This movie Breathless is like entering the fast-paced, rebellious world of Jean-Luc Godard, where cinema's boundaries are stretched and reshaped. It isn't just about a thief on the run with his American lover -that's what it looks like at first glance. It is therefore a manifesto for a new sort of filmmaking, one in which tradition was flung out the window and rules were made to be challenged. If you ever wonder why you feel that some movies might be an experience rather than just a story, you should watch Breathless; it is lively, fresh, full of audacity—a breath of air in a film business that had become a tad stale.

Breathless is just about the simplest plot ever. A very young car thief, Michel Poiccard (Jean-Paul Belmondo), had just killed a police officer in the head. He flees in Paris on his stolen car while chasing the girl with whom he had had a short fling some time ago: an American student named Patricia (Jean Seberg). They find themselves enmeshed in a game of cat and mouse not only with the police but with their emotions as well.

This is although a plot that could easily end up in the genre of a typical crime thriller or noir, Breathless is anything but conventional. While it does take an interest in the outer lives of the characters, the film is much more concerned with the inner lives of its characters. There appears to be an air of carelessness in Michel's cool, cynical behavior as if he cares little for his future. Patricia is both repelled and attracted to his spontaneity; she is a victim of her attraction versus morality. The result is a film that doesn't merely track some traditional arc of cause and effect but toys with the very concept of storytelling itself.

One of the most fascinating and telling features of Breathless is its unrelenting failure to obey traditional filmmaking. The movie often resorts to breaking the fourth wall; the characters look at and even speak to the camera, something which feels startling at first but quickly seems altogether normal. When they happen, the bursts of direct address are rare, but they really help weave together a feeling of privacy among the characters and viewers of the film. It’s almost as though Godard is saying, “We know you’re watching, and we’re aware of it too.” This self-awareness adds an element of playfulness to the film, making it feel like a collaboration between the filmmaker and the audience, rather than a one-sided delivery of information.

This breaking of the fourth wall is especially evident in the way Godard plays with time and space. He does not respect continuity or most of the traditional rules of editing. A scene might cut out of a conversation in midsentence, or the camera will linger on some detail that seems utterly irrelevant to what is happening. Such moments can break up the flow of a film, but they also stimulate the viewer to participate more actively in his or her viewing. You are forced to think about how a film is made and what it means to tell a story in this rather unorthodox way.

What is most remarkable about Breathless is its use of jump cuts-a style that would define the French New Wave. Jump cuts are cutting between two scenes that dislocate the flow of time, sometimes without attention to spatial continuity. Sometimes in Breathless, a scene comes on without warning: suddenly shifted from one angle and possibly to another location. You get surprised. In fact, initially jolted, then get into the rhythm of and actually learn to love it with each succeeding view of Breathless. It was a departure, revolutionary in its day as Godard used jump cuts. In traditional cinema, every scene is constructed for seamless movement from one moment to another. But here, he breaks it all in terms of spontaneity and urgency which match the impulsiveness of the characters. The jump cuts speak of too much time running at too high a speed, of life running short to bother with the formalities of telling a story. The film itself, raw and almost chaotic, forms the part of editing.

Okay so The story is quite basic, but the real charm about Breathless lies in its surroundings. Paris is not at all a backdrop for the movie but is well and truly a character in it. The streets of that city, its iconic cafés, and its constant buzz of movement and modernity give the film life. The fact that Godard chose to shoot the film on the streets of Paris rather than a studio created an instant feel to the film as if still highly unusual in today's filmmaking.

The winding city streets and the icons of the city such as Notre Dame or Champs-Élysées are the playground of Michel and Patricia, and the visual style of the film is the chaotic and spontaneous nature of their relationship. Paris isn't an idealized romanticized city as one would have in the films they're accustomed to; it's dirty, throbbing, and pulsating all the time. Godard's use of handheld camera movements, not to mention the use of natural light, adds up to the impression that his characters are part of that ever-moving world yet are isolated within it.

The music of Breathless is also an integral part of its atmosphere. All of the energy and frenzied rhythm of the film can be very well complemented with the jazzy score given by composer Martial Solal. It plays throughout and has its rhythm and tension which it develops. The playfulness and unpredictability are really on the same scale with that of the characters. It even helps to figure out what kind of tone is expected to be found in the movie. At one moment it takes off into dizzying climaxes that raise the level of tension in a scene; at another it recedes into softer sounds, opening up space for what is actually heard in the city.

Some ways about which the movie score is a mirage for all the movie themes. For starters, it is jazz enough compared to the life of its characters. Their lives indeed appear so live-in-the-moment, without fear as for what next. Just as with the jump cuts, as well as the relaxed camera movements, the feel of the film is reinforced about it being liberated, chaotic and youthsful with rebellious tendency.

Much of the energy of the film is due to the great performances of the two leads. Jean-Paul Belmondo, in this film, portrays Michel as charismatic and charming but infuriating at times. He is a man who is not playing according to the rules of society but more like a character against everything surrounding him. It's all swagger and bravado, yet all of that bravado hides a sense of insecurity and vulnerability. Michel is always looking for something more, something greater, and yet he never finds it. That's what gives Belmondo's performance such an incredibly complex texture-it makes the character at once likable and frustrating.

On the other hand, Jean Seberg does Patricia. She contrasts rather starkly with Michel's wild energy. Seberg is even quieter but no less thrilling. It is pretty clear that Patricia has at one time been repelled by Michel and attracted to him and decides whether she should leave him or not. There is a soft quality to her hardness that gives the film an emotional quiet depth, and of course, since she is one who has the tendency to fall, and one on the precipice of self-discovery-so caught between the excitement, so does she now find herself: young thrill versus growing up is that fragile balance that best defines it with Seberg.
Legacy of Breathless

Breathless in 1960 brought the revolution into cinema, when the whole world had shifted through this French New Wave where Godard played an extremely vital role by changing conventional cinema production. The way this film used jump cuts, making the plot not look all together continued, gave the movie that sort of edge and identity that most could easily connect with. One of those things which was possible for the first time-the first time filmed-and all those things because they had found resting on youth rebellion and outrage at life. Feels new, raw, really gets the essence of revolution across.

But Breathless did not alter the process of film-making itself, but it altered how these films were perceived by an audience. This film took down a wall between a viewer and a story; the viewer becomes a participant in drama. It lets the viewer enter the film on a more profound level, question the conventions of its storytelling and therefore appreciate the medium as an art form.

The influence of Breathless can be seen in hundreds of thousands of films today. In fact, it is really impossible to measure the extent of this film's impact on language-from cutting style in film and storytelling for example, in Quentin Tarantino or Martin Scorsese or even Wes Anderson. All their work has been heavily influenced by Breathless. One could certainly feel the influences in every thread of a modern filmmaking.

Breathless is not just a film but a revolution in cinema. It made us change our way of thinking about the story, about editing, and even about what cinema should be. With unorthodox storytelling, such bold style, and unforgettable performances, the movie is a thriller for anyone willing to enter that world. Watch it: it's like listening to a jazz solo: unpredictable, bold, and full of life. A breath of fresh air in the movie world, it remains today as relevant and revolutionary as in 1960.

Ranking = 100/100 Absolutely 💯 classic 👌

It was a damm freaking experience, to be honest with you, something like which one would experience after being inside the theatre. Well, I'm still processing everything I've just watched since watching Blow Out (1981). That kind of movie just gets deep inside of you once the credits start rolling off. Excellent is the work done in generating the tension by director Brian De Palma. But what really amazes me most with De Palma is suspense laced with social commentary and tight at every curve. Let me thus provide my first view as to how I came across it.

Pretty straight introduction. Here we see ourselves right in front of Jack Terry, played by John Travolta, a low-budget sound operator, working with a slasher film. He is doing his job, recording sounds for the movie but then comes the unexpected. One night out in the woods recording sounds, Jack accidentally records a car accident. Sounds pretty mundane, but believe me, that is where it all creates the whole plot, and things begin to spin.

It is just an accident that Jack has discovered. Soon, he finds out that this car crash may have been connected to a plot hatched by someone. That really puts him into a rabbit hole that gets deeper and much more dangerous as the film goes on. I must say that the way De Palma builds tension here is phenomenal. It is as if you can feel the angst Jack is going through, and that feeling of being trapped in a situation that just seems to worsen and worsen is something the film does brilliantly.

John Travolta, whom I am used to seeing in light-hearted roles, is absolutely fantastic here. His performance is very grounded and realistic. He's just a regular guy, and Travolta plays him so realistically that you cannot help but sympathize with him. He's no action hero. He's just a man who gets tossed into something he does not understand, and his fear and confusion are palpable. You can almost envision the fight in him as he searches for facts behind the accident but not to be a step behind villains who want him shut up.

What is interesting, however, with Blow Out is that it carves an interesting discussion over the idea of sound: The job of Jack as a sound technician forms the centre of the movie, and it is fantastic how the film uses its sound to create suspense. Sometimes, you just catch things happening in the background, and sometimes, certain things are accented, making you feel like you are right with Jack trying to figure out what is and isn't real. But outstandingly brilliant sound design aside, you'll probably bet on every little noise, meaning something from the great crash of the accident to those subtle hums that raise tension.

One of the things that has impressed me so far has been the use of visuals. You have to guess what is happening in the opening shot. Beautifully, you see De Palma's directing - perfect. He's known forever for split screens, but here, he's been using them in such a manner that it never comes off as gimmicky. It's a very bright way of putting several views before an eye, especially if everything goes on quite quickly, and you need to look for more than one thing.

There are plenty of plot twists and all that, but what I really enjoyed about the story was that it did so many unpredictable things that one never remained surprised, particularly as Jack started investigating this car accident. It unfolds the way it develops but turns into something much bigger, even much darker. And by the last act, I found myself completely hooked. But that is only how twists and turns made better sense, for sure, and every new twist made everything feel dangerous, not just in solving a murder mystery but how much we could ever trust what we saw or what we heard, how so easily our perception of what the world is can be shaken and moulded.

Politics have always been a great presence in the movie too, for me. It is very easy to get into the thriller aspects, but somehow I could not help noticing how the film touches upon corruption, power, and manipulation. The truth is somehow hidden under many lies and is controlled by people who have the power to tell the story. This is a very powerful commentary on how the media and government can sway what we consider to be fact, and it's even chilling to think that Jack's investigation really is about uncovering a lie that has been very carefully crafted by those in influence.

The woman Jack meets while investigating the accident is also integral to the story, Sally (Nancy Allen). The background of this main character is a complex lady ex-beauty queen who ends up as a prostitute. She is first off a "damsel in distress"-type character, but, through the course of the plot, turns out to be so much more. There really is a chemistry between her and Jack. What they have is very realistic because, by the time they even begin, their lives already are in a very bad place. She's not really a victim in that sense: she doesn't get defined by someone's action; she has agency and plays a great part in the mystery. A great thing about the movie is that it never treats her as a sidekick entirely; she has her arc and reasoning.

As I was watching this, I could not help but notice how Blow Out manipulates the use of truth and lies. Throughout the film, he tries to stitch up a story for everything that happened around that car crash, but the more he keeps trying to dig into the thing, the more it proves that reality is rather impossible to reach. It is not easy enough; everything is slowly covered by the unravelling of the lie, and it takes him as a victim instead of a detective. It's almost funny how he responds to the progressively deteriorating situation, too, when, like most of us, he just wanted to get his job done, but things quickly go wrong and, in the end, it is indeed Jack who has to face, not only the conspiracy but also his role in that.
I think it is the sense of realism that makes Blow Out stand out amongst other thrillers. It's not too saturated with hyper-action scenes or just genuinely unbelievable plot turns. A film doesn't rush you. You never feel this film blowing by key points in it. It gives time to assimilate, and all the weights of every attempt Jack has to make that finally gives him a decision on the whole situation and who exactly he would be able to turn towards for support. It's slow but burns right.

The end of the movie is haunting, and I think it's something that I will never forget anytime soon. Without giving too much away, the final moments of Blow Out feel like a gut punch. It's just one of those endings that makes you question everything you just watched, and it left me pondering the implications long after the film was over. It is not a happy ending, but it is fitting and enough to remind us that very often, the truth is not always palatable as we may want it to be.

Blow Out is one of those films that takes all its time, builds suspense, and then punches well at the end. It is certainly a thriller, but the film makes you think. It's a thriller, but it also makes you think. The film shows how we see the world and how easily the truth can be twisted. It’s about what happens when you find out the truth and how powerful people can change things to fit their story. I’m not sure if I’ll watch it again soon, but it definitely made an impact on me. If you want a smart, exciting movie that’ll make you think after it’s over, Blow Out is definitely worth watching.

Ranking = 95/100 Absolutely, it was freaking experience 100 💯 it's worth watching.

After watching There will be blood i was amazed of paul thomas The Master (2012) is one of those movies you never forget long after the credits are done. I am just speechless by this one. It is a very raw and real movie thought-provoking film which is intense and far away from all those ordinary films with a simple story line and resolution for something like that. It explores human complexity in the behavior as it tries to seek meaning and purpose in life.

From the opening scene, I could tell this was going to be a special movie. The film starts with Freddie Quell (Joaquin Phoenix), a troubled WWII veteran, who seems to be struggling with some serious issues. He's lost; he's angry; and doesn't know what to do with himself. At the film's top, however, it is hard not to feel badly for him, especially when accounting for the talent that delivers the role-Pheonix himself. Thus with Freddie. This Freddie makes the very un-hazy, though yet interesting portraiturings. Every movement, every gaze, reminded the stage of the tortures to this creature's life. He is one who only survives but it is because demons-rage, confusion, and loneliness-keep making it impossible for him to survive.

When the true story becomes true, when Freddie starts seeing Lancaster Dodd (Philip Seymour Hoffman), leading a novel religious movement by the name The Cause. It is charming, persuasive, and full of deep confidence in his belief system. He is one of those men who could get anything he wants from people, and the evidence is that he draws everybody to him. There must be something in Freddie that Dodd looks for, and it is that which makes him embrace Freddie and give him the love life that Freddie desperately needed.

The most interesting thing about this movie is how these two characters are related to each other. The relation between them is complex, and sometimes even scary. Dodd seems to be like a mentor at first but obviously his influence over Freddie is more manipulative than it seemed to be. Dodd uses Freddie's weakness for his good but at the same time we come to realize that Dodd needs Freddie for some reason. It's quite a struggle, so one can hardly tell who is the boss and who is not, with a strong pull and push in between them.

We see the battle between Freddie and Dodd and The Cause throughout the movie. Freddie wants to believe in something, but he does not fit into the mold that Dodd has created for his followers. Freddie is wild and unpredictable and bears no resemblance to control of his emotions that Dodd wants; these tensions built created much of the film impact. He's always fighting against what Dodd envisions for him but cannot break free from his hold over him. I loved half the reasons this film won't give you an easy out. It reminds me of the complexities of faith, control, and just the most basic human requirement for human connection.
I actually found the ways in which identity was treated in this movie as really fascinating. Freddie is a man who does not have any form of self. He has been a veteran of horrors and now drifts around in a world that does not seem to understand him. It finds him Dodd. But that is not within the classes that Dodd teaches Freddie as a response. It's a journey that is as full of angst and heartache: Freddie becomes the victim at his own hands, but it is also of others that want him to fit the paradigm that cannot allow him complete acceptance. No panacea; it's an ache in motion.

We do not know that Freddie by the end of the movie.

It was a slow movie. And I never felt to feel bored for even one minute. Every frame is worthwhile; every shot builds up the story. It is just excellent in cinematography. The use of light and color is simply breathtaking; there are moments which have been shot beautifully enough that they make the story much more immersive. One of those movies which needs your attention. Many were hiding under the surface, and what came out that was going on right in front of my eyes was in a way endless attempts trying to make some sense as to what actual statement film could be indicating about the power and control along with human nature.
The performance is, indeed superb in the case of The Master. Of course, Freddie was played by the great Joaquin Phoenix; I have never seen so long ago an actor so engrossing in every scene he performed, so heavy with the weight of the inner turmoil of the character. Sometimes he does not even have to say a word and you could tell all you want to know about Freddie from his body language and expressions. Philip Seymour Hoffman really impresses me similarly when watching Lance Dodds-he really makes this incredible comfort as well as unnerving while filling such a role, just creating the aura of authority in some really jarring sort of calming yet disgusting way. He's an arresting actor—Dodd is the kind of fellow who can manipulate the good folks with his words, and Hoffman plays him with such such conviction that it's nigh on impossible not to get swept up with, though you do feel something off about the bloke. And then there is Amy Adams, Dodd's wife Peggy. She is serene, measured but always holding the upper hand over her coterie. There is something quietly understated about the whole performance, though underplaying has a huge pay-off in Adams's case. Just fantastic watching her interplay with Freddie and Dodd.

I actually liked most of what I was forced to think about during my viewing of The Master-in fact, too much so. It does not make it easy by the end, but rather something that will leave a question within the mind of a viewer on something that may have him attempt to guess long after he has viewed the film. What exactly is The Cause? Is it a cult? Or maybe even more? That is what Freddie wants? But who is Dodd? Does he really believe in what he's preaching, or is this just a way to control people? The movie will not give you that definitive no that answers those questions, and for that, it is that appealing. It invites you to the story and to deep thinking concerning the characters and their reasons.

And in the end, The Master is a film that haunts your memory. It's not exactly the kind of movie you watch for its plot or its action. It is a cinema that unfolds the complexities of the human situation. This is about identity, power, manipulation, and a quest for meaning in a world that may feel confusing and uncertain. You are never really told what to think about this film, but you are compelled to think for yourself. It is really a very thought-provoking and powerful movie, and I can really not stop thinking about it. If you are the kind of person who feels like watching a film challenging you and leaving you in more questions than answers, you should watch The Master.

Great expectations rode alongside my decision to see L.A. Confidential. Not every neo-noir crime film, nor certainly one that gained nearly unanimous approbation, then moves on to a series of nine Academy Awards nominations but just two wins. None made every promise for the kind of story wrapped in sleek noir style but against the dirty flashy backdrop of 1950s Los Angeles. It's mystery, and yet so much more: a class act of storytelling, of acting.

What really caught my eye right away, actually, was the way layers of the characters in this movie are. Unlike your typical whodunits with clean-cut heroes, L.A. Confidential presents a narrative that is set by three cops who are quite flawed. Every one of the officers symbolizes a different way of dealing with law enforcement; thus, that creates dramatic character interactions, but also really enriches the movie's moral theme.

For example, there is the one and only Officer Bud White-a man who moves with brute strength and a sense of justice that cannot be tainted by anything. Hatred towards domestic abusers had been the reason why Bud could be the quintessential "tough guy with a heart." Though, on more than a few occasions, the same temper proved to work against Bud. It was a revelation seeing that intensity from Crowe. He brought that raw energy into Bud so when the weak spots were ready, they knocked that much more.

There's then the aspect of Sergeant Jack Vincennes, played by Kevin Spacey, a smooth cop more interested in celebrity status than in being just. This pairing is with sleazoid journalist Sid Hudgens, played by Danny DeVito, for orchestrating major splash celebrity busts within the tabloids, but for all intents and purposes comes across as vapid and mercenary. However, naturally, the situation gets complicated, and so do his own layers and his character in terms of his redemption. Understated yet powerfully charismatic too, once again proofing to be a huge talent.

Finally, there's the rule-book officer, Lieutenant Ed Exley (Guy Pearce), who wants to be a high-ranking man. On the face of things, Exley is just about impossible to bear, in his rigidity-but how Pearce plays a character in conflict and evolving morality is nothing short of impressive; by the final scene of this movie, Exley's transformation is as compelling as the mystery itself.

L.A. Confidential is one of those movies that are a labyrinth of murder, corruption, and treachery, all based on James Ellroy's novel of the same name. Sounds very simple with a gangland massacre at the Nite Owl diner; nothing, however, seems as cut and dried as it goes with the investigation deepening.

Handled well by Brian Helgeland and Curtis Hanson, multiple plotlines never lose audience interest. Whether it is through the sleazy underbelly of Hollywood or pervasive corruption in the LAPD, each subplot feels integral and contributes to the overall narrative. The pacing is impeccable, with twists and turns that continue to add layers of mystery to the characters and ourselves.

Writes expository information very well. Nothing is thrust upon the viewer's lap but everything bleeds through in small, tiny pieces of dialogue and visuals and character interactions, entrusting its audience to come together and piece together its own puzzle so such eventual revelations become all the sweeter.

L.A. Confidential is such a visual treat for the eyes. The cinematography by Dante Spinotti captures the duality of Los Angeles in the 1950s-the glamorous Hollywood and a more sinister, grimy side of the city. Production design here has been simply astonishing-from costuming to the sets recreated with minute details, and it is just eye candy.

Special mention must be made to the lighting of the movie. Here, the shadows used are so integral to the noir atmosphere that is created here. Often, shadows highlight the moral ambiguity of the characters or the secrets they harbour. The frame might be of a dimly lit interrogation room or the neon glow of a busy nightclub-probably painstakingly crafted.

The score composed by Jerry Goldsmith is equally evocative. The music holds jazzy undertones, feeling portentous, hence rounding the overall tone of the film. It soundtracks the heightened moments in the movie, yet pegs it all back into place as in 1950 and its environment.

Over a crime thriller, L.A. Confidential comes out as an exercise in power and corruption, paid only with integrity. Nothing really remains silent when it would otherwise speak about the inner decay of the institutions like that in LAPD; forcing all its characters-and by those vicariously, the spectators-as well as face harsh truth.

I saw three different versions of fault. In each of the three main characters, there is his own variation, but each looks to find a way out amidst a sea of gross corruption. Important questions now surface: What constitutes a "good cop"? To what extent can a society even grasp its true understanding of justice? To what degree is this to come at an additional price that involves telling truths?

The film goes even further to explore darker celebrity culture and media frenzy. Characters such as Sid Hudgens and Jack Vincennes mock the production and consumption of scandals and gossip, a very current feeling today, if less so in the 1990s.One of the ways by which L.A. Confides so successfully because its cast uniformly excels, excepting Crowe, Spacey, and Pearce, who shines as the great Kim Basinger turns in a tour de force as high-class escort Lynn Bracken, modelled after Veronica Lake: she brings quiet strength and vulnerability to the role making Lynn much more than an ornamented femme fatale, and it's no wonder that this film won her Oscar for Best Supporting Actress.

Equally persuasive is the affable countenance of Captain Dudley Smith, harbouring within him a wicked design: James Cromwell. The chill he sends reminds one how power corrupts the outwardly respectable figure most.

Nothing but masterly can account for the climaxes of L.A. Confidential. It draws to the moment when threads of the plot do begin to knot up into a conclusion, which is an intense climatic in which shooting alternates with suspensefulness mated with emotionalism. Other than the ending is because here are thrown in emotions of all that drama. Now we care a great deal about these characters and what happens to them.

Since its release, L.A. Confidential has only gained stature. Everyone speaks of it as one of the greatest films of the 1990s, and they have cause. Perhaps no film can quite assemble such strength in coherent form as this does when all the elements come together in its remarkable storytelling, complicated characters, and deep thematic undertow.

For me, L.A. Over-the-top as an experience as a film, Confidential did a bit too much in reminding the viewer what storytelling is all about at its very best. This is one of those films that makes you think and challenge you, forcing you into the world on another level. And, like the best noir fables, it leaves you with this annoying unease-not because of what it has to tell us about its characters, but because of what it's telling us about us.

If you haven't seen L.A. Confidential yet, do that to yourself. Be either a crime drama fan, a character-driven movie guy, or just an appreciative film lover. This is that movie that calls for—and promises to repay with full value - your attention.

Rating = 90/100

There is something eternally fascinating in the idea of ordinary life interrupted by strange dreams. Most of us hide those dreams at the back of our minds - short fantasies that we permit ourselves to retreat into while commuting, working, or even lying in bed. But what happens when those fantasies crash into reality? This is what The Secret Life of Walter Mitty, a 2013 movie, asked for; Ben Stiller sat on the director's chair and acted as the lead star. It is less of a film but rather an invitation to break the monotony of life's routine into the unknown.

Walter Mitty is an everyman. He is, in fact, an employee of Life magazine, working as a negative asset manager being the dignified term applied to some wag who sorts photographic negatives. As a job, it has to do with detail and technicality and thus requires precision rather than a spark of imagination or thrilling emotion. It's promptly understood that Walter's life consists easily, too, of routine. Enter-in, do, out-in head however-just about anything at all.

He is a dreamer. Not the idle, far-off type that might lose himself in daydreaming sometimes. His are epic, impossible, heroic adventures. He's just that kind of guy and fantasized about mountain peak climb rescuer of people or even professing grand gallants to his Cheryl Melhoff, played by Kristen Wiig. These comically poignant moments of daydreaming illustrate the fullness of Walter's inner life and the depth of dissatisfaction with the actual one.

Just as Life magazine is closing down its print edition, Sean Penn stands as the final cover shot that legendary photographer Sean O'Connell will ever be able to shoot. Except then there is a twist of fate: the negative negative negative of the negative negative negative photograph has gone astray. All hope is not lost with Walter as it would soon be clear he has been sent on an adventure that goes even further afar from his office than that - actually, from his imagination.

What strikes one so immediately and remarkably impressive in such a scenario is its cinematography. It runs ice plains from Greenland to some of the rough Himalayas, giving one an immediate feeling as though this whole thing is like straight photographs from some magazine for traveller's escapades. This one is not just aesthetically colourful; under the helm of Ben Stiller, it truly comes alive while capturing the beauty and scale of almost every environment through the silver screen, though very poignantly and intensely.

There's never that sense of disjunction between the fantasies in Walter's imagination and the real adventure going on. Often, you find yourself straining in the unveiling of the story to be able to determine what somehow is reality and what is fantasy, but it only seems so for purposes of symbolizing Walter's the way his "real-life adventures" start to approximate the fantastic scenarios imagined by his mind.

Perhaps most thrillingly is this one lovely scene in which Walter boards down a twisted Icelandic road under huge mountains covered by snow. That pretty much summarizes the beauty of the movie-wonder, freedom, and an open readiness for whatever would be happening next.

It is the heart that makes The Secret Life of Walter Mitty so beautiful. Behind all those sweeping landscapes and adrenaline-pumping moments is a very human story about the rediscovery of purpose, not the missing photograph, but of self.

At first, Walter is invisible in the movie. He's just one of those men passed by the world, blending into its background. He moves from his comfort zone to distance himself from layers of insecurity and self-doubts that held him for as long as possible. What Walter does at the very end of the movie is he is not merely surviving life is enjoying living it.

That elusive photograph of Sean O'Connell is perhaps a mystery, a metaphor for Walter's journey. When the photograph arrives finally, it is not that fantastic abstract shot but a very plain snap of Walter working studiously behind his desk. Life doesn't come alive in those magnificent, extraordinary moments but from quiet, forgotten moments that make it.

Perhaps even more effective than that, there was this relationship aspect and how the movie, as it begins to really take off and depicts his relationships sparking yet grounding him in ways actual life can only achieve not nearly as idealized and exalted as the fantasy relationships come out to be when compared with one idealized Cheryl in actual interactions rather understated, actually down-to-earth, almost always. In her work, Cheryl does not illustrate the relation in the context of doing little about Walter as it appears.

Sean O'Connell is mostly off-camera but a big part of Walter's journey; for him, he is that unsoiled passion and authenticity that Walter so badly needs. As they are coming together, Sean says, "Beautiful things don't ask for attention." This phrase has been stuck in my head, reminding me of the gentle strength found in being true to oneself.

In fact, the film of Walter's story is so personal. And so many of us go through such moments in our lives where everything seems dull, far-off dreams are impossible fantasies. The Secret Life of Walter Mitty teaches us that it isn't a mountain climb or the journey to get to a far-away place to be an adventure.

It also questions my "daydreams." How much would it take to make them come true? What fear and doubt has been keeping me from those? It wasn't one night when Walter's transformation was, but little brave choices that summed up into something really huge. And at the same time, that realization felt empowering yet achievable.

No conversation about The Secret Life of Walter Mitty will ever be made without mentioning the absolutely fantastic soundtrack. There's an ethereal José González and a David Bowie version of "Space Oddity." Sound is as much the integral story as anything else in it. Each song seems in its place at the proper time for that particular scene to bring just that much emotional depth and dimensionality to it all as it engulfs one in Walter's world.

For instance, "Space Oddity" stands out as perhaps the most used when the song is unexpectedly performed for Cheryl and will encourage Walter to take his first leap of faith. By then, it reminds us again and again how this art, whether music, photography, or film, moves us profoundly deep.

Although I loved this film, it is far from flawless. The plot is much too simplistic, and Adam Scott's one-dimensional portrayal of Ted is something I can understand, albeit being the message they wanted to get across. Over-the-top antagonism makes it come across sometimes almost cartoonish and undermines otherwise a rather earthy story tone.

Inspirational, for sure, but too pat at times. A line like "Stop dreaming, start living" has gotta make an impact, though feels heavy-handed on others' parts. Still, these quibbles do not eclipse the overall charm and emotional depth of the movie.

In this screen-dominated era of deadlines and never-ending to-do lists, The Secret Life of Walter Mitty speaks of the needs of people more than ever before. This is a movie that makes people look up, notice life about one, and have a great time over some weird discovery.

The story of Walter reminds one of rewriting one's own story no matter the age. Whether it is going after long-buried passion, patching up a broken relationship, or simply daring to dream a bit bigger, the possibilities are endless if one will only take that first step.

The fact it was The Secret Life of Walter Mitty, this would not be just a film in my book; it was quite an experience. One of those movies that make you realize what's going on afterwardss when the credits roll to reconsider your life and make the most out of adventures available beyond your comfort zone.

It is very personal to me; this is a journey towards someone who often loses track of daydreaming. It's a voice of courage, connections, and quiet strength over unknown territory. I think in a rush that at no point in time do I get permission to climb mountains or run behind the legendary photographer. This requires fearlessly messy and beautiful randomness.

Rating = 95/100

When it comes to the greatest films ever, one title is always thrown into the fray: Citizen Kane, an Orson Welles 1941 film. It not only survives the test of time but also ignites a ton of debates, inspires innumerable filmmakers, and sets a new game when it comes to storytelling within cinema. It's just one of those movies at first glance that will appear to be just some kind of black-and-white classic. However, after further review, it would appear as an unparalleled work of art. Here's my personal reflection on this cinematic gem.

I think what attracted me to this movie is its non-linear narrative. While most of the movies of that time had a chronologically straightforward approach, Welles broke from the norm and went bold. The movie is like a puzzle in the way it shows pieces of Charles Foster Kane's life through the perceptions of different people who knew him. In this respect, the film invites one to unfold the mystery around the elusive figure of Kane, whose last word is "Rosebud," which becomes the central mystery of the film.

Especially poignant is the way it's structured after real memory. We don't linearly remember someone's life as we remember them. We remember moments, conversations, and impressions that come together to be our sense of that person. Welles does this magnificently and leaves an impression of Kane as human and multi-dimensional. By the end of the film, you're not just sure you know Charles Foster Kane-you feel you've lived his life.

Perhaps the most admired feature of Citizen Kane is Gregg Toland's avant-garde cinematography. Deep focus shots were revolutionary at the time as both foreground, middle ground, and background were sharply in focus. This allowed for more complex compositions with richer depth; it was possible to place more than one layer of meaning within a single frame.

For example, think about this scene: little Kane in the snow, while inside parents are discussing his future. Weight of decisions on a tiny part of destiny-what beauty. The shot remains inside and outside emotionally as well as visually.

Finally, these low-angle shots will provide further film style by depicting Kane as a monumental personality but also holding to the ominous shadow over Kane that depicts not only arrogance but even loss as well. It is not pretty; it progresses the sense of both people in the movie and the issues addressed simultaneously.

If one word can be used to describe Orson Welles's portrayal of Charles Foster Kane, it is hypnotic. He was only 25 years old when he played out a character's journey from ambitious young idealist to disillusioned lonely tycoon with such conviction. What was most impressive about his performance, however, was that it was complex. Kane is a visionary and a tyrant, a man capable of great generosity and devastating cruelty. Welles does not ask us to love or hate Kane; instead, he asks us to understand him.

The supporting cast is no less impressive, especially Joseph Cotten as Jedediah Leland, the long-time friend of Kane and eventual critic. He brings warmth and humanity to the film, being a confidant and a mirror to Kane's flaws. Scenes between Welles and Cotten crackle with tension, showing the highs and lows of their relationship in heartbreaking authenticity.

Indeed, the themes are timeless, really. Beneath its gaudy exterior, the film remains an exploration of power and ambition and the impossible pursuit of happiness. The climb to money and power, for instance, is Kane's obsessive pursuit of control and influence on mould. It is that same ambition that cuts him off from all of those he truly cares for.

The mystery of "Rosebud" reminds the world poignantly that nothing in this world can fill up the vacuum created by the innocence and simplicity of childhood. This is a theme as relevant today as it was back in 1941. Success in our modern world has been equated to material wealth and social status; therefore, Kane's story comes in handy as a cautionary tale.

Another very important thing that surprised me was its commentary about the media. Kane's control over his newspaper empire raises all sorts of questions about journalistic ethics and propaganda power. Having seen the film now in the age of 24-hour news cycles and the impact of social media, it is impossible not to be shocked at how prophetic Citizen Kane was.

One can never say the name of Citizen Kane without paying his/her homage to its great impact on cinema. From new narrational structures to technical feats, one finds a whole new horizon for movies. In fact, one has ranked it as the movie holding one of the great influencers of some of the grand cinematic masters like Martin Scorsese and Steven Spielberg or Christopher Nolan, among many other film directors in cinema history.

More interesting is how Citizen Kane continues to open new ways and debates that are endless. It has also been taken as a severe critique of capitalism. However, some understand it to be an intensely personal reflection of Welles' own fear and ambition. For me, the beauty lies in its openness to interpretation. And each time, something new pops out while watching it: the detail of set design, a nuance in the dialogue, or a new view of Kane's character.

Citizen Kane stands tall today in this age of hyperfast, big-budget productions because it reminds everybody how important storytelling is. Independent on any special effects and show but instead depending upon character, ideas, and the arts to draw in and maintain an audience's interest, its viewing is akin to unpeeling the pages of a great novel that gradually builds depth and meaning on top of depth and meaning.

At the same time, I can see why a few viewers would be disenchanted by the slow speed of the movie or even the lack of a traditional ending and jarring to the modern story. But to me, that is the reason why it is special: Citizen Kane asks for patience and attention and rewards that with a cinematic experience that lingers long after the credits roll.

This would surely come from me - the best opinion in Citizen Kane. This movie takes me back to why I loved watching it in the first place. It presses me to think, feel, and see with a different perspective on how the world is being created, one frame at a time, with every single dialogue line and performance showing and proving how collaboration and creative minds are powerful indeed.

As many say it is the greatest of all films, I would attribute its own true beauty to how it speaks to an individual. To be read both as a cautionary tale character study or mere technical work of art and mastery, relevance, and impact are undeniably alive.

Citizen Kane is not the story of Charles Foster Kane nor is it Orson Welles, though. Citizen Kane talks about all of us, our dreams, failures, and our search for meaning in this changing world. For that, it is my master's work.

Ranking = 100/100 Classic, Masterpiece

Few movies, and perhaps few directors, have an impact on a film buff's sensibility like this movie—leaving her to ponder not just what she is witnessing but also the nature of perception itself, even the self. Among such experiences is Satoshi Kon's film, Perfect Blue—a thrilling, suspenseful, surreal psychological thriller. The movie was released in 1997 and is fresh now as it looks at themes of fame, privacy, and the very weakness of the self in this media-saturated world.

I went to Perfect Blue expecting the usual Japanese anime fare: stylized visuals, dramatic storytelling, and possibly even a little fantasy. What I wasn't ready for was a psychological puzzle that left me going home from the cinema with more questions than answers. That is a film that not only tells a story but also draws you into the world of its protagonist so intensely that you can feel each bit of her confusion, fear, and vulnerability.

The film then follows Mima Kirigoe as she renounces the post of an upbeat pop idol and commits her life to acting. It thus makes it the beginning of her downward spiral in character from being one of those cute, gentle idol characters into tough mature roles. There are issues with her transformation into being seen by the fans. Much more importantly, though, there is a psychotic stalker who claims that she deserted her "real" self.

What began as a simple job shift soon became a mental maelstrom. Mima is a victim of a series of surreal events: visions of the former pop idol mocking her, strange things happening before the camera, and increasing paranoia about distinguishing between reality and delusion. With each new threat from the stalker, Mima's reality begins to rip into complete mayhem, and the whole world seems to question reality and unrealism.

The most attractive aspect of Perfect Blue is identity. Who is Mima? Pop idol worshipped by the viewers? Actress aspiring for success in some foreign world or some utterly alien person? It reveals the fractured notion of identity, particularly when referring to celebrities on the silver screen. Mima fights a series of battles—her constant battle is against the world's expectations of her through her fans, managers, and even her own construct. This need to hold up an ideal image breaks the person down psychologically, suggesting the price paid to live before the eyes of the public.

In many ways, Perfect Blue was ahead of its time. This is a film that would, anticipating the social media era where private and public life is crossed and reduced to manufactured forms of self, disturb and even horrify audiences in this age where the influencer celebrities are bombarded with scrutiny, harassment, and the need to maintain their virtual personas.

The film also attacks the male gaze and commodification of women in the entertainment industry. Mima's move from pop idol to actress involves acting in a sexually explicit role: a choice that infuriates her fans but is distasteful to herself. A voyeuristic lens through which she lives—by her stalker, by her audience, and even by the camera itself—forces the viewer to confront his own complicity in consuming her image.

Actual visual storytelling is what makes Perfect Blue stand out. Satoshi Kon uses animation not just as a medium but more as a tool to alter reality in such a way that the film's rather smooth transitions between scenes, reflections, and the relatively disunified editing allude to this feeling of disorientation felt within Mima's mental state. One moment, you’re in the middle of a film shoot; the next, you’re in Mima’s apartment, and it’s unclear if the previous scene was real, a memory, or a hallucination.

Other interesting elements include colour and framing. Bright, sunny colours dominate Mima's days as a pop idol and are replaced by darker, more muted tones as she embarks on her acting career. Mirrors and screens appear with great frequency and are indicative of duality in her life and distortion of her self-image. All the frames are so deliberate and add to the greater themes of the film and its tense, uneasy atmosphere.

Mima's stalker, who is also the titular character Me-Mania-an enigmatic figure, seems to represent obsession. This is a terrifying take on how easily adoration is toxic. The problem with this is that he has deluded himself into believing his actions are being carried out to protect "the real" Mima. That's the danger of idealizing, and that is also how fans project their needs to public figures at the cost of their humanity.

But Me-Mania is not the only foe to her. Mima is usually her worst enemy as she struggles to cope with insecurities and broken pieces of identity. It somehow blurs lines of threats as it is from the outside world rather than something solely on an inner source that troubles her. Such duality helps in developing the storyline into greater depth because the viewer cannot isolate where she finds all of this anguish.

Special mention must be made of the music in Perfect Blue. Right from the peppy pop songs performed by Mima's idol group to the haunting, atmospheric score, the soundtrack enhances the emotional impact of the film. The bright, cheerful tunes of her idol days starkly contrast with the dark, unsettling themes that follow, thus creating jarring dissonance. The sound design is very clean—every whisper, Croke, and echo keeps the tension higher while keeping you on the edge of your seat for most of it.

Not impossible, really, to associate Perfect Blue with the social media sphere in a modern context. The themes of identity, voyeurism, and keeping up the public mask all resonate so strongly today that they had not been relevant in 1997. Mima's experience is like that of so many people living between their online and offline lives. It makes a prescient critique of a society obsessed with image and spectacle in which the line between reality and performance is becoming increasingly obscure.

Perfect Blue has been a landmark in the history of anime and films. For instance, it was Darren Aronofsky who directed the identity and psychological breakdown film Black Swan in 2010. It is not surprising since Perfect Blue has been set as a benchmark for psychological thrillers through innovative storytelling and spectacular visual techniques.

Technologically, Perfect Blue is more than that. More human; the drama works for me as a whole with the ability to get out deep on a purely emotional plane. Many of the respects Mima suffers serve as an illustration of universal fears many people have had to undergo trying to survive in the real world in a perpetual pursuit of what's known as the perfectly good individual. Tragedy joins forces with catharsis through the concept that human beings survive after an intense test period.

Real things that this movie might change my day: I can remember myself feeling in Perfect Blue like Mima questioning what was real and what was part of an illusion. The film did not present you with an easy solution as to whether it is true or not. Instead, it gave you uncertainty, ambiguity and, again, the nature of making movies, so it is hard-working but definitely worth doing.

In my head, Perfect Blue is just a great movie, period. Questions it raises about identity, fame, and the shadowy side of human nature are just as relevant today as they were in 1997. Satoshi Kon's direction is pure genius; the alignment of psychological acuity, visual imagination, and emotional connection all put this film squarely in the pantheon with some of the other real standouts of the world of cinema.

