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*Warning: spoilers ahead*

The Bride! follows Ida (Jessie Buckley), a woman from 1930s Chicago, and her possession by the spirit of Frankenstein author Mary Shelley. The pair make quite the scene at dinner, publicly accusing crime boss Lupino of various femicides, before Ida is dragged out by security and thrown into a back alley. There, she is discovered by Lupino’s henchmen and murdered.

Elsewhere, Shelley’s very own monster - known affectionally as Frank (Christian Bale) - has tracked down renowned reanimation expert Dr Cornelia Euphronius (Annette Bening) and convinced her to fashion him a companion. The pair sneak into a nearby cemetery and dig up the recently buried Ida. They pump her full of a strange black medicine and then shock her back to life. She reawakens with no memory of her former self, and Frank names her Penelope. Pretty Penny. His bride.

The newly fashioned “lovers” take off into the night, but things quickly start to go wrong. Penelope doesn’t like the film Frank has taken her to, so she instead leads him into a nightclub. But she is attacked, and Frank ends up killing 2 of the men who tried to assault her. The pair flee, but they are photographed during their escape and news soon spreads of the monstrous murderers.

As Frank leads Penny on a tour of the American landmarks featured in his favourite Ronnie Reed (Jake Gyllenhaal) films, they are closely tailed by Detective Jake Wiles (Peter Sarsgaard) and his assistant Myrna Malloy (Annette Bening). Also closing in are Lupino’s henchmen, whom the crime boss accuses of failing to finish the job. All the while, the pair leave chaos in their wake: more murders, more petty crime, and an increasing number of female rioters who have been inspired by the so-called “bride”.

In my opinion, The Bride! was never supposed to be a feminist retelling of Frankenstein, or its untold sequel. Those are literal interpretations of the story set before us. Rather, director Maggie Gyllenhaal uses well known characters and ideas to tell her own story: that of the female condition, of women’s battles, of their isolation, their rage, and their fight for independence.

In the party scene towards the end of the film, Mary Shelley, speaking through The Bride, publicly names the abusers and assaulters of women who are now dead, murdered. This reminded me of the semi-prophet status sometimes attributed to writers: Shelley here functions as a medium through which the dead can share their stories, as a mouthpiece for those without a voice. Symbolically, Lupino and his henchmen also cut these women’s tongues out before killing them, and he stores them like keepsakes in a glass jar. Ew.

By using someone so culturally significant as Shelley, and a story so well known as Frankenstein, Gyllenhaal does the same thing. She tells her story of gendered violence and female rage through a familiar medium, in a more culturally paleatable way. It’s multi-layered, it’s wacky, and it works.

I loved the array of cultural references on which The Bride! is built. Paying homage to Shelley’s own 1818 novel Frankenstein, as well as the themes dicussed in her lesser-known novella Mathilda; to the original 1935 version of The Bride of Frankenstein and other iterations of the concept (most pleasing to me: copying the rendition of Puttin’ On the Ritz from Mel Brooks’ Young Frankenstein). Also, some broader nods to cultural phenomena of the day: 1930s jazz clubs, fashion trends, The Golden Age of Cinema, Bonnie & Clyde, and popular music (using ‘Twisted Sister Rages Against The Machine’ as a newspaper headline made me laugh out loud). There were also some more pointed references to other literary masterpieces, like Herman Melville’s Bartleby and his chaos-inducing phrase “I prefer not to”, repeated by The Bride herself, and Frankie’s appearance a la H G Wells’ The Invisible Man. Finally, scenes skipped about between sub-genres: gangster, noir, and musical were all incorporated into the film’s story and cinematography. To put it simply: The Bride! is a film firmly seated within its distinct literary, film, and social canon. Gyllenhaal is au fait with her references, and this what shines through.

So too do the performances of lead actors Buckley and Bale. Buckley injects her version of Shelley with a humorous wit and particular slyness, and her The Bride with charisma, sexiness, and confidence. On the other hand, Bale’s Frankie is quieter and more subdued, clearly wrestling with some inner demons and caught up in romantic notions of which his real life falls short. In such a wacky context, they both bring something grounding and convincing to their characters, and are pleasant to watch on screen.

But what struck me most about these characters was their nuanced portrayal of complicity and rejection in a patriarchal society. Ideas of (re)creation and autonomy are prominent throughout the film, and the pair begin like Adam and Eve: Eve was created as Adam’s earthly companion and helper, made from a part of him, designed to serve him. In a bodily sense, she is literally owned by him. So too was The Bride created for Frankie, without consideration of her own wishes regarding reincarnation or love. She is sold a lie of both herself and their relationship, and when she discovers the truth, she righly riots against both Frankie and the men who had wronged her in the past.

But Frankie is not a monster. He is a reserved person, given to romantic fancies, and suffering from a nervous disposition. He celebrates The Bride’s atypical femininity and encourages her self-discovery. He occupies a dichotomous position of non-traditional, kind and supportive partner, while also deceiving, manipulating, and being possessive towards The Bride. He limits and controls her, but also inspires her. I think this nuance sends a powerful message: Frankie isn’t the archetype of toxic masculinity, but his kindness and his victimhood do not negate the harmful patriarchal role he plays in their relationship. Men don’t have to be monsters to be complicit in the mistreatment of women.

Now to The Bride herself. I want to focus mainly here on how her character refutes the “perfect victim” trope. Throughout the film, she faces several counts of sexual violence. While full-blown assault or rape is never shown on screen, the threat of these is real and tangible (bravo Gyllenhaal for showing that this topic can be explored without (re)traumatising women with the worst of it, masterful handling). But The Bride’s response to these situations is not what we might expect: she doesn’t kick or scream or lecture the men on sexism; rather, she freezes. By taking such a bold, self-assured, resilient character and turning her into an example of the fawn / freeze / flight response, Gyllenhaal highlights that victims don’t need to react in the “right” or characteristic ways to be worthy victims.

This is shown again when she ultimately chooses to reunite with Frankie. This carries a message for both their characters: Frankie is not a fundamentally bad man and is capable of reform and self-improvement, while The Bride is not damned to rage against all men forever more. She chooses him again because he has changed, and she does so for how he can slot into her life, rather than how she can serve his.

Award season seems to be celebrating originality, with Sinners, Weapons, and One Battle After Another dominating the wins and nominations. Wuthering Heights, too - arguably a film of a similar female-directed modernising vein - has done rather well so far. So why has The Bride! tanked at the box office, and in public / critical opinion?

Coming hot on the heels of Guillermo del Toro’s 2025 adaptation of Shelley’s novel, perhaps audiences are still in a Frankenstein-fatigue. Or maybe The Bride! just didn’t get enough advertisement… I know it’s release was delayed, but as Jessie Buckley is one of the big hitters this award season, it seems a shame they didn’t push this a little more. (Especially considering I must have seen the trailer for Hail Mary 100 times and don’t get me wrong, it looks great, but where was the hype for The Bride!?).

But this doesn’t explain the criticsms of those who did make the trip to see it… it has been described by reviewers as discordant, clunky, incompetant, joyless, incoherent, as a collection of “random ‘madness’” (Movie Nation, March 2026). And I for one didn’t particularly enjoy the reduction of Shelley to an English-accent-having, impressive-vocabulary-weilding gimmick, as opposed to a meaningful plot device. But hey ho.

I will concede that the story was messy; it flitted between genres, had little logical drive, and sometimes got lost in its own messaging. But there was intention here: The Bride! is a scattering of ideas often pulled together in wacky ways, but this serves to (at times, artificially) construct and examine situations of gendered prejudice and violence in a recognisable context. For at its living, beating heart is a story we still need today: of female agency, empowerment, and pzazz. I think Reelviews (March 2026) sums my opinion up most effectively:

Ultimately, The Bride! has “cult classic” written all over it. It possesses very little mainstream appeal—it is simply too weird and outlandish for the average moviegoer—but there are enough flashes of brilliance to fascinate a niche audience in years to come.

Finally, a note on said pzazz: what may at times be lost in substance is certainly made up for in originality, cinematography, and ranchiness! The sheer ambition, scope, and artistry of this film is definitely worthy of praise. Especially in an era when the industry is increasingly saturated with remakes and billion dollar franchies; uniqueness and ambition of this ilk, no matter the financial or critical pay off, ought to be celebrated.

Overall, The Bride! is ambitious, thought-provoking, messy, eccentric, and cleverly-constructed. Formed of a mishmash of clashing parts, it is a charged and aesthetically wonderful film about female autonomy and power, and hers is a story it has lots of fun telling. It may not be everyone’s cup of tea, but it was certainly mine.

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6. Interview with the Vampire

★★1/2

I was so looking forward to this film: vampires and brillant actors, what’s not to love?! And don’t get me wrong, the acting was excellent, and I did still enjoy the concept, but overall it just felt… underwhelming. At just over two hours, a tight plot is stretched out into a dragging sequence of events, during which time I never quite felt like I got to know the characters. Sorry, I know this is a classic! But as someone who quite enjoys slow, introspective reading, I get the sense I’ll prefer the book.

5. [REC]

★★★

[REC] is a Spanish found footage film in the style of Blair Witch, but this time: about zombies. It follows a news presenter’s coverage of the fire service’s average evening - average until they end up locked in an apartment block during a zombie virus outbreak, that is. Despite the unrealistically fast response of the police to this outbreak (lol), I loved the mix of gore, paranoia, frustration, and violence. It was very real. They even used a real news presenter (with no prior acting credits) as the main character! Unfortunately, this is also where the film was held back for me… if anything, it was too realistic. By the end, all the screaming and shouting did my head in.

4. Little Evil

★★★

Little Evil is your bog standard horror comedy film. Apparently based on The Omen (which I haven’t seen), it’s about a creepy kid (complete with the Kubric stare) who his step-father suspects is actually the spawn of Satan. This was goofy, funny, and heart-warming. Nothing particularly different or special, and perhaps I would’ve got more out of it had I seen The Omen, but it was a fun watch nevertheless.

3. The Conjuring 2

★★★1/2

Paranormal horror is slowly becoming one of my favourite subgenres, sat just behind psychological. The way this franchise sets up the appearance of these supernatural creatures is great: just enough suspence to get you scared, with both creepily static and fast-paced reveals mixed in. While it’s a tried and true concept, the characters and feel of the house also made the big abandoned haunted house trope feel refreshed. Despite this, I’ve put The Conjuring 2 a couple places behind The Conjuring for a few reasons: 1. I didn’t understand who the Nun was, what she wanted, or why she was there; 2. The ending was quick and underwhelming; 3. The shitty British accents! 4. The smiling hat guy was not scary, it was funny to me.

2. A Nightmare on Elm Street (1984)

★★★1/2

This was an exceedingly goofy film. Thanks so much for the recommendation ! Freddy Krueger is a classic horror icon and he certainly didn’t disappoint! A unique concept, fresh villain, and enough gore to satisfy modern viewers (on this note, I so wanted to use a screenshot of Johnny Depp being turned into a blood fountain, but I refrained as it is quite gory…). I think it was good for what is is, but it didn’t get a higher rater as slashers just aren’t my thing. I need something with more story and purpose.

1. The Conjuring

★★★★

Top of my list this time is The Conjuring. Similar in style and story to The Conjuring 2, this one had an edge because it was simple. There was one spirit, who was researched and whose story was linked to the history of the house itself. Its possession of one of the characters was terrifying, and was much more effective than the cluster of spirits involved in the second film. The only real thing that held this back for me was the lack of wider world building. I’d love to know more about the paranormal investigators and it was interesting that the police were so on board with the supernatural - is this is known and accepted thing in society? I’d hoped the second film would have unpacked this a little more, but if anything, it was even less expansive.

I’m still very much enjoying the horror genre and I’ve added films like The Omen, Poltergeist, and The Others (thanks to ) to my list already. But please continue to leave your suggestions down below!

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10. El Conde (2023)

★★

This was a random pick from Netflix. And El Conde doesn’t shy away from the big questions, namely: what if we reimagined the most monstrous dictator in the history of Chile as a centuries-old vampire? Lol. This was a weird one, especially when Margaret Thatcher turns up mid-way through Pinochet’s mother?! It touches on the idea of obsolescence and the fickle collective memory, questioning how we can easily we let these people off the hook… just to let another iteration of the same awful leader take their place and commit more heinous acts? Unfortunately, it doesn’t do this very well. The message is unclear, the historic basis unsteady, and the only thing left to tie it all together are its stunning visuals.

