This section is written by students across our programmes who are keen to share their passion for film culture and criticism.
The Melancholic Woman | Adaptations of Nosferatu
By Isobel Williams and Ren Anthony
The interrogation of gender in both the literary and cinematic Gothic is perhaps most ardently notable when recognising the historical and contemporary cultural commentaries afforded by the inclusion of the tragic heroine.
By focusing upon different iterations of the same foundational cinematic text: F.W. Murnau’s German Expressionist 1922 masterpiece Nosferatu, attention can be drawn to how the Romantic ‘tragedy’ of each expresses a differing belief of feminine heroism. In this discussion, we reflect upon the representations of women in the films it spawned. Starting with Werner Herzog’s 1979 Nosferatu: Phantom der Nacht, we focus on the intersections between Herzog’s diligently existential Gothic Romanticism of Isabelle Adjani’s portrayal of Lucy, culminating in a reflection of Robert Eggers’ contemporary adaptation released in 2024, with Lily-Rose Depp’s melancholic battle for autonomy as Ellen.
Herzog’s cinematic portrait of Lucy’s terror is arguably synonymous with an archetypically Gothic mise en scène, especially through her distinction to the openness of the landscapes surrounding her figure in times of emotional desperation. The Gothic is a genre of stark dualities; it often mirrors the fears of a society, present or archaic, and exhibits them through extreme distinctions: lightness and its contrast to the dark, or freedom versus suppression. Her prophetic warnings of danger to Jonathan Harker (Bruno Ganz) ultimately transpire as a futile pursuit, leaving her to the confines of her tormented mind, pursued by the encroaching shadow of Dracula’s (Klaus Kinski) unrequited desire.
Lucy’s mental entrapment in that unnamed dread – dismissed by her husband – is explored in its antithesis to the vastness of the setting. Adjani’s blocking is often shrouded in an artistic chiaroscuro, especially when she seeks solace at the sea, where her dark makeup accentuates the gaunt shadows over her face. Archetypically, the Victorian Gothic’s narrative ‘solution’ to the ‘hysterical’ woman’s plight prescribed a proximity to the sea; the poetic implications of this setting’s veritable freedom, in opposition to societal and mental torment experienced by its victims, further heighten the potential tragedy of Lucy’s position within this adaptation. Set against this panoramic vista, Lucy is engulfed by the cruciforms in the foreground and midground: not only does this symbolise the supposedly guiding iconography of Christian worship, but an expanding proximity to death and decay, which gradually encroaches upon her town with the Count’s advent.
Egger’s frames Ellen (reviving the name used for the female protagonist in Murnau’s 1922 version) as a tragic character in a three-step process; she’s introduced as a paragon of innocence, stripped of all agency, then hailed as a heroine for her sacrifice. The opening scene of the 2024 version of Nosferatu illustrates Ellen’s innocence through her interaction with Orlok. She initially calls out for a “guardian angel”, before pleading, more desperately, for “anything”. She wears her innocence as a white nightgown, the colour symbolising purity, and the garment itself suggesting a sort of vulnerability. The trance-like state she enters makes her acceptance of Orlok’s proposal dubious at best, if not entirely void.
Ellen loses all agency as her ‘melancholy’ takes over, rendering her bed-bound under the care of someone who does not wish to nurse her, gradually breaking her spirit. This manifests physically as seen in her nightmares, which lead to violent seizures, and her dialogue suggests Orlok to be an extension of this manifestation as she refers to him as her ‘shame’ and her ‘melancholy.’ While in this depleted state, all decisions regarding Ellen’s health are made for her, removing any shred of bodily autonomy.
Having been left by her husband, Thomas Hutter (Nicholas Hoult), in the care of his friend, Friedrich Harding (Aaron Taylor-Johnson), Ellen’s health and well-being are in the hands of a man who does not show much care for her at all. Friedrich chooses to restrain Ellen during her seizures to ‘keep her from tearing the room to ribbons,’ opting to preserve the beauty of his home rather than making his houseguest comfortable.
Ellen’s climactic reclamation of autonomy involves fulfilling her role as a heroine. Upon realising that she must be the one to kill Count Orlok, she quickly accepts her responsibility and lures Orlok into her trap. When Orlok arrives, Ellen is waiting confidently, dressed for the occasion in a wedding dress, a veil, and a crown of purple lilacs. Floriography was of great importance in the Victorian Era, which also coincided with the rise in popularity of Gothic Literature and the publication of Dracula by Bram Stoker in 1897. According to floriography, purple lilacs signify first love, infatuation, and obsession, and their recurring presence throughout the film lingers around Ellen, echoing Orlok’s omnipresence. They also signify exorcism and protection, aiding her in the destruction of Orlok and preventing any persistence of his evil. When the men return to find Ellen and Orlok dead,
Albin Eberhart Von Franz (Willem Dafoe) scatters the lilacs on their shared deathbed, signifying a successful exorcism and the end of Orlok’s plague of obsession. The wedding dress Ellen wears suggests a readiness that completely contrasts the opening scene. Not only does it suggest a maturity she didn’t previously possess, but it also conveys her commitment to her sacrificial responsibility. While her willingness seems more concrete, it’s worth considering the dubiousness of its validity, in which, the circumstances not being life-or-death, it’s unlikely that Ellen would agree to be intimate with Orlok and only does so to protect her companions. Eggers’ Ellen is afforded much more agency and assertiveness than Murnau’s, being framed as a tragic heroine rather than a helpless damsel.
The veritable tragedies associated with each adaptation’s heroine, whilst stemming from the same literary and cinematic templates, are presented in ways unique to each auteur’s artistic interpretation. Herzog’s notable attention to humanity’s relationship to the landscape aligns the heroine’s role with the terror of Gothic dread and its intersection with innocence. Contrastingly, Eggers’ narrative focuses on Ellen’s perspective does not solely hinge on her battle for autonomy, but also her heroism in the face of death, and the selflessness she adopts to save her loved ones. Each contemporary adaptation is steeped in a uniquely creative merit, simultaneously representing and re-inventing their heroines in contrasting iterations of agency, innocence, and victimhood.
Blue My Mind and the Empowering Potential of the Monstrous Feminine
by Sian Lawson
Films belonging to the coming-of-age horror sub-genre often push the notions of transformation, both physical and psychological, to their limits through the use of body horror to heighten the fear and unease invoked by the adolescent’s changing physical state.
Films concerned with the female coming-of-age (or Bildungsroman) experience often engage with what Barbara Creed refers to in 1993 as the ‘monstrous feminine’: monstrosity connected to women’s ‘mothering and reproductive functions,’ or ‘linked more directly to questions of sexual desire.’ Menstruation and childbirth are elements of womanhood that men are unable to fully relate to, and in response, some grow to fear. Creed (writing from a feminist perspective) proposes that, because of this, the feminine is often constructed as a monstrous ‘other’ (e.g., the witch, the macabre seducer) which must be controlled or defeated so that patriarchal order may be restored. But while initially identified by Creed as a way of demonising women onscreen, in recent years the concept of the monstrous feminine has been somewhat reclaimed as a way for female filmmakers to denounce patriarchal norms and values.
In the Swiss coming-of-age horror film 2018 Blue My Mind, directed by Lisa Brühlmann, in which a teenage girl, Mia (Luna Wedler), gradually transforms into a mermaid after the arrival of her first period, the monstrous feminine is presented as a source of empowerment rather than shame. In mythology, mermaids often embody society’s anxieties surrounding female sexuality and autonomy and are frequently depicted as alluring, dangerous creatures who exert power over men. Brühlmann uses Mia’s metamorphosis and her desperate attempts to prevent it, to allegorically explore the tension between patriarchal conformity and the freedom of authentic self-expression.