If you haven't seen Perfect Blue, I recommend it highly. Be prepared. However, it is far from an easy film to watch. It will shock you, disturb you, and leave you wondering whether reality exists at all. And long after it is finished, it will be back in your mind again, a haunting reminder of the thin line between who we are and who we pretend to be.

Ranking = 95/100 If you are interested in animation movies and physiological thrillers, then this is a treat for you.

Very few films transcend their genre to become something more: a myth, a legend, an epic that shapes not only our view of cinema but also the very nature of storytelling. One such film is Sergio Leone's Once Upon a Time in the West. In this great film Western, released in 1968, one finds a cinematic poem, etched into the vast deserts and dusty towns of the American frontier. There one stands at the edge of history, witnessing one epoch end as another begins.
A Western unlike any other.

I had thought I knew what to expect when I sat down to watch Once Upon a Time in the West. After all, I'd seen Leone's The Good, the Bad and the Ugly and considered it some sort of gold standard of the genre. But from the opening frames, it was clear this film was playing a different tune—one slower, more deliberate, and infinitely more haunting.

Just the opening scene is a masterclass in tension. The three men wait at some desolate train station; faces weathered, unreadable, and blank. Sound design becomes hypnotic, and the creak of a windmill, the buzzing of a fly and the rhythmic drip of water. Leone stretches a moment to almost unbearable lengths while daring us to look away. When the train finally arrives and Charles Bronson's enigmatic Harmonica disembarks, the battle of wills that follows is brief but electric. It's a duel, to be sure, but it's also a rite of passage rehearsal for the battles yet to come.

This film centers on four indelible characters each of whom represents a unique dimension of the West and its metamorphosis.

1. Harmonica (Charles Bronson): The silent, mysterious avenger with a purpose as impenetrable as his face. Harmonica speaks through his music—a mournful tune that rings with pain and vengeance. Bronson, with his steely gaze and understated performance, gives the character a mythic quality. He is not just a man; he is a force, a ghost from the past with unfinished business.

2. Frank (Henry Fonda): Casting Henry Fonda as the villain was inspired. One is accustomed to his roles as the quintessential good guy, but in this role, his piercing blue eyes are cold and calculating. Frank isn't just a bad man; he is a brutal, unremorseful killer who epitomizes the ruthlessness of unregulated capitalism. His introduction to gunning down a child is shocking and unforgettable.

3. Jill McBain, Claudia Cardinale: Yet again, in this domain of extreme male exploitation, the most detailed character created by Leone is that of Jill McBain - a prostitute turned master owner of an expensive lot of land - resourceful, robust but extremely compelling. Cardinale exudes warmth and strength in giving Jill more than being a survivor - it is the soul of the movie. The change, tenacity, the human cost of progress, everything can be reflected through the film, courtesy of her portrayal.

4. Cheyenne (Jason Robards): The roguishly charming outlaw with a heart of gold, Cheyenne is both a foil for Harmonica and a comment on the romanticized figure of the Western outlaw. Played by Robards in wry humour and touching melancholy, he is that man who knows his time has run out in a world gone on without him.

Once Upon a Time in the West narrates a tale of Old West death and a new America. The railroad cuts into the landscape like a knife: here lies a symbol of progress—a bearer of wealth and opportunities on one end and a purveyor of violence and exploitation on the other hand. The film has done beautiful work on the tension about the trampling of marching in the way by which people stand.

The piece of land that Jill owns is located at the perfect spot for a train station, so it becomes a focal point of this battle. Frank, working under a ruthless railroad baron, will stop at nothing to seize it. Harmonica and Cheyenne stand as unlikely protectors of Jill's legacy, though their motivation is deeply personal.

Leone weaves it all together with masterful touch, conjuring up intimacy and an epic feel within one scene, one glance, one note of Ennio Morricone's haunting score. Nothing happens at a breakneck pace; images breathe, tension and beauty breathe with them.

Speaking of the score, it is impossible to mention Once Upon a Time in the West without giving due credit to the genius of Ennio Morricone. The music forms an integral part of the film, just like its characters. Every major character has his own theme; from Harmonica's mournful refrain to Jill's sweeping and hopeful melody. Morricone's compositions are both evocative and otherworldly, perfectly complementing Leone's operatic vision.

The flashback scene, where we finally see the tragic past of Harmonica, is perhaps one of the brightest moments. When Morricone's score comes in as the camera pulls back and we see the full horror of his past, what might have been a simple revenge story becomes profoundly emotional and cathartic.

Sergio Leone's direction is almost visionary. Every frame in Once Upon a Time in the West is shot and crafted: from wide shots of desolate landscapes to extreme close-ups of worn faces, Leone has a painter's eye for composition and is always filling the screen with rich detail that rewards repeated viewings.

It is not just the visions that make this movie unique; it's a complete understanding of myth and the storytelling that Leone brings along with him. He doesn't narrate a story concerning the West; instead, he deconstructs, analyzing its legends and their realities. There is heavy homage to the old masters: John Ford's Stagecoach, Howard Hawks' Red River, and so many more- yet he puts these fragments into a completely new bag.

Once Upon a Time in the West was not exactly a critical darling when it first came out. Critics were divided, and its languid pace and unconventional storytelling left some audiences cold. Over time, however, its reputation has grown, and it is now considered one of the greatest films ever made. Watching it today makes it easy to see why.

It's not a movie, but an exercise in time, change, and the inevitability of progress: a love letter to a bygone era and a critique of the forces that abolished it. A movie that demands patience but rewards that patience with moments of breathtaking beauty and profound insight.
Final Thoughts

Once Upon a Time in the West isn't just a Western; it's an absolute masterpiece of cinema. It takes the genre's usual tropes and elevates them, making a film that is both timeless and utterly personal. Leone's direction, Morricone's score, and the cast's performances combine to create an experience that lingers long after the credits roll.

To me, this movie was more than merely entertainment - it was a trip into the heart of what makes us human. Such flaws and dreams of the characters painted a picture of reality few films could deliver. The story had some well-balanced portrayal of loss and renewal; nothing could be really put into words for that connection.

If you haven't seen Once Upon a Time in the West, go get it. It's a film best seen on as big a screen as is available, with the volume turned up so you can feel every note of Morricone's score. It's a reminder of why we love movies in the first place—because they have the power to transport us, to move us, and to show us the world in a new light.

It's like a kind of allegory where, in many ways, Once Upon a Time in the West is less a story about the West than about us all: our hopes and fears and our insatiable craving for something better. That, above all things, is what makes it a masterpiece.

Ranking = 100/100

The quintessential Western film, whenever that is uttered, comes at once to one's mind - the 1966 masterpiece Good, Bad and Ugly, from the brain of incomparable Sergio Leone. Starring Clint Eastwood, Lee Van Cleef, and Eli Wallach, it is not a movie experience but a tale of greed, loyalty and survival in the middle of the American Civil War. The world, almost raw, feels like the first time -and indeed, the visit to the film-a place of cruelty and beauty.

It's the story of three men on a collision course: hidden fortune is their incentive. Blondie, "the Good," is stoic and cunning as a bounty hunter; Angel Eyes, "the Bad," is ruthless and cold-blooded as an assassin; and Tuco, "the Ugly," is comically resourceful and a bandit who is morally ambiguous. This sets in place an exciting pursuit where their interwoven routes come together for $200,000 of buried Confederate gold.

It's one film of originality, whose flatness of detail is matched by the profound search in human nature. On a surface level, it is a melodrama, but beneath all this dirty and bullet-spattered country lies the tale of change of allegiance, betrayal and that light into dark which it describes upon its characters. It's one film where, contrary to most other Westerns, heroes and villains come across as absolutely different characters. Leone does not want his viewers to judge these people; he lets the viewer read into everything done to and about each of his characters.

This film is full of the most beautiful directing work, thanks to Sergio Leone. Obsessive detail with new techniques has made it an unforgettable visual and emotional experience. He uses broad sweeping landscapes to bring the sense of space and desolation of the frontier, while the intense close-ups capture the raw emotion in his characters.

And, of course, the final shoot-out is, "The Mexican Standoff" to the rest of the world to prove that Leone is a genius in every respect. Slow build-up, piercing glances, tensioned silence, and Ennio Morricone's haunting score built up the crescendo of anticipation so that people were kept on the edge of their seats. It was no ordinary shoot-out; it was a masterclass in pacing and suspense.

Leone innovated storytelling by use of time usage. Slow is the tempo for audiences to stay within the film's world. Though slow enough for the present viewer's attention, it remains so to maintain the quality within the scenes as highly involving. Such a brainy director must be alone, so waiting; he needs ten experiences more when the going is gone that some stuff left lingers behind once the game is done, with full credit.

No discussion of The Good, the Bad and the Ugly is ever complete without praise for that legendary score Ennio Morricone produced. From the opening whistle of the theme to "The Ecstasy of Gold," that climactic orchestral number, Morricone's music catapults this film into a plane of existence entirely on a different level. In its own right, the theme itself is symbolic of the genre of Westerns by having eerie coyote-like howls.

Every soundtrack was a character itself, intensifying the feel and the drama on screen. The "Ecstasy of Gold" that opened up when Tuco searched frantically for the graveyard took something that might otherwise have ended as an ordinary scene into the transcendent. Not that it could ever come even close, but in combination with Leone's visual imagery and matched music composition, nothing tops this cooperation.

The three, Eastwood, Van Cleef, and Wallach, make performances no less than legendary. Clint Eastwood as Blondie was cool personified with the ping eyes, minimal dialogue, and this calmness that just exuded control and mystery. This is no traditional "good guy" Blondie, yet Eastwood makes him charismatic and sound in terms of morals that the audiences end up respecting him.

Lee Van Cleef is frighteningly good as the "Bad." He's cold-blooded, calculating by nature, and relentlessly chases after what he wants. Understated, but it's just plain terrifying; there doesn't have to be loudness or over-exaggeration with true evil.

But Tuco steals the movie away from it for the most part with some moves and twists performed by Eli Wallach. Tuco could be lovable and also despicable at the same time. He can also be human while being it all at the same time. That is why so deplorably complex is this embodiment of survival issues within himself that this film and moral ambiguity have come into existence. That commitment by Wallach in this area has made Tuco one of the most remembered in film history.

Even being a Western, The Good, the Bad and the Ugly conveys themes and messages greater than the genre. A Civil War in this movie represents the pointlessness of war. In this storyline, men fight and then get killed for what seems like very minute reasons, reflecting upon the nature of war and how their lives are wasted.

Another very prominent theme that is evident here is greed. It is greed for gold that has made the characters go to such extreme levels that they have become what they are. Leone doesn't celebrate the pursuit of money; he demonstrates how it corrupts and makes them alienated even for the "winners."The film also shows morality.

The archaic tags of "Good," "Bad," and "Ugly" seem ironic, though. Blondie could be "Good," yet he is far from virtuous, having and playing Tuco for his own good countless times over. Angel Eyes could be classified as "Bad," though interesting in his strict personal code of ethics on a professional level but so refreshingly one-dimensional by today's standards. The "Ugly" in Tuco is little more than a survivor who needs to do whatever it takes to survive, which is of little real concern to him, after all, in his consideration of saving himself.

It is more than half a century since the release of The Good, the Bad and the Ugly, and yet it continues to inspire new filmmakers and capture audiences' imagination. A glimpse of this can be found in thousands of movies, television series, and video games because the very storytelling ability of Leone has inspired great dealings from people such as Quentin Tarantino and Martin Scorsese.

Actually, it is new for generations ahead. Funny, dramatic, action-packed, and its all-time characters, along with the memorable score and direction, make it a classic that hasn't aged one day since 1966.

I love seeing The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly-there's nothing at all just a view but truly an emotional ride for me when I first saw it; it was then that I realized nothing better than that. That comes as a surprise because nothing prepared me for it actually. I thought it to be the ultimate western shoot-'em-up or cowboy-hat-filled ride.

What really stayed with me most was the last face-off scene. Tension and the music tied together with the facial expressions of actors really make the scene pure cinéma. I was totally breathless and sucked into the scene and thrilled after the resolution of suspense.

Of course, the character of Tuco was unforgettable. People are neither bad nor good; they get mixed up in the pot of virtues and flaws shaped by circumstances and choices. For me, it was all about the heart of humour, resilience, and vulnerability.

It is not only a Western, but it is an art, something that resists genres and eras. It is a film that forces one to reassess notions of morality, loyalty, and survival, and it offers a cinematic experience that cannot be forgotten easily. Sergio Leone, Ennio Morricone, and the amazing cast of the film all produced work that was powerful and pertinent at its 1966 release and today.

Whether you’re a fan of Westerns or not, this is a film that deserves to be seen, savoured and remembered. It’s more than a movie; it’s a testament to the power of storytelling and the enduring magic of cinema.

Ranking = 100/100

There is something so magical about the untamed wildness and morality of these lawless towns and all those duels held under high noon that makes the Westerns timeless. Sun-baked and dusty landscapes have had a magnetic fascination for me forever. One of the most iconic titles under it is Sergio Leone's For a Few Dollars More in 1965. Being a part of the legendary "Dollars Trilogy," it doesn't tread familiar terrain but resets it. Having passed through the film recently, it was exciting to find its gritty charm, unparalleled characters, and operatic sweep again.

A pretty simple yarn, really, For a Few Dollars More is about two bounty hunters-the calculatingly cool Colonel Douglas Mortimer (Lee Van Cleef) and mystical "Man with No Name" (Clint Eastwood)-who team up to get this psychopathic outlaw named El Indio (Gian Maria Volonté) who is a merciless robber. His price tag has literally gone through the stratosphere for all the crimes he has committed. But it is much more than just checking the elements. Revenge and justice are woven into the way the story unfolds through deep personal stakes. It is the pacing of the story. Leone takes his time, allowing scenes to breathe and letting characters simmer in their environment. This makes every interaction feel important. It's a winner not on a flurry of action but on the tension that comes through quiet moments: a subtle glance, a wry smile, or the slow ticking of a pocket watch.

No discussion of For a Few Dollars More can proceed without a nod toward Clint Eastwood, but he was so revolutionary that he changed the playing field. By 1965, Eastwood had already started working into shape to secure himself, and this film cemented a reputation for him as this kind of Western icon-to-be. His rendition of "The Man with No Name" is compelling.

Eastwood is the very definition of an antihero, so laconic and coolly easygoing that it becomes almost mythical. He doesn't say much, but his intense gaze and measured movements say volumes. Watching him on screen feels like witnessing the birth of a cinematic archetype-the drifter who operates by his own code, teetering between selfishness and a buried sense of morality While Eastwood shines, Lee Van Cleef is equally magnetic as Colonel Mortimer. If Eastwood's protagonist symbolizes youthful confidence and instinct, Mortimer has embodied wisdom and precision. The acute vision of Van Cleef coupled with this chiselled face brands an intensity that one has to contrast against the stoicism of Eastwood.

In all this, the chemistry between two of the bounty hunters is fabulous: they set out as enemies who shortly transform and enter into an uneasy alliance, showing mutual respect. I just fell in love with how Leone captured the nuance between them. This's not exactly a friendship through sappiness but through necessity and strategy and with the aim being the same.

If Eastwood and Van Cleef were the columns of the movie, then Gian Maria Volontè's El Indio was fire burning in its heart. The performance by Indio is as terrifying as it is charismatic; as a villain, he is as riveting as he is scary.

What is interesting, however, is not the ruthlessness but his complexity. Indio is tortured by his past; his psyche has been broken into fragments because of guilt and addiction. His musical pocket watch, with which he plays at all points of tension, brings near-poetic depth to the character. It is a jarring melody that underlines the madness and serves as a chilling reminder of his humanity.

The Sergio Leone prints grace every frame of For a Few Dollars More, auteur vision pure in genius. From sweeping vistas of Spanish plains, where an imagination conjured the American West, to tight, sweaty close-ups of faces, there is the impression of having been crafted with some careful detail paid unto the arrangement. Leone is great in closeup while stances are being set up, so he turns an action as simple as drawing a gun into a ritual unbearable to suspense.

It is in the ability to marry style to substance that Leone raises the film. Slow-motion photography, stark landscapes, and stylish violence all add up to a feeling that is both earthy and big-screen. I am, in his work, reminded of Leone's rewriting of the book on the Western genre, his marrying of a European sensibility that insists on atmosphere, character, and moral ambiguity over traditional heroic postures.

Surely no analysis of For a Few Dollars More can be done without speaking of Ennio Morricone's soundtrack. The music is as much a part of the film, active and not just in the background. Morricone's scores are a full-fledged part of the movie just like its visuals or its dialogues. The haunting melodies that punctuate the score, marked out by whistling, twanging guitars, and choral chants, go well beyond the credits. Some examples include the musical pocket-watch theme: its repetition is almost hypnotic and adds much to the tension of critical moments; the ending duel is, therefore, rather like an operatic crescendo.

Under its action-Western mask, For a Few Dollars, More is one of the most thematic films of all time. Many of the lead characters are driven by revenge in their lives; certainly, Mortimer hunts Indio for specific reasons. But this film never glamorized vengeance and portrayed it to be two-edged. Closure is provided, but goes hand-in-hand with cycles of violence.

Greeds form another theme that seems to be at the core of the film. The so-called bounty hunters who seem to work according to the principle of money are, after all not mercenaries. In the case of Mortimer, his hunt for justice is more incidentally a result of a bounty. In the case of Eastwood's character, it's a blur between greed, duty, and morality that represents human motivation.

Perhaps the most memorable scenes ever filmed are the final few in For a Few Dollars More. Leone stretches time using music, close-ups, and silence to stretch anticipation to virtually unbearable levels in a last duel, set against this wide landscape. And when, at last, those inevitable gunshots ring, it has a cathartic and devastating level all at once. It all comes down to a scene, a whole film that embodies that film's essence: its stylized, intense emotional core.

Historically speaking, it's staggering how much For a Few Dollars More has influenced the genre and how much the whole world of cinema. The individuality of Leone is using, in other words, operatic music and a pace of such deliberation with these complex characters filmmakers as he is to this day, and he has admitted Leone himself as his influence, whilst one whisper of For a few Dollars More can also be seen in the same film.

But beyond that, it has huge personal significance for me. It is actually a time machine; it takes one into a world where one does not know what is moral, the word is survival, and every character bears his burden of the past.

Sergiu Leone, Clint Eastwood, Lee Van Cleef, Gian Maria Volontè-the screen magic of these three men has created something really special in film performance that will stay in the head and in the heart, whether it is a die-hard fan of Westerns or someone seeing them for the first time. This is beyond the scope of a film: it's a journey into a world of gritty honour and timeless storytelling.

I am jealous of anyone who has not yet experienced the trip of seeing For a Few Dollars More for the first time. Even those who return to it do not find that the magic fades.

Rating = 96/ 100

It was 1964, and cinema sat at a crossroads. A serious western was in its dying breath, but a minor Italian filmmaker named Sergio Leone was about to take over Hollywood's doorstep with A Fistful of Dollars. That film did not so much appear as detonate on screen, changing the countenance of Westerns and the very face of the planet to view the taciturn, sphinxlike allure of Clint Eastwood. What began as a pitiably low-budget foreign remake of Akira Kurosawa's Yojimbo was to prove the starting point for the legend of the "Dollars Trilogy" and one of the most seminal works of its director.

There had also been the John Wayne and Gary Cooper Westerns, speaking of chivalrous, clean-cut heroes who never gave a quarter of the moral code. They came in white hats, battling for justice; they're the archetypal good guys. Leone threw everyone a curve with A Fistful of Dollars-a hero who wasn't entirely so.
Clint Eastwood's "Man with No Name" would be an anti-hero of this world. This made the badly thumbed poncho, the perpetual cigar smoking, and the steely glint set this knight apart from all the conventional heroic cowboys. His fight was one for selfish reasons neither right nor for honor but oneself. He played on both families fighting against each other in the San Miguel town, although certainly not for chivalry, but due to bright-minded opportunism. No doubt the magnetism beckoning you is his self-serving nature though.

And, of course, I'll definitely confess that the performance by Eastwood constitutes a master class in minimalism. He tells the world through fewer words and even less expression. His silences are as compelling as his one-liners, and that mysterious aura holds you hooked the moment he rides into town.

I began to see Leone's direction after the interview with Quentin Tarantino, wherein he confesses that Leone was masterly in his direction and what really separates A Fistful of Dollars. And then from the opening scene, with the Ennio Morricone soundtrack etched into my head, one knows one's in something special. Leone's shots do not only observe: they linger. He shoots extreme close-ups, wide panoramic sweeps of the eyes, every sweat droplet on the face of the actors, every twinkle of fingers hovering above a weapon, and every speck of dust in those great expanses of dry land.

The pace is always deliberate yet never dull. For those great shootouts, Leone governs the tenseness to sublime perfection. This last shoot-out is the ultimate apotheosis of tension-with a throbbing score combined with a slow, laborious this is an exercise in suspense yet still ongoing.

The score, speaking of which, does something with Ennio Morricone in this movie called A Fistful of Dollars. It doesn't exist there just for that tune; a score has become a character, really. Inevitable visions of whistling or burst of dramatic trumpets, staccato strum of guitguitarsraordinarily delightful score of which sometimes hauntingly and softly becomes the terrible serenity in the shootout, exuberant victorious march at the end.

It is in composition that genius lies and with Morricone, the movie would have lost most of its soul-the same category as the movie.

A Fistful of Dollars is a survival story in an extremely cruel, lawless world. San Miguel, the town where the conflict takes place, is a microcosm of chaos ruled by greed and violence. This Rojo vs. Baxter families fight becomes even more gory as no qualms are overruled in destroying lives in their crossfire. It is into this chaos that a figure named the Man With No Name rides into this scenario, operating outside traditional human conveniences of good and evil.

Leone does not idealize the Old West. His vision is grimy, dirty, and unsweet. The movie speaks of the grey areas of morality where everybody's agenda is his own; survival often precedes righteousness. Here, too, though, there are moments of humanity, and it's what makes Man with No Name save Marisol's family and her.

A Fistful of Dollars* was a game-changer not only for Westerns but generally for cinema in the sense that it proved that an easy idea, combined with a good vision and new narrative, could conquer economic restrictions. It also marked the beginning of the so-called "Spaghetti Western," referring to Italian-made Westerns:.

Leone's stamp can be found in thousands of films produced since his lifetime. Only a few days ago, for instance, Quentin Tarantino publicly declared Leone among his influences. Leone's prints are omnipresent from Kill Bill to The Hateful Eight.

A Fistful of Dollars was not exempted from controversy:. This film's storyline is remarkably familiar as that of Akira Kurosawa's Yojimbo, and soon enough, a lawsuit arose because of it. It appears Kurosawa himself averred, "A Fistful of Dollars was a fine movie, but it was my movie.'". Leone surely took the outline of Kurosawa's script in all senses of words- legal, ethical, as well as every sense thereof but gave it the Leone flavour and style.

Amazing how A Fistful of Dollars stays in place all these years when the movie itself was, as regards budget and scale, a low-budgeted European Western. A low-budgeted little film starring Clint Eastwood launched the then little-known actor to his successful career while establishing the soon-to-be legend master filmmaker, Sergio Leone, besides third one of most iconic film scores ever created.

But it also reinvented what a Western could be. It proved that the genre needn't live by those old tropes and well might go darker as well as far more complicated. And so it paved the way for movies like The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly, Unforgiven, No Country for Old Men.

Watching A Fistful of Dollars today, I am amazingly astonished by just how fresh the film really is. The images are wonderful, the acting powerful, and the narrative razor-sharp. It's the movie that doesn't merely entertain but throws you into its world and has you thinking long after it leaves the theatre.

A Fistful of Dollars is pure genius: no developed subplots or impressive effects, but all the necessities shine here: characters, a strong narrative, and an unforgettable atmosphere.

If you haven't seen A Fistful of Dollars, then you simply miss one of the finest movie masterpieces ever made in cinema. And if you have, then it would always be worthwhile to be viewed again, for there would be a new aspect tiny nuances in the performance of Eastwood, in the direction of Leone, or in a note that had not been observed about Morricone's music.

It's beautiful that in the world of trends and short-runs blockbusters, A Fistful of Dollars is timeless. No film; it's an experience.

Rating = 95/100

One of those cinema histories that is marked by the rise of the crime thriller genre, often merging high-stakes action with deep psychological tension, 1980s cinema stands alone, and among all that it has produced, is To Live and Die in L.A. This neo-noir is set in a gritty, raw, underground city from director William Friedkin's film version, the original novel by Gerald Petievich, which married together great neo-noir aesthetics to the pulsating pulse of the 1980s. It is when he is in the thick of action that To Live and Die in L.A. It sweeps someone into an obsession and a betrayal that propels someone into the world of the moral implications of living outside the law.

Okay. Now let's talk about the movie plot, which is based on a plot by secret service agent Richard Chance, played by William Petersen, who is obsessed with catching counterfeiter Rick Masters, played by Willem Dafoe. This is a chase movie but in an entirely incongruous way. Many of these action films from this period were concerning the hero and his conquests. Not so much To Live and Die in L.A. The film makes visible the psychological cost of such a high-powered world. There is never the feeling from that first opening scene which appears to create an ongoing feeling of urgency that the pressure never really lifts.

Friedkin establishes a world from the very top that, it seems, draws no boundaries about morals. He is driven nearly by an obsessive need to catch Masters and is thus on a very mad personal mission, recklessly taking shortcuts and making choices that compromise his own integrity without particularly much care for larger implications. His obsessive pursuit of a Master turns into an extension of his personal demons and struggles.

And really The film does a great job of exploring that darker side of human nature. Chance's affair with his colleague, John Vukovich, played by John Pankow, starts as almost of a professional nature but quickly becomes the exact opposite. More cautious, very much a by-the-book policeman, Vukovich works on the more rule-oriented part of law enforcement while keeping the break-the-morals aspect of justice for Chance. To Friedkin, that relationship would be the tone of the whole film: a moral balance between good and evil. The rivalry builds depth as the movie progresses in which Vukovich becomes increasingly intolerant of Chance's ways while Chance digs deeper into his obsession.

Clearly, an effort is on to get us past the illusion of Chance as a brilliant classic "good guy." There is always sending Chance down into the lower realms of the underworld, and by then, we have realized that he was no noble hero but a lost man for his mission, sacrificing everything to the chase and the search when it hurts at the loss of his own humanity.

Most thrilling is the movie's moral tension. Here is a man who has made the right and wrong blur, and we, the audience, are left to question whether his dogged search for justice is worth it or if he is as corrupted as the heinous crimes that he is out to pursue. The film challenges us to rethink the nature of law enforcement and justice, thus providing a reflection of the 1980s cinema tone when the idea of a morally good hero was mostly left out and more complexly morally designed characters were preferred.

Another strong aspect of To Live and Die in L.A. It's portraiture of Los Angeles and how the director, William Friedkin, makes both cities as much a character as its people are during the making of this film. He filmed the city with that giddy look of a voyeur: sweeping vistas of dusty, vast streets and smouldering tension lurking around crevices. This L.A. urban sprawl gives off chaos, with lines between good and evil morally blurred for characterization. For as much as it is a place of opportunity, this city of endless highways and anonymous faces is a place of moral decay.

L.A. would have been the most obvious place to shoot a movie about excess and corruption-neon-lit cities against dark, shady areas that were the worst spots Chance and his group had to be in. In the face of the highly stylized and futuristic aestheticism of the 1980s, all technology, crime, and social change seemed to run together as one indistinguishable mess.

Another excellent feature of this movie is the film score by Wang Chung. The heavy synth-laden soundtrack is replete with an 80s stamp throughout, putting the emphasis in each scene on the urgency of the chase. It brings tension to a chase scene but at the same time, through slow and reflective moments, it provides quiet and eerie calm. It almost has a hypnotic quality to it, that it draws you further into the world of To Live and Die in L.A. There's just something really amazing about the way the whole sound works about those obsessions and decay.

It is basically a movie about counterfeit money. That's it. Yes, there is a counterfeiter in the dress of Rick Masters that Willem Dafoe has acted, and the entire story revolves around the need of Chance to bring him down. What really stands out here is that the film takes the metaphor of the venture being a little bit of a reflection of the moral decay the characters who are involved in that enterprise themselves mirror. Masta, as told by Dafoe, is that insensitive, calculating kind of fellow artist of his class. He is not playing for the money; he is playing for the thrill, playing for the power. It's that chilling quality in him to be a man who actually views the world as something to manipulate. Dafoe portrays and, in portraying, reflects Masters' mirror-ability towards Chance's way into the depths of craziness.

The fake money also speaks to the character's actions as something of a metaphor. They are bogus, just like the morality Chance and Masters pretend to have is bogus. The ideology war between Chance and Masters becomes war. Chance takes himself to be the righteous man who ought to bring the balance back, and the more he pursues his obsession, the more he reveals his own counterfeit nature. It's a world of lies to the two men, and no man leaves unscathed at the end.

It also quite well depicts the relationship one has with the law or criminals; it shows how cynical it is on both sides. Chance is more than a cop; he is a man ready to blur the lines between legality for whatever he can get. Masters, however, is no stereotypical criminal mastermind. He does not act on greed but on a much more profound desire to reaffirm his dominance and control. The movie never takes pains to celebrate one side or the other and gives a bleak look at a world where corruption and obsession are the forces behind everything.

Without giving too much away about the ending of the movie, it is very much a masterclass in tension and surprise. Friedkin gradually builds up that tension until the final confrontation, which, when it finally arrives, feels like a gut punch. And although the action and payoff make this finale memorable, it's also in how subversive it is: playing off the tropes of an action film. Not a story about a hero catching a villain in time. In fact, by the end of the film, you’re left questioning whether anyone was truly in the right.

This final scene makes the movie unclear and creates an illusion of how much reality this film created for Friedkin. The end does not solve everything together; in that fact, lies the same reason that To Live and Die in L.A. manages to stay in. Nobody can win there, and all will pay in a place of morality existing between whites and blacks.
Real words To Live and Die in L.A. Often overlooked amidst the cinematic offerings of the 1980s, this only grows in stature over time. It is a thriller that relies not upon a continuous dose of high-octane action but a resolute exercise of the human condition. Friedkin, known for The French Connection (1971) and The Exorcist (1973), is one of the few directors who could bring tension and action with the psychodrama into one entity, which was a rarity for most directors at the time.

This film is notable among its peers because it has a fine balance of the lines to make it more of a thriller and less of a psychodrama. It's a film not afraid to show people what cost obsession plays for morals and what it means in terms of people living outside of the laws. More of who gets caught and not but it does delve into the human side, that of pushing boundaries, and of morality in being right or wrong.

More literally, To Live and Die in L.A. is also a movie of its moment. The 1980s can be recalled with a nostalgic rose-tinted haze, a period of garish sparkle and excess. Yet the film makes up for it with a bleaker, cynic subtext to the cultural tapestry that decade presented. Chance dwells in a world neither right nor wrong, and truth is a destroyer.

To Live and Die in L.A. An artwork in crime cinema of the 1980s: eternal but definitely of its time. It's the kind of movie that obliges the viewer to confront some truths about the law, obsession, and even morality. The haunting score and a script that never goes soft on easy ways puts To Live and Die in L.A. on quite a pedestal, especially with William Petersen and Willem Dafoe in outstanding performances. This is still an important entry in the crime thriller genre, though this movie is as much about the psychological cost of obsession as it is about the chase.

Rating = 95/100 If you like William Friedkin directing then you must watch this.

As a crime thriller movie buff, no film conveys a raw-edge urban crime thriller more than this one, The French Connection, 1971, directed by William Friedkin, who was inspired by the real event by Robin Moore in a book of the same title. This film cannot be described enough as one of few movies in history that have redefined the geography of films and also entrenched itself deeply in the nation's psyche. Watching French Connection for the first time in the cinema was very interesting. It is crude, intense, and relentless in its presentation of policemen, but above all, it's a film that does not flinch from the nasty side of life with flashes of the moral ambience that defines the thieves as much as the policemen.

The two New York detectives playing the centre-stage in the movie are the ones who are portrayed: Jimmy "Popeye" Doyle, performed by Gene Hackman, and his partner, performed by Roy Scheider, Buddy "Cloudy" Russo. They somehow get entangled in a deal of international smuggling about narcotics whereby they run their cat-and-mouse game with a French heroin tycoon named Alain Charnier, performed by Fernando Rey. From frame one to the final, The French Connection has a sense of tension that leaves you on the edge of your seat, a feat few thrillers, even in modern times, can reach.

The first thing about The French Connection is the gritty aesthetic with which it presents; it does not hold hands and never romanticisesorld that depicts you, rather, into the hot, grimy streets of New York and its gritty city in a sort of documentary authenticity. You feel each frame of the intense, visceral stylist behind TheExorcist --burdening himself in every detail. Owen Roizman's photography has this raw immediacy in his gritty, urban landscapes and handheld shots. It's 1970s New York, and the streets are replete with energy and danger, all in one package. It's a war alley, it is every backroom a possible battle for that big deal or lost life and next bust.

What strikes one is that so much crime drama gaud is tossed out of the window in this film. That pretentious movie about neatness by which cops line up against robbers in neat solutions isn't part of some tidy world of policing in this movie. And Popeye Doyle, Gene Hackman's career-defining role, is no hero, for one thing. He is abrasively flawed and even down-and-out unlikable at times. He's an only-mission guy-a policeman by vocation but the most severe ethical conundrum is that this places before the police officer: for someone as obsessed as is Charnier. As in this film Doyle chases after Charnier who, of course,e ran the other poor fellows down-implies the sacrifice and more than moral loss as well which it here isn't afraid to talk about either

Not a single review of Le Casse would be satisfactory that does not talk of that movie's now legend-car chase. It is not the car chase, but a lesson in tension, a lesson in pacing, and so much more. The chase scene where Doyle runs after an escaped drug dealer down the streets of Brooklyn is surely one of the most exciting and inventive scenes ever filmed. What made it unforgettable was not its speed or danger but how it was filmed. There is no music or dramatic sound effects to heighten the drama. Instead, we hear only the sounds of a car engine, screscreeching trees, and the roar of the city. The run around is immediate, raw, and terrifying enough, and it suits the filmmaking style yet is unflinching and unrelenting.

The handheld camera contributes to the visceral quality of the chases. We're right there with Doyle, feeling every jolt and turn, and the whole scene is enhanced by a sort of chaotic realism that makes you feel as if you're amid an actual pursuit far from the sleek, over-the-top car chases that would shortly populate blockbusters. Instead of choreographed set pieces, this chase looks dangerous, reckless, and desperate.

French Connection is a tale of grey morals. The movie throws very tough questions on the nature of good and evil, the role of law enforcement, and the cost of justice. For all his determination and intelligence, Popeye Doyle is far removed from the standard morally upright cop. He has quite savage tactics, blunt and tough attitudes towards people, and the thing in which his temper most often gets in charge. In many ways, Doyle represents a dark side of law enforcement-that is, readiness to break rules and bend ethics while pursuing what he believes constitutes justice. He follows Charnier to every corner of the world, but sometimes his obsession over the case blurs his judgment.

But, as a villain, Charnier, unlike the stereotypical criminal mastermind, is a cold and methodical businessman. With Fernando Rey, there is a quiet elegance to this character that contrasts with Doyle's brute power. This, and being composed amidst danger, makes him an adversary to be reckoned with. What The French Connection does so well is let us know that Charnier's not a cartoon for evil; he's a man with his own set of goals and motivations. It is in the world of the film, where the line between hero and villain seems to melt away, that both sides turn to questionable tactics to get what they want.

The movie also does a really good job of showing the relationship Popeye has with his girlfriend, Cloudy. Played by Roy Scheider, Cloudy serves as a great foil for Popeye: level-headed, a tad more moralistic, but built firmly into a relationship of trust and mutual understanding. Under their dynamic is an element of camaraderie, so when their opposing personalities bring about some very interesting interactions, it's very compelling. Cloudy is not as careless as Popeye but yet a man devoted to the cause despite everything that has happened to him due to the choices Popeye made.

The French Connection is also based on the complications of an international syndicate of drug trafficking and how it all works. It just is all painted so bleakly when talking about its heroin trade that only serves to explain how deep and sly the crime network would be. It traces, from the streets of New York to the backrooms loaded with drugs of France, the global scope of this illicit enterprise. It's not about one bust or bringing down one kingpin. It's about dismantling an international system, where the stakes can be nothing less than life itself for thousands of people.

This is by no means a glamorous take on the police operation. There is no fast-talking hero or neat resolution. Police work is often frustrating, full of dead ends and false leads, with moments when the law seems powerless against the vast machinery of the drug trade. This is very well represented by the end of the movie, which is at a blank without any smooth ending or triumph but does possess that suspense and vagueness of being in the correct place if one exhausts its time running into discussions on the moral dilemmas of the characters in the world in which it stays.

And Of Course, No conversation about French Connection can remain without at least giving Gene Hackman as Popeye Doyle the highest respect for the astounding performance it gave. Hackman's take on Doyle is an exercise in intensity and complexity. Popeye is a man of anger and frustration, but Hackman also lets us see the vulnerability beneath the surface. It is the personal drive to catch Charnier that propels Popeye to a series of actions as Hackman plays this obsession with subtlety that gives the character a fully fleshed sense. He is no Superman or crusader against Evi, but rather a frail human being who is driven and destroyed by his work.

The physicality of Hackman's performance is balanced by perfect emotional depth. Acting out this role, he imbues it with a sense of barely contained fury, but at times lets the façade crack enough to let us see behind the cop. That's what makes Popeye Doyle so interesting: not success nor failure but conflict. It remains one of Hackman's finest performances and one of the most memorable in American cinema.

So after all these great points and a very long review, I would really appreciate it if The French Connection stands as a masterpiece of filmmaking. The uncompromising portrayal of law enforcement, the complexity of characters, and the gritty depictions of New York in the 1970s make the film transcend its genre. This remains a work of art which, even while keeping viewers spellbound with such an engaging and fast-moving action tale, does force us all to come face to face with complexities in morality and justice that seem to mark human lives.

The French Connection is a film that thrusts you into an utterly foreign yet familiar environment. It never takes your hand; it doesn't give you easy answers and doesn't leave everything neatly tied up in the end. It challenges you and forces you to question everything that you thought you knew as right or wrong, and then never tries to help you feel comfortable with your answer. That is raw and intense. That is what makes it so powerful.

This movie was made over fifty-three years ago, yet it still knocks you so hard today, and that is what makes it timeless. It makes you feel the tension, frustration, and ambiguity so palpably. It's one of those films that impress and impact the crime thriller genre. And frankly speaking, not often does a film like The French Connection appear. It is one of those no-nonsense, unflinching masterpieces and rightly is put alongside the greatest American films ever made.

Rating = 100/100. Great 70's crime thriller movie.

This Ken Loach film, titled The Wind That Shakes the Barley, sizzles and smokes with passionate fire; this is a story about the battle for independence in the war-torn Ireland of the 1920s. It's both a very personal and political movie telling the price of revolution, the weight of ideology, and the relationships that push one along yet shatter against war. To view this movie is to step inside the soul of Ireland and relive its moments of triumph and joy, pain and loss, and betrayal.

This was more than an academic lesson or an emotional soap opera but rather quite an experience as a person always eager to know about the history of revolutions. Loach's masterpiece with such authenticity and poignancy forces us to face something that stays in people's lives, the long run of colonialism, internal strife, and heartbreaking decisions people make while fighting for freedom.

So, okay. The film opens with a very chilling scene of British Black and Tans terrorizing a rural Irish village. The scene portends the rest of the movie. Right from the get-go, Loach throws us into a world in which the ordinary becomes extraordinary. Against this violent and oppressive backdrop, we find Damien O'Donovan, a young doctor, who is leaving for London to pursue better professional prospects. Yet a savage act feels. It is a testament to Loach that each frame is a statement of realism. Using natural light, a minimalist score and location shooting in the Irish countryside gives the movie the feel of a documentary. You feel like you are seeing history as it happens instead of it being history reconstructed. Realism elevates the value in terms of emotions attached to film so that every punch would weigh in much greater measure as if loaded with violence and betrayal.

Damien and Teddy join the fight for Irish independence, and the film delves into the details of resistance. This is no romanticized tale of rebellion but rather a hard-hitting, often heart-breaking view of what it is to rise up against an enemy that seems unconquerable. The relationships of the IRA fighters are visible as well as their fear and anxiety. These are not professional soldiers but farmers, shopkeepers, and labourers thrust into a vicious conflict. Their heroism is inspiring, but their vulnerability is crushing.

The good thing about this film is that it shows the personal costs of political struggle. Damien, being an idealistic doctor-turned-hardened revolutionary, presents a very powerful and tragic characterization. The quiet, inner struggles have been delivered through the character in subtle but potent performances from the actor, Cillian Murphy in the case of the inner turmoil with which Damien faces in dealing with all of those moral compromises necessary in his war.

The bond is with his brother, Teddy, the emotional centre for a film relationship whose bond would face some test with the advancing narrative of the story.

