oh look how time has passed. In the first episode, for one, young people are training kung fu. A voice-over narration gives a sense of reminiscence. Then the episode concludes with a cut to a brief shot of the narrator as an older person. And this is supposed to awake sentiment. Yet the director of the episode never stops at exploring what this past time meant for this character and what it might mean to him now besides nostalgia. Overall, the problem of the film is that it's difficult to feel anything when the characters and the dramatic set-ups are embarrassingly shallow.

The worst thing about "Septet" might nevertheless be that it is supposed to be an homage to Hong Kong, its cinema, the history of that cinema, and even 35 mm film. As a person who is deeply invested in the appreciation of film history, this film should be quite up my alley. Even though the martial arts cinema of Hong Kong has never been my personal cup of tea, there is plenty to love about Hong Kong cinema, and I do have a soft spot for any meditation on film history. Watching this sub-par excuse of a tribute made me wonder for a moment what I was doing at the cinema. Luckily there are better films to resuscitate my "faith," but "Septet" is definitely one of those films that makes me embarrassed to hold cinema in such high regard.

"Dio, come ti amo!" (1966), directed by Miguel Iglesias, stars Gigliola Cinquetti who rose to fame in 1964 by becoming the youngest person to win the Eurovision Song Contest with her hit "Non ho l'età." The lyrics of the song, performed by the 16-year-old Cinquetti in 1964, concern the restlessness and impatience of a young person to experience romantic love. Iglesias knows what's up (and what the audience of the day wanted) as the film just abruptly starts with Cinquetti performing that particular song. While the song and the performance are delightful in their own right, the opening scene does feel appropriate because Iglesias' film picks up the theme of "Non ho l'età" for the whole film. In the beginning, Cinquetti's character sings about her impatience for love, and the story of the film, not surprisingly by any means of course, revolves precisely around her falling in love for the first time. In the opening song, she yearns for love; as the film goes by, she begins to sing about the pains and pleasures of the love that she has in her heart.

Gigliola Cinquetti plays an Italian competitive swimmer named Gigliola from a working-class family. In a competition between young female swimmers from Italy and Spain, Gigliola saves a Spanish girl named Angela when the girl does not rise back to surface after having jumped to the pool. Eventually Gigliola travels to Barcelona to visit Angela. There she meets Angela's fiancé Luis with whom Gigliola begins to fall in love. She does not act on her feelings, despite there being mutual affection between the two, out of respect for Angela. To make things a little more complicated: out of shame for her blue-collar background, Gigliola has pretended to be a wealthy socialite to both Angela and Luis. When Angela and Luis eventually come to visit her in Naples, she must involve her entire family, as well as a millionaire for whom her family works, in her shenanigans. Oh, and Gigliola also sings, of course -- quite a lot.

The story of the film, which is an obvious star vehicle for Gigliola Cinquetti, is ludicrously silly and its narrative execution often feels clunky and mechanic. The rhythm when it comes to transitions from one scene to the next is not always on point. Certain narrative decisions reek implausibility. One can practically see the mechanic wheels of the quickly produced screenplay turning at some junctures of the plot. There is also an unnecessary minor sub-plot involving a love affair of Angela's mother that even a charitable spectator cannot enjoy.

One of the biggest flaws in the film is, perhaps, that it does not really study the theme of the impatience of the young to experience love. The theme is quite explicitly brought up in the song "Non ho l'età" and other songs, but the film does not really include any non-musical scenes where the spectator could observe Gigliola pondering or going through emotions. And there would be ample opportunities for such exploration of a young character's difficulties in dealing with strong emotions, which is the only principal theme that does seem to emerge from the material. Although the film has a running time of over 100 minutes, it feels like the film sometimes moves too fast without letting the characters breathe. Worst of all, maybe, is the character of Luis who remains a barely recognizable cart-board cut-out. He utters romantic one-liners straight from paperbacks by the cashier and has no identifiable personality traits besides that. He is the obscure object of the protagonist's desire, one might argue of course, but somehow this line of reasoning does not feel persuasive when Iglesias spends little to no time in exploring even Gigliola's emotional world.

Despite its apparent flaws, however, something about "Dio, come ti amo!" is quite charming. The on-location shooting in both Barcelona and Naples is beautiful to look at, the performance by the young Gigliola Cinquetti is alluring, and the story, irrespective of its conventionality, is pleasant enough to follow. The film is at its best when Iglesias just allows the young characters to hang around (that is, when he is not too concerned with telling the sub-par story), something that he does not let them do nearly enough, unfortunately.

The biggest thing about the film, of course, and the reason why most people probably watched "Dio, come ti amo!" at least back in the day, are the songs performed by Cinquetti in it. There are 7 songs in total and they accompany the narrative phases of the film quite like in musicals, though "Dio, come ti amo!" is probably not a musical in the precise sense of the term. Even for someone who is not a music enthusiast such as yours truly, these songs are the highlight of the film. I would say the film is worth checking out for them alone. They elevate this otherwise sub-par teenage romance film.

"The Long Gray Line" (1955), directed by John Ford, is the real life story about an Irish immigrant named Martin Maher (played by Tyrone Power) who comes to West Point, the United States Military Academy, in 1898 in search of work. Starting as a dishwasher who eventually enlists the army in order to get better treatment, Martin ends up becoming an athletics instructor, a non-commissioned officer, husband to an immigrant cook also from Ireland (played by Maureen O'Hara), and a childless father to dozens of cadets brought to adulthood at West Point during a career of 50 years. The story unfolds as a lengthy flashback sequence which is framed by Martin in his 70's meeting the President, a West Point graduate and a personal friend, about his approaching retirement which Martin is not too happy about given that West Point is all he has.

Legendary director John Ford's first film in CinemaScope, "The Long Gray Line" may at first glance give the impression of patriotic grandiose and visual flamboyance. Such magnitude certainly echoes in some of the film's shots of the titular gray lines of cadets and especially the nostalgic opening shot of graduates-to-be singing the hymn "The Corps." However, this is really not the case when it comes to the whole of the picture. On the contrary, "The Long Gray Line" might just be one of Ford's smallest, most understated, films in terms of tone and style.

Ford seems to turn the typical visual language of the newly established CinemaScope aspect ratio, practically created for grand horizontal landscape shots, into a poetics of everyday life and private emotions. An astonishing quality of calmness characterizes the entire film, creating a sense of reminiscence emanating from the frame story. Ford's editing rhythm is remarkably slow with some scenes executed with barely more than one shot. Typically for the CinemaScope format, Ford prefers larger shot scales to close-ups and he prioritizes two-shot compositions to shot-reverse-shot sequences commonly used for scenes with a lot of dialogue in films of the time with a narrower aspect ratio.

Consider, for an example, the scene where Martin demands a straight answer from the red-haired female cook named Mary who has not said one word to him despite there being a definite spark of mutual interest between the two. The scene concludes with their first kiss which marks a turning point from the courtship of the story to their relationship. The scene lasts for roughly four minutes and it has been executed with just three shots: the first is a two-shot of Martin and Mary sitting on a porch bench and it lasts just below two minutes; the second two-shot provides a brief broader view of the porch with both of them standing up from the bench and it lasts roughly ten seconds; the third is a two-shot that shows the pair on the porch stairs and it lasts for a minute and a half. There is a moment in the last shot of the scene where Mary points outside the screen space to a place that could be theirs one day, reaffirming the certainty of her feelings toward Martin despite her initial lack of communication, but Ford resists the convention to cut to a reverse point of view shot of the place. The camera remains on the amorous couple, placing an emphasis on their feelings and their hopes for the future rather than what is actually there.

The film is filled with wonderfully executed moments like these. A scene where Martin and Mary look at the cadets from a hospital window after a personal tragedy has hit them, again executed with just two two-shots and a resistance to cut to a reverse point of view shot, is utterly unsentimental and non-melodramatic. The absence of the youth they are gazing at and the presence of a line of shadow that cuts across Martin's face, looking away from Mary, say more than the dialogue.

It is in scenes like these where the film's heart lies. Ford harnesses the CinemaScope aesthetics into a mature language of intimacy. In line with such an approach, it is only appropriate that "The Long Gray Line" also comes across as an untypical biopic. Rather than being a portrayal of a great man of military history, the film is very much the tale of an ordinary man who happened to end up at the military, started there as an outsider, but then the place became his whole life. Regardless of whether this corresponds to the actual life of the real Martin Maher, it is the story that interests Ford. This aspect of ordinariness, coincidence, and the emotions that go with them also give the film a universal appeal beyond the sub-genre of military training films. "The Long Gray Line" is characterized by a deep wisdom about such a life, with its tragedies of loss and triumphs of unexpected joys, whose unannounced greatness Ford's picture celebrates.