The coming-of-age experience is often an isolating moment where one feels as though they don’t belong. Mia’s experiences in the film literalise the idiom ‘fish out of water’ and her sense of displacement is established in the opening scene. The film opens with Mia as an infant looking out at the ocean, her proximity to the flowing water suggesting that, as she is currently unburdened by the pressures of impending adulthood, she shares in the freedom it symbolises. After the title card, it cuts to the present, where the natural environment of the beach is replaced by a dull landscape of uniform apartment buildings. 15-year-old Mia, having recently moved in, unhappily surveys her stagnant surroundings from one of the windows, and we look in at her from the other side of the glass as if she were an animal confined to an enclosure, somewhere that isn’t her natural habitat.
On her first day at her new school, Mia is captivated by a group of ‘cool girls’ and works hard to ingratiate herself into their gang. In Mia’s eyes, these girls are free to be themselves, and she mimics their behaviour in the hopes of achieving the same freedom. She begins sneaking off to parties, drinking alcohol, using drugs, and having sexual encounters with guys both her own age and older, however engaging in these mature acts does not bring Mia the freedom she truly craves. Instead, she finds herself confined to another metaphorical enclosure, one defined by conformity and expectation, where her true self is pushed further down until eventually, it starts to push back.
Her body’s rebellion begins with the emergence of strange impulses: a thirst for saltwater and a hunger for raw fish, which she satiates by devouring the fish from her mother’s aquarium. Eventually, her body begins to physically change. Webbing grows between her toes, dark bruises bloom across her skin, her navel disappears, gills grow at either side of her ribcage, and scales begin to protrude from the skin of her legs. Like many in their adolescence (depicted in surreal ways here), Mia grows ashamed of her body the more it changes, and her refusal to seek outside help emphasises her desperation to fit in. Instead, she hides her bruised skin under makeup and bandages, and when the changes worsen, she resorts to self-mutilation.
Through intense close-up shots, we see her snip the webbing between her toes with nail scissors and pluck the scales growing out of her legs. Eleanor Gratz points out that Mia’s struggle to suppress her bodily changes acts as a metaphor for the pressure young women feel the need to conform to cultural expectations of beauty, as the razors, scissors, and tweezers she uses are recognisable as the ‘mundane grooming tools’ familiar to so many women and girls.
Despite her attempts to prevent it, her metamorphosis eventually comes to a head. At a party where, in an inebriated state, she is taken advantage of by a group of adult men, Gianna (Zoë Pastelle), the leader of the girls whom Mia tries to emulate, comes to her rescue. Her repeated insistence on “you don’t want this” can be understood not just as a warning but as a confession, spoken by someone who has also struggled under the weight of societal expectations, that allows Mia to see the futility of suppressing her true self. Her words catalyze the completion of Mia’s transformation as the next morning, she wakes with a fully formed mermaid tail.
In the film’s closing scene, Mia seeks out an environment that will accommodate her mermaid form and, with Gianna’s help, she makes her way to the beach from the opening scene. Once she is immersed in the flowing water, she is finally free to inhabit her body unapologetically and without judgment or punishment. In ending this way, Blue My Mind recasts the narrative of the monstrous feminine as an extremely potent force to be embraced rather than feared. Ultimately, through Mia’s journey, the film illustrates that true freedom lies not in conformity, but in accepting all that makes us different, even if it might be seen by some as monstrous.
Why do we love the fantasy genre?
By Charlotte Fairhall
The connection between the escapism people often crave and the fantasy genre does not come as much of a shock, especially when you start to realise how much of the genre you consumed as a child.
It could, quite possibly, have been the first genre that you engaged with, whether in film or book form. This love that I hold for this particular genre served as the basis of my dissertation, which I had the pleasure of writing in my final year at university, and this article will be used as a quick run-down of all that I learnt, discussed, and questioned as I wrote my final piece. It not only allowed me to research deeper into a subject I adore, but it also enabled me to express and interpret the many ideas and opinions I encountered during my research.
Originating on screen in turn of the century France, with its first feature-length film, A Trip to the Moon by Georges Méliès, being released in 1902, essentially means that seeing this genre on screen is as old as the art of cinema itself, and has remained highly popular since its inception. As well as being one of the oldest onscreen genres, fantasy can easily be one of the oldest fictional genres and has been used as a way of storytelling for thousands of years, with endless folktales coming from all over the globe. As easily as the genre can evolve from folktales to books, it can just as easily evolve from Literature to movies. In addition, it can evolve to mirror the current events of society within its storylines, much like how C.S. Lewis used Narnia and the Pevensie siblings as metaphors for young soldiers coming home from war.
To start with, the sheer number of projects that house fantastical elements are available in abundance, meaning there really is no shortage in adventures for us to embark on in what’s easily the most imaginative part of our lifetime – our childhoods. This element of escapism comes from that early consumption, making our childhood companions consist of kings and queens, wizards and elves, not to mention the wealth of mythical creatures that we can all recognise in an instant. With these characters we interact with so lovingly, it’s no wonder that we often use our imagination to picture ourselves in the fantastical scenarios we have seen.
The simple act of viewing this type of genre so young means that we carry these adventures with us as we grow older, and sometimes these adventures will grow with us and evolve into more mature stories. Game of Thrones is probably the best example of this, with its clear similarities to Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings, but also with its more graphic nature and mature content. With the evolution of the genre, it means that there is also an incredible number of ever-growing sub-genres and categories of the genre that can now cater to almost everyone’s preferences.
With the number of fantasy-inflected films and TV shows that are released annually, it makes the genre one that’s hard to escape, particularly when there is a different film released for individual age groups. This simply allows for the genre to sit at the forefront of your mind and potentially release memories of your childhood when you were first engaging with the genre. The nostalgic aspect that surrounds fantasy, that feeling of wanting to relive something, stems from these early interactions of films and books that can be easily triggered by simply rewatching or rereading those stories. For the fantasy genre especially, nostalgic feelings can be so easily triggered due to the similarities between many of the stories, with many repeating motifs and character tropes appearing in each instalment.
On top of all the new iterations of stories, a lot of fantasy works are subject to adaptation and subsequently become retellings of retellings, or even sequels and/or prequels of stories we love. The Lord of the Rings trilogy is a common subject of this with the seemingly endless new projects releasing, most recently with season 2 of The Rings of Power, which preludes even the LOTR prequel, The Hobbit, and secondly, the new animated film, The Lord of the Rings: The War of the Rohirrim, which also preludes both trilogies.
As well as the addition of new stories to previously loved series, these same series are also being re-adapted into new projects. One that comes to mind is Greta Gerwig’s highly anticipated adaptation of the Narnia Chronicles, with the first instalment scheduled for release in 2026. Projects similar to this one create such a buzz not only for lovers of the original stories, but it also opens up the stories to a newer, younger audience, and with the excitement that has surrounded this particular project, it once again allows for the entire fantasy genre to stay at the forefront of audiences’, critics, and journalists’ minds alike.
Alternatively, these adaptations can provoke more complex and, at times, problematic reactions due to paratextual factors. This can be seen as the new Harry Potter series gears up for production, which is intertwined with some of the controversy surrounding the ideological stance on trans rights held by the author of the original books.
One of the most common aspects found within the fantasy genre is the notion of the ‘other world’. This concept is used as a way to separate the real from the fictional, but is done in such a way that makes it seem to the audience, particularly younger audiences, that they may stumble across this ‘other world’ themselves. If you look at The Chronicles of Narnia or Alice in Wonderland, the portals to these ‘other worlds’ are everyday objects like a wardrobe, or something you may stumble upon, like a rabbit hole. In using something so mundane, it makes the ‘other world’ all that much more accessible to the audience, once again furthering the argument that escapism and wonder can come from the everyday, demonstrating the power that myth and legend have across cultures.
Lace and liberty
How Rose’s costumes in Titanic show an emotional transformation
By Katie Hamil
While often written off as lesser than other filmic elements, costume design is imperative to telling a character’s story, reflecting their traits, emotions and circumstances.