9. Misery (1990)

★★1/5

I read Stephen King’s Misery book a few months ago now (you can check out my review of it here), and I finally got round to watching the film adaptation. It was… fine. It was mostly accurate to the original story, with its remote setting, sense of isolation and enclosure, and a mad number-one fan you’d never want to meet. Kathy Bates’ acting was a particular highlight. However, it left out two of my favourite moments! The scene where Annie slices off Paul’s finger, and the ending… where we find out that Annie survived her initial beating and managed to get herself downstairs to pick up a chainsaw. Considering how long the film is and how little happens, I thought it strange that these two iconic moments (for me, at least) were simply left out!

8. The Woman in Black (2012)

★★★

I read The Woman in Black when I was a (young) teenager and it felt pretty underwhelming. My understanding of the horror genre was limited, sure, but I just couldn’t understand why a grown man was so terrified of a chair rocking by itself! Unfortunately, I was left with much the same feeling while watching this film adaptation. It is atmospheric, with excellent set design and acting, but I just didn’t feel the fear factor. Perhaps that’s more a result of my unexplainable aversion to haunted house stories than any fault of the film, though…

7. Heretic (2024)

★★★

I’d heard good things about Heretic - I don’t think it actually won much, but I know it was also nominated for quite a few awards last season. I really like the premise: the idea that all religions are simply metaphors for control, and by way of a twisted game, our protagonist hopes to spiritually “enlighten” two Mormon girls to his way of thinking. The film successfully builds a sense of dread (largely through Grant’s brilliantly dark characterisation of Reed), cultimating in several tasteful scenes of gore. However, I felt it was let down by the execution of its premise. Grant pretty much plays your “average atheist”, and while I understand not every audience member would particularly enjoy a few hours of theological debate, what was included in the film felt pretty stunted. As such, it felt like it was using religion for aesthetic’s sake, rather than to advance any kind of argument. I suppose I was left knowing I had watched a decent film, but wondering what the point of it had been.

6. You’re Next (2011)

★★★

A slasher film with a pretty standard concept: You’re Next features a family picked off one by one by axe-wielding murderers in their holiday home. The acting in this was pretty crap, but the overall concept was well-executed. It was just funny how the main character Erin, new to the family, happens to have been raised on a survivalist compound which equipped her with the exact skills to defend herself during this home invasion. I had a fun time watching this, but it was nothing special.

5. Halloween (1978)

★★★1/2

I know it’s one of the og horror films, but this was very goofy. Michael slowly walking toward his victims, ominous music playing, lying flat on the ground then randomly vanishing. I found it hilarious. Anyway, this was a good one. The framing of violence, first-person camera work, moody atmosphere, and personification of evil, all great tropes which are executed simply and profoundly in this film.

4. Halloween (2018)

★★★1/2

Just one higher on the list is the sequel / remake Halloween, which came out 2018. It follows several (11) other Halloween films which enjoyed varying success, but the story itself ignores these. Rather, it continues directly on from the original. Jamie Lee Curtis shines as the post-traumatic Laurie, who prepares to face Michael 40 years after his original killing spree. The horror here is much more effective - there are no gimmicky musical effects, and Michael’s apparent invicibility makes for a terrifying villain.

3. The Babadook (2014)

★★★1/2

Can I start by saying that the kid, truly, was one of the most annoying characters I have ever come across?! Understandably so, too, considering how little parenting he has been subjected to in his short life. The Babadook is a masterful depiction of mental illness, specifically depression, and the impact it has on those around us. It is a looming figure in every corner of their lives, slowly isolating them from others, filling their house, and chipping away at their sanity. It lies in the dark, threatening but never seen - psychological horror is definitely my favourite sub-genre!

2. So I Married an Axe Murderer (1993)

★★★★

I absolutely love this film. It doesn’t particularly belong on this list since it isn’t horror, but I’d say crime is close enough. Charlie is a beat poet with a fear of committment, but he vows to put this scared-y streak behind him when he meets Harriett, the woman of his dreams. But he soon fears that his new beau is actually Mrs X, a serial killer who drops her husbands shortly after marrying them… drops them dead. Quirky, dark, and delightful, this is such a comfort watch for me.

1. Young Frankenstein (1974)

★★★★1/2

The first film on the list is Young Frankenstein, Mel Brooks’ parody of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein. I love all Mel Brooks’ films, but this one especially. The scene with the candle-operated bookcase is one of my all-time favourite moment in comedy. I must have seen this film a good five or six times now, and it’s just as good with each rewatch. Spooky, romantic, and stereotypically Gothic in all the best ways, this is the Frankenstein retelling you didn’t know you needed.

We’re planning on having a horror movie marathon this weekend too, so leave your recommendations in the comments below! We’ve already seen most of the classics / popular ones, so feel free to suggest something more off-kilter too :)

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*Warning: spoilers ahead*

Weapons is a horror film written and directed by Zach Creggar. It details the mystery of the 17 children who ran run away from home on the same night at exactly 2:17am. All students were from the same class, and only one boy remained: Alex Lilly (Cary Christopher). The film follows a non-linear narrative, focusing on the perspectives of 6 key characters.

Justine Gandy

Justine (Julia Garner) is the children’s teacher. We pick up with her a month after the children’s disappearance. She has been placed on leave amid rising community suspicison that she was responsible for the children’s disappearance. She has been branched a witch. She feels lonely and ostracied, and resorts to alcoholism to cope. She starts an affair with her married ex-boyfriend, police officer Paul Morgan (Alden Ehrenreich). Despite being barred from speaking to Alex, she is concerned for his welfare and so decides to follow him home. She finds his house locked and the windows boarded up with newspaper.

I loved this opening. It felt very normal. Very real. Also, Justine is a great character - highly convincing. I especially like that Creggar doesn’t paint her as a traditional vicitm. While she subject to this community witch-hunt, she doesn’t crumble. She doesn’t back down or try to hide away. Nor does she fake an act of “innocence”. Rather, she stays true to herself and exhibits quite rational signs of depression. The anger and hatred levied at her also help build a sense of foreboding.

Archer Graff

Archer (Josh Brolin) is the father of one of the missing boys. Lacking faith in the police, he decides to start his own investigation. He reviews the footage from the security camera outside his house, and then compares it to that of another parent’s. He draws the trajectory of the two kids’ paths on a map and discovers that they were heading in the same direction, and would converge in the same area of town.

The only thing that I didn’t like about this section of film was the inconsistency with how driven Archer’s character is. We’ve seen him stalk and intimidate Justine. We’ve seen him almost force his way into the other parents’ house to view their security cam footage. So why then doesn’t he investigate his discovered point of convergence further? Find more parents to interview? Trek out there himself? It just felt a little like he was only holding back to serve a plot point (i.e. him and Justine going together, later).

Paul Morgan

Then, we return to police officer Paul. We see him out on patrol arresting a homeless man called James (Austin Abrams) for attempted burlary. But he is forced to release him from custody after the police vehicle’s dash cam captures Paul assaulting him.

Paul is a really horrible guy. I was actually surprised that he told his commanding officer about the assault, but I suppose it makes it easier knowing that he’s your girlfriend’s dad. I’m not sure if Paul’s character is supposed to be a commentary on the corruption and bad attitude of some police officers, but it certainly felt that way. But Creggar handled this delicately, and with an air of comedy which made it feel less like a political statement and more like a happy observation.

James

After his lucky(?) escape from Paul, James wanders around aimlessly looking for a place to stay. Or to rob. He eventually stumbles across Alex’s house, which he presumably thinks is abandoned due to the newspaper in the windows. He breaks in through an upstairs window and starts shoving anything valuable he can find into a bag. But when he goes downstairs, he finds Alex’s parents sat motionless in the dark. When they don’t react to his presence, he just goes on stealing. Then, he makes his way down further, into the basement. Here, he finds the class of school kids stood at regular intervals in a catatonic state. Properly freaked out, he flees the house and goes to a broker to sell the items he stole. On the wall of the shop, he sees an advert offering a $50,000 reward for anyone who knows the whereabouts of the missing children. So, he decides to go to the police.

But before he can make it into the station, he is intercepted by a very angry Paul. He is taken down and arrested. James tells him about the missing children and, for some reason, Paul decides to trust him - perhaps so he could take the reward for himself. He drives them both to the house before leaving James in the car as he goes to investigate. Hours later, Paul reemerges and drags James inside.

So, things are amping up. There’s something about a lack of action which really gets me. The idea that anything is possible, that all manner of horrors are lying just around the corner… that’s what makes this film so scary. Not in its gore or jump scares or even really its plot, but in those moments of silence which make your insides curl and your hands sweat.

Marcus Miller

Marcus (Benedict Wong) is the principle of Alex’s school, and the one who placed Justine on leave earlier in the film. Now we follow his meeting with Gladys (Amy Madigan), a woman claiming to be Alex’s aunt. He had contacted Alex’s parents and asked them to come into the school for a welfare check, but Gladys claims they are unwell. Marcus insists on seeing them himself, offering to come by their house later that week.

But before he gets a chance, Gladys makes an inpromptu visit to his house. She carries out a ritual which entraps Marcus and places him under her command. She tells him to kill his husband, Terry, and then to find Justine. We see him running in the same way as the children, with his arms outstretched, and in a perfect line toward Justine. She escapes with the help of Archer, and we see Marcus fatally hit by a car before he can reach her again.

I loved this section of the film. We get to see that, while Archer may be somewhat blinded by the despair he feels at the loss of his son and his determination to get him back, he is still a decent man. He protects Justine and resolves to work with her, giving her the benefit of the doubt. We also finally understand what happened to those kids - how they got into the basement, why Alex is the only one left, and why he’s scared to tell anyone. This section is violent, well-paced, and doesn’t give too much away. For one question still remains: why has Gladys done this?

Alex Lilly

By this point, Archer has confided in Justine about his supposed whereabouts of the missing kids and the pair decide to pay Alex’s home a visit. Meanwhile, we are finally taken throuh Alex’s story. Gladys, as we may have already guessed, is a witch who has the power to enchant her victims and use their life force to improve her own health, or command them to do her bidding. She came into Alex’s life unexpectedly and placed his parents under her spell, using them as bargaining chips to force Alex to submit to her will. She orders him to assist her in trapping his classmates in the basement so she might use them to escape her own illness.

This is why I love films told from different perspectives. Not only do you get better insights into the personalities and motivations, but you also get to see a story unravel in an unconventional way. In horror, I think this works particularly well. It helps build the mystery, build the tension, before giving you the answers in one horrifying dump. And in the case of Weapons, that is made even more effective given that the character at the centre of it all is just a kid.

The ending

Justine and Archer enter Alex’s house and are immediately attacked by Paul and James, now under Gladys’ spell. A gory fight ensues but is put to an abrupt end when Justine steals Paul’s gun and fires 2 fatal shots. Archer then ventures down into the basement where he finds his son, but Gladys is waiting in the shadows and gains control of Archer too, sending him back upstairs to attack Justine. Meanwhile, Alex is upstairs, being chased by his parents. He manages to lock himself in the bathroom for long enough to cast a spell himself; and this time, it’s for Gladys. The children emerge from the basement and chase her out of the house and around the neighbourhood, before catching up and jumping on her. They tear her apart like savage beats. Her death frees them from her spell, but they remain trapped in a half-conscious state.

This was a very statisfying closing sequence. Gladys got what she deserved, but there were no happy endings, as such. There was humour laced throughout the film, but it’s here that Creggar really brings it to the foreground. He somehow toes the line between fear and comedy in a way which highlights both, which serves to alternatively alleviate and deepen tension. The real highlight of the film for me, though, is its focus on a barbaric loss of innocence - the children are forever damaged by what Gladys has done, and for me, it draws parallels to the fall out after a mass shooting. Especially since the kids are barely in this film. Just like in America, where school shootings are rarely about the kids…

Q: Have you seen this film? What did you think?

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Emerald Fennell, director of hit film Barbie (2023) and Saltburn (2023), has set her sights on Emily Brontë’s Wuthering Heights for her next project. Styled as an adaptation of the 1847 Gothic novel, the film stars Margot Robbie and Jacob Elordi will star as Catherine Earnshaw and Heathcliff respectively. It is set to release on 13 February 2026, just in time for Valentine’s Day.