A woman's wistful face rests on her hand in darkness. It's pitch black around her, but her sympathetic face is lit up like that of an angel. Her eyes are a little wet, and she is looking down. "I love you, Billy," she utters. A quiet, lethargic response from the off-screen space, "I love you, mom," expands the space by sound before a cut to a larger shot scale does so by image. This little moment of intimate truth, the mother's truth, that of a lost woman played by then not yet even a star-on-the-rise Meryl Streep, is but one of many in this gem of a film called "Kramer vs. Kramer" (1979). The opening scene establishes a certain tone for the film, directed by then accomplished scriptwriter Robert Benton, it establishes a calm tone of realist minimalism, but it also sets up the film's concise exposition. It continues with a parallel cut that reveals the mother's husband, a young advertiser on the rise in his company, played by the then already established method actor of films such as "The Graduate" (1967), "Midnight Cowboy" (1969), and "All the President's Men" (1976), Dustin Hoffman, walking away from work with his boss who is making big promises to him about the future. Arriving home, excited about the news of potential upcoming promotions, the man is met with his wife's impassioned words: "I'm leaving you." Not only does she leave him but also their 5-year-old son without giving any promises of return. Thus starts the development of a father-and-son relationship between the dad and his estranged son. Through trials and errors, ups and downs, they come together, get closer, and form a tight bond on broken ground. Their new found relationship is interrupted by the mother's unexpected return which drives them into a difficult custody battle.

Sweeping the Academy Awards, winning all the biggest five Oscars, Benton's "Kramer vs. Kramer" never feels what many nowadays call an "Oscar film." While it speaks to us, while it still resonates poignantly with our innermost feelings, it comes from a different time in film history before there was such a thing as an "Oscar film." There's a cliched saying, "they don't make them like they used to," which is often applied to films from the golden age of Hollywood, but there's a truth to it when used appropriately. In addition to the golden age of Hollywood from the 30's to the 50's, there was a second renaissance in American popular cinema. It took place from the late 60's to the late 70's, and it is known as New Hollywood. In many ways, "Kramer vs. Kramer" embodies this decade of artistic transition. Alongside films such as Allen's "Annie Hall" (1977) and Mazursky's "An Unmarried Woman" (1978), Benton's film exemplifies a new cinematic realism in American film that had been fine grained enough and that had reached such a level of effortless sophistication that it was possible to just put actors in real spaces and let them go with it. "Kramer vs. Kramer" is often seen as some kind of a watershed moment as it depicts divorce and custody battles with a new sense of maturity and elegance, giving both parties an equal stand and refusing easy answers. Although the film is told primarily from the man's point of view, there is not a moment when the spectator could hate the mother after the brilliantly executed opening scene. While the film exemplifies changes that were taking place in western society during the second wave of feminism, it does this not by intention or force but due to its intuition that has been achieved by the New Hollywood aesthetics of realist minimalism. Sobriety is in its nature. It's funny to think that Francois Truffaut almost came to direct "Kramer vs. Kramer" and how different -- no matter how fitting with Truffaut's own oeuvre in the late 70's -- the film would have been like. It owes its heart to Benton's touch and its homely feeling on familiar ground.

Of equal importance, in this case, it must be stressed, are the performances by Hoffman, Streep, Jane Alexander as their mutual friend, and Justin Henry as Billy, who is still the youngest actor ever to receive an Oscar nomination for his performance. There's true power of emotional presence. Hoffman was in the middle of divorce even before production, and Streep had recently broken up with her boyfriend. There is improvisation and there is honesty. The first rewrite sessions of the script with Hoffman, Benton, and producer Stanley Jaffe have been described by Jaffe as group therapy. The method acting, Benton's minimalism, and new American realism all breathe freely from the film's audiovisual texture that feels and tastes like ordinary life. It's a little film, it's simple film, but its smallness and simplicity are something that is lacking in American popular cinema forty years since its premiere. "Kramer vs. Kramer" is full of these little moments of intimate truth that make you marvel. The father grabbing a hot frying pan in the middle of an unprecedentedly hectic morning, the son revolting by taking up ice cream from the freezer before finishing up his dinner, them shopping together, two divorced friends just talking on a park bench while their children are playing before them, a glass thrown against the wall in bitter anger, a hug that lingers between the father and his son, a terrified run through the streets, a quiet nod in court, a sigh, and an exchange of looks between the doors of an elevator. They ask to be enjoyed, they ask to be to be cherished and embraced as they are -- just because they are. Because they are real.

Many a cinephile might have lost all interest and hope in contemporary American films in recent years, but it turns out they might have just been looking at the wrong places. As the award-winning films of the country have become duller and duller, packed in a stale, tight corset, the most interesting auteurs have found their way in popular genre films which do not resonate that well with the businessmen who give out awards but which strike a deep chord with the general public. Long- time comedian, Jordan Peele's directorial debut "Get Out" (2017) is a perfect example, and it has already garnered well-deserved critical praise in France. Alongside the Safdies' "Good Time" (2017), another genre film which might go over the heads of the critics and award-givers who are used to the stale flow, "Get Out" is definitely among the best American films of the year. It should be seen by everyone not only for its social significance but also for its cinematic freshness.

An African-American photographer, Chris (played by Daniel Kaluuya) travels to his white girlfriend Rose's (played by Allison Williams) parents to visit them for the first time at their secluded estate somewhere in up-north countryside. The friendly atmosphere of this mundane meeting starts to crack and reveal something more sinister beneath the surface.

The basic set-up of the plot echoes the classic civil rights era film, Stanley Kramer's "Guess Who's Coming to Dinner" (1967) where a white woman introduces her African-American boyfriend to her liberal parents whose tolerance begins to show its limitations. Peele cleverly uses this inter-text as a backdrop, giving an undertone for the main theme, but essentially develops his film into something utterly original. Many spectators will leave the film with the thought that they have never seen anything like this. Never have the monsters of horror films felt so abstract and so concrete at the same time.

Peele is able to derive from his comedy-background the ability to build up tension in a fashion which often borders the line of humor without directing the spectator to laughs but rather to flinches in terror. Although "Get Out" does not come across as a self-aware meta-film dealing with the genre of horror like "It Follows" (2014), Peele's film does have a self-awareness to it which, however, never interrupts a scene or the development of suspense. Peele might use genre conventions with an ironic twinkle in his eye, but they are never subjected to any comprehensively genre-critical discourse. On the contrary, the self-aware genre conventions enhance the deeply felt structure of the film whose narrative power pushes the spectators tightly into their seats.

"Get Out" begins with a serene shot of a wealthy American suburb where an African-American man is ambling, looking for the right street. This image in itself, mundane as its setting may be, already invokes feelings of horror because we have heard of so many stories where black men end up dead in innocent places such as these. It sets up an impressive and frightening sensation of not being welcomed which characterizes the film throughout. Peele's structured and disciplined mise-en-scène of precise compositions beautifully articulates and exemplifies the impression of a seemingly "post-racial" society where everything seems to be in order, but which conceals secrets underneath.

Overall, Peele's "Get Out" is a real cinematic treat and most likely will acquire a following. Whether the film skyrockets Peele to cinematic success or not will remain to be seen, for it is always the second film which shows if the director's first hit was just a stroke of luck. Yours truly is very confident -- as well as interested and hopeful for the future of contemporary American cinema.

Finnish director, Aki Kaurismäki has successfully established himself as a respectable auteur in world cinema. When it was announced after the release of Kaurismäki's last film "Le Havre" (2011) that it would be followed by another film covering similar topics and themes, audiences have been anxiously waiting for his next effort. Thus, six years later, comes "The Other Side of Hope" (2017, "Beyond Hope" literally), a film that Kaurismäki wanted to get out before it was too late. One should not be surprised by such openness about the film's political agenda given Kaurismäki's usual tendencies to do so. Nor should one be surprised by the fact that "The Other Side of Hope" is everything one could expect from Kaurismäki: an immediately recognizable film belonging to the canon of his oeuvre. While some Finnish critics have been disappointed by the lack of innovation or regeneration from Kaurismäki, they have failed to appreciate that often the best artists keep doing the "same" over and over again -- think of Ozu and Hawks, for instance, both of whom Kaurismäki adores tremendously.

Like "Le Havre", "The Other Side of Hope" also tells the story about a refugee encountering a European local. The small port town of Le Havre in France has been changed to Helsinki in Finland and the North-African refugee to a Syrian. The film follows Khaled's (played by Sherwan Haji) day- to-day activities in the red tape of immigration policy, his attempts to track down his lost sister, and his conflicts with locals as well as a parallel story about a Finnish man (played by Kaurismäki regular Sakari Kuosmanen) who leaves his wife and starts up a restaurant which eventually leads him to meet Khaled.

As mentioned above, one can recognize the film as Kaurismäki's instantly. The cinematography is often static by nature (even camera movement is rather mechanic), the acting is deadpan and the actors' delivery is laconic to the bone, there is nostalgic popular music, and mise-en-scène is characterized by vintage elements from old cars to type writers as well as classic Hollywood lighting. These cinematic means often give an ironic impression which, nonetheless, never reduces the film to a parody of itself; it manages to take itself seriously while joking around, so to speak. They also constitute an extremely economic narrative where a wordless act such as the placing of a ring on a kitchen table can say more than a thousand words. In terms of tone, Kaurismäki's film lies securely in between of tragedy and comedy, cynicism and humanism, melancholy and laughter.