Employed to work as the costume designer in James Cameron’s 1997 film Titanic, Deborah L. Scott oversaw the protagonist, Rose De-Witt Bukater’s style, and subsequently her transformation from respectable high society, as an emotionally repressed young lady in an entrapped engagement, to a courageous and free woman choosing herself and her romantic desires over what is expected of her. Scott illustrates this with the use of corseted and tailored garments for Rose in the first act of the film, being both affluent and restrictive, to outfits that are looser-fitting, warmer in colour and class transcendent resolution of the narrative.The audience’s first introduction to Rose, as a young woman, is when she boards the luxurious ship, donned in a pinstriped suit with a large hat. Rose is an affluent, traditional lady, shown by the noble, stark colours and the outfit’s extravagance.
Despite this initial characterisation of a wealthy, seemingly content woman, Scott undermines this with the stiff material and pinstripes on the outfit, showing that she is confined within. Yet, the colour choice of purple and white draws comparisons between the Suffragettes and Rose, making her subtly crave more freedom from her life’s structure. The restriction she feels, socially and emotionally, is continued with the costume design, as Scott dresses her in tailored, restrictive garments of dull colouring in subsequent scenes, with her hair up in buns.
This confinement in her personal life reaches a climax at the point where Rose contemplates suicide. Due to the emotional weight Rose carries from feeling ensnared in a life she does not want, the dress reflects this, with its dark tones of red and black and heaviness from all of the beads. The immediate presentation of Rose, Scott visually highlights to the audience that Rose is feeling joyless; however, it can also be interpreted as a part of her growing rebellion against acceptable norms.
Love and resistance begin to blossom more thoroughly after meeting Jack, the human embodiment of opportunities and freedom, which is mirrored in the outfit choices. Rose spends the next day with Jack, thanking him and talking about goals for the future. Chosen for this sequence is a yellow dress, accompanied by floral embroidery, visually conveying a new beginning of life. Rose De-Witt Bukater is connected to the sun-soaked horizon that she and Jack look toward by the dress’s colour. That night, Rose is adorned, for first-class dining, with a red and black sequined gown, which is different from the previous red/black dress used for the scene where she contemplates taking her own life. In this particular case, the red is softened slightly, and the black is outlined in thousands of silver sequins, exemplifying an ignited celestial passion for Jack, and therefore for the thing he represents: free will.
The love and joy that Rose feels towards Jack (a steerage passenger) is not welcomed by Rose’s mother Ruth, who believes cross-class relationships should not exist. Rose’s emotions are strained as Ruth lectures her daughter on how she will not converse with Jack anymore. Pairing the visual symbolism of restriction with the verbal restriction, this scene notably takes place as Ruth tightens Rose’s corset. However, despite Ruth’s attempts, they are fruitless, as Rose chooses her own desires over those of her family, deciding to continue her romance with Jack.
The famous “I’m Flying” scene shows Rose feeling completely unshackled for the first time in the film, as her deep blue dress provides a link to both the ocean and the sky; her wildness and freedom are natural, as Cameron’s subtext implies. Rose’s wrap floats behind her in the wind, giving the optics that she is akin to a bird. Emotionally open, Rose’s wardrobe reflects this, most significantly in the nude drawing sequence, where she fully sheds her sculptured, weighty gowns and therefore her past life and what it represents to her. Jack draws her naked, showing a physical, sexual and societal liberation; she is untethered, with her clothes off for a working-class man and her hair down.
Cameron wanted the dress to look as good wet as dry, given that it would be the outfit that Rose wears for the sinking. However, metaphorically, the dress, light in colour and free flowing, shows a further emotional progression for Rose. From the stiff material and black/red colour palette previously, the “sinking” dress is in pastel shades of lavender and pink, with silk fabric that trails behind, as an easy-moving garment showing less restriction and emotional depression. Landmark decisions take place whilst Rose dons this outfit, such as losing her virginity and choosing to leave the ship with Jack. Crucially, Ruth says earlier in the film that she “detests” the colour lavender, adding a secondary layer of rebellion to this outfit choice, showing that it is a stark defiance of her mother’s strict values.
Visually, the outfit transformation cannot be lost on viewers, yet Scott makes the rebellion (exemplified by Rose and her fashion) distinct in the last sequences of the sinking. Over the top of her pastel dress, connoting resistance yet still with the notion of wealth, Rose dons a lifebelt, a man’s jacket and a checkered blanket. Class anonymity is now attributed to the character, as one would not be able to tell, among the various items worn for warmth and survival, that this is an upper-class woman. Rose is now completely prioritising her health and life over appearances, marking a rebirth.
This revival is shown via the cleansing of her past life from the shedding of luxurious appearances to the rain and ocean water soaking her of the De-Witt Bukaters and turning her into a Dawson (the surname of Jack that she assumes after survival). Standing on the deck of the saviour ship Olympia, Rose Dawson looks towards the Statue of Liberty (a feminine symbol she feels affiliated with), rain-soaked with her hair down, makeup wiped clean and black jacket draped over her, choosing a new life.
Dazai fall deeper… much deeper
Who is Osamu Dazai?
By Maria Henry
Mika Ninagawa’s 2019 film No Longer Human takes inspiration from Japanese novelist Osamu Dazai’s 1948 novel of the same name.
The novel is infamous and considered to be Dazai’s masterpiece. Osamu Dazai’s works were deeply inspired by his own personal struggles, mirrored by his choice to write this novel in the form of notebooks. The novel deals with themes such as suicide, depression, addiction and social alienation. The book was published one month after Dazai’s suicide at the age of 38. It was the vulnerability of Dazai’s work that made him appealing to a post-World War II audience, something that Ninagawa conveys in cinematic terms. The film begins with a line directly from the novel: “I have lived a life of much shame”. This simple, short sentence summarises Ninagawa’s impression of Dazai and his self-perception and sets the tone of the film.
Ninagawa’s film focuses on the three women who deeply shaped Dazai’s (Shun Oguri) life: his wife Michiko Tsushima (Rie Miyazawa), as well as his affair partners, Shizuko Ōta (Erika Sawajiri) and Tomie Yamazaki (Fumi Nikaidô). The film makes it clear that the primary purpose of Dazai’s affair with Shizuko is to gain access to her diary, his source of inspiration for his 1947 novel The Setting Sun. This novel, his first masterpiece, was pivotal in boosting his standing in Japan’s literary circle. Furthermore, Dazai’s perceived objective makes him often deeply unlikable, especially as he disregards his family. There are no attempts in either the novel or film to portray the artist as noble and heroic; they are studies in abjection and the loss of morality and the tragedy of such loss.
I find the performances in the film impeccable. In particular, Shun Oguri’s portrayal successfully captures the essence of Dazai’s self-destructive nature. Though there are bombastic moments of deep frustration, such as his various mental breakdowns or refusal to become sober, there are also quieter moments that encapsulate his self-sabotage. For example, when Dazai agrees to Shizuko’s condition to gain access to her diary, there is a loud sigh and a hesitant ‘sure’. There are also moments when Dazai coughs up vibrant blood, representing his own body suffering from his behaviour. During these scenes, there is an elongated shot of the blood before cutting to either a drunkenly frustrated, annoyed, or joking Oguri, which demonstrates his erratic and degrading state.
There is also the performance of Rie Miyazawa as Michiko, the faithful wife. Ninagawa portrays Michiko’s struggle between maintaining the family unit and her own happiness. Across the film, she can be seen taking care of Dazai during his illness or when he comes home drunk. Despite Dazai abandoning his family, Michiko insists that he will always come back; however, this is something her young daughter later disagrees with, as his behaviour causes familial trauma.
The film’s vibrant cinematography, set design and soundtrack alongside these performances place further emphasis on the chaotic and self-destructive nature of Dazai. The set is highly stylised, filled with saturated colours, such as the reds and pink of Shizuko’s room, as well as vivid flowers. Furthermore, these elements create the impression of a performance, and Dazai’s need to create an artifice of finery as a part of his ‘fictionalised’ persona as an artist. The film stresses that this and some of his other actions take place ‘for the sake of the art’, highlighting a romanticism and self-destruction as beauty. There is a surrealism which runs through both the novel and the film, drawing attention to the nature of how we perform for others in often radically different ways than how we actually feel.