And honestly, this tells you everything you need to know about Fennell’s version. It is purported to be erotic, and profoundly so. Apparently the film opens with a public hanging where the “condemned man ejaculated mid-execution”, which prompts the observing crowd to descend into an “orgiastic frenzy”. I don’t even know what to say to that.

But anyway, let’s take a look at the trailer:

Set to Charli xcx’s ‘Everything is romantic’, we see a descriptively-inaccurate, much aged Cathy and Heathcliffe in 1980s(?) fashion and home decor. I’m actually not mad about the song choice - I think it’s cool when directors choose to modernise elements of the narrative - but it all just feels… disjointed? Because this isn’t a modernisation, it’s a misrepresentation.

Let’s start with the basic facts. This film is an adaptation, not a modernisation, nor an interpretation, not a ‘based on’ inspiration, but a book-to-film adaptation. And therein lies the route of all my quibbles. Had this been billed as an original, I would actually be excited to see it - there’s some interesting imagery in the trailer about sexuality and BDSM. Like the lashes on Heathcliff’s back given by Hindley in their childhood, and Hindley then inflicting the same lashes on his wife. Or Isabella’s weird dog-like acting perhaps mirroring Heathcliff’s killing of her dog upon their marriage? But none of this can be remotely linked to the original text.

Nor can the physical appearance of our two protagonists be found in Brontë’s writing.

For starters, Catherine is brown-haired, and dies at age 19. While Margot Robbie is a great actress and beautiful woman, I don’t think she can pass for 19. Neither can Jacob Elordi - Heathcliff is even younger, aged around 15 at this time. I know actors are often aged up slightly in stories about teenagers, but you’d hardly excuse a 35-year-old playing Juliet in a production of Shakespeare!

Further than this, though, is the whitewashing of Heathcliff. In the text, he is described as:

He is a dark-skinned gypsy in aspect

While the race of Heathcliff has always been a subject of debate (“gypsy” did not have the same meaning as it does today), it is clear that Heathcliff is not white. And this has major connotations for the personality and treatment of his character. It is integral to the story, and to the strange love affair he has with Catherine. Quite why Fennell decided to change this (and then to cast a person of colour as Linton!) is beyond me. Perhaps it will become clear when the film is released, but I suspect the whole subject of race has been removed entirely.

I have a similar point to make about class and the apparent living situation the pair find themselves in. It is clear from the trailer that this is not a lower class family - why? Why live on the moors and work as they do if they have all this money? Where has it come from? What implications does this have for the characters? I’m unclear as to whether Fennell has thought about this, or even why it has been changed. In two respects, stories of marginalised groups have been washed away, and that doesn’t sit well with me.

And it’s not just because you’d expect the key aspects of a book to be kept in an adaptation. But it’s also because of representation. Of minority groups in media today, and to act as proof that they have been represented in the past. Might it not help reverse the rhetoric that immigration is a new issue? That racial minorities ought not to exist on the British Isles? Bigotry and hatred are on the rise in the UK and America - not everything needs to be a statement against this, but it’s important to question why these elements have been removed. Literature is by nature political and Brontë’s work is no exception. This is not just a whitewashing, it is a rejection of literary history and it’s intersection with the history of marginalised groups. In an age when fewer people are picking up books and more are becoming reliant on social media and film as a means of accessing history and literature, is it not important to be faithful to the original material? Like I said earlier, I would have no problem is this film had been billed as an original.

My last thought on this matter concerns the erotic-isation of the relationship between Catherine and Heathcliff. Anyone who’s read Wuthering Heights will know that the pair don’t exactly have the most traditional relationship, and Heathcliff’s obsession with Cathy, even post-mortum, is a staple example of longing in Gothic fiction. But at the time, and for a female author like Brontë, this was also radical. The kind of longing we see in the trailer is very different - it takes a more body-centred approach, demonstrating desire through touch rather than yearning, through kinks like whipping and play acting rather than tormented inner thoughts. Heathcliff’s obsession in the book is characterised by his lack of possession, his restraint. In the film, through physicality. Equally depraved, but modernised. This is something I could get behind if the film were a modernisation of the story as a whole, but within the context of Brontë’s own time, it feels like a reduction of the Gothic trope.

Thus ends my rambling. I apologise if my arguments aren’t particularly nuanced, or if you spot any grammatical errors - I wrote this on my lunch break and I haven’t had time to read it over! I just wanted to get this down and out.

What are your thoughts on the trailer? Does it look like a film you’d like to see? Let me know in the comments below. And please, if you disagree with me, be nice.

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Alias Grace is a near-500-page fictional account of the real-life Grace Marks, a young Irish emigrant who came over to Canada in the early 1800s. She worked as a servant throughout her childhood and, at age 15, was tried for the murders of her master Thomas Kinnear and his housekeeper Nancy Montgomery. James McDermott, her so-called co-conspirator, was sentenced to hang for his involvement in the crime. Grace, on the other hand, was given life imprisonment - a lesser sentence due to her youth and supposed half-wittedness.

From the Trial Pamphlet, (1843) Grace Marks (left) sketched with James McDermott (right). Source: Wikipedia

Although the book is based on real events, Atwood also invents situations and characters to aid her storytelling, namely the doctors Simon Jordan and "Neuro-Hypnotist" DuPont. Grace’s personal history is primarily told through her interviews with Dr Jordan, who is researching the mental faculties and behaviours of criminals. Through these interviews, Atwood presents the crime in much the same way as it was back in 1843: through the lens of female seduction, murder, and malady. But she does not attempt to answer the question at its core - whether Grace committed it; rather, she focuses on the character of Grace herself and the validity of the accusations levied against her by a patriarchal society and medical system.

Having read some of the reviews on Goodreads, it seems some of the lower ratings were attributed to the book’s unsatisfying conclusion. But I think this reaction misses the point. As an historian by training and an archivist by trade, I for one am very comfortable in not knowing. The stories we glean from the past must be based in truth - it is not worth our while to guess - but it also cannot escape out attention that this truth is subjective. This is what Atwood is trying to show us: that there is no such thing as absolute truth. There are individuals and their experiences, and there are the stories attached to them by others. As Grace herself says:

He doesn't understand yet that guilt comes to you not from the things you've done, but from the things that others have done to you.

It doesn’t matter whether or not Grace committed the crime, what matters is that others think she has. Because this ostenciably means that she did.

As Dr Jordan is reviewing the circumstances surrounding Grace’s incarceration, the question of her sanity and the validity of her sentencing is raised. Can someone be to blame if they are indeed half-witted? Or if they claim not to remember the crime? Or if their body is taken over by the spirit of their dead friend? Regardless of my personal response to these questions, they become more interesting when viewed in the light of gender.

Atwood is no stranger to the science, both medical and mystic, that was used to diagnose and treat those with mental illnesses in the early 19th century. I have written an article on this myself, in fact, so I won’t tread over old ground. All I’ll say is that Grace well understood the difficulty of refuting the label “murderess” once it had been attached to her:

If I am good enough and quiet enough, perhaps after all they will let me go; but it’s not easy being quiet and good, it’s like hanging on to the edge of a bridge when you’ve already fallen over; you don’t seem to be moving, just dangling there, and yet it is taking all your strength.

The doctors clearly believe Grace to be an hysteric. A girl rendered victim to her emotions. In the early 19th century, hysteria was a uniquely female disorder, and one which was often brought on by circumstance. Of course, it was often placed over real cases of post-partum depression, anxiety, bipolar disorder, etc. But it was also attached to those women who did not fit the social norm. Divorcées. Mothers. Individuals. And it was even sought-after - as a means of escaping financial ruin, domestic abuse, or any other manner of social ills. That is to say: in all cases, hysteria was a woman’s burden, and it was a diagnosis levied at those deemed undesirable to occupy a space in society.

Grace is, therefore, a victim of sorts. She is at the mercy of social expectation and prevalent (although incorrect) ideas about mental health in women. She is not only at the mercy of public opinion, but also of the medics themselves, whose misguided approach has the power both to liberate and to condemn her.

The final point I’d like to touch on is that of female sexuality, which is often wound up with ideas about the female mind (with regards to hysteria and one’s inclination to crime). Grace is treated abusively by both the male and female adults in her life, but it is a particular kind of sexual abuse that is levied at her by men:

For God's sake, shut your mouth, you slut. You stupid whore.

McDermott says. These put downs come in response to her talking, having an opinion, having autonomy. When she refuses to sleep with him, she is a whore. When she talks to another man, you guessed it: a whore. No matter what Grace does, any behaviour that the qualifying man doesn’t agree with earns her this label. Of course there is the frequently-made point about female “whores” really being victims of rape or abuse, and about the fact that the men calling them that are often more whorish themselves. But I want to touch on another point here: Grace’s degradation to a seductress. She, at age 15 and earlier, is accused of seducing McDermott into carrying out her evil will. This is clearly preposterous, but Atwood doesn’t actually exclude it as a possibility - she lets us sit in this ambiguity, and in doing so calls attention to the same line of argument which is unfortunately still used today. That our Lolitas bend our Humberts to their wills through expressions of sexuality, and that it is them, not the men, who are thus to blame.

It is no wonder, then, in such a world that Grace had thoughts of violence.

If we were all on trial for our thoughts, we would all be hanged.

But these thoughts and their accompanying emotions are transitory - dire circumstances do not necessarily lead to crime, nor can they be to blame for it. [I sense a backlash against this, oops]. By placing so much impetus on women’s moods and expressions attribute actions to them which they would not dream of committing. And which men, in fact, do commit, every day.

This article has turned into more of a response than a review, but all in all, I thoroughly enjoyed Alias Grace. I was a little worried about the length of it - I always try to mix up my reading and I fear I’ll DNF if I’m stuck in the same time, place, and body for too long. But I knew I liked Atwood - Hairball, Hagseed and The Handmaid’s Tale already being among my favourites - so I thought I’d give it a go. And I’m so glad I did! As always, Atwood’s writing is well-researched, evocative and holds a subtle power. She has a real talent for storytelling. So yes, Alias Grace was most certainly a 5 star read which I would highly recommend to you all.

Have you read Alias Grace? Which Atwood novel should I try next?

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*Warning: spoilers ahead*

Synopsis

28 Years Later picks up the story, surprisingly enough, 28 years after the original outbreak of the so-called ‘rage-virus’. We learn that the virus has now been eradicated from mainland Europe, and the UK left to fend for itself under an indefinite quarantine. In true 28 fashion, the story focuses on a different family, in a different part of the country. This time, our protagonist is Spike (Alfie Williams), a 12-year-old boy, and his parents: Jamie (Aaron Taylor-Johnson) and Isla (Jodie Comer). They are part of a small community living on Lindisfarne, an island off the coast of the north east of England. They lead a relatively safe existence, as passage onto the island is dictated by a natural causeway which floods at high tide.

This is a coming-of-age story. It starts with Jamie taking his son to the mainland for his first hunt. Spike is terrified, and only manages to kill the slow, slug-like infected which crawl awkwardly towards them. The pair are then chased down by a group of infected, and so are forced to stay on the island overnight. It is here that we also catch a glimpse of our first Alpha: a mutated, stronger version of a standard infected. It chases them back to Lindisfarne, but the two make it home alive.

To celebrate the end of his first hunt, the village throws Spike a party. But he leaves early, upset at his dad’s embellishment of the truth in his recount of their time on the mainland. We watches his dad leave too in the company of another woman. Upset, Spike returns home.

Here he talks to Sam, a family friend, who lets slip the existence of one Dr Ian Kelson (Ralph Fiennes), a former GP who now lives in exile on the mainland. The next morning, Spike confronts his father about his sneaking off, and his lying about there being no doctors left to treat his mum. Despite Jamie’s insistence that Dr Kelson is insane and of no use to them, Spike decides to take matters into his own hands. He wakes his mother early the next day, and the pair venture onto the mainland, alone.

It is not long before the pair run into trouble, but they are swiftly saved by gun-wielding Swedish Navy seaman Erik Sundqvist (Edvin Ryding), whose quarantine patrol boat was stranded on the coast a few days prior. He is the only survivor from his team, and he decides to join their ranks. But this doesn’t last long as poor Eric is soon picked off by the Alpha we met earlier. Before it can reach Spike and Isla, however, it is shot and incapacitated by a morphine-xylazine dart shot by none other than Dr Kelson.

Dr Kelson takes Spike and his mum back to his home, at the centre of which lies the monument pictured on many of the film’s posters and promotional images [above]. It is a structure made of human skulls, collected by Dr Kelson over the years, cleaned and assembled in recognition of death: a memento mori.