In this world of deep contradictions -- not only in tone, of course, but also in, say, the co- existence of vintage elements in mise-en-scène with modern technology -- Kaurismäki's characters often find themselves to be strangers. They are strangers essentially in two senses. First, they are strangers of society; they are thugs, loners, divorced, unemployed, homeless, and refugees. Second, they are strangers of existence; their being in the world is twisted in the sense that they talk absurdly little, do not notice the absurdities of the fictive world with its contradictions, stand still for long periods of time, and can suddenly announce that they will move to Mexico City for a change of scenery without giving rise to any trace of astonishment in their interlocutors.

It seems to me that Kaurismäki's phenomenology of strangeness, if I may give it such a hasty word, has gained significant new dimensions in his contemporary cinema of global ethics. The strangers of "The Other Side of Hope" find comrades in each other without a need to announce it. They are the global working class with no nation. They are a plural bunch whose shared humanity overcomes individual differences. In a key scene echoing "Le Havre", there is a moving montage of human faces as the refugees in the reception center listen to a wordless ballad by Khaled. It is a very Kaurismäki-esque moment of cinematic personality, but here the strangeness seems to articulate heavily moral meanings in particular.

While the film is unapologetically moral and political in its message and agenda, it also comes across as a good piece of cinema with a poetry all its own (that is, the cinematic poetry of Kaurismäki's cinema in general, to be precise). Like many other films by Kaurismäki, sea is an essential element, which might represent the film's success in finding a place between poetry and politics. "The Other Side of Hope" begins with a beautiful shot of the Baltic Sea. To Peter von Bagh, a Finnish film critic and historian, all cinematic images of sea are masterful. The beauty of the sea is easily captured in a way which makes everyone a master. Yet, in order for us to care about these images, something has to happen -- either in terms of story, theme, or aesthetics -- in their appropriate contexts. In this sense, Kaurismäki delivers. The other side of hope, or its vague image in the world beyond, finds its elusive face on the surface of the sea. When Peter von Bagh passed away in 2014, Kaurismäki promised to dedicate his next film to von Bagh's memory, adding that "only if it is good enough." He did.

"You don't have to understand everything," explains Apichatpong Weerasethakul about his Palm d'Or winning, enigmatic and ambiguous "Uncle Boonmee Who Can Recall His Past Lives" (2010) in a 2010 interview with The Guardian. This remark by the author of the film is very simple but even more relevant as such since it is, I believe, precisely the unconscious demand for clarity and unity, a rational need to understand which leads many spectators astray when it comes to Weerasethakul's cinema. The torment of understanding is what ruins the viewing experience for far too many, making it harder for them to see the simple beauty of films like "Uncle Boonmee".

In all its simplicity, "Uncle Boonmee" is a story about a dying man. His family and other close ones take care of him as he requires daily doses of dialysis. On one night, his dead wife appears as a ghost to chat with him and his caretakers at a serene veranda only to be followed by the unexpected arrival of his long lost son who has now turned into an ape with glaring red eyes. A surprisingly calm discussion between those involved takes place, including a few flashback sequences, which slowly lead the way to a new day, a journey to a cave, and finally a detachment from this story to another.

There are no spoilers here because they do not exist in the Weerasethakul canon. His films are less about stories and more about images. The gulf between those who love Weerasethakul and those who despise him begins in this division: one tries to find a coherent and consistent story in the images, explaining objects in the screen space as symbols for something much clearer and less vague, while the other tries to embrace the images themselves not as symbols but as what they are, images. One could think of it as cinematic music, a peculiar language of the rhythm which does not call for conceptual understanding but a pre-reflective reception.

In addition to Weerasethakul's style, consisting of long takes, slow editing rhythm, large shot scales, lack of non-diegetic music, and a relentless use of ellipsis, which might create discontent in some spectators, there is also a more thematic, or "content-oriented," explanation for this discontent. "Uncle Boonmee" is about crossing boundaries. Halfway into the film, one is ready to accept a dialogue between people and ghosts as natural or a sexual encounter between a princess and a fish as nothing out of the ordinary. Conceptual distinctions into categories such as past and present, man and woman, animal and human, nature and culture, reason and emotion, dream and reality coalesce and disappear. This is why they will not serve a spectator trying to find a conceptually understandable story in the pervasiveness of the images. One could see the circularity of the narrative as a reflection of reincarnation, but even this seems too categorical. To me, there is only a fragmented narrative without clear boundaries unfolding like a beautiful poem without the burden of words.

Hopefully this has not come off as an attack. The foregoing discussion has been nothing but a modest attempt to open streams of curiosity. I have tried to explain the division between those who admire and those who despise "Uncle Boonmee". I have located the latter's discontent in Weerasethakul's unique style (using slowness and serenity to create cinematic lyricism which challenges our conceptual understanding) and the film's thematic treatise on crossed boundaries (combining purported conceptual distinctions into one to create a non-linear narrative which challenges our conceptual understanding). Clearly this is not everything, but it is "everything" in less than one thousand words. To Weerasethakul, the discontent of some means nothing but the success of his cinema: "if I make a film that divides the audience, I feel like that's a certain level of success," Weerasethakul tells The Guardian. In the spirit of this remark, there is nothing left to say other than a request to give Weerasethakul's cinema a chance rather than condemning it on the basis of one's own purported categorical distinctions. Like in the films of Ozu or Bresson, the objects in the screen space are not symbolic; the images themselves are what count -- and it is those images where Weerasethakul's cinema returns to.

After Ken Loach's latest film "I, Daniel Blake" (2016) took home the most prestigious film award of the year, Palme d'Or at Cannes earlier this summer, there has been a lot of discussion or at least anticipation of discussion on the film. The Guardian, for one, published a long article where people from all walks of life shared their differing opinions on the film. As a fierce story of social relevance, telling about an ailing carpenter whose life goes to pieces in the vast sea of bureaucracy, "I, Daniel Blake" is bound to be criticized for being didactic and demagogic as it hits the commercial screens. Some will fall in love with the film for its honest authenticity, while others will be put off by its unapologetic directness.

The film begins with the title character, Daniel Blake going through an assessment in the unemployment office after his doctor has deemed him unfit for work due to a heart condition. Unfortunately, Daniel ends up in a paradoxical position, the likes which Kafka could have devised, where he is not concerned unhealthy enough to apply for sickness benefit and has to therefore apply for job seeker's allowance, coercing him into a pointless cycle of searching for jobs he cannot really take. In the middle of this absurd jungle of gray offices and red tapes, Daniel befriends Katie, a single mother of two in a similar situation. Daniel's cardinal sin in the bureaucratic world is his refusal to play by its rules, to fake and to pull the strings where needed.

Loach is known for his simplicity in both style and narrative without ever coming close to minimalism. His simplicity is of a different kind, a simplicity of the heart on the level of the subject matter which is often social by nature. This simplicity gives room for the unfolding of story and character in their natural state which is of the utmost importance for Loach's intentions. At times warm and funny, at others raw and brutal, the story of "I, Daniel Blake" is hard to be dismissed for its authenticity. It will likely speak to most people as do the great realist novels of the 19th century. It is a simple voice with real thought and emotion behind it, saying something of relevance, straight out and loud. While the title of the film might pave way for quasi-libertarian interpretations of Loach's critique of the social benefits system, his intentions could not be clearer to those who have seen the film. The titular character is merely someone to carry the torch of solidarity; to Loach and others, he represents a mass of millions. Peter Bradshaw of The Guardian wrote that the film "intervenes in the messy, ugly world of poverty with the secular intention of making us see that it really is happening, and in a prosperous nation." This is the simplicity which gives Loach's cinema its moral aura.

Although many may feel put off by the film's direct social message and strong moral pathos, which can feel didactic or even demagogic at times, and it will not find its dearest fan in yours truly either, I think the film deserves acclaim for its integrity. The film does not hide its rhetoric or its message. After all, its "leftist agitation" may not be stranger than the ideology of upper middle class family life propagated by contemporary popular culture. The way I see it, "I, Daniel Blake" is more a personal expression of worry and concern rather than manufactured propaganda with an impersonal agenda. At worst the film might be preachy or sentimental, but at best it is the most authentic thing Ken Loach has done since "My Name Is Joe" (1998), a parallel work in the truest sense of the word. To put it bluntly, I am glad that "Jimmy's Hall" (2014) did not end up being the legacy Loach left for cinema; but "I, Daniel Blake" could very well be just that.

Maren Ade's third feature film "Toni Erdmann" (2016) has received an equal amount of tears and laughs at many film festival screenings ending with standing ovations. A maturely crafted and emotionally thought-through psychological treatise on the enduring theme of child-parent relationships, "Toni Erdmann" tells about an obsessive jester (Peter Simonischek) desperately trying to reconnect with his estranged, dead-serious daughter (Sandra Hüller) who spends more time on the phone and business meetings than with friends or family. This attempt turns into a strange play with the father devising a character called Toni Erdmann to help his daughter which will potentially result in the daughter taking off her social mask. The film is a welcome surprise from German cinema, which has lacked international acclaim for a few years, and a pleasant viewing experience as an eccentric combination of the absurd and the mundane as well as the tragic and the comic.