O'Donovan brothers are typical of the greater Irish independence movement. United against the common enemy, the IRA split later on into two factions when the members of the organization could not agree on the Anglo-Irish Treaty signed in 1921. The treaty partially gave Ireland its independence but placed it in the British Empire. This led to a bitter civil war between the pro-treaty side and those who regarded the treaty as a betrayal of the republic.

It is so subtle and heartbreaking in the way it comes out from this movie, and that side happens to include Teddy's pro-treaty forces the opposite side is the focused intent of Damien for absolute independence. The personal hate triggered because of such ideological separation only brings out one of the most sorrowful ends to which I have been privy in any movie. The ending really drags viewers face-to-face with the cruel reality of civil mostly pitting family members against one another and a friend against his friend.

This movie is set in a certain historical background, but its themes are universal. It addresses the cycle of violence and weakness of political alliances, combined with the moral ambiguity that exists while at war. The movie also presents some of the greatest questions regarding freedom. Do people actually need to be free if they acquire this free status by losing unity and mankind? Can the revolution ideal survive the compromises of power?

These types of questions make a certain kind of sense, particularly when making the film relevant today as it was relevant when it was first shown in 2006. When watching it in our present-day world, where the arguments between national identity, identity, and colonialist legacies continue to hog the headlines, is both poignant and moving. The story of Ireland and their search for independence lies within the human quest for liberation, and the sacrifices necessary in such a pursuit.

Okay so let's talk about the director Ken Loach. The filmmaker is known for his ability to capture the struggles of ordinary people, and The Wind That Shakes the Barley is perhaps his crowning achievement. His direction is understated yet powerful as he puts the story, the characters, and much more in focus. To avoid all that Hollywood does about melodrama, Loach resorts to pure war presentation. The result is a truthful and shattering movie.

One of the marks of Loach's style is his use of less experienced actors in conjunction with more seasoned players such as Murphy. It gives the film a tone of authenticity; the supporting cast feels rather like real people than too polished actors. Dialogue is much of which was improved, adding to this effect of realism. The conversations flow out with a totally organic quality that really captures the dialect and rhythm of rural Ireland.

The cinematography by Barry Ackroyd is breathtaking; this landscape, so beautiful for it being Ireland, will find itself in the battleground with some violence and desperation. Deep emerald green stretches are hills and unforgiving rough terrain; a constant reminder to the characters why they are fighting for home turf. All this at one time reminds the observer of how sharp contradictions exist between the countryside serenity and the horror of all this brutality.

The sound design is also pretty good. The movie has no traditional score, so the natural sounds- namely birds chirping, rustling of leaves, and cracks of the gunshot-get really emphasized. So too this heightens reality in this movie and tends to have the viewer suck it in more. The use of music is very sparse and intentional with the most evident one being "The Wind That Shakes the Barley." As a haunting title song, this traditional Irish ballad is sung during a funeral scene and brings the story of sorrow and resurging resilience in Irish folks.

The Wind That Shakes the Barley is unlike most of these historical dramas since it does not give easy answers or even some simplistic narratives. Loach will not make the Irish heroes and the Brits one-dimensional villains, but instead shows complexity on either side and accepts that these people, whatever their circumstances, are human beings and liable to flaws. It would make the film all the more powerful as it could force viewers to face certain ethical dilemmas of character.

It doesn't fall into the trap of idealizing the past. The film commemorates the courage and sacrifices made by the fighters for independence but is not afraid of presenting the ugly truth in the struggle itself - informer killings and purging in the ranks of the IRA. It's difficult to look at those moments, but they're important to view if one expects to comprehend the entirety of the picture.

I saw it, and I felt very emotionally drained yet profoundly moved. Wind That Shakes the Barley is not a film one should see without effort but a film that one needs to see. It's a hard film that would get one thinking, feeling, and reflecting on freedom, loyalty, and sacrifice. It is a film that stays; images and themes attach themselves to your mind, even long after the light goes dark off the screen.

This is a must-watch film for people who are interested in history, politics, or even great storytelling. Indeed, it is a testament to how powerful cinema can be for shedding light on the past, challenging one's point of view, and attaching the audience to the shared suffering of humanity. For me, seeing this reminds me of the importance of remembering history-not just the triumphs but also the pain and sacrifice that goes into these triumphs.

It's the Wind That Shakes the Barley-a film about freedom, and resilience in the human spirit. It is a film that celebrates the struggles of those before us while reminding us of the fight that is still happening today in our world. For me, it was not just viewing but a very profound journey into the heart of the nation and its people.

Ranking = 88/100

Sometimes, a film comes across one that does not merely entertain but transcends the medium and, in short, becomes something more than a tapestry of stories, histories, and emotions. Lone Star is the neo-Western mystery film by John Sayles: one of those films coming in 1996-so much more than just another whodunit or social commentary. This is a very intricately woven narrative that includes the weight of history, blurriness between right and wrong, and complexities in human relationships, all set against the backdrop of a fictional Texas border town called Frontera. This movie has the feel of a crime mystery-an unsolved murder that surfaces decades later and connects to a corrupt sheriff. As it turned out, though, the story had much more to it than just that premise and the film turned out to be much more than that. It exhumes buried truths- literally and metaphorically skeletons from families, communities, and generations.

The film opens with a human skeleton in the desert. This sets off a new investigation by the new sheriff of Frontera, Sam Deeds (Chris Cooper), who is not only having problems with his own complicated relationship with his father, Buddy Deeds, as portrayed in a very brief but memorable role by Matthew McConaughey. He was the mythical man of the people, bigger than life, who cast his shadow over Sam. It appears that the skeleton is that of Charlie Wade (Kris Kristofferson), a notoriously corrupt and brutal sheriff who mysteriously disappeared several decades ago. The mystery of Lone Star is interesting because it is not about merely solving a crime but peeling off layers of history. Each revelation is not only about uncovering the clue that solves the murder but is also a piece of the town's complicated past. Sayles doesn't drag the story around at all; he lets the story speak itself with movement back and forward into time in a totally natural way, and so in both places, in what's real as alive right now, you get swallowed up into this world and that people's of the Frontera.

It's masterful storytelling. About legacy, what had been left behind by people before, and how you wanted to go on about how they would want it. In his investigation, Sam would also find out the truth regarding Charlie Wade's disappearance. He would also have a reconciliation with his feelings for his father. Buddy Deeds is a hero. This is a man who has stood up to corrupt Wade and brought integrity to this town. However, the more Sam digs, the more he questions whether his father was as noble as everyone thought. This is something most of us can relate to, especially with our parents or any other authority figure.

The last theme that is depicted here is the theme of identity. In a way, the movie tells what happens when a community consists of people from different ethnicities. Frontera is basically a melting pot where Anglo, Mexican, Black, and Native American cultures with their own histories and perspectives converge. Sayles does not take a step back when tension and prejudice are brought forward in this community yet does so in a very nuanced and sensitive manner. The most compelling subplot revolves around Pilar Cruz (Elizabeth Peña), a schoolteacher and former lover of Sam. Their rekindled affair is complicated by revelations about their shared past that force them to confront painful truths about their families and themselves.

What first comes to mind as the greatest good of Lone Star is how easily Sayles juggles multiple storylines and themes without ever losing focus. Beyond Sam's question, the film also depicts the lives of several other characters and their problems and secrets. For instance, there is a subplot revolving around Otis Payne (Ron Canada), the Black bar owner trying to reconcile with his estranged son or Mercedes Cruz (Miriam Colon), Pilar's mother whose story as an immigrant has so much about sacrifice and compromise for good life.

The real and interesting thing is that these subplots are not side stories but the central part of the story. They are what constitute the textured, multi-dimensional portrait of Frontera and its people. Sayles's screenplay is well-developed; every detail counts; even the smallest interaction can weigh, revealing something about the characters or the community they live in.

And the image of The film is the breathtakingly desolate beauty of Texas borderlands. It uses the landscape to metaphorize the characters' isolation and the expansive history of them. The cinematography by Stuart Dryburgh is subtle yet mighty. He has given this movie a natural light setting with earthy tones which root the movie in the environment.

The film is also emotionally rich. Sayles has this talent to cast characters that really do feel like real people, and even with their flaws and contradictions, rather relatable. Chris Cooper is as quietly powerful as Sam. He has a very good sense of weariness and determination that makes him very compelling as a protagonist. Elizabeth Peña is equally excellent as Pilar; she brings warmth and strength to her character. But the most chilling effectiveness comes with Kris Kristofferson as Charlie Wade, whom, in so few scenes, he stamps indelibly upon the screen as a man whose cruelty has scarred this town and its people.

Well, Lone Star, almost thirty years since it came to theatres, is still uncomfortably relevant today. Some of the issues that this film raises are just the same ones that remain today as well: racism, corruption, and identity. But what really makes this film stand out is that it doesn't offer easy answers. Sayles does not do absolutes. He speaks of the messy and contradictory nature of human experience, and acceptance instead of understanding and not tidy endings for this film are the strongest proof.

It is that kind of detective movie which really impresses me not due to some shocking twist or dramatic climax, but because of its humanness. Sayles has written a story intimate and universal talking about complexities in our relationship with one another and the past.

This movie will shake you, move you, and will haunt you. Lone Star is, without doubt, a master storytelling effort, a testament to how cinema can be an agent of exploration of the human condition. For me, Lone Star is not only one of the best films of the 1990s; it is one of the best films ever.

Rating = 95/100. Very good crime film to watch.

Really speaking only after seeing this movie, I would venture to say that, The more time passes by, a film comes which will merely remind but also take one's soul as if one calls out for reflection on that too. One such is 'In the Name of the Father' (1993), starring the magnetic Daniel Day-Lewis. More entertainment rather than a Jim Sheridan's movie:. This was an indictment of systemic injustice but also a statement in personal redemption and familial bonds that, even after the passing of many decades after its release, continues to stay profoundly relevant and deeply moving based on real history regarding the Guildford Four.

Against the volatile backdrop of Northern Ireland's troubles in the 1970s, a young Irish man named Gerry Conlon, who is neither much of a troublemaker nor anything for terrorism either, is watched as a young man befalls an awful crime wave. It is a scenario where there was an attack on a Guildford pub with many deaths; desperate for answers, the British government imprisoned Gerry along with his family and several more under the understanding that it was all one group carrying out the attack, forming the IRA, and these people had executed the entire operation. This is, therefore, the dream of unjust imprisonment, the political scum, and the desperate struggle to seek justice.

You are flung into Gerry's world right from the first scenes. Brilliantly, Sheridan has conveyed the working-class life of Belfast where violence and suspicion dominate life. At the initial stages of the movie, Gerry is both gullible and reckless-not really a perfect hero but definitely one with whom you could associate pretty easily. The entire transformation of Gerry throughout the film from a free lad to turning out to be a fighter for truth is heart-wrenching and inspiring.

We also get to know the second most important character of the movie, Giuseppe Conlon, who, unfortunately,, is Gerry's father. Giuseppe and his son were caught on association rather than evidence against them. This is the very crux of emotional drama marked by personal loss at the hands of the system.

Perhaps, one of the greatest actors ever is the one in In the Name of the Father- further reinforcement to such a claim in Daniel Day-Lewis's presence, as Gerry feels like some emotional storm of anger and despair, all rising to that climactic decision with raw intensity, quite real.

One of the great moments in the film is when Gerry learns about his father's death. Day-Lewis is not acting; he embodies the pain, guilt, and rage of a man that an unjust system has snapped. It is a scene that lingers long after the credits to testify to his incomparable ability to convey the depth of human emotion.

Equally brilliant is Pete Postlethwaite as Giuseppe Conlon, whose dignified reticence and faith create such stark contrast against the hot head that Gerry so often proves to be. This film provides emotional human anchor-reminds one of grace and compassion, in the face of scenes of unmitigated cruelty.

What makes In the Name of the Father extraordinary is that this is a vicious attack upon the British justice system and political motives that allowed flagrant miscarriages of justice to take place. Such is how Sheridan illustrates just how truth was allowed to be a casualty of vengeance at the hands of the government. It does not step back to depict how it is the police, judiciary and the media who allowed the lie to be told and kept on telling it.

It is one of the most maddeningly, compelling things in the movie-the interrogation of Gerry. You sit, and you survive scenes showing psychological manipulation and intimidation, and that's really what's important to find out how far these powers go to secure conviction; it makes you pose uneasy questions about power, prejudice, and accountability.

But it is much more than a film about corruption is a movie of strength and an ongoing battle for justice. It is hope, shining bright on the face of Gareth Peirce as Emma Thompson assumes the role of the lawyer who finally comes through to exonerate the names of Gerry and the rest of the other victims. The silent tenacity and the solid work complement the desperation that mars much of the film.

This film, In the Name of the Father, is mainly a political movie in addition to family concerns. There was this superb bonding between Gerry and Giuseppe that slowly evolved through the course of this film. Gerry used to feel during the first part of this movie that his father is weak as he was the symbol of conventional values along with reserve or rather silence. However, when both of them begin to survive in jail, Gerry comes to consider valueability towards strength and dignity which was connected with his father.

It is a sensitive scene wherein Giuseppe tries to soothe Gerry after what can only be described as a pretty brutal day. That is how vulnerable they get along with each other. Such moments make him stand out as perhaps one of the most memorable figures from the movie: he strongly believed in Gerry's innocence, silently braved the injustice being shown to him. Sad as this blow is to Gerry and his audience. Only it is too stark a reminder of the incidental damage done by systemic failures.

In other words, nothing but masterly directing from Sheridan is there. Melting personal and political goes so perfectly that the movie neither sermonizes nor sappily gets the point out. It is deliberateness in pacing to let the impact sink in every moment. Overall emotive resonance of the remaining feature gets a boost with U2's "In the Name of the Father" sitting on the soundtrack.

The cinematography by Peter Biziou is sublime-it captures not only the bleakness of life in prison but also Gerry's youth in Belfast-what a glorious chaos. Most probably, it will be perceived as contrast, that is to say, his prison, and then there was his own youth against which falls the tragic loss of freedom and innocence. Particularly when shot in the scenes of the courtroom, which never allows someone to breathe even if the verdict could be memorized beforehand, such movies remind one of it.

Just three decades have passed since the movie In the Name of the Father started its silver-screen travel, but that lesson is of great worth: about what happens when unchecked power and bias are unleashed. The themes of justice, family, and redemption speak universally and timelessly to any person who ever believed that justice was not possible for all. Indeed, at a time when wrongful convictions and institutional corruption remain very much the order of the day, the film's message has an urgent feel about it.

But with all of these political and social comments, the film vibrates at an ultra, ultra-human level. It is a story of regular people in extraordinary times. Or, on the contrary, strange people in mundane times, so that it is only that which may be described as commonplace - love story and loss, constant search for truth. I have seen this film, but more thought-provoking is it on the values that I embrace and what kind of world I would want to live in.

It's more than a movie; it is an experience. That is what In the Name of the Father is, like, that kind of movie that leaves you emotionally drained yet profoundly inspired. If one is a lover of tales that break the norms, tell justice, and portray that in society, then he will surely be moved by this film.

It brought very closely to home the human face of failing systems in an arena where statistics and policy flood media. Movies like these actually do make sure that in any given headline, somebody out there has a family living somewhere, has dreamt something, and has been permanently imprinted by tragedy, in this case,, Gerry- disillusioned youth from struggling youth turned fighter for justice with constant reminders of how strong and fragile human beings can get.

Another factor that really touches my chord is the father-son relationship. The silent sacrifices of Giuseppe have been making me think of my relations and the unspoken love that binds families; it is love that gives strength at the darkest hour, love that remains the same even in hardships never thought of.

Masterful storytelling, masterful performance, and masterly direction go into making a movie, but In the Name of the Father further educates, provokes, and inspires, placing the viewer face-to-face with unpleasant truths about justice and mankind.

Watch if you haven't seen it-it'll make you cry and provoke on issues of power of truth and love. If you watched the movie, then you are at the right moment to view it again to recall its timeless messages, remembering how far we go or haven't gone.

Rating = 100/100 It's a movie to watch. No doubts.

I believe few directors in the cinema world have managed to portray the quiet intricacies of human life so poetically as Nuri Bilge Ceylan. About Dry Grasses, his latest is no exception to that. This 2023 Cannes favourite meditated on human relationships, personal ambitions, and existential dilemmas and left an indelible impression on me. Running over three hours, it is a slow burn but one that offers profound rewards for those patient enough to immerse themselves in its meticulously crafted world.

Set against the stark, snowy landscapes of eastern Anatolia, About Dry Grasses tells the story of Samet, an art teacher disillusioned by his service and on the brink of completing his mandatory time in a remote village. As winter blankets the village, its isolation mirrors Samet's internal struggles. He battles boredom, unfulfilled ambitions, and the oppressive routine of small-town life. The story picks up steam when a series of allegations made by students against him and his colleague threatens to disrupt the fragile status quo.

Purest in its form, the film speaks less about the plot and more about the philosophical and emotional landscape it sojourns. It uses the canvas of Samet's circumstances to go into universal themes about alienation and power dynamics, morality, and burdens of societal expectations.

Samet, played with astonishing subtlety by Deniz Celiloğlu, is a deeply complex character. On the surface, he exudes quiet arrogance, a product of his education and urban background that sets him apart from the villagers. Yet beneath this veneer lies vulnerability, bitterness, and a yearning for connection.

What struck me most was how relatable Samet's existential crisis felt. He is neither a hero nor a villain but rather an ordinary fellow battling the frustrations of life. His pompous attitude towards his surroundings and students reflects his frustration in staying in a stagnant state. As the story progresses, his relationships, especially with Nuray, played by Merve Dizdar, for whom the Best Actress at Cannes was awarded for this performance, unfold layers of insecurity and self-doubt in him and an ever-growing need for redemption.

Her opponent is Nuray, a teacher, who acts as the greatest equilibrium for Samet. She symbolizes resistance, compassion, and politics in a manner that shakes Samet's cynicism. Their dialogue is the emotional and intellectual heart of the movie: a clash of ideologies but also a meeting of kindred spirits.

About Dry Grasses certainly bears the stamp of a filmmaker attuned to contemplative narration: Nuri Bilge Ceylan. The movie sighs lugubriously at each pace and takes one's time with every feeling it puts on display, spending as much time on that screen as it does. In short, it is unendurable for viewers who would need fast-paced plots; instead, this slow rhythm only furnishes the hypnotic strength of the film.

It's visually stunning: the snow-draped landscapes of Anatolia look harshly beautiful in the frames of Gökhan Tiryaki. The same white snow that falls through the entire film transforms snow-covered fields into a metaphor for Samet's desolation. Long takes and compositions designed to produce intimacy and a stillness within the frames lead viewers to observe and ponder alongside characters.

What's interesting here is the use of natural light. The play of light and shadow, whether it is a winter sunrise or the interior of the village homes in dim light, enhances the film's introspective mood. Visual poetry, combined with this very sparse yet evocative score, creates an atmosphere both haunting and deeply immersive.

Dry Grasses is a film that is deeply
This is a philosophical film, and its themes run deep. It's a meditation on alienation well inside it. Samet lives with a feeling of disconnect from his surroundings, his coworkers, and even himself. Such a feeling of superiority, in turn,, isolates him further as the cycle of resentment and loneliness becomes vicious.

By the way, it is an ambivalent morality film. Accusations against Samet, but not central to the entire film, are there to shape the investigation into questions involving power and the fragility of trust. All contradiction and complexity, anyway, and Ceylan resists ready answers in this.

Another theme that resonated with me was the connection between hope and despair. From the relationships Samet has with Nuray and the students, one can see that he may be able to form a connection and find redemption, though the film never really draws this to a conclusion. It is also a reflection of life, wherein personal growth and reconciliation tend to be hard to pin down.

Being a person who always respected teaching as a noble profession, the way the movie treated the teachers is really impressive. An alienated Samet draws attention to the plight of teaching in impoverished regions without infrastructure and isolation and how one fails to inspire the children whose own lives are far from ideal.

In its words and at the same time, however, the film raises critical questions about the mechanism of power standing behind the teacher-student interaction. How Samet deals with his students shows how far he can dispose and endanger this ability. It very touching remembering and renewing the ethical responsibility held by it.

Although it is very rooted in its Turkish context, the themes of About Dry Grasses are universal. The movie's themes of ambition, isolation, and searching for meaning cut across cultural lines. It is a journey that most of us can relate to, irrespective of our background.

It is a kind of its own character and miniature world in a miniature world: a countryside setting with all its snowy landscapes and very close community. In terms of the ability to pay great attention to detail to portray the rhythms of village life, the dynamics of its inhabitants, and the starkly beautiful environment, it does justice in adding a very good quality of authenticity to the story.

For me, About Dry Grasses is a very reflective movie. I was getting tired of Samet's arrogance and cynicism sometimes. Toward the latter part of the film, I saw myself in his fears, insecurities, and even his desire for something more.

This movie also made me think of the value of empathy. How Nuray looks beyond the flaws of Samet and relates to him on a human level reminded me of how much compassion breaks down barriers. It makes me question how often I, too, judge people based on their surface behaviour without thinking about what they might be going through.

One of the best things about About Dry Grasses was how it refused to tie everything up in a neat bow. It ended on an ambiguous note and left the viewer to his own conclusion. In an age where most films prioritized ending on a high note instead of reflection, that openness was refreshing.

For me, it was not frustrating but liberating. It made me carry on thinking about the film long after the credits rolled, revisit its themes, and ponder questions. It reminded me of how life, too, is often ambiguous with no clear answers or resolutions.

Dry Grasses is not one of those people's films. It is the kind of movie that will drive people away because of the slow pace, heavy philosophy, and lack of any kind of plot that defines movies. But for those who are ready to accept its depth and complexity, it is profoundly rewarding.

Once again, Nuri Bilge Ceylan proves himself the master of storytelling in film through Dry Grasses, as intellectually stimulating as emotionally touching. Dry Grasses is a work of art of invitation, asking us to look within ourselves, question assumptions, and seek meaning in life's quiet moments. About Dry Grasses, then, in a world that at times can feel cold and isolating as an Anatolian winter, stands brightly warm as a reminder of what warmth can be found by understanding and empathy.

It's as painful to see as it is rewarding to witness if one is willing to tolerate the film's ice-filled interior. A reminder that good storytelling will never truly be overdone and a reminder why cinema is among the greatest artistic endeavours humanity has come to enjoy.

Rating = 90/100

All right, so few films tell it like it is from American labour struggles, such as the one in Matewan. This 1987 masterpiece by John Sayles is not another film about miners but a story of resistance, unity, and the price of justice. Watching Matewan feels less like consuming a piece of cinema and more like stepping into the blood-soaked soil of West Virginia, where human dignity clashes against corporate greed. Here, I’ll delve into my thoughts on why Matewan left an indelible mark on me, not just as a film lover but as someone reflecting on the broader implications of class struggle and human resilience.

Dropped into the world of Matewan from the very first shot of the movie, this is a cinematic, rather dramatic retelling of events based on fact as it occurred in 1920's Matewan Massacre between warring coal miners, strikebreaking scabs, and Stone Mountain Coal Company agents. Being someone who researches heavily and gives much detail to a work, Sayles brings you a world that seems lived-in.

The town of Matewan almost acts as a character in this film. Dirt roads, rickety wooden houses, and giant looming coal mines make a very important background yet add up to the script as well. Special cinematography kudos to Haskell Wexler. The movie has this very subdued earthy palette that has captured so well the real gritty situation of their life, while the light and shadow play on characters' faces bring out the whole moral grey of the story, amazed at how real everything seems. You nearly smell coal dust in the air or hear wooden plank creaking beneath their feet. It is this sense of place that draws you in and refuses to let go the very first moment into the movie's narrative.

The characters are perhaps the greatest strength of the film. Sayles never falls into the trap of reducing his heroes into caricatures of heroism or his villains into emotionless maniacs. All characters are multidimensional; their motivations, although sometimes less admirable than commendable, make some kind of sense.

The first appearance of Chris Cooper is as a union organizer called Joe Kenehan, who has been sent to Matewan to aid in the miners' plight, demanding better wages and better working conditions. Chris Cooper conveys a soft but stern intensity to make Joe known as a moral authority without even saying a word like one must preach. He walks calmly into a hotbed of total volatility, and so it is in this aspect that his total belief in non-violent resistance comes to be one of the movie's main conflicts.

That, however, is overshadowed by David Strathairn as Sid Hatfield, the town sheriff. He is a man who is torn between his sense of duty to fulfil obligations and his conscience. Unlike the films of that era, he is no villain enforcer of the company's will but a man in impossible circumstances trying to do the right thing. His quiet heroism will prove as riveting as his action movie equivalent.

The miners themselves, played by a mix of professional actors and locals hired to stand in for most of them, are treated with scrappy verisimilitude. Will Oldham plays the teenage preacher, Danny, and this is some surprisingly good,d, mature work by him. James Earl Jones rounds out the company as "Few Clothes" Johnson, the Black strength and wisdom mine. His character reminds me of the racial tensions complicating the fight for miners, but also of the possibility of solidarity across lines.

Matewan is the title of one rather bright film about the power of solidarity. Participants in that strike were very diverse kinds of workers: from local West Virginians, via black workers imported from the South to Italian immigrants. The company's strategy was sowing mistrust and division -workers did not unite in solidarity.

A chunk of the story hit me right in the guts, a pattern we see throughout history and that continues today—the powerful strategy of divide and conquer: getting groups of oppressed peoples to fight each other. Precisely the same fight to transcend their differences and pursue the unity those miners fought for, I could easily relate to.

Perhaps the most tragic scene in the film is when Few Clothes Johnson and a miner who has been working in that area finally put down their differences. The filmmakers show that camaraderie is not easy to achieve but by effort and understanding, one conquers the finality of winning. It reminds everyone that people with a common cause do not stand on the common cause but conquer fear as well.

Whereas Matewan is anti-materialist and pro-fairness, the movie does not hesitate to depict the price of resistance. Violence is horrible in the movie, unrelenting, but at the same time, it never feels gratuitous. Any attack, whether it is an attempt by a company man against a miner or in that climactic shootout, finds itself wedged in the film's interpretation of power relations.

The Baldwin-Felts agents, appearing in the film with such menacing intent, are the embodiment of corporate greed. They are an occupying force in Matewan, and their casual cruelty is antithetical to the humanity that the miners represent. Even though they are not one-dimensional, they are the product of a system that values profits over people.

The climactic massacre of the movie is, while heartbreaking to the last degree, inevitable. For here again, Sayles mounts this moment in a rising feeling of dread, where violence does finally erupt but with this feeling of opening dam gates. As one saw it, it remembered so oft how progress always cost blood. Instead of glorying in it, the film honours what this was: the sacrifice of humans who had stood up, irrespective of the insurmountable odds.

Except for most of the historic dramas, it is this that makes Matewan, the refusal of Sayles to compromise vision here. Here is no over-dramatized Hollywood-like film about history but a bleak naked view into a moment. There is no sugarcoating the difficult issues of the miners as Sayles presents no neat solutions; he offers all these before the viewer, like problems of class struggle, race, or violence.

It exudes the subtle power that is Sayles' writing. It is highly realistic to this period, and yet nothing sounds stilted or overly archaic. And there is a very lyrical quality, too, to how folk speak their minds, in the sermons that Danny delivers and the speeches that Joe gives. Still, he never lets the dialogue sound so forceful that it sounds over the story; purpose is at every line.

It was a slow-moving pace film, which is not everyone's cup of tea to watch. However, it helped me get immersed in the world of Matewan. In the final battle, I was completely invested in the characters and struggles where the emotional impact had been devastating.

Watching Matewan from a viewpoint of today, it would be impossible not to recognize the parallelism towards today's struggles. Tackles of a coal company—divide and rule, exploit desperation, maintain through violence—are the tools applied by corporations and governments of all the world. Let's not forget that our battle for workers' rights is yet only just beginning.

It also made me understand the importance of history and the value of stories. This, in my opinion, is something that would have easily faded with time for most of us if not for the existence of Sayles's film regarding the events at Matewan. These are amazing stories that honour the people who went first and inspired other generations of people to continue fighting for a better cause.

Not a movie easy to sit through and not even ever intended to be. It requires undivided attention and gives back in full measure, and this one just happens to be a powerful experience of thought-provoking cinema. I feel so very deep in my heart grateful, not only for the film but also for real men and women who stood up to oppression despite all odds.

John Sayles has done a movie that is just as relevant now, perhaps, as when it was released in 1987 and continues to play well today. Matewan is a salute to collective action, thought-provoking about the cost of standing up for rights. This movie lingers long after the lights are dimmed; it should stimulate questioning and possibly a little doing.

As big as the fight for justice is in this world, Matewan reminds the viewer of how powerful it becomes when working as one. It's not just telling a tale through motion pictures, but it's motivational, too. For anyone standing for values of justice, solidity, and that power being human spirit, it's more than worth the watch- Matewan.

Rating 95/100. Gives a watch.

Drive My Car (2021): Ryusuke Hamaguchi, an experience that cannot be described as a film. A reflection and contemplation about what cannot be said, between pain and love, art and human relation. It's a movie adaptation of a short story by Haruki Murakami, in his book Men Without Women. It goes for three hours; it is dull but when, through such a film, one learns to sit through its silences and its subtleties, it makes a most immeasurable return. I walked into the cinema with no expectations, which had to be filled regarding watching Drive My Car.

The synopsis - a theatre director trying to find himself during his personal tragedy as he goes through a multilingual adaptation of Chekhov's Uncle Vanya-sounded very intriguing yet pretty obscure. But yet, within minutes, I was swept up in its silent yet powerful current. It is not a shout-it-out movie with loud themes, but rather a kind of gentle coaxing and letting you feel alone.

Driving the movie My Car is his protagonist, a character played so admirably under restraint by Hidetoshi Nishijima. Yūsuke, the stage actor and director, was left to face the untimely death of his wife, who, by the way, was a complicated and sometimes elusive marriage to the screenwriter Oto. In them was deep love, full of unsaid words-the silence about Oto's infidelity something Yusuke knew all too well, never once brought head-on. All of this is a background against which unuttered emotions and secrets are kept, even from those for whom they have the greatest love.

Act I, almost a film in itself, is their story, which ends in Oto's death. Two years pass; Yusuke has a residency for staging Uncle Vanya in Hiroshima. There's added here the younger character having Misaki Watari for him (Tōko Miura), who similarly had their set of scars and silences, but still ends with developing a professional distance into a heart to emotionally express and give more meat for the rest of the film from lengthy car rides inside the red Saab 900 with Yūsuke starting opening up with this very different one.

In the film, the middle car is a space used not only as an instrument of travel but also for reflection, introspection, and bonding. Yūsuke plays it, recording taped versions of Uncle Vanya and Oto speaking other characters' lines, a creepy and very private ritual of keeping her existence alive. Misaki sits in a quiet line, machine-finished behind the driver's seat; one that would never open all her traumatic and painful stories inside. She is yet another soul that the car becomes to tell its secret stories. Their conversations are few but telling, and beneath them lie layers of pain and guilt each carries. Such settings-the car, cadence on roads-make them encounter comfortableness wherein things may be shared that otherwise should have stayed hidden elsewhere. Scenes such as these are heart-wrenching and quietly describe how connecting humans go through, as seen while being narrated by Hamaguchi.

This was the acting process parallel to the journey of Yūsuke and Misaki that metaphorized Yūsuke's emotional journey, that of Uncle Vanya. Running through this play, like most of Chekhov's work, are themes like stagnation, regret, and time flying past, which Yūsuke has been dealing with. It's the casting of actors from linguistically diverse backgrounds. Deaf lead actress, for instance, in Korean Sign Language, once again, some meaning to this, and how well it strikes chords about how universally human emotion plays across a wide range, how much we all attempt to carry conversations beyond that divide.

Something so amazing about rehearsal scenes is that they cut into Yūsuke's approach to being the director. He wants actors to say just what the script says, with no jot of emotional embroidery. First, it might seem an idleness of fancy on the artist's part, but this is an example of how Yūsuke eschews openness for emotion. He takes the ascendancy of the drama in terms of the failure he experienced while not facing the mayhem of his personal life thus giving depth to the person and to the plot as well. Almost trance-like, intentional, and deliberate, the direction from Hamaguchi gives the movie a natural pacing. It is not a film that hastens toward the end and resolves everything or answers with ease. Instead, it hangs between moments: the pause of conversation, unspoken glances, quiet car. The silences are full, not empty, and this means one sits in the feelings instead of being told to have feelings about something.

The film’s length—just shy of three hours—might seem daunting, but every minute feels earned. This is a story about the slow, often painful process of healing, and its pacing reflects that journey. By the time the film reaches its climactic moments, it feels as though we’ve travelled alongside Yūsuke and Misaki, experiencing their grief and growth in real time.

All these performances in Drive My Car are spectacular. Nishijima is Yūsuke-as-a-lesson-in-control-conveying worlds with only minuscule changes in expressions and the bodily language used. Grief is shown in a way that's so believably not too melodramatic; it just seems like something that's happening or has. Miura brings a counterbalance because, in quiet strength, this person is so vulnerable, thereby bringing dynamics that will be both effective yet very, very real, so not forced at all.

Kudos to the supporting cast as well, but most especially to those who acted in Yūsuke's Uncle Vanya. Every character came with emotional baggage that made the story so profound through the exploration of communication and connection. Most memorable was Park Yu-rim in her role as deaf actress Lee Yoon-a; sign language added such visual poetry to the film.

I feel that Drive My Car is so powerful because it enters emotional spaces on various levels. On the surface, it is a story of loss and healing, but it really questions art, language, and how we connect to others in different ways. Such profound questions are asked: How do we cope with the loss? How do we find words for emotions we can't speak? How do we make sense of all uncertainties? Perhaps the most tragic theme of the movie is bearing burdens for others. Yūsuke and Misaki are both tortured with the feeling of guilt over things that happened in the past, which they could not do anything about, and their journey together is like sharing that burden. There is this heart-wrenching scene wherein Misaki compares death as much in love as in pain. Yūsuke tries to speak about silent sentiments over Oto's betrayal and death, but the scenes of vulnerability shine, and healing does sometimes come through bonding. And then there is Hidetoshi Shinomiya's muted yet beautiful cinematography: the interior intimacies of cars and wide panoramas of Hiroshima are all captured. Perhaps it's only played by light and shadow-the mood this shot inspires in one riding in this car-an evocative one with a whiff of sadness. Background score is pretty subdued once again, and as earlier, by Eiko Ishibashi. Some sparsely played piano melodies herald the quiet emotional strength whereby the film holds all of its scenes.

Powerful writing screenplay with Murakami as Hamaguchi together with Takamasa Oe. Extremely difficult to translate, Murakami, being as introspective and ambiguous well takes it all on the film very effortlessly. Organic usage of the language in terms of dialogue- just is the construct of the entire film; it is a way to use the car as if an anchor is needed.

Drive My Car, in a world of spectacularism over substance, brings to the surface something beautiful that reminds us, at least down deep, just how much cinema remains still to be explored for this thing called human existence. Not an easy one, mind you-it takes so much in the way of patience with it-but richly repaid in emotional depths that linger long after those credits have rolled. It's far from being a film of misery but one of living; it talks about beauty and the pain within human relations, the power of art and ways to find solace in each other.

It reminded me of healing which is not always a direct way but on a very serpentine roadway full of unforeseen corners of quiet revelation and for losing and changing. The moment I thought the movie Drive My Car was going to be amazing because it made me think of my own relationships relating to unsaid things.

Drive My Car, in every sense of that phrase, is a cinema masterwork. Such a challenging yet rewarding film as this brings a very human, profoundly moving, intellectually and emotionally charged story. This proves the possibility of cinema at times to move and provoke by some artwork by Ryusuke Hamaguchi.

You should watch this fabulous movie if you haven't yet, take time out from all work to go and watch on any other platform, sit through its silences, hear its rhythms, and let it take you on its own journey you may like, as I did leave yourself changed

Rating = 95/100 it's a perfect movie must-watch it.

One of the greatest anti-war films ever made, in my opinion, is Stanley Kubrick's Paths of Glory (1957). More than half a century after its release, the themes it engages when it comes to talking about absurdities in war, corruption by power, and human cost in blind obedience are exemplary for today. Kubrick, destined to be the makings of legend with 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968) and A Clockwork Orange (1971), is masterful of both narrative and imagery with this stark, naked rendering of World War I, a war that defines a generation and changes the nature of history.

This film is a novel of the same name by Humphrey Cobb, published in 1935, which was inspired by some actual events from the war. Working with a screenplay by Calder Willingham and Jim Thompson, Kubrick here brings us a haunting, morally complex story about the cruelty and futility of war. Not only is it the movie of the horrors of war, but also its psychological and emotional impacts on those who have to fight and, as well, on those who have the power to send them to the hell of conflict.

Paths of Glory is a work about the junction of power, authority, and human dignity. In it, the travails of Colonel Dax, played by Kirk Douglas, are seen as he tries to save his men from court-martial charges after they are sent to undertake a suicidal, impossible assault on a strongly defended German position. After it had failed, three men chosen for a firing squad on charges of cowardice went off on their own to explain their stories, in letters, to Colonel Dax's wife, a schoolteacher and later nurse and served as her assistants. Dax himself, highly decorated officer, is driven onto the morally complicated ground of military discipline and personal integrity, as well as the sadistic bureaucracy that war breeds. Here unfolds a scathing critique of how power-wielders play with human life for their benefit while the ordinary soldier suffers in misery.

War itself dominates the background of the central conflict of the movie, but one would notice the inevitable absence of battles in Kubrick's direction. Instead of focused violence, Kubrick works more with psychological battles: the wars people fight within themselves and one another. Indeed, that is what makes Paths of Glory so great: the emphasis placed on an internalized struggle over one external.
This minimalist style, often using tightly confined shots, puts the viewer right in the claustrophobic world of trench warfare in which the men are no more than pawns in a game that seems to become increasingly futile and absurd. In this sense, it could be ventured that Kubrick appears to argue that the war, particularly the Great War, was an exercise in futility: a gigantic futility for which all the sacrifices made in the name of it were vicious manipulations of those far removed from the battlefield.

The best thing about the movie and I like is that it holds absolute moral clarity. As regards setting the entire film in the light of Colonel Dax's narration, Kubrick has done justice to the film. Dax, a man who has seen the worst aspect of war, stands up for justice in regard to his men despite the superior officers. Justice, however, eludes him at every turn through systemic corruption in the military.

The trial of the three soldiers—these are the only sinning offenders in their careers to have been selected to be on such a predictably suicidal mission—has been a farce from start to finish, organized for the express purpose of providing a cover of due process to the incompetence of those in command rather than for one whit of justice. Noble though his defence of his men is, it is all in vain since the military hierarchy is too hardwired into its self-preservation to listen to reason or any attitude of empathy.

Performance in the role of Colonel Dax by Kirk Douglas is the keystone in the emotional depth of the movie. Dax is caught between his duties as an officer and his moral compass as a human being. He is, for his part, at once a soldier and man of conscience, and his predicaments are full of tension as he struggles to cut through the very complex issues of the role. Douglas was intense and heavy in the role, and his inherent turmoil within did not ever descend into melodrama. His scenes in the courtroom, where he passionately defends his men, are among the film's most compelling. Unlike the cold, calculating generals surrounding him, Dax's pitiful heart and conviction of right and wrong are sad because he finally realizes that his military position cannot support such ideals.

The three soldiers chosen to be executed- Private Ferol (Timothy Carey), Private Arnaud (Joe Turkel), and Private Dubois (Ralph Meeker)-are depicted as more victims of a system that seems to put obedience ahead of humanity. These are men from a normal life sent into an impossible situation, and their execution is the final condemnation of the meaningless violence of war. The film does not pause in the background or personality but lingers instead on the injustice of their fate. Kubrick denies the ability of the viewer to dehumanize these soldiers by underlining the absurdity of their execution. Their death is one of the most ironically revolting commentaries about how the military machine grinds up human lives for little more than the satisfaction of its commanders.

Another almost incredibly powerful element of the film is its visual style added by close shots of empty landscapes in French trenches: it seems to add a feeling of isolation and despair that dominates the movie. Appealing elaboration of interiors in the command headquarters with long corridors and stark, almost oppressive lighting conveys claustrophobia and institutional cruelty. Scenes of choking once again are presented in the courtroom as sentences to the soldiers are pronounced; the camera dominates through the cold faces of generals presiding over the trial. What lurks in every frame of the movie is the contrast that it presents, the warmth of humanity of the soldier against the cold, bureaucratic indifference of their seniors.

Paths of Glory is brilliant in the presentation of the military system and the illusion of obsequious obedience. Distant, egocentric men who care only for the next step on the ladder - and about nothing else in life, so they claim - hold their soldiers' fate. A perfect example is General Mireau, played by George Macready. He finds a purpose not out of any strategic compulsion but for the sake of personal glory: he decides to order an assault on the German position, although he knows that it is bound to fail. His pride cannot make him see realities, and when things go bad, he starts shifting the burden onto his juniors and hands over innocent men to the gallows to save his reputation. The naked agonies of attacking positions towards military leadership, the dehumanizing effects of authority on humans, and the destructive nature of the acts by the generals, underscored in the acts themselves, would not stop at the battlefield but would creep into the lives of those in its machinery.