He inspects Isla and concludes that she has terminal cancer. Isla accepts her diagnosis and arranges her euthanasia. Moments later, Dr Kelson returns with Isla’s skull, and gives it to Spike to place at the top of his monument.

Spike, still feeling disillusioned, takes off alone. 28 days later (ha!), we join him as he is being chased through the mainland by a group of infected - but he lucks out: a cult styled after Jimmy Savile shows up to save him! Now there’s a unique sentence. This is where 28 Years Later ends, and evidently where the next film will pick up.

Review

In keeping with my thoughts on the earlier films, 28 Years Later was an ok watch. I liked the characters, their relationships, the core themes, and especially the film’s visuals. It felt like a natural continuation of the overarching story, while also adding a few fresh elements to keep the infected story moving. That being said, I also had some issues with the film, which are summarised below:

And the world keeps turning

Erik’s character, although short lived, was a useful inclusion as he is emblematic of the gulf that has grown between the UK and the rest of Europe. His references are lost on Spike, who also has no clue what Erik’s iPhone is or does. Luckily, its battery has survived just long enough for him to show Spike a picture of his girlfriend, clad in makeup and with obvious lip-filler. Spike’s negative comments are clearly intended to spark reflection on the absurdity of the things western society cares about: we are obsessed with appearances, while there are those our world, like Spike in his, who are just fighting to survive. A good message, but one which I believe was handled poorly. It came off less like a social statement and more like an individualist, derogatory remark about a woman’s appearance (which is how we got to this point in the first place!). I just don’t think the film had enough time to explore this issue with the nuance and compassion it deserves, so it ought to have been left out entirely.

Deep themes, poorly explored

This leads me to my next point: 28 Years Later touched on some pretty big themes, but often only in superficial detail. Some of these themes are:

• Motherhood. I still have very mixed / confused feelings on the childbirth scene (you’ll have noted I left it out of my synopsis too). I may revisit this, but for now it’s just a bit… eh.

• Masculinity and childhood. A pretty standard, coming-of-age-during-the-apocalypse story; Spike loses his innocence and is forced to grow up too quickly. More than this, but he is also grappling with his identity: as an individual and as a man. The inflation of the truth in Jamie’s account of their expedition, his absenteeism, the health of Isla… all this leads him to mentally take on the “leader of the home” role, as is traditionally reserved for a man. His masculinity is modelled on that shown to him by his father: guarded and cruel. I really liked this aspect of the film, but I felt it never really said anything. Is this bad? Is it good? How does it impact Spike?

• Isolation and folklore. Spike is warned not to engage with those living on the mainland. This points to a societal regression to a state of self-preservation, in which story-telling plays acts as a preventative measure. We later find this folklore to be false, at least as it relates to Dr Kelson. We are yet to see whether Jimmy’s cult will refute these claims too, but at the moment, this theme also feels rather under-explored.

Low stakes

Nothing irks me more than a character with an unbelievable amount of plot armour. Unfortunately, this is the case with Spike. On his first expedition to the mainland, we see a frightened 12-year-old boy with hardly any fighting (or generally lived) experience. We sympathise with him, we understand he is being pushed before his time. But mere days later he has become something different altogether: a man confident enough to take his sick mother into the throws of the infected in an effort to find her a cure. Perhaps he is driven by desperation. Sure. But that doesn’t explain his astronomic levels of luck: he escapes the multiple hoards of infected, the Alpha (3 times), and is on every occasion saved by a fortuitously-placed, impossibly benevolent stranger. First it’s Erik, then Dr Kelson, and finally Jimmy’s cult. All that to say: it was difficult to feel any sense of danger. The whole thing was just too… scripted.

The ending.

I should reiterate that 28 Years Later was an enjoyable film. And the issues I have with it may well be down to the fact that it is the first in a series, so it is unfair to judge it entirely on its own. On the points mentioned so far, I will thus remain open. However, what I cannot excuse is this film’s ending, which was… bizarre.

Like I said, this is a coming-of-age story. And by the end of the film, Spike finally seems to be getting somewhere: he has accepted his mother’s death, and he has chosen to venture into the world by himself. With lessened fear. Keen to find himself. But now Danny Boyle decides that there is one question that still needs to be asked: hat would happen if a young boy who loved Jimmy Saville and the Power Rangers grew up in a zombie apocalypse? Some non-British audience may have missed the parallels, but to us the Jimmy cult bears a striking resemblance to TV personality Jimmy Savile. For anyone who isn’t aware, Savile died in 2011, and the next year was exposed in a serious of public allegations for hundreds of sexual crimes against adults and children, mostly female.

At the time of the original virus, these allegations would therefore have not yet come to light. Savile would merely be the charitable presenter of Top of the Pops and Jim'll Fix It. As I mentioned earlier, it’s interesting to question what the UK might look like had it been left in cultural stasis around 2002, but I just don’t think this is the right way to go about it. Many of Savile’s victims and / or their families are still working through the trauma of their experiences. And, in some cases, investigations are still ongoing. This case is still too close to the hearts and memories of the British public to be depicted in so comical a fashion. I suppose we’ll have to wait and see where the next film goes with these characters, but I’m not sure I’ll be paying to find out.

What did you think about this film?

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Warning: *spoilers ahead*

Synopsis

When best-selling writer Paul Sheldon gets into a drunken car accident, he is rescued by none other than his biggest fan: Annie Wilkes. Annie is an ex-nurse and lover of Paul’s Misery books. Not quite believing her luck, she decides to keep Paul for herself, refusing to take him to the hospital or to notify anyone of his whereabouts. She gets him started on a course of painkillers, to which he quickly becomes addicted.

But relations between the two quickly turn sour when Annie reads the latest of Paul’s works: Misery’s Child, and discovers that he had killed off the titular character! She flies into a blind rage and takes off, leaving Paul alone in a locked room for 2 days. With no food, no water, and no painkillers.

Annie returns with a wheelchair and a typewriter, and orders Paul to write another book bringing Misery back to life. So he does, and this becomes his main occupation in captivity. Aside from sneaking out. Which Annie knows about, by the way. And when she confronts him about this, Paul makes the grave mistake of lying about how often he’d escaped, and what he did while he was out. So, Annie decides to punish him: first by chopping off his foot with an axe, and later by removing part of his thumb with an electric knife.

It’s clear that she’s only keeping him alive so he can finish writing Misery’s Return. The two are hardly friends, and by this point in the novel her moods have worsened, and her behaviour become more erratic. She even murders the state trooper sent to search for Paul in broad daylight. So, he hatches a plan. He asks Annie for a cigarette, claiming that he always smokes one after finishing a book. Blinded by her excitement to read the Paul’s final Misery book, Annie concedes. And when Paul finishes, she rushes into the room in jubilation.

She finds Paul holding a lit match, not to a cigarette, but to his finished manuscript (or what Annie believes to be his finished manuscript). She dives to save the burning pages and Paul takes the opportunity to hit her over the head with the typewriter. A horrible fight ensues.

The next day, the police find a terrified Paul curled up on the bathroom floor, and Annie in the barn downstairs, her dead body gripping a chainsaw.

Review

This was my first experiece of a Stephen King Book. And I have to say that I did enjoy it, just not as much as I’d hoped.

I was surprised by how simplistic his prose is. Not that this is necessarily a bad thing, I suppose I was just expecting more from such a successful author. That being said, I do think his writing style is effective: stripping the narrative back to just Paul’s thoughts and experiences makes them all the more horrific.

Furthermore, I’ve seen some criticism of King’s inclusion of Paul’s Misery excerpts, but I actually really enjoyed this. They don’t add much to the overall story, sure, besides perhaps an insight into Paul’s psyche, but I found myself engrossed by the them. My only criticism here is that I wanted more. Paul spends so much of the book thinking about and writing this final installment, it seems like an oversight not to include more of it. Why is Annie so obsessed with these characters? Why does he hate them so much? And even: what were the other Misery books like?

This may have helped push the story along a little. As it stands, not much actually happens. Most of the narrative is a reflection of Paul’s inner world, and while this is insightful and terrifying, it does get a little repetitive. I suppose that may have been purposeful, to show how every day in confinement feels the same, but it just dragged for me.

Sexism

Now I want to get into a more contentious issue: King’s treatment of women. The sexism in this book is actually something that passed me by at first. I just felt uncomfortable reading it. I initially put this down to the horror genre, as sometimes it can make me feel a little squeamish, but the feeling persisted after I’d finished reading it. I eventually figured out that I was made uncomfortable by King’s descriptions and treatment of Annie. I’d heard that she was a strong female character, and that King is good at writing women, so perhaps I’d shoved this thought to the back of my mind. Of course, Misery is the only book I’ve read by him, and perhaps the sexism is just a product of its time (although this doesn’t mean I have to feel comfortable about it). Regardless, here’s my 2 cents on the matter.

On the surface, King’s portrayal of a woman capturing and torturing a man is a refreshing subversion of a traditional horror trope. However, it is just that: surface-level. If we drill down any further, it becomes clear that Annie is nothing more than a misogynistic stereotype. Let’s consider that from a few angles:

• Annie as caregiver. Annie is an ex-nurse: a traditionally feminine role. She is also presented as quite motherly. She cares for Paul, chastides him for swearing, and infantilises him by making him entirely dependent on her. There is even an element of a Freudian relationship here, for example when she makes Paul suck tablet dust from her fingers. It is revolting, sexual, and a perversion of a generally female role. Despite this, Annie is still firmly within her socially-determined place: at home, as care-giver.

• Annie as fangirl. Paul’s disdain for his Misery series stems in part from its largely female audience. He views their passion for emotional and romantic stories as low brow, and is emasculated by their control of his commercial success. He’d much rather focus on more masculine, less financially rewarding, works like his Fast Cars manuscript. King therefore presents “feminine” forms of storytelling as less creatively valuable. Annie herself fits into the role of crazed female fan: she compulsively consumes his work, is very emotionally invested in it, etc. On a broader scale, she also fits into the social category of the crazed woman: governed by her emotions, becoming violent when she does not get her way. This regressive stereotype has existed for a millenia.

• Annie as consumer. When she makes him burn his Fast Cars manuscript and return to the Misery series, she represents the ever-demanding (female) consumer. She forces him, the writer, to fulfill her wants: orders him to churn out pages at the cost of his physical and mental health, robs him of his autonomy, all for her enjoyment. Writing is not something done by women in King’s novels, but it is appropriated by them in the role of consumer. This points to the very real problems of writer burn-out and devaluation of creativity, but King’s criticisms are misplaced. He should direct this at the capitalist-driven consumer-culture, not the consumer herself.

• Annie as non-feminine. Annie’s physical and psychological dominance over Paul is a reserval of traditional gender dynamics. However, it is not the nature of her power over him (i.e. torture) which is presented as horrific, but the fact that she has power at all. The focus is constantly on Paul’s emasculation, and on his view that Annie is not an attractive woman. She becomes a grotesque figure of unnatural power due to her unwomanly physical appearance and uncharacteristic behavioural traits. She becomes the stand-in for all unattractive women, at least those women not deemed attractive enough to be treated properly by a male-dominated society.

Therefore, while Annie may be a fleshed-out character with opinions and a drive of her own, this does not make her a good female character. She may not be the victim of the story, but she is a monster, and it is the kind of monstrosity she depicts that concerns me.

The other element of sexism in Misery, which was more readily apparent to me, is King’s use of rape metaphors. Within the first few pages, Paul describes Annie’s resuscitation of him as a kind of rape. This immediately made me feel uncomfortable as it just isn’t similar at all. It’s clearly designed to shock, but why?

It gives the reader a clear indication of Paul’s sentiments towards Annie. And also a clear impression of his disgust towards her physicality. However, it’s also doing something more sinister: in reversing the typical rape narrative, especially when it concerns a life-giving act, King presents Paul as being stripped of his typical masculine power (over women).

This euphemism is repeated on two further occasions throughout the book. I found a great essay on male power and masochism in Misery, and there are a couple of quotes on this subject I’d like to highlight:

all this male masochism merely leads to the triumphant assertion of masculinity in the end. As feminist critics have not failed to note, the “violence and bodily invasions in Misery begin with Annie’s oral ‘rape’ of Paul,” but they “end as Paul shoves burning manuscript-bond down Annie’s throat, thinking ‘I’m gonna rape you all right, Annie’” (Bosky, Bernadette Lynn, p. 154).