Jun Miyake’s compositions marry the film together; the soundtrack is (perhaps unusually, in this case) upbeat and often light-hearted. For example, during his affair with Shizuko, the film is introduced to a disjointed, rather chaotic score that suddenly ends. Miyake’s compositions become a reflection of Dazai’s erratic behaviour. Another aspect of the sound design is the emphasis on running water. Water is a profound symbol in Japanese culture, signifying purification and life. It is perhaps ironic, then, that it is so prevalent in the film’s score, considering the eventual demise of the protagonists. However, this could also be read as a symbol of life running out, concluding in the writing of No Longer Human.
Though there is criticism that Ninagawa romanticises Dazai’s life or that it is a shallow portrayal of the novelist, in my opinion, Ninagawa creates a deeply impressive portrait of Dazai’s self-perception and self-destruction; from his antisocial behaviour, his alienation, his self-loathing nature and much more.
Dazai is not necessarily a sympathetic or even likeable figure: if he were, I would argue, it would be an insult to Dazai’s work and his life. Overall, I believe this film to be an often breath-taking interpretation of one of Japan’s most controversial writers.
The Artistry of WaitingSlow Cinema and Lyrical “Boredom” in Kelly Reichardt’s Showing Up
By Ren Anthony
The use of the long, meandering narrative has left a significant impression on films pertaining to a ‘slow’ aestheticism, a cinematic sensibility both discursively revered and, contrarily, dismissed as entrenched in the pretentious. .
The focus upon a prescribed ‘mundanity’ to this art of seeing – as distinguished from looking – may, feasibly, intimidate the attention span, where it can encourage a spectator to participate in an active viewership with the onscreen temporal continuity. This certain slowness, or a meandering relationship with time, can relate to a wide range of cinematic texts. The international appeal of this style – from Yasujiro Ozu’s influential Tokyo Story (1953) to Kelly Reichardt’s excellent Showing Up (2022) is often united in its focus upon small snapshots of what may be described as the ‘everyday’ life, as it gradually unravels.
Notably, critic André Bazin’s emphasis on the ‘durée’ (or long take) of a shot or scene can make the time spent actively engaging with the setting, its characters, and their inter-spatial relationships a particularly meditative exercise. Whilst the ‘slow’ style is not monolithic in genre or form, Karl Schoonover’s assertion of a collective cinematic introspection reiterates the role of these films partly as responses to the exponentially growing instance of modern productivity, as well as the role of the viewer-as-consumer. Constructing a narrative built of lingering shots of the ordinary experience, a film’s temporal dilation may closely mimic the ‘real’ chronology of its subject’s experience.
This prolonged temporal continuum arguably and distinctly reads films as reactions to the pace of a post-war capitalist culture, and the expectation and requirement of perpetual productivity. The visibility then, of time that may be deemed by a neoliberalist outlook as ‘non-productive’ is often drawn attention to in debates surrounding slow cinema’s ‘usefulness’. In a post-industrial society, surely the meandering, or the inconvenient, is a potentially rebellious act against a desire for constant efficiency.
It is in their re-orientation of what may be perceived as cinematically inclined ‘action’ films, such as Reichardt’s Wendy and Lucy (2008), or her aforementioned Showing Up, often utilise a more observational perspective to demonstrate the experiences faced by her protagonists. The long duration of many of Reichardt’s shots generates more time to allow for the observation of detail, especially when they retain an unwavering focal point, and thus feasibly interrogate the violence subjected to those struggling under societal, fiscal, or inter-personal constraints.
It is in the austere post-industrialist settings of these two examples that existential alienation, ambivalence, or acceptance are embraced by a stylised slowness. However, even within the latter’s perceivably ameliorative response to mundane routine, a sense of emotional liminality appears to seep through the cracks. The respite ostensibly provided by aesthetic slowness may be of cathartic value but may also interrogate its antithesis: the speed expected by the contemporary.
The role of the artist Lizzy (Michelle Williams) in Showing Up can further antagonise modernity’s perceivable urgency for speed and convenience. The consistency in her creative routine is offset by a devolvement into an intertwining of daily inter-personal tensions, a meta-reflective commentary upon the place of art within a society of which labour and artistry have become dismissed by those above the proletariat, and yet hijacked by those same people as a status symbol.
The interrogation of a collective creative flow further lends itself to perceptions of aesthetic slowness present across this style of cinema that Reichardt’s work both emulates and subverts. The liminal disconnection, too, between Showing Up’s protagonist and her strained inter-personal relationships is often exemplified both in the durée of each observational shot, as well as within Williams’s ‘flat’ delivery of dialogue to those around her. The little alternative between the film’s static or sweeping shots most ardently captures this attentiveness, as well as exemplifies Lizzy’s liminality from the rest of her community.
This intentional construction in camera movement can signify an intense emotional vulnerability of her circumstance, an elevated temporality where the protagonist is trapped in a form of spectatorship, which she channels through her artistry. The capability to observe is a key proponent of the slow cinematic style, perhaps encoding the struggling artist as a spectator of her own existence, instead of one who experiences it presently, but who also lingers in its emotional resonance. Even surrounded by people, Lizzy remains at a marginally unnatural physical distance, a framing device that is exacerbated by the emotionally inhibited diegetic expression.
Inspired by the work of Ozu, Reichardt has detailed that much of the Japanese filmmaker’s oeuvre has underscored her work’s poetic meaning with diegetic space and temporality, especially concerning domesticity and fraught relationships. Capturing this emotional and physical isolation immediately establishes a thematic link between Reichardt’s work and the influence of Ozu’s cinematic patience, using the surrounding spatiality to elicit a majority of a scene’s tension. In this filmmaking style, there often exists subtler tensions behind the veneer of polite social interaction; a generational code of formality creates this subtextual mask, and this mask partially slips under the view of the camera’s lingering perspective.
Cinematic time is simultaneously an unrelenting hostility and a meditative respite; it is both what punishes and what shields. Its emptiness and its heaviness have been conveyed onscreen since cinema’s conception: temporality is essential to both the narrative and spectatorship of film. The slow cinema arguably makes this relationship all the more apparent, inviting those who create and observe to examine how temporality is perceived, both on and offscreen.
The Hunger Games as Parable
By Georgia Kermode
Gary Ross’s first film in The Hunger Games franchise is a film adaptation of the novel written by Suzanne Collins.
In the tradition of dystopian fiction, Collins draws from real-world issues, providing her view of the class system, set out through the Districts, as well as issues relating to ethics, consumerism, and entertainment.
The Hunger Games reverses gender expectations by placing Katniss Everdeen, the protagonist, in a leadership role. Katniss is therefore a positive role model for young women, presented in the film as every bit as courageous as the male characters and with the intelligence and determination to outwit, not just the other competitors, but the leaders in the Capitol themselves. Katniss is notably not overly sexualised in the film, as many female leads often are. Indeed, when her mother chooses a dress for her to wear at the Reaping, Katniss is clearly uncomfortable, preferring her more gender-neutral trouser outfit. Even her bathing scene is simply about the action of her being clean and not filmed as a sexualised sequence.
The theme of class disparity is highlighted through the separation of the Districts and the Capitol. The fact that the Districts are reduced to mere numbers without any identity emphasises the inhumanity of the system, with the higher the number indicating the heightened level of deprivation. Whereas the people living in the Capitol are squandering money on designer clothes and lavish food, those in District 12 are starving and struggling to live on what little money and resources they have. This enforced level of poverty is, in itself, a strategy to ensure that the population in these Districts does not have the power to fight back against their subjugation.
Throughout history, the class system has been enormously problematic in real-world society, where there are varying degrees of wealth and in most cases, ultimately, the most privileged decide how the vast majority live and navigate their lives. This perennial problem has long been a staple of the dystopian narrative. By using gamification and a system that divisively pits oppressed groups against one another, the film illuminates this issue with narrative and stylistic flair. This can be seen in how colour plays a subtle role in displaying poverty inThe Hunger Games.
