Silence trailed by noise; tranquillity followed by movement. This is the rhythm of all living things, with it eventually finding a balance. Editing is of unparalleled importance, bridging together a narrative of loose causality through remote exposition and surreal imagery; the atmosphere is that of a floating dream. One moment we are among the rich at a lavish party, the next our protagonist is stripped of it all, walking haplessly along a dirt road, spouting vulgarities. Passionate, expressionistic passages constructed through layered images capture a fevered detachment from reality and present grand illustrations of desire. Bódy’s camera is often distant, stagnant, but always finding unique angles from which to come at the action, provoking a fantastic curiosity. It is this curiosity which has landed Psyché in trouble so consistently, as she is always inquisitive and willing to involve herself, even in the face of opposition. The sex scenes, of which there are many, often feel whimsical and heavenly, yet dirty at the same time. Captured in these excursions is an exploration into the nature of pleasure and sickness, health and disease. Rodents surround the act of intercourse, symbolising the transmission of illness. Later it becomes kittens, perhaps softening, even resolving this notion. By this point, however, the characters have already gone through so much torture at the hands of human frailty and the brutality of medicine, which is depicted as a gruesome but necessary part of life. The film’s overall aesthetic is one of great versatility, and relies heavily on a distinctive lighting style which casts much of the frame into darkness, highlighting just the subjects of interest. This creates a theatrical sensation, adding to the larger-than-life mythology which sits permanently atop the film. The story is so infused with energy and franticness; it propels itself with such a massive scope, yet remains driven at heart by the personal issues of Psyché, and her many tribulations with her own femininity.

Packed full of philosophical depth and substance, together the characters and the narrative explore a breadth of thematic territory, which is compulsively stimulating and equally confounding. There is a strong link to poetry to be found in the dialogue, structure and imagery. On the surface this is often harsh, even critical. However, on deeper inspection it blends into pure fantasy, becoming an elevation of imagination through lyrical creativity, leaving behind the earth and all its mortal binds. There is an articulate concern with the segregated aspects of love and sexuality, especially for women, and ponderings on how both purity and impurity find their place in art. Psyché is distinctive in that she is able to traverse the rigid social ladder with ease, experiencing all degrees of the spectrum over many decades. Harnessing this is what allows the film to explore so many aspects of civilisation, across countless locations, while always maintaining for the viewer an intimate voyage. As characters discuss the symbolism of man, woman and nature, it becomes apparent that Bódy has been exploring this already, without the need to pontificate openly on the matter. As we near the end of the narrative, Nárcisz transforms into a far more complex character, achieving an almost divine level of enlightenment. His every word is laced with questioning significance. He has finally attained a position of some power, in many ways inversely mirroring Psyche’s journey. He seeks to immortalise himself through art, believing that to be the antidote to his weakness. As all of this transpires there is, lurking in the background, an electronic system of mysterious design. Its purpose is unclear, even frightening; it seems unrelated to the main storyline, but thought provoking nevertheless. Nárcisz és Psyché is a mesmerizing work, full of striking colourations, glimpses into complex psychology, deep commentary on the essence of living, and a dramatic scale filtered down through one wilful young woman who experiences it all. It is such a pity there is not a better transfer available.

The unique framing is immediately apparent, as the majority of shots are composed extremely off balance with regards to what is traditionally expected. Actors find themselves relegated to the edge of frame, often with their bodies cut off completely from the neck down. The rest of the screen can then be filled with an expanse of ceiling, or used to showcase the futuristic architecture, which generates a lot of vital, stark, existential imagery. High contrast photography builds on this, even through costume, by blinding us with white and then drowning us with black. Geometric shapes appear endlessly, lines, circles, squares and curves, many of which form compositions within themselves, separating out characters and crafting a surrealistic take on physical space, where locations are free to transpose and evaporate with a single cut. Eerie music builds atmosphere when necessary, but sterile silence achieves this even more effectively. The past is just a memory that has become a mosaic, defying causality to blend and morph freely. Cold, unnatural acting is able to shed some light on this edifice, as self-aware dialogue comments on the manipulative nature of perception and of cinema itself. Cameras record inside the film and projectors project the falsified footage. Eventually the splintered narrative begins to create a perceptible web, and is from then on able to reference past, unrelated events, objects, words and concepts all by itself. Fetishism plays a subtle but recurring role, with elements of bondage and sadomasochism being brought about through the daughter. This is the inner workings of the mind, with a frightening lack of linearity, yet a captivating ability to fuse new ideas from nothing. After all, this is coming to us through the father, the husband, an electrical engineer remembering his youth. He is the source of the sex and the politics, the muddled structure and the symbolic extravagance. When a character demands to know what time it is, they do not receive a satisfactory answer. The same can be said of all the answers in Heroic Purgatory, for the real thrill is to be found in only knowing the questions.

Charlotte Gainsbourg’s performance as the unnamed woman is harrowing and steeped in gravitas. There is a great deal to be learned from simply watching her movements, which exploit her entire body as a means of unspoken expression, adding a level of depth to her character that could not have been conveyed in any other manner. Willem Dafoe’s character, also unnamed, is up against her at every turn, deluded by his role in their relationship and unable to come to terms with this. The ferocious battle between these two personalities becomes the dynamic and complex heart of the twisted narrative. As is common with von Trier’s work, Antichrist’s aesthetic is an eclectic mixture of the ethereal, the intimate, and the disorientating. Gorgeous, glowing slow motion sequences of majestic beauty and form are juxtaposed with rough, jarring handheld work that thrives on abrupt zooms and cuts to unexpected angles. The balance between these two disparate styles is delicate but handled well, delivering enormous visual impact when needed and presenting an effective dichotomy with regards to the articulation of depression as an experienced state of mind. While there are a number of moments that would earn Antichrist a place within the horror genre, it is beside the point to digest it as such. The violence, the darkness, the torture, it all comes from within, from a struggle that, as the film so adeptly shows, echoes back to nature itself.

I was lucky enough to view The White Ribbon in its original digital format, which provided the cleanest, sharpest cinematic experience of my life. Every insignificant facial hair, every tear drop, every wrinkle was right there, unmistakably real and visible on each worn and worried face. Wide shots filled with such fine detail and the exquisite use of vertical framing pushing characters and objects to both the top and bottom of frame simultaneously, forcing our eyes to roam about the exhaustive and rich world, creating a stark, meaningful transparency. Comparisons to the work of Béla Tarr seem fitting, not just for the use of black and white, but also the long tracking shots, which move like a silent ghost through the houses and lives of the characters. At times lighting would become so sparse that we would be left with nothing more than a fiery flicker, which would then, upon the arrival of winter, create an extreme contrast with the burning whiteness of the fresh snow. This scrupulously consistent aesthetic is more than just beautiful; it is an accurate, commendable representation of the internal functioning of the film. Still, I feel what will stay with me the longest is the performances of the children. Each one felt professional, authentic and mature, no doubt another testament to the excellent direction of Michael Haneke, who has created a film with absolute intent and potent execution.

Jane Campion has found divine moments inside narrow spaces, often through the use of shallow focus or expressionistic yet naturalistic lighting. This wavering cinematography separates each layer of each frame to such a degree that they can be savoured almost as individual flavours. It is only later that they combine to form a complete image, then able to articulate a full, mature resonance. In these narrow spaces, which exist only for fleeting moments, intimacy is found. This is a heartbreaking intimacy, one that you can never hold onto and only stumble upon by sheer luck, or perhaps by sheer misfortune. Yet I have a feeling  that Campion looks at this tragic romance with an optimistic eye, able to appreciate that happiness, even if only for such a short spell, is worthy of a lifetime of emotion. Ben Whishaw’s performance is, just as I had expected, terrific. He carries himself with enough dignity to command respect and presence as a figure, and enough humour and tenderness to garner my affection for him as a man lost in love. However, Abbie Cornish, who plays Fanny, the central figure of the film, may have outdone him. Her performance is complex, animated and, much like her ever-changing wardrobe, fits the film adroitly. By and large Bright Star is quiet, elusive and collectively personal. It never goes out of its way or loses its modesty, and for that I am thankful. Set and costume design does not get any better, and rarely do films come across so effortless, so inspired and touching, so simultaneously genuine and elegant.

Often the screen is filled with as much black as possible, leaving us with only hands, faces, and distant circles of light floating in empty space. This approach strikes many of the night scenes as nightmarish, where hope finds itself lost in the heavy film grain and fuzzy glowing lights. There are moments where the cinematography and editing come together in a delightful unison, able to spring to life at the drop of a hat. The action scenes are kinetic and alive, swinging each and every way while cutting with reckless passion. Invasión can kick, but it also knows when to calm down. Beautiful wide perspective shots make the most of textured, organic locations, ripe for contemplation and brimming with aesthetic pleasure. Empty streets at night are cinematic paradises, rewarding both thematically and visually.  As the film progresses the structure loosens and a more intimate approach is taken to the characters, who by now have been put through a gauntlet and had their resolution tested. However, I feel the strength of Invasión lies not in the characters but in the overarching narrative cause, the invasion, and the way it projects itself to a level of universal relevancy, insuring the film only grows stronger with age. Credit should also be given to the mise-en-scène, which draws inspiration from all over the place and achieves a wonderful balance in doing so.