The brief synopsis given above might already reveal the gist of the humor in the film, but Ade's comedy does not fall short of insight. The main source for the humor is, of course, the dynamics between the father and the daughter as well as the father's awkward maladjustment to his daughter's professional habitat. This humor, relying on the superb performances of the two leading actors, is essentially supported by Ade's restraint style varying between such opposites as a tranquil continuity created by longer takes and more classical editing of shots with reverse shots, a hand-held camera as a realist denominator and a stripped soundscape as a stylized denominator where distant and quiet off-screen sounds are almost as conspicuous as a traditional music score is by its absence, spaces characterized by cold sterility (the daughter's apartment in Bucharest looks more like a hotel room than a home) opposed to blue-collar spaces with warmer light and color. Overall, a big part of the humor takes off from the fact that Ade's ironic narrative seems to keep its distance to the father's jests and jokes. There is a seeming coldness to Ade's approach. The jokes might make the spectator laugh or chuckle, while remaining to dangle in the void against Ade's stylistic program which gives no response to their echo of quietude.

Such subtlety is perfect for Ade's themes which require both duration in time and width in space. The secrets and untold memories, the many repressed feelings and desires, covered longings and missed opportunities are psychological phenomena which by their nature do not disclose themselves which is why Ade's decision to make a longer and less obvious film is, to put it simply, brilliant. It is as if Ade's narrative picked up by chance a recurring cycle in the human life resulting in unhappiness over and over again. This cycle is treated, above all, through the theme of acting from the daughter's constant need to play someone else, so to speak, in the business world while losing her true self to her father's corresponding need to put on a show which, however, can also work as an opportunity for breaking free from the act for the daughter.

While all this might make some accuse Ade of abandoning the social world at the expense of discussing the petty life crises of the upper middle class, it should be noticed that "Toni Erdmann" never falls short of recognizing social themes of a topical nature. The capitalist business world of the daughter's everyday life appears as distant and bleak where people lose themselves into the rat race of planning a career and the superficial mastery of the constantly changing languages (German, Romanian, English, French). The linguistic plurality correlates with existential emptiness as the words, which have been learned by heart a few weeks before important business meetings, fail to realize something real, causing one to become more and more distant from the timid shadows of one's identity. The social themes are there, but always filtered through Ade's main point of thematic focus.

In terms of both the question of the society and humanity, Ade refuses to give us answers. If the father's fictional creation of Toni Erdmann appeared as a parody of contemporary self-help and life coach culture, Ade's "Toni Erdmann" would remain a creation without self-assured help. There is act and emancipation but no absolute resolution. Instead of such an outcome, Ade looks at life in all its, both comic and tragic, absurdity without shielding a private part or averting an eye.

Falling between films such as "Manhattan" (1979), "Stardust Memories" (1980), "Zelig" (1983), "Broadway Danny Rose" (1984), and "The Purple Rose of Cairo" (1985), "A Midsummer Night's Sex Comedy" (1982) might come off as a mediocre minor work in the oeuvre of director Woody Allen. The film presents the director's usual themes, style, and narrative without developing them into anywhere near the insights of, say, the subsequent "Zelig". Nonetheless, "A Midsummer Night's Sex Comedy" offers a pleasant viewing experience for any Woody Allen fan as well as those who appreciate subtle comedy which puts more emphasis on the matters of the heart and the intellect rather than those of mere physique.

The story, lending little more than the idea of blending relationships from William Shakespeare's most-celebrated comedy "A Midsummer Night's Dream" (1590-7), concerns an inventor (Woody Allen) and his wife (Mary Steenburgen), whose sex life has been suffering recently, who invite two couples to their summer residence: a professor who despises metaphysics and theology (Jose Ferrer) and his wife-to-be (Mia Farrow), who had a budding relationship with the inventor in the past, and a physician who is more open-minded when it comes to philosophical questions (Tony Roberts) and his young expendable sweetheart (Julie Hagerty). This simple set-up offers many directions for a comedy of errors, misunderstandings, and changes of heart which Allen develops in his usually amusing and stimulating fashion.

Although the story and its events may not bear that many resemblances to those of Shakespeare's play, one is enticed to look for them from the moment one hears the music of Felix Mendelssohn, who composed the most famous music for the play in question in the 19th century. The most striking similarity is that both the film and the play portray characters who escape into nature where they are subjected to the powers of the heart or, alternatively, of the subconscious. What is more, both the play and the film juxtapose reason and emotion (or imagination) in the drama. In Shakespeare's play, the city which the lovers escape from represents reason and its domination over emotion, whereas the forest with fairies and magic represents emotion and its freedom from or, possibly, domination over reason. In Allen's film, this juxtaposition is captured by the character of the arrogant, naturalist-minded professor (whose counterpart in Shakespeare's play might be Egeus or Theseus), representing reason, and the other characters and the surrounding natural milieu, representing the powers of emotion. As Allen's narrative playfully takes sides with the latter, the spectator witnesses the inventor's discovery of a machine which allows to peek into the super-sensible world with spirits from the past. Above all, Allen's "A Midsummer Night's Sex Comedy" tackles the ancient theme of lust versus love. Other characters contemplate whether love without lust is possible, others whether lust without love is. This theme can, obviously, be seen as a development on the theme from Shakespeare's play.

One of the film's greatest strengths is its subtlety which is a common denominator in Allen's comedy. Allen's extensive use of the off-screen space, the long take, and the mobile camera constantly imply that there is more than the eye can see. This gives elegance to the cinematic expression while also articulating the central theme of the film.

Overall, like Shakespeare, Allen is able to use multiple sources, ideas, and themes to concoct an amusing and intellectually as well as emotionally stimulating piece of cinema which lasts with its viewer. Maybe not as sharply and distinctly as "Zelig" or "Manhattan", but it can be dug up every once in a while.

"Circus World" (1964), a grandiose Cinerama film directed by a Hollywood veteran Henry Hathaway, is a paradoxical case. The film was a big production, it had great stars, an acclaimed director, a highly appreciated screenwriter (Ben Hecht), and an even more celebrated writer behind the story (director Nicholas Ray), but yet the film has been, for the most part, forgotten. This is arguably justified since many do not feel that the film has the quality one might hope for. To my mind, the film's peculiarity is mainly due to its strange nature where the elegiac longing is combined with an extravagant approach. The story is very simple (an untold past tragedy casts its shadow on the present as a circus director, played by John Wayne, tries to create a successful show in Europe where he is reunited by his former lover, played by Rita Hayworth), but there's more than that to the film.

By this I do not mean that Hathaway had elaborated a subtle subtext to the film in question or anything like that. I am merely talking about the art of history. First of all, "Circus World" is a film directed, written, and starred by old Hollywood legends. It was also made half a decade after the old studio system started to crumble. Many contemporary critics have later felt that films such as "The Searchers" (1956), "Rio Bravo" (1959), and "North by Northwest" (1959) were the last ones of a kind. "Circus World", on the other hand, is as though a posthumous legacy, in a somewhat similar sense as "The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance" (1961). Moreover, the film takes place in the early 20th century and dives into the nostalgic world of the circus which often represents a carefree existence of play and work (closely studied in the film of Federico Fellini, for one). While the historical setting seems to echo the film's own production time in this sense (reminiscing about the good old days before the world wars, semi-analogous to the good old days of Hollywood), the film's melancholic tone is further enhanced by the fates of its leading stars. It is well-known that "Circus World" was not only the last film John Wayne made before his lung cancer operation but also the first film where Hayworth's alleged Alzheimer's disease started acting up, causing numerous problems with production. It is as if everyone involved had been through their best days, inevitably casting an impact on the quality of the film in question as well, but still came together to perform in the wild circus world.

This is why, in my opinion, the film's slow pace, effortlessly simple style, and naive story seem appropriate. It all seems to speak to the spectator on another level, so to speak. The film begins with emptiness and ends with fullness. "Circus World" is a film where an old world is softly breathing with modesty and ambition combined.

An old school Hollywood filmmaker, George Cukor dives right into the most profound questions of humanity in "Les Girls" (1957), an MGM musical from the golden days, with an arguably tongue-in-cheek mentality which is, however, too often and too quickly taken as a loss of ambition and artistic devotion. The film discovers its peculiar place in between of conventional romantic comedy and philosophical tragedy. It consists of three flashback sequences linked together by a trial concerning a defamation suit. While all of the testimonies try to tell about the same time, place, and events in Paris around springtime when three female dancers were working for an American dance producer, the things the camera witnesses in each of the stories are wholly different from one another. The grandiose mise-en-scène, the Cinemascope aspect ratio, and the mobile camera as well as the complex narrative give the story an almost epic quality, thus creating poetry out of pulp prose.

"Les Girls" is a very modern film. It has inter-textuality and its narrative shows signs of self- awareness. Although a concept laden with many meanings, modernism is often associated with something called perspectivism, meaning that all of events are filtered through the subjective perspectives of the characters which, in modern fiction, are juxtaposed with one another. "Les Girls" presents the spectator with three stories about the same time and place -- that is, they are intentionally directed to a same spatio-temporal point in the past -- but actually contain different events. This is due to the fact that all of the stories are, as all intentional experiences for that matter, about something from a perspective. "To see is to see from somewhere," wrote the French philosopher, Maurice Merleau- Ponty. Although the final testimony offered by the man involved at first seems to be the most plausible account and a certain final truth on the subject matter, it is very soon questioned by the third girl whose point of view was never heard. To see is always also to avert, and to uncover is always also to cover.