For instance, the stark contrast between the lush green environment of the forest and the drab nature of District towns illustrates how desirable the forbidden areas are, compared to their homes, where they are effectively imprisoned, due to the barbed wire and electric fences surrounding them. Similarly, on the day of the ‘Reaping’, everyone wears bland, simple clothing which contrasts vastly with the bright colours, luxurious materials and make-up worn by inhabitants of the Capitol. Whilst this shows the extreme vanity of the Capitol residents, it also emphasises how those in the Districts feel imprisoned and anonymous.
The overarching theme of war and violence in The Hunger Games is brought to light not just by observing the games themselves, but also via the presentation of life within the Districts. Whilst the reason for the violence often stems from poverty in addition to rebellion against the government, there is also considerable violence amongst the young, due to the influence of the games, where only 1 out of 24 can survive. The film conveys the idea of life having little value, reinforced on every level of society, including the sick ‘games’ which have become a central means of control.
The leaders in Panem manipulate society to make the truly reprehensible appear honourable; as President Snow declares, The Hunger Games are “how we remember our past…[and] how we safeguard our future”. This statement reflects platitudes by world leaders throughout history who have sought, and still seek, to justify inhumanity and to safeguard systems of power.
Essentially, the film captures a sense of rebellion that is at the forefront of the Young Adult (YA) fiction trend. The most obvious sense of rebellion is towards the end of the film when Katniss and Peeta attempt to trick the Gamemakers into letting them both live by pretending to eat the poisonous berries, which would leave Panem with no victor at all. In this sense, the players use the game itself (with its need for a clear winner) as an act of defiance.
Throughout the franchise, Katniss gradually becomes a face of rebellion in Panem, practically leading the remaining Districts into a new war against the Capitol. The symbolic mockingjay pin remains prominent throughout, becoming more than just an icon of rebellion, as President Snow realises when he remarks, “Hope, it is the only thing stronger than fear. A little hope is effective, a lot of hope is dangerous.” Those who reap the benefits of subjugation, of course, hate to see the rise in popularity of the oppressed, knowing that with popularity comes power. The pin motif, that runs throughout the franchise, alongside other visual images, such as the three-fingered salute – which has been mirrored in real-world protests – draws attention to the power of images in a media-saturated society.
The Hunger Games franchise presents many parallels between the dystopian society of Panem and some of the more unpleasant features of our own world. These parallels enable us to relate to the narrative more closely, while also forcing us to reflect, with some fear, on the potential risks to our own futures. While we are intrigued by the outrageous nature of this society, we recognise that the human characteristics of greed and the desire for power, which often lead to violence and warfare, are all too evident in our world today. The enormous success of The Hunger Games affirms that the dystopian models laid out by writers such as Orwell, Huxley, and Atwood – and the filmmakers they inspired – remain culturally valuable as they continue to speak to power.
Spike Lee’s Iconic Style and Legacy
By Abbie Langton
Spike Lee has become an icon within the film industry.
He changed black cinema in America and led the way for other black filmmakers to find their voice in Hollywood.. Some, among his many notable work include Do the Right Thing (1989) through to Blakkklansman (2018). His MO has often been to put black characters (and therefore actors) at the centre of his films, and to highlight issues relating to black communities, histories, and previously unrepresented stories.
Lee became a cinematic pioneer in the Black Visibility Movement, as he is noted to have been the leading figure in the ‘New Black Wave’ of American cinema alongside the likes of John Singleton (Boyz n the Hood) and the Hughes brothers (Menace II Society). He faced countless problems at the beginning of his career involving the production of his films, as he had been met with contempt for his choices made regarding race artistically, leading him to form his own production company ‘Forty Acres and a Mule’ which directly refers to the aftermath of the slave trade, and the lack of deliverance from the US government to black civilians after the Civil War. This company eventually gave Lee the creative freedom he needed to make his films in an unforgettable style, which was part of the cinematic revolution that began to take hold in America in the 1990s.
Lee’s ‘auteur stamp’ is often unmistakable, as his films are bursting with invention and cinematic signature styles. He became widely known for his signature ‘dolly shot,’ which has become a statement piece in much of his work. A dolly shot involves a camera being placed on a wheeled contraption, so that it can closely follow actors as they move without the need for edits. Lee often combines this movement with close-up shots. He uses this to express chaos and mental strife in extreme circumstances, a common theme within his films. He utilises this in Blackkklansman using a double dolly (where the actor is also on the contraption, making their movements seem surreal), during a sequence in which the main characters, Ron and Patrice, are being targeted by a KKK group. Using the double dolly adds to the intensity of the situation and the immense pressure the characters are under.
He can also capture discomfort through his use of handheld camera and centered angle shots- used most notably in Do the Right Thing. It gives the film a much more authentic, almost documentary feeling, and can allow the audience to feel connected on a much deeper level. As Do the Right Thing intends to depict black people and communities facing institutional racism, ghettoization, and disharmony without glamour, this technique and Lee’s thematic concerns go hand in glove.
It is worth noting that Lee creates his films with a specific, often counter-cultural, idea in mind, highlighting black problems and realities without offering neat Hollywood endings and clichés’. He does this through not only focusing mostly on the black experience in an interracial America, but also through the uncensored violence and language used in his films, powerfully in Do the Right Thing. The language in Lee’s films is often unfettered and full of taboo statements unseen at the time he rose to prominence.
This naturalistic, uncensored view of the world is seen both in the visual elements of his films and in his dialogue, where racial, gendered, and political problems are illuminated and amplified on screen. Lee has been criticised for his use of hate speech in his work, as it is directed towards a variety of racial groups that make up the communities he depicts. This, though, can be seen as part of his wider ideological message, which recognised that racism breeds racism, and that this will be reflected in the way people communicate.
Music also plays a huge part in much of Lee’s work. He came to prominence as much of America (and the rest of the world) was paying attention to the rise in hip-hop and rap music, and this was a huge part of the early period of his career. This is personified by Radio Raheem in Do the Right Thing, a character never seen without his ‘boom box’, from which songs such as Public Enemy’s Fight the Power provide a soundtrack to the start of the film. During an altercation with the police, Raheem is killed, choked by the force of the officer’s nightstick, a moment which, of course, has a deep symbolic relevance in terms of institutional violence in America.
During this sequence, Raheem’s beloved boom box is shattered, which is also incredibly symbolic in terms of what music means as a form of cultural expression throughout history. Switzer states that for many key characters in Lee’s work, music is their ‘primary cultural, sonic, and linguistic window on the world. The death of radio Raheem not only signified the extreme systemic oppression, but also reflects the effort of the US government to attempt to minimise and exclude hip-hop and ‘gangster rap music for ‘inciting’ violence through the medium of the ‘California Penal Code 182.5’. This highlights that Lee creates his films with a contemporary and historically informed political message behind them to illuminate black exclusion in American popular culture.
There is no doubt that Spike Lee has entered the mainstream. The awards success of Blakkklansman, and his lucrative deal with Apple to produce Highest 2 Lowest, are a credit to his staying power and relevance. His legacy is that he opened a cinematic door to the reality that many face in America, and that the audience for this is not confined to one racial minority audience. As he stated in an interview in 2000, “African American culture isn’t just for black people alone to enjoy and cherish. Culture is for everybody.”
Human Traffic: Sex, Drugs and Clubs
The weekend has landed – Justin Kerrigan and his portrayal of the UK’s 1990s rave culture.
By Ruby Little
Slapped in the face with the hedonistic pleasures of British 90’s youth culture from the get-go, the 1999 film Human Traffic submerges the viewer in a world of acid house and smiley faces.
Justin Kerrigan’s semi-social realist depiction of rave culture in the 90’s draws the viewer into the lives of Jip (John Simm), Lulu (Lorraine Pilkington), Moff (Danny Dyer), Koop (Shaun Parks), and Nina (Nicola Reynolds), where their weekends are dominated and invigorated by sex, drugs, and clubs.
Kerrigan implies that for many, the weekend acts as an escape from the miserable, mundane reality of everyday life, with rave culture being the gateway into breaking away from nine-to-five jobs and releasing some steam. He does this by directly inviting the viewer into the subculture that the film explores. For example, the film begins with a medium close-up of the main protagonist Jip breaking the fourth wall and addressing the viewer with the dialogue, “You lucky, lucky people. Yeah, you.”