“In order to reassert the gender identity necessary for creativity in Stephen King’s metaphorical uni verse, Annie must be raped. . . . Thus Annie’s orifices must be filled—especially her demanding mouth—her power over thrown, and her sexual creative passivity re-imposed” (Lant, Kathleen Margaret, p. 110).

This goes back to the idea of Annie’s power originating in her role as consumer. By stripping Paul of his voice, she is usurpsing his position as creator. Taking this back is presented as a heavily gendered, very violent act of rape. As a female reader, I found this incredibly uncomfortable. I have to say that I don’t think this kind of sexism is deliberate, but it shows an obliviousness on King's part which comes to define the book.

That being said, I did enjoy Misery. It was a fresh, unique idea executed relatively well. King does a good job of making the ordinary terrifying, and we too are surprised and scared by Annie’s sudden personality shifts and violent outbursts. I was engrossed, and wanted to keep reading. Also, with the prose being so simple, I was better able to focus on the mundane horror of it all: every day being the same, each of Paul’s mini excursions felt like rollercoasters, and the ultimate reveal that Annie knew more than she was letting on made my stomach drop. I’d definitely like to read some more King to get a feel for the rest of his work. Any recommendations?

Next stop: watching the 1990 film adaptation!

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Summary

Il n'y a pas de plus profonde solitude que celle du samouraï.
Si ce n'est celle d'un tigre dans la jungle...
Peut-être...

There is no greater solitude than that of a samurai.
Save that of a tiger in the jungle…
Perhaps…
[translation my own]

The opening quote of Le Samouraï is attributed to Le livre du samouraï by Le Bushido, a fictional creation by filmmaker Jean-Pierre Melville. This sets the tone of the film: this is the story of Jef Costello (Alain Delon), a contract killer and recluse who operates by his own personal, rigid code of honour.

It opens with Jef lying on his bed, smoking a cigarette. A staple in noir filmography. He is in a dingy room, half-illuminated by sunlight, surrounded by shades of grey and blue. His only companion is a bird which he keeps in a small cage by the window. We watch him get up and don a rather conspicuous outfit (lol):

before exiting his apartment and hot-wiring a car sat outside. He drives it to a garage where a man changes the number plates and hands Jef a gun. He drives away again. Throughout this entire opening sequence, not a single word is spoken.

Jef then arrives at the house of Jane (Nathalie Delon), his friend and (presumably) lover who agrees to help him establish an alibi for his next contract. That night, he carries it out, slipping into a nightclub and shooting a man sat in one of the back rooms. But as he is leaving, he is spotted by Valérie (Caty Rosier), a piano player at the club. They maintain eye contact for a moment, and Jef brushes past her to leave. For some reason, he has decided to let her live.

After disposing of his car and gun, Jef meets some men at a poker club to establish his planned alibi. Part way through the night, he is picked up by the police and pulled into a line-up for identification by staff from the nightclub. Valérie is in attendance, but claims not to know him. Quite why she does this is unknown both to us and to Jef himself: is she lying to protect him, or does she have links to the men who hired him?

He is released, and goes to collect his payment. He approaches a man waiting on a secluded bridge, but the man attacks Jef, who barely manages to escape with his life. Wounded, he goes in search of Valérie. They meet outside the nightclub and she drives him back to her place. But she refuses to talk, instead instructing him to phone her in 2 hours. So, he returns home and waits. He makes the call, but Valérie doesn’t answer. Moments later he is ambushed by the same man who attacked him on the bridge. But this time, the man is offers him money. Both for the contract he had already carried out, and for another...

Meanwhile, the police still view Jef as their main suspect. They bug his house and send a dozen officers to tail him on the Métro. There is an exciting chase-like sequence where Jef tries to shake them. Leaving the Métro, he then returns to the nightclub. He approaches Valérie as she is playing the piano and pulls a gun on her. But the police are lying in wait and shoot him before he has a chance to act. In the final moments, we see the police seize Jef’s gun and open it to find no bullets inside.

Analysis

This was a good, albeit strange, film. Let’s start with what I enjoyed:

• The cinematography. I absolutely loved the use of light and colour throughout. The muted colour palette, focusing on greys and blues, and the restrained use of light, created a wonderful sense of solitude and foreboding. The shots of Jef’s silhouette in his coat and fedora, the rainy streets of Paris, most of the action happening at night. Chef’s kiss.

• Delon’s performance. Jef is a stoic. He moves through life with fierce determination, operating exactly as he means to, but still concealing a slight sense of unease as he strives to blend into the streets of Paris.

• The plot. It contains all the expected elements of noir: the killer, the cops, a love interest, the samurai-style code. But it works because of how little happens. There is action, sure, but it only comes at the end, after a long build-up of tension. We are first made to care about Jef (hard work considering how cold his character is), and we are left to speculate about the ending ourselves before it happens. In this way, the final action sequence is all the more exciting, and all the more rewarding. It felt a little slow at times, but honestly this was refreshing given how many films do action for action’s sake nowadays.

But now let’s get on to the reason I knocked a few stars off: the ending.

I was confused as to why Jef didn’t kill Valérie: she never gave him answers, presumably had links to the man who attacked him, and surely failing to carry out a contract goes against his whole modus operandi? Is this why he kills himself? Pretty emotional for such a stoic guy.

I actually had to Google the answer, and here are 3 possible options I’ve come up with:

1. Jef loved, or at least lusted after, Valérie. This would explain why he let her live originally, but little else. Plus, it would go against his whole character: he is impassive at best, and utterly detached from those around him.

2. Jef is trying to set her up. He’s been trying to shake the police ever since he was first picked up [here’s another question: his alibi was water-tight, so why were they so convinced it was him?]. If they already suspected her of lying about recognising him, maybe they’d switch their focus to her if they think she “caused” his death. But how could he be sure this would work? And why should he have to die to make it happen?

3. Jef is taking back control. Every aspect of his life has spiralled out of control over the course of this film, so this puts him back in the driver’s seat. He has fulfilled his contract, and thus stuck to his code, but also emancipated himself from the web in which he is now stuck. This is the option I lean towards, since this would explain his final words to Valérie: ‘I was paid to’. He’s trying to save her - warning her that they have turned against her too.

I understand that the point of the film wasn’t to spoon feed me answers, but it did take me an embarrassingly long time to come up with these options. And I’m still not entirely satisfied. It doesn’t help either that Le Samouraï has consistently been rated at 4 or 5 stars on all reviewing platforms, and is often hailed as one of the best crime films. Perhaps something was lost in translation, or I’m not as well-versed in French noir / the samurai code as I ought to be, but I was just left confused.

If you’ve seen Le Samouraï, what did you think? Am I being too harsh?

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Warning: *spoilers ahead*

Synopsis

No human eye can isolate the unhappy coincidence of line and place which suggests evil in the face of a house, and yet somehow a maniac juxtaposition, a badly turned angle, some chance meeting of roof and sky, turned Hill House into a place of despair, more frightening because the face of Hill House seemed awake, with a watchfulness from the blank windows and a touch of glee in the eyebrow of a cornice.

This is Hill House, the dark, imposing mansion situated in a non-descript part of America. Dr John Montague has rented it out for the summer and gathered together a small band of lodgers to help him investigate its supernatural powers. His guests include Luke Sanderson, the heir to the estate, and two young women: Eleanor Vance and Theodora, chosen due to their past experiences with the paranormal.

Upon arrival, the group meet the House’s caretakers: Mr and Mrs Dudley. The latter robotically takes them through its main rooms and details her daily schedule, emphatically telling them that she never stays after dark. The four inhabitants quickly form a strong bond, talking late into the night and finding out more about one another’s lives. They also learn about the House’s supposed hauntings from Dr Montague, who relays his research on the suicides and other violent deaths which had taken place in the years prior to their arrival.

It’s not long before the paranormal comes for them too. There are unexplained noises in the night, presences banging on the doors and roaming the halls, strange writing on the walls… but no-one is affected by this more than Eleanor, who seems to attract an unusually high level of supernatural activity. It is implied that this may be a result of her own telekinetic abilities, or perhaps a figment of her imagination. I personally lean towards the latter, since the others are oblivious to the things which are happening to her.

After a few weeks at the House - time passes strangely, no-one knows exactly how long they’ve been there - Dr Montague’s wife and her companion, headmaster Arthur Parker, join them. The pair have a unique outlook on how the supernatural ought to be investigated and choose to conduct séances and spirit writings alone in the library. Nothing comes of this, however, and they do not experience anything supernatural themselves - they blame this on the others’ lack of faith in their methods.

Tensions grow between the original group the longer they stay at the House. In particular between Eleanor and the other three. She grows increasingly paranoid and volatile, believing them to be turning against her. This fear is seemingly confirmed when Dr Montague and Liam insist on her leaving the House earlier than intended after they found her climbing a precarious route to the top of the building. Eleanor refuses, unwilling to return to her old life and claiming that Hill House is now her home. She is eventually persuaded to get into her car and drive away, but just as she is nearing the edge of the grounds, Eleanor swerves and crashes into a tree in a desperate attempt to stay - even in death.

Analysis

This is the first book I’ve read by Shirley Jackson, and my first modern Gothic. Jackson’s style is simple, yet beautifully descriptive, and laces a thread of humour throughout. Despite being written in the 1950s, her style also retains some elements of the earlier Gothic novels. This is most evident in Dr Montague’s scientific pursuit of the paranormal, the two female characters’ childish personas, and the focus on building narrative tension rather than full-on gore.

I think the themes of childhood and innocence are particularly prevalent in the case of Eleanor, and may help to explain her behaviour throughout the novel. On her way to Hill House, she stops in a café. There, she sees a young girl refusing to drink from one of the café’s mugs, instead insisting that she have her own ‘cup of stars’. This cup is referenced a few times in later chapters, acting as a symbol of Eleanor’s desire to be free of others’ expectations. She desires independence; a life of her own. She suffers from guilt attached to the death of her mother, and it is clear that her life after this point has been nothing short of miserable. In an attempt to take back control, Eleanor accepts the invitation to Hill House, hoping to embark on a journey of self-discovery. But she never achieves this.

It is unclear what ‘the haunting’ of Hill House refers to: whether it be genuine supernatural occurrences, a group delusion, or Eleanor’s own psychic powers. It is purposely so, but I think Jackson is alluding to something deeper in the character of Eleanor: mental illness. It is clear that she has suffered a troubled life and this is only worsened by her stay at Hill House. She feels like a social outcast, and Theodora’s rejection of her invitation to live together only confirms this. Her narrative grows unreliable, and Eleanor falls deeper into her depressive mania. So much so that she chooses to (presumably) commit suicide. This is not the result of supernatural intervention: the sounds, presences, spirits, etc mentioned in earlier parts of the book are not here now, it is just Eleanor and the haunting of her mind.

Fear factor

I’ve been put off haunted house stories for a long time because I felt they had become too formulaic. But I knew Jackson’s story was hailed as one of the best so I was excited to give it a go. And? It didn’t scare me. But this doesn’t mean it wasn’t scary. Let me explain..

My boyfriend gifted me this book and said that he did find it scary. I didn’t understand why, but the more I thought about it, the more I realised that I’m not sure if I’ve ever found a book scary. Now a few months ago, I talked about my aphantasia (or inability to form mental images), and I’ve come to the conclusion that this condition is why I don’t have the same emotional response as other people. If I can’t picture the scene, I can’t be scared by it. Yes, it’s conceptually scary, but it’s so far removed from my current experience of reading words on a page, safe in my bed, that I just find it hard to place myself in that situation?

So yes, it is scary. But above all, for me at least, it was creepy. Not Uncle Montague’s Tales of Terror levels (thank you Chris Priestley, those horrors will stay with me forever), but still pretty disturbing. Jackson does an excellent job of building a sense of dread, mixing paranoia, confusion, and horrifying descriptions of supernatural occurrences together to create an altogether masterful story of terror. By focusing the story on the people, Jackson shields us from the reality of the situation and leaves us in a similar position to the characters themselves: questioning what is real. Hill House is ultimately about Eleanor’s experience of the haunting, and the implication that this might be all in her head makes it all the more terrifying.

Overall, The Haunting of Hill House is an excellent exploration of the Gothic genre, which expertly depicts the deteriorating mental state of its protagonist while successfully weaving together a genuinely creepy narrative. It is a massive success which has inspired me to get back into the haunted house genre. I’ll definitely be reading more of Jackson’s works, too.