This theme of the subjectivity of truth, and the integral role of perspectival perception in understanding and knowledge, connects "Les Girls" to the masterpiece of modern cinema, Akira Kurosawa's "Rashomon" (1950) which also consists of different stories about the same event from different perspectives. All the characters have experienced things from their own point of view -- which is both physical and mental, one might add -- and give a different account of them to the judge and the jury. Understanding is further problematicized in one scene where a Spaniard in a train compartment cannot linguistically understand the English dialogue between the main characters; yet he, too, arguably has his own point of view to the events. Cukor even seems to joke about this in the title of his film (deriving from the musical act the girls and the man are performing), combining the French definite article with an English word in a satirical slur (which never takes itself that seriously, however) towards Hollywood films where French people cannot speak their mother tongue -- only English in a French accent.

In the end, as in "Rashomon", truth remains an issue. "Truth can make lovers of enemies, but lie can make enemies of lovers," one of the girls summarizes. Lie, in this sense, might be closer to primordial truth than truth itself; or, "art is a lie that makes us realize the truth," as Pablo Picasso once expressed. Truth remains a very concrete issue in the sense that the characters (quite literally) keep stumbling upon the immortal question "what is truth" carried around the courthouse by a man as if he was carrying a billboard for the latest scoop, an ironic comment on the capitalist modifications of truth, perhaps, working also as a certain chorus of Greek tragedy, making Cukor's "Les Girls", once again, a very modern film. The final beauty of the film lies, I suppose, in its brilliant courage to mix things, to throw outrageous comedy with poignant tragedy, menial stories with intelligent insight in the same pot of pondering humanity.

Jia Zhangke is a prominent figure in contemporary world cinema as one of the leading directors of the so-called sixth generation of Chinese filmmakers. He has become known for his personal films which discuss social transition in modern China through the experience of the individual. Zhangke's latest film "Mountains May Depart" (2015) continues this in an essential, if not exactly surprising, fashion. Like "A Touch of Sin" (2013) and "Still Life" (2006), the film has an episodic structure, but narrative is much more conventional and straight-forward. While there is a lot of change in narrative focalization, "Mountains May Depart" is strongly structured around the protagonist Tao, played by the director's muse Tao Zhao, whose life unfolds before us in three distinct periods: 1999, 2014, and 2025. Thus Zhangke takes a look behind, reflects on the present, and anticipates the future of the Chinese society.

As a social film, "Mountains May Depart" studies the individual in the grip of a changing world. It tackles the difficulty of communication to the extent where parents need interpreters to talk to their children. Globalization, capitalism, and the new freedom of the 21st century do not offer comfort or help, but rather appear as rootlessness, alienation, and solitude in the lives of people.

All of Zhangke's films are, more or less, about change, but in "Mountains May Depart" this theme manifests itself clearly on the level of style and narrative. Zhangke's narrative includes a modernist combination of perspectives, creating a simple complexity which is never disorienting, as different characters are followed throughout the film, enhancing a pluralist sense of multitude and change. While Zhangke's style has been known as consisting of long takes and complex camera movement, "Mountains May Depart" presents a greater variety in style. Zhangke's camera keeps a short distance to the characters, mainly on the level of the medium shot, but there are also memorable establishing extreme long shots which highlight the minuteness of the individual in a vast landscape. The camera does move a lot, though perhaps subtly, but the editing rhythm is not strikingly slow. One of the most conspicuous stylistic elements of the film is the changing aspect ratio. The first episode is shot in the letterbox 4:3 ratio, the second in the contemporary standard 16:9, and the last in the widescreen format 2.35:1. This constant widening of the aspect ratio of the image reflects not only the globalization of the Chinese society and the characters moving outside of their homeland but also a more primordial experience of change that is constant in human existence. It embraces the Heraclitean flux.

Thus Zhangke poeticizes the experience of change in a cinematic fashion; that is to say, he utilizes cinematic means to articulate a profound, existential experience of change. This he does by combining features that change (the aspect ratio, the focalizing perspective) with perpetual elements such as recurring songs ("Go West" by Pet Shop Boys), dramatic motifs (the dog, the keys), and the intimate cinematography. Like the characters, Zhangke's style and narrative seem to be searching for a red line, something that gives meaning and coherence in a world of change.

While "Mountains May Depart" might feel like a minor work in Zhange's oeuvre, it does redeem itself for a patient spectator. Like Zhangke's other films, it too looks at the contemporary Chinese society, the inevitable transition from the perspective of the individual, and modern identity in an ever-changing world. Although there certainly is sadness to all this, Zhangke's film is also quite optimistic and bright in comparison to his previous, darker film "A Touch of Sin". Mountains may depart -- the very borders of the image may broaden -- but something will endure. It is, in fact, as if higher levels of discourse were trying to find unity amidst variety: something that remains in the perpetual flux of change.

Victor Sjöström's early feature film "Ingeborg Holm" is not only considered by many the first film in the golden age of Swedish cinema lasting from 1913 to 1924 but also the real beginning of Swedish cinema in general. A film scholar, Peter Cowie, for one, claims that the film marks the highest achievement of the seventh art before David Wark Griffith's "The Birth of a Nation" (1915) which was to follow two years after. Although "Ingeborg Holm" is not as well known as many of its contemporary films, it surely stands out from the crowd to anyone who has seen more than a few films from the period. "Nothing like this was being made in 1913," writes Peter von Bagh, a Finnish film historian, capturing the historical importance of the film. The film's authenticity, realism, and moral seriousness have even been seen to bear far-reaching connections to Italian neorealism.

As many of the films of the Swedish golden age, "Ingeborg Holm" is also based on a literary source. It is based on a play by Nils Krok. The story concerns a married woman, Ingeborg Holm whose husband dies just after earning credit for establishing his own business. After the death of her husband, Ingeborg falls to the bottom of the society, loses her children to foster parents, and eventually ends up in an asylum.

The film is very raw and poignant in showing the grim consequences of social actions. It never, however, turns its back on the individual. Although it can be seen as a story of one woman's abasement, it grows into an intimate treatise on the sickness of a society that lacks humanity and tenderness. The shot of Ingeborg losing her children as a bureaucratic official calmly signs the documents in the background is definitive to say the least. The social reality as well as the psychological turmoil and suffering ignored by the society are relayed in a stark and riveting fashion. The scene bears a visual parallel to an earlier scene in which Ingeborg's husband dies in the foreground, while their children are innocently playing in the background of the image -- in another space, almost as if in another time, too.

Already the first film of the movement gives us its basic lessons: acting is more realistic than theatrical (to as large an extent as one can imagine given the film was made in 1913), moral themes are presented with the utmost seriousness, and emphasis lies on the simplicity and careful precision of mise-en-scène. Above all, the power of light is vital which was to be consummated in Sjöström's subsequent films such as "Terje Vigen" (1917) and "Körkarlen" (1921). In the beginning of the film, Ingeborg tries to continue her late husband's business, but fails, and we see the darkness in the grocery store almost swallowing her whole from the scarce source of light in the space.

Overall, and quite surprisingly, "Ingeborg Holm" lacks a sentimental or overly melodramatic tone. Sjöström's tone is subtle and restraint which once again reminds one of Italian neorealism. Although the film has no drama of nature which one so closely associates with the golden age of Swedish cinema, it uses a lot of outdoor on-location shooting, and its grimness, sobriety, and artistic excellence bring the style of the movement to mind very vividly. All in all, the film stands as a perfect instance for Peter Cowie's seemingly exaggerated claim that "there is no more stirring feat in the entire history of silent film than the Swedish achievements between 1913 and 1921." Sjöström's "Ingeborg Holm" is precisely this to any film enthusiast: something utterly stirring.

Since the rediscovery of "Fear and Desire" (1953), "Killer's Kiss" (1955) no longer bears the curiosity status as Stanley Kubrick's earliest film, and it hardly fits into the Kubrick canon anyways, so to speak. It is, however, an interesting film both from the perspective of its genre and its creator, thus remaining as an enduring meeting place. Although "Killer's Kiss" might be your standard B-movie with a low duration which was probably produced just to accompany a bigger production, it still has its striking moments of poetic intuition. Its finale among abandoned mannequins could very well be a classic.

The story as well as its representation have the basic traits of film- noir, the darker crime genre which crystallized in post-war American cinema. The majority of the film consists of a long, mainly uninterrupted flashback sequence as a boxer recalls the past days that have led him where he is now. He became involved with a beautiful woman living next door who has a violent, jealous gangster boyfriend. The boxer and the woman find their reflections in one another. They are two hurt, lost, and lonely souls wandering the streets of New York. Boxing rings, rooftops, apartments, and dark alleys serve as the primal settings of the genre, while a desperate loner, a femme fatale, and a gangster as its archetypes. Strong contrasts in lighting characterize Kubrick's expressive mise-en-scène making several shots prime examples of the film-noir aesthetics.