The viewer is forced into a position where we witness him as lacking the freedom to relax and his lack of capability to have sexual intercourse as a result of his drug-taking habits. Further pulling the audience into his bleak reality, whilst pointing at the camera, Jip is positioned in front of world clocks. The mise-en-scène of the clocks can be interpreted as a reflection of his desire to indulge in the pleasures of the weekend whilst he is wasting away at his job as a retail assistant.
Moreover, Kerrigan introduces each character whilst they are working, or like Moff, dealing drugs, so he can indulge in the world of rave on the weekend. Nina’s introduction scene begins by panning across a row of workers behind a counter at the cinema, the performance of each crew member consisting of them acting like robots. This ultimately emphasises the mechanised lives of the regular working-class, who feed the capitalist system only to survive, and enjoy bonding with the help of drug use with friends on the weekend. In this sense, Human Traffic can be placed alongside such British films as Danny Boyle’s 1996 Trainspotting and Edgar Wright’s cult TV show Spaced, which similarly depicted disaffected subcultures.
For Jip and the gang, rave induced a thrill whilst creating a sense of belonging and community through the rapidly evolving music scene that brought people of all kinds together. In the club scene, glaring lights and blaring music pull together a montage of people embracing and sharing moments of intimacy. With quickly edited jump cuts and the free-flowing dancing of everyone in the club, Kerrigan captures what is so loved about rave and the culture surrounding the music and ecreational substances. Summed up by Moff earlier in the film, “I’m having the best time being off my pickle and feeling the music.”
The viewer is further taken on this euphoric journey led by Jip, which follows him and the gang’s adventures across Cardiff to continue their well-deserved night out. Whilst it explores the ability to chat away with a stranger about the hidden metaphor behind Star Wars at an after-party, something that the character of Moff is more than keen to discuss when under the influence of ecstasy. Kerrigan also subtly dissects the pros and cons of drug use and ultimately leaves the viewer with a message that when the cons outweigh the pros, it’s time to stop.
For example, Moff, the drug dealer who certainly got high from his own supply way too often, is being challenged by a ghastly and traumatic comedown that seems to present him with an ultimatum. In a surreal scene, Moff is later seen floating around in space whilst sitting on a couch, speaking to ‘reality’ as part of his existential crisis. Expressing his fears of feeling like a stranger in a room full of friends, Moff realises that his casual drug use must come to an end. “Reality, it’s all gone pear shaped, mate, I don’t trust anyone in this room right now and they’re my best friends.” Furthermore, as the camera does a 360° pan across the kitchen, party goers and ecstasy lovers are all seen slumped and agitated, as they are faced with the same paranoia as Moff.
Kerrigan ultimately portrays rave culture as a way to connect with others in an environment where friendships, however brief, can be fuelled by the excitement of a scene that is a sweet antidote to the mundanity of working life. He does not dismiss the drug-induced intimacy and fleeting connections that can be forged in the heady atmosphere of a rave, and stylishly captures this heady need for escape. He also, though, explores the downsides of the use of these substances through the deterioration of Moff’s mental health. Ultimately, the viewer is left to reflect upon the idea that what comes up must come down.
Animutilation
How animation could be the key to a Blood Meridian film adaptation
By Cameron Mann
Widely recognized as one of the greatest and most brutal works of American literature, Blood Meridian by Cormac McCarthy follows a gang of scalp hunters as they butcher and pilfer their way across the border between Mexico and the United States.
Since its publication in 1985, the ‘anti-Western’ has yet to be successfully adapted into a film. With many other famous works of American literature receiving film adaptations, even multiple adaptations, as in the cases of Little Women and The Great Gatsby, this raises the question of why Blood Meridian has yet to receive its own.
Both Ridley Scott and James Franco made attempts at this in 2004 and 2011, respectively, the latter producing 25 minutes of footage, only for the productions to be shut down. In 2023, it was announced that John Hillcoat, director of the film adaptation of McCarthy’s novel The Road, would be the next to rise to the challenge. However, with this latest effort having sparse released details, alongside the recent death of McCarthy, who intended to oversee production, this leads some to wonder whether this adaptation will surface. I propose a more suitable way to tackle Blood Meridian, not as a live-action film, but with animation.
I suspect that the greatest concern regarding this proposal would be that an animated version of Blood Meridian risks detracting from the novel’s mature themes and content. It remains a common misconception that animation is a medium solely, or at least primarily, for children, most likely due to the prevalence of cartoons aimed at younger audiences. In reality, animated films have been aimed towards an older demographic for decades, with the global cult success of Katsuhiro Otomo’sAkira in 1998 showing that a global adult audience for animation exists.
This can also be seen in a wide array of television shows, where animation, from Bojack Horseman to Blue Eye Samurai, has received critical acclaim. Guillermo del Toro’s recent stop-motion animation adaptation of Pinocchio also added a decidedly adult strain to the well-worn tale, and the wild extreme style of stop-motion seen in Phil Tippett’s Mad God seems almost tailor-made for the extremities of McCarthy’s Western.
Blood Meridian is known for its extreme violence, describing in unflinching detail the true extent of colonial barbarity. The atrocities committed by the scalp hunters are detailed and showcased extensively, as they massacre countless Native American and Mexican people. Bodies are subject to some of the most horrific tortures imaginable: beaten, bloodied, raped, and mutilated, with visceral detail. This unflinching violence is one of the prime reasons that Blood Meridian has been described as “unfilmable”, with Ridley Scott citing this aspect as the biggest hurdle that his production was unable to overcome.
In terms of gore, animation is often extremely adept when depicting viscera. This may be due to the degree of separation that animation offers its viewers, serving as a representation of reality rather than a direct depiction. An animated Blood Meridian would therefore be at a potentially greater liberty of indulging in the depiction of some of the novel’s more graphic scenes, where a live-action film might abstain for fear of taboo-breaking or censorship.
It is also worth noting that the novel is deeply surreal, and that animation may befit such an extravagant aesthetic. McCarthy is intensely descriptive, from the vivid portrait he paints of the barren desert as a Hell on Earth, to the unique appearances of his characters. For example, consider this passage on Judge Holden, a larger-than-life figure:
“He shone like the moon so pale he was and not a hair to be seen anywhere upon that vast corpus, not in any crevice nor in the great bores of his nose and not upon his chest nor in his ears nor any tuft at all above his eyes nor to the lids thereof.”
A live-action film may struggle to find an actor who could embody Judge Holden’s otherworldly presence and unnatural appearance, most likely needing to rely on an abundance of makeup artistry or some form of animated aid in the form of CGI. The dark, carnivalesque quality created by the likes of Phil Tippett could bring the sheer and stark ‘Grand Guignol’ effect of such prose to life in all its terror.
Many Westerns have not shied away from the brutality of the frontier as seen in such canonical films as Sam Peckinpah’s The Wild Bunch. Others, though, have glamorised the role of the cowboy or lawman, and have demonised the Native American and the ‘Indian’ savage. As a revisionist Western, Blood Meridian depicts the harrowing reality of the genocidal violence against Native Americans. An animated adaptation would perhaps not only demonstrate the medium’s capacity to explore mature themes and adapt underutilized genres, but hopefully, it would also serve as one of the first animated feature films to truthfully depict America’s brutality against Indigenous peoples by pushing the limits of visual carnage, rather than reducing their culture or distorting it into something more consumable.
Fantastic Mr Fox
By Naomi Telfer
“I also see a room full of wild animals. Wild animals, with true natures and pure talents.”
Mr. Fox.
Wes Anderson’s 2009 stimulating stop motion animation film, Fantastic Mr. Fox, tells the story of Mr. Fox (Voiced by George Clooney), a suave and intelligent protagonist, torn between his domestic and wild instincts. As he turns back to his farm raiding ways, Mr. Fox plans a heist against a trio of notorious farmers: Boggis (Robin Hurlstone), Bunce (Hugo Guinness), and Bean (Michael Gambon). Inevitably, deciding to take revenge, Mr. Fox must help his community survive. The film is an adaptation of Roald Dahl’s children’s book, and Anderson’s whimsical and auterist version of the narrative takes the original work and adds a level of self-doubt and existential angst. The film utilises this internal conflict, exploring themes of masculinity, legacy, family, and self-actualisation. The animals are treated like humans and vice versa as the film explores revenge from both sides.