For those of you who have read it, what did you think?

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Immediate disclosure: I have not seen Murnau’s 1922 Nosferatu film. This review will not be a comparison between the two, nor will it really engage with the source material of Bram Stoker’s Dracula (although I have read that, and I would highly recommend it - it’s a great book).

Warning: *spoilers ahead*

Synopsis

Nosferatu is set in Wisburg, Germany in the early 1800s. It follows a young woman named Ellen (Lily-Rose Depp) and her unfortunate encounter with the creature known as Nosferatu (Bill Skarsgård).

The film starts in Ellen’s youth, with her calling into the night:

I sought company. I sought…tenderness and, I called out. At first it was sweet. I had never known such bliss. And it turned to torture, it would kill me.

Her cries are answered by a supernatural being who descends upon her as a shadow. The scene is lustful, and Ellen promises herself to him for eternity. But then, he materialises. A thin, gnarled hand grips her throat, and she screams in terror.

Fast-forward a few years and Ellen is now happily (or thereabouts) married to an estate agent named Thomas Hutter (Nicholas Hoult). Thomas is set on improving their fortunes by becoming a partner in his firm - but to prove his worth, he must first journey to Transylvania to secure a contract with one Count Orlock. Ellen warns him against this, citing her recent nightmares as omens of his misfortune in Romania. But Thomas does not heed her advice, instead deciding to leave immediately, and to lodge Ellen with his friend Friedrich Harding (Aaron Taylor-Johnson), his wife Anna (Emma Corrin), and their two daughters.

Thomas travels to Romania and decides to rest a night in a nearby village. But his sleep is interrupted by their ceremonious killing of what seems to be a vampire. Thomas wakes up the following morning in a cold sweat, still wearing his muddied boots, and emerges from the tavern to find the village deserted. He continues to the castle on foot and is shortly met by a driverless carriage which escorts him to the Count.

Within moments of their meeting, Thomas is forced to sign the property contract. Unwittingly, he also signs paperwork which voids his marriage to Ellen. He is then taken ill, and wakes the following morning with bite marks on his chest. He discovers the Count lying in a coffin and attempts to kill him by driving a wooden stake through his heart, in the same manner as he had seen the village people kill their vampire. But the Count wakes and attacks Thomas first, feeding on his blood once more. Thomas is weakened but manages to escape, stumbling into a nearby church where he is nursed back to health by Orthodox nuns.

Meanwhile, in Germany, Ellen has been suffering from intense (and wanton) seizures. Friedrich sends for a doctor, but he is unable to help, and so he calls on his old mentor: Albin Eberhard Von Franz (Willem Dafoe), a scientist ostracised for his occultist beliefs. Albin believes Ellen to be under the spell of Nosferatu, a demonic, plague-bearing vampire.

It is at this point that Thomas, still severely unwell, makes his return. He is desperate to warn Ellen of the Count’s obsession with her, but she is, of course, already aware. The Count follows close behind, bringing plague rats to Germany. The city is plunged into a frenzy and Orlock threatens to kill Ellen’s friends and family if she does not willingly submit herself to him. Over the next two nights, he murders Anna and her daughters. Friedrich, driven mad with grief, dies while holding her corpse.

The film ends with Ellen accepting Nosferatu in a gruesome act of self-sacrifice. She keeps him in her bed until morning, when the sun’s rays kill him. Drained of blood, Ellen dies beneath his rotting body.

Analysis

Nosferatu is the fourth film by director Robert Eggers, following his The Witch (2015), The Lighthouse (2019), and The Northman (2022). Likewise critically acclaimed, Nosferatu does not disappoint. It is just as dark, just as horrific, and just as triumphant. It has recently been nominated for four Oscars: Make-up and Hair, Costume Design, Cinematography, and Production Design. It should therefore come as no surprise when I say that it is aesthetically masterful. Eggers has a unique eye for detail, with costumes, props, and set all holding true to their nineteenth century setting. The architecture is suitably imposing, Romantic and religious symbols are scattered throughout, and the whole film adopts a near-monochromatic look. In short, it’s truly Gothic.

At its heart, however, is the performance of Skarsgård, who is buried under a mountain of prosthetics but gives a characteristically terrifying interpretation of the titular Nosferatu. Supporting him, Depp and Hoult are less preposterous, their tender yet often emotionally violent conduct adding a sense of gravitas to the film. Taylor-Johnson, Corrin, and Dafoe give slightly less memorable, albeit good, performances. Despite this, the plot itself is somewhat lacking. The story is slow in places, and we get much more of Orlock’s coming than his actual arrival: the terror he spreads in Wisburg is undercut by its brevity. There are some slight moments of humour, however, and I was never bored. As a whole, Nosferatu certainly values style over substance, but that isn’t necessarily a bad thing.

Does evil come from within us or from beyond?

A woman’s sexuality is a devilish thing. This is the crux of the film: how are we to interpret Ellen’s “unusual” sexual appetite?

At a time when patriarchal oppression is still flourishing, women need not tell men that we like being dominated. But neither should we be ashamed of our preferences in the bedroom. Women are tired of being told what we should and shouldn’t like, how we ought to behave, and what sex should look and feel like. Films like Nosferatu and Babygirl hold a mirror up to society’s view of women in sexual relationships, exposing our historic and continued repression of female sexual desire. They show us that, to some extent, emancipation comes from allowing ourselves to do exactly what we are told not to: submit. At least, in the cases of Ellen and Romy. These are hardly didactic films.

So too do they show sexuality and attraction as complex, and oftentimes dirty, things. The relationships depicted by both Babygirl and Nosferatu are transgressive, and this is exactly what transfixes us. Elle explains this phenomenon well in her article, so I’ll leave the explanation down to her:

Notes In My Handbag

It's Ok If You Want To Fuck Count Orlok (But This Is Why)

I used to love to watch horror movies. I had an archetypal weird girl adolescence that many TikTok addicted Tumblr nostalgists would kill for - watching increasingly fucked up movies cuddled up in my boarding school bed with esoteric Eastern European girlfriends, upping the stakes until one of us finally had to shut the laptop for fear of puking…

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a year ago · 8 likes · 3 comments · elle jones

But the fact of the matter is, Nosferatu makes us feel uncomfortable. At Nosferatu’s physicality, at Ellen’s possession, at their entwined desire, and at our own views of women’s sexuality. This is a tale of possession, destructive eroticism, longing, and shame. Like Ellen, we are disgusted as much as we are seduced.

But Eggers’ presentation of female sexuality is not a binary matter. Ellen and her lust are central to the narrative: it was she who awoke Nosferatu, and she too who must end his life. But her choice to do so is not a feminist act. She does not achieve sexual autonomy, and she continues to be demonised by all around her besides Thomas. Neither, however, is she presented as a victim: it is Thomas who occupies the more traditional damsel-in-distress role, while Ellen takes what little power she has to end Nosferatu’s reign of terror.

She uses her sexuality to entrap him, but this does not make her a temptress. She gains nothing (besides temporary sexual satisfaction), and she loses her life. It reminds me of the complex depiction of desire and loss in Keats’ La Belle Dame Sans Merci, where the belle dame is at once the victim and seductress of the knight:

She took me to her Elfin grot,

And there she wept and sighed full sore,

And there I shut her wild wild eyes

With kisses four.

Some have said Eggers’ depiction of female sexuality is stunted, but I disagree. Mainly because I don’t think it was the point of the film. Yes, I would’ve liked it more firmly grounded in contemporary medicine - think hysteria, nerves, asylums, as I have previously written about - but at the end of the day, Nosferatu is not trying to provide an overt commentary on female sexuality. It does not portray Ellen’s decision as a consensual act (because it most certainly wasn’t one), and I actually think it deals with the complex relationship between female desire and oppression very well. As I said earlier, it isn’t supposed to be didactic - it gives you enough to think about while focusing its main efforts on.. well, being a horror film.

“I don’t like scary films, can I watch this?”

Maybe? There are a couple of minor jump scares, visuals of blood and a nondescript black goo (pictured above), physical violence (including rape and murder), and a general sense of melancholy and unease throughout. It’s unnerving, ominous, and brooding, but not all out scary. Think Gothic more than new-world horror. It depends on your vices, really.

Warning: *spoilers ahead*

Synopsis

Gladiator II is set 16 years after the end of the first film, during the reign of twin brothers Geta (Joseph Quinn) and Caracalla (Fred Hechinger). It opens with General Acacius (Pedro Pascal) leading the Roman army into battle against the last free city in the African Kingdom of Numidia. Living there is a solider called Hanno, who watches as Acacius kills his wife Arishat (Yuval Gonen) in battle. He is captured by Roman forces and transported to Ostia, where he and the other Numidian men are thrown into the Colosseum. They are set against some feral baboons as a test for their worth as potential gladiators. Hanno impresses the stable master Macrinus (Denzel Washington), who promises him a chance to kill Acacius if he agrees to fight and earn his freedom.

Meanwhile in Rome, the Emperors receive Acacius as a war hero, and they call for gladiatorial games to be held in his honour. While watching him fight in the arena, Lucilla recognises Hanno as her son, Lucius Verus. She tries to speak to him, but he angrily rejects her. Despite this bitter reunion, Lucilla confides in Acacius about Hanno’s true identity and the pair conspire to free him, and to restore Rome to a Republic. However, Senator Thraex betrays them, informing the Emperors of their plot. They are arrested for treason.

Acacius is thrown into the arena to fight Lucius, but when the pair reconcile, the Emperors order the Praetorian Guard to kill Acacius instead. This causes the people to riot, and Marcrinus takes this opportunity to seize leadership for himself. He brings chaos to the Senate, manipulating Caracalla into killing Geta, and then the Senate into overthrowing Caracalla. He orders Lucilla to be executed in the Colosseum, with only Lucius to defend her.

But Lucius has a plan: he sends a messenger to call Acacius’s military legions into Rome. Meanwhile, he rallies the other gladiators to revolt against their enslavers and defend Lucilla in the arena. During the fight, Macrinus secretly kills Caracalla before fatally shooting Lucilla with an arrow.

He flees the city, with Lucius in hot pursuit. The two come head-to-head just outside Rome, with their respective armies standing ready to attack. Lucius wins the duel, killing Macrinus and revealing his true identity to the armies. He persuades them to unite against tyranny and instead work together to build a Rome that his grandfather, Marcus Aurelius, would be proud of.

Analysis

Was a sequel really necessary?

Ridley Scott was apparently discussing the possibility of a sequel to Gladiator as early as 2001, but it wasn’t until 2018 that this was confirmed. We wonder why, 18 years after the original, Gladiator II finally came into being. Is it another in this recent trend of lazy ideas and rehashed sequels? Maybe. But then again, sequels aren’t always a bad thing: just think Aliens and The Godfather Part II.

I’m not going to linger on this point for much longer because I don’t really have an opinion on it either way. I’ll just say this: for all the vitriol about the unnecessary nature of a sequel, just ask yourself… is the existence of any film really necessary?

Historical authenticity v accuracy

Now, Gladiator (the original) is one of the few historical films I don’t really have a problem with. I generally get quite upset when the plot diverges from what really happened because let’s face it: history is just as good as any fictional story. But I also concede that authenticity is often more important than accuracy when creating a piece of public entertainment. And this is something Gladiator does very well. And I think the sequel succeeds in the same regard.

No, its main characters aren’t real, but yes they are representative of the diversity and citizenship of Rome at the time. Yes, the war in Numidia really did happen, albeit a good 200-300 years before the time of Geta and Caracalla. Yes, gladiators really were made to fight exotic animals and even partake in fake warship battles in a flooded arena. No, the depiction of politics, war and weaponry are not very accurate. But boy can Ridley Scott direct a good battle scene!

In the ways that matter, Gladiator II feels real. But crucially, it doesn’t claim to be. It thrusts its Hollywood epic entertainment value in our faces and presents Rome as a hyperbole of itself. But as an audience, we understand this. It’s better than pretending, and if it inspires a kid to look into the real history of Rome, I’d say it was a success.

The rest

Now we get to the real meat of the film: the plot and characterisation.

The first half of the narrative was pretty much an exact copy of the first Gladiator film. While I did enjoy Lucius’ story, the character himself felt like a superficially copied version of his father, and Mescal simply doesn’t have the same on-screen presence as Russell Crowe. There is an attempt at character development in his relationship with his mother Lucilla, but the reasons for his anger and subsequent forgiveness were never entirely clear to me.