The conclusion of the movie is powerful too. In an eery scene, after the trial and execution of three soldiers, Colonel Dax leads his men into a German prison camp to hear an address given by a group of female prisoners. Their chorus singing, a chorus that speaks forth the mournful refrain, symbolizes humanity victimized by war's destruction. The film closes on a tragic note: Dax's soldiers sit in silence as the women sing. So poignant is the picture as it poignantly emphasizes the meaninglessness of the violence in which they have just been involved and in which they have just had a hand. It is one of the few moments of desperate despair that reminds one temporarily of the humanity outside the horrors of war.

Paths of Glory is a critique of a deep meditation on the nature of power, human weakness, and the abysses of unexamined authority. It tears to pieces the very notion of glory in war and contests myths written around glorious and patriotic battles. Instead, it depicts a view of war as an antihuman force of cruelty using the lives of the many for the splendour of the few. Although the film has its soldiers, they're very brave and sacrificing; however, here, they are portrayed as pieces in the game without the power to alter one's situation. And so Kubrick is saying that the real price of war and what it exacts isn't just the lives lost but also dignity and humanity stripped systematically away.

And really, I am saying that Today too, Paths of Glory remains a timeless classic that continues to resonate with audiences. Its anti-war message rings as loudly today as it did in 1957 when the film was first released. Its insight into the nature of authority and bureaucracy and the suffering of mankind is as true today as it was when the film hit the market. The film is a testament to Kubrick's genius, providing, in one devastating argument, the futility of war and the subsequent compromises regarding morals that it forces on people participating in it. Whether you're a Kubrick fan or an admirer of films that raze the veneer of conventional narratives, Paths of Glory is a film that needs looking and reflective contemplation.

Rating = 95/100 best World War 1 films ever made.

"Psycho" (1960): A Suspense Horror Epic Classic

So if we take a look at the cinema industry of today, we can hardly be able to find one movie that brought a complete change in the geography of cinematography.
However, among many of those movies, Alfred Hitchcock's "Psycho" seems like a turning point in film history.

Although I knew its reputation and had heard so much about this infamous shower scene, nothing could prepare me for how unsettling, indeed thought-provoking, this movie was to be. It is an experience to sit through Psycho. More than sixty years have elapsed since it was done, yet it has still kept pretty well. The brilliance of Hitchcock is not in scaring one but in holding the tension, burying the narrative twist, and creating better complex character psychology. This movie doesn't just scare; it lingers in your mind raising a question on every shadow, every door, and every friendly smile.

The plot opens with the secretary to a wholesale house in Phoenix, Marion Crane (Janet Leigh), having an impetuous fit and deciding to steal $40,000 from her employer in the hope of helping her lover, Sam Loomis (John Gavin), work himself out of his hole. The simple premise doesn't promise much, but by the time Marion makes her decision, Hitchcock weaves a web of tension in which nothing seems destined to unravel.

The opening scenes are marvellous - the way Hitchcock draws the audience into Marion's world, where the city feels so hot and oppressive, the choice is reckless yet relatable enough, and ambiguity over morality keeps a person hooked. And when she is driving away with that money, every car passing by seems like an apparent threat, every suspicious glance. Paranoia is at its best, and the viewers are complicit in her crime.

In the legendary Bates Motel, Marion is despatched. There, Norman Bates is initially innocent. Norman appears de and shy and gangly in an embarrassing way. It would be impossible to argue an actor was the equal of Perkins in this role. He invites Marion to dinner, and their parlour conversation is arguably the most effectively telling scene in the film. And the dialogue is marvellous subtext; what he has to say about his relationship with his mother, his ideas of being "trapped," and that creepy line, "We all go a little mad sometimes," hints at seriously ominous ulterior motives lurking beneath that charming surface.

And the creepy thing is, that dim lighting in the background makes the stuffed birds look that much more menacing.
Hitchcock is so cunning with the Bates Motel. The motel rests upon an abandoned highway and in a place that no one would by chance pass except possibly passing into some other deserted destination. Behind the motel stands a huge house cast ominously on a hill like a gothic spectre. It seems alive as if it watches every move that Norman and his guests make.

If you haven't seen Psycho, you probably still know the shower scene. It is one of cinema's best-known sequences for a very good reason: it's a work of genius. What impressed me wasn't so much the appalling violence but how Hitchcock constructed the scene to achieve maximum emotional and psychological impact.

Marion chooses to pay back the money and to start again by walking into the shower, thereby sealing a kind of cleansing over herself. The invasion at the hands of "Mother" is savage and anarchic. She is drowned in quick cuts, shrieking violins from Bernard Herrmann's score, and complete helplessness as she is attacked - an overwhelming sense of horror.

Much more astonishing, though, is the way that Hitchcock throws out so much of what is expected in the narration of a story. The putative hero of the film, Marion, is killed off with scant more than half the movie left to go; a very bold narrative move that has the viewer reeling and at the mercy of ambiguity, unable to know what's coming next.

But, of course, Marion is dead, so the movie then centres its picture on Marion's sister Lila (Vera Miles) and Sam, who sets off searching for her. This quest coincides almost concurrently with the search that Norman Bates hires a private detective, Arbogast (Martin Balsam), to conduct to find her. Intriguing as characters, by themselves, they are insufficient to steal attention away from Norman Bates and the sinister mystery that hangs over him.

This sets suspense with the narrative as it builds and Hitchcock is perfectly able to do this; the Bates Motel is almost like a Pandora's box awaiting to be opened, the house on the hill. The stark, ominous shots of every scene are shown with portent in that there is always something lurking just off-camera, always out of frame.

Another of the film's more striking images is taken from the question posed by Arbogast: his murder by "Mother." Shot in a scene that borders on surreal, Hitchcock captures his fall down the stairs in a dream-like quality that jarringly contrasts with the violent brutality.

The ending of Psycho is memorable. Lila's search through the Bates house and discovery of Mrs. Bates' body is sheer nightmare stuff. Norman bursting in with a knife in hand, dressed in his mother's costume, is a scary, pathetic sight. That last discovery regarding Norman being the split personality was chilling and pitifully sad. This is not precisely a classical monster; Norman himself is the victim of his mind, perpetually guilt-ridden, and eaten alive by that toxic relationship with his mom. This is why Psycho stands out from most horror films because Hitchcock injects such psychological depth within the character.

This is because the film has so much depth in terms of layering: it is not only a horror movie but also one commenting on guilt and repression, as well as on the duality of humans. Norman's split personality depicts the constant conflict that is always in him between his darker impulse versus the impulse to do good. For this reason, Marion's story about stealing and then being consumed by remorse truly epitomizes the argument of moral conflict.

It also raises a problem of voyeurism and the male gaze. The opening shot of the film, where we see Marion and Sam through the window, makes us the voyeur of the audience. Norman's spying on his guests complements that theme and forces us to think about our way of spectatorship.

Alfred Hitchcock's direction is something of a master course in suspense. Every shot is carefully composed: low-angle views of the Bates house and extreme close-ups of Marion's terrified face as she is attacked in the shower scene. Lighting and shadows for unease seem to seep into every frame by Hitchcock. Again, pace is a plus. Hitchcock knows just when to pile on the tension and when to give his audience a chance to catch its breath. Neither is the film ever either hastened or lingered over, but all scenes count.

And I can surely say that without the great score of Bernard Herrmann, no review of Psycho would ever be complete. It contrasts very well with the rest of the score, which is just as good as it contrasts with the screeching violins in the famous column "I", used during the shower scene. Herrmann uses strings that give you a sense of urgency and fear and underline the effect of every scene.

Suffice it to say that Psycho marked the new standard as far as horror movies were concerned. It placed the horror genre of psychological movies in the general scheme of mainstream films, thus opening the gateway to the inspirational features of countless filmmakers; it runs from The Shining to Get Out.
Even in its rebellion against the censorship of its time, the film did not flinch. Neither a murder nor fornication nor a psychological aspect of Psycho has anything to fear Hitchcock's fingers. The flush toilet, revolutionary even today in 1960, added to that is a step toward realism in cinematic creation.

Psycho, as a personal consumption, created an unforgettable ride. What impressed me the most was how modern it felt, despite being over 60 years old. The themes, the characters, and the suspense are timeless. Norman Bates is one of the most fascinating characters I’ve ever encountered in a movie. He’s both terrifying and sympathetic, a testament to Anthony Perkins’ incredible performance. Although it can almost be played for laughable parodies and references, still, shockingly, it has left me. Although giving me chills, though, Psycho set me thinking about the nature of guilt, the fragility of the human mind, and also the power of cinema.

But, in the era of CGI and swooping spooks and all the rest of the horror parade, Psycho reminds us of the grand power of the storyteller. No intricate special effects are required, and there are no cheap tricks to try to scare a crowd. Characters, atmosphere and psychology- the ultimate fright.

No one handles emotion better than Hitchcock. He makes us come to care for Marion just so and at just the right time so he can pull it all right from under us. He makes us fear Norman just enough before he reveals humanity.

Even multiple dozen viewings can't destroy the power of Psycho. The film repays close attention to multiple viewings, and new details and layers of meaning reveal themselves.

This is the reason why Psycho stands not only as a remarkably superb horror film but as an out-and-out work of cinema. Peerless direction from Alfred Hitchcock, paired with fantastic performances from Anthony Perkins and the score by Bernard Herrmann, situates a film that, for so many of today's cinemagoers, is at least as captivating and riveting today as it was in 1960.

If you haven't seen it, do yourself a favour, and watch it. And if you have, see it again. Psycho is the kind of film worth seeing over and over and again reflecting on. It is not another movie; it is an experience that's going to leave you looking over your shoulder, wondering about even the most normal people around you.

Psycho is just so memorable as a film to me because it makes me remember why I love cinema: great stories can transcend time and make an incredible mark not just on their audience but on the art form itself.

Psycho is one of those films that every cinema lover should watch; it's also one of those films every film enthusiast needs to deconstruct. In that sense, it makes everything that previous films turn out to be-so to speak, constituting a genre unto themselves. Indeed, it is the movie which crosses the lines of what is possible, and shows horror what horror can be. It is such a film that intellectually stimulates as well as viscerally shocks-a true masterpiece for the ages.Psycho can be timeless since it learns one simple truth: one's darkest monsters are those in his/her own mind.

Ranking = 100/100 This movie really deserve full rating a must watch classic thriller movie.

I think that Phantom Thread is another film that is as much about its characters as it is about the art of creation. Of course, this is one of those things which is quite insidiously compelling by Paul Thomas Anderson in 2017-wrapped around the world of fashion, delicately constructed, and unnervingly controlled. It is like art which should only be viewed from afar to do justice to.

This movie is about relationships. Not just any, however: all laced with desire, power, and obsessive perfection. It's a film of love but also control, domination, and submission. Daniel Day-Lewis weaves his intensity throughout the role of obsessive-compulsive genius fashion designer Reynolds Woodcock so that every movement, every word weighs upon you like the glass and beeswax wobbly work that characters construct with such intricacy.

The Phantom of Phantom Thread is Reynolds Woodcock, a man for whom control is everything was one of the most famous dressmakers in London in the n 1950s. He has dedicated his life to just being and pursuing his craft with a level of perfection that's not only required but a necessity. Everything in his life is measured by the work that he does for the people around him. He is almost surgical in the way he does things, yet there is haunting melancholy in him, an absent fullness that is never defined or addressed by his artistry alone.

This is the genius of Phantom Thread: it gives us the life of Reynold, a sane artist and man. In the minute care given to his craft, we see complexities of character—his refusal to be disrupted, his demand for order, and his need for control over his surroundings. Reynolds is a man who can compose beauty but doesn't know how to live with imperfection even in his most intimate relationships.

I want to say that the acting done by Day-Lewis is phenomenal. He carries a veneer of elegance and stiffness with which he fits into the character's behaviour. Every movement feels weighed on the balance, and somehow there's an undeniable weight in the air each time he enters a scene. His performance is fascinatingly stunning at times, and rather than doing justice to hthisgeniusiitalso manages to belie cracks beneath that composed exterior.

Enter Vicky Krieps as Alma, the very young woman who walks into Reynolds's world, tearing asunder the perfect order he has painfully maintained for so long. She is everything Reynolds is not: impulsive, passionate, unpredictable. The first time she entered his life, she was a curiosity to him; he immediately fell in love with her, but obvious signals marked that she was a far cry from being any other woman who would just easily fit into his carefully structured life.

Alma has her entry into Reynolds's life rather capriciously. She first appears as a stereotypical muse for him—a woman to be inspired by his work and his requirements. But in the very course of the film, Alma's holoner, Reynolds, grows, and she starts questioning the authority of Reynolds. Now, she is a tectonic force in his life, mirroring his urges and speaking about the silent vulnerabilities that lie behind his back.

Krieps brings a lot of depth to her character, Alma, who is both fragile and rebellious at different times. While she is not the main focus for much of the film, her presence in every scene is important. Krieps does an amazing job showing Alma’s transformation from a quiet observer to a woman who learns how to take control in Reynolds's world. It's a remarkable film about a woman who understands the balance of power and how to use it in a world obsessed with control.

It is the film of power-who has got it, how it may be used, and how it can shift. The whole relationship with Alma is always negotiable. What in its purer respects was, from the start, a pretty simple romance blows up into a tug-of-war over mastery and submission, each character trying to find just the line which their opponent will not cross. She learns how to play with Reynolds, nudging him just that little bit farther to make him want her, to make him need her. And Reynolds, brilliant for all his aplomb, goes quietly undone by Alma's growing power.

But here is where the movie gets interesting. This is not a love story; it is more of a power play; one that varies, never remaining in the same spot for long. Alma is far from being an uninvolved bystander in Reynolds's life; she is a disruptor who throws all order to the wind in his world, to which he clings desperately. Their romance, therefore, is thrilling though quite unsettling to view.

The complexity of the dynamic starts with every scene of the film, and this time, with the direction of Anderson and the performances of Day-Lewis and Krieps, we are put on the edge of our seats. Moments of tenderness are smeared with discomfort-a basic question of what love means when it is in tandem with control. This is one of those questions that the film never seems quite to answer and leaves to wrestle with the impossibilities of their desires.

If Phantom Thread were a fabric, then its visuals would be the threads that hold everything together. Anderson is known for high attention to detail when working on films; it's well illustrated in how visually precise this film is. From costuming, to set design, lighting all add up to be trapped in a glamorous world but somehow stifling.

What the film does is anchor its aesthetic to the world of high fashion without ever succumbing to it. The costumes, designed by Mark Bridges, are impeccable in their detail. Everygran, everyy outfit seems a reflection of Reynolds's character: beautiful,c coldan and exacting Overall, in the creation of Anderson and his team, every product createdeverythingthing that has been moved is special yet holds meaning with a sense of vulnerability lurking just beneath its surface as if everything could fall apart at any moment.

Another element that played a very vital role in the atmosphere of the film was its score. The music was composed by Jonny Greenwood and can be termed hauntingly lush for this film. There was an unspoken discomfort in the score, which matched the transformative nature of the relationship that Reynolds had with Alma. It is one of those scores that even when the film is over, the stain on the body remains as the threads do on a dress.

Phantom Thread. On the surface, it's just a simple love story, but it's much more complex. I think that it's a meditation about how art and obsession can consume one, and how relationships—in all of their manifestations—can be part of that consumerism. It speaks to the idea through film that love can sometimes be creatively life-giving, and other times both destructively self-annihilating.

This obsession toward perfection in the art piece reflects this wanting to be in control of everything else in his life. So, the obsessive cycle, therefore involves Alma as this object of desire yet a trigger for unraveling. This is a constant push and pull between the two: attraction and repulsion that echoes the tension between the artist and the muse. A film that poses the very essence of love and asks if it is a possibility in a world that has no power over or manipulation.

Above their complex relationship, however, Phantom Thread lies as a story about the work of creation. The work of Reynolds is placed at the heart of the story. His shaper of fabrics into something beautiful is a metaphor for the control over the world he wields. In his art, he can find asylum in the fortuitous human emotions and, in doing so, create perfect, untouched things. But life, the film tells us, has no perfection and that its beauty lies in chaos.

Honestly, I can say that Phantom Thread takes us into a world where beauty, love, and control are intertwined in ways that capture and disturb, a story at its heart about how fragile control can be and the price of perfection being sought. It just follows the story of Reynolds and Alma as the subtle dance unfolds between power and submission, love and manipulation, creation and destruction.

The movie performances-Christian praises in particular Daniel Day-Lewis and Vicky Krieps' deliverance-would set an example for every actor of such depth that has been portrayed through their real emotions. Beautiful music, amazing costumes, and astounding visuals all make Phantom Thread stick in your mind after you've seen it. This is a love movie about the pursuit of beauty but reminds us also that in the process, we forget the really important things: human connection, vulnerability, and the messy truth of being alive.

Ranking = 90/100 A lovely movie nothing to say Just watch it.

Nostalghia (1983): A Journey Through Andrei Tarkovsky's Poetic Masterpiece

Okay so before I start the review I want to say something that, few directors manage to etch their cinematic language into the minds of their audience as Andrei Tarkovsky does. In Nostalghia, he takes us on a haunting, introspective journey so poignantly complemented by the beauty of the Italian countryside-though it's not less about the film as art than it's about the soul pining for a place that lies beyond its reach. Tarkovsky's vision is undoubtedly poetic; the film, first of all, is a very real experience that requires patience, an open-minded and willing heart that understands how to renounce conventional expectations of narrative.

Story Nostalghia It is about the life history of Andrei Gorchakov (Oleg Yankovsky), a Russian poet who travels to Italy to visit the life of his fellow Russian expatriate composer who had died there. Andrei is travelling with his guide, Eugenia (Domiziana Giordano), and he is cut off from the world around him, drowning in nostalgia for his homeland and inner turmoil that keeps piling up. Further into the Italian landscape, he meets Domenico (Erland Josephson), whom the villagers call mad, while Domenico believes he is on a spiritual journey to redeem humanity for losing its moral compass.

Since the beginning of the story, one realizes the importance of situating it in Italy-the land of art history, and sacred monuments-with Tarkovsky's use of his signature long takes and reflecting camera movements giving it an otherworldly and almost mystic quality. Hills, crumbling ruins, and mist-shrouded forests lend themselves to a physical description of Andrei's inner turmoil. He does not simply take us to Italy; he places us within it, demanding that we do what Andrei has done-forget ourselves and face our feelings of alienation and homesickness.

Indeed, Nostalghia is a cinematic exploration of the human experience of nostalgia-a term that, for Tarkovsky, appears to mean so much more than homesickness. In this film, nostalgia is a spiritual state, a metaphysical yearning for something lost or perhaps forever out of reach. It is an acute, almost paralyzing, need to be connected with his homeland and past for Andrei. The feelings are made worse by alien landscapes, each of which was replete with its history and culture, not to say anything, that is, of his.

Andrei's journey is a mirror for anyone who has felt the pain of being an outsider, who has fought with the terrifying feeling of being in a place where they hardly fit. But Tarkovsky goes further than this simple depiction of alienation discomfort; he delves deeper into the more significant causes of alienation. Here, the nostalgia of Nostalghia is what creates a bridge to pastness, but it also reminds people of how flimsy identity can be. In Tarkovsky's thought, we are what we are on account of our homes, cultures, and memories; and to lose touch with them is to lose touch with ourselves.

Tarkovsky's films are profoundly spiritual as they are cinematic, and Nostalghia does not differ. His style, characterized by long takes and an almost dreamlike sense of time, is seen to the fullest here. Tarkovsky was famous for denouncing the frantic pace of Western cinema, and in Nostalghia, he lets scenes unfurl and unfold at a nearly glacial clip. This slow pace is an effort, of course, but it leaves space for the viewer to reflect, think about, and engage with the images on a deeper level.

There is one of the most famous scenes from the film-Andrei trying to carry a candle lit across an empty pool, so that is also emblematic of Tarkovsky's approach. The shot lasts for minutes, and Andrei's attempt to keep the candle alight becomes very powerful a metaphor: to carry one's inner light despite the winds of doubt and despair. Tarkovsky does not hurry at this moment. He allows it to breathe, and in this, he grants it the weight and significance that would have otherwise been denied a quicker, more conventional shot.

Another layer to the emotional resonance of the film is given by Tarkovsky's colour and light. Almost every scene in the movie is draped in muted tones with splashes of color carrying heavy symbolic weight. The Italian countryside is beautiful and austere but marred by decay and neglect. So, this visual style supports the isolation and melancholy that pervades the movie. Tarkovsky doesn't leave us Italy as a tourist would see it; in his hands, however, a much more worn and haunted landscape is conjured that mirrors the ache of Andrei.

I will say that Tarkovsky was a deeply religious filmmaker, and whilst Nostalghia is not in any way religious, it is drenched in a spirituality that transcends conventional iconography of religion. For instance, Domenico is a sort of prophet figure, a madman speaking to humanity's need for redemption and warning them of disaster. His prattlings might sound incoherent to the people about him, but for Andrei-and for Tarkovsky-there is truth in his words.

Domenico's search across the pool with the candle can be understood as an image of faith. It is, of course, an impossible, absurd task, yet also a trial of devotion-a testament to the resilience of the human spirit. Domenico's dire warnings regarding humanity's moral decay resonate hauntingly in a world that has come to feel people are disconnected from one another and even from the planet itself. Tarkovsky employs Domenico as a vessel for a sort of mass longing for meaning in a life where values greater than materialism and egoistic human machinations have been lost.

Another powerful symbol throughout the film is the candle; it represents not only light and hope but also the fragility of these qualities in a world filled with darkness and indifference. Watching Andrei try, in vain, to keep the flame burning against the wind, one could view this as reflecting Tarkovsky's struggle to create art in a largely indifferent world.

Therwatchingescienceonance in Nostalghia because the director himself was a Russian in exile at the time he made the film. Just like Andrei, Tarkovsky himself was a man lost, cut off from his motherland and unsure of his position in this world. This sense of exile hangs in every frame of Nostalghia, something that makes that film so authentic and urgent that one cannot take his eyes off it.

Alienation in the Tarkovsky world is not something a person undergoes but becomes rather a condition of universal experience, a characteristic of contemporary life. In Nostalghia, the landscapes themselves alienate Andrei as they stand above him, showing no particular interest in his existence. The people he encounters-Eugenia, Domenico, and the townsfolk-are distant in the same way: unable or unwilling to bridge the gap between them and the man.

Yet though Tarkovsky's vision is dark indeed, hope is indicated at the end. Finally, we see Andrei sitting by a small, humble cottage in his homeland. But when the camera pulls back, we see this cottage is, impossibly, set within the ruins of an Italian church. This juxtaposition of worlds, this impossible and unreal union of familiar and foreign, might indicate that exile might not be an absolute condition. Perhaps, Tarkovsky seems to say, we can find home wherever we carry our memories, wherever we nurture our inner light.

Tarkovsky's work here, just as with the visual, manages to be something of perfection: a film marked by periods of near-silence interrupted here and there by droplets of water, receding echoes, or soft sounds from the wind. These sounds enhance the feeling of isolation and create a sort of meditation space for the viewers to go on an emotional connection with the film.

Tarkovsky does not use the conventional scores, instead using natural sounds which give a more intense experience. When music does appear, it seems like an intrusion, reminding the audience of the outside world beyond Andrei's thoughts. This contrast between silence and sound mirrors the tension between Andrei's internal and external worlds, once again reinforcing the sense of a man caught between two realities.

The film doesn't spoon-feed its audience tears or a comfortable happy ending. It leaves a scenario of questions about ourselves, at our places of belonging, and at the very idea of what art is what it holds within its imagination, and what memory means. It is a film that requires patience and introspection, qualities Tarkovsky considered necessary when dealing with art.

For most of the viewers, Nostalghia will be a difficult experience. It's a film of pacing, ambiguity, and narrative defiancé: at times almost overwhelming. But to those willing to enter the slow meditative rhythm of Nostalghia, it offers something rare and beautiful: that a film can cling so long and feverishly to your mind when the last frame fades black. Tarkovsky's masterpiece is far from telling some kind of story; it is rather a feeling, a state of mind that is very watching science.

Tarkovsky questiowatchesrough Nostalghia with the paradox of nostalgia: it's a sigh for the past but a reminder of the impossibility of return. He reminds us that we are all, in some sense, exiles, wandering through a world that can never fully satisfy our yearning for connection and meaning. Yet even in this world of disconnection and isolation, Tarkovsky suggests that we can still find moments of transcendence, fragments of meaning that sustain us. Then, Nostalghia becomes an invitation to the beauty within these fragmented moments, when we can see something valuable in what happens within us, however solitary or serious it is.

One of the things that makes Nostalghia so unique is the fact that it never takes instructive content to instruct a viewer in how to feel or even what to think. The film can be considered a blank canvas that kind of mirrors back at the internal struggle and preoccupation of viewers. This soul narrative development can be quite unnerving for viewers who are used to films instructing them to felt-like only defined narratives with definitive answers. Tarkovsky's film is not interested in comforting the viewer; it is interested in making the viewer think about himself/herself.

Nostalghia will, therefore, maybe bring with it feelings of sorrow and down-heartedness: a memory of things lost or places traversed. And for some, this very feeling will perhaps be a balm: for there is beauty also in the search itself, though the find may never be seen. This plasticity, this ability to touch each viewer differently is what turns Nostalghia into such a deeper cinematic experience. It's a movie that you get used to; you continue to unfold all its layers, meanings, and variations as if it were alive.

And I have to talk about this, but in our fast-paced hyperconnected world of cinema, Nostalghia feels almost like an act of rebellion. There is, above all, how Tarkovsky's work sits in particular light of meditative pacing, insistence on silence, and refusal to adhere to conventional storytelling ways in place of cutting and high-energy narratives typical of modern cinema. Nostalghia feels like a whole different world when watched today—a world demanding to be slowed down and fully attended to, even while it sometimes invites one to rethink several aspects of filmmaking.

More than at any other time in my life, I felt the sheer themes of displacement and longing that Nostalghia was alive in 1983. Of course, much has changed since then: we no longer live in an age of constant migration, we cross borders daily, and our identities are becoming increasingly fluid. So, it is perhaps with a new resonance that Tarkovsky investigates what "home" is. His film is that most universal, including personal, experience: the search for belonging, a place that feels inherently our own, which remains forever just beyond our reach.

Nostalgia It's not meant to be fully understood or even fully appreciated on first viewing; it's a film that demands time, patience, and perhaps multiple watchesI think that Tarkovsky believed that cinema should be like poetry, that it should speak to the soul rather than the intellect, and Nostalghia is a perfect embodiment of this philosophy.

There is a hint of irony in the fact that Nostalghia is so intensely, strictly related to Russian cultural identity, and was nevertheless shot by Tarkovsky as an emigrant. But it is this distance, this feeling of separation, which gives the film strength. Here stands Nostalghia before us as if Tarkovsky's self-reconciliation or the bridge stretched over the familiar and the foreign, memory into reality.

Nostalghia: A film bold in its audacity to ask the big questions, to probe into human longing, and to present vision in an area of art that transcends borders and language - this is Nostalghia for those who are willing to surrender to its pace. Nostalghia, Tarkovsky gives us not only a film but a part of his soul gift that, like a memory or a distant dream.

Ranking = 95/ 100 if you like some kind of poetic felt-like movie this is a perfect watch.

Okay, so that brings me to The American Friend (1977) by Wim Wenders while browsing through a list of must-see films in the German New Wave. Its minimalist title and its parading as one of the more accessible flicks in the director's filmography made me keen on seeing what Wenders had concocted. This I was reflecting on after viewing it, how the film manages to weave in existential themes, deep character studies, and wonderful cinematography. The American Friend is not a movie about two male friends; no, this is slow-burning, trust and mortality, and the human condition kind of study.

Based on Patricia Highsmith's novel Ripley's Game, The American Friend is a rather unusual cinematic experience that stays with the viewer long after its final credits. In 1970s Germany, Wenders transplants the suspenseful world bordering on the moral ambiguity of Highsmith's Tom Ripley. Wenders, a master of static contemplative storytelling and striking visual language, makes a film that defies the conventions of traditional crime thrillers. It's part neo-noir, part existential meditation on human relationships, and wholly captivating.

And yes, I like the plot. The story follows Jonathan Zimmermann, played by Bruno Ganz, a mild-mannered German picture framer diagnosed with a terminal illness. His life, once ordinary, has suddenly been reduced to a countdown, and all of a sudden, he is facing the reality of death. But Zimmermann is not the kind of man who would accept his fate passively. In a last-ditch attempt to find some sense in his life before it's too late, he gets embroiled in the crime-infested world.

He meets Tom Ripley (Dennis Hopper), an American suave and charismatic character with a dark past. Ripley is that kind of character who would thrive on the dead areas of moral ambiguity, moving situations and people through cynicism, almost detachedly. He gets Zimmermann to become part of a contract hit, a move that brings the two men into some especially threatening scope of events where Zimmermann asks himself whether he is being manipulated or whether he gets in this world with Ripley. The movie portrays their relationship as it develops through psychological pressures that emanate from choices made, the breakability of human relationships, and the implications of living life on the edge.

Wim Wenders is normally acclaimed as a master at creating an atmosphere that dictates the mood. His film, The American Friend, does not make an exception; right in the first frame, you find yourself immersed in a world where nothing goes as expected. The film is thus planned with a slow pace, almost meditative, compelling the audience to sit through the characters and their growing angst. This is not some high-octane thriller that the reader might expect from such a film about assassins and hit jobs. Rather, Wenders takes audiences into a maze of emotions, choices, and moral dilemmas that play with our expectations and force us into a deeper engagement.

But what struck me about Wenders and his management of relationships, especially between Zimmermann and Ripley, is how the actual theme of the film seems to be centred on the definition of friendship or, rather, how ambiguous the line between a true friendship and exploitation can be. From an outside perspective, it almost appears that Ripley is taking advantage of Zimmermann for his dirty work. But as the movie unfolds, we find that Zimmermann, too, is consumed by Ripley's world not out of fear but as a desperate need to find meaning in his dying days. There is a kind of uneasy camaraderie between them, a friendship forged in mutual understanding and acknowledgement of their shared mortality.

Perhaps the most complex thing about their relationship is the most memorable scene in the entire movie moment when Ripley invites Zimmermann to accompany him on a job that will kill some man. It is an important point in the film where the two men are forced to come face to face with each other. Although appalled, Zimmermann follows the direction set by Ripley and thus embarks on a journey that will change him eternally. The scene hauntingly raises the question of human choice sense: is Ripley manipulating Zimmermann, or is Zimmermann, as the great philosopher Sartre would say, "playing along with his design"?

These moral ambiguities make The American Friend so compelling: Ripley and Zimmermann are morally compromised yet not entirely bad guys. Given their circumstances, they can only be trapped by the complications of their own choices. That is why it is such a moving and emotionally resonant film: it explores the shades of grey between right and wrong.

Wim Wenders is known for a cinema of visual storytelling; The American Friend takes such practices to an extraordinary level. Composition often reflects turmoil going on inside his characters' heads. Wenders uses both space and lighting to evoke isolation and emptiness in the lives of both Ripley and Zimmermann. The cities of Hamburg and Paris mark the backdrop for these travels; however, they are more than that: Cold, desolate streets and empty apartments create a mood of emotional emptiness shared by both protagonists.

One of the most striking things about the film is Wenders's use of colour to create a mood. The depressed colours, the sombre interior, and the jarring contrasts of light and shadow are all part of the climate of the film: a climate of alienation and discomfort. Moreover, the camera lingers on minute, seemingly insignificant details —an empty room, a close-up of one of the protagonists' faces—that heightens the atmosphere of tension and foreboding. There is an intentional slow-burning quality to the cinematography, much like that of the students' lives unravelling piece by piece.

The visual style of The American Friend also supports the themes of existentialism surrounding the movie: huge widescreen shots of cities and streets tell of distance, but close-ups of the characters' faces speak of vulnerability and how their psyches are fragile. Every frame seems to be speaking, not through dialogue but through its arrangement in composition-a very immersive experience.

Once more, the performances are among the standout things in The American Friend. Dennis Hopper is chillingly charismatic as Tom Ripley. Cool and calculating and controlled of demeanour, Ripley lives a life that breathes calmly into the air around him, and Hopper gets that quality just right in his performance. Ripley is a charming man who also has the capability of cruelty, and Hopper's balancing these opposing qualities makes the character so intriguing to watch.

But Bruno Ganz brings altogether a different kind of energy to the role of Jonathan Zimmermann. Zimmermann, played by Ganz, comes out with quiet intensity, capturing the vulnerability, desperation, and moral conflict portrayed in the role. It is a subtle performance, and Ganz captures very excellently that man who has been made to face his mortality; it is touching and heartbreaking. The contrasting ways in which Hopper plays the role of Ripley with Ganz playing Zimmermann offers an engaging dimension to their relationship. They are two sides of the same coin and each struggle with demons but in ways so different from the other.

In conjunction with Ganz, Hopper attains a magnetism that propels the movie forward. The tension in a scene with these two is palpable, while the unhurried development of their relationship borders on the inevitable and tragic. Character interaction often reflects the deeper thematic interest the film makes regarding friendship and trust, and through their chemistry, the leads bring this complex dynamic to life on screen.

Another very significant aspect of the emotional impact of The American Friend is its soundtrack. Jürgen Knieper wrote the score, which is subtly strong for moulding the mood of the film. A minimalist, eerie score complements the quiet, reflective tone of the film, reiterating a pervasive feeling of foreboding that occurs. The music is never overpowering, but it has remained an excellent undertone to add flavour to the atmosphere.

The silent nature of the film has allowed for some moments where you feel the absence of a musical score creating great tension, and you're left to take all the brunt from the characters and their actions. Restraint is part of Wenders' direction, but it lets the film breathe and unfold at its own pace. When the score is present, it punctuates the emotional beats of the film, amplifying every moment in key situations.

On my part: The American Friend such a brilliant film is in its failure to offer quick solutions. It is not this thriller whereby it all gets tied up in neat bows with a clear moral lesson attached. In Wenders, instead, he asks us to sit with our ambiguity regarding those characters and their motivations. As I watched the film, I was puzzled by questions of friendship, trust, and choices shaping our lives. No easy answers come forth here but rather challenge people to think harder about the intricacies of human relationships and what the cost of their decisions would be.

It's one of those films that tend to linger long after the roll of credits. Themes of mortality, friendship, and morality make it a timeless cinematic experience, thanks to Wenders' direction and incredible performances from Hopper and Ganz. A film more on the journey than the destination, I still feel its depth all these years after the first viewing.

If you haven't seen The American Friend, I would tell you to watch it. It is not an easy movie with simple answers or quick thrills, but a film that rewards patients who engage in its world and the truths people are asking from life while relating to death and everything in between.
A film that asks questions relating to life, death, and everything in between while doing it in a way.

Ranking=95/100. It is an amazing film. Everyone should watch it.

The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring, 2001: A Journey to the Heart of Fantasy

It has been close to two decades since The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring came out on the big screen, so I caught it at 13 and saw it after all those years yet its magic-the ability to transport audiences into a world of unimaginable depth and wonder-remains as potent as ever. It was the version of the monstrosity of J.R.R. Tolkien that materialised into an epic vision transforming the cinematic landscape of modernity and hence popularizing fantasy films and granting to the masses the experience that gelled with the magnitude and eternity of the novel itself. It is only watching The Fellowship of the Ring again that brings it home once again, how it balances grandeur with a close-up personal journey and thus underpins ideally what was to become one of the greatest trilogies ever made.

In its main subject, it is a story of heroism but by ordinary people. Here, we see them for the first time: Frodo Baggins, the unlikeliest of hobbits, on this dangerous journey to destroy the One Ring; his companions-Aragorn (Viggo Mortensen), Gandalf (Ian McKellen), Legolas (Orlando Bloom), Gimli (John Rhys-Davies), Boromir (Sean Bean), and his fellow hobbits Sam (Sean Astin), Merry (Dominic Monaghan), and Pippin (Billy Boyd). They are to venture perilously through Mordor, a land where there is only one thing that can defeat the Dark Lord Sauron, and that would be the destruction of the One Ring he uses to rule with.

The best about Jackson's adaptation is how, truthfully, it could bring the novel onto the big screen. Such a project is overwhelmed with the depth of intricate histories, languages, and cultures within a large world that Tolkien sets before Jackson, who manages to set it visually stunningly and accessible in the first half of the film. It neatly serves to establish the stage for the big journey to come, revolving around the forming of the Fellowship and the burden Frodo needs to shoulder. It drips with friendship, sacrifice, and the battle of good over phenomenal evil.

From a technically visual sense, The Fellowship of the Ring is stunning. From the lush green hills of the Shire to the foreboding, dark mountains of Mordor, movie settings have been deliberately created to evoke the sense of wonder that pervades Tolkien's work. Indeed, almost dreamlike beauty does the Shire-this land of peace and innocence-present, in rolling fields and cosy hobbit holes well reflecting the humble and carefree lifestyle of the hobbits. Against this stands the dark, menacing world of Mordor, with jagged landscapes and an ash sky full of apprehension.

Genius finds its reflection in choosing New Zealand as a backdrop to the land of Middle-earth. No set or computer-generated image could ever have captured this invented world so expertly. Under sensitive hands with Jackson, the settings are not just backgrounds but characters with the input they give to the emotive tone of each scene. Whether it is the still waterside of Rivendell or the ancient crumbling beauty of Moria, the environment begins to show the audience some of the inner struggles a character is experiencing.

On a purely technical level, The Fellowship of the Ring was revolutionary for its time. Technically breathtaking, especially Gollum, who was voiced and acted through motion capture technology by Andy Serkis-to compare it would be almost impossible in the visual storytelling arts today. The choreography of their battles, as at Amon Hen, is masterful. Another example is miniatures and forced perspective, wherein hobbits seem much smaller than the humans-which just goes a long way in showing Jackson's dedication toward creating an authentic world and thus an immersive world.

Of course, special mention must be made of the classic soundtrack by Howard Shore. Music in The Fellowship of the Ring is emotion overflowing, elevating each key moment. From the evocative theme that brings alive the heart of the Shire with "Concerning Hobbits" to the ominous tones of the Ring, Shore's score comes part and parcel of the identity of the film, timeless music quite right for this set of visuals and performances to make every scene unforgettable.

What the heart of The Fellowship of the Ring lies in is its unforgettable characters, all made possible by an exceptional cast. Where some artists perform better than others, Elijah Wood nails Frodo perfectly: vulnerable and determined as he seems to be at times, detailing within himself the internal conflict of a character never meant to be a hero but rising to the occasion anyway. Maybe the most eloquent moment of the trilogy-perhaps even all through is with Frodo leaving the Shire, not because this moment made Wood's performance more poignant and shows how the burden weighs on his shoulders, how the fear clings onto him, yet there is still resolve in the heart and that grounds the story emotionally.

Aragorn is, well, the reluctant hero, a man for whom greatness was preordained but for whom he feels no flush of belonging to the much greater fight against Sauron. His presence turns a dimension's gravity into the character who makes Aragorn at once an unbelievable warrior and an empathetic leader. The chemistry between him and other Fellows, too, feels palpable, and his journey over three films is nothing short of transformative.

And then, of course, there's Ian McKellen's Gandalf-so full of layers and layers of wisdom yet often humorously, all that is needed in wisdom, compassion, and the weight of his mission. It is the balance between cold darkness with moments of warmth: the mentor, the protector of Frodo and others in McKellen's Gandalf.

The rest of the company shines just as brightly, notable work by Sean Astin's Sam: loyalty and heroism, at once the emotional heart of the film and, in form, what it's allowed to be. And Sean Bean's Boromir internal struggle he has with the Ring is one of the points of the film that one remembers best momentously done. Rich quality is the ensemble of characters as every member brings something of his own to this story - his strengths, vulnerabilities, and dynamics.

It is just one movie about friendship at the same time and about sacrifice. The bonding between Frodo and Sam surely forms one of the most lasting friendships cinematography has to offer, setting the emotional heart of the film. It is the devoted care that Sam has for Frodo and special attention when Frodo is in danger or when Frodo worries; that is why the film depicts the concept of sacrifice: put one's needs before one's self even when everything seems impossible.

This is not just some adventure movie for those hooked on action but also raises a concern as to who has the power and what the pull of the One Ring is. Sauron is completely never corporized in the plot but only waits for them in the background. He lies before them in the form of the Ring, whose corrosive influence cannot help but seep within, and as they travel, fights to keep the temptation away from using it to his benefit. And it is this flow of both outer and inner influence that pervades the whole trilogy.

In the end, it is a movie about hope. When one considers that it has been so darkish as it has been at certain times in the world, small acts of bravery against the overabundance of darkness become the theme that resonates. The Fellowship of the Ring represents that which is possible in coming together, and even when the peril-filled road is treacherous, there can always be a better tomorrow.