Although "Killer's Kiss" surely has the trademarks of film-noir, it does feel a little bit off, yet not in the masterful sense of "Kiss Me Deadly" (1955). This is most likely due to the film's low budget which, however, also gives the film its gritty touch. One simply gets similar enjoyment from watching the characters walking the streets of New York as in Cassavetes' "Shadows" (1958). Moreover, some of Kubrick's visual decisions with regards to composition and camera angles feel conspicuous. In other words, despite potential weak points in the film's style, it also had the edge and piquancy which give the whole of the film its poetic dimensions.

Overall, one might characterize "Killer's Kiss" as poetic pulp. Its stylistic touches rise above its mediocre content. While the film might strike like a sore thumb in a director's oeuvre who later became famous with his sublime and breath-taking images of grandiose awe, it also has the benefit of strangeness which is why it will continue fascinating film buffs.

Robert Altman is one of the rare American directors who have succeeded in keeping loyal to their own style and vision while also being able to carry on for quite a long time. Altman began directing in television in the 1950's, had his cinematic breakthroughs in the 1970's, and kept working hard until his death in 2006. He always kept a healthy distance to Hollywood, but it seems that he -- like so many others -- had a twofold relationship with the dream factory. The influence of classical Hollywood, which the director adored, is apparent in Altman's cinema, but at the same time he expresses great frustration and even loathe towards Hollywood. Both of these attitudes emerge powerfully in his witty, insightful, and lightweight satire of Hollywood, "The Player" (1992) which is filled with references to film history.

The story focuses on a Hollywood studio executive, Griffin Mill (played by Tim Robbins) who starts to investigate an abandoned screenwriter sending death threats his way. After murdering the writer more or less unintentionally, Mill falls in love with the writer's girlfriend, but his new life is once again threatened by the police investigating the murder case. In the meantime, Mill's studio is producing a new film whose director wants something else than standard Hollywood entertainment, but the studio has different plans. The line between reality and unreality, fiction and non-fiction begins to blur as Mill's life starts bearing a resemblance to all those film-noir movies whose posters hang on the studio's walls.

This is the core of the story to which Altman anchors all the multiple story elements that he enjoys developing. Inter-textual references, satirical jokes, and celebrity appearances might at times feel too much, though they all serve a purpose. The abundance of the film is fragmentary, but this episodic nature of the film does not need to be seen as a flaw, since Altman skillfully keeps it all together. To my mind, the beginning of the film nicely introduces Altman's stylistic program and summarizes this ability of his to keep many threads together. The film begins with a long tracking shot, recording the life inside a Hollywood studio from casual dialogue about movies to awkward pitching producers have to listen to, which seems like a direct reference to Orson Welles' "Touch of Evil" (1958) and its famous opening. Like this opening shot, the narrative of "The Player" is overall very self-aware; that is, the spectator is invited into taking the representation to account. One is often paying attention to the way things are structured rather than the things themselves. This might be at times alienating -- and intentionally so -- but Altman also strongly focalizes his narrative to the subjective point of view of his protagonist, enhancing the absurdity of the milieu and its surrounding events.

All of these narrative elements serve Altman's purposes of criticizing Hollywood. His criticism, though stark and poignant, is hardly hostile, however. Overall, "The Player" is a veritably lightweight film in the sense that it doesn't have the emotional heaviness of "3 Women" (1977) nor the structural complexity of "Nashville" (1975). The film does have its depth, but it is less striking -- for better and worse. All in all, "The Player" is a very enjoyable film, but it might be a slight letdown for people familiar with the director's earlier work. Nonetheless, a viewer who loves Altman's films will most likely cherish this one as well, perhaps in a fashion similar to Altman's relationship with Hollywood.

George Cukor's "Gaslight" (1944), based on a play by Patrick Hamilton, was the MGM studio's attempt to overwrite history and replace the British film adaption of the same name made four years earlier. They succeeded. Few have seen Dickinson's "Gaslight" (1940), and most remember Cukor's. And it is indeed quite a treat. It's simply a well- made piece of cinema. British suspense has often been well translated into Hollywood and Alfred Hitchcock is probably the best example of this popular phenomenon. Cukor's film's British nature is veritably strong since it takes place in Victorian England, it has British humor and its share of Hitchcockian elements.

The basic set-up of the story is that a woman, Paula Alquist (Ingrid Bergman) has lost her closest and dearest relative, a famous opera singer, at a very young age and now, as an adult, returns to the very place of crime with her husband, Gregory Anton (Charles Boyer). The familiar environment brings back memories and mysteries involved with the death of Paula's aunt. The strangely secretive marriage of Paula and Gregory as well as their few public appearances draw the interest of Brian Cameron (Joseph Cotten), a former fan of Paula's aunt, who thinks that Paula might be in danger.

Overall, the story is very simple. The classical narrative works extremely well with a tight structure supported by a conventional style. To some, the film might seem utterly predictable, but in a way that's the whole point, and this is yet another parallel to Hitchcock. For the essence of Hitchcockian suspense lies in build-up rather than surprise. The viewer knows the mystery of "Gaslight" but is nonetheless excited to see the development of its revelation to the characters.

As many know, the English expression "gas-lighting" refers to mental abuse where information is distorted in such a way that the person who receives it is made to think that she has lost her mind. This supplies the story with its basic motif, the gaslight, which strongly belongs to its historical milieu and is, despite its seeming narrative significance, left ambiguous in deeper meaning. Given this set-up, it is easy to see how "Gaslight" is really a film about power and imprisonment. On a historical-social level, it can be seen as an ironic comment on marriage as a prison for women who have been sentenced to a lower social status in comparison to their husbands. (Interestingly, Robert Siodmak's "The Suspense" (1944) reveals a situation where murder is the only escape for the husband from his Victorian-age marriage). On a general level of psychology, the film might also be seen as a story about being imprisoned by one's past, whereas, on a more private level, it can be seen as a story about the tormenting experience of manipulation. There is one scene in particular that deserves attention. Gregory has reluctantly taken Paula to a social get-together where he is able to make Paula believe in her kleptomania as well as in the urgent need of keeping her locked up, away from the eyes of the public. The private anxiety of Paula as she is surrounded by a large number of people is pure Hitchcock, whose films often feature brilliant sequences where characters feel most alert in crowded spaces.

Although the film is hardly an imitation, its subtle sense of film-noir, the powerful presence of Ingrid Bergman, and its story about a frail woman being terrorized by a deranged man draw immediate associations with Hitchcock. For one, Hitchcock made his share of such stories in the 1940's, most notably "Rebecca" (1940), "Suspicion" (1941), and "Shadow of a Doubt" (1943). The films also bear a similar "predictability". If Stanley Donen's "Charade" (1963) is the best pastiche of the later Hitchcock style, "Gaslight" is a wonderful reflection of Hitchcock's style in the 1940's. Overall, and despite these parallels, Cukor's narrative in its classical nature is quite different from Hitchcock's perpetual desire to regenerate cinematic narrative and stands strongly on its own. The film is very worth seeing simply for the divine pleasure of watching the story unfold in a tight, precisely considered structure, making one yearn for Hollywood in the 1940's.

Anyone who sees "Citizen Kane" (1941) for the first time today does so because he or she has heard that it is the greatest film ever made. One simply doesn't come across the film by accident on TV, watching it "for what it is," so to speak. The common approach of seeing it to believe it can be at best exhilarating and at worst hostile. Unfortunately, the latter is usually, although quite understandably, the case. For how can one do anything but look down at a film that elitist snobs have praised for years and years? One simply must prove oneself right by falsifying the critics' claims, leaving the theater or the living room with a shrug and a condescending comment: "it was okay." This will not do. It is a great tragedy if "Citizen Kane" suffers from these kinds of incidents since it ought to be treated with the same kind of respect as Shakespeare's "Hamlet" or Beethoven's "9th Symphony". In order to make this happen, or perhaps enhance someone's viewing experience, I would like to try and explain not why "Citizen Kane" necessarily is the best film, but rather why people have considered it to be. There are over a thousand reviews of the film on this site, and mine will probably drown in the vast sea with them, but hey what can I lose, and who doesn't love talking about Welles and "Citizen Kane"?

One might begin with the basic fact that "Citizen Kane" wasn't immediately praised and considered the best film that has blessed the silver screen. It was a financial risk for the RKO studios to give free hands to the novice prodigy Orson Welles, who had gained quite a reputation with the radio show of H. G. Wells' "War of the Worlds", and not surprisingly it didn't pay off. Despite the praises of a few critics, "Citizen Kane" was soon forgotten, and the film wasn't, for example, screened at American cinemas during the late 1940's and early 50's. In France, however, the film was just discovered after the war, and the leading critic of the country, André Bazin hailed it as a masterpiece of the postwar stylistic tendency he characterized as spatial realism. Bazin's disciples, who we all know now as the nouvelle vague directors, followed and adored Welles' masterpiece. François Truffaut proclaimed that "everything that matters in cinema after 1940 has been influenced by 'Citizen Kane'." Thus the film's reputation grew and its new found reputation slowly found the other side of the Atlantic as well. But why did this happen? Why wasn't "Citizen Kane" forgotten, and why, for one, did it arouse the interest of Bazin?