I’ve always been a fan of Laura Dern and her performance here is extraordinary. One of the best in her career and all at such a young age; she really stands strongly as a powerful centre for the film. The supporting cast also fit very neatly, especially Treat Williams who plays his symbolic manifestation of a character as smooth and as controlled as humanly possible. He’s disturbingly charming for a predator. Visually the film takes a slow and simple approach and is all the better for it. Not only are we given ample time to soak in each gorgeous and full tableau vivant, but I find it also helps the events and people feel more natural and deliberate, as they are allowed to unfold unrestrained and not under threat of being cut or trimmed. This also grounds the film in reality, adding to the overall feeling of unease and danger. Sexual discovery is certainly the most prominent theme in the film, but it never comes close to being excessive or heavy-handed. Instead it is sprinkled thinly throughout, creating depth and nuance. Connie is not simply thrown in at the deep end to be traumatised, her descent spans over several nights, and each night she chooses to delve further into the unknown, daring herself to overcome inhibitions and seek a hormonal thrill. Her behaviour is destructive in a sense, but at the same time it feels justified, as she is standing up for her own freedom and individuality. There is a complexity revealed through this that few films are able to touch on so accurately. As far as I’m concerned Smooth Talk knows exactly what it is, right down to the last second. The closing scenes left me with plenty to think over and really put the nature of the film itself under scrutiny, which is an admirable conclusion to a film that could have so easily been wrapped up with an overbearing or obvious statement.

I certainly do not wish to spoil or taint these transcendental cinematic moments by laying them out, reduced and without context. That would only tarnish my memory of their enchantment. Instead, all I can do is trust that you believe me when I say that the journey offered by Angelopoulos’ film is one that has to be experienced with an open mind and an open heart. The film itself combines multiple journeys, the most central to the narrative being the physical journey the two children take in search of their father. This leads them quite naturally on a number of smaller journeys, as well as beginning a few that will last forever. These journeys do not lead to anywhere concrete or final, and each is just as important and impactful as the last. I am thankful for this, as it gives each willing viewer the power to shape their own conclusion. Personally, I have chosen to leave a fog of ambiguity as my final resting place on the matter, as that is where I am most comfortable reflecting on the prior events of angelic fantasy and overwhelming tragedy. There is a complex intertwining of mood at play in Landscape in the Mist, as bleak and devastating situations are blessed with beautiful, poetic mise-en-scène and score. This makes the relationship between form and content all the more complex and fulfilling. It is a broad, powerful journey, filled with enlightening detours, dazzling highs, and unbearable lows. I implore you all to experience it for yourself.

In the vast realm of film criticism there are numerous terms which float about freely with vague definitions hanging loosely from them, blowing liberally in a breeze of constant flux. These terms seem to change in definition based solely on who is using them and for what purpose. One victim of this frequent manipulation and lack of universal agreement is ‘mise-en-scène’, which presently resides in a world of definitive obscurity, and always has. The French, from whom the term originated, often use it to credit the role of a director, although when translated into English it literally means ‘to put on stage’, which is instinctively different and equally as unclear. The lengths to which scholars have extended and inversely restricted mise-en-scène’s definition across academic film discourse is truly mind-boggling. Thomas Elsaesser and Warren Buckland observe that “in a narrow theatrical sense, mise-en-scène refers only to what appears in front of the camera – to the pro-filmic events, not to the procedures which transpose those events onto film. But for most critics mise-en-scène refers both to what is filmed and to how it is filmed.” This is an excellent starting point, but it is not very specific.

As a whole it seems mise-en-scène is most commonly applied to envelop all of the elements that we see onscreen and their movement and arrangement in relation to each other. In this sense it is useful to juxtapose mise-en-scène against montage filmmaking, as the two ideas have almost opposite, although not mutually exclusive, expressive goals. The elements that are frequently seen as under the regulation of mise-en-scène include, but are not always limited to, sets, props, scenery, actors, costumes, and lighting. Logically this excludes aspects such as sound and editing, although there have been definitions formed which include even these practices under the omni-flexible umbrella of mise-en-scène. If we push forward from here and instead search for a more figurative understanding of the term, we may find it becomes less shrouded in anonymity and as such more user-friendly. Hence, let us view mise-en-scène as that which gives a film its, as Brandon Cesmat puts it, “visual weight and movement”. This is certainly and deliberately an imprecise definition, but one that hopefully conveys a notion of the cumulative and visual nature of filmmaking that mise-en-scène so often alludes to.

When analysing a film with mise-en-scène in mind there are a number of secondary terms that can come into play. One such term is the earlier mentioned ‘form’, which is then customarily divided into two camps, ‘open form’ and ‘closed form’. The broad purpose of these terms is to illuminate the affect that camera style has on the audience, primarily in the way that they are aware of and influenced by framing. Cinematography is the surface level at which an audience interacts with a film, and framing is of the utmost importance in this regard. Naturally, these two divergent forms, much like mise-en-scène, do not have stringent definitions accompanying them, and therefore become malleable when applied in discourse. Luckily, they are not employed all that often and when they are they generally serve only to evoke the concept of a stylistic contrast in relation to shot composition. Understandably, to get a stronger grasp of the meaning behind open and closed form, we have to look back to a time before cinema came into existence. Heinrich Wölfflin writes about the idea of closed form style in paintings that “what is meant is a style of composition which, with more or less tectonic means, makes of the picture a self-contained entity, pointing everywhere back to itself, while, conversely, the style of open form everywhere points out beyond itself and purposely looks limitless.” This makes the difference, in theory, very clear. Closed form confines all the relevant information of a painting, or in our case a film, inside the frame. In opposition to this is open form, which instead allows the world of the painting, or film, to extend beyond the frame and occupy space that we, as the audience, cannot actually see.

There is however an intrinsic problem with transplanting the form theory for painting onto film; paintings are static. Although the two art forms do share the common limitation of a frame, film has only to cut and change shots to temporarily alleviate itself from this burden, which is a luxury that no painting can afford. Fortunately, mise-en-scène is more focused on the study of single shots, disconnected from editing or montage. As such, form theory in film really has only one major complication in relation to painting, and that is movement. Not only can a camera move about in an almost infinite number of directions, without the use of editing, but so can the actors and props move about inside (and outside, in the case of open form) a continuous shot. This is something we have to take into consideration and make allowances for. Film is an alive, moving form of painting, and although different standards of practice have emerged to accommodate for these disparities, it is still the familiar idea of the frame which is present in both art forms that form theory is infatuated with.

Since these forms are so clearly reliant on composition and what the audience is able to learn through visuals alone, it seems prudent to understand where open form and closed form fit in relation to the dominating theories of representation in film: realism and formalism. Realism, as the name suggests, wishes to demonstrate that ‘truth’ can be represented through film, and consequently the degree of unadulterated reality shown is what determines artistic success in this style. Formalism, on the other hand, believes that film is a visual system of representations and conventions. A realist film would not seek to alter or manipulate the way the audience view the content, while a formalist approach would strive to create meaningful compositions through mise-en-scène that would tell the audience exactly what the director wants them to know, normally in relation to the narrative or in aid of character development. To put it simply, formalism values composition over content, realism the opposite. From this it seems clear that open form would lend itself perfectly to realism, while closed form is more suited to the rigid, semiotic based structure of formalism.

Closed form, in essence, is all about control. It is a deliberate and anticipatory approach to filmmaking. Through rehearsal and planning it is pre-established where and how the camera and performers will need to move in order to keep everything framed appropriately in a continuous shot which will also convey all necessary information. Each individual shot is approached in this manner, which explains the benefit of storyboarding in preproduction. Closed form is the prevalent style in Hollywood films, and has been extensively refined to a point where it is exactly what a mainstream audience expects when they go to see a non-documentary film. An example of a film that epitomises closed form by its very nature is Back to the Future Part II (Robert Zemeckis, 1989). At first glance it is quite obviously a Hollywood studio film, and one that does not presume to be anything more. Therefore, closed form is a given, and it feels natural. Everything we need to know is carefully located inside the frame and nothing dares to deviate outside of it. There are a million films out there just like this, but what makes Back to the Future Part II an exceptional case is that at one point in the film it asks the audience to follow two separate narratives at the same time, both of which are occurring inside the same shot. The first is obviously the continuing narrative of the film itself, but on top of that we are also shown events that took place in the first film of the series, Back to the Future (Robert Zemeckis, 1985). This is accomplished through the characters time-travelling back to the period when the first film occurred, which makes logical sense as the world of the film is built to allow for such exceptional mechanics. The pivotal moment of this visual trickery occurs when Marty McFly (Michael J. Fox) is sneaking about inside the high school principal’s office. Through a window the audience are able to see an event from the first film occurring in the school car park. At the same time they are also free to watch Marty McFly continue his search in the office. Everything about this shot is so meticulously planned and timed that it becomes impossible to be unaware of the preparation that went into it. It is almost self-reflexive through its use of the window as a frame within a frame. Unsurprisingly, both frames are closed form as they confine all relevant narrative information within their respective spaces. It is clever uses of closed form framing such as this which ooze creativity and show the true power of the technique, which is able to go above and beyond simply being an efficient structure for storytelling.

Open form, on the other hand, seeks to reduce the level of awareness the audience has of the planning that goes on behind the camera. This is done in hopes of achieving a greater sense of realism, as the audience is not being distracted by the visual craft, and are left to focus only on the world of the film. The most common application of this is in documentary film, where the cameraman is generally without a staged route to follow, and instead works on instinct to keep up with the action as it occurs. Documentaries function by keeping the audience under the assumption that what they are watching is a real ’slice of life’, something that happened not by planning, but by chance. This is exactly the feeling that open form seeks to recreate, even when it is applied in the filming of a fictional film. It does not matter if what is being filmed is actually real; it only matters if it feels real, or more precisely, spontaneous, for the audience. For example, The Mirror (Andrei Tarkovsky, 1975) is a film built around the director’s personal memories. It does not have a structured or cohesive narrative, and works mainly as a series of images and moments stitched together to create an atmospheric understanding and appreciation of a range of important events and preoccupations from Tarkovsky’s life. For the most part The Mirror is strongly open form. It is filled with long, flowing shots where the camera moves about as if in a dream. Free from the interruption of montage editing or the pressures of following a causal narrative, the cinematography feels effortless. One shot in particular that gives an intense feeling of transcendental reality is when the camera is left to wait statically on a field as a man walks across it. Almost at random the man stops walking and stands still. Just moments later a strong breeze blows across the field, producing a visible ripple through the long grass. Events such as this when seen on film feel almost divinely inspired, as if they are capturing the true beauty of nature without any interference. Another scene in The Mirror which is lusciously open form is set inside a room that is occupied by two characters who are conversing about their relationship. Completely against audience expectations only one of the characters is ever shown, the other is left entirely outside of frame. This is instantly disconcerting, but is used to deliberate effect by means of open form mechanics. It makes the viewer feel as if they are inside Tarkovsky’s mind, where he is unable to relate with the character that stays hidden from the inquisitive, circling camera.