Of course, it's one thing to film an adaptation of the Fellowship of the Lord of the Ring, but quite another to make an experience. The film adaptation of this Tolkien masterpiece by Peter Jackson is a triumph: he calibrates adventure and emotion in ways that extend far beyond the credits. This is a film that takes you not only to the world of magic and wonder but also into a world that happens to feel real and rooted in humanity. Of course, fellowship, with all its triumphs and tribulations, represents the best that human society can perform in the face of darkness. So one sees us standing alongside Frodo and his friends who will never forget what lies within themselves to be brave and loyal and hopefull when everything seems impossible.

Rating = 100/100 I request all cinema lovers simply see this masterpiece film.

The Human Condition III: A Soldier's Prayer (1961)

So we are here, finally. The Human Condition trilogy by Masaki Kobayashi concludes with A Soldier's Prayer in a heart-wrenching finale of tribulations and cruelties wrought upon men and women by war on bodies and souls. And so, while the story runs on into the terrific saga of Kaji, as it were, put across by Tatsuya Nakadai, it turns into much more than a man's change of heart under duress and even deeper meditation on war, morality, and the limits of human strength. The third film, The Human Condition III, brings the trilogy to a tragic and reflective close by focusing on the brutalities of war as well as the soul-shattering decisions that it forces upon its victims, enough to leave viewers with much to ponder long after the end.

It was in the third film that Kaji's character began to trend toward capturing the crushing weight of disillusionment. In the first two parts—No Greater Love (1959) and The Road to Eternity (1959), Kaji starts as an idealistic, very moral man. During World War II, in the Japanese Imperial Army, he tries to help his comrades and other people. He aims to reform the system from within and to ensure justice; he is caught in the middle of the ethical code of following the chain of command within the military establishment and the brutal truths of war.

But A Soldier's Prayer changes all this. Kaji has long since been gone; the naive man of yore is far behind him. Third Chapter: The movie opens with Kaji being pushed into a life-and-death situation crossing over from the idealist who had become a reluctant soldier. No longer idealistic, Kaji is a hollowed man-made hollow by the brutalities he had seen and experienced. In this third chapter, he is far more cynical and broken whose original convictions are nearly crushed by the horrors of war. His story will then shift to survival-physical as much as mental where lines will continue getting blurred between right and wrong.
His journey in A Soldier's Prayer was also a journey to the fall of human dignity. A Soldier's Prayer also paints a grim picture of war at all costs without being romanticized. The characters Kaji meets are not the noble warriors of those earlier war movies. Instead, these are human beings depersoned of their humanity, each hooked into a cycle of violence, fear, and survival. So stark a contrast between Kaji's early idealism and present reality graphically reflects the bitter truth that war in its purest aspect eats everything: beliefs, morality, and the very essence of one's being.

It is far from being a film of battles or some superhero feats. It is a film about fine details, which makes survival possible. The list of battles Kaji faces includes how to survive each day: how to react to the suffocating demands of the military, to be treated as an animal by fellow soldiers or to be threatened with death at all moments. The last chapter of the movie has Kobayashi leveraging on the experiences of Kaji to show that war catalyzes the corrosion of the human spirit from within. For this reason, the film focuses on the physical and psychological traumas of war.

In this respect, horror at the battlefront is expressed not through detonation power and tremendous clashes but through moments of silent suffering. It can either be the bodily tiredness of Kaji or that of his comrades. Emotional torment, A Soldier's Prayer shows us a war that lives in even the most static moments. Not heroic characters but pitiful creatures who will do anything to survive within a system that only wants to utilize them as expendable instruments in its wars.
The killer threat brings tension, but what is killing Kaji and their friends is not just the threat but the war machine that does not care who is inside. Such men who started with noble ideals like Kaji are lost in the endless search for their lost humanity from the demon of a system that dehumanizes them. So poignant is the theme of personal disillusionment in the film A Soldier's Prayer when Kaji finally comes face to face with the brutal and painful truth that his ideals previously held no protection for him against the atrocities of war.

This is the third film from Masaki Kobayashi's trilogy, and his approach to direction throughout the trilogy has always been both intimate when portraying human suffering as well as about universal feelings about it. In A Soldier's Prayer, Kobayashi is more restrained in his cinematic stroke as he tries to implore the desolation of war through haunting stillness. The film takes its own time and lets the audience sit through desperate moments of hopelessness with the characters. Here is no easy showing of the effort of grand war dramas and sweeping battle sequences. Kobayashi insists on quiet moments of human interaction, those little exchanges that are so fleeting, but signify loneliness and emptiness in the lives of Kaji and his fellow soldiers.

The wide shots of Kobayashi work to convey the isolation as well. For instance, when Kaji stands alone in an open field, the camera lingers over the emptiness around him or pans over the seemingly interminable stretch of military camps and trenches, looking to the camera for a sense of isolation. Such film lingo can deliver a verdict: not only life lost but human connection, dignity, and hope ripped away. Where once idealistic fervour coursed through the veins of youth, Kaji finds himself forsaken alone in a vast world that cares not.
This, too, stands apart: such a vivid response to the inner suffering lived through by his characters, and Kobayashi conveys the inner despairs his characters lived through. His cast, especially Tatsuya Nakadai, delivers raw performances that are compelling. Perhaps one of the more nuanced portrayals of Kaji within Japanese cinema, Nakadai conveys much about Kaji's despair in small movements, wearied countenances, and moments of silent reflection. For much of the film, it is Kaji's transformation-most eloquently captured, one feels subtle changes in his countenance-from one moment more resigned than the last is most memorable.

Effective cinematography coupled with a sharp score brings out a heavy mood all through the film. The music is there only to aid a spare silence that does it's talking in this very film. A minimalist approach toward sound and visuals makes the whole movie rather meditative and, at the same time, much more potent in emotional form. There's no resounding battle scene and dramatic music, but it makes the audience focus on a human approach toward the story that tells of the costs of war-its emotional, psychological, and spiritual costs.

Throughout the trilogy, the ache with Kaji comes in as he has to maintain his very sense of humanity amidst war atrocities. In the first two movies, he clings to the belief that if he is a human being himself, then he would make a difference. By the third movie, though, the moral compass falters. Kaji cannot go on carrying the conscience of sympathy for others and then being compelled by the hard fact of survival.

In A Soldier's Prayer, Kaji is compelled to look at the emptiness of his morality. The longer the war goes on, it becomes impossible for him to feel sorry for anyone. He sees brutality and commits acts that, at other times, he would detest. His relations and even those of others around him, founded on comradeship, break down as they all descend into the fight to survive. It is that journey of spiritual survival as much as physical survival, then, that Kaji fights with the consequences of the decisions he is then compelled to make.

War does not provide any easy answers for all of the questions thrown up in morality. In a way, Kaji symbolizes the human struggle in times of war to hold on to one's very being amidst the ugly demands of war. The impossibility with which war forces people to make impossible decisions where survival, more often than not, means betrayal of what one believes in is very well represented by the film. However, the tragedy of Kaji's character is that he was never allowed to reconcile the two opposing aspects of himself. War tears him apart, leaving only a few tatters of the man he used to be.

The most mournful and contemplative part of Masaki Kobayashi's magnum trilogy is The Human Condition III: A Soldier's Prayer. It is a sermon on the impact of war on the human soul, where it is quite impossible to hold tight to the strictness of ideas in the face of overwhelming brutality, and human dignity gets crushed. The entire silent and measured tempo of the movie, with the use of cinematography just when it matters, drops the viewer into the world of Kaji and makes his emotional journey all the more heartbreaking for that.

It is on the last page of the book of Kaji's life where there is despair but would come very inexorably change. He was no idealistic man who, at one point, had dreamed of changing the system; he was merely a soldier desperate to survive in a world that has long since lost all look of morality. The film offers neither redemption nor closure. It concludes with a deep sense of sorrow-it realizes that war, in its purest sense, is something nobody survives.

Ultimately, A Soldier's Prayer is a film that is not more about atrocities during war but more about human spirit degradation at the cost of those atrocities. This becomes a very brutal question: what does someone turn into when there's something his humanness cannot save? And in its reply, it sits in mind forever with the cost of survival in a world at war.

Rating = 100/100, and I would rank this as one of the best movie trilogy ever made in the history of cinema. And I am going to request every individual to watch this trilogy.

The Human Condition II: Road to Eternity 1959-

The second instalment of Masaki Kobayashi's celebrated trilogy, The Human Condition II: The Road to Eternity, continues the exploration of Kaji's moral struggles in the dark context of World War II. This sequel follows the path of character development of the themes of integrity, powerlessness, and the brutalities of war as introduced by the philosophical undertones and humanitarian concerns raised in the first film. In a way, it is a tragedy where the story becomes rawer, personal, and resonant more, where Kaji fights an internal war as harrowing as that raging around him.

While earlier, the focus of the film was Kaji fighting at the workplace; a labor supervisor who wanted to treat the Chinese prisoners of war under his command with dignity, which opposed a system rampant with cruelty, in this film, he finds himself conscripted into the Japanese army where things get even bleaker in terms of power and prejudice. A soldier now, he is automatically drawn into an amoral society that makes judgments about the person based on his willingness to comply rather than his conscience, effectively branding his humane aspirations as naivety and insubordination. Through the tale of Kaji, The Road to Eternity shows this mental distress that manifests itself because of a rebellion against an unfair system, especially when obedience is to be blindly rendered.

The film opens with the feeling of desperation and hopelessness due to the separation of Kaji and Michiko. Their relationship is indeed one of the bright spots in his life, but even that is beginning to feel like a lifetime ago as he is dragged into a bleak and depersonalizing military camp. Kaji's entry into the Japanese military is not an ordinary form of heroic enlistment but more of a forced fall into a new circle of hell, characterized by intense physical and psychological abuse.

His superiors, hardened by the system, see his moral values as weakness, and mock and punish him for questioning the inhuman treatment meted out to the weaker recruits. Kaji's values, which made him stand apart as an inspiring figure in the first film, now turn into liabilities in this new world where compassion is ridiculed. This constant pressure chips away Kaji's faith in humanity and his strength; it marks the beginning of his internal disillusionment.

Kobayashi exposes Kaji to fellow soldiers. He reveals a very complex hierarchy in the military. Recruits are pitted against each other and an individual must either dominate or be humiliated. The atmosphere is poisonous because a person survives only if he or she is prepared to be merciless. The irony is thick: Kaji detests violence. Now, he finds himself in a situation where he must be a part of it to survive. This haunting transformation symbolizes the inevitable corrosion of morality under oppressive institutions.

I most and personally love how The Road to Eternity discusses Kaji's struggle to hold onto his identity in a place made to destroy individuality. In this army, where all collective beliefs in personal ideas were sacrificed to maintain the army's cause, Kaji refused to yield. He is ridiculed as an "inhumanist," a stranger who will not be tied to the old mind. But his fight is a lonely one, putting a distance between the comrades who have acquiesced to the callousness of the system, whether out of fear or prudence.

Kaji's crisis is a human crisis that typifies the dilemma of any individual striving for self-integrity in repressive situations. His is not a battle of flesh; it is psychic, a battle of the spiritual morals enforced on him by authority. As Kaji sees senseless happenings and witnesses violence in each other, he finds himself asking, time and again, whether he should be fighting for what he perceives he is fighting for. What's the point of his ideals, anyway? The whole exercise of hanging on to his ideals is misery, don't you agree? It is not the role of the film to resolve the dilemma. Instead, it has left that open for the viewer and Kaji to do battle with these questions.

A bleak visual idiom, similar to the one seen in this movie, Kobayashi describes the incidence of Kaji's trip. The severe cinematography of the military camp gives a feeling of desolation as well as situations where orderly conditions are understood by the scary and violent tendencies. The intensity of emotional shock can be seen on the face of Kaji through close shots, whereas broad landscape shots remind the viewer of the unconscious forces, natural as well as manmade, that go around him. Scary to watch are the scenes that describe the brutal training sequences, where recruits are made to crawl through rubble and suffer endless punishment. Kobayashi does not hold back from showing pain and exhaustion, thereby reinforcing the dehumanizing effects of military conditioning.

Kaji's sojourn in the military breaks him of his earlier optimism. The gentleman we had met in the first film gradually lost faith in the possibility of justice or kindness. A turning point emerged for Kaji when he witnessed his comrade, Obara, being bullied to the extent of committing suicide. Kaji's desperation gains further steam as he finds that he cannot even safeguard those he cares for. With the loss, there comes great change in him. He is no longer fighting to defend others but just fighting to hold onto his wits and a little self-respect in a world that seems bent on taking both away.

The title, The Road to Eternity, is hauntingly ironic. For Kaji, the road is not a journey toward any grand revelation or redemption but leads to a greater understanding of his powerlessness. The title, "eternity", reveals a perpetual state of struggle—a condition that transcends time and place, illustrating how the suffering experienced by those who resist oppression is timeless.

Kaji's journey represents the spiritual cost of spending a lifetime surrounded by brutality and moral compromise. In the latter portions of this film, he is a transformed man, more wrecked than ever he had been in his life. Hope and determination have now overtaken by deep overwhelming sorrow. This metamorphosis is not born out of big speeches but quietly through some heart-wrenching moments that reveal inside decay. Love for Michiko, which was once the reason for his living, now becomes a morbid reminder of loss.

*Kobayashi's trilogy is, at the same time, a personal statement as it is a critique of Japanese militarism and blind nationalism. Through Kaji's story, he deconstructs the toxic nationalism that drove Japan into war and examines the devastating effects of a society that prioritizes obedience above individual conscience. Kobayashi himself was a pacifist and former soldier who declined promotion during service, and his experiences seep into every frame of this film. His denunciation of the military's inculcation process and their reduction of men to mere cogs for the machine is a powerful antitotalitarian statement.

What makes The Human Condition II so moving is its refusal to romanticize resistance. Kaji's not a perfect hero; he is the idealist projected in a predicament where the opposite of ideals holds most of the power. His inability to alter the system is not about personal failing but is, rather, an indictment of the overwhelming machinery of war that crushes even the strongest spirits. In this respect, the bleakness of the film is its strength. The film does not shy away from the fact that, at times, it is a loss rather than a victory in fighting for one's conscience.

In The Human Condition II: The Road to Eternity, Kobayashi has made a film that, though heartbreaking, provokes thought. It is not an easy movie, full of unflinching scenes of raw suffering, but at the same time, a work of sublime humanity; Kaji's journey stands starkly in a reminder of what war essentially costs just the physical but the spiritual devastation wrought upon those who try to hold on to their humanity in such an inhumane world.

This will be an incredible film because, apart from the empathy that one generates with Kaji, one sees someone trapped in a system that devalues life and moral conviction. It's the second chapter of this gruelling trilogy; one needs to watch it for painful reasons as it reflects on the human spirit's resilience and breaking point.

Ranking = 100/100, and again, I will say a perfect movie deserves a perfect watch.

Okay, so I want to talk about The Human Condition I: No Greater Love, the first movie of a trilogy directed by Masaki Kobayashi, which ranks among the most powerful depictions of war, ethics, and human suffering ever put to film. This is a Japanese film released in 1959, which gives an electrifying yet compassionate analysis of the human spirit through the eyes of A man struggling with his ideals as they clash with the harsh realities of wartime Japan. The approach of the film towards warfare would be somewhat intimate since it was not concerned with grand battles but battles within people, relationships, and the wider world of human experience.

The Human Condition is neither precisely an anti-war film nor just a reflective examination of personal morality as opposed to the duty of society. It is long and often plodding, but one is well rewarded for their investment in this exposure to layered insight into mankind's strength and frailty.

The film opens showing Kaji, played by Tatsuya Nakadai, at peace with his wife, Michiko. However, life takes a dramatic turn when he is sent to oversee a mining camp in Japanese-occupied Manchuria. So the role seems all too easy to avoid conscription into the army; it's a means of avoiding horrors on the front lines. But this decision is certainly not an act of mere self-preservation; it is also impelled by Kaji's genuine intent to alter the fate of forced labourers. He wants to manage the camp as humanely and leniently as possible, reflecting his idealism and progressiveness, which, at times, run counter to the extreme mentality of his superiors and colleagues.

The mining camp is more or less a prisoner labour camp for the Chinese, and Kaji is immediately faced with the moral dilemmas of his position. He is an overseer who has power over life and death but is handicapped by a military system that can only view the prisoners as interchangeable. Kobayashi's direction is superb in these scenes, and feelings of isolation build around Kaji. It is a Sisyphean struggle as his attempts at reforming the system, reforms in the way the prisoners were treated, and maintaining his moral compass eventually turn into a gradual continuation of running into brick walls.

Kaji is the realization of universal struggles in the sense that he carries the urgency for compassion, justice, and meaning in a world that seems hardly to possess any of these. Belief in humankind, hence, becomes the source of both his strength and suffering. The prisoners, whom he wishes to protect, more often than not view him suspiciously, taking him as another oppressor, while his Japanese colleagues believe his sympathy for others is a weakness. His double alienation makes Kaji a tragic figure whose ideals set him apart from both sides, making him a non-conformist in his own life.

His character, Kaji, is an absolute stunner. Nakadai comes alive as Kaji, and it's nothing short of scintillating. His quiet intensity and vulnerability make the character quite raw and real. He captures all the subtle emotional nuances of a man torn between his strong belief systems and the harshest realities that he cannot control. This internal conflict is channeled by the film's cinematography: often alternating between wide shots in which Kaji is dwarfed by desolate landscapes and close-ups that capture his expressions of pain. The framing choice often displays Kobayashi's symbolism that traps Kaji inside a machine that dehumanizes both oppressors and victims.

I love most in The Human Condition the way the Japanese Imperial system is portrayed as corrupting and degrading every individual who comes into contact with it. The soldiers, as well as the overseers, become so indoctrinated that they simply cannot view the humanity of the people whom they're taking advantage of. In one scene, Kaji confronts his colleagues regarding the mistreatment of prisoners, to which he is met with cold indifference. To them, prisoners are almost subhuman; and sympathy towards those prisoners is seen as a betrayal of national loyalty. Kaji's superiors always remind him that the nation demands sacrifices and that individuals must forget their feelings for the greater cause.

This ideology, however, is hollow and hypocritical. The "greater cause" is a mere excuse for cruelty, and all the sacrifices demanded are invariably borne by the weak and vulnerable. Kobayashi shows masterfully how such a psyche corrodes human relations, eating away at the very ability to empathise, reducing humans into an instrument of violence. Even Kaji, with all his moral prowess, begins to splinter within his idealism when he understands no amount of effort can reform the system as an individual.

Kobayashi's film never grows tired of hitting nationalism and war right on the head: it depicts them as beings that not only blow lives to pieces but also kill the very element that represents a human being. The military requirement to surrender and submit is inherently dehumanizing, turning people into tools for the use of others. Even the powerful - like Kaji's bosses - are slaves of the very machinery they guard. They are bound by the rigidity of military structure and the distorted rationality of nationalism, which values domination and conquest far above humanity.

One of the most powerful scenes in the film is when Kaji, who has done everything possible, cannot rescue a group of prisoners to be slaughtered in a dreadful bloodbath. The scene sadly depicts how one man is too weak for an established order of oppression. It is a tragic discovery for Kaji finally to find out that he is weak, and it marks a turning point in his character's movement. Thenceforth, he was growing into a complete disillusionist but refused to let go of his moralistic stance, even when it seemed to portend the destruction of his world.

The Human Condition is a great film simply because it holds an effective narrative. Kobayashi uses the bleakness of the Manchurian landscape as a metaphor for the barrenness of the human soul under oppressive systems. The barren fields, the endless lines of prisoners, and the sterile, industrialized settings of the mining camp all underline the dehumanizing nature of the environment in which Kaji exists. As Kobayashi uses black-and-white cinematography, he makes the whole movie grim with some dearth of warmness and colour perfect fit to strip off human elements among the people, just as war does.

The movie is slow-moving and allows the viewer to take in the weight of every frame. It's going to be a challenge for many; however, it will ensure a thorough absorption of the audience into Kaji's plight. It is not just his story we are witnessing, but experiencing with him and suffering along with his desperation and hollow victories he sometimes enjoys. This pacing allows you to build up with the emotional impact of the story till such climactic moments which leave an unforgettable mark on you, long after the film is over.

This film raises many complex questions on morality and integrity. Is it humanly possible to be good in such a heartless world that encourages man's evil streak and penalizes kindness? Kaji's legend is in itself an extreme assertion of the incredible courage it needs to stand by one's convictions even in the worst of circumstances. He is a deeply flawed, deeply human character whose battles are as much with his weaknesses as with the injustices around him. Easy answers are not readily provided by the film, and at the end of this first instalment, it is clear that Kaji's path will only become more tortuous.

Yet, amidst this unrelenting bleakness, The Human Condition is not hopeless. Kaji's persistence, his inability to be overwhelmed by hate, and his commitment to his conscience imply that amidst such dark hours, within man is a spark of humanity pertinent enough that man should strive to maintain. The film tells us, through Kobayashi, how the human situation is characterized as much by suffering as by resilience, with, almost, as though through some obstinate or irrational faith, something still possible goodness.

It is not easy to watch The Human Condition I. That suffering and moral compromise, depicted without beating about the bush, proves a tough test yet makes for deep emotions that do not surprise. It is a masterpiece that cuts across cultural and historical boundaries: Kobayashi's direction, Nakadai's towering performance, and the film's thinking narrative form this cinematic tale. That becomes a universal struggle over one's quest to retain one's humanness in a world bent upon destroying it.

The first trilogy, The Human Condition I: No Greater Love, sets down an overall structure for a journey that, in no small part, can be one of survival but also self-discovery. One of those films that forces you to face realities that you would not want to but, unfortunately, for the sake of a tragic war and oppression, such as that is; after watching, it lingers in mind as a sombre reminder of human cruelty and the bottomless strength of the human spirit.

Ranking = 100/100. Just go and watch it, a real movie deserves a perfect watch.

One of the few films that so impressively treat us to the golden age of British cinema is Black Narcissus (1947). Directed by the dynamic duo Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger, this film captures the chilling allure of repressed emotions, cultural clashes, and the descent into obsession under a veneer of convent drama set in the Himalayan mountains. Although more than 75 years have passed since it was made, Black Narcissus has as much charm today as it did at the time of making in terms of story, where visions and psychological depth crossed the limits of those times.

Black Narcissus is a far-off story set in the Himalayas, as an Anglican community of nuns led by Sister Clodagh (Deborah Kerr) are given the task of running a school and hospital from within an old ruined palace. As they work together, they encounter internal and external forces that question their faith and beliefs, and who they are and are not. The tensions are explored in sheer visuals, complex characters, and haunting beauty in the narrative of the film.

Of course, I must say something about the cinematography of Black Narcissus itself and its visuals. The work that does the magic is from none other than the classic genius Jack Cardiff, which won him an Academy Award. It transforms the film almost into an experience where the eye deceives the mind. Shot in Technicolor, the Himalayan setting of Black Narcissus comes alive in vibrant, exaggerated hues to intensify tension and drama. Cardiff builds a claustrophobic but expansive atmosphere to recreate the chaos that nuns face in being confronted by unknown surroundings and creeping doubts surrounding their sense of duty and faith.

High cliffs and sweeping mountain vistas were shot entirely in Pinewood Studios, using a broad amount of matte paintings and some extremely clever construction of sets to create an illusion of isolation and grandeur. The illusion is so convincing that it is generally accepted as a location rather than a studio production. Masterly lighting and composition by Cardiff further heighten the sense of place, subtly blurred as these are between the physical boundaries of space and the psychological ones of thought.

This mix of visual and emotive elements is most telling when presented through scenes with Sister Ruth, played by Kathleen Byron, whose decline downward into the hole of madness comes together to become one of the film's principal bright spots. Cardiff drenches Ruth in ominous red and deep shadow, turning the disciplined nun into a near-demonic figure. The telling here is not just some background but an essential character capturing and amplifying the psycho-undercurrent running through the story.

Not only is the film itself beautiful, but Splendour Black deals with more profound psychology. All the nuns in this film are haunted by their past, their desires, and suppressed emotions, which are even more intensified by the place and the atmosphere in which it was placed. One of the examples is Sister Clodagh. She depicted such turmoil from the inside. Throughout the entire movie, Sister Clodagh tries to control her feelings owing to her position as the head; the movie portrays through flashbacks her life before becoming a nun as incomplete with love and aspirations. Her life is torn between duty and desire, between the life in convent she embraced and desires she was able to suppress.

Sister Ruth is a character of unsatiated passion. Her all-absorbing passion for Mr. Dean (David Mrrar), a British agent in the region, strips her of reason. Unlike Sister Clodagh, who clings quite tightly to the tenuous edge of her emotions, Ruth surrenders herself wholly to her desires and obsession, culminating in this film's unnerving and tragic climax. Ruth is one of the greatest studies of unravelling psychological breakdown, especially if regarded by the standards of the time of its release. Her fall is terrifying above all for its depth but equally so because she embodies the price of unchecked passion and loneliness.

This psychological tension is not limited to the nuns alone. Mr Dean himself is a mystery-an outsider who represents everything representative of both scepticism and ascepticismarm that shakes the grounds of the lives of the nuns. He is cynical about the mission of the nuns yet strangely sympathetic towards them. In such a scenario, the dialogue between Sister Clodagh and Sister Ruth holds layers of masculinity, power, and vulnerability. This further gives way to higher tones with the film probing into sexuality as well as repression.

Black Narcissus also questions issues regarding colonialism and cultural insensitivity. The nuns enter the Himalayas, intent and duty-bound, believing they can lay their Western religious values upon this 'savage' place that needs saving. By the film's ending, though, it becomes clear that the native culture and spiritual practices are more robust than they envisioned. Of course, it is the palace itself that remains sensual in the areas I mentioned earlier, where concubines of the general used to live. The entire history of the palace goes against the ideals of pure and chaste which nuns uphold. The surrealist influence of the palace and its history reminds nuns at every turn of their mere outsider status.

This cultural conflict perhaps is most tastefully portrayed through the character of Kanchi (Jean Simmons), a young local woman who refuses to be governed by the nuns' definition of moral and behavioural norms. Kanbehaviour's presence strikingly outlines the inability of the nuns to understand or even attempt to dominate the culture of the locals, thus setting their very mission as an utter failure. It doesn't judge colonialism at all but instead delimits the futility of compelling one's beliefs upon a culture so deeply embedded in its traditions and values.

Black Narcissus is a film about faith in God, in oneself, and in the choices one makes. Sister Clodagh's journey provides a strong testimonial to this theme. She, too, was coming into the convent for some reason or recompense, but her experience at the palace thrusts upon her realization that her life and decisions are against all that she hears she should be living for in the convent. In doing so, she calls her faith to questioning. The exploration of faith is not presented squarely or didactically but rather interwoven within the acts and behaviours of the characters, within the setting, and their inner struggles.

The palace itself is a metaphor for the nuns as they fight their way through identity. It's a place that holds memories of all the people who used to live there and of desires and sins the nuns are so busy trying to leave behind. This haunting quality challenges the nuns' beliefs as it tells how physical spaces can convey heavy emotional and spiritual connotations, more so to the inhabitants.

Black Narcissus is revolutionary in each and every dimension, and it counts within that revolution as one of the first films to make use of Technicolor in a narrative other than being one of the most visually breathtaking films based on production design. This proved capable of transcending what had been spoken about at the time within the film itself, namely the themes including sexual repression, cultural conflict, and psychological breakdown. Its success not only manifests in terms of the completion of the art but also consists of including things regarded as dark and not spoken of among human beings.

The movie remains a timeless inspiration for moviemakers with the filmmakerative application of colour and atmospheric psychological depth. Several of these directors, such as Martin Scorsese, would call it an influence that matters because it shows how fragile human psychology can be before surrounding circumstances overwhelm it. In the last couple of years, Black Narcissus was a television miniseries that shows the film is relevant today and capable of garnering the attention of more viewers.

Black Narcissus isn't just a movie about nuns in a remote mountain convent but a beautiful, complex story of the human psyche, repressed emotions, and the battle between duty and desire. Rich colours, haunting atmosphere, and layered characters make it transcend the boundaries of time, as powerful today as it was on the day of its release.

This film is utterly eye-opening and emotionally charged. It reminds us of the cinema's great power to transport us to new worlds while also forcing us to confront our inner conflict desires. Black Narcissus is not only a great genius work produced in British cinema but is also timeless when trying to understand what it means to be human.

Rating = 95/100 amazing film, Is it worth watching.

I would be lying if I said otherwise. As it is with "The Secret of Roan Inish, " it has been one of the treasures of the film in which I came to stumble, sealed and hidden in plain sight. Directed by John Sayles, in the form of a novel by Rosalie K. Fry, this 1994 movie brings Irish folklore to life in such an intimate way that it becomes strictly universal. It's the story of ten-year-old Fiona, who feels a connection to this far-off Roan Inish off the coast of Ireland. The family's past there is steeped in the myth of sea creatures and sorrow over the loss of a sibling. And there is something quietly magical to the movie as Roan Inish unfolds for the very first time along with Fiona.

It goes for the heart of the story around Fiona's family, the Coneelys-those whose lives are surrounded by myths of the sea. After her mother died, Fiona was sent to stay with her grandparents in a tiny fishing village, where she began discovering who her family was. Between the hushed whispers of the many tales and threads of gossip from her relatives, Fiona learns about the deep connections of the Coneely family with Roan Inish, the island that the family once called home but had long since left and was forced to abandon long ago because of its cruel nature. It's a story heavy with some peculiarity of magic-for in the hearts of every member of the Coneely family lies a piece of Roan Inish.

Perhaps the most poignant strand of the novel is the story of Jamie, Fiona's baby brother, who went astray at sea in his cradle when the family was forced to leave Roan Inish. This is a tragic yet haunting story that casts shadows over the rest of Fiona's journey. Rather than being paralysed by Jamie's loss, however, Fiona becomes responsible; she decides she'll do everything possible to bring her family back to Roan Inish, perhaps and hopefully reunited with her brother. It is a journey without the sense of loss but one of regaining identity and heritage as well as where she belongs.

The most outstanding and radiant part of this movie, The Secret of Roan Inish, which I love, is how magical it is over its seamless blending of Irish folklore into the mundane lives of the characters. The Coneely family had long believed they were a line of direct descent from selkies-mythical creatures said to transform from seals into humans by shedding their skins. She was taught, naturally, about the tradition of the selkie story that arrived with her family. Her great-great-grandmother was a selkie who was captured by a fisherman and spent years with him on Roan Inish until one day she returned to the sea.

Adding one layer of magic to the movie with the legend of the selkie never strays too far from what could be a little overdone since they take it all so matter-of-fact in place of relying on cinematic special effects to bring in the selkies, Sayles simply depends on simple visual clues: an extended shot of a seal considering the couple from the sea and the lapping of the waves against the shore. The restraint speaks not only to his faith in the sensibility of the audience but also, further heightens their authenticity as they recycle the folkloric act. By the final scenes of the film, I was wondering if, perhaps, indeed, there was something supernatural, after all, at the connection of the Coneelys to the sea.

And I would say the cinematography of that film, The Secret of Roan Inish, is simply marvellous in conveying the strong character of the Irish coast, so unlike any other within the imagination. Indeed, Roan Inish itself is one of the characters of the story: a remote windy place with rocky shores and endless skies. Sayles and his cinematographer, Haskell Wexler, pour every frame in muted, earthy colour as if he and the actors are frozen into the earth. The deserted island cottages, the seals swaying in the surf, and the mist that appears to drape everything all combine for a hauntingly beautiful atmosphere that is comforting and eerie at the same time.

It is of a very slow, meditative pace in which the viewer allows time for the proper absorption of the scenery and the emotional beats of the story to sink in. I did not find it slow enough; rather, it was much needed so that it became dreamlike, as if time itself had slowed down so that we could understand the connection Fiona feels with the island and her family's history. No shot holds long enough to feel like they did it on purpose, and that traditional Irish music soundtrack just adds to the immersion in a sense of place. Sometimes, I felt like I was sniffing salty air and feeling dampness seeping underneath my feet from the rocks.

What makes The Secret of Roan Inish go is the quiet strength and determination of Fiona. She is not one of the ordinary heroes; she does not possess superpowers and does not go through the journey of becoming a hero. Instead, she is the most straightforward young girl who loves her family with all her heart and goes crazy at the thought of being loyal to her roots. Fiona is curious, brave, and wise beyond her years, which makes her a character that will garner much attention. She also sympathizes with what is happening in the world through her lenses; she sees all the ways of the traditions and rules she inherited, which makes her respect them.

Fiona's character reminds me of resilience and faith in family bonds, for no matter what circumstances might be, they will always rise to conquer them. I could see myself easily thinking about the private milestones of my tenuous relationship with family history and the places that feel like home as I sat there watching Fiona try to reunite her family with Roan Inish. Maybe there's a very strong message in Fiona's journey: sometimes, though, only when you are going forward do you look backwards and pay homage to what went before you. As the movie unfolds with Fiona's story, her strength draws so much upon the stories of her ancestors and from the family love she is bound to in her heart.

The Secret of Roan Inish tells us a story about belongingness, realizing that home is more than a place but a feeling born of people and the memories we hold dear. To Fiona, Roan Inish is more than just an island; it is the unity and heritage of her family. This is a film message that is very poignant at this juncture in time when millions of people have been looking to connect to places in their lives. As I watched the story of Fiona, it reminded me properly how much I need to reconnect with my roots and find out those places and stories that help me be whole.

This is such a contagious story; it encompasses numerous themes cut across cultures, and the dynamics of family, tradition, and this yearning for home puts it into another category wherein, in some way, each of us can relate to. Also, while the movie infinitely puts down its roots in the culture of Ireland, the message transcends the frontiers.

The Secret of Roan Inish is not even a blockbuster, and it's not exactly a film fresh in the minds of many moviegoers these days. Still, it earns revisiting - the quiet beauty of its storytelling, of its calm and enchanting visuals that just stay on long after the credits roll out. This is a film that invites you to sit back, set aside your expectations, and let yourself be swept away by a simpler kind of magic. In a world whose biggest entertainment is action and CGI-heavy effects, The Secret of Roan Inish almost feels like a breath of fresh air, reminding one at times that the very strongest story comes from those whose teller needed the gentlest hand.

Well, The Secret of Roan Inish was very much a reenactment of an old storybook kind of feel: its world is wonder and mystery, but surely rooted in the warmth of family. This is a film I would recommend to any fan of just a little magic, a touch of nostalgia, and above all, a really beautiful reminder that, in being, beauty exists.

Ranking = 95/100 personally and I would prefer that everyone should watch it.

Akira Kurosawa is a director known well for bringing perfection to the craft while trying to reveal the humanity hidden behind a movie; there was 1990 the remarkable Step of Dreams (1990). It feels almost as if a dream for itself — a collection of vignettes that goes as deep as it can discover mysteries of life, death, and everything within. For those familiar with works such as Seven Samurai (1954) and Rashomon (1950), Dreams is an entirely different, much more intimate experience. This turned out to be a deeply personal and self-reflective exploration of dreams, fears, and desires as if each episode results from the subconscious mind of Kurosawa. The experience of viewing Dreams for the first time was to enter into a reality wherein the boundaries and seams of the very fabric of reality unfold in manners that inspire reflection.
The movie consists of eight various episodic parts, each an interpretation of one of Kurosawa's dreams. The tone, style, and narration of the episodes vary, but what runs in all of them is human fragility and the consequences of human activity. Viewing Dreams stood like a slap on the heart that illustrated both the beauty in nature as creating greatness and how the fear and anxieties of oblivion had constantly weighed on minds. In The Dreams, the movie is not a united narrative but instead a compilation of meditation about fleeting beauty in life and the ghostly residue of ignorance that humankind created.

So strikingly reminiscent of Dreams, is the dreamlike structure. The film is not trying to be coherent, continuous storytelling but rather an attempt to capture the ephemeral, disjointed nature of dreams. It starts with the sound of rain and a title card that puts the tone right away: "The Tunnel," the first of the film's eight segments. It's one of those movies that reflects the nature of dreams: disjointed, surreal, and nonsensical. Only later did I realize how each of them-although different in story and style-held an overall aesthetic and thematic tone between them perhaps. Perhaps the organizing thread of loss, disorientation, and existential fear throughout each vignette is enough, however.

That also makes it sometimes seem like Dreams an emotion slipping through one's fingers. You are flung through the vibrant colours of poppies field one moment, and confronted with some horrifying vision of atomic destruction the next. There's no easy way to place any kind of sense to it all, which simply adds to the believability of the experience. Rarely do dream sequences have logical conclusions, and Kurosawa manages to successfully convey this vagueness in a film that lingers long after the credits have rolled.

In the first episode, we meet a man, played by Akira Terao, who comes back to his home after his father's funeral. There he faces an ambiguous, yet odd haunting apparition of his father. As he walks through a tunnel, his father's spirit encourages him to go forward but leads him to the place where his father died. It is hauntingly surreal. You instantly sense that it is a tragic and sad movie that makes you feel loss and guilt that is not wholly unravelled.

The imagery that dominates The Tunnel is striking in itself, the father's ghost appearing as an overshadowing figure in the darkness, a vision from the past that refuses to fade. His exploration of the afterlife in the dream is far from usual in its description. Not here are words of solace or closure for what's transpired but describe some inevitable death, a haunting reminder that we won't be able to shy away from our fate. The tunnel itself is a powerful metaphorical expression of the temporary character of life: the inevitability of moving forward toward something unknown. Outstanding is that Kurosawa uses dreamlike construction to heighten emotional payback from the segment. The father figure is more a manifestation of the consequences spectre that drives the protagonist to face the unresolved feelings of his past.

We are whisked away through a peach orchard into a bright, almost utopian world. To a young boy, there comes a ceremonial rite in which the spirits of the peach blossoms are honoured. This episode explores nature's life and death. In Japan, cherry blossoms fleetingly define life, with here, tender petals drifting in the wind articulating the transiency of human life. It's mystical, surreal, and like many of the film's dream sequences, mysterious. Fine artistic painting of manly respect for nature, belabouring the sacred bond between earth and man.

However, it is the fact that each colour of the Orchard reveals the unstoppable course of time that makes it hauntingly beautiful. The young boy from Peach Blossoms sees spirits blown off by the wind, reminding him that even though life might be beautiful, it is also transient and elusive. While witnessing this, I couldn't help but think about my relationship with nature, and how often we tend to take the world around us for granted until it's too late. The dreamlike visuals of swirling petals, along with otherworldly music, all channelled into making you ponder over the fleetingness of the beauty of life. But it also pictures a lesson for the environment because there's a hint of weakness in nature and a strong impression of human negligence.

The Blizzard is darker, which doesn't portray a dream; nature is cold and oppressive. As a man becomes lost in a blizzard, he becomes surrounded by a world of cold hostility, and soon enough, it becomes clear that the dream is symbolic of emotional isolation and confusion. The desperation feeling that the man has regarding surviving the blinding snowstorm seems to remind one of his inner struggles, which sometimes appear as a world lost with people lost in the maze of life and unguided with a clue about what comes next.

This piece has turned out to be a powerful condemnation of the human race, mostly and especially in the context that they are placed in when faced with nature when it becomes overwhelming, but does not hesitate to paint nature as nearly beautiful yet savage. This is violence latent in the snowstorm, and this man's struggle to survive gives a glimpse of visceral experience through such struggles, a metaphor for a constant fight between man and nature in life.
The snowstorm, that storm that cannot be arrested or foretold, brings to us many of those similar challenges we never see coming and cannot control in our private lives.
Episode 4, The Tunnel (Revisited), yet again repeats the theme of death and afterlife. This time taking a very literal and terrible turn because the protagonist has to meet up with the ghost of his father. One of the explorations on the theme of guilt and unfinished ties between family members offers a rather opposite view of this theme, revealing how deep regret and emotional pain are. Kurosawa invokes a dream world to confront those shadow parts of ourselves- those emotions that lie buried beneath our personality.

It's a father there again, which recurs as a ghostly occurrence that beckons the protagonist to move on into the world of that past. It is a moment of confusion, something impossible to let go of and not knowing if the protagonist can reconcile himself ever truly with his past. This cycle nature of birth and rebirth recurs in repetition, urging one to discern the inevitability of those themes.

The most vividly remembered segment of Dreams is Crows. It is a transportable moving painting. A man, played by Martin Scorsese, enters the world of Vincent van Gogh and walks right into one of the artist's famous paintings. The sunflower fields in vibrant yellows and blues, swirling around up in the sky-it's hypnotic. It is that beautiful tribute to the artist and his work and how art transcends the boundaries of reality. It has depicted, through the eyes of a protagonist, pure genius - that of van Gogh, but I do see in it the tortured soul of the output of monstrous art is remarkable for its surrealistic quality and its commentary on the role of art in our lives. An artist by instinct since early life, Van Gogh had a different vision of the world. All Kurosawa could think of was to explore this aspect by depicting how crows were seeing the world through the eyes of an artist's mind in Crows. Isn't it exhcoloursing-the moment when the protagonist meets the world of van Gogh-I felt that I was entering into the domain of pure imagination while saying that. And yet it also brought back the beauty that often stems from pain, and often only such intense emotions can force humans to dive into the surreality of understanding things.