The same is true for Macrinus: his motivations for seizing power are muddled at best. What I mean to say is that he has no more reason or drive than any other ex-slave - besides circumstance, I suppose. On top of this, his storyline feels rushed: his rise and fall happen so quickly, especially considering how little development happens to the rest of the characters (although, I think this is pretty expected given the short time frame of the film).

Perhaps it’s just the Pedro Pascal fan in me, but I felt like Acacius was perhaps the most fleshed out character of the whole film, despite his relatively small amount of screentime. His internal struggle with the morality of war versus the orders of the Emperors is excellently written, and Pascal plays Acacius with a degree of affection that successfully humanises him. I just wish we’d seen more.

My final point is about the Emperors themselves, utterly mad as they were. But for all this madness, what came of it? What had they done to Rome itself? Lucius speaks of a diseased city, one which struggles to reconcile its present with the past vision of hope given by Marcus Aurelius it so clings to. We are told that the fate of Rome and all its people hang in the balance, but where’s the proof? What are the consequences of Lucius’ failure? I understand that Gladiator is largely a character-centred franchise, but I’d have liked a little more show in this regard.

Overall, I really enjoyed Gladiator II. I suppose you could say I was entertained. But I wonder how much of that entertainment came from the original film, given how derivative its sequel really was.

What are your thoughts?

I don’t like blood & guts; can I still watch this?

If you’ve seen and enjoyed the original Gladiator, you’ll be fine. But if you’re put off by bloods, guts, gore, warfare, animal cruelty, and just general violence, I’d avoid this one.

If you enjoy this review, you can read others just like it here.

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Warning: *spoilers ahead*

A few weeks ago, I watched ‘The Machinist’ for the first time, 20 years after its original release. The film was provided by Lost Reels UK, a project whose aim is to bring forgotten, lost, or unavailable films back to UK cinemas. Its head: long-term film enthusiast Geoffrey M. Badger gave a short introduction before the film started. He talked about finding the 35mm film in a bin, about to be thrown out, and how he remembered seeing it for the first time during the closing night of Fright Fest in 2004. At the same cinema I was sat in, actually: the Prince Charles. He likened it to the dark thrillers produced at a similar time such as Silence of the Lambs, Memento, Fight Club, and Se7en. These are some of my favourite films, and certainly my favourite genre, so I expected I was in for a treat.

And I was… kind of? Bale’s performance was stellar. An unsettling physical transformation paired with his jittery, spaced-out persona made for a compelling, character-driven watch. This also paired perfectly with the gritty, dismal atmosphere created by the film’s palette. Juxtaposed against its unassuming setting, the machinist’s workshop appeared dark and textured, while even more positive places like the fair were overshadowed by a degree of darkness. As a visual piece, ‘The Machinist’ certainly hit the mark.

However, it was in the plot that this film fell down for me. It follows Trevor [Bale] through his day shift at the factory and through his nights, spent between coffee served by his favourite waitress at an airport diner and in the arms of a prostitute, Stevie. Trevor is a chronic insomniac and is refuses food all but once throughout the film. After an incident of negligence at work which saw his college Miller lose an arm, Trevor’s colleges turn on him and he is ultimately fired after his behaviour becomes threatening and erratic. This only sends him further down his spiral, as he accuses Miller of trying to kill him, he follows a man that only he seems to be able to see, and accuses Stevie of plotting against him. He even throws himself in front of a car to get some information from the police. There are some dark symbols, too: a game of hangman that mysteriously appears on his fridge, which seems to be weeping blood. The films ends with Trevor discovering that the mysterious man, his waitress, and many other aspects of his life over the past year were just hallucinations, constructed by his mind to help him come to terms with the guilt he felt at a hit and run he was responsible for a year prior.

While I tend to enjoy more character-focused pieces, I felt like this film did a little too much spoon-feeding. It was obvious to me that the waitress was a figment of his imagination as soon as she repeated a line Stevie had said to him earlier that day. It was also obvious that the mysterious man was a figment of his imagination: Sixth Sense style, no-one else looked his way or interacted with him. This was made even more obvious when Stevie holds the picture of him fishing, which he is convinced is not a photograph of him. It was obvious to me that the man at the beginning was Trevor himself - he has the flashlight with him, for god’s sake! It was obvious to me, when the boy had an epileptic fit in a hellish ride, that Trevor was projecting some past experience onto him. While I think the flashback to him hitting the kid was necessary as an explanation, I don’t think flicking through all the signs that the man and the waitress weren’t real were really necessary. They felt like an over-explanation.

Now we get to the point of the film. Is it even real? I was slightly confused about the logic of the story: it’s impossible to literally never sleep over the course of a year - you’d die. This could just be a figure of speech, sure, as most insomniacs are capable of sleep, just not for very long. Also, Stevie. I assumed her character wasn’t real but apparently she is? Even though we never see her with anyone else. Even though she seemingly falls for an emaciated man she knows nothing about. I thought this was part of his imagination: a prostitute falling for him… isn’t that every user’s dream? Stranger things have happened, I guess, and I suppose it may not be as genuine as she is letting on as she wants to escape her prostitution. Although it seemed genuine to me. Then there’s the time: always 1:30. Clearly this has a symbolic meaning, and we later find out that this is the moment Trevor hit the boy. So, is this a hallucination? Always seeing 1:30 when he looks at a clock? Or is it genuine?

The more I thought about it - while the film could be explained as rational - it seemed more logical to me that Trevor was already dead. This would explain his lack of sleep, the time constantly being stuck, the “hallucinations”, his weight loss, his seeming lack of health problems: in other words, the constant reliving of his guilt as it slowly tore away at his soul. Plus, when Trevor goes to report the car that hit him, the number plate of the mysterious man he gives is his own. Yes, this is another piece of evidence that the man is him, but the officer also says that the car was reported destroyed. This made me think back to the car chases earlier in the film, where Trevor is so focused on chasing the man in front of him (a metaphor for his guilt) that he almost gets hit or swerves off a cliff several times. Could this be what really happened to him?

I then reflected on the ending, when Trevor turns himself into the police for a hit and run. He is walked through a long, white corridor by armed guards and left in a bright, simple cell with a metal bed. He says that he will give a statement in the morning, but that now he “just want[s] to sleep”. Now that Trevor has admitted, both to himself and to the law, that he killed that kid, he is able to rest. Now let’s think: white rooms, the final image of Trevor falling asleep on the bench… his final rest? Heaven? Increasingly this metaphorical interpretation of ‘The Machinist’ was making the most sense to me.

Then I Googled it. I was wrong. Here’s a quote from an interview with Brad Anderson:

I hope it's not one of those movies like The Sixth Sense or The Others as much, as interesting as those films are, that totally pull the rug out from you in the end, because it's not about him learning that he's dead, or he's a ghost, or he's been abducted by aliens. It's really just him waking up to who he really is as a person.

So he’s not dead. This is real. And illogical. And obvious. Huh.

I think it's fine if they're a little bit ahead of Trevor in this particular story because to me, it's not so much about that big rug pull at the end, it's more about watching this character slowly come to grips with what's happening to him, and then in the end, realizing who he really is. It's less a story about some plot twist than it is about a character having this kind of existential crisis and finally realizing, as it's posed at the very beginning of the story, "Who are you?”

I do agree with Anderson here. It’s a character-driven film, and you certainly are ahead of the game. But the pleasure lies in watching Trevor become increasingly paranoid and destructive, and then finally burst through that wall and come to terms with himself. Perhaps I’m too easily led by the films I have already seen, which are more staples in the genre. Plus, it seems like the idea of purgatory-on-earth wasn’t too far off the mark:

Scott's descriptions of the machine shop were like this sort of infernal and purgatory type place

So, my overall thoughts. ‘The Machinist’ is sinister, uncanny, and dark. A character piece in which Bale gives a stunning performance. While the “twist” ending is rather underwhelming, it is watching Trevor unravel that makes the film worthwhile. The literary and cultural references add a level of intrigue, and our protagonist is far from being a villain. That being said, if you’re looking for a psychological thriller, I think there are similar films that are more complex, have characters with more depth and in short, which do it better.

What are your thoughts on the film? Do you agree?

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Warning: *spoilers ahead*

Synopsis

Longlegs is a psychological horror which follows FBI agent Lee Harker (Maika Monroe) on one of her first cases: investigating the murders of notorious serial-killer Longlegs (Nicolas Cage). He has been terrorising the town for decades, leaving no evidence of his involvement save a signed letter. Instead, he seems to coerce his victims into killing their families, then themselves.

The film starts with a flashback to the 1970s, where we discover that Lee herself was a target of Longlegs. But she is spared when her mother Ruth (Alicia Witt) brokers a deal with him, agreeing to assist in his murderous plans in exchange of her daughter’s life. For the next few years, she visits victims’ houses under the guise of a nun bearing a gift from the church - but this “gift” is actually a doll, imbued with supernatural powers.

Through her investigation, Lee discovers this secret. It is revealed that she too has a doll that continues to live in the basement of her childhood home, alongside Longlegs himself. This explains her psychic powers, as well as why there is a date missing from Longlegs’ triangular pattern of murders.

But now the date strikes again, and Lee hurries to intercept her mother before she reaches their next target: FBI captain Carter (Blair Underwood). But Lee is too late. Carter kills his family, then himself. Longlegs’ triangle is complete.

Analysis

I’m a big fan of Satanic horror. I know it’s a little overdone, but I genuinely think Osgood Perkins (the director) does a fantastic job of breathing new life into the genre. She masterfully weaves a sense of dread throughout the film, favouring dark settings and a meditation on American occult panic over jump scares and gore.

But the real strength of the film, for me, was the contrast between Maika Monroe and Nicolas Cage’s characters. Their performances were startling opposing, both visually and behaviourally. While I didn’t find Longlegs to be a particularly scary villain, Cage’s lack of screen time meant that every appearance was a reminder of his unsettling nature. It also helped cement him as an elusive figure, lurking in the shadows but hardly ever seen, which massively upped the levels of suspense. I think it was a wise choice to focus the narrative on Lee: this not only allowed her story to be explored in greater depth, but also avoided 2 common tropes of horror films: the (unnecessary) victimisation of women, and the glorification of serial killers.

Longlegs also does a fantastic job of engaging with America’s ‘Satanic panic’, which started in earnest following the publication of Michelle Remembers in the 1980s. This book was co-written by Canadian psychiatrist Lawrence Pazder and his patient (and future wife) Michelle. It used controversial recalled-memory therapy techniques to make frankly insane claims about the operations of Satanic cults in America. It contributed to the growing paranoia about anti-Christian forces, which some viewed as bidding for world-wide domination [would that be so bad?].

This ‘Satanic panic’ is at the forefront of the film: from its setting in the 1970s, to Lee’s memory loss and the looming presence of the Devil. I was also reminded of an earlier example: Charles Manson in the 1960s, and his coercive techniques which are perfectly mirrored by those of Longlegs. I think this engagement with the real-world allows the film to tap into a core conflict in American society: the battle between good and evil. The idea that evil is practiced by ordinary people, and that anti-Christian sentiment will lead to social collapse, are beliefs still held by many. Plus, given America’s recent political displays of Christian oppression, I’d argue that Longlegs proves the ongoing necessity of Satanic horror in today’s world. Its ending is purposefully left open: evil persists, but no-one wins. We are led to question to almost everything, and in doing so, we question the concepts of good and evil that exist in the real world. And that’s what art is all about: challenging our most fundamental beliefs.

The problem

Now we come to the reason I’ve knocked this film down a few pegs:

‘I’ve got my longlegs on today’. Longlegs.

What on earth does that mean? Perkins explains in an interview with Variety:

“It feels like a vintage word that people wouldn’t toss around much today. It positioned the movie in a weird place. You don’t get to fully understand it. It doesn’t fully fit, which is more alluring to me and creates a curiosity that I think is important.”

I did make those connections myself, but it still feels odd for a serial killer to nickname himself, then make no effort to embody the name. To be honest, I think the film posters led me to believe that I’d be seeing a lanky killer, or some body horror involving long legs, or at least camera shots of legs in general… I don’t know.

But this is symptomatic of a wider issue: Perkins’ desire to create “curiosity”.