Despite the apparent dramatic differences between open and closed form, it is imperative to keep in mind that the terms are not absolute. This means that a mixture of these two styles is not only possible, but in many cases preferable. True open form seems unattainable after realising that by the very act of bringing a camera into a location, the realism is diminished. A single frame cannot hope to encompass an entire world, even if the audience is aware of the continuation of the world outside of the frame. Instead, it may be useful, as in the case of The Mirror, to add a touch of closed form to this pseudo-open world, to give it a little guidance and intent, which lets the audience know that there is someone behind the camera directing, even if the images are not as structured as a formalist approach would call for. It is surely impossible to find a perfect balance between closed and open form, but Tarkovsky may have come close with Stalker (1979). In Stalker the compositions mostly adhere to an open form aesthetic, where shots are left to linger and progress naturally, without the manipulation of excessive editing or fast camera movements. What makes this a mastery of form though is that it remains clear throughout that each shot has been precisely planned and perhaps even storyboarded before filming. Tarkovsky has emulated open form aesthetic to such a degree that the line between realism and formalism has blurred. Characters and props in Stalker frequently leave the confines of the frame, but not without tangible intent. The space outside of the camera is of just as much importance to the narrative as the space within the frame, and the balance and interaction achieved between the two worlds is mesmerising.

While it may seem convenient to define open form and closed form in opposition to one another, the downside to doing this is that it undermines the true analytical power of the terms. They work best in unison and it is through blending these two divergent approaches to mise-en-scène and acknowledging that neither form will ever prevail wholly over the other in a single film, that the terms are able to fulfil their potential in discourse. In theory, the differences are clear, but in practice things become more complex and many films cross the boundary between open and closed form with a surprising amount of finesse.

Creative use of shallow focus produces blurred images out of light and colour, which meld with reflections to a contemplative and often surreal effect. The slow camera movement follow characters politely, allowing the story to be told through actions rather than their words. The grace of the vampire is deconstructed as soon as it is introduced, and the rules of their existence are brought to our attention only when necessary, without expository dialogue or contrivance. The lustful appeal of the vampire is replaced with an odd, taboo sexuality, which is never fully explored. Several touching moments emerge from the naive intimacy of young love, which is juxtaposed against brutal, disturbing, dark acts of violence. An unobtrusive flow between romance and the macabre creates an atmosphere that has room for both tension and meditation. Emphasis is placed on forging connections, rather than on death. There is nothing necessarily frightening to be found here, and it is clear that it was never the intention to scare, as even the vampire feeding scenes are restrained and brief. The visuals are not overly stylised, and the cinematography provides just enough to help maintain the mood.  Although the parts that make up the film may themselves not be original, it is the way they come together and are handled that gives this film its uniqueness and authenticity.

Editing is used sparingly, placing value on the natural progression of time. Long tracking shots quickly become familiar as they fluently create a circling world which is able to encompass expansive outdoor locations as easily as it manages confined indoor spaces. Haphazard jumps between scenes often occur without any causal reasoning, resulting in a level of chaos and confusion that reflects the social and political context. For the most part the narrative works as a stream of consciousness, and this allows for dramatic shifts in mood and importance whenever necessary. There is still a plot, and even a few subplots, but these fall secondary to the precise study of life, which is exemplified in a number of near silent moments that watch characters from a distance as they go about routine daily tasks.  Such scenes are contrasted with loud, grandiose street marches, and then again with serious, dramatic instances of desperation. Clever uses of light, snow and night photography create images of exquisite beauty out of ugliness. As the world declines into darkness the use of colour also disappears, leaving us to pessimistically contemplate the bleak future ahead.

Humour is one of the most uniquely defining aspects of Tsai’s films. He has a natural ability to find humour in situations that are overwhelmingly bleak. Occasionally musical numbers will break out inside his films, shattering the established melancholic mood and indulging in a dreamlike world of imagination. The ability to strike a balance and contrast between depression and comedy is one of Tsai’s many directorial trademarks. His approach to filmmaking is unmatched in the world of cinema, although comparisons can be made between him and any number of other directors. However, none of these comparisons even come close to fully encompassing Tsai’s vision, and are better suited to representing individual facets of his work. Direct influences on his style can be seen coming from directors as diverse as Truffaut, Antonioni, Keaton, Bresson, and Fassbinder.

In 1992 Tsai released his directorial debut Rebels of the Neon God. By this point he had already gained a substantial amount of experience working on teleplays, both as a writer and a director. The film opens at night in a phone booth. It’s raining heavily and two male youths are stealing coins from the machine. Instantly Tsai has established a number of ideas that he will return to incessantly in his future films; alienated youth, a society in decay, and water. Perhaps the most interesting of these concepts, and certainly the most symbolic, is the use of water, which in this case is appearing in the form of rain. Inside the phone booth the two characters are confined, metaphorically trapped by the downpour surrounding them. In the next scene we are introduced to another male youth, sitting alone in his room, restless and silent. This is Lee Kang-sheng, and he will be our protagonist for the second storyline, which will eventually collide with the story of the two thieves that was established just moments earlier. Having multiple storylines running parallel to each other is a common narrative structure for Tsai. It allows him to explore the nature of brief encounters and missed opportunities with an innate simplicity.

The opening scenes of Rebels of the Neon God are decidedly more action orientated than is typical of Tsai, but he soon moves the film into his most familiar territory, that of alienation and loneliness. Just 15 minutes into the film we watch a young woman go to the toilet. This is only shown briefly, but it does signify Tsai’s interest in exploring characters at their most private and solitary, as he believes “that a person’s body only really belongs to them when they are alone.” Nothing about this scene is sexualised; in fact it is deliberately the opposite, as the bathroom is a rather depressing mess and her action awkward and mundane. Dialogue, in all of Tsai’s work, is sparse, and this implores us to focus our attention on the small amount of action taking place. Conflict arises when Lee’s character gets into a fight with his parents. The dysfunctional family is a key aspect of Tsai’s exploration into the decaying urban society that has produced the alienated youths his films frequently focus on. One recurring image in Rebels of the Neon God is that of the two thieves, and the young woman who now accompanies them, riding their motorcycles around the city at night. Over these scenes plays a bass heavy, ominous, droning score. It perfectly reflects the sinful, rebellious and destructive lifestyle of the three characters, which is soon illustrated more directly as they drunken watch pornography together in a cheap hotel room.

Tsai’s second feature film, Vive L’Amour (1994), opens with a characteristic long shot, establishing a wide hallway as well as the key to an apartment door that will play a major role in the film. With a strikingly minimalist narrative approach, Vive L’Amour follows three city dwellers that happen to be unknowingly sharing the same apartment. Their lives are explored with calm observation, as the majority of the film is devoted to showing these characters as individuals, with their own quirks and internal struggles. Tsai’s slow pace creates an atmosphere of emotional resonance, without the need for words or even music. These characters are real people, and that is what makes them so fascinating. Events play out in real time, such as the undressing of two lovers before they have sex. Meanwhile, in a different room of the same apartment, Lee’s character is cutting his own wrist, only to be interrupted by the noise coming from the nearby sexual liaison. This culminates in a humorous moment where Lee sneaks comically out of the apartment without being noticed. His suicidal depression is alleviated through this contrast, and done so with enough sincerity that it does not undermine his character’s suffering. Here Tsai’s dark sense of humour is far more apparent than it was in Rebels of the Neon God.

Vive L’Amour operates almost as a silent film, except that it emphasises environmental sounds to a level where they feel significant as a reminder of a world that is so large and encompassing, yet still so full of lonely people. The apartment fulfils a double role as both a narrative device and a greater metaphor, and this is a technique that Tsai will continue to utilise in his films, although each time with a different object or place. This gives his films a substantial depth and places significance on every action that happens in relation to his chosen allegorical apparatus. Even the sex in Vive L’Amour is just as much a victim of modern alienation as everything else. It is shown to be casual and meaningless, and it ultimately leaves the woman with an overwhelming feeling of emptiness, as the film ends on a harrowing 5 minute static shot of her crying endlessly.

Tsai’s next feature film, The River (1997), marks his first complete usage of water as a ubiquitous metaphor. It is also a return to the family structure first explored in Rebels of the Neon God, once again with the focus on a dysfunctional relationship between two parents and their son. It begins with a chance encounter between a woman and Lee’s character. She leads him to a film set she is working at and before Lee realises he is floating upside down in a polluted river, pretending to be a dead body. Lee tries but is unable to wash the polluted water away, and soon develops a debilitating neck pain that worsens as the film goes on. His anguish over this affliction is very real, persistent, and difficult to watch. The symbolism related to water in The River is conflicted. At first water, especially in the form of a river, evokes ideas of flow and the progression of life. However, here it has been contaminated by a terrible disease, insinuating a negative, destructive vision of society, which is then mirrored in the distant and isolated family unit, who barely speak at all for the entire film.