In Mount Fuji in Red, the world has been ravaged by nuclear disaster, and humanity stands at the brink of oblivion. A red-hued sky, reminiscent of an apocalyptic vision, looms over a devastated landscape. It is one of the most politically charged scenes in the film; Kurosawa is directly confronting the fallout from a human race unable to care for the earth responsibly. A red-and-cloudy Mount Fuji, now hidden, making background, is an excellent s symbol that threatens the probability of nuclear war.

The dreamy quality of the segment is enhanced by an eerie, almost surreal atmosphere and despair ensues as Kurosawa affords us hope. The beauty of the red sky, paired with the ruins of civilization, is hauntingly yet oddly mesmerising g. Kuroawa honours us of the very fragile nature of life — of how quickly things could be deyed, of how much we hawatermillsour existence for granted.

The episode "The Weeping Demon" is bleaker in its imagery and comes as a consequence of the worst environmental destruction. It is an extremist vision of the future: a world in which demons tread upon the Earth, weeping over the damage caused by human greed. Her o meets a demon who, having once been human, now wanders across

Earth is in pain, suffering the effect of irreversible harm that humans simply fundamental to the earth. These tears of pain were once embodied. I waive an ominous portent of what may await us if we continue on our current path. This chapter is almost like a man against his sins, where the demons have become manifestations of ecological disaster and war.

There are also some haunting visual effects, which put monstrous figures against a desolate, barren landscape. The des oppressive crying of the demons, like mournful echoes of all destructions of nature. Here is the vision of humanity's darkest consequences, wherein not just human life but the very spirit of the earth is laid waste through greed and neglect. The dream sequence is disorienting - the rough colours and macabre sounds heightened the sense of helplessness. Just watching it, I felt a deep sense of unease, as if one was being confronted with the horrifying reality of our possible future.

Yet, paradoxically, there is something about that segment. It speaks through the tears of the demons, crying in anguish over the sins from which they cannot retreat, as if the humanity itself. And here again seems to be the suggestion of Kurosawa: in the midst of destruction, room for reflection and regret. At the same time, this is a spectacularly wrenching moment, one that makes me think about all that living legacy we are creating and the damage we cannot undo.

Contrasted with the sense of the final episode, the Village of the Watermills is both joyful and liberating. , Here, we are taken to an idyllic village untouched by the turmoil in the rest of the world. The villagers pass days without an adventure, peaceful days surrounded by the rhythm of nature. Nearly a turn back to innocence, this part is nostalgia for something that life had been once: unsullied and pure, untainted by the intricacies of today's world.

The village, replete with greenery rivers and antiquated watermills, can be described in such vibrant terms. Compared to themes in the previous episodes- destruction and loss, and with it comes guilt-that dream sequence is far from that serenity and peace. A very brief respite, against the cycle of life: returning to a kind of paradise, where it blossoms unadulterated from the fissures of an earth not fully worked. This brings across a message that lets us connect again to this earth and simple fundamental things in life, which alone bring peace to the heart.

It was emotional to see the end part, and it felt almost like a gentle, reflective culmination of all the chaos and conflicts occurring in the previous dreams. It's as if Kurosawa reminds us that, amidst chaos and pain, this world remains beautiful if one has the will to see it. The village stands for harmony and purification; that helps us sense hope: what we could aim to have if we were to live with more mindfulness and respect for nature.

Honest to tell, as I ruminate about Dreams is a journey very personal into the director's inner world and, in many ways, his meditation on the state of the world. Kurosawa uses dreams as lenses through which he scans mankind's darkest tendencies- namely our destruction of the planet, our inability to deal with grief, and our lack of care about those forces of nature that sustain us.

Perhaps the most striking feature of this film is that its message rings less than dated. It was made in 1990, but such fundamental issues get driven into what we face today: climate change, environmental destruction, the pursuit of material wealth at the expense of our natural world, and the burden of human guilt. Every brick would remind me that it was a part of the puzzle coming together to form the bigger picture of our collective responsibility as custodians of Earth.

More poignantly, what hit me was how Kurosawa interwove beauty with tragedy in an unholy marriage that resulted in poignant brilliance. He brings into view scenes of natural wonder and human destruction, reminding us at all times that beauty is fragile and vulnerable and should be cared for but also that destruction is an undeniable feature of human life when we do not care for our planet. Running throughout Dreams is the duality of life and death, creation and destruction, a reminder that we can shape the world around us — better or worse.

What's also interesting about how Kurosawa works with dreams is the consideration of his use of dreams to represent human consciousness. Dreams don't follow logic; in Dreams, that lack of structure reflects our subconscious. It just feels as if the movie is peeking into Kurosawa's head, full of imagery and emotion that cannot easily be talked about or explained and understood. There is this rawness in the film but also a vulnerability that makes everything all seem incredibly, authentically real. That is to say, it is not about providing answers but about facing how unclear and complicated life is. In that respect, it doesn't end us off with a neat conclusion. Nonetheless, it lets the viewer in on plenty of questions, reflection, and a certain amount of awe and unease.

Dreams isn't a film you view for entertainment purposes alone; it is a film that makes you think, reflecting on your very own life and the world around you. It's a very personal thing, inviting into the mind of one of cinema's greatest directors, peeking into his dreams, fears, and hopes for humanity. What Kurosawa offers in offers is more than visual poetry; he gives us a space to confront our existential fears, regrets, and hopes for-forour.

Though, structure, cinematography, and thematic concerns make this film one that stays in the mind long after the credits roll. It is like going to another world that can be both strange and familiar, dreamlike and painfully real. This is not a film for easy solutions or comfort. What the poem does, therefore, is make us confront uncomfortable truths about life and death and our effects on the world. But most importantly, it makes us remember that there is still beauty in this world, should we be able and willing to see it.

Dream is finally, a movie about the eternal fight to know where one stands in this world. It is about his search for meaning and obligation towards preserving the fragile beauty that surrounds us. And in those quests of infinite possibilities that a human mind can conjure, it is Kurosawa's most personal and haunting masterpieces.

Rating = 90/100 A Must See.

Absolutely 💯/ 💯 Masterpiece

Few films rank among the pantheon of horror films in quite as influential a manner as George A. Romero's Dawn of the Dead, culled in 1978. The second outing in Romero's "Living Dead" franchise, this film has transcended its genre definition, going far beyond the constraints of those who would tag a film with such a classification. Dawn of the Dead is quite simply a zombie film on the surface; it is so much more. It is, in every possible way, a complex study of human nature, biting social commentary, and an exercise in tension and suspense masterfully done. It comes to earn its place not only as one of the most remarkable films made in the horror genre but also one that should make us question, check the very fabric of our society.

The film opens on an apocalyptic scene: zombies rise from the dead to feed on the living. Again, Romero doesn't mess around; he puts us squarely in a world of violence, panic, and horror within minutes of the opening frame. The setting is a television station, which cannot send its message out to the people because anarchy stews from outside. That shot speaks of panic through the expression of a crazed news anchor and 'pointless, inexplicable violence' that sweeps through the streets below.

That makes Romero's execution of horror effective here is that it is grounded in reality. Different from most of the modern zombie film, which hangs too much on the supernatural or on the grotesque, Dawn of the Dead operates in a world that is believable. Societal collapse seems a natural progression in a world already poised on the brink. It comes with no fanfare and not with a great dramatic confrontation between good and evil but as an overwhelming force-an indifferent and unstoppable force of nature.

The interesting thing about the film is the location itself: the shopping mall. It's not a place where they hide out, but a symbol of modern consumer culture. The mall, all grates, neon lights, and stifling long corridors, stands as a kind of sanctuary-prison. It's a shelter from all that awfulness outside but then, it is at the same time a confined space in which the characters are locked into an infernal cycle of consumption.

Most of the movie takes place inside the mall. That's sheer genius on its part. In so many ways, that turns the American Dream on its head. The last sanctuary available to man as the existential threat unfolds is the symbol of materialism: the mall. This heart of the social critique based on this work is that the survivors are psychologically and emotionally imprisoned by the very same consumer culture that caused their demise. Zombies are lying around, aimlessly roaming in the mall. Zombies are not just dumb monsters-they are living dead, moving through a once vibrant society that has been dehydrated into a devoid of soul commercial landscape.

There are survivors. Many of these survivors can be seen to represent a unique characteristic of human psychology: strengths, weakness, personal flaws and demons. Roger (Scott H. Reiniger), tough but not too cautious cop; Peter (Ken Foree), steadfast SWAT team member; Fran (Gaylen Ross), television newswoman; and Stephen (David Emge), her boyfriend, helicopter pilot. Throughout the movie, the personalities create and act out a dynamic as they manage to survive not only zombies but also personal conflicts as well as their limitations throughout.

At first, on the opening scene, you could feel that all these members are held together for the purpose of survival, which, after a few days, tensions and differences end up in the limelight. And while it's frightening enough to be at peril from the zombies, it is the inner struggles and fractures brought about by the tension of the group that heightens the horror of the movie. When the things start getting worse for the survivors, they begin doing morally wrong things: almost testing their own humanity.

The character of Peter is, as such, quite remarkable, for he's very much the moral fulcrum around which the film unfolds. He is level-headed and rational and never loses his head no matter what happens to him. Most of his actions in the movie reflect that feeling of doing whatever it takes to survive but also whatever is right. Characters like Stephen, for instance, who initially appear so selfish and naive, are at complete opposite ends of the spectrum. It is such a great development of Stephen throughout the film - really worth noticing the development of people, their human weakness, and ability to grow even in the most adverse conditions.

Of course, the zombies are central to the horror of Dawn of the Dead, but they themselves are also just a vehicle for deeper themes by Romero. The zombies that roam in Romero do not eat mere flesh and brains-they are actually a personification of mindless consumerism that he felt was happening in society. Zombie trudgeing, searching is a representation of how consumer culture can be mindlessly repetitive in nature because on numerous occasions, one's individuality is led by pure desire without any sense of how one will fill the need.

The mall, full of its interminable lines of stores, is apparently the icon of this societal rot. Zombies are once human beings who have lost all purpose and exist in a never-ending exercise in consumption. They get caught between instinctual consumption and the mechanical ritualistic behavior. One cannot help but think that there's almost an appeal to these zombies as both antagonists and tragic figures in this sense. They embody the hollow, vacuous life that underpins our modern society, one which has shed even a touch of meaning and human connection.

Perhaps the most striking sequence of the film is where an avalanche of zombies is shown going through the department stores of the mall, mindlessly pushing shopping carts and checking commodities. While its abhorrent nature, this also stands for stunning social commentary in itself-the manner in which consumerism has managed to strip away what is one's intent to be to become from them, leaving them hollow vessels of what they once were.

Essentially, most recall Dawn of the Dead in terms of its visceral gore and graphic violence. Of course, not pulling any punches as to the representation of horrors within a zombie apocalypse does give an edge-it is in the context in which these are presented. Some very shocking and disturbing imagery was done by Romero and his team using practical effects, yet there seems to be an element of restraint in that.

The movie never sinks into nasty gore as a shock factor; it makes use of the gore for the betterment of horror as well as the subtext. It is this slow, measured violence that the zombies unleash against the frenetic desperation by the humans in the side that creates such tension. And in a way, the gore becomes the metaphor for the struggles of the characters to still keep their humanness going when everything else around them is breaking down.

While the makeup and effects were hardly as detailed as most moderns, they are impressively effective in their spareness. The zombies look freshly unnatural, with their dismemberment decidedly nasty less so due to the special effects but with how these are strung into themes about societal breakdown and loss of human nature.

And by revealing not too much at the end, Dawn of the Dead is hauntingly ambiguous. As these survivors make their final choice, Romero doesn't give anything like a conclusion. No heroic final stand, no grand moment of redemption leaps out; instead, we feel futility, recognition of the fact that this world that these people live in is beyond repair.

It's a sad conclusion in its bleakness-the survivors left with no real method of escape. At the time they seem to reach safety, they are farther from being liberated from this world that has consumed them. Romero gives us an open-ended conclusion that we face uncertainty over the future. It is the suitable ending to a movie constantly forcing our expectations against our assumptions made about humankind.

Dawn of the Dead was a commercial and critical success when the film first hit the theaters, though not without also stirring up controversy. Graphic violence and the stark vision of societal collapse have elicited debate, but over the years it has grown to be one of the greatest films ever made in the horror genre. It is found in zombie movies and other broader cultural commentaries on consumerism, media, and societal alienation.

This is why Dawn of the Dead becomes this mystical, aging film. It transcends the potential limitations of the zombie genre. Horror is not what the undead monster is, but so are the horrors we create for ourselves. Under one canvas stand by Romero as horror, social commentary, and dark humor in a great time-capsuled reminder of Dawn of the Dead.

It's far beyond the simplicity of a zombie movie like Dawn of the Dead and showcases a complex and multifaceted exploration of human nature, societal decay, and the horrors of what happens when we forget what it means to be human. It's a movie that asks who we are or where we're going in our rotting world as it makes use of the context of the zombie apocalypse. Such a worthy achievement would naturally come from the masterful direction of Romero; his characters are convincing, and his themes hold true even today.

Dawn of the Dead is one of the leading testaments to the power of horror as a genre: it can entertain us, provoke us, and challenge us equally. It is a film that depends more on building tension through its characters, its surroundings, and ideas rather than relying on cheap frights. It is one of those films that makes you wonder about this world we live in and, when the end of it is all up, whether we turn out to be much better than those creepy shufflers in this haunting frame.

Ranking = 90/100

All right, honest talk. I had no idea it was to be some post-elliptic zombie movie. It's almost sixty years since George A. Romero changed the face of horror cinema forever with Night of the Living Dead. It's pretty tough to imagine contemporary landscape horror in any terms other than those written by his view of shambling flesh-eating zombies. No film has ever been seen like anything ever since its release in its own raw, guerrilla-style with a bleak atmosphere. More than five decades after its production, Night of the Living Dead is among the horror films created that scares and makes one of the most influential of its time. Watching it today still sets for me an unsettled atmosphere, biting social critique, and unrelenting tension.

Night of the Living Dead is a film that, when seen today, gives little impression of being a horror film from Hollywood. Instead, it is grimy, stark, and raw, and in that lies all the effectiveness. Given its very shoestring budget and meagre equipment, Romero somehow managed to film one that feels alive and urgent, almost as if it's happening before our eyes. An odd suspenseful opening scene: siblings Barbara and Johnny visit their father's grave, where they find a grotesque shambling creature. Before she or even Johnny can blink an eye, he is attacked, and Barbara has to fight for her life against a horde of these strange, relentless creatures. It sets the tone and gives us that feeling of isolation and dread that something creeps over the rest of the film.

The interesting thing is how Romero manages to create a full, high atmospheric tension with so little blood and gore these days. He uses sound, shadow, and pacing to create a world so thick with tension you can hardly breathe. A moaning of zombies, creaking and banging coming from the house where the survivors have been holed up, and the wispy news reports in the background did come together to evoke a world almost suffocating itself as it comes apart at the seams, yet much like the characters, one could not escape from it.

Night of the Living Dead is a horror film of zombies. But inside of the first five minutes of deconstruction of the themes you realise that it's also a vicious social commentary on America in the 1960s. Romero never denied his film was meant to say something other than what people took its words for or did not always know they were experiencing, although he often claimed he had little interest in saying something but rather in spinning a yarn. The movie was also released in seasons of high social upheavals; therefore, it is impossible to remain silent over this feature where the movie voices out America's frights over the issues at hand such as race, violence, and even authority.

Another great feature is its protagonist character, Duane Jones, who acted in the film as a Black man who was resourceful, brave, and in charge amidst chaos. He was the first and only presence in the movie; a horror film is rarely led by Black actors, much less this scenario, and within this role. His serenity and determination are even more terrifying when contrasted with the panic and infighting of other characters. He plays the role of a moral compass in the movie but does not run from the racial undertones at the time. The final frames haunt us with no further horror but rather as nasty reminders of the racial injustices that have been and are present in society.

Not a reassuring movie, nor was it an effortless ending. These zombie throngs, whose ravenous blankness may be perceived as an indictment of consumerism, obedience, or worse, unchecked aggression, made me challenge different planes of its satire each time I saw it.

Of the major assets of Night of the Living Dead, however, are the scarce spectacular resources. Black and white, shoestring budget; in the end, it was simplicity that served to be the strength that played out in Romero's vision. The slight graininess, in combination with the rather monochromatic look of the visuals, lends itself to the documentary style of the film; it honestly really looks like newsreel footage. The scenes of the survivors in the house, cowering and waiting and praying for rescue as the undead amass outside, have a crawlingly, otherworldly feel to them.

One inspired stroke on the part of Romero was to shoot much of the action in one claustrophobic location farmhouse. Of course, with the essence of such a setting comes tension and makes the characters confront not only their fears but also biases and, finally, each other. The narrow location brings the film to almost no trimmings, where the hero's desperation is attested. You can, in effect, be confined with them as a viewer. Whatever few windows the house may possess, you can only get a glimpse of this monstrosity with your peripheral vision, which makes you forget that it is coming whether you look at it or not.

It's not so much that the zombies, in and of themselves, send the film so completely down in the pits, it's the interludes of in-fighting between the survivors themselves. We have such a heterogeneous group inside the farmhouse: Ben, the calm head; Harry, a middle-aged white man, arrogant, stubborn, and fearful. All these characters help analyze the nature of man under pressure; the worst enemy is, after all, at times ourselves.

This theme feels curiously prescient yet is something we are so used to seeing in horror currently. In many ways, the real horror of Night of the Living Dead does not so much occur with the zombies but instead in the breakdown of human cooperation and compassion. The infighting of the group, their inability to work together, and their mistrust all spell their downfall. Romero is dealing with a very deep-seated fear that society is brittle; in a crisis, our basic instincts may lead us to tear at each other rather than pull together.

I'd be surprised if any horror film dared end with a gut punch like the conclusion of Night of the Living Dead did. The conclusion reached by Romero is truly one of the boldest, most uncompromising conclusions I have ever seen and certainly leaves some very serious ground to digest. It won't let you off the hook and won't give you an ending to ease you into it. Instead, it leaves you feeling despairful with that hollow gnawing unlease that bounces around long after the credits are over.

The ending subverts our expectations in such a way that we will be constrained to ask questions about what survival and heroism are all about. Even when I first saw this film, I could feel that it was not going to tread the familiar path of most Hollywood movies. Romero refuses a happy ending in the mould of a Hollywood sequel. He gives us a graphic exemplification of the arbitrariness of violence, a macabre account of providence. The last shots are gruesome, unfettered, and, in a way, eloquent. The crisis is stamped indelibly in the viewer's consciousness because it is so crass and pure.

The pop cultural significance of Night of the Living Dead cannot be negated easily. Romero did more than make a film; he coined a genre. The zombies he created recast the movie, changing the face of horror and creating template imitators and rules that still this day govern zombie stories. Romero's zombies were not supernatural but sat upon a strange kind of biological realism. They did not even have a purpose, nor malice, but a desperate need to consume. This was the groundwork for what we now understand as zombies in The Walking Dead or 28 Days Later.

But Night of the Living Dead did something more than making zombies cool-it pushed the boundaries of what horror cinema itself was.

END. Not to provide easy answers or moral judgments, Romero treated his audience with dignity, worked through themes that came out of the film, and, therefore, reached a personal conclusion. This was a new benchmark for horror in that filmmakers did not need cheap scares, nor the obvious creation of villains, to entertain the masses. Horror, perhaps, is the medium through which such fears in society get expressed, stretching up to moral dilemmas and the worst in human nature.

To sit through Night of the Living Dead is no experience of merely watching a horror movie. It is an encounter with truths about humanity, society, and a thin line between order and chaos that will never grow old. Romero is holding a mirror up to our world, challenging us to rethink who we are and what we can become if those structures that hold us together crumble away. Zombies may be threat enough in Night of the Living Dead, but they also represent symbolism-cum-ever-present reminders of all those dangers within.

Whether you are a fledgling horror fan or an old-time horror fanatic, Night of the Living Dead is simply one film to see. It's, again at once, a movie about the human condition as much as it is a film about dead bodies, and it reminds us how much horror often does for us: sit care makes us think, question, and feel. In the aftermath of this, today, when the world is no less broken and anarchic, I am led to wonder if Romero's vision has only been made more meaningful. There is a timelessness about this film- it is a relentless, haunting reminder of our vulnerability, perhaps, our humanness.

Rating = 95/100 it's worth watching movie

To put it mildly, my opinion would be that some films cannot be endured when lacking that traditional comfort of narration or even character development. For example, Terrence Malick's Song to Song. There is not much in the realm of narrative and certainly more of an atmosphere-feeling experience developing like an abstract painting, which induces emotions and impressions in the viewer but not concrete meanings.

To be taken to see this movie is the same as coming into someone's reverie, perhaps your own - dreamed up through light images, bodies in motion, and whispered fragments of desire, pain, and fleeting joy. Malick's work is one specific kind of cinematic poetry in which Song to Song serves both as an ode and a lament for love, connection, and the knotted mess of human relationships.

Shot in the buzzing, vibrant world of the Austin, Texas, music scene, Song to Song uses the setting not as light relief but as a character in the film. This is for sure where Austin wins the prize for cool spirit and raw-intact spirits. Thus, by cruising through crowded clubs, enormous homes, and intimate scenes by lakesides, Malick somehow manages to capture the heart of this city. Austin's landscapes alone give this film a shade over the rest, to say the very least. There is a strong pull to the places that Malick captures on camera as if his settings are memories, half-remembered from a night that seemed endless.

Song to Song is a movie where four central lives crash into and merge in a haze of lust, betrayal, and searching. Rooney Mara plays Faye, a musician seeking something in an empty promised world. Ryan Gosling's BV is a seeker of stability and love as a songwriter and musician, and the hedonistic music mogul who is searching for indulgence and control is played by Michael Fassbender's Cook. And then there is Rhonda, Natalie Portman's ex-professor, nearly too cute as she becomes more and more integrated into Cook's life, so making their love quadrangle a little bit of a sad sell. Every character is lost in his or her own but all are compulsively drawn to each other in a quest for what everybody else possesses.

One of the subjects I would like to consider about Song to Song is its fluid structure. There is no clear narrative arc and no predictable development of the plot. Malick presents us visions, glimpses of moments strung together with whispered voiceovers and introspective dialogues. It's as if you are trying to piece together someone's broken memory while watching Song to Song. This style, confusing as it is, makes it impossiblegto ignite emotions that now weave their way through every frame.

The film swivels between reality and dream, past and present. This movie doesn't offer neat resolutions or conflict resolutions in the classical sense, and if you're made of such stuff as seeks a neatly wrapped story, you might get frustrated. But what Malick gives in return is something very different: a journey, visceral. He, in some way, catches not only what is happening in the lives of those characters but how feeling, the yearning, and the moments of happiness slide away just when they're arriving.

No Malick film ever seems quite complete without the sumptuous cinematography, which is so distinctive, particularly with Emmanuel Lubezki. Song to Song was lavish visually: shot full of natural light, with gorgeous close-ups and always-elegant floating camera movements, mastered by Lubezki. His work catches not just scenes but caresses them. Movements, capturing extremely intimate moments from angles that might almost seem voyeuristic in far too many other contexts, catching along the way small gestures and sidelong glances that say more than any or all of the dialogue possibly could.

Every frame is a labour of love; it's a work of art unto itself. Be it light that comes through the window dark shadows on people's faces, or panoramic shots of wide landscapes that Austin painted, Lubezki's lens amplifies emotional impact. The style to which the visual presentations take comes to be a language in itself and tells longing, isolation, and restless searching for meaning in every shot. Almost as if one senses the wind, sunshine, or glimpses into people's inner lives with the way they pack into spaces.

A rich layering to this cake is that of the soundtrack of Song to Song and in what ways it extends that dreamlike quality. However, in this movie, Malick eschews grandiosity for something much more minimalist and atmospheric; there is much ambient music punctuated periodically by hauntingly beautiful classical pieces, even an odd rock song. The music doesn't tell us what to feel but drifts along, mirroring the ebb and flow of a character's emotional journey. It is during these times, only those sounds of creaking guitar strings or the low mumble of voices-when those sounds reach your ears-that the film speaks the loudest.

But what's interesting is just how well silence could have been used by Malick just as well as he could have used sound. The long pauses are full of rustling leaves, lapping water, and the quiet breathing of a lost character thinking away into nothingness. Such thin music and fat words make every sound a vital incident of itself and every note of music meaningful. But it is just as much a score about absence as it is about presence, underlining all the elements of yearning and unrequited desires that run through the whole.

Song to Song, at its core, is about relationships, the messy, imperfect, and often destructive dance between desire and distance. Every character in the movie is asking for something he or she does not even articulate is this kind of communication that always happens just out of reach. Faye and BV's love is as fragile as a cocoon, so full of sensitive momentality forever will be sullied by the compromise and regret. This is the real but tainted love of vulnerability and distrust within a mosaic of relationships that throbs in agony.

Then there's Cook, the seducer of destroyers-bringing everyone into his world, taking them down into the pit. Fassbender plays him with reckless energy, this kind of toxic charisma that is at once frightening and glamorous. A character who uses others to escape his emptiness, leaving hurt behind him. Most of all, Rhonda is the victim of this siren-like enticement because it is she who is losing her innocence and idealism as slowly she is pulled into his world.

The movie makes no judgments at all on these relationships. It just holds them up for what they are, plush with all the beauty and flaws. He never romanticizes love; he paints it for what it is, fragile and very painful, something that can lift you in one moment and crush you in another. The relationships in Song to Song aren't resolved but rather acknowledged, so we leave thinking that real connection is rare and there always eludes, like the song fading before you can almost hold the melody in your head.

Song to Song is one of those polarizing films. Its loose structure and meditative pace will not suit everybody's taste, and it's easy to see why some people might find it annoyingly self-indulgent and meandering. But those who can surrender themselves to its rhythms discover in the Malick vision a beauty and honesty just more pure and primal. He isn't trying to spin some kind of tragic love tale; he is after something, a shape or silhouette of what it would be to lose oneself to love and to seek meaning out from this frigidity of somehow fatal drifting between joys and sorrows.

What is most poignant, though, about Song to Song is that it accepts uncertainty. Like, it's such an unknown life, and the movie cannot have answers. Sometimes it denies them. And it leaves it for the audience to bask in this ambiguity in finding meaning in those spaces that lie between because, sometimes, those glances, silences and brief connections define us. But while watching this film, as if it is in memory, that emotional ambience where time blurs and hovers there with emotions that don't let themselves be pinned down or defined.

Song to Song is not at all what most people will want to see. It meanders in an extremely abstract way but never really "gets" anywhere. If what you're looking for is a pretty straight-line story with a beginning, middle, and end, this isn't for you. If, however, you want something that will make you feel like you're looking at something like art—sensational rather than plot-driven—you might as well go see this.

What I loved most was how it made me feel. By the end of it, I still didn't know everything. And that was okay. It reminded me that life and love are complicated-that sometimes people are just as lost as they are in love-and sometimes, the connections we make are both beautiful and imperfect. In a way, Song to Song is the memory of those people we meet in our life and change us although we are only with them for a little while.

If, however, you are right about a movie that's more of a visual and emotional trip across the world and less about the plot, then Song to Song is right for you. Just sit back, savour the visuals, the music, and the mood and let yourself drift along in Malick's world. It may not be everybody's cup of tea, but this has left a bitter-sweetish taste that I will never forget.

Rating = 90/100

Okay, just watched Inferno (1980), and I am still trying to make sense of it. Dario Argento's movie feels less like the usual horror film and is more like a strange dark dream that you cannot help but be haunted by afterwards. It is the second movie in Argento's "Three Mothers" trilogy following Suspiria. This time, the story features Mater Tenebrarum or the "Mother of Darkness." In all honesty, though, the storyline is not something that needs to be followed so closely. In fact, Inferno would rather be an experience rather than a story.

It introduces a young poet from New York called Rose. She finds this really ancient book that says something about three witches known as the Three Mothers, each representing one kind of sorrow or evil. So far, she presumes that the building can be connected with some relation with these three. Significantly, Rose assumes, especially the Mother of Darkness in particular. She messes everything up and calls out her brother who is a music student in Rome, Mark, so encouraging him to come for help.

Mark's odyssey and arrival in New York carry us down a weird, twisty road. This movie contains various characters experiencing their worst fates concerning these unknown forces within the ominous structures. Do not think things are going to make all the sense, though- Argento allows things to play out without too much saying it, which fits so perfectly with the chiller of disorientation surrounding this movie.

Something distinct regarding Inferno is how it looks. It does not feel like it's a real movie, it's like a painting or a dream. Argento makes use of so many bright, surreal colours: deep reds, greens, and blues that give the scenes a fairy-tale quality of horror. It's not a film of reality. Instead, every frame feels very well planned to create a feeling, to make you feel uneasy like something bad is around the corner.

There is one early scene where Rose plunges into a flooded basement full of weird, floating things. It is both beautiful and incredibly creepy. I watched it holding my breath along with her. Argento knows how to take the simplest places: an old basement, a staircase, a hallway- and fill them with a haunted and alive quality.

The sound effects and music in Inferno are just very terrifying. Where Suspiria made use of a score that was really very rock-oriented, the score for Inferno by Keith Emerson is much more eerie and orchestral. The music builds up to a crescendo and then just cuts out, and you are literally sitting at the edge of your seat. Sometimes, it's when it's quiet that you can be scared the most, just the sound of footsteps or dripping water. It's like the sounds remind you that something sinister is always lurking there.

When something violent happens, the sounds become louder and more intense, bringing you through every second. One scene that remains quite vivid in my mind involves a character in a lecture hall, where a place that could be so calm all of a sudden becomes terrifying. Argento plays with sound and silence with such an effect that brought me into tension even during the "quiet" time of the movie.

The setting in Inferno plays a huge role in the horror. The buildings there's one that Rose lives in look as if they're alive. They are old, crumbling, and have many strange corridors and secret rooms. Argento treats the places like characters themselves; he makes them dark and oppressive. Sometimes the walls close in on you, and at other times, it is as if they stretch forever and ever, like a maze.

It was as if the buildings were cursed and infected by the presence of the Three Mothers: peeling paint, cracked walls, and flooded dampness contrast with each situation, making it perfect for a supernatural horror story.

Beneath the creepiness of the visuals and the weird plot, Inferno deals with themes of sorrow and fear of the unknown. The characters are drawn to the mystery of the Three Mothers, even though it's dangerous. They can't resist the pull to uncover the darkness. But as they dig deeper, they end up facing death and despair.

The Three Mothers represent kinds of sorrow. In Inferno, the Mother of Darkness is like a vortex that subsumes anyone who takes it too close. Considering this, I thought of how, sometimes, we are provoked by things that frighten us, even if they wound us in the aftermath. The movie plays with these ideas, depicting how curiosity can sometimes lead to danger.

One thing, though, that bothered me a bit was that some characters were a bit detached. Rose Mark and the others are interesting personalities, but they act much more as parts of Argento's artistic vision than really human people. They would react to the horror taking place around them, and deep emotions weren't so carried on. This can irk the viewer, for they often have the sensation of walking through the dream without actually having any significant reaction to the nightmare.

The most obvious example is Mark's storyline, which is so sleepwalked that one cannot help but wonder how much of this really is going on. It serves well enough for the dreamlike style of the movie, but it makes it a little hard to feel as though one is deeply invested in the characters when they are so removed from reality. Still, it reinforces the theme of the movie, that these characters are at the mercy of forces far beyond their control.

Watching Inferno, I see why it has cult classic status. It is not a horror movie for everyone, but it made an impact that is not going away. Any later directors, such as David Lynch, were certainly inspired by Argento's approach: dreamlike visuals, the use of sound to create dread, and the whole concept of horror as an experience rather than a story.

It's a movie beyond horror, creating a fairytale atmosphere that feels like stepping into some sort of dark fairytale. Argento stressed more on the sense of experience. From this point of view, it's quite easy to explain why his style made a lot of other film artists want to transcend traditional stories.

My personal opinion of this movie is that I felt both engrossed and disturbed at the same time. This is a film that doesn't bring you a ready-made happy ending but rather pictures, sounds, and feelings that stick with you after it has finished. Its very vibrant colours and ghostly scenes, along with weird music, are a unique kind of horror.

Not so good at storytelling with simple storylines and deeper arcs. It's for viewers who are ready to let go of everything that makes sense and submerge themselves into the nightmare where every frame would resemble a very different, twisted painting. Inferno is a film meant more to be felt than thought – an intense and visual journey through the darker sides of the mind.

Rating = 90/100

Sometimes, one movie will come along and change everything for an entire genre. That film for romantic comedies would be When Harry Met Sally, directed by Rob Reiner and written by the very talented Nora Ephron. It came out in 1989, but since it's one of those timeless classics of films that reasons totally unexplainable, today, are every bit as fresh as if they first landed on a big screen. What is that? Of course, as I now look at it,three ddecadeshave passed since their first glimpse of wonder. That amazes me, if for nothing else then, with the tale of Harry and Sally. Yet, what do I hear of this film that, despite all these decades somehow still leaves it fresh in many ways, so that comedy and heartbreakingly vivid become possible even years after such a film came out? I tthink it thinks has nothing to do with love that "When Harry Met Sally" does not try selling you to the fairytale romance. But offers something grittier, more in keeping with life, and truer to what evolves within a relationship: not love at first sight for Harry Burns, played by Billy Crystal, an extremely scathing man when it comes to Sally Albright, played by Billy Crystal and Meg Ryan; much of the first half of the film is where Harry actively dislikes Sally with Sally, in equal kind returning the hatred. So there's the story. Their friendship turns into this hard-wrought, painstakingly, painfully-developed love. Along the way, it poses one of the greatest questions about relationships: can men and women really be buddies?

"When Harry Met Sally" opens with what many of us in the real world might want to avoid: the ultimate road trip. They come along driving from Chicago to New York City, brought along by mutual connection since her boyfriend is a buddy of his, so they could be no more dissimilar; Harry is sarcastic and poised to spew his dreary outlook on life.
Sally is very careful and funny. The way of these characters comes to be very much true for them in issues like orders for food with minute details.
The difference simply falls in the eye and pops out the dynamic in which it seems to look fresh and solid at the same time. It is very much visible here that proper writing is done by Ephron as minute details for clashing are shown over petty matters of how people do it. Almost every part of their journey is filled with Harry and Sally, discussing and bickering on everything from their relationship with each other to death; Harry would famously come out to proclaim before Sally his opinion that in his eyes, it just cannot help but be impossible for men and women to befriend each other because there is "that sex part" between them. That's one ballsy statement, both of its time and timelessness in its simplicity.

It would be the start of a romance in an even crummier film, but with Harry and Sally, this road trip has each walking away rather completely indifferent to ever laying eyes on the other again. There is nothing here to spark or bespeak destiny; only a recognition of the fact that they aren't exactly each other's type.

Part of the fun in "When Harry Met Sally" is that it doesn't just set up its leads and start shaking them up. Instead, it works with a building relationship step by step, allowing what begins as friendly banter to slowly intensify until neither speaks a word to the other again for decades, but then run right into one another amidst the chaos of an airport one day. Of course, by now, they have all considerably matured, and there is certainly much more life experience they can claim. But though the same banter will prevail. Their banter has matured in correspondence with their slightly more mature sensibilities, but that undertone—Harry's sceptical nature and Sally's positive outlook—remains.

When they again met years later, they both found themselves recently out of an uncomfortable relationship, jaded in love, and significantly readier to consider a deep friendship. It is where the film really begins to pose its large question in earnest: can two people who demonstrably want each other be just friends? What follows is a beautifully constructed friendship, as real and relatable, but above all, quite genuine. They do not pretend to impress each other, both being their selves. Everything that exists in the world of the sun is presented within the dialogue, depicting just how they relate to each other in ways neither would have thought possible.

Watching them build their friendship was very refreshing since it was not built upon contrived situations or improbable happenings. It's from that ordinary minute each of us spends together with his closest friends; this is the night you will talk on the phone late to try to wake one another, and the joke of the two men shared who for everyone else carries no meaning. They often bicker with one another through poor communication at times a deep argument, heated or so. Their friendship, in so many ways, is its own relationship, and their bond is just as profound as any romance.

Of course, no discussion of "When Harry Met Sally" would be complete without the legendary scene at Katz's Delicatessen. In it, Sally sets out to prove a point about how women can, and sometimes do, fake enjoyment during intimacy. It is beautifully ridiculous and embarrassing and comical when it is this shocking moment that does so much in telling as much about what really makes Sally well, Sally; she shows Harry as unremittingly herself only to show how he didn't know it all himself, so he leaves her both embarrassed but impressed.

It's actually the best scene that surpasses just laughter and is so strong that what makes this scene so relatable is that it says something real. Even those who were closest to each other hide things they don't really know about one another. There is an element of vulnerability as well as laughter, which defines their relationship. She was not arm candy for Harry but full-fledged in her weirdness and agency.

The most adventurous filming about Harry and Sally was that they took this so long before some epiphany came where they realised what real feelings for each other are. This gets further expression through the experience of other relationships coupled with some serious personal heartbreaks in the creation of who these characters will be, individually. It really is a slow burn, and all the more rewarding for it, given that they have put in the work in the long haul.

It is constructed so that we spend our time with them. And the movie cuts from one interview to another of this aged couple as they remember telling their love story. You could have nothing or anything to do with Harry and Sally, but they add another level to this film where one realizes love is like a joke; there are a million ways of it, and it may pop up at any minute.

This slight detour allows the film to expand on its theme, change, and development. Harry and Sally do not remain in the opening credits scene. They have witnessed the broken hearts and weaknesses that both describe them. They gain much from this on what they really need from someone else. Their last moment must feel inevitable over some great romantic move but because they just become each other's indispensable parts.

Much of what you see as you watch "When Harry Met Sally" is more than a romance. You're two people figuring out who you are and what that means between the two of you. That's why this film doesn't at all feel dated. This movie is not one of the incredible scenes or even that huge declaration of love; it's quiet, unseen ways that love works itself out between friends.

Another reason this film really feels so realistic is because of its comedy, which comes so well interwoven into the characters and even in their dialogue. Sharp, quick-witted, and insightful on relationships, almost done today as much as 1989 was when its script was, this coming from Ephron is very honest to humour to create an earthy, dirtiness even during the times it's funny. It is not just a comedy where it will make the people laugh but will reveal the characters and flaws and human elements also.

The on-screen chemistry of Meg Ryan-Billy Crystal must surely be, without doubt, the strength of this movie. The two were just clicking off from each other; awkward and well-comfortable at times, portrayed the perfect long-standing friendship. The weirdness that Sally brought off so well gave Meg Ryan hands and a terrific endearment on her part. Lovable Harry was Billy Crystal, though infuriating too. Together they both struck as unique yet somehow common at the same time. You believe in them as friends, and you root for them as a couple.

They are portraying the subtleties of friendship, attraction, and the fear of risking everything for love. They make you laugh and give you the feeling of weight attached to their decision and the vulnerability attached to opening up to another person.
By the end of this movie, Harry and Sally leave us convinced that they should end up together as if it was a done deal. We have grown and developed with them, so much so that I feel they were practically ready to be a relationship in itself if officially it was not considered. When Harry finally convinces Sally to say to him that she is indeed in love with him or so on New Year's Eve, then most surely there is no cause to swoon her away. But he does tell a litany of little things about her. It's real, honest and perfectly in line with everything that we have seen so far.
It satisfies one within the ending of it. It really does not tie everything within a neat bow, or pretend that love is easy. Instead, it reminds love is a choice, by which Harry and Sally become ready after years of friendship, growth, and and self-discovery.

Ah, but viewing "When Harry Met Sally" is like getting together with an old friend. Of course, there is in it that light warmth, that familiarity that comes with depth so wonderful that the more you watch the film, the more you want to appreciate it. Under Ephron, the writing marries so well with Reiner's directionon and pitch-perfect performances from Ryan and Crystal to look and feel like the genuine article, a proper romantic comedy, but also one that feels like it comes from life. And perhaps something the movie does beyond even a genre that allows for so much more to film not as a romantic one, but as one concerning people. There's that little flash of every-day relationship, in every minute of the film "When Harry Met Sally" so perfectly, and so ridiculously lifelike.

Rating = 85/100

Nothing in horror classics is like 1973's The Wicker Man. It is not exactly gore and jump-scare horror; it makes you take a tour and slowly turns into an unforgettable haunting. Robin Hardy has directed it, and the screenplay comes from Anthony Shaffer's page. It is true that it is a piece of cinema that cannot be identified by any genre as it solely hails from Britain. It is a horror, mystery, and folk tale with plenty of sociological comments spread over it with dreads and ambiguity.

The Wicker Man is one of those films that lingers inside you long after the credits are over. It is a cult movie, quirky not only in premise but also in how haunting it gets at the climax. There's suspense hanging in the air; the film raises a few really disturbing themes and is a study of unease, all camouflaged in this quaintly deceptive setting.