The distinct stop motion animation style highlights Anderson’s quirky set designs and storybook-like aesthetic the film adopts. Every frame is a tableau consisting of symmetrical compositions, saturated autumnal tones and textures immersing the viewer into this universe that feels lived in and flawed, as Anderson makes the artificial feel emotionally real. The fur of the characters twitches and blows in the breeze slightly between frames, with handmade sets revealing the fingerprints of its creators. This strengthens the juxtaposition between perfection and raw instinct with the duality of animal and person, wild and tame, that isn’t ultimately resolved but embraced.
This can be seen particularly in Ash’s character, Mr Fox’s son, voiced by Jason Schwartzman, who demonstrates the outsider character seeking his parents’ approval. Throughout the film, he is treated as ‘different’ due to his behaviour and characteristics not aligning with his family, often being compared with his cousin Kristofferson. The film explores a coming-of-age subplot as it follows his character as well as his parents, highlighting his difficulties with school life, physical education and activities. This representation of adolescence depicts a level of self-awareness in the parents that they need to understand their son more and realise they are all individuals whilst remaining part of the familial whole.
The narrative follows the Fox family, with Mrs Fox, a stay-at-home mum, acting as the voice of reason and conscience to her husband’s more reckless nature, Mr Fox is a published columnist, but longs for his old life of stealing, rather like a Robin Hood character who retains his bounty. Ignoring the safeguarding pleas of Mr Badger (voiced by Bill Murray), Mr Fox is set on one last heist, after he promised his wife (voiced by Meryl Streep) that his days of theft would end after the arrival of their children. This introduces the song, consisting of the lyrics:
‘Bogus, Bunce. and Bean,
One fat, one short one mean,
Those horrible crooks, so different in looks
But nonetheless equally mean.
This serves as a recurring leitmotif as the musical score for the three farmers and their relentless pursuit of Mr Fox. The catchy tune, performed by a children’s choir, underscores the farmer’s importance and villainous nature, highlighting their comical yet dangerous presence in the narrative. The repetitive use of the song reinforces the characteristics of the farmers and creates a sense of tension as the viewer now knows what to expect before seeing them on screen.
Mr Fox and his gang encounter the trio of notorious farmers. Anderson chooses to portray them all with different and unique characteristics, each owning a different type of farm, whether it be Chicken (Boggis), duck and goose (Bunce) or apple and turkey (Bean). Collectively representing corporate greed and the power of the elite, while the animals embody the working class, the film explores social equality and the consequences of ambition. This highlights the social hierarchy that Mr Fox wants to gain. This confrontation ultimately leads to Mr Fox getting his tail shot off.
As the central theme of the film turns into revenge after Mr Fox successfully steals from the farmers, they share one common enemy and will resort to anything to take revenge. With Bean at the forefront of the fight with Mr Fox’s tail as his medal of honour, presented as a tie threatening his masculinity. The animal community strive to survive their deadly tricks like digging up their homes, by resorting to their animalistic ways and digging their way out to escape, coming together as a community.
The film delicately induces a call for self-confidence in one’s individuality while growing and changing with those around you. Mr Fox, influenced by his family and his community, represents a physical and spiritual journey in finding oneself and rediscovering who he is supposed to be, by compromising and embracing his naturalistic ways and domestic responsibilities. The appearance of a significant wolf figure acts as a representation of Mr Fox’s shadow self, symbolising the wild animal that he has tried to tame. The wolf represents his fear, as he has mentioned throughout the film, correlating between the wilderness and civilisation as a physical and mental divide. Therefore, he moves beyond his previous desire to emulate human behaviour and marks a turning point, as this demonstrates his contentment in his community and his place within the natural world.
This shift in self-acceptance utilises Mr Fox’s acknowledgement that living underground recognises himself as a wild animal, contrasting the beginning of the film, which has an idealistic naivety in believing himself to be humanistic and destined to live above ground. The satisfying dance scene in the post-credits shows the Fox family taking the ultimate revenge by having access to a supermarket through underground tunnels. This ending can promote the underlying self-representation, showcasing these flawed characters as the audience sees how they grow together, and each reflects on their life choices, encapsulating a thematic through line that we see in Anderson’s growing body of work.
Memento Mori… Memento Amoris
Danny Boyle’s Meditations on Masculinity and Structures of Power in 28 Years Later
By Ren Anthony
June 2025 marked the anticipated reunion between director Danny Boyle and screenwriter Alex Garland, with the theatrical release of 28 Years Later, an expansion on the ‘Rage’ virus that primarily ravaged Britain’s population in 28 Days Later, released in 2002.
The narrative continues 28 painful years from the initial outbreak. Maintaining the temporal conceit established by its predecessors, it introduces the perspective of new protagonists and expands upon the canon of Boyle and Garland’s previous collaborations. This addition consequently re-establishes how the UK became the victim of a mandatory quarantine, isolated from the rest of the world, whilst also furthering a textual exploration into masculinity, post-apocalyptic familial relationships, and what remains when these structures dissolve.
Transpiring across the runtime is a powerful example of British magic realism’s capability for genre-hybridity; it retains a tension associated with the horror genre – re-established by the threat of untreatable infection, as well as the actions of those who survive on the land – and yet concurrently re-centres themes of masculinity as the narrative progresses. Ideologically, this exploration of society’s stagnation is apparent at the film’s outset; the text then further explores familial trauma against the backdrop of a post-apocalyptic regional landscape.
It is in this utilisation of the natural landscape that the expansive world-building is emphasised most ardently; the rebuilt but heavily fortified Holy Island (Lindisfarne) community, where the newest protagonist, a boy named Spike (Alfie Williams), resides, enforces this distinctive regional footprint from the outset, reinforced by the North Eastern regional accents which have become emblematic of community. The isolation now facing Spike’s village – and what remains of the UK’s society – arguably provides both a hyperbolic post-Brexit metaphor as well as a further example of the regionality which 28 Days Later initially introduced, with its opening notably featuring an eerily abandoned London vista.
However, contrary to its predecessors, the mise-en-scène of 28 Years Later utilises landscapes predominantly familiar to the rural North of England. The iconography in such structures – with the Angel of the North, Fountains Abbey, and the (reconstructed) Sycamore Gap Tree all featuring – grounds the regionality of a poignantly Northern expansion of the franchise, whilst simultaneously echoing an examination of temporality. These man-made structures are cyclically overtaken by natural forces – a distinctive entwining of Gothic convention and ecological consciousness. The previous society may have systemically crumbled; a natural force reclaims the physical structures left behind. Despite the dissolution of community at the ravage of the Rage virus, unyielding power structures still resonate through the isolated factions that remain. This through-line of the franchise’s thematic meanderings expresses a narrative meditation on humanity’s historically rhythmic tendencies.
George Orwell stated that in a society’s ‘future and…past, there is something in it that persists, as in a living creature.’ The writer’s observations here can tie into the critical aspects that some of 28 Years Later’s most poignant themes, such as the upholding of traditionally patriarchal structures of governance and culture. Directing attention specifically to the Lindisfarne community, its separation from the mainland not only shields its inhabitants from danger but, in turn, also isolates them. Their reassembly poignantly still abides by various expectations of patriarchy, with the set pieces drawing emphasis upon aspects such as drinking and martial cultures.
The preservation of a stereotypically masculine-led household dynamic is cemented by the confinement of Spike’s mother, Isla (Jodie Comer), to her bedroom. Whether or not intentionally rooted in corruption, Isla’s confinement befalls a similar tragic predicament to a “mad woman in the attic”, restricted due to her deteriorating mental state, whilst her husband cavorts drunkenly with another woman outside of the community’s version of a pub.