First, it ought to be highlighted that the story of "Citizen Kane" is excellent. Loosely based on the life and times of media mogul William Hearst, "Citizen Kane" tells the story about a lonely giant who conquered the American media. It's a story about a man who dedicated his life to possession, but tragically became to be possessed by it himself. As one might have noticed, I am using the past tense, and such is the nature of Welles' narrative in "Citizen Kane". The film begins with the protagonist's death, and then portrays the attempts of a journalist trying to figure out the meaning of his last words -- "Rosebud" -- by interviewing people who knew the man. "It will probably turn out to be a very simple thing," he supposes. This kind of structure was not considered the done thing back in the day. Although the basic structure of finding out a person's past goes back to Sophocles' "Oedipus Rex" as well as numerous detective stories, the uniqueness of "Citizen Kane" lies in the use of different perspectives, creating a non-linear narrative that has echoes from ancient drama and epistolary novels.

Yet it wasn't really the intricate story that most fascinated Bazin. What Bazin emphasized was the film's style. Although all scholars have given up on the phoenix myth of "Citizen Kane" and its innovative use of various cinematic means, it is simply a fact that the film made the style public, thus standardizing it for Hollywood. The aesthetic features of the so-called spatial realism, which Bazin adored, supported by the technological innovation of the BNC camera, include deep-focus cinematography, sequence shots, and deep-space composition. These had been used before, but hardly with similar, dare I say, philosophic unity. This stylistic tendency is enhanced by Welles' relentless use of heavy low-angle shots and dynamic montage sequences. There are innovative cuts that spark imagination and soundtrack solutions that open the story and its characters to new dimensions. "Citizen Kane" is often celebrated as a bravura of the art of mise-en-scène since it puts a lot of emphasis on pre-filmic elements such as setting and lighting, but the real gist of the film's brilliance lies in the unity of these together with cinematographic and post-filmic elements.

More remains to be said, but space is running out. The end of the matter is, I guess, that none of the individual elements of "Citizen Kane" are, precisely, individual. They have not been distinguished from one another, but rather resonate luminously together in a unique fashion. Technological innovation goes hand in hand with aesthetic inspiration and both support the whole of story, theme, and style. Such unity may not have been present in Hollywood before 1941. From the groundbreaking use of the BNC camera to themes of power, loneliness, and defeat, which are reflected on the level of style, using setting and editing, for one, to reflect the emotional distances between the characters or their existential experience of emptiness, "Citizen Kane" remains a gem to any lover of cinema. It's up there with immortal works of art from poetry, music, and painting. It is, like all great art, a tightly and beautifully sealed original whole which is why (instead of one big nameable innovation) the film has been considered to be of such magnificent proportions.

Andrew Haigh's latest film "45 Years" (2015) is one of the big film events of this year and not least because of the memorable performances of its two leading actors, Charlotte Rampling and Tom Courtenay. It's a very simple film, granted, but exceptionally good as such. Both performers do an excellent job. Haigh's narrative is character-driven and never self-aware. All seems to be subjected to what is going on inside these characters. The film has been shot in the beautiful English countryside whose unreliable and unpredictable weather plays an integral role in the drama of untold memories, hidden emotions, and their appearance. It is a moving film about time and the complex relations between the past and the present.

The story centers around a retired, childless couple, Kate (Rampling) and Geoff (Courtenay) who have been married for 45 years. One day Geoff receives a letter telling him that the body of his ex-lover before his marriage, Katya, has been found fully preserved in the Swiss glaciers. This event as well as the approaching arrival of their 45th anniversary coerces the couple into re-evaluating their relationship, the choices they have made in life, and their deepest desires.

This story, based on a short story by David Constantine, is itself great in its simplicity, but Haigh also deals with it in an exquisite fashion. He has chosen not just the perfect performers for the roles but also the perfect milieu of the English countryside which works as a barometer for the characters' emotions. Haigh utilizes a moving camera and lingering, though not strikingly long, shots. He uses a wide range of different shots ranging from long full shots of the landscapes to medium close-ups of Kate's seemingly calm face which encapsulates her powerful eyes where a lot of emotion is going on that she is unable to express in words or gestures. Repeatedly, Haigh places Rampling wandering in the milieu, defining the character's relationship with the space that surrounds her. These scenes may strike as excessive to some, but one ought to relate them to the 45 years, to the time that is embodied in these five days before the anniversary celebration.

The title of the film refers to a time gone by, but the film takes place strictly (that is, flashbacks are excluded) in the present. The past finds form in the memory of Katya, the ghost in the couple's life who Kate never really knew. Katya, as the embodiment of the past, is a threat to the presence. It is as if she mocked the living in her death that has saved her from aging unlike Kate and Geoff. Geoff also takes a sudden interest in climate change, a powerful symbol not only for the slow eruption of drama for the couple but also the emergence of Katya, the past, beneath the surface. In a key scene, where Kate goes to their attic to study Geoff's old travel photos from the trip to Switzerland where Katya died, the slide projector -- offering the truths from the past -- is the only source of light and sound in an otherwise dark and silent present. In the long take, which covers the whole scene, we can sense the danger of the past swallowing the present, the danger of Kate falling into the glacier that once engulfed Katya.

Overall, "45 Years" is an extremely simple film. It bears no social nor metaphysical connotations. Formal elements serve the development of drama and character psychology. One can't really, however, talk about the subordination of style for the service of story because the external story is veritably marginal. It is, above all, an inner drama, taking place inside the characters. In all its simplicity, "45 Years" is a subtle, yet emotionally bursting film about the fragility, incompleteness, and vulnerability of life and love which have already lasted through a lot and grown in the process.

Billy Wilder's biopic "The Spirit of St. Louis" (1957) about the historic transatlantic flight by Charles Lindbergh from New York to Paris in 1927 is not among the director's most well-known or highly evaluated films. Back in the day, it was a box office failure and many critics were not pleased. In the course of time, however, the film's reputation has experienced a slight increase, though one can hardly talk of a sleeper, and especially the performance of James Stewart has come to be seen in a different light. Even as a weaker film of its director, "The Spirit of St. Louis" still holds up well, and stands strong as a portrayal of a man, an era, and the power of the spirit.

The film follows the months leading to Charles Lindbergh's flight over the Atlantic as he recalls them in his bed unable to sleep before the big day. This frame of narrative is important in establishing the use of the flashback sequence as a narrative device for the second half of the film which focuses on the long and lonely flight itself. During the second half, the spectator follows the protagonist's physical and emotional struggle, his thoughts and memories through the ordeal both public and private. Apart from the flashbacks, the only pieces of dialogue are exchanged between Lindbergh and a fly in the plane.

As a consequence, one might call the film boring when having to watch a man in a small plane for an hour or so. To this I would reply that it might be boring if it was any man, but not if it is James Stewart who plays Lindbergh in the film. It is indeed Stewart's performance -- although playing a character much younger than he was at the time -- which elevates the film. There is something absurdly realistic about his performance, his enduring boyishness. Stewart considered this as one of his favorite roles and he, as a former pilot himself, identified strongly with the character of Charles Lindbergh. It seems to me that this character may trigger another complaint since he is presented to us as an all American man without dark secrets or perversions, thus possibly making for poor drama. I would, once again, disagree and point out that in simply giving the character to us, Wilder does make him interesting. The viewer follows the development of the protagonist's determination, his obsession if you will, to try the transatlantic flight. He is lonely in this passion of his which, on the one hand, isolates him but, on the other, grants him immortality.

A major challenge for the film -- any historical film, I suppose -- is to recreate the historical circumstances in which a sense of wonder and importance could be attached to this kind of an event which now might seem trivial to some. Wilder manages to establish the magic of flight, the feeling of awe before a historical event taking place in front of our eyes. An integral role in this task is played by the narrative. It is of paramount importance that the film doesn't show Lindbergh as an older man, retelling his legendary experience; instead a sense of time is created by a flashback structure, but the present doesn't exceed the main event itself, and thus the viewer is held in suspense in the diegetic world despite knowing the facts of history in the other world. Typically for the director, the film relies heavily on the screenplay, and it is very well structured indeed. The protagonist's experience is associated with ordinary characters, making the event even more universal in its human meaning. It is, after all and above all, a miraculous tale of magic and wonder, a piece of cinema celebrating the power of the human spirit.

Gaspar Noé is an intriguing figure in contemporary cinema. He is best known as a provocateur -- a latest admission to this reputation is his newest "3D sex film" "Love (2015) -- but this has not undermined his position as a prominent artist. Provocation partially arises from Noé's graphic representations of sex and violence but it is also due to his nihilist world view, his bleak takes on life and death, in which "time ruins everything," to quote the motto of Irréversible (2002), Noé's breakthrough film. Noé's debut film, "Seul contre tous" (1998) -- "I Stand Alone" or, literally, "alone against all" -- carries these more or less cynical notions as a story about an unemployed butcher who, fed up with his daily existence of boring family life, goes on a rampage against the world.