Transgression had been a small issue in Tsai’s earlier films, primarily found in his realistic depictions of often odd sexual practices and masturbation scenes. In The River the taboo is far more at the surface, as the film harbours incestuous undertones and culminates with a resoundingly disturbing scene between Lee and his homosexual father. It is by far Tsai’s darkest and most emotionally dead film. Unlike with his other films, there are no glimpses of hope to be found in The River. Returning to the water symbolism, it also appears alongside the sexually putrid acts of Lee’s father, which take place in a bathhouse where he has frequent affairs in the near total darkness. There is also a leak in the family house, which has worsened substantially by the end of the film, resulting in a flood. The leak is a constant reminder of the decay and neglect that society breeds within the film.

The Hole (1998) is Tsai’s first foray into musical territory. Though this genre does not dominate the film, it does offer a unique juxtaposition against the narrative backdrop, which is plagued by a mysterious disease and the looming threat of evacuation. The Hole is also somewhat of a low-key sci-fi film, set one year in the future at the turn of the millennium. From the opening scene the film is absolutely saturated with water, both inside and outside. Once again the metaphoric intent is admirable, and this time it seems to represent the love and connection between the two main characters, which they are unable to experience physically due to the state of their decrepit tenement building. The title of the film refers to the hole accidentally caused by a plumber which allows the main characters to communicate between their apartments. It functions as both a necessary narrative device and a symbolic impediment to the connection between lonely souls. Tsai himself says on The Hole that:

“The musical numbers play a different role here than they do in other musicals. For me it’s more like the statement of the inner world, particularly of the female character. This woman apparently is very cold, on the surface she has to be very fierce to fight her environment, she’s very defensive. But her inner world is very passionate and she craves somebody to love her.”

The characters in The Hole represent universal ideas of men, women, and people in general. Tsai is portraying their struggle to form connections as being a global concern for humanity. The film is far more hopeful than The River, and develops more affectionate and non-destructive relationships, such as the one between Lee’s character and the cat he feeds. The final shot of the film is one of Tsai’s most emotionally powerful. We watch as Lee’s arm reaches down through the hole into the woman’s apartment and lifts her up into his, finally uniting the couple. This glimpse of happiness comes when things had reached their most distressing and expounds on Tsai’s interest in love as an integral part of human life, despite the film existing inside a dystopian landscape.

It is no secret that Truffaut’s The 400 Blows (1959) is Tsai’s favourite film, and What Time Is It There? (2001) can be seen as a unique tribute to it, even going as far as to star Jean-Pierre Léaud in a cameo role. Two separate narratives tell the story of a man, played of course by Lee Kang-sheng, and a woman who he becomes infatuated with after a brief encounter during which he sells her his watch. It was Tsai’s first film to move outside of Taipei, as part of it takes place in Paris. Love is looked at from a different angle here than it was in The Hole. Now love is an obsession for Lee and Tsai examines the lengths to which he will go to attain a connection, despite knowing that the woman he desires has no idea of his actions. Another reason Tsai made this film was to deal with the death of both his and Lee’s fathers, which is replicated in the death of Lee’s character’s father early in the film. This returns once again to the theme of family, but in a way that creates a sense of closure instead of alienation. Many of Tsai’s trademarks increase in frequency in What Time Is It There?, such as sex, masturbation, and observing characters in bed or alone in the bathroom. The emotional longing visible in all the characters seems to hinge on Tsai’s personal attachment to the film as an exploration of his father’s death, which is illustrated magically with the possible, yet ambiguous, appearance of Lee’s father’s ghost in the poignant final scene.

The cinema as a location had already appeared in several of Tsai’s films before he made Goodbye, Dragon Inn (2003), which takes place entirely inside a soon to be closed down cinema during its final showing. Everything happens in real-time, and this allows Tsai to analyse the responses of the audience members, who are as much interested in the film that is playing as they are in the possible relationships they could establish in the dark of the theatre surrounding them. Outside it is raining, no doubt driving people into the cinema to avoid getting wet, although attendance is still relatively low at what Tsai depicts as a romantic last engagement between viewer and the screen. This intent is magnified by the presence in the audience of two aging actors who both star in the film being shown. With less of a narrative than any of Tsai’s other works, Goodbye, Dragon Inn is just as much about the cinema as it is about relationships, or more accurately, the desire to make a connection and the apprehension that comes with trying.

One element of Tsai’s direction that has developed throughout his career is his visual vibrancy and depth. He has not necessarily improved, as his style has never been in need of improvement, but he has become more ambitious and ultimately managed to achieve more breathtaking, expressionistic images. Although it is certainly the wide static long takes that are the most memorable feature of Tsai’s style, he also makes careful use of handheld camera work for certain scenes. Generally this is done to create a documentary feel, as it is commonly used when observing a cultural practice, such as public food preparation or a song and dance performance. He makes the switch between these two aesthetic approaches seamlessly.

There is an unavoidable perverseness in the premise of Tsai Ming-liang’s The Wayward Cloud (2005), a film that treats watermelons as objects of sexual desire. On the surface it is Tsai’s most transgressive film, filled with explicit, bizarre sex scenes. Underneath it presents a number of intelligent issues relating to urban civilisation in a time of crisis, as there is a severe water shortage. The watermelon can be seen as symbolic of a bridge between human connection, and also as a substitution for Tsai’s metaphoric water. As he says himself:

“I always regard the characters in my films as plants which are short of water, which are almost on the point of dying from lack of water. Actually, water for me is love, that’s what they lack. What I’m trying to show is very symbolic, it’s their need for love.”

Water is therefore a key symbolic and narrative element, and meaning can be derived immediately from the overshadowing water shortage. If there is a shortage of love in the world then humans will find a way to replace it. It is not something they can live without. Elevators have appeared in many of Tsai’s films, but never so prominently as in The Wayward Cloud. They are places of flux, transition, and movement. Fleeting moments, glances and exchanges can be experienced in elevators, and so can awkward, seemingly unending silences. There is an element of criticism being directed towards pornography, which is shown in the film as a degrading industry that wastes water and has no respect for human life. The Wayward Cloud is also Tsai’s triumphant and colourful return to the musical, and each song is used to verbally express the social and political issues the film is dealing with.

Tsai’s latest film, I Don’t Want to Sleep Alone (2006), is a social commentary in much the same vein as The Hole and The River. It deals with a city that is drowned in a toxic fog which is causing widespread sickness. It is Tsai’s first film made in Malaysia, his native country, and he combines the multicultural aspects of this new location beautifully with his auteuristic themes of alienation and loneliness. Once again there are two competing storylines, although this time they both focus on a man being nursed. One of the men is paralysed; the other has been badly beaten. Both are played by Lee Kang-sheng, and in both cases he requires the care and attention of another for survival. Here the items of symbolic interest are mattresses and facemasks, which are used to filter the air for breathing. Mattresses have always played a role in Tsai’s films, which habitually featured characters in bed. In I Don’t Want to Sleep Alone they are given added functionality, mobility, and turned into a central narrative device.

Visually this is one of Tsai’s most textured and stylistic films. He mixes a range of hues together in every shot and makes great use of space through clever, artistic set design. His use of metaphor is just as present as ever, shown chiefly by a massive pool of water which appears to have flooded the centre of a construction site. It looks almost like a natural anomaly in the context of Tsai’s work. Nature is obstructing industrialisation, forging a meditative image that demands contemplation on the trajectory of human development. Long scenes of the paralysed man being cleaned are difficult to watch, but despite the ugliness of the process they still suggest a belief in the strength of love as a means to overcome hardship.

Over 8 feature films Tsai Ming-Liang has shown that he is a director with a vision. His humanistic concern for individual characters and greater social issues is explored meticulously through his consciously meandering stylistic approach. He is adept at weaving symbolism into narrative and creating atmosphere and emotion out of minimal drama. Each of his films is just as powerful and thought provoking as the last, as he repeatedly tackles familiar themes and structures, but always with a new and unique perspective.

Shohei Imamura was a director who was primarily concerned with the underbelly of regular Japanese life. Unlike much of Japanese cinema, his films did not showcase a Japan rich with spiritual traditions, history and cultural practices. Instead, Imamura filled his films with prostitutes, murderers, gamblers and peasants. This was what he saw as the ‘real’ Japan. His personal interest and study of anthropology influenced his films greatly, giving his character examinations an objective quality, akin to a scientist looking through a microscope. He explored relentlessly the grey area between reality and fiction, between man and monster. “No one understands what is real and what is fantasy. Imamura’s crime for the Japanese critics… is that he mixes the two indistinguishably.” (Donald Richie, 1983)

Perhaps his greatest example of this binary blending is in Vengeance Is Mine (1979), as it is a fictional story that is based on true events and approached with a documentary style perspective. The natural world was also of upmost importance for Imamura, and this helped to infuse his films with flowing, engaging backgrounds, which the audience could then relate to and feel a part of. He was a director of great intensity and subtlety. His strong world view and academic pursuits formed the base for many of his cinematic endeavours, each of which offered insight and criticism into the lower and middle classes of Japan.

Vengeance Is Mine arrived after the end of the Japanese New Wave, which spanned from the late 1950s into the early 1970s. Imamura was a key figure in this movement, up until the box-office failure of his film The Profound Desire of the Gods (1968). After that he spent a decade working on documentary films, until returning to fiction in 1979 with the powerful Vengeance Is Mine, the script for which was based on a biographical novel about Japanese serial killer Akira Nishiguchi, who evaded arrest for 78 days. Even the title of the film is deceptive, as it is never fully explained just what, or even who, the vengeance is for. This is just one of many ambiguities that present themselves throughout the film. Ken Ogata was cast in the lead role of the killer, and the character named Iwao Enokizu. His performance was both striking and horrific, as he captured the cold, psychotic emptiness of Enokizu with deft simplicity. Imamura’s direction was elegant and understated, giving the film a natural feel that added a chilling realism to the events being portrayed. Luckily for Imamura, Vengeance Is Mine was a critical and commercial success.