The film is about Sergeant Neil Howie, a policeman from the mainland, with very strong Christian values, visiting the isolated Scottish island of Summerisle to solve the case of the disappearance of the young girl, Rowan Morrison. At first glance, everything feels off in the place, from villagers, seemingly friendly but not too helpful under the charming yet dangerous Lord Summerisle (Christopher Lee). They say they never saw Rowan, yet there she is everywhere, everywhere around.

Howie is an outsider both because he happens to be a policeman and also because of the high level of conflict, there is between his strong Christian faith and the pagan rituals that he sees going on in Summerisle. The folk 'rites' among islanders seem bizarre and morally reprehensible to him. There's nudity, pagan symbols, and a carefree attitude toward sexuality giving the lie to Howie's strict worldview. In many ways, Howie's journey is a personal test of faith rather than an investigation.
One of the strongest film themes deals with the war between the Christianity of Howie and the paganism portrayed by the Summerisle inhabitants. The religion of Howie guides him morally and makes him strong in fighting against the Islanders; simultaneously, it makes him blind to the interface of their culture. But the islanders are highly devoted to their way of life and identify themselves with the principles of their lord, who thinks that with such a paganistic practice of life, his island would be fertile and prosperous.

This is not portrayed in any traditional Hollywood fashion as good versus evil. No moral judgments are clear for the Wicker Man. In the end, it leaves the viewer to ponder the righteousness of dogmatic faith on the part of Howie and the pagan customs of Summerisle. To that extent, the movie is extremely subversive. It throws a reflection of the belief of the viewer and asks him or her to question what indeed is "right" and "wrong."

And it is this lack of bias, finally, that makes the film such a lasting impression. It is Howie's harsh Christian outlook that does not redeem him but is partly part of why he ends as he does. Although there is much to find in the paganism of Summerisle, which is attractive in an earthy mystery, at last, it reveals itself as something capable of horrific extremes.

Much of the power of this movie lies in some profoundly interesting performances by its two principals: Edward Woodward as Sergeant Howie and Christopher Lee as Lord Summerisle. Woodward puts an earnest intensity across perfectly that sense of moral conviction and growing desperation gradually building as he unravels the mystery. Sympathetic and maddening all at the same time, a man of impeccably high principle, though in his rigidity, the ultimate undoing of him, Woodward imbues him with that tragic near-Shakespearean quality that lends portent to his own end.

Lord Summerisle, too, is equally memorably incarnated by the legendary Christopher Lee himself who has been said to have fancied this one to be his favourite, and understandably so. He brings an aura of regal charisma and menacing charm into the part and makes Summerisle an ambiguous figure. He is so welcoming yet so deeply sinister; a leader who inspires loyalty in his people and inspires fear in outsiders. The ambiguity that Lee gives the character leaves the viewer unsure of what his motives are.

Supporting actors like Britt Ekland and Diane Cilento all the way to Ingrid Further heighten the feeling of awfulness with a film but also all provide each with some otherness that only serves to intensify a feeling that the entire land of Summerisle operates out of another legal context Ekland especially, acting as Willow, inn-keeper's daughter is wonderfully memorable when her dancing provocation is surely one of the greatest known pieces in the film's entire footage. She is the quintessential image of how freedom when it comes to sex is a reckless attitude on the island thing that Howie despises.

One of the most striking aspects of The Wicker Man setting is probably the isolated island of Summerisle, which is full of landscapes and ancient ruins, almost like a character in itself. It was shot on location in Scotland, giving it that realistic sense of the rugged beauty of the setting. Here, the scenery itself is idyllic-looking but intermingled with sinister undertones that make for an atmosphere that is both beguiling and unsettling.

It is the island that becomes the trap: Howie—and, of course, the viewer—keeps falling and falling into the mysteriousness of the island. Cheerful songs of the villagers and colourful festivals seem so innocent at first but gradually acquire darker tones. Now Howie realizes the real state of Summerisle customs, too late.

And, of course, there is music in Wicker Man deserving particular attention. The whole characters in the movie sing folk songs and hymns. In this way, they help in the sense of the place along with the very eerie atmosphere visible in that movie. The film music score is composed by Paul Giovanni. This consists of folk music along with some original work. Thus, they also appear to be as temporal as otherworldly. They're hauntingly beautiful in nature but somehow managed to fit this feeling of dissonance there. They feel really uncomfortable as well, and they actually are intended to drown in the sense while they pull the carpet from under their feet.

The final sequence of any film ever would likely be ranked among the most iconic of conclusions with the final sequences of The Wicker Man. Little can be divined about the ending of the film, but its shock is inescapable: a denouement that is at once timeless and primal as the ritual life of the island. Climactic in the fullest sense, the revelation of the wicker man towering effigy that gives the film its title is a horror moment that is seared into the consciousness of anyone who has seen it.

What makes it very powerful is that you make the audience face the fallacies of belief and fanatical faith. Howie thought his faith would save him, but it actually led to his death. The fans, devoted to their old gods, did not surrender even when it came down to doing an abhorrent thing. The ending couldn't be bleaker yet because it speaks to almost everybody in the sense that it touches upon the notions of sacrifice, faith, and the need for meaning amongst the human race.

This film is now a classic, but when it was released in 1973, it was more of a cult. Its influence can be seen in a load of films and TV shows dealing with themes of isolation and, paganism; civilization clashes with nature. It opened the way to a subgenre of horror that is more psychological and atmospheric, in which mood and ambiguity overwhelm graphic violence. Another more contemporary example of this debt, perhaps a debt as clearly owed as Midsommar is from 2019, comes in the form of films like Hereditary and The Witch, which (again) dabble in folk traditions' darker side.

What was once a strange, low-budget horror film has, over the years, been appreciated for its level of artistry and subversive theme. The ambiguity that puzzled some viewers when the film came out is now one of the strengths- strange, mysterious, open to interpretation, and thus essentially about a different experience each time around.

Few horror movies make that place inside, but one has this feeling of becoming a tenant for a long while after the end of having watched The Wicker Man. Creeping unease thought provocation, and haunting deep in one's psyche in such a way that you get questions instead of being frightened of belief. Unlike any of the horror movie-generating flashing shocks, The Wicker Man maintains slowly, surely, anguish and dread unto a final climax that's as unforgettable as frightening.

What makes The Wicker Man actually remarkable is that it belonged to its own category of not being able to get placed in a genre because it is a horror movie in its own right but it's also a psychological thriller and mystery as well, social critique. It is a film that catches you off guard and leaves you with more questions than answers. And in that way, it's a great horror film, going right to the spookiest primal fears-not with monsters or bloodshed but with a jarring revelation: sometimes the things most terrifying are hidden but staring right back at us.

And that is The Wicker Man: a cinematic experience unlike any other, a film that deserves to be seen, discussed, and remembered. Whether or not you are a fan of horror movies, it is one film that makes you pay attention - offering you a look at one world that, though considered beautiful, is degrading. And once

Ranking = 90/100. Is Worth watching the movie. Just go for it.

Silent sorcery in a Japanese family drama by Hirokazu Kore-eda brings us to linger in this quiet and simple drama of a family. Whenever a term like "family drama" is used, this is accompanied by the perception of loud arguments or revealing explosions. Not so with Kore-eda. He is not interested in grand pronouncements; he laps into the quieter, unuttered resentments slight disappointments and even teeny-weeny acts of love. Seeing Still Walking gazed into a private world, such an honest world that feels intruded on by real lives we live through, but Kore-eda has constructed it with such subtlety, yet feel part of the family.

Kore-eda is often called Yasujirō Ozu, the Japanese master of domestic dramas; nor is it hard to see why. Like Ozu, Kore-eda is a minimalist. Rarely does the camera stir, and dramatic storylines are less important than how people live with each other. But while Ozu often painted a rather idealized portrait of Japanese families, Kore-eda isn't afraid to reveal the blemishes grudges that simmer beneath the surface, the unfulfilled expectations, and the subtle pains that never quite heal. Still Walking is no mere documentary of family life; with compassion and honesty, Kore-eda examines it and reveals the bittersweet beauty of flawed relationships.

The story starts on the back of one summer day with the gathering of the Yokoyama family to remember the anniversary of the drowning death of the eldest son, Junpei, when he drowned attempting to rescue a boy who had drowned twelve years prior. The older parents, Kyohei and Toshiko; their daughter Chinami and her husband and children; and the surviving son, Ryota, who comes with a new wife, Yukari, and her young son, Atsushi. Very simple, yet Kore-eda finds richness from within the simplicity: we can walk through their relationships, just getting glimpses of the past and the present.

In the heart of this film lies Ryota, bearing on himself the burden of expectation in his family or the burden of failing expectations, one might say. Ryota does not make for a good protagonist; he is neither likeable nor sympathetic. He is a middle-aged man with a sort of bitterness about him, a sense of inadequacy that permeates his every interaction with his parents. As the "surviving son," Ryota has been set to fill a space that Junpei previously occupied but failed to fully measure up to expectations. So accomplished is he neither so aspiring he not beyond that of what it was anticipated that he would be unspoken grudge simmers in this air to spill over to snarky comments through Kyohei and coded insults in Toshiko's remark.
The patriarch Kyohei was a retired physician and always carried about his wish that his ideal son should be Junpei. So interesting a character, one would believe that he must be another example of emotionally remote father because Kore-eda has indeed bestowed him with enough layers. There was bitterness with Kyohei towards Ryota, but more against life itself, bitterness that all his toil and sacrifices went for nothing in this life. He did not run over Junpei's death nor rage against Ryota; his silent disapprobation sometimes came in little gestures or long looks. Such subtlety makes Kyohei's character even more poignant, for here is a man deeply wounded but cannot find the words to talk about his pain.

Toshiko, Ryota's mother, is perhaps the most intriguing character in the film. She seems warm and solicitous as she fusses over her grandkids and visits with her daughter and daughter-in-law; yet, there is an acuity to her kindness. Toshiko is tortured by Junpei's death too, but she does not mourn the boy in an expected manner. She is indignant toward the boy who was substituted for Junpei; as far as Toshiko was concerned, he did not have any right to exist on earth in lieu of her son. She never put it into words, but it was what stamped all her acts towards her family, especially towards Ryota, whom she would never allow to hope even to reach the spirit of Junpei. It's a powerful description of the mother who cannot pardon her suffering and whose love has been polluted by her inability to accept the reality of her son's death.

Those scenes with Toshiko, a wife of Ryota and Yukari, whom the narrator describes as such. Yukari is essentially a non-family member there because she is a third small son and a widow with other experiences from a previous wedding. Toshiko consistently displays politeness with Yukari but there is so much tension in that process since it seems she will not accept her at any moment. The scene reminds the viewer of the "failure" in the marriage between Ryota and a "proper" woman to carry on the family line the way his parents had always envisioned. There, of course, is an understood word between them recognition of the place in the family they all have to play around with unwritten laws and the expectations that outline what needs to be done.

But what is amazing in Still Walking is Kore-eda's attention to detail. The film shoots in small, intimate moments: cicadas buzzing in the background, steam from bowls of miso soup, and Toshiko very slowly and deliberately preparing food in the kitchen. All these create a sense of place and time that roots the viewer in the Yokoyama family's world and makes you imagine that you share their meals, listen in on their conversation, and bear the silences with them. Kore-eda uses food perhaps most memorably. Meals in Still Walking are not for the belly; they are a ritual. It is a way the family can bond and communicate even when words fail them.

The film is slow and deliberate, letting us really drink in the rhythms of life in a family. It does not have those moments of climactic confrontation and tearful confessions, as Kore-eda reveals the inner turmoil of the family with minute, almost imperceptible gestures. A glance, a sigh, a pause, lingering – all saying so much without saying it at all. It is an immense telling of stories but needs much patience; anybody ready to take it all can surely enjoy the experience as such.

Another very significant theme of the film is legacy and the burden it puts on people to live up to the expectations of their families. The other very recognisable conflict that can easily be picked on is with Ryota who seems to stake his claims as having an existence of his own. One is able to learn reminding words from his parents, even more tragically reminding action, the ways through which they seem to take care of Junpei's room, talk as though Junpei's still in his life and one can infer this image that Ryota Koseki dwells in an existence shaded by the living presence of another human to whom comparison cannot but made. And that unstated competitiveness only amplifies that sense of inadequacy. Kore-eda speaks it all in a rather painful subtlety and insight so that when we see a man between his own desires and the weight of family expectations, at times it can almost become unbearably touching.
Yet for all its bleakness, Still Walking is no dismal film. Hope and acceptance run through a recognition that family ties can be messy and complicated but last a lifetime. The Yokoyama family is a mess, imperfect, and broken in so many ways still, they go through the motions year after painful year, coming together as best they can to honour Junpei's memory. There is quiet resilience in the ritual-an affirmation, really family bonds even when strained. Kore-eda offers no easy answers or neat resolutions; he leaves us with a sense of ambiguity and recognition that healing is indeed a process-one perhaps never fully complete.

It's at the very last part of the film that a slight feeling of a new beginning is seen in the Yokoyama family. Ryota will never become the son his parents wanted, and Toshiko never really accepts Yukari as such. Still, however, there is a tentative understanding between them, feeling that they are, in all things, still walking together. Beautiful and understated, very life-like, ending with messiness and ambiguity.

The final scenes are bittersweet as Ryota and his family leave the Yokoyama household and head back to their lives: things may never be right, but there is beauty in imperfection. Still Walking is not a film of resolution; it is a film of acceptance. It's living with loss and disappointment, even with the knowledge that no matter how hard we reach out, we will ultimately not understand our loved one. It's just so much about these little moments and graces that make living worth fighting for.

Still Walking is a muted jewel of narrative subtlety; one finds depth in what passes for prosaic, the banal breathtaking beauty. Kore-eda's touch is so fine-tuned to the rhythms and flows of life that it'd almost seem invisible-watching lifelike humans rather than actors. Perf is terrific all around-on behalf of Hiroshi Abe to Kirin Kiki, then Yoshio Harada. It is played to muted greatness which tears you apart.

It is a quiet work of contemplation that nudges you to think deeply about your own family and your own relationships and what we all do to carry on through love and loss. It's a universal film, yet the film is so very personally intimate because it's an attestation of his efficiency as the filmmaker and of his compassion as the storyteller.

Even in Still Walking, when the truth hurts so bad, it reminds the reader that despite being tough and rough, there is beauty to the family the journey; as such, it is shared.

Look at every director's movie that I have watched till now. They always leave their trademark in the movie, and that makes it pure and perfect. I will mention and appreciate Abbas Kiarostami's work, too. Among the many films that quietly challenge and expand our notions of cinema, Close-Up (1990) by Iranian director Abbas Kiarostami stands as one of the most thought-provoking. Of course, it is far from being a biopic by any stretch of the imagination, nor even a drama. Close-Up is actually a trenchant and moving consideration of human vulnerability, of identity in general, and of art in life. Utilizing a most innovative intermixing of documentary and reenactment, Close-Up manages to stitch the real and the fictional so perfectly together that it makes one reconsider the very structure of storytelling itself. It is a movie that does not feed you but asks for multiple engagements with the film.

While watching Close-Up, I didn't know what to expect. I had heard that this film was some sort of oddity because it told its story through real people acting out reenactments of events from their lives. But nothing could prepare anyone for the extent to which it would draw him or her into its tale-or rather, I must confess, lack thereof: as those credits started to crawl and fade, I felt like I had stumbled on some private, almost conspiratorial affair: a human story made over at a sort of microfiche detail. This is a film that captures the ordinary, the flawed, and the aspirational elements of human nature, inviting us to reflect on our own lives in the process.

Close-Up begins with a seemingly bizarre premise: an unemployed, struggling Iranian man, Hossain Sabzian, who pretends to be the famous filmmaker Mohsen Makhmalbaf. He uses the Ahankhah family, well-to-do, to his advantage to make them believe that he is working on some sort of new film and needs their help. Eventually, the film gets him the money as the family shows up as an aid to raise his funds. His forgery finally catches up and puts him behind bars. But instead of an ordinary crime story, Kiarostami manages to get himself into the mind of one who wishes for another life – one who wishes to be observed and valued in a different way than ever before.

What makes this story peculiar is how Kiarostami tells it. He does not cast actors but takes Sabzian, Ahankhah's family and others concerned in re-enacting their experience. He lets them relive, reinterpret, and even reshape memories before the camera as he mixes fiction and documentary in a new narrative space in which the viewer will never be quite sure whether what he is being subjected to is "real" or "performed." And this is precisely the point. Genius lies in the ability to realize this ambivalence-thundering chaos where individual truth and external reality meet.

The impact of Close-Up lies at the core of Sabzian, a man who is sympathetic but also an interesting mystery. From the moment he enters the screen, there is something basically vulnerable about him. He is soft-spoken, almost hesitant, as if not knowing where he belongs. Sabzian is an invisible man-the man we pass on the street without even a passing glance, the individual, in his quiet way, who longs for more.

As the movie unfolds, the masquerade adopted by Sabzian, and not just extortion, represents an act of despair as well as an act of assertion. Through all conversations, Sabzian manifests his passion and admiration for Makhmalbaf's cinematic ventures, more so the cases where films of Makhmalbaf manifest the ordeal and plight of ordinary people like him in Iran. Taking on Makhmalbaf's identity in an instant allows Sabzian to overcome his irrelevance. He enters this world he so admires—a world of art and life intermixing, of stories, of people. Sabzian's "crime," then, is both a cry for help and an artistic gesture, a way of reshaping his identity even if only for a brief moment.

What startled me most about Sabzian is his unassuming complexity. He is neither all bad nor all good, and this ambiguity makes him a very relatable character. Who hasn't felt the need to reinvent themselves and be someone else for at least a little while? The struggle of Sabzian, searching for his identity, strikes something deep within a universal craving for meaning—a craving to be seen and understood. In a way, Sabzian is one kind of "everyman" trying to rise above his unextraordinary life by contorting the reality that is against him.

Much deeper into the story of Sabzian lies an equally great significance of Kiarostami as a filmmaker. There he doesn't mold the storyline of his characters; he works more like an observer and facilitator. Let the things happen. His characters are independent and thus never take anything for granted. And that is the space where he allows a true revelation to be found. This style makes close-ups look raw and even uncut, so one feels like gazing into reality has nothing to do with the camera.

But that does not turn Kiarostami himself into a passive presence. By filming Close-Up in such a way, he made an artistically conscious statement about the truth and fiction. He shakes our very notion of what documentary filmmaking is, blurring facts with drama, thereby questioning the notion of authenticity. Kiarostami seems to say that truth is not something physical but a fluid, developing construction. In life, as in cinema, the lines blur between the real and the illusory.

The entire movie is comprised of portions wherein Kiarostami addresses the subject directly, as was done during Sabzian's trial. It reveals us glimpses of the thought process and emotions of the director, subtly influencing the opinion that we carry about the story. It is one great balance that makes our hearts run wild, repeatedly reformulating our opinions over the characters' motives and their actions. Kiarostami's hand may not be visible, but it has a presence all through emotions and ideas in a labyrinth of them without imposing judgment and ideas on the viewer.

The climactic sequence in Close-Up is the scene in court where the family of Ahankhah is paraded in front of Sabzian. It was the most deeply realistic scene: it was more like a play than it was a hearing. In fact, it was at the very heart of the film; there, Sabzian was to bear all his insecurities, desires, and remorse. He speaks painfully truthful words, almost screamingly so, to recount the void that drove him to masquerade as Makhmalbaf. It's hardly a matter of forgiveness but more his listening and acceptance.

The courtroom scene is also an incredibly engaging study in human empathy: the Ahankhah family, offended and confused by Sabzian's deception, comes to realize their perspective of him has changed. We glimpse the fragility of compassion and forgiveness in their ears as he relates his own story. It is the moment that underscores the flexibility of human empathy even with betrayal. This scene reminded me so much of both Sabzian and the Ahankhahs. Beneath all our differences lies a common frailty: a desire to be accepted, to be recognized.

The question the scene forces us to pose is a very deep issue about justice and mercy: was Sabzian a criminal or only an inane fantasist? Does he deserve punishment or just enough punishment is given by showing this to the public view? Kiarostami leaves all those questions to you to ask them long after the movie's over. In the end, Close-Up is not about right or wrong; it's about the complexity of human behaviour and how art can be a window into that complexity.

Ending the movie in a gorgeous poetic twist, Close-Up closes with a retelling of Sabzian's encounter with Makhmalbaf again-the director he had assumed. On a motorbike, through the streets of Tehran, the two men ride with a movement almost dreamy in quality. It's a silent redemption for Sabzian as if he's finally come full circle. Now, in the presence of Makhmalbaf, he is no longer an imposter but an artist like him who loves cinema and stories.

This final scene really stuck in my head. It was almost a soft reminder that life, with all its contradictions and uncertainties, is intrinsically cinematic. We are all, in some way, both actors and spectators, constantly reshaping our identities in response to the people and events around us. I was left with an intense sense of closure by watching Sabzian and Makhmalbaf together as if Close-Up had come full circle. It's a testament to the director's own vision that such an ingrainedly mundane story should create such transcendence.

Close-Up is a film defying easy categorization into one genre. It's at once both documentary, drama, social commentary, and philosophic meditation. In Kiarostami's choice of blurring the lines of the real and the fake as a way of throwing light onto the fluid nature of human identity and the way in which we create meaning, what we see in Sabzian is ourselves. Here we are with all the insecurities, all the aspirations, with the yearning for recognition and with the capability to feel other's pains.
Close-up is a rather interesting experience performance demanding endurance towards patience, open-mindedness, and accommodation towards ambiguity. It's not even a film providing ready answers to easily resolved riddles and enigmas. Instead, it pushes us to sit in the discomfort of not knowing, to question the assumptions we carry around about what it is to be "real" or "true." By the end, it leaves one feeling deeply reflective, as if one had been privy to a private conversation between people about human nature's complexity and the job of art in speaking that complexity.

Rating: 95/100 In case you like Abbas Kiarostami's direction, definitely watch this movie.

Okay, so if I am watching and I see there are some films that touch the mind with cleverness, strike the heart with power while, every now and then, there's some that make you feel like some type of ghost is haunting inside of you. Films by Theo Angelopoulos, like Landscape in the Mist, are melancholic odysseys that stay long after the final credits. There is this strange mixture of sadness, hope, and wonder. The experience of viewing the movie is not seeing a story but instead a descent into the poetic landscape of a walk through the fog of the child's eye into the adult world and into the unknown truths that lie beyond.

The movie, from 1988, is about two Greek siblings, 11-year-old Voula (Tania Palaiologou) and her little brother Alexandros (Michalis Zeke), who leave their small town on an impossible quest to find their father in Germany. It's a quixotic and heartbreaking mission, with only the vague promise of a family they have never known and a country that exists to them only as a concept. In that way, the journey is far less about geography than it is about coming to terms with inexplicable emotions that linger between childhood innocence and adult despair.

The premise itself, a search for a father they never knew, is as deeply symbolic as it is literal. The children of a single mother, she's given them a little lie to comfort them about their father: he is living in Germany, where someday they will join him. Spurred by that image, the children escape, holding hands as they tread into an indifferent world.

It's not just about a search for a father, but the children are really, in fact, searching for some form of identity and belonging to something greater than themselves as well as understanding the mystery of life from someone. To the little young minds, Germany comes forth as an Eden of old where the father should welcome them with wide, open arms. But Angelopoulos, the last master of layered storytelling, complicates this vision with each passing moment: figures and events that come to steadily undermine the simplicity of childhood perception. In this sense, the quest for a father figure can be seen as a sort of universal journey to grasp oneself in a world filled with ambiguity and without any clear meanings—a story for everyone who has felt the pangs of an absence.

I must really appreciate its visual poetry, but that's one of the good things about Landscape in the Mist. Angelopoulos paints Greece as an endless expanse of fog-draped fields, rain-slicked roads, and desolate railway stations. The locations, held together by long, static takes, convey the eerie beauty of a country caught in a state of decay, where time and place lose their certainty. Each scene becomes a landscape in itself, with muted colours that are inviting and isolating at the same time. There's also fog, which is recurrent, but not just a simple atmospheric effect; instead, it symbolizes unknowns, a hazy veil that hides truths just behind the corner.

The road in Landscape in the Mist is so unique for the fact that it does not romanticize. Unlike the flashy, jubilant road trips so many coming-of-age films revel in, Angelopoulos provides us with a journey stark and often cruel. There are no welcoming strangers and easy fortunes awaiting Voula and Alexandros; instead, dangers, abuses, and betrayals will make their passage an emotional minefield. One particularly jarring scene has Voula being picked up by a truck driver who gets her to commit a savage act of violence. The last vestige of innocence departs from her at such a terrible juncture. It is a moment Angelopoulos tackles with unsentimental truth, portraying the brutal reality that faces the vulnerable.

But then again, the landscape isn't harsh. It wraps the children sometimes in moments of stillness and consolation. Like the very iconic shot where a stone hand pops out of the sea - a surrealist vision imbuing the conceptions of loss and longing with life. The hand is indeterminate, just like so much of the imagery by Angelopoulos; is it the hand of a father, of God, or merely a manifestation of something unattainable? It is in these unanswered questions, this dreamlike quality that makes every scene feel both deeply personal and universal, that lies the beauty of Landscape in the Mist.

Throughout Landscape in the Mist, we see how Voula and Alexandros meet people and find themselves in situations that slowly strip them bare of their innocence. Voula undergoes an inner transformation that manifests quietly in her face and body language. By the end of the film, her eyes, which once shone full of hope, now speak of sadness and strength—a change that makes her seem much older than she actually is.

This journey represents much more for each of these children. The passage through the landscape only mirrors the complexity of the situations facing them, complicated and stressful, with every meeting resulting in a lesson about man's unpredictability. These range from meeting an actor who temporarily gives them direction as well as some companionship to their violent encounter with the truck driver, both Voula and Alexandros experience an intensive form of education regarding the darkness as well as light in adult life.

Angelopoulos uses these encounters not only to enrich the children's characters but also to challenge the viewer to question our perceptions of childhood and innocence. Innocence, for him, is not really the absence of experience as much as it is a fragile state that can only erode with the cruelties of reality. Then, the children's journey is not only about reaching Germany but crossing an imaginary line between two worlds, one of innocence and one of knowledge—two worlds that, once crossed, cannot be uncrossed.

Theo Angelopoulos is generally called a filmmaker who loves silence, and Landscape in the Mist is the best proof of this. The movie does not load itself too much with dialogue or explanations: it leaves space for the silent moments, so each of them resounds with power. In an era of fast-paced films replete with action, Landscape in the Mist insists upon the power of the pause: upon the value of silent contemplation.

Through long takes and few words, Angelopoulos brings the viewer into a profound, almost meditative interaction with the film. Here, we are invited to see rather than be entertained, to feel the loneliness of the characters as they move through vast, empty spaces. The silences are not empty but rather filled with the weight of unsaid thoughts and emotions. Every glance, every hesitant movement, every pause says a thousand words, creating an atmosphere that is hauntingly profound.

The relationship between Voula and Alexandros is characterized by silence. They rarely talk about their fears or hopes, yet their connection is seen in every step they take. This restraint on the film's part helps us realize that love and care are not necessarily attached to words; the profound connection between siblings, especially during times of adversity, is an unspoken pact of survival.

Voula and Alexandros are moving, but the destination remains an elusive dream; it's part of why Landscape in the Mist is such a poignant film. Rather than resolve things, Angelopoulos leaves us with this desire to have something, even the impossible. It makes that border between Greece and Germany a metaphor for everything in life that remains inaccessible, every unrequited love that stays unanswered, and every failed dream that walks hand-in-hand with life.

It's in the last shots of the film that the kids reach the fog-covered borderline and look into the nothingness, an act both a gesture of defiance as much as of desperation. Germany, the land of myths and promises, is forever an unreachable place, a metaphor for all that we are after but can never attain our grip on. It's a tough reality, but it really strikes a chord in the human experience: perhaps some searches never end; perhaps all we have is the journey.

The beauty of Landscape in the Mist lies in its refusal to provide an easy answer. Angelopoulos has created a world in which lines between hope and despair, innocence and experience, and life and death are drawn very lightly. The mist that veils the landscape is not just a visual effect but a philosophical statement reminding us that life is opaque as it is beautiful, that some truths remain hidden, and that in search of answers, we encounter more questions.

In the end, Landscape in the Mist is a film about the resiliency of the human spirit. Voula and Alexandros may be young, but they have the wisdom of perseverance in their youth, the valour of quest in their courageousness, and heartbreaking persistence in their love for one another. It reminds us of our own journeys in a world that offers us little comfort or guidance, of the people and places we have searched for and the losses and gains that have shaped us.

His film, to my mind, is not only art but a meditation on life itself. A call to the strength within us, to honor our quests, to accept the fog around our comprehension of things, and yet, for those who will listen to its quiet power and accept its enigmatic beauty, an experience no one will ever forget: the journey into the heart of darkness, lit by the faintest gleams of light.

It's in the final analysis, this film says less about finding answers and everything about finding the courage to keep searching, to find a way forward even where the mist obscures that path. It is quite a rare piece of cinema that does not merely narrate a story but inspires us to feel the burden of existence, to weigh the things we may not understand, and to celebrate the beauty of the landscape outside the mist.

Ranking = 93/100. Absolutely a perfect movie, I will consider that everyone should watch it.

Okay, so every movie lover across the world, mark my words. This man, Abbas Kiarostami, is truly remarkable. He is a master at his work. Every movie I have seen this past week has taught me a lesson about watching movies. earlier, I used to see movies as entertainment, but all of the movies that I have watched in the last week have given me huge pleasure, and I am happy that I have witnessed the best directors' works ever.
And yes, few movies are left of his direction and I promise I will witness it later.

So, starting this review Taste of Cherry, released in 1997. A Soul-Searching Journey through the Lens of Iranian Cinema As I had earlier said, Abbas Kiarostami is the maestro of his film craft and his direction too. An example is Taste of Cherry, a movie that has a kind of quietness or maymestillness inside every frame like you were being invited to one individual's meditation. Coming to fruition in 1997, the Iranian masterwork does not subscribe to most films in their general narrative or visual tropes. Instead, this is one of the least complicated explorations of existence and mortality alongside choice, told through a very human process: one man contemplating life's end. It is a very simple film with such a profound idea sometimes, big events or epic visuals are not in use in cinema to make an impact.

From the very beginning, I felt the story was quite simple, which I thought, but it perfectly blends with the movie. Okay, so the story revolves around middle-aged Mr. Badii driving in the dust and desolation outside of Tehran. His quest is painfully simple, unbearably heavy: he wants to find somebody who'll bury him after he's taken his life. Mr Badii has reached the point where life has become unbearable, but he wants somebody to confirm his decision, someone to validate his action and perform it for him after he is gone. And so begins the silent, redundant travel along the winding roads as he picks up all sorts of strangers into his car, each carrying a different outlook on life and death. Through this journey, Kiarostami makes us enter into a meditative state; forcing ourselves to confront our own beliefs about existence.

The road trip is as much a journey into the self as it is a vehicle to take Mr. Badii across roads. To each of these persons he meets, a new window opens up by which we and he can see his life. They come in diverse parcels-from a young Kurdish soldier to an old-time taxidermist. Their own questions echo throughout our ears as they talk: What is life worth? What gives it meaning? And, maybe most importantly, who has the right to choose when it ends?

Kiarostami's minimalist approach works beautifully for such a story. The film doesn't have any of those famous emotional manipulations we often find in life-and-death stories. There's no background stirring score, no dramatic confrontations, no sentimental dialogues. Yet Kiarostami brings the silences, landscapes, and small moments to life. The empty and barren hills outside Tehran reflect a mirror of the emptiness within Mr. Badii. It's almost as if Kiarostami uses the desolateness of the land as a reflection of the spiritlessness of Badii, creating a harmonious balance between character and landscape.

This minimalism is reflected even in the dialogues and interactions that seem dry, dull, and rather pointless. But there lies the power of this simplicity. There is no hand-holding, no didactic message to guide the viewer. Kiarostami leaves the interpretation to the audience and trusts it to bring its experiences and emotions into the narrative. It's refreshing because it happens in a world where a movie feels it needs to over-explain and over-emote. In Taste of Cherry, Kiarostami says more in silence than many films can by pages of dialogue.

With every character he meets, there is another way of viewing life and another philosophy or coping mechanism for the challenges of it. His first passenger, a young soldier, is bewildered and finally scared by Mr. Badii's proposition. He's young, full of life, and cannot understand the depth of despair that could bring someone to such a notion. It is as if he stands at a distance, peering into an abyss he cannot yet comprehend. This encounter brings forth the chasm that lies between those who are young and full of life and those burdened by it.

The second passenger is a seminarian. He tries to reason with Mr. Badii on moral grounds. He talks about religious doctrine and how suicide is sinful. He also mentions the consequences spiritually. It is a very familiar argument, founded on a belief system that deems life sacred and suffering part of the human experience. But Badii is unmoved. Words from the seminarian bounce off him, revealing the limits of rational or religious arguments when faced with deep existential despair. This scene softly critiques how doctrine alone may comfort those with intense personal anguish.

It is the old taxidermist who listens without judgment. He tells a story of despair and later chooses life over death and says that because of the taste of cherries, the warmth of the sun and the pleasure of simple routine, life, so dull by nature, is worth living: He does not idealize life or alleviate Badii's distress; instead, he presents another viewpoint which is based on acceptance. At the climax, he agrees to help him in his plan but walks away leaving Badii with a feeling that life has a way of surprising us even at its most desperate times.

The most voiced discussion regarding Taste of Cherry is its ambiguous ending. Kiarostami leaves the movie open, not showing whether Mr Badii actually does the task he planned. This reflects the commitment to open interpretation instead of forcing the viewer into a contemplative space with a forced closure. Some people might view this as a frustration, but to others, it will become a strong reminder that in life, just like in the film, things are not clearly answered.

In an interesting twist to the shattering of the fourth wall, Kiarostami adds a scene in which the crew's behind-the-scenes shot peeks its way into the final sequences of the movie. There is a jerky pull that, at first, is jarring and yet profoundly so; reminding you of the cinematic artifice, Kiarostami leaves you feeling that this was not reality but simply a reflection on it or, rather, a manipulated story that lies open for personal interpretation. By so doing, he subtly turns the table to bring in our own shoulders, thus challenging us like he was challenged by Mr. Badii to address similar questions.

This deeply Iranian setting and cultural context, however, makes Taste of Cherry not at all an insular film. In fact, it is not limited by any time, place, or cultural specificity. Questions about life, death, and meaning are universal, reaching the core of the human experience. In this sense, Taste of Cherry becomes the film not only about a man's struggle but shared human journey through suffering, joy, despair, and hope.

It is like being ushered into some silent room where you do not have entertainment. Instead, you sit with your thoughts. It's not a movie that answers you; it opens questions and lets each viewer take something personal and unique. Here it is found beautiful in its simplicity, refusing to impose meaning and peacefully believing in the ability of the audience to find their truth in it.

It is a very rare film of this kind that completely strips away all noise. It requires deep introspection. It is not easy to watch, nor has it been designed to entertain in the usual sense. It is slow, meditative, and unflinchingly honest. It lingers long after the credits roll. Abbas Kiarostami made a cinematic experience that does not feel so much like a story but rather like a conversation: a conversation with oneself, with characters, and with life's deepest mysteries.

For anyone willing to sit in that space of discomfort, Taste of Cherry offers a profound reward. It is a film that reminds us of life's fleeting nature, of the beauty in small moments, and of the delicate balance between despair and hope. Whether we agree with Mr. Badii's choices or not, we are left with a sense of compassion for him—and perhaps, in the process, a deeper compassion for ourselves.

Ranking 100/100 full ranking only for Abbas Kiarostami's work.

I am done dude what a movie I recently watch this movie and now I am traumatized after getting out of the theater

Seriously, this movie is amazing, truly amazing. When I sat to watch A Separation, directed by Asghar Farhadi; I didn't know I was embarking on a long ride of emotions after the end credits. The 2011 Iranian drama that had gone home with Best Foreign Language Film, was not just for a reason, though. It plunges into the depths of family, morality, and the often murky waters of personal relationships, making it one of those films that stays with you.

The film opens on a simple yet profound premise: a couple, Nader (Peyman Maadi) and Simin (Leila Hatami), is on the brink of separation. Simin plans to take their young daughter, Termeh, out of Iran to find a better future, but Nader refuses, citing his responsibility to the father who suffers from Alzheimer's. It is exactly this that unwinds their lives. What unfolds is a sorrowful study of love and responsibility and the often awful consequences of our choices.
From the very beginning of the film, I couldn't help but be so struck by its realism. It feels like I am witnessing through the fly on the wall these characters' lives in real-time. This documentary-like style by Farhadi makes you submerge into the reality of Iranian people's everyday lives, bringing out cultural nuances unique to Iran but understood everywhere. I saw myself thinking about all my experiences with family and how we compromise for each other.

A Separation appealing is its complex characterization. Nader is a man between duty and desire: He is a man held in the crossfire by the demands of his old father and his desire not to leave his home; this is admirable but flexible. She thirsts for change; change of the kind that at least their life looks ahead into a more promising one. The tension between the two increases with the moment, and what, on the surface, started off so simply gradually makes apparent that things are, in reality, more complicated than this.

The couple becomes entangled in a legal battle as they try to separate in the face of Razieh (Sareh Bayat), a young woman hired to care for Nader's father. She is a devoutly religious woman with her own moral dilemmas in trying to work and balance her family commitments. The film truly weaves these intersecting narratives into revealing how one little choice can actually spiral out of control and affect all those concerned. For myself, the most poignant scene was to watch Razieh struggle with her conscience made me think about how easily our lives could be affected by circumstances beyond our control.

The most powerful theme in the film is how society and the law affect relationships. As Nader and Simin's divorce continued, the courtroom became a mini-microcosm of their lives. When they both stood before the judge, trying to defame each other, it felt all too familiar. But this was something that brought me to think of how often people blame the other party when things are not going so well between them, rather than really trying to find a mutual understanding.

The performances in A Separation are nothing short of remarkable. Peyman Maadi and Leila Hatami present emotionally charged portrayals of the pain of their shattered relationship. You can see the love still left inside them under the anger and resentment. The supporting cast, particularly Sareh Bayat as Razieh, adds depth to the narrative, showing how the central conflict has had a ripple effect on other lives.

The movie also raises questions with respect to morality and the choices taken. While the characters wrestled with their circumstances, I found myself struggling to make up my own opinions with regard to what is right and wrong. For instance, with Razieh having to make a decision that puts her job and the well-being of her family in jeopardy, one couldn't but feel sorry for her situation. Farhadi does an incredible job of making one unable to distinguish right from wrong, making the motivation for each character's action even more questionable. It was the film's biggest strength: it had me always on edge, always thinking about what I would have done in such a situation.

The film is, in itself, rather modest but very effective in the visual sense. That makes it really stark yet lovely in front of the canvas of Iran's struggle and turmoil that has been made to occur. Close-up shots take us into feeling the angst inside the faces of their characters, bringing us into an abyss of inner clashes. It has a deliberate pace where, at times, one seems left in front of the screen long enough to absorb all that emotion in every scene, so I really got interested in the whole drama being unfolded.

In its last stages, it takes things to a peak, almost to the point of becoming visceral about what happens. Courtroom scenes increase the tension of the movie, stripping off layers of deception to expose raw human emotions at work. The movie ends hauntingly ambiguous, leaving more questions in my mind than answers about the characters' futures. It is a mark of storytelling greatness on the part of Farhadi to deny closure and leave us with the dilemmas of life, love, and the choices we make.

A Separation makes me feel that it's just a divorce movie. This is how I had begun to believe about A Separation when I actually got to think about what made it different from most divorce movies out there: A Separation is so deeply moving. It will be challenging one's perspectives while compelling each viewer to evaluate his life and the way he manages his relationship with others.

A Separation stands out in a world that is so often filled with clear-cut narratives of right and wrong, refusing to offer easy answers. It invites us to engage with the grey areas of morality and humanity, a lesson that resonates long after the film has ended. I walked away feeling both heartbroken and enlightened, a reminder that our lives are intricately woven with the lives of others, and every decision carries weight.

If you haven't seen A Separation, watch it. This film breaks the borders and cultures to reach the human experience, love, and loss; it is the same as all humanity. Amidst noise in this world, there is a quiet power to look at the complexity of life, a movie that has its way of being seen, felt, and pondered about.

Ranking = 100/100 literally this movie deserves this ranking

I will be honest because I feel that Terrence Malick is crazy at his passion, and of all the best, he has Days of Heaven, which is the best cinematographic work ever made, so I was unaware of it happening that this is his very first movie. Terrence Malick's Badlands. This is the love tragedy of the American Midwest in the film, Badlands, capturing the spirit of youth, rebellion, and dark undercurrents of the American dream. Its first viewing was like strolling into a world so familiar yet so unsettlingly strange dreamscape wherein the sun shines bright but casts long shadows. This is one of those movies that warms my heart with all these feelings, the depth of the themes, this lyrical fashion, and never-to-be-forgotten performances.