This set-up might give rise to associations with films such as "Taxi Driver" (1976) and "Falling Down" (1993), but Noé's film seems to bear deeper echoes from the works of Dostoevsky, Sartre, and Camus. The film does have a social dimension, as the protagonist has sunk into the bottom of the capitalist class society of France, but arguably this story could have been told in any other society. Thus it is more an existentialist story about man's desire to discover a raison d'être, to rise above the filth of his being, or, as the man himself puts it, to find "a reason to stay alive a little longer." Like Dostoevsky's Raskolnikov or Camus' Mersault, he begins to act out of step with the world. "To each his own morality," he proclaims. He is a stranger. Like Sartre's Raquentin, existence and reality repulse him. He is utterly alone -- whether surrounded by people or not does not matter. He stands alone against the world.

If "Irréversible" captures the spectator with its hypnotic reversed narrative, "Seul contre tous" is more straight-forward. Yet, its fast pace, dynamic rhythm, and ferocious tempo, which are set up early on, take a strong grip of the spectator. They characterize Noé's narrative which is structured on the relentless use of jump cuts and rapid shifts of perspective. This style creates a unique spatio-temporal tension in which the borders between real and unreal, (right and wrong), potential and actual are crossed and obfuscated.

Although the film may be marred by potential exploitative nature, its impact is still both morally and existentially groundbreaking. "Seul contre tous" is a very direct film in the truest sense of the word. It's a wild Amok run across our world. Its profound nihilism does not lie in the mere depiction of the protagonist and his acts, but in the poignant sense that nothing really matters; that is to say, it does not matter whether these events actually happened or not. The course of humanity would not have been altered, and that scares the hell out of us. And that's what Noé wants to do. And that's why, I believe, he rises from misanthropy to humanism; that is, the mere existence of a film like this shows that, rather paradoxically perhaps, there is hope in the world.

George Cukor's "It Should Happen to You" (1954) bears a resemblance to a film he made four years earlier, "Born Yesterday" (1950) which also stars Judy Holiday and is based on written material by Garson Kanin. Both films are on fire in the sense that they are comic splendor, leaving no one cold after the fun's over. The difference is that "It Should Happen to You" is even wilder, funnier, and crazier. After all, the story is out of its mind: a young woman wants to be famous and therefore rents an expensive billboard in New York City. This eccentric set-up is wrapped in the conventional form of romantic comedy that Cukor knows best.

It's not difficult to guess based on this that "It Should Happen to You" is a media satire. While this is true, I should emphasize how unpretentiously and lightheartedly the film does this. Unlike one might deduce, the film isn't a story about an individual seeking for immortality; rather, it's a story about an individual seeking for fame -- maybe just for a while, but after that while, for another as well. To Francois Truffaut, a profound appreciator of the film, "It Should Happen to You" was a film about the absurdity of the mechanism of celebrity, showing how much easier it is to acquire the position than justifying it; revealing also the insignificance of fame altogether. Although this might be the moral of the film, it's not that black-and-white (let alone the fact that the film doesn't seem to care much about this) as the protagonist is still keen on taking a peek at a billboard for rent.

As a media satire, "It Should Happen to You" is about image. It's about simulation, as followers of Baudrillard would put it: signs that signify nothing, lacking substance and reference to something real. It's about names that mean nothing. This is what fears the woman who wants to be something instead of nothing. She is "Miss Nobody of 1953," as Truffaut put it.

Somehow, however, this seems to be irrelevant. What is most important is how well the film holds up. Truffaut admired the film's ability to keep its rhythm and keep the audience smiling despite an utterly absurd topic. In this sense, Truffaut thought of comedy as a veritably difficult genre to tackle. After all, it's not that hard to make up a good war story which will satisfy the standard critic who admires "Citizen Kane" (1941) but despises "The Lady from Shanghai" (1947). It's harder to make something truly cinematic (not to imply, of course, that "Citizen Kane" would not represent this). To Truffaut, "It Should Happen to You" is a masterpiece. Even if one had trouble accepting this judgment, it would be easy for one to accept that Cukor is a master of his art (in the word's widest sense, meaning also work and craftsmanship). "It Should Happen to You" is simply a very well made film.

The 1970's, and especially the so-called Watergate scandal which led to the resignation of President Richard Nixon, marked a turning point in the not-so-distant American history. This turning point also cast its shadow on American popular cinema, and several political thrillers, drawing inspiration from Costa-Gavra's highly successful and influential "Z" (1969), depicting the loss of credibility and trust for the state were made. Alan J. Pakula's "All the President's Men" (1976) is the central film and how suiting it is since "All the President's Men" retells the story which revealed the truth of the scandal that inspired this change; that is to say, the story of two reporters of the Washington Post, Bernstein and Woodward.

Although the film might at first glance seem to be nothing but a visualization of a story that should have been expressed in writing, one slowly begins to realize that this appearance is really the strength of the film. In other words, Pakula's rigid and tight tension is due to his relentless dramaturgic desire to show only what matters story-wise -- and not just the story of the film, but the historical story that prevailed in the reality of 1976 America -- and nothing more. This stripping of everything superfluous creates a unique atmosphere whose grip is quite difficult to escape once one has started the film.

If "All the President's Men" as a historical (yes, historical) film tries to tell about a certain time in history, it also reveals something of its own time which is, of course, veritably close to the time its diegetic world takes place in. The spectator is given the chance to observe the work of investigating journalism before the revolution of the Internet when the three most important instruments of a reporter were telephones, typewriters, and cigarettes. One call after another, tapping words on a typewriter all night, and burning cigarettes like crazy characterize their everyday lives. Information must be discovered from libraries, archives, and unorthodox sources instead of typing a search term for Google. These words aren't meant for self-deliberate nostalgia, but rather to capture what takes place in front of our eyes when we sit around "All the President's Men"; to feel its feel, to sense its sense, so to speak.

More importantly than revealing the reality of 70's journalism, the film, of course, reveals the reality of 70's politics. Not only does the film do this, however, but also encapsulate a world whose sounds, smells, and sights we can now inhale after many a decade. "All the President's Men" tells about a world of paranoia and fear, tormented by the uneasy threat of the Cold War. It's a world where the media creates lies and conceals, but where it can also be used to reveal that deception. It's a world where one must creep into the darkness of a night-time parking lot to hear the truths beneath the surface, the truths from the shadows which are intimidating and exhilarating, stirring yet liberating.

So, at its heart, "All the President's Men" is mainly interesting as a period picture, yet not only in the sense of showing what life was like in back then but also capturing its zeitgeist. Nonetheless, each time I see the film I am certain of the fact that its strength -- the total focus on the story -- is also its weakness since it can never rise above it and become something glorious, life-altering, and shattering. But the more important thing is that it doesn't want to. It is fine with what it is and as it is, a revelation or (if one is feeling less generous) a capture of a revelation. What is certain is that it is important and as such it shall remain.

Akira Kurosawa's "Dersu Uzala" (1975) is an oddity in the director's oeuvre, but nonetheless, or precisely because of it, beloved by many. It has a historical setting, though it has no samurais and very little action. It focuses on the lyric moments of humanity which have always been integral to the beauty of Kurosawa's cinema. The film is based on Vladimir Arsenev's novel about his expeditions to Ussuria in the early 20th century during which he became acquainted with an aging hunter living in the woods, gathering all he needs from the environment. The simple charm of the story probably fascinated Kurosawa and offered a perfect basis for that time in his career.

Before making "Derzu Uzala", Kurosawa had suffered both a professional and a personal tragedy as his first film in color "Dodes'ka-den" (1970) became a huge financial flop, and subsequently Kurosawa tried to commit suicide. Thus, in the early 1970's Kurosawa had truly lost his faith in cinema, the modern world, and life itself (for a moment at least). For this level of desolation, Arsenev's story offered a perfect means of meditation since its setting was far from capitalism and modern life as well as contemporary cinema. After all, "Derzu Uzala" is, at its heart, a story about total unselfishness, utter humility, and the beauty of life in touch with nature.

What is more, Kurosawa uses a veritably lingering narrative which is combined with ascetic aesthetics. Overall, the style is very stripped. The gorgeous shots of the Russian landscape may be sublime, but it is really the landscape that is sublime. The form that shows it is naturalistic. "Dersu Uzala" is far from the surrealistic poetry combined with Gorky's realism that characterized Kurosawa's previous film, "Dodes'ka-den". It is much simpler. It gave Kurosawa a moment to contemplate the values and ideals of life that were dearest to him.

In all its simplicity, "Dersu Uzala" tells us about the friendship between two different men: a Russian soldier, Arsenev, and a self-reliant hunter, Dersu. It studies the conflict of nature and civilization which forces a life of nature to diminish. The heart-rending tale is heavy with nostalgic yearning for the past and a melancholic sense of emptiness for the future.

All this might sound sentimental, but somehow Kurosawa manages to create a character out of Dersu that is not idealized in a sentimental fashion. Yet, it is very difficult to point out the elements in the film which cause this effect; that is, the believable disposition of Dersu's character. On paper, it sounds naive and sentimental, but on screen -- in Kurosawa's images -- it gathers a new dimension. Arguably "Dersu Uzala" is the simplest story Kurosawa ever told, but maybe even more importantly it is also the story which he told in the simplest fashion.