One of the most unique and creative aspects of Vengeance Is Mine is its structure, which is made apparent very early on in the film as being unconventional. We start after Enokizu has already been apprehended and is in the back of a police car on his way to the station for questioning. If we take this to be the present time of the film, then the majority of what follows should be considered flashbacks, some of which reaching as far back as Enokizu’s youth. There are also a series of flash-forwards which expand upon the consequences of Enokizu’s actions, with the film ultimately concluding 5 years after his state execution. However, the majority of the film does take place within the 78 days Enokizu spent on the run, and these scenes are presented in more or less chronological order, although severely fragmented by the competing timelines and subplots.

It is the police questioning Enokizu, in an attempt to get his full confession, which triggers the first flashback. We are teleported to the crime scene of his first murder; the area is swarming with people. The objective factuality of this scene is evident as both police officers and civilians were present to witness it. What follows, however, is Enokizu’s own account of his solitary actions, which are inherently reliant on him telling the truth to be accurate. Still, we are given no reason to doubt what we see in these flashbacks, and this is partly due to Imamura’s stylistic approach and Enokizu’s suggestion that he has no reason to lie, as he is already assured of the death penalty. This perspective memory limitation on Enokizu quickly evaporates as we begin to be shown events that he could not have had knowledge of, such as conversations occurring between his family members behind his back. There are also a number of extraneous subplots formed around side characters, with their conversations often being entirely unrelated to Enokizu and serving primarily to give a social juxtaposition and weight to the central narrative. Altogether this implies that what we are watching is not necessarily Enokizu’s recollection of his time on the run, but rather a conglomeration of research, multiple perspectives and partial omniscience, combined to form a single, documentary-esque narrative.

Violence and sex are strong concerns in Vengeance Is Mine. Enokizu harbours an obsession with both, although the reasons for this are deliberately left vague. A number of the flashbacks give us “a pocket-sized psychoanalytic explanation for Enokizu’s will to kill (issues with Dad), but this provides little illumination and less comfort.” (Nelson Kim, Senses of Cinema). Imamura created an unknowable, empty killer in Enokizu. We are only allowed to understand him through his actions, never his thoughts. There are clues in his responses, but nothing concrete. Many of his murders are not even shown to us, as Imamura avoids excess by instead allowing the audience to themselves return to their memory of the earlier, graphic kills. Eventually murder and sex combine into what can be seen as Enokizu’s greatest, and simultaneously most unexplainable, act of evil, as he kills without reason the woman who had so recklessly fallen in love with him.

In a brief scene we watch Enokizu as he urinates onto his own hands in an attempt to wash away the blood from a recent kill. Such moments of uncontrived realism are littered throughout Vengeance Is Mine, and reinforce the paranoid horror that the film fabricates with its atmosphere. Just previous to this we witness Enokizu murder a man with a hammer in a slow, brutal, and seemingly unprovoked attack. None of the killings in the film are portrayed as glamorous or empowering; instead they are difficult, awkward and messy. Imamura distils these scenes even further by removing artistic manipulation. He utilises minimal camera work and cuts only when necessary. There is no music during the killings, nothing to distract us from the cold hard reality of what is happening. It is in these ravenous moments of macabre that the film strikes closest to realism, and it does so with cruel immediacy.

The second facet of realism in Vengeance Is Mine can be found in the inclusion and treatment of secondary characters. These characters are usually either a part of Enokizu’s family or simply innocent bystanders that have stumbled unknowingly into his path. We come to know many of these characters through plain scenarios in which they act as normal people do, almost as if the camera were not rolling. At times they are formal, other times vulgar. Occasionally they will have conversations in private, lying in bed together, even while making love. Nudity is neither hidden nor eroticised, it just happens. Life flows naturally within Vengeance Is Mine. There is no narrative drive to force conflict or resolution for these secondary characters; they are merely content to be and act with their own autonomy. Even Enokizu is awarded several moments of quiet habitual behaviour. Sometimes we find him alone, eating, cleaning, thinking, and just generally engaging in the mundane activities that make up the bulk of human life. Such unexciting activities would almost always be omitted from a more traditional narrative, but here Imamura is seeking to not just tell a story, but also to create a functioning, real world around it. The world of Vengeance Is Mine extends and survives far beyond the constraints of the frame.

It would be an understatement to deem Enokizu’s psychology enigmatic. His inner workings are entirely closed off, despite us being so closely attached to him as our protagonist. Throughout the film we watch as he weaves his way into the lives of innocent people, forever changing them, often ending them. For these actions he shows no remorse, no anguish. He is a sociopath, capable of charming and manipulating people with ease. At one point he pretends to be a professor, the next day a lawyer, with both facades being for his personal gain. A flashback shows us a younger Enokizu in the army, where he was destructive and rebellious. This scene offers no new information about his character, but instead builds up a history of defiance. Was Enokizu born to kill, or did he develop the insatiable urge at a young age?

Often it seems as if Enokizu acts purely on impulse. At one point he even attempts to take his own life, as if by a spur of the moment decision. Because Imamura denies us any explanation for Enokizu’s behaviour, it makes him considerably more terrifying and remote. Enokizu says himself, after his arrest, “I killed innocent people, so I’ll be put to death.” His voice and face remain impassive as he expresses this simplistic understanding of his crimes. Soon after his father adds an enlightening bit of dialogue, “You can only kill those who never harmed you.” This is true, and implies that Enokizu’s father is openly claiming his responsibility for creating a ‘monster’. It also suggests that Enokizu’s acts of violence may be a result of his inner turmoil lashing out, which is something he is unable to deal with directly.

Vengeance Is Mine employs an uncomplicated visual style to great effect, and this is primarily what gives the film its documentary feel. Each composition is delicate and meaningful. Adequate distance is kept from the characters at all times to encourage observation. Soft, natural lighting and extensive use of practical lights create organic shadows that do not distract the viewer. Words appear onscreen to inform us of the time, place and event, as if we are watching a television news story. We often look through doors or windows, frames within the frame, securing us into the perspective of the spectator. Much of the film was shot on location, and as such looks authentic and beautiful at the same time, with the grand landscapes of Japan often visible in the background. Static framing makes use of straight lines and objects, similar in style to the work of Yasujirō Ozu. The camera’s point of view is raised slightly above eye level, subtlety diminishing characters to the level of specimens. Overall this creates a convincing, deliberate aesthetic that is unobtrusive, absorbing and keenly observational.

The editing and music in Vengeance Is Mine both play key roles in the creation of tension and atmosphere. Narrative progression is rarely forced, as Imamura opts instead for a slow pace that allows shots to develop free of unnecessary editing. Still, large amounts of time are often collapsed with a single cut. This is done in a way that allows sizable temporal jumps to occur without a change in spatial location. The opposite is also employed, as “Sometimes, instead of cutting, Imamura will swiftly cram all we need to know into a single travelling shot – one filled with spatial variety, though the temporal value is constant.” (Donald Richie, 2005). Both of these techniques, despite being functionally opposite, foster a sense of urgency in the viewer, as Enokizu’s impending arrest is constantly coming nearer. The sinister, sparsely used score works in a similar way, as it is comparable to what one might hear in a Hitchcock thriller.

The representation of women in Vengeance Is Mine is in many ways subversive of patriarchal ideologies, although on the surface it appears to be anything but. Women are always serving men throughout the film, in every way they can. They are often hit and forced into sex. Clearly they are treated as the lesser of the two sexes, at least on the surface. Imamura’s views on women developed when he was a young man, where he would interact a lot with the lower-class. “They weren’t educated and they were vulgar and lusty, but they were also strongly affectionate and they instinctively confronted all their own sufferings. I grew to admire them enormously.” Imamura even goes as far as to say that he views women as being stronger than men. This can be seen in Vengeance Is Mine as it is the female characters that come out alive and prosperous in the end. There are exceptions to this, but overall it is an apparent consideration. The portrayal of their social role within the film is a reflection on Imamura’s views on Japanese culture, which are being explored in Vengeance Is Mine through a realistic depiction of society. Thereby, when the women are allowed to persevere beyond Enokizu’s destruction, it is a rejection of traditional narrative conventions and a progressive statement against patriarchal power structures.

Based on a true story and treated as such, Vengeance Is Mine blurs the boundary between reality and fiction. Imamura’s direction is sublime as it places the viewer within the world of the film, alongside a sociopathic protagonist who appears all but dead inside. Unique structure and editing are matched with graceful mise-en-scène and tremendous, haunting performances. Altogether this creates a disturbing, observant exploration into the impact of a serial killer in the wider context of everyday Japanese life.

Green’s directing is remarkably restrained and observational. He knows exactly when to place emphasis on style. The beautiful wide cinematography is unobtrusive and offers a consistent, bleak setting. This is matched perfectly by the minimalist, moody score, which maximises the dramatic sequences without being so forward as to feel manipulative. Despite the preference for measured development over action, the pace still feels brisk as it jumps calmly between characters and subplots, never dragging for too long in a single place. An overwhelming amount of tension is built up within the scenes of distress, which are gripping without compromising on the overall tone, especially as the film seeps further and further into a deep, hopeless depression. Despite the shattering tragedy that takes place as the main focus, we are still able to experience a touching relationship which blooms between the two younger characters, who share a great chemistry that progresses into intimacy. Snow Angels is a sad, down-to-earth examination of both the darkest and the lightest moments people go through, handled with an innate care and realism.