Even within this alternate landscape, there still exists a culture of dismissing dissent or those deemed as unfit to participate, as opposed to treating them with care. This aspect of Isla’s confinement into her own mental distress in itself allows for commentary on generational change, where it is only Spike who seems to break the pattern of resignation and search for help on the mainland. A narrative which seemingly presents itself as one concerned in a paternal relationship between Spike and Jamie (Aaron Taylor-Johnson) subverts these very expectations it establishes, where Spike advocates for his mother’s medical agency in searching for Dr. Kelson (Ralph Fiennes), whom the rest of his society has alienated.
Garland’s screenplay further highlights a deep reflection upon failing structures of power, within the brief but viscerally shocking visual references in Jack O’Connell’s character, cult leader Jimmy Crystal, whom we meet at the conclusion of this installment. O’Connell’s and his gang’s costumes and mannerisms are made to echo that of a combination of the Power Rangers, Teletubbies, as well as the prolific abuser Jimmy Saville’s abject persona, whom his character likely would have been familiar with as a child at the canonical time of the outbreak.
The reveal of this monster’s abuse is assumingly withheld from the characters in 28 Years Later, in a poignantly warped demonstration of dramatic irony; institutions of power, media (most notably, here, the BBC), and government collapsed before their mishandling of such a deplorable public figure could be publicised, thus unintentionally shielding him and other abusers in obscurity. This ending itself has garnered intense attention from viewers upon its release, spurring several interrelated discourses around the ethics of re-engaging with the imagery of such a person.
Arguably, the visceral reaction to seeing such references in O’Connell’s costume is an apt horror, though there may be concern that the absurdity crosses a border of taste in this case. In an interview, Boyle compared its similarities to the violence in Stanley Kubrick’s A Clockwork Orange. The pedestal afforded to those who abused their power and never faced the consequential alienation in their lifetimes is a reading that can be afforded to the references in the cult members’ costumes. The particular horror within this alternate reality is perhaps a hyperbolic representation of how societal failings afford the worst of those in positions of power an obscurity in their abuse of it, and the victims a complete lack of justice – a theme particularly prevalent within a post-#MeToo movement context.
This overlapping theme of masculinity and its allowance of abuses of power has remained a prevalent thematic angle across previous iterations of the franchise, with the ‘true’ horror of 28 Days Later revealed in its conclusion to be the actions of those men left behind, in a setting where the protagonists had assumed their safety.
As Garland detailed in promotional material preceding the film’s release, “[what Boyle] likes is subversion…This is not just about the infected, it’s about when countries collapse [and] what [humanity] become[s].” As his reflection indicates, the franchise has repeatedly explored themes of humanity, and a lack thereof, with 28 Years Later maintaining this narrative tradition across its emotional beats, setting and visual language.
Julia Ducournau, Feminism and New French Extremity
By Sian Lawson
Julia Ducournau’s films are associated with ‘New French Extremity’, because their provocative themes and visceral imagery align with the spirit of the movement.
Part of the appeal of her films stems from her transgressive approach to presenting the female experience, particularly female adolescence. The term was first coined by James Quandt, who described the trend in Art Forum as ‘determined to break every taboo…fill each frame with flesh…and subject it to all manner of penetration, mutilation, and defilement’ (2004). Notable films associated with the movement include Virginie Despentes’ Base-moi (2000) and Catherine Breillat’s Fat Girl (2001), both of which contain shocking yet thought-provoking content.
Ducournau’s exploration of what critic and theorist Barbara Creed named ‘the monstrous feminine’ began with her 2011 short film Junior, in which 13-year-old tomboy, Junior, undergoes a horrifying metamorphosis: puberty. Puberty provides a suitable basis for body horror in cinema, as the changes that are scary enough for adolescents can be further exaggerated or distorted to unsettle the audience and draw attention to the fragility of the human body.
The metamorphosis begins after Junior falls ill with stomach flu; as her symptoms worsen, it becomes apparent that something more sinister is at play. In one scene, while Junior is bathing, her skin begins to peel and break off in chunks, revealing a strange ‘gooey’ substance underneath. Ducournau captures Junior’s physical transformation in a raw and confronting manner as she pairs close-up shots of Junior’s skin with the unsettling squelching sound of her fingers poking at it. This resembles a scene from David Cronenberg’s body horror classic The Fly (1986), another film in which a character undergoes a horrific metamorphosis.
On the morning of her completed transformation, Junior’s new form is purposefully hidden from the audience to prolong the suspense. When she walks into her classroom, her classmates are shocked, and her teacher doesn’t recognise her at first. Stunned by her transformation he declares that “a new life begins”. The camera finally cuts to Junior and the audience discovers that she hasn’t taken the form of a monster, but that of a teenage girl. The horrific transformation she was undergoing was puberty.
Ducournau’s approach to the topic is transgressive, as she veers the audience away from the familiar idealised image of a blossoming young woman by using body horror to convey just how foreign and unnerving the bodily changes of puberty can be. Ducournau stated in an interview with Vulture that “you always feel like a monster when you’re a teenager” (2016); her depiction of Junior’s transformation reflects this. Her subversion of the traditional coming-of-age genre trope aligns with a cult and subversive sensibility.
Ducournau’s exploration of the monstrous feminine continues in her debut feature film Raw (2016), which expands on the themes explored in Junior, only this time focusing on sexual awakening using cannibalism as a metaphor. Raw challenges this not only by offering an arguably more authentic portrayal of female desire, but also by integrating violence and monstrosity into the narrative. With this transgressive representation of female sexuality, Raw demonstrates that, after years of suppression, female desire has turned violent and primal. Justine, a life-long vegetarian, undergoes an unusual transformation after she is peer-pressured into eating raw meat during a hazing ritual at veterinary school. Despite her vegetarianism, she develops a craving for meat, which she attempts to satisfy, at first with a gas station kebab and later with a raw chicken breast. To no avail, the hunger persists.
One night Justine’s sister, Alexia, attempts to give her a bikini wax but the wax gets stuck. When she tries to remove it with scissors, the pain makes Justine kick her away, causing Alexia to cut off her finger. She faints from shock, leaving Justine with the dismembered finger, which she picks up and examines curiously, the non-diegetic score in the background gentle and unassuming. She lets the blood drip onto her hand and licks it. Liking the taste, she begins to suck on the finger before stopping herself suddenly. The score changes dramatically as Justine stares at the finger, processing what she has done, the sinister organ music reflecting her inner turmoil. Hesitantly, she takes a small nibble of the flesh; we see in her face that this is what she was hungry for. Overcome with desire, she begins to devour the finger.
As Justine’s appetite for human flesh grows, so does her sexual appetite, and the two become entwined. In one scene she attends a party where, as part of another hazing ritual, she’s forced to make out with another student. While kissing, she bites a chunk of his lip off, leaving the other party guests shocked and disgusted. Later that night she has sexual intercourse for the first time with her roommate, Adrien, during which she tries to bite him. Adrien resists her attempts so instead she sinks her teeth into her own arm until it bleeds, blending pleasure and pain in a way that is typical of the director’s aesthetic.
The use of cannibalism shows what lies beneath the surface of civilisation when self-control is stripped away; Ducournau said in an interview with The Guardian in 2017, “cannibalism is a part of humanity… this thing is in us, we just don’t want to see it”.
Julia Ducournau integrates monstrosity into the coming-of-age narrative, presenting audiences with something unexpected and challenging. In Junior, she recognises that female adolescence is full of unnerving changes and uses body horror throughout Junior’s experience to demonstrate this. By doing so she ‘deglamourizes’ puberty, offering an honest and relatable take. In Raw, she creates another monstrous coming-of-age narrative, this time about sexual awakening. The cannibalism metaphor allows Ducournau to present audiences with a primal, physical depiction of female sexuality that feels more authentic than what you might see in mainstream cinema. With her transgressive portrayal of women and her exploration of the monstrous feminine, Ducournau pushes boundaries and explores topics that are considered taboo in mainstream cinema, giving her films a fascinating new take on the female experience of bodily change and desire.