Badlands, in my opinion, focuses more on the stormy romantic affair between Kit Carruthers, Martin Sheen, and Holly Sargis, Sissy Spacek. Loosely inspired by the killing spree committed by Charles Starkweather and his teenage girlfriend, Caril Ann Fugate, at the tail end of the 1950s. Kit is a nihilistic charm in the disguise of a young, disillusioned garbage collector. He is charismatic and yet deeply disturbed, someone who feels trapped within the mundane reality of life in a small town. To Holly, who is only a teenager, there's an appeal to Kit's bad-boy quality. Their relationship quickly descends into a crime spree that necessitates their flight across the plains of South Dakota.

As the film unfolds, what was once an adventurous romance now turns into a haunting tale of violence and consequence. Kit drives the forward momentum of the desire for being free and independent, a strong youthful urge to break the constraints of society, but his actions set up the tragedy of running from the law. It was a beautiful, intense film that, as its central characters go on an adventurous journey together, is turned into a potent commentary about love, loyalty, and the destructive powers of rebellion.

The most important thing, and personally, I love the visual style of cinema in the direction of Terrence Malick and the delivery he did in his debut film Badlands, was through the visual story. The breadth of the American landscape runs like poetic imagery through Terrence Malick's direction. This is breathtaking cinematography, courtesy of cinematographer Néstor Almendros. The movie begins with sweeping shots of the natural world sky, the trees, and the open roads that establish freedom and beauty even as characters are struggling with their darker impulses.

As shot in natural light, this film is somehow ethereal and has this otherworldly quality throughout the film because of it. Mostly spent driving around the countryside, Kit and Holly make full use of time for having fun, their sense of adventure and discovery filling so much of these scenes, all of which is brought in contrast against violence and loss. This creates a great dissonance between the serenity of the setting and the violent acts in which the protagonists are indulging; it is recalled even after the credits are rolled.

The soundtrack also creates a very important atmosphere in the movie. Malick utilizes a powerful score that integrates both classical and ambient sounds that instil a feeling of nostalgia and sorrow. While it is doing this, softer melodies underpin tender moments between Kit and Holly. More cacophonous sounds heighten tension when there are violent moments. This is achieved in such a way that it carefully orchestrates the mix of visuals and sound so that Badlands becomes this deeply immersive experience weighing down each moment for its audience.

In a nutshell, Badlands is a film about youth and the search for identity. Kit and Holly represent an entire generation trying to find the meaning of life in this world, sometimes too confining and heavy-handed. Indulgence in rebellion against societal norms, a desire for freedom and self-discovery, propels them onto the road of destruction. It is a theme that stirs the hearts of anyone who desires independence and the wild abandon often found down the road of youth.

Masterly weaving of the tension between innocence and experience forces Holly to come to terms with her complicity in Kit's vicious acts. She loves him both in fascination and terror, making their relationship very complex. The film pictures the fleeting nature of youth and how love can rise and destroy. All the way through the film, Holly does that lovely wistful voiceover reminding one of how fragile innocence is.

The other element by which Badlands works is through the American dream and the darker undertows, which it runs. All characters are impelled at different times to be free and to move away from such mundane life, and simultaneously, a journey illustrates how empty ideals often rise in the minds of people seeking perfect existence. The peaceful landscapes that they cross, however, stand in contrast to the violence that they commit: their aspiration is hollowed. Such tension provokes a challenge to the viewers of such a notion of the American dream and its implication for those who are willing to try to catch it.

All these scenes in Badlands were delivered with exceptional performances: neither Martin Sheen nor Sissy Spacek, even for a moment, lost in their hauntingly memorable character portrayals. The protagonist Kit, portrayed by Martin Sheen, is the anti-hero archetype- charismatically charismatic, with hidden deep emotional turmoil of one who has gone way back into the darkest sides. They capture the reckless behaviour of this youth and the darker and deeper side beneath all their acts.

However enticing Sissy Spacek as Holly is, she is in the middle of innocence and complicity. Her development is that subtle yet so powerful it reflects how love can debase one's sense of who they are. These are the vulnerabilities and the strength that come out in Sissy Spacek giving depth to the figure of Holly within a storm of chaos. Chemistry exists between Sheen and Sissy Spacek as these two put the viewers into a really tumultuous love story.

The moment I think of Badlands, I am not going to forget the way violence was portrayed in this movie. Violence is not some type of glorified spectacle; instead, it is portrayed here as a tragic aftereffect of human actions. Crime or criminal behaviour of protagonists is never romanticized; it provokes the viewer into confronting the emotional and psychological results of their decision-making. Kit and Holly's brutal acts show how life can be very fragile and decisions are made by one in desperation.

Perhaps one of the most emotionally charged sequences in the movie is the final confrontation of Kit and Holly with their destiny following a series of violent events. The weight of action almost becomes palpable here, forcing the viewer to confront the moral reality of his journey. Easy answers are not served here; complex tapestries of emotion push the audience to wrestle with the consequences of rebellion and the pursuit of freedom.

I think Badlands puts an indelible stamp on American cinema and leaves on for a century with inspiration for filmmaking as a real work of art. It represents a unique cocktail of lyrical storytelling with visual poetry and complex characterization, and those themes - love, rebellion, and searching for an identity - found their echoes in the mind of any viewer, turning this work into a timeless piece of art.

Since it came out, the Badlands has won plenty of applause due to the heavy influence that the crime movie cinema portrays. The film in itself creates room for a lifetime view of the other parts of human nature by, in turn, showing an effect made by violence and rebellion through various forms of means; as far as filming influence goes, its filmmaking continues in inspiring other lots of modern filmmakers as set by Malick.

There is something hauntingly beautiful and emotionally profound about this film, the manner in which Terrence Malick masterfully told the story through Badlands. This film brings viewers face to face with complicated realities surrounding youth, love, and the pursuit of freedom. It is poignant for life's fragility and how our choices have their echoes even after the last black fades away into nothingness in the final scene.

Badlands is not just a film but an expedition of the human experience, a journey through love and rebellion that takes us to the highest and lowest points. It makes us reflect on our own desires for freedom and confront the consequences of our choices. And leaves the theatre, of course, with a thought as to how Kit and Holly's adventure can be that investigation of innocence lost, dreams that did not come to be, and an endless quest for meaning in this meaningless world.

In a divided and turned inside-out world, Badlands reminds us through the power of storytelling that we are one in all of humanity. It even speaks to people of each age group about what love is, what rebellion is or finding yourself. If a film leaves a mark of impact from the heart on the head, then Badlands will be an absolute journey, and you should not miss it.

Rating = 95/100

This movie really crazy. For someone who thinks about war movies, an image usually comes into their mind: soldiers on the frontlines battling, tanks rolling over devastated landscapes, and explosions marking the moments of victory or defeat. Yet when I watched Andrzej Żuławski's third part of the night, I knew right away I was in for a shock from any other traditional type of war movie. It is not a war movie in proper terms. It is almost like some kind of fever dream of loss, identity, and the vulnerability of a human mind in psychological chaos. It is set in the backdrop of World War II in Nazi-occupied Poland. The film totally knocked me off on its very first scene.

Ok, so let's go to the review. Third Part of the Night is Żuławski's first feature, but what a debut. Not even this trite war movie of heroism or political resistance is taken to paranoia, shattered identities, and existential fear. It was inspired by the very personal, indeed the family history of the writer, namely his father who fought in the guerrilla against Nazi forces during World War II. It provides some kind of intimacy besides the surreal climate that makes the dream and reality distinguishable from each other. This is far from the script used for standard war film formats right from the beginning.

No large battlefield scenes, no backroom corridors full of conspiracies and military tactics. Rather, there is Michał, whose life is brutally torn apart by the killing of his family by the Nazis. It then sets from there the tone for its relentless exploration of trauma and identity. Michał runs not from the war but from himself, from ghosts seeming to haunt him at every turn. How liter-ally disorienting, as well as visually and in narration; it grips my memory from the very outset of the movie.

The cameras and fast cuts here create unease and confusion. Sometimes, even that impression is created that this camera itself doesn't know what way it's going or is a bit unstable like Michał. You can never be sure if what you see is reality or just some concoction of a battered mind of Michał. After all, the movie is one war film, and it follows the life story of a man who, at many levels, lost everything outside battle for him turned into an internal fight, too. In fact, from the Book of Revelation, especially in "The Third Part of the Night, this war film finds significant thematic inspirations.

Visually, the movie is just as confusing.
Žuławski regularly traps his protagonists in enclosed spaces, surrounding them in narrow corridors or poorly lit rooms that seem impassable. Lighting harsh and feral, it creates dark shadows across the image, sometimes giving the movie an impossible Gothic quality, almost other-worldly at times. Sometimes, it's more of a horror movie than a war movie, and maybe that is the point. But war is less a historical landscape than some form of existential horror - an apocalyptic nightmare almost ineluctable - to Żuławski.

The effects this brings are supported by how the story unfolds for this film in a non-linear pattern unfolding in fragments and ellipticals, which are both retold, looping on and into one another. As such, the film comes out of time, not that the past, present, and future become but one suffocating moment. Drowsy in a fever dream, you feel, the Third Part of the Night is both mesmerizingly and terrifyingly disorienting. What makes the third part of The Nightstand really special is that it's not just a movie about the atrocities that happened to its protagonists during the war using body horror; it's more about the psychological weight one would carry in the middle of such a violent and tumultuous time.

It's a very apocalyptic kind of story as if the whole world is falling nonsensically into the war but for something deeper and more mysterious. The use of doppelgängers gives the story a very spiritual weight, especially as it has an eerie, almost mystical vibe. It's not a traditional life story, but more about how Michal tries to find redemption for the lost moments in his life.

Michal is constantly confronted by people like those from his pandemic, especially his late wife Helena, played by Małgorzata Braunek. She plays both Helena and her doppelganger, Marta, in a kind of parallel universe. It has an unsettling, indeterminate quality—it's impossible to tell whether Michal meets the real people or is merely projecting his trauma onto others. Reality and illusion get mixed. This reflects how war can break and mess up a person's sense of self.

Michal lives in a raw, deep fear. He feels he's losing himself to become somebody he doesn't even know. Marta's experience with Michal is really uneasy. He speaks like speaking to a ghost. A memory that cannot be brought back is what seems to him. The war has been frozen in his mind, splitting his past and present, life and death, love and loss in ways that can't fully heal. One of the strangest and most disturbing parts of The Third Part of the Night is the lice-feeding scene. It shows how, during the war, people would let lice suck their blood to help develop vaccines for typhus. Michal finds herself in this bizarre world where the lines between life, death, and science blur.

However, the more I ponder it, the more I feel it is a great metaphor for the larger themes of the film. The lice lab is a place where the line between living and dead is blurred. Human beings are dehumanized for the sake of survival in such a place. It's as if the image of lice, those blood-sucking parasites, could stand for the war itself sucking life out of anyone it meets. Michał feeds lice as if he were desperate to find sense in a nonsensical world.

Michał's experience is grotesquely self-sacrificing, trying to hold onto some kind of control in a completely out-of-control world. It dehumanizes; his body becomes a tool for the war so that life can go on amidst death. It diminishes the person, then they're just so many survivors.

It's like being inside a fever dream where time and space just collapse into one another and events start to repeat in really weird and disconnected ways. The entire surrealist experience is helped along by director Andrzej Żuławski's power plays with both the sound and the images. There is jarring noise—buzzing of lice, distant gunfire, footsteps seemingly coming from nowhere, a constant fear that danger is always just around the corner.

The story doesn't have to do with survival or resistance to Nazis; there is no sense and purpose in his life and not a place in an apparently useless world. It reminds me of some aspects of Franz Kafka or Samuel Beckett's works: heroes enter ridiculous situations with no sense and identity in their lives. The situation with Michał has no connection with outer fights with Nazis but with inner conflict. He is tortured with thoughts too quiet to match with horrors around him.

Now, as the film advances, we learn that Michał does not fight much in the outer world of his war but within. He fights an inner battle of broken thoughts created by pain, guilt, and fear. Żuławski ironically depicted war as something greater than a thing of the body and blood; it's turning of the mind state of mind, a condition that infects the soul to distort reality.

But this third section is not easy to view at all. It is confusing, hard, and sometimes hugely uncomfortable to sit through. Yet it's surely one that leaves a mark on your head long after it is over. Such are the movies that dare to be thought about and discussed after you have watched them.

To me, the most convincing part of this movie is its unwillingness to give easy, comfortable answers. Żuławski does not leave us with a tidy script. There is so a tidy ending; instead, he leaves the world as a reflection of the mind from reality toereflectionssonant and chaotic. Of course, there is nothing about how to picturea life with war: neither a simple narrative the e, neither an obvious start nor an end, but the feeling of uncertainty, oppressive and heavy.

Finally, The Third Part of the Night is a survival movie, if survival is to be understood in its broadest and least literal sense. It's a film about the survival of the mind, of the self, against all intentions. A world seems bent on destroying this, too. It is a hauntingly surreal vision of war and its impact on consciousness—a vision that, paradoxically, still jars raw nerves today.

Speaking in The Third Part of the Night about survival as not just merely living through a period, in this case, the period of war: enter not just living; it is also holding onto who you are when everything else appears to be falling apart at its seams. In war, black and white, good and bad, friend and falls sanity afall,d? ess are not so. This movie explains the chaos in detail and brings a man who fights not only external dangers but also the fear and chaos within. The role of memory in The Third Part of the Night does much to fuel Michał's mental collapse. His wife and child have been killed during the onset, leaving him remorseful and sad. Michał, however, is actually handling or not handling his painful memories. He is always looking back and feels guilty about their deaths.He even starts to regard Marta as a replacement for his wife.

It never leaves Michał alone with his past, and that is what makes the film hauntingly more gory. In a war movie where others seem to let go and achieve some form of peace, Michał is stuck in his memory and cannot let go of it. His true enemy was not the Nazis but the mind.

It allows Żuławski to capture the scene with the good psychological torture of Michał so we touch muddiness in Michał due to cuts between film scenes from the past to the present between reality and dreams reflects that neither will he nor the viewer know what actually happens and what is imagined.

This, however, the eme of memory and guilt does, by today's measures, remain somewhat relatable. Many of us, one would assume, couldn't move on over some pain in the past. Michał's ordeal, placed in the World War II setting, does narrate a more human form of being trapped through our memories and our sense of regret.

It is an individual drama but with the greater message of politics. Żuławski sets his film in Poland under Nazi occupation. Hence, all the personal sorrows Michał faces connect with bigger sorrows and sufferings in the country as a whole. And a film is not where one man cracks up. It shows how war and, and occupations will break this society into pieces and give people an experience of solitude, fright, and suspiciousness.

Thus, the movie provokes questions: to what extent does war destroy not just warriors but also everyday life.?Occupation, instead of taking away one's life and home, totally destroys everything that could express who and where a person is. Michał's extreme experience points towards everything, not only the body's war break but also family.

Žuławskihomilyly much like Michł, who hehe spea,k, also suffered because what that in that story the, the political debate must be taken into account. As far as that film, I just believe that with political violence it may take twists and bend lives around in impossible, forced conclusions.

The third Part of The Night remains unique from other moviethat I have seen and witnessed on the big screen. It is not about battles or heroes but the internal fight for one's soul and how changes not only the outer world but also our inner world. What does it mean to survive a war, and what does it mean to survive yourself??.

It is when war movies overflow with action, black and white heroes, and moralities. And in the midst of such times, this film is really haunting, puzzling, and very intimate. This makes one shift the look from the bodily watoto to the psychological and existential terrors underneath.

It's not that film to just sit and watch. It has to be thought and grappled with and dealt with deeper themes of uncertainty. But it makes one think, and it leaves you wanting to watch again. The Third Part of the Night is a great reminder in a world besieged by images of war and violence that the war really happens inside.

Rank = 9.3/10

Films that take us beyond entertainment and storytelling. One such is Andrzej Żuławski's On the Silver Globe (Na srebrnym globie). Okay so, before the beginning of composing this review I would let you guys know that I was a possession movie directed by the very same director and that really freaked me out by the seriousness of the craziness within it, since it left me impressed with it then started surfing down the web through the film's director and found me this beautiful film, that is known as On the Silver Globe, and still remains nearly unknown, rather a jewel buried under numerous political and historical misfortunes. It would be as if talking to your ideas about human nature and society and where we stand within the cosmos. It's a cinematic fever dream-the sprawling, fractured odyssey that tests both the senses and the intellect-and, yet, like most of the classics, it comes with the kind of background that makes the film as interesting to talk about as the movie itself.

It wasn't just a film but, for the most part, had been a bold project in preparation to bring forth something really innovative into Polish and world cinematography. And here, in Ziębice, on the Góry Izerskie mountains, commenced work under the acclaimed filmmaker Andrzej Żuławski who had earlier gained fame in his dark and sometimes surrealist approach. The book is based on a space novel by great uncle Jerzy Żuławski, a trilogy written. In it, when astronauts crash land, they form a new civilization; on a distant planet, an isolated microcosm which would reflect back to its maker all the struggles, desires, and corruptions of our own world as the society evolves.

The ideas of this film were rather monumental in Žuławski's opinion, but the authorities at that time in Poland did not share his euphoria. The Communist government nearly completed the production of On the Silver Globe and shut it down. This was political, for rebellion, societal collapse, and search for freedom did not fit into the movie's themes, a threat to the regime in their control. Żuławski was devastated. The whole set, costumes, and much of the footage eventually rotted in some storage closet. It would be only in 1988, after more than a decade has passed, that Żuławski could attempt to recombine what could be salvaged of this work. The results are an amalgam of sublime masterpiece with fragments of fractured, even unfinished art-work, abundant with moments of breathtaking elegance and narrative deficiencies.

Although incomplete, On the Silver Globe is an achievement that staggers. It's a film that feels not only from another era but of another dimension altogether.

On the Silver Globe has a very simple and labyrinthine plot. It begins with some astronauts who crash land on a distant Earth-like planet. They decide to begin anew, cut off from Earth and no hope of return. After generations, their offspring create a primitive society of elements of religion, mythology, and power struggles. People on this new planet worship astronauts as gods and so the society becomes complicated, brutal, and quite oppressive.

This makes it develop the central story when, years later, the Earth cosmonaut Marek comes to the planet. Marek would now appear to the residents as a messiah figure who could bring them out of the tyranny imposed by Szerns, an alien power that rules Earth settlers. But Marek is torn between his duties as a savior and his growing disillusionment toward the people he has promised to "save." He is exalted and damned at the same time, and the movie evolves into a meditation on the use of power, belief, and the human chain of violence.

This film is different from all other films because it does not want to keep up the classical narrative formations. It's more of a fever dream- images and ideas just flowing in on top of one another, often confusing the viewer. It is somewhat the unfinished nature of the film, but also it does reflect Żuławski's philosophy about cinema. He wasn't out to tell a story; he was out to create an experience, a visual and intellectual onslaught that would provoke, confuse, and inspire the audience.

Visually, On the Silver Globe ranks among the most impressive cinema ever made. Żuławski's imagination of landscapes, costumes, and set design has something alien and a lot familiar simultaneously, as if these lands were ancient myths restored to life. The ruggedness and barrenness of those environments, shot partly in Poland's Tatra Mountains and partly in Gobi's deserts, express isolation and existential fear. They are in feathered, furred, and crude armor costumes, dressed like some medieval warriors or tribal shamans. The imagery of the film is so raw and primal that we feel that we are witnessing civilization being born and then slowly decaying before our very eyes.

The film also has moments of surreal beauty. Perhaps the most memorable part of the movie is its sequence where Marek travels across the barren desolate landscape of the planet by hallucinatory visions. In these images, the camera flies and swoops, giving the impression of audience disorientation at large with Marek being more or less losing his grip psychologically. Žuławski's directing is frantic and relentless with a never-ending string of cuts, which is accompanied by hand-held camera operation, providing the film with a feel of urgency and chaotic disarray. It is almost as if the film lives on the edge of insanity, always ready to succumb to the pressure under the weight of its own aspiration.

Yet breathtaking stillness creeps up on one as well-for example, when a face or landscape is held upon the screen for us to absorb the weight of those struggles. A particular stand-out moment for me comes when Marek stands up on the cliff, overlooking the barren, endless space of this alien planet and reflects silently on his quiet moment within this film-otherwise very full of noise and fury.

Beneath its surface of chaos lies a film about humanity and its eternal struggle with itself in On the Silver Globe, where Żuławski's new civilization depicted on the alien planet is one of our own history and the settlers begin with a strong desire to create something new, something free from the corruptions and violence of earth, but soon fall into it. This film is very interesting in its approach to religion. The settlers create a mythology around the original astronauts, turning them into gods and prophets. But this religion becomes a tool for control, a way to manipulate and oppress the masses.

Marek's arrival on the planet throws this fragile society into chaos. He is believed to be a messiah who will lead the people against the Szerns, but Marek, in his own struggle and fear, does not aspire to be a savior and is horrified by what is happening around him-mass violence and fanaticism in the people whom he should lead. It transforms the film into a deep thought on leadership as well as the dangers of blind faith. This journey is a walk into disillusionment for Marek when he finds himself realizing he cannot change the very fundamentals of human nature. In fact, in a faraway planet civilization, even without the legacy of the history of Earth, these vicious cycles are repeated-power, violence, and oppression.

On the Silver Globe, then is in essence a film that makes existence, life, and getting out of this world. All of these, however, are set against a cosmic background yet remarkably personal to Żuławski. Indeed, the conflict that is essentially the human existential predicament is very much something their search for meaning in an uncaring universe would seem to have some rather powerful resonances for most of us.

This film is flawed, and in that flaw lies both the biggest weakness and the biggest strength. The Polish government shut it down, so huge parts of it were never shot; Żuławski had to fill those gaps with voiceover narration and abstract imagery. It feels fractured and unfinished in sections, and sometimes it is a little hard to keep track of what's happening. But in a weird way, the incompleteness adds to the mystique of this film. It is, in a way, art always becoming something and a film always about to unravel.

Voice-over narration by Żuławski himself turns out to be both a practical solution to the missing scenes in the film and a poetic comment on the nature of creation. And that's how Żuławski reflects on making this film and all the dreams and visions that never make it to the screen. Here is what he states in this regard: It's going to be this huge epic, intimate film simultaneously; a cosmic odyssey and also very private thinking on art, politics, and human nature.

It is not an easy film to watch: very difficult, often overpowering, and certainly never obedient to conventional cinematic logic. But for those who have the willingness to work their way through its complexities, it is a richly rewarding experience. A film that stays in your head long after the credits are over, a film that forces you to face up to your own conceptions of society, religion, and humanity.

It is, in many ways, a film about failure: the failure of utopian ideals, leadership failure, and even humanity's own failure in a pursuit to get beyond its own limits. But it's also the film about tenacity of vision, the capacity for art to persevere even against the will of political oppression and personal disaster. The Żuławski film is unfinished but, at least it serves as a testimony of the fact that he worked on something tirelessly and would not even consider giving up on such work.

On the Silver Globe is a great uncompleted part of the film as it leaves a mark as unfinished. It somehow does leave you questioning scenes told by Żuławski in a pensive, sad voice: What if?. This missing content will give a movie that would otherwise sound too light for big, cosmic themes the essence of sadness. It's not just about the far-off planet or people fighting to survive on it but also about never-realized dreams and the fragility of our efforts.

It's all on-screen as you watch the film-between the story and how the movie was made, there is a struggle between chaos and creation. Even cut short as Żuławski's vision was, it's incredibly powerful. The film makes a great statement about the limits of human understanding and control. It makes one think of what it really takes to make something new, the cost of rebelling, and the fact that no matter where we are in the world or where we end up in the vast space in which we reside, there will always be dark areas within ourselves.

At the same time, in this world in which most of the movies have a fine finish, On the Silver Globe brings to mind the greatness with which art springs from things imperfect. That is far more hauntingly placed than if it were complete. The unfinished nature forces one to think of not just what is here on the screen but about what is lacking and what would have been.

This is beyond what our expectations may be with movies usually in tandem with something, yet it's also, in a strong sense, to be boldly imperfect. That makes the movie appealing in an idea trying to make viewers reflect not just about the universe but also of its nature carried along. Then, cannot be taken as having easy answers nor as having a definite storyline that makes this a thing of such complexity it is to be a worthy film worth waiting for; it is one that has stayed in the mind well beyond watching it but staying in your head even leaving the cinema, as you have been provoked to question, and to feel.

Ranking = 95/100

Good movie just come out of the Theter and amazing experience

Coen brothers somehow possess the talent to take us to such familiar yet bizarre worlds, carry us with such flawed characters, repulsive in nature, yet reflective and touched at the conclusion. Inside Llewyn Davis is quite a subtle, thoughtful film from them, from 2013, kind of like a sorrowful folk song in cinematic format. It doesn't feel like the sort of film that is laced with many great big plot twists and explosive action sequences, but it's more an atmospheric exploration of a man who has secretly battled his art as well as his identity and this intractable world around him.

The film unfolds within the Greenwich Village folk scene of 1961. The film follows a folk singer named Llewyn Davis as he struggles; everything in his life that leads to his being perpetually out of sync with the rest of his time and with the rest of his peer lives. It's a grim winter week with which he jumps from one sofa to another, being rebuffed time and again while trying to find his foothold in the world of music. It is shot exquisitely, mournfully steeped in failures and self-doubts about the unattainability of success.

While viewing Inside Llewyn Davis, I could not help feeling the deepest sympathy for Llewyn despite all the gross flaws. He is abrasive, selfish, and indeed seems more the worst enemy. He alienates people, burns bridges, and refuses to compromise his art at all costs, even when he gets so much into trouble because of it. But under that scathing exterior lies vulnerability, which makes him all the more relatable. It's a man with each passing day another dream recedes into the distance, and I can only assume it pertains at some level for all of us.

A particular characteristic that caught my attention initially about Inside Llewyn Davis is how, from within his world, the Coen brothers would use atmosphere in order to define it. The color of the film is drenched with muted, cold colors and much of the storytelling in dimly lit apartment places, snow-covered street spaces, and dingy clubs. The harsh winter surrounding does well to be as an apt metaphor for the emotional condition of Llewyn-cold, desolate, and filled with crushing loneliness.

There's always that round feeling to the film: Llewyn seems caught between two cycles of hopelessness, and this really comes across in the style. It begins and ends precisely in the same shot: being beaten up outside a club for performing. It's like Llewyn will never stop being where he started - he just gets passed around in circles. The best and worst thing about the movie is how the story comes full circle-it reflects what actually happens to most artists and dreamers: they attempt to escape from their condition but are thrust back into exactly the same circumstances.

The central character in Llewyn himself, Oscar Isaac, brings him to quiet intensity. Played perfectly, he is a master in his acting. Every character he played in his whole acting career is beautiful. Isaacs captures Llewyn with a certain air of reality, the haughty attitude and the deep vulnerabilities all lies in eyand esand , weariness speaks of the many rejections and disappointments. But there's hope, however small, that keeps going on.

I find it interesting about Llewyn-He is very unsympathetic as a hero in himself. There's nothing heroic, even at surface levels-like or dislike: basically, he tends to make quite the wrong choices most of the time, and each line of communication that comes his way from the other characters in the movie is biting and resentful most of the time. Yet despite his many shortcomings, there is something refreshingly human about him. He is a singer-songwriter who has hurled himself full-force to his art even as he knew all along that the world, at least the one outside his own personal world, doesn't really care all that much about it, as he does.

We see Llewyn constantly fail at various junctures in the film. His solo record flops. He loses Mike to suicide. He fails at record producers and in audiences' eyes and even before friends. In this film, there is this tragic scene in which he sings an excellent version of "The Death of Queen Jane" to a record producer only to be told it has no money. This is a time of devastating blow not so much because of the rejection itself but because it throws in the reality of the harder side of the world in music and any other form of art that talent and passion alone cannot make one through.

The film happens in a transitional period of folk music, just when Bob Dylan and the folk music explosion were about to comthe e into mainstream. This adds another great deal of tragedy if this happens at the later end. He is doubtless a talented musician; however, he is just a man out of phase. He is rooted in some traditional folk songs of years gone by, and whilst he clings to the artistic integrity, the whole world is moving on by leaving him behind.

Inside Llewyn Davis feels like an elegy for a certain kind of artist — the ones who never quite make it, who pour their heart and soul into their work only to be met with indifference. It's about that gap between artistic aspiration and the harsh realities of the commercial world. Llewyn is continually forced between his vision and compromising to survive, and he chooses the former more often than not, thus doing himself in.

The music of the film, most of it by Isaac himself, forms a kind of an emotional core of the storya . There is haunting beauty to songs like "Fare Thee Well" and "Hang Me, Oh Hang Me." These are windows to Llewyn's soul. They are songs of sorrow, loss, and longing. It is through those songs that Lleon wyn reflects his own internal battle. It is the music that keeps him going when all else in his life seems to be falling apart.

While Llewyn is the movie's center, secondary characters are developed enough to add dimensions to his. Carey Mulligan plays Jean, Llewyn's fellow musician and former lover, as well as Jim's girlfriend. Her frustration with Llewyn is nearly palpable, and she stands in as a kind of mirror for the audience in articulating the frustration with which most viewers are likely to feel toward Llewyn's self-destructive nature. But even in anger, there's a sense of shared history and understanding between them, as if she knows that Llewyn's behavior is as much a product of his circumstances as of his choices.

The character that comes out to share the ride with Llewyn during this almost surreal road trip to Chicago is none other than the jazz musician Roland Turner, and what a perfect role John Goodman played here, playing remarkable success for the film gave it the essence of the trademark absurdity of the Coens in the larger than life character both in the body and personality. And even in this strange, oddball character, there's a reverberation of Llewyn's world — the bifurcation of high art (jazz) and low art (folk), and how all forms of music are held in esteem or cast aside.

And as we watch this movie, we see an array of characters, in one way or another, that exemplify what life for Llewyn may become. Some happy, some successful, and then there's him, miserable as the day was long. But it is well visible that Llewyn is stark lonely on his travel. Similarly, in life generally he is as much an outsider of the world of music. His relationships are frustrated and isolationary as if he was trying to communicate something nobody could hear or understand.

But perhaps the most appealing is how this probes the notion of success, or rather the futility of achieving it. Clearly, Llewyn Davis is a brilliant musician; that alone won't propel a person to anywhere, but what does make up one's definition of a successful person? Do they get successes by constant efforts in working hard or are those successes left to the fates of time and luck? In a great majority of these issues, this film puts you to debate on this rather critical concern.

There is one scene where Llewyn asks his old manager, Mel, regarding the sales of his solo album. The statistics are appalling, and Mel reacts in a thoroughly trite way: "I'm not a mystic, Llewyn. You just gotta play the gig that's in front of you." It's a truly the vision of success for the movie to be both elusive and random. That is going to make iif t thare rough, even you as miserable as you can be ,at time,s, I mean Llewyn no matter how many times everything can and does go wrong for you.

Sometimes that's just how it's supposed to happen, how it's in the right room at the right time in the world and Llewyn he just can't get either of these things right as the closing moment of this film establishes with his brief almostblink and miss encounter with the future folk legend, Bob Dylan. Dylan is the future of folk music-that is, the artist who would later change the genre and become successful in ways Llewyn could hardly aspire. At the same time, it is poignant to think how Dylan can be taken symbolically for all things successful and timely-success that Llewyn aspires for but cannot attain.

Inside Llewyn Davis really and my honest thoughts i am blow up . It is never one of those feel-good films nor one that grants anything by way of resolutions. Instead, one leaves with a sense of melancholy and reflection. Even the Coen brothers pull back from tying everything up all neat and tidy; there's no savior redemption arc, no lightning in a bottle moment of success for Llewyn. In many ways, his tripand almost feels incomplete, unfinalized. Which might be why Inside Llewyn Davis is both so compelling and so enduring. It is a work that distills the spirit of struggle-an always already cyclical sort of process that marks many artists' lives. Maybe, for that matter, it catches the essence of life generally: full of false leads, dead-ends, some moments of brilliance, a lot of times of failure.

Ranking = 95/100

One of the things I've always wanted from cinema is films that bend the imagination to the point where they challenge your ability to think after you have viewed them. Entertainment, I can deal with; Solaris by Andrei Tarkovsky in 1972 is such a film. On the surface, it is a science fiction movie set in outer space, but it's much more: it is a deep philosophical reflection on memory, grief, and the human condition. I was transported into a cerebral journey while watching Solaris. Questions were raised not only with the characters on screen but also with my own relationship with memory and the emotional ties that shape who we are.

What first strikes one about Solaris is its tempo. In a genre in which modern science fiction relies so heavily on quick cuts, hyperkinetic action sequences, and pyrotechnic special effects, Tarkovsky works in the opposite direction. Solaris dawns at a slow pace, almost hypnotically; it challenges you to succumb to its quiet moments and lingering shots. It can be infuriating to a viewer whom we're used to today's fast-paced storytelling, but that is Tarkovsky's point: breathe in the atmosphere, sit with the characters, and ponder the weight of what they are experiencing.

The first sequences introduce us to Kris Kelvin, a psychologist about to leave Earth on a mission to the Solaris space station, played with subtle intensity by Donatas Banionis. The film spends most of its time on Earth in natural settings, showing the long shots of forests, rivers, and mundane daily life things. Tarkovsky here uses nature not just to create aesthetic value but in order to contrast it to the sterile, mechanical environment of space, into which Kelvin is about to drift. Earth, on the other hand, is peaceful, at least in this movie.

We realize that things are not as they seem the very moment Kelvin steps aboard the Solaris space station. The station is in disrepair, and two of the scientists who were supposed to be there have met weird ends. On planet Solaris, an ocean covers the world in a mysterious manner. What Kelvin comes to learn, howeve,r is that this strange sea can summon actual physical beings from members of the ship's crews' past lives. And these "guests" aren't just mind-spun; they are as real flesh and blood, brought by unknown forces rising from Solaris' mystic water. It's here that Solaris leaves the science fiction cloak and jumps itself into something much larger than science fiction. Kelvin reunion with Hari is both heartbreaking and unsettling. She is not a ghost, nor an exact imitation-she's the bad copy of a woman whom he once loved and had lost, but still so substantial that she will push Kelvin to face up with what he has kept unsolved: his guilt and mourning. The memory treatment here in the movie goes pretty deep. We do have memories as static accumulations from which we may summon these moments at any moment of our choice. But Tarkovsky insists that memory is fluid, susceptible to distortion. Kelvin's memories of Hari have a tainted tinge of regret and sadness. What manifests at Solaris from his subconscious is more a reflection of his emotional state than a true representation of who Hari was.

But nothing could save Hari from such futile attempts because she is immortal being the product of Solaris. She kept rebirth after rebirth and rebirth in a torture cycle mirroring Kelvin's tortured mind. That's how Tarkovsky works to portray that no matter how hard we try forgetting the past, we'd be prisoners for all eternity. Memories and emotions that remain unresolved haunt us for their lifetime.

The planet Solaris itself is probably the most mysterious part of the film. It's not a place to be conquered, like in most science fiction films. It is some unknowable thing, and Tarkovsky never falls into easy answers. What is Solaris? Is it a living intelligence probing the minds of the astronauts to reveal some higher purpose? Or perhaps it is just the articulation of what the astronauts unconsciously want and fear. Questions are left to linger with one throughout the movie and which Tarkovsky leaves the audience with and never explains.

It is, in a sense, a metaphor for life and unkthe nown. The way, in the film, no one can ever hope to understand Solaris; one has to fight his or her unknowns and mysteries that constitute one's life. He's almost saying that some things about life-life in itself, love, loss, the universe-are things we simply never will grasp, and we have to learn to live with that.

Visuals and sound used by Tarkovsky create mystery over it. The ocean of Solaris is vast, swirling,and constantly moving, both beautiful and terrifying. Tarkovsky lingers on shots of the ocean's surface so we can see its strange, almost hypnotic patterns. The sound design is a big part in developing the atmosphere of the movie. Just like Tarkovsky will only rely on mysterious and ethereal sounds that have almost a dreamy atmosphere - whispering, humming, or pulsating, rather than traditional musical scores.

Several moments while watching Solaris call forth the existential themes of certain renowned writers such as Jean-Paul Sartre and Martin Heidegger. Very deep philosophical questions such as whether to exist or to not exist, identity and whether there is even any life or meaning seem answered in these questions. So, in his own r,egard every character on board the station of Solaris faces the existential crisis. Sartorius is one of the few remaining scientists and is very cold and clinical in terms of never being able to get on board with emotional implications related to Solaris. His role is representative of a rational mind in an effort to explain things that simply cannot be explained. However, Dr. Snaut was more philosophical, "Perhaps man is not sufficiently advanced to know it.". He believes that man cannot stretch out for comprehension of the unknown but only for replicas of himself.

Kelvin is a combination of those two. He is a psychologist, trained to understand the mind, but this encounter with Hari forces him to confront feelings and memories that even his discipline cannot explain. In this film, in fact, his journey is even more one of self-discovery, realizing that answers do not lie outside him but within. In this way, Kelvin's problem with Solaris becomes onethe with human condition itself-an endless search for meaning, in a wo,rld that ,at times gives none.

I also think this film investigates identity. What is being human? Her coming as a "visitor" also clarifies what might be called the most elementary question of the self's nature. Is Hari whom Kelvin's memories have evolved as a tangible physical fact Hari, or is there a self within? And does she have a life of her own and its own soul? It would appear to be the general proposition that Tarkovsky tries to hammer in there-that an identity is not some concrete thing, but the fluid flux of what memories, emotions, and experiences happen to mold it. Hari's existence does but serve as a bitter reminder to the fact that the very persons we love are never inanimate but in relentless change, so memories of them are imperfect and misty reflections of what we imagine th,ey were.

OK so it is impossible to describe Solaris without rthe eferring to contrast of its vision of science fiction at Tarkovsky against those mainstream Hollywood action approach. While films like 2001: A Space Odyssey, a few years earlier, possess a meditative feel to them, most science fiction films of the era-and even now-are more interested in spectacle than introspection. It's not a space-exploration film. There are no epic space battles. No high-tech gadgets. No alien invasions. On the contrary, space becomes a subtitle of inner space for Tarkovsky-to wit, vast, unexplored territories of a human mind and soul.

In so many ways, Solaris is an anti-Hollywood film. It spits in the eye of conventional science fiction narrative structures: it doesn't tell one a thing, it doesn't resolve. That's part of what makes Solaris so hard for some viewers; it asks a lot out of the viewer in terms of patience, reflection, and willingness to stay with uncertainty. For those who can engage it on its own terms, though, Solaris offers a cinematic experience unlike any other.

He was an artist with ambition to do great things for film. He oncis e claimed a film "a symphony or a painting": a work of art inspiring great emotions rather than simply great comprehension. Looking at Solaris, I watch this vision become true to life. Every frame has been orchestrated to the mark, and Tarkovsky uses long takes, natural lighting, and really elaborated compositions that bring on this realism and otherworldliness.

Ultimately, Solaris is a movie about people: our desires, our fears, our capacity to love, and our incapacity to understand ourselves or each other. This is an investigation of human nature, dressed up as a science fiction film. In Tarkovsky's mind, the alien planet Solaris was less a place of exploration or discovery than a mirror reflecting back to him some of the deepest, hidden recesses of the human psyche.

In my opinion and seriously, Solaris is not a film that gives simple answers. This movie challenges your patience as it does not tie up its loose ends sweetly or give an apparent solution to the mysteries with which it opens. It is at the end questions where in details questions occur on memory,the identity, love, and unknowable nature of existence. It is a movie to send you back once and once again to open out layers and dig out something from every view.

Forme, Solaris is the more that I watch it, the deeper it sinks into me. You're not watching something but experiencing it, and a movie that stays with you long after you are leaving the movie theater. There is ,that weight of the movie kind of like how our past cont,inues to haunt us or not depending on how willing we are to admit to the influence.

It is a film not light but sorely needed. It shocks modern sensibilities into considering what cinema is to be and how it can better relate to its audience. It does not spoon-feed the narrative nor present an easily packaged theme but instead puts us into some sort of emotional and intellectual orbit, just as these characters do in relation to the mysterious planet. This, then is the direct reflection of life itself, unpredictable, baffling with equal parts beauty and terror.

.𝐌𝐲 𝐆𝐨-𝐭𝐨 𝐅𝐢𝐥𝐦𝐬. 𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐦𝐲 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐯𝐚𝐮𝐥𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐨𝐯𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐈 𝐚𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐧.𝐅𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐢𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐜 𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐜𝐬 🎥 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐨𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐧 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐩𝐢𝐞𝐜𝐞𝐬.

1. The Wolf of Wall Street
2. The Shawshank Redemption
3. Shutter Island
4. The Truman Show
5. Lawrence of Arabia
6. The Departed
7. The Dark Knight
8. Manchester by the Sea
9. Heat
10. Fight Club

...plus 439 more. View the full list on Letterboxd.