There is a meditative, nirvana emitting quality about The Scent of Green Papaya. A large amount of the film is dedicated to exploring intimate interactions with the natural world, ranging from insects to frogs to fruit. Extreme close-ups are used with grace and produce a number of striking, almost surreal images. The cinematography is very polished and is dominated by elaborate dolly shots which showcase the amazing complexity, size and detail of the sets. Shots with layered framing and multiple focus depths make up the majority, as almost every shot is maximized to allow multiple subjects to perform simultaneously. The score is beautiful and fitting, and has no problem switching from the playful to the serene to the ominous, sometimes all within a single scene. The narrative is perfectly paced, able to handle multiple storylines and characters without rush or convolution. This is a wonderfully conscious, exploratory film which blends the most miniscule elements of nature with the most grandiose ideas of human society.

The most exalted of auteur directors are often instinctively associated with particular film movements. Jean-Luc Godard and the Nouvelle Vague, Fritz Lang and German Expressionism, Luis Buñuel and Surrealism. For actor turned director John Cassavetes, independent American film is where he would make his name. He will forever be remembered as one of the most important directors of the 1970s.

Auteurism, as the study of authorship is better known, is far from an exact science. It cannot be simply taught and then understood, as it requires that one be able to engage with the theory on an intuitive level. The basic concept of auteur theory was inspired by a 1948 essay by French film critic and director Alexandre Astruc, where he first introduced the notion of ‘caméra-stylo’ or ‘camera-pen’. This encapsulated a range of ideas that all positioned the director of a film as the ultimate ‘author’, as the person primarily responsible for creating the artistry seen up on the screen. It was presented as a metaphor which would claim the camera as a pen and the screen as a piece of paper. A few years later this idea would be expanded upon substantially and turned into an entire movement by several film theorists and critics. It forever changed the way films are analysed and praised, and paved the way for a new breed of filmmaking, one that focused more on personal expression and less on pragmatic and economic methods of production.

Before auteurism wormed its way into existence, film discourse was a shell of what it is now, and concerned primarily with examining the relationship between representation and reality. Film was already considered an art form by those that wrote about it, but only in the sense that it possessed facets of truth and beauty. This resulted in discussions of the unique aesthetic attributes of film being ultimately more shallow than they could have been. Once the idea of the artist, which was already present across the other predominant art forms, migrated itself over to film, a lot of new possibilities opened up. If a film had an author, then that author must have a personal touch, and if a film has a personal touch, how can we see, feel, and analyse it? This proposed ’sole author’ defies the collaborative aspects of film production, but does not entirely shut them out. Because of the tightly intermingled process through which films are made, wherein they frequently utilize the artistic input of multiple individuals, it can often be difficult to choose just one name to stamp across the entire output. As such, not every director can necessarily be considered an auteur, although which ones are and which aren’t is a continuing problem for authorship. There are cases where producers, actors, or writers are seen as the auteur of a film, and these analyses seem equally as valid when considering the criteria for authorship is primarily being able to leave a prominent, distinguishable ’signature’ on a film. Due in part to this problem of collaboration, backlash emerged in the 1960s against auteur theory. There were also hefty unanswerable questions regarding the relationship between an author’s intent and the actual message conveyed in a film, which was often left up to subjective interpretation that could far exceed the often humble goals of the director, or perhaps undermine them entirely.

An authorship analysis of a single film would focus on the qualities which it seems the director has attributed to the film through their artistic involvement. To find and identify these qualities it is almost always prudent to watch closely several of the director’s other films, as this allows notable patterns to be discerned. Some directors are obviously more suited to this form of analysis, especially those that stick to certain themes and display common stylistic tendencies across their body of work. For instance, it is easy to pick out similarities across all of Ingmar Bergman’s films, the majority of which deal with existential ponderings and feature characters suffering from strong mental anguish. Then there is the repeated involvement of cinematographer Sven Nykvist, who is said to have helped carve out a consistent mise-en-scène which can be seen across almost all of Bergman’s filmography. Although the intricacies of Bergman’s work as an auteur go far deeper than his most prevalent of narrative and visual regularities, it is still clear after watching only a handful of his films that he has an idiosyncratic ’signature’ written across them. Whether this is by accident, by intention, or simply by determination, it is hard to say for sure.

John Cassavetes wrote and directed his first film, Shadows, in 1959. It was an impressive debut that showcased an intoxicating style with transgressive exploration of social themes and unique characters. Although Shadows would be seen in retrospect as dissimilar to his later and more renowned films, it still touched on a certain way of handling characters that can be found throughout much of Cassavetes’ later work. It also would be the starting point of Cassavetes’ distinctive use of a style similar in application and principle to cinéma vérité. Cinéma vérité literally means ‘film truth’, although that is an obvious fallacy as truth is about as subjective as anything else, and when put through the gaze of a camera becomes irreversibly warped to perspective. Cinéma vérité originally came about along with the advent of more portable camera technology. 16mm noiseless cameras allowed anyone and everyone to make a film without the need for expensive production, lighting, or set design. Suddenly film had become independent from the studios, and cinéma vérité was an idea that wanted to distance itself from commercial film production as much as possible. It was like documentary making, and could be seen as such, but often, as in the case of Shadows, was more about blending real situations into a fictional narrative. In Shadows, Cassavetes allowed his actors to improvise their dialogue, and he would then film them without any predetermined framing or camera setup. This gives the film a very ‘real’ feel, and is something that would be refined and improved upon as Cassavetes progressed as a director. Although Cassavetes staged his scenes, which goes against true cinéma vérité principles, he still achieved a visual style that looked spontaneous, thereby lending his films an engaging, immediate quality that traditional cinema couldn’t offer. It moved the audience closer to the characters, which is where Cassavetes excelled remarkably.

Although Shadows was partially improvised, none of his following films were, as he had broken away from the confines of cinéma vérité and taken with him just the visual style which worked wonderfully to give an overwhelming impact to his character driven films. He was so accomplished at directing actors that the performances in his films often came across as being improvised, which is a direct praise to the realism, or perhaps ‘hyper’-realism, they illicit. One actress in particular that personifies this is his wife, Gena Rowlands, who starred in a number of his films, most importantly A Woman Under the Influence and Opening Night. In both films she gives performances of undeniable strength as a tragic character going through turbulent times. This kind of character, one beset by hardship, tough situations, dodgy lifestyles and mental illness, is commonplace in Cassavetes’ films. This is perhaps the most palpable pattern that emerges when looking at his oeuvre, as it is touched on at least to some extent in nearly all his works.

The next most overt and probably the most assaulting clue to Cassavetes’ auteurism is his aesthetic style, created through characteristic use of mise-en-scène, cinematography, sound, and music. He is able to control everything that is tangible about his films and manipulate it all into a cohesive whole which forms a pertinent signature that is both unmistakeable and impossible to imitate. Cassavetes’ visual style, created primarily through his carefully evolved technique, is absorbing. It pulls the viewer right into the atmosphere of his films through up-close, colourful, gritty camera work, which isn’t concerned with perfection but with perspective. In The Killing of a Chinese Bookie we are given our own private viewpoint to occupy, which feels almost like being inside a bubble that is floating about in the world of our protagonist, Cosmo Vitelli (played by Ben Gazzara). It is not a first person perspective as we do not see through his eyes, but we are still constrained to only his understanding of events. We see alongside him, though as a separate entity, free to make our own assumptions and judgements. In one scene we watch a woman audition for Cosmo. We have already been introduced to this woman in a previous scene, which allowed us to take in her face and general appearance. Now we are restricted to seeing only her lower half, as our view is representing that which Cosmo is judging. He wants to know if she can perform as a dancer, as he already knows she has a nice face and nice breasts, which are the other two requirements for the job. It is up to us to decide, along with Cosmo, if she is talented in addition to being attractive. As it turns out, she is.

The unorthodox framing in this shot, which is also seen throughout the entirety of the film, is utterly intentional. It is not done to avoid showing nudity, as Cassavetes even goes as far as to show nudity in the two scenes immediately before and after this sequence, subtlety reminding us that he is in control and is consciously manipulating our perspective to be as analogous with Cosmo’s as possible. It is also not done to simply be artistic, as the technique has the deliberate outcome of putting us directly into Cosmo’s mindset, which then allows us to delve deeper into his warped situation as it escalates throughout the rest of the film. It is done to bring us as close to the character as possible without resorting to voice over narration or first person perspective. We are still a disconnected, intangible observer, free to watch and judge for ourselves, but from a position that is so close to Cosmo that it becomes almost claustrophobic, re-creating for us the feeling of entrapment that he is experiencing. Cassavetes wants us not only to see what Cosmo sees, but also understand how he sees, he wants us to share his subjectivity. This same technique is used to great effect in A Woman Under the Influence, which leads the audience to feeling as frustrated, abused, and even insane as the main character. Both films utilise a cinéma vérité influenced style, but taken to a much more aware level. The camera bumps and moves freely as if in a documentary, but at the same time it is capturing highly artistic, organic images, with odd angles and unconventional lighting. Focus is constantly shifting, reflecting the mind state of the protagonist when things become hectic and uncontrollable.

It seems that what makes Cassavetes’ films so commanding is the combination of strong, realistic performances with his personal style of introspective, close-up camera work and challenging, transgressive narratives. This is his style, his signature, his distinguishable mark that he leaves on his films. In The Killing of a Chinese Bookie all of his directorial traits are in play, and he was at his peak in terms of creative control and enthusiasm. His directing has one clear outcome in all cases, and that is that it creates an absorbing, personal experience that transports the viewer inside the world of his films and the minds of his characters. In The Killing of a Chinese Bookie this works to put us in a position that is almost first person limited, but not quite. One scene which exploits this superbly is when Cosmo is sent to kill the Chinese bookie. This whole scene is borderline surreal, as it goes for a kind of heightened reality which emphasises the internal conflict and panic within Cosmo. Naturally this helps to dramatise one of the most integral and important scenes in the film. Cleverly, Cassavetes does not show us the dead bookie, but instead pulls our point of view away immediately after the killing, suggesting to us that Cosmo is not able to bring himself to look at what he has done. We are limited to Cosmo’s perspective and his understanding of his surroundings. The ensuing chase scene continues in this style, as we are kept alongside Cosmo as he runs for his life, and are only shown glimpses of the men chasing him. It’s a balancing act, to have a style that pigeonholes the viewer into a certain experience, a certain state of mind, while still managing to maintain a feeling of realism, like the events unfolding are taking place simply by chance, unscripted.

What makes a director an auteur is not a simple distinction. Even the theory itself allows a lot of room for a director to not be an auteur. However, there are some directors who seem almost custom-made to fit into the goals of the theory. John Cassavetes is one such director, as he has a very consistent, intelligent ’signature’ that is visible across a range of his films. Coming from the aesthetic approach of cinéma vérité and combining it with his own structured narratives and skill at pulling fantastic performances from actors; he quickly developed a very mature style that excelled at engaging audiences on multiple levels. Through stylized camera techniques and a predilection for certain character types, Cassavetes’ preoccupations and considerations are shown to be complex, highly prevalent, and overall rewarding when observed across his diverse filmography.

It was not long after the conception of cinema that Italy grew into a powerhouse of film production. In the beginning the majority of Italy’s films were historical epics with elaborate sets and costumes. As time passed and wars began and ended, cinema changed along with the world. The historical films became fewer and fewer and this allowed the neorealist movement to emerge and critique the decaying state of Italy’s society. Following this was a spree of spaghetti westerns, and then in 1970 came Dario Argento’s directorial debut. Argento became famous in the giallo genre and quickly established himself as one of Italy’s best horror directors. Many of his films were highly innovative in both their visual style and the way they challenged genre conventions. Argento has been crowned an auteur primarily due to his distinctive use of colour, lighting, camera work and musical score. His films revel in the macabre and frequently feature extreme sexual violence. Throughout his career his focus has shifted multiple times between giallo and supernatural films, with even a few attempts made to blend the two genres. He uses recurring narrative devices and character archetypes in his films. With his cult status and stylistic prowess he is able to draw large audiences while still maintaining his artistic integrity.

Argento’s first film, The Bird with the Crystal Plumage (1970), set in stone a number of the conventions that have recurred throughout the rest of his career. The script was written by Argento himself and was based off Fredric Brown’s novel The Screaming Mimi. The film tells the story of a writer who is pulled into a murder mystery after witnessing an attempted murder in an art gallery. It was quite well received critically and pushed the giallo genre to the masses. The word giallo is Italian for yellow, as the genre was named after the popular Italian mystery and crime novels that sported yellow covers. The stories featured in those novels, and subsequently the films based on the novels, shared many of the same characteristics. They frequently revolved around whodunit mysteries where the story would conclude with the dramatic reveal of the killer’s identity. Eroticism appears frequently in giallo as women are almost always viewed in a sexual nature. In a simple sense giallo films are thrillers that feature explicit and imaginative murder sequences, elaborate mise en scène and often eclectic soundtracks. This combination of abundant sex and violence pushed the boundaries of the film going public. Argento has personally directed many of the most graphic sequences ever put to film. Giallos often revolve around a detective character, although this detective need not be a police officer or a professional as a normal man that is thrown into the fray can work just as well. The detective in The Bird with the Crystal Plumage is an American writer living in Rome. By witnessing an attempted murder he is subsequently forced to take up the role of an amateur. As is common in Argento’s films, the amateur detective is both haunted and compelled by the mystery that drives the film.

Argento’s career then stepped up a notch with his 1975 film Deep Red, which was very well received by critics and audiences alike and is regarded as a quintessential giallo film. This time around the protagonist that must assume the role of a detective is Marcus Daly (played by David Hemmings). Daly is nothing more than a music teacher until he bears witness to a murder through the window of an apartment building. Much like in The Bird with the Crystal Plumage it is the act of being a witness that transforms seemingly regular characters into detectives that then involve themselves in tracking down a mysterious serial killer. Daly struggles throughout Deep Red to uncover an important clue that he knows he is missing. The failure to recollect or recognise a vital clue is a recurring theme in Argento films. Primarily this is because “Argento’s parody of the crime procedures that dominate detective fiction are used to underscore the lack of faith he invests in his amateur sleuths” (Mendik, 2003). This missing clue becomes the centrepiece of the film and is used to show Daly’s psychological obsession with tracking down the murderer.

Next came Suspiria (1977), which is the film that solidified Argento as one of Italy’s greatest horror directors. Suspiria left behind the typical format and conventions of the giallo genre and branched out into the supernatural. The surreal nature of Suspiria allowed it to avoid an emblematic narrative and focus more on aesthetic flare. In many ways Suspiria transcends the boundaries of the horror genre and becomes an art-film of the highest calibre. As Maitland McDonagh writes:

“You can’t reasonably look at Argento’s work without bearing in mind the contradictory context from which he springs: on the one hand, the practical Italian film industry, with its relentless emphasis on genre and its quick and dirty production practices; on the other, the cerebral world of film criticism, with its inevitable emphasis on analysis and intellectual distance.”

In this sense Suspiria is able to find a balance between these two worlds. Argento is a director capable of serving the needs of the social-economic system in which his films are made, while at the same exploring the craft and evolving as an artist. With the opening sequence of Suspiria, Argento was once again able to push audiences to their limits with a close-up shot of a blood soaked heart being repeatedly stabbed. Xavier Mendik observes that “The unnerving force of the scene is once again testament to the director’s ability to manipulate every aspect of cinematic technology in his quest to expand the boundaries of horror cinema”. Later would come Phenomena (1985) which was Argento’s first real attempt to combine the supernatural and giallo genres. It received below average reviews and was seen as signifying the beginning of a decline for Argento’s career. The supernatural aspect of Phenomena came from Argento’s fascination and preoccupation with animals. Jennifer Connelly’s character, Jennifer Corvino, has the supernatural ability of being able to communicate with insects, an ability which she uses to solve a series of murders. This obsession with animals has affected many of Argento’s films, most obviously those in the so-called ‘animal trilogy’, although animals do frequently appear right through his filmography.

If there is one thing that has remained consistent throughout Argento’s entire career it is his extravagant visual and aural style. The two most important and distinctive aspects of this are his use of colour and music. In Deep Red and Suspiria the use of music is critical to generating atmosphere and adrenaline. The music for both films was composed and played by Italian rock band Goblin. Their use of electronic keyboards and string instruments greatly aided Argento’s films as their music was able to match his eclectic visual style perfectly. Goblin has worked with Argento on the majority of his films, making them almost always identifiable in relation to him. Another key technique in Argento’s filmmaking repertoire is his use of long tracking shots. The most memorable of which appears in Tenebrae (1982), where the camera actually moves across the entire exterior of a house, simulating the perspective of the approaching murderer. Combining a long take with a probing and observational camera creates a very voyeuristic feel which is especially suited to the type of sexual horror films Argento makes, and these long takes often utilize around an anonymous point of view. The audience is looking through the eyes of a killer who has not yet been identified in the film, and often even their sex has yet to be established. This ambiguity forces the audience to assume the role of the voyeur as they have no tangible character with which to identify and associate the point of view.

Argento has always been recognised as an innovative filmmaker. This may be seen in his unconventional takes on film and genre standards, or in a new and original use of technology. In Four Flies on Grey Velvet (1972) a specialised camera was used that was capable of recording an entire reel of film in less than a second. By doing this, Argento was able to show an extreme slow motion shot of a car crash. In Suspiria Argento has the camera fly down a suspended wire towards the ground. This gives the feeling of something darting towards a person standing on the ground, threatening them from above. Another trademark of Argento is the use of old photo stock. This technique is responsible for the dazzling and rainbow-like use of colour in many of his films. The dramatically changing colours in Suspiria are produced using outdated Technicolour stock, which Argento used to give the film a striking visual intensity. Even late into his career his lust for innovation continued, as The Stendhal Syndrome (1996) was the first Italian film to feature CGI.

A common motif in Argento films is that of unconventional gender roles and twists. This frequent misuse of pre-existing and accepted conventions in his films often caught audiences out and turned critics on their heads. For instance, in The Bird with the Crystal Plumage the big reveal at the end of the film is that the murderer was in fact the wife, and not the husband as the viewer had been led to believe. In traditional horror films the serial killer has almost always been a man. Because of this institution it became ritual for there to be female victims who would be stalked and then murdered by the male killer. This was an outlet for sexual frustration and hostility in society, and in turn gave horror films a very chauvinistic feel. “On the face of it, the relation between the sexes in slasher films could hardly be clearer. The killer is with few exceptions recognizably human and distinctly male; his fury is unmistakably sexual in both roots and expression” (Clover, 1987). For Argento to turn this around was his way to reject the necessity for an archetype serial killer who fitted the gender role of a perverse male with intimacy issues. Argento’s films do however present explicit sexual content in other ways. There are a number of occasions in his films where beautiful women are murdered when they are naked, or at least close to it. The violence is often sexual in nature; a woman may be dominated and then stripped before being killed. “Argento favours glass and mirrors on a fairly consistent basis, scarring and dispatching his actresses in an assault on the ‘narcissism’ the films so fetishistically construct” (Hunt, 2000). To counter this kind of overt patriarchy, Argento would have male characters that were feeble and easily controlled by women. This is shown strongly in Suspiria where the evil force responsible for the murders is revealed to be a coven of witches, all obviously female. These female witches controlled the school and all those within it, manipulating any men that came into contact with them. Another striking example of Argento’s penchant for gender reversal comes in Deep Red. Here the final twist reveals that the killer is, once again, a woman. She is portrayed wearing black leather gloves and has heavy white makeup on her face. This costuming is done to mimic that of the typical male serial killers found in horror films, who wear white masks to hide their faces, which were often deformed.

Dario Argento is a director that has made a name for himself as not only a commercial horror film director, but also as a talented and innovative art film director. He brought giallo films to the mainstream and changed future horror films forever. His visual style is astounding, inventive and entirely his own. Colour, lighting, camera movement and music all work in unison in Argento’s films to create thrilling and frightening atmospheres and action. His narratives are often unconventional and challenge accepted norms. He reverses gender roles while at the same time exploiting sex in the most violent ways imaginable. Argento has pushed boundaries while remaining an asset to the film industry. He is a one of a kind director and one of the greatest visionaries to come out of Italy.

Cary Grant’s character, Roger Thornhill, glances to the left, then to the right, then back to the left again. He’s looking scared, tense and worn down, and Eve Kendall (played by Eva Marie Saint) is clinging desperately to his arm. Each turn of his head is accompanied by a cut to what his eyes are looking at, allowing the audience to feel his desperation and to explore his lack of options. Visually it is asking the audience a question, the same question that is running through Roger Thornhill’s head, how do I get out of here? Looking petrified he darts to the left, female in tow, but is quickly deterred as a long shot reveals a distant yet approaching henchman. In the sky the sun has nearly set and is casting long shadows across the faces of the national monument, giving the rocky exterior a cold and unforgiving feel. The camera tracks with Thornhill and Kendall as they crawl cautiously across a narrow ledge; Mt. Rushmore is clearly recognisable in the background, reinforcing the unique location. Hitchcock cross-cuts once more, now to a medium shot of the nearby henchman as he inches closer still to our hero and heroine. This shot leaves the audience without an accurate sense of the distance between the characters. By distorting space in this way an element of mystery is conjured, forcing the audience to wonder just how far behind the henchman really is. As the tension continues to build an increasing number of long shots are brought into play, each one is effectively isolating the characters against the vast bleakness of Mt. Rushmore. This visual isolation becomes a direct reflection on the present situation and is used to convey to the audience that there is little hope of escape for the romantic couple. The pursuing henchman seems almost incognito in the distance as his grey suit blends in perfectly against the exterior surface. His dull and unenergetic clothes are a strong contrast to the bright white and orange coloured clothes of the main characters. This costuming choice seems to suggest that both Thornhill and Kendall are desperately out of place, while the henchman is working with a home ground advantage. The mise en scène, the cinematography, the music and the narrative are all creating a situation in which the odds are stacked heavily against our heroes.

A sequence of such grandiose nature as the climax of North by Northwest wouldn’t be complete without dynamic use of genre conventions. There are many instances of this throughout the film that help to enhance the thriller and adventure aspects of the story. The most prominent genre convention in this sequence comes just as Rodger Thornhill appears to be reaching safer ground. The music slows and becomes deeper; unmistakably foreshadowing a looming disaster. As the camera pulls back in time with the music it reveals the imminent danger waiting above. Thornhill is unknowingly walking right below a perched henchman that is waiting for him, ready to strike. This revealing shot is an effective way to clue the audience in on information that isn’t presently available to the characters. In this instance it creates a heightened level of suspense for a short moment of time by making the audience feel both anxious for Thornhill and frightened of having to witness the attack. At the same time it leaves the viewer totally powerless to help him. This creates a direct audience involvement in the plight of the characters. Alternatively Hitchcock could have used a simpler scare tactic, where the henchman would have just jumped from off screen to attack Thornhill, aiming to shock the audience with surprise. By choosing to use a revealing shot instead it makes the payoff much more significant, as the build up has been more involved and drawn out. As the music reaches its quietest point, Eve Kendall breaks out with a terrifying scream the instant she spots the henchman, who is already jumping down to tackle Thornhill. The two men tumble perilously across Mt. Rushmore, Herrmann’s score resounding heavily, resembling a slow, strong heartbeat. A drum rolls in the score as Thornhill fights against the henchman, barely managing to resist his knife and eject him off the side of the monument. We see the henchman becoming smaller and smaller as he falls to a distant death below. Off screen the sound of a woman screaming is heard, immediately the connection is made that Kendall is in danger.

Hitchcock is now ready to take his finishing sequence and lift it to the next level of suspense and thrill. He does this through the use of a high angle shot that would nearly paralyse anyone with a phobia of heights. Eve Kendall plays the damsel in distress as she is nearly thrown right off the cliff and is left clinging for dear life to only a few jagged rocks. As the audience looks down from above on Kendall as she cries for help the woods that lurk far below become frighteningly prominent. This extreme high angle shot distorts the vertical dimension, creating emphasis and exaggerating the distance to the ground. Visually this is representing how Eve Kendall feels, inside her head a fear of falling is running rampant. A long shot shows us a side on view of the emergency as Rodger Thornhill reaches strenuously towards Kendall’s wavering hands. In this shot the dark night sky meets with the rough exterior of Mt. Rushmore, diminishing the characters and leaving them at the mercy of the immense force of nature. Cut now to a close up of two hands desperately trying to make contact, then another cut to Thornhill’s other hand straining to hold his weight. The implications are clear that she is just out of his reach and that time is running out. For just a second a third close up hits the screen, this time of it’s Kendall’s feet as her footing falls from below her. This split second editing is dramatic enough to cause the audience to skip a heart beat just before Thornhill is able to swoop down to grab her. Now the stakes are higher with both their lives relying on just the one hand to keep them from falling. Thornhill desperately begins to call for help, but the only person nearby is the henchman. A long shot shows the henchman as he debates with himself what to do. As he steps forward towards our heroes the camera pushes in towards his feet. Steadily the music starts to build as the henchman’s foot comes down onto Thornhill’s hand, threatening to break his grip. The close up on this action is emphasising its importance and manipulates the audience into respecting the gravity of this life or death situation.

Suddenly a gunshot is heard from off screen. It’s unexpected and unexplained as the audience isn’t aware of any other characters nearby. The close up still rests on the henchman’s foot but now it appears to be going limp; he begins to topple over and quickly plummets to his fate, Herrmann’s score whistling as he falls. Hitchcock reveals the gunman through a cut to a police officer standing atop Mt. Rushmore, accompanied by the villain who has already been arrested. It’s not over yet though, there’s still time for one last dramatic moment. For this last hurrah an assortment of both visual and aural techniques are used to convey meaning and transport the narrative smoothly and effectively. It starts simply with a series of cross-cuts between Thornhill and Kendall, each one is accompanied by a line of dialogue. The close ups of their faces show them both straining to get out of their dilemma, and each cut is pushing the camera closer and closer, creating the illusion that Eve Kendall is gradually being lifted to safety. Hitchcock now employs the use of a match-cut to alleviate his characters from danger and at the same time avoid the need to explain the finer details of their rescue. This is important because it allows the conclusion to flow much smoother and not be bogged down on particulars that would dampen the romantic mood of Thornhill saving his damsel in distress. The match-cut itself is done on the image of Kendall being lifted up; however the setting radically changes between cuts. Originally they were outside, clinging to the Mt. Rushmore monument for dear life, this is a strong contrast to the security and comfort of the train bedroom suite they find themselves in after the cut. To alleviate the disconcerting nature of distorting time in this fashion, a sound bridge is used to push the audience forward in time. Just as the cut is taking place, Thornhill refers to Kendall as ‘Mrs. Thornhill’; this is an obvious indication that at some point between these two moments in time the characters have been married. Using expository dialogue in this fashion is a quick way to progress the narrative without the need for a montage or a much longer scene. Economically, it is a neat and clever way to wrap up the story and assure the audience that the characters have been delivered safely from danger. However, there is one last shot left, a subtle and cheeky Hitchcock signature. It is an exterior shot showing the Thornhill’s train steaming ahead into a tunnel. By way of innuendo this is implying that the newly weds will soon be making love. The original 1959 audience may have had to think twice about the symbolism involved in this final shot.

The greatest glory of The Hour-Glass Sanatorium is the set design and use of locations. The sets are complex, beautifully constructed and endlessly detailed. They create an expansive, distinctive world that is rich with both the beautiful and the decrepit. Subtle use of unnatural colour lavishes each wonderful location. Characters have self-reflexive discussions about the nature of time and memory, and the film has a strange obsession with birds. We are asked to ponder just what is real and what is fake, and if it really matters in the context of past events. There are mystical, playful scenes, such as a mannequin tea-party, although that quickly turns eerie and frightening. There is a strange sense of humour throughout the film, even as the tone shifts more towards horror as danger sets in around our protagonist and his paranoia grows. Everything is highly poetic, metaphoric and decorative. It is easy to get lost in such an imaginative, surreal, deeply textured film, with an exceptionally powerful, visually epic ending.

Hand-held cinematography dominates the aesthetic. It is shaky, constantly stylized and frequently takes on an active first person perspective. The dramatic shifts in exposure and dangerously shallow focus give a feeling of frenzy and hyperrealism. Hitchcock’s Vertigo is evoked repeatedly through homage, such as in the use of colours, the voyeuristic tendencies and even the narrative structure itself. One woman seemingly takes on the identity of two, begging us to wonder what it means to be an individual. Is it anything more than how we are perceived by others? Events fold back on themselves and repeat in mysterious, engrossing, slightly different ways. As a sixth generation Chinese director, Ye Lou is strongly romantic and personal. He is searching for intimacy in a place where such a luxury is dampened by the overbearing toxic nature of contemporary society. We are sutured into Suzhou River as we experience with all our senses the aching power that can be generated from an atmospheric, painfully doomed, never-ending love story.