This is responsible for some of the film’s greatest strengths: its fear-factor relied on the creation of a growing sense of unease, which was partially achieved through open-ended questions like: what does the Longlegs mean? But as the narrative develops, more questions arise: how did he meet the Devil? Was he always like this? Why does he wear makeup? How does the supernatural mind control work? There are so many Satanic symbols - why did he base his ritualistic killings on that one? Why the 14th? And the biggest one for me: why didn’t Lee just shoot the doll?

Ultimately, the horror of the film was undercut by the sheer quantity of these unanswered questions. It stopped being an ooh scary unknown and became more of a huh? I don’t get it.

But maybe that’s just me. What do you think?

“I don’t like scary films, can I watch this?”

Maybe. There were a couple of jump-scares, some blood and guts, and lots of anti-Christian symbolism. But in general, the film tries to create a general sense of unease and impending doom, so that’s what will get your heart rate up. And despite its flaws, Longlegs is well-worth a watch, if you can sit through the occasional bloody murder.

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Warning: *spoilers ahead*

Hale knew, before he had been in Brighton three hours, that they meant to murder him.

It’s unusual to focus the opening lines of a book on a character who will shortly die, but that’s exactly what Brighton Rock chooses to do. Hale has come to Brighton to distribute cards for a newspaper competition... while on the run from a gang. We follow him through the day as he tries to disappear into the holiday crowds, and attaches himself to a lady: Ida, in a brief moment of passion. But eventually he is alone, isolated, and the gang strike.

Pinkie Brown, or ‘The Boy’ is the gang’s leader. He’s the novel’s central character: a highly damaged, violent and frankly abhorrent 17-year-old, who has recently taken over from the gang’s old leader Kite. While his plan to murder Hale is a success, and his own alibi is water-tight, things quickly start to unravel, and Pinkie spends the rest of the book dealing with the fallout. One of his gang members, Spicer, is tasked with distributing Hale’s leftover cards around Brighton in an effort to confuse investigators about the timing of his death. But a witness, Rose, sees him. Pinkie worries that she’d reveal his gang’s identity and involvement to the police, so he comes up with a solution: to marry her. In the 1930s, when the book is set, wives were unable to testify against their husbands in a court of law. So, he needs Rose to fall in love with him.

Meanwhile Ida, the woman who enjoyed a brief love affair with Hale, is determined to discover exactly what happened to him. She is driven by compassion, and a desire to seek justice for his spirit. She decides to visit Brighton and launch her own enquiry.

Pinkie’s situation only worsens from this point. He gets into a spat with leading mobster Colleoni, murders his own ally Spicer, and finds out that Rose has known of his criminality all along! Feeling trapped, he proposes a suicide pact with Rose.

But it’s too late. Ida is closing in, now with a policeman in tow, and the two groups finally meet face-to-face. In a frenzied attempt to escape, Pinkie throws vitriol at Ida but it backfires and, blinded by it himself, he runs over a cliff to his death.

In the final chapters, Rose goes to confession. She explains to the Priest that there was good in Pinkie, and she was prepared to follow him anywhere, even if that meant her own death. She returns home, looking forward to listening to the tape he had made her on their wedding day. But the tape is nothing more than a declaration of his utter contempt for her.

Pinkie in the 1948 film

Brighton Rock is a masterful novel. The narrative voice is strong, prose luxurious, and sense of place - 1930s Brighton - vivid. The characters are strong, complex, and fiercely raw. And it is through them that we not only get a thrilling narrative of gang crime, but also a serious meditation on Christian concepts of good and evil. Even the title, Brighton Rock, is a metaphor for original sin:

It's like those sticks of rock: bite it all the way down, you'll still read Brighton

We learn that Pinkie is a devout Roman Catholic. He believes in Hell and knows that his crimes are sins for which he will someday pay a price. But he makes a distinction between lawful and divine punishment. He is fearful of sinning according to the laws of the Bible, choosing to abstain from cigarettes, alcohol and sex, but otherwise takes pleasure in violence, mistreatment and cruelty.

But is he redeemable? Well, Pinkie had a rough childhood: poor and unloving, which not only impacted him emotionally, but also drove him to lodge with Kite and enter a life of crime. Here, Greene builds a connection between circumstance and fate. If we consider the question of redeemability from a deterministic angle, Pinkie had no control over his fate… so is it fair to hold him morally accountable for it? This conflict resides both in the mind of the reader and in Pinkie himself.

It also helps to humanise Pinkie and make him more palatable as the novel’s protagonist. He may be abusive, depraved, and altogether nasty, but he’s also deeply troubled, neglected, and fearful. It’s unusual to centre such a dark and meditative novel around children, so these moral questions do well to remind us that, despite the adult themes, Pinkie is just a kid.

Now let’s move onto his counterpart: amateur detective Ida. Everything about her character stands in direct opposition to Pinkie: she is kind, caring, systematic and spiritual. The narrative voice mocks her for this, and tries to depict her as an ineffectual, at times comic figure when she is anything but - Ida is a fierce, strong-willed woman with the power and know-how to bring Hale’s killers to justice. Something even the police couldn’t do.

I personally think the dichotomy between Pinkie and Ida's moral beliefs is reflective of Greene’s own internal conflict. For much of his life, he was an agnostic, but he was later convinced of Christianity - or, at least somewhat convinced (he referred to himself as a “Catholic agnostic”). Perhaps the unconventional and even sinful (by Christian standards) nature of Ida’s character serves as an exposé of Pinkie and Rose’s belief in Christ: it does not give them the superiority they think it does. Nor does it promise salvation.

I like Ida a lot. She’s different. In the crime genre, as in sci-fi and fantasy, women are often given a subordinate role. They are cast aside as victims, supports, or sex objects. Or if they are placed in the limelight, they’re overtly different - weird, sexless, masculine. But not Ida. She’s established in the first chapter as a sensual woman, we learn she’s enjoyed multiple affairs, but she is also intelligent, battling against multiple social norms, and is successful at it too. Now, I’m not calling her a feminist icon, not least because, given Greene’s depiction of women in other novels, I doubt this was his intention. But she’s a person, a real human person who just happens to be a woman. And thank God for that ;)

The fusion of traditional crime elements with more unexpected factors like the age of the protagonists, violence, morality and religion make Brighton Rock distinct from others in its genre. Because of this, alongside the beautiful prose, complexity of place and character, and fast-paced thrilling storyline, it actually feels real. This is why, for me, Brighton Rock the best book of all time.

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Warning: *spoilers ahead* / translations of French terms are noted at the end

Synopsis

A couple of weeks ago, I returned to the Prince Charles Cinema to watch La Haine, a French-language film originally released in 1995. To mark its 25th anniversary, it was edited and re-released by the BFI in 2020.

La Haine follows the lives of Vinz (Vincent Cassel), Hubert (Hubert Koundé), and Saïd (Saïd Taghmaoui) in the 24 hours after a riot against police brutality, which placed their friend Abdel in a coma. The three are immigrants, living in a downtrodden Parisian banlieue and leading a directionless life. We follow as they aimlessly wander the streets, interacting with other kids, drinking, smoking, telling jokes, doing nothing. We learn Hubert’s gym was destroyed during the riot, a school was blown up, and that Vinz found a policeman’s lost gun.

Vinz is the most volatile of the group, continually brandishing his newly acquired weapon and threatening to kill a policeman if Abdel dies, in an act he views as justice. Hubert dreams of a escaping the suburbs and building a better life for himself, but his aspirations are sandwiched between scenes of him dealing drugs and socialising with criminals. Saïd is the link between them, mediating debates and dissolving tension.

They clash with the police a lot, and on one occasion, Saïd and Hubert are arrested and beaten, then locked up until after the last train had departed… for no reason. Once released, they rejoin Vinz, and the incident is forgotten: this is normal life for French immigrants.

Towards the end of the film, the trio end up in a shopping centre where they hear from a news broadcast that Abdel has died. They are attacked by a group of skinheads on their way out, and Vinz pulls out his gun - but he can’t bring himself to pull the trigger. In that moment, we see him for what he is: young and afraid. The façade falls.

Vinz hands the gun over to Hubert and they return home, with Vinz and Saïd walking off in a different direction. But before they can even make it to the end of the street, the pair are stopped by a policeman that Saïd had insulted earlier that day. The officer pulls out a gun and points it at Vinz’s head, accidentally pulling the trigger. We see Vinz’s bloodied body slouched against the side of the car: another bavure. Hubert hears the shot and turns around, quickly making his way towards them and pulling Vinz’s stolen gun on the officer. There is a tense standoff, and as both we and Saïd close our eyes, a single gunshot is heard.

Review

La Haine is an explosive, gut-wrenching look at contemporary French society. It has a close relationship with some of the most traumatic social and political events in recent French history, but it has also had a big impact on cinema itself.

The film is beautifully shot, with wide-pan camera work and a monochromatic palette reminiscent of earlier noir films. The narrative itself is quirky and directionless: there are jokes without punchlines, stories with no conclusions, and Vinz’s repeated hallucinations of a cow. The scenes are punctuated by a ticking clock and framed by Hubert’s story of a man in free-fall. This is Mathieu Kassovitz’s (the director’s) metaphor for the banlieue as social time bomb: with no agency and nothing to do, the boys just sit and wait for the next explosion of hate.

Both director Kassovitz and his cast are young stars with raw energy. This, combined with the cinematography, humour, cultural references, violence, and general cool “vibe”, combine to make a masterpiece.

Social commentary

Kassovitz was inspired to create La Haine after another such bavure in real life: the accidental shooting of 17-year-old Zairian immigrant Makomé M’Bowole in 1993. Despite his film taking French cinema by storm, and forcing the country to confront its ongoing identity crisis, little has changed in the years since. It seems as though the fall will not end, or else each landing refuses to be the last. And so, French immigrants are stowed away in the balieues, while bavures are normalised and hidden.

In 2008, the release of Laurent Cantet’s film Entres Les Murs sparked a second moment of socio-cinematic confrontation. Based on François Bégaudeau’s book of the same title (2006), the film is a semi-autobiographical account of Bégaudeau’s experiences teaching the “problem children” of the poor, ghettoised 20th arrondissement of Paris. It, like La Haine, was received to critical acclaim. But what good did it do?

In July 2023, riots broke out in the banlieues after police killed 17-year-old Nahel, who they claimed refused to comply with an order to stop his car. He was one of 13 identical cases. Despite the French government spending billions of euros in attempt to tackle this problem, it is the pervasive bigotry and impervious social hierarchy which prevents immigrants from getting a foothold in society. As of last year, the poorest French neighbourhoods are home to more than 5 million people, many of whom are 3rd or 4th generation immigrants. Over half are living in poverty. [source for data in this paragraph].

By law, France does not collect data on the ethnicity of its citizens. This is due to its foundational principles of liberté, égalité, fraternité, which mean a greater emphasis is placed on the social and cultural integration of immigrants. However, this assumed equality means that immigrants and their struggles are lost within France’s collective identity. Professor Jérémie Gilbert explains that, by pretending we are all equal, “politicians can ignore the fact that minorities exist”. In their refusal to collect data on what makes us different (race, ethnicity, religion, language), France depraves its minority groups of any affirmative action.

A 2019 poll found that 63% of respondents thought there were too many immigrants in France, down from 70% in 2013 [p45]. Despite this downwards trend, French attitudes are still among the worst in Europe. Not only this, but the same study found that 66% thought immigrants did not make an effort to integrate into French society, up from 55% in 2013 [p45]. The absence of data and the concealment of immigrant experiences has led to a lack of understanding about their socio-economic plight.

For certain groups, this exclusion and bigotry has only worsened in the years following the La Haine. 9/11 and the Charlie Hebdo attack in 2015 has solidified Islam as a dangerous religion in the eyes of half the French population [p58], while only 40% view it as compatible with French values [p50]. Moreover, despite being home to the largest community of Jewish people in Europe, France has a massive anti-semitism problem, and levels of hate have recently reached record heights [eg, eg].

This has only led to greater social exclusion, greater ghettoisation, and greater bigotry.

What happens next?

We keep falling.

It’s an open secret that French immigrants have been falling, hitting the ground, falling, hitting the ground, over and over again for years. Even now, it seems horrifically likely that Jordan Bardella (and Marine Le Pen) of Le Rassemblement National will win the 2024 French elections, and it’s worrying how relevant films like La Haine still are:

C'est les même qui votent Le Pen mais qui sont pas racistes. C'est les même qui font les grèves pour protester dès qu'les escalators y tombent en panne. La pire des races!

Politicians like Le Pen, and now his daughter, continue to vilify immigrants, push them to the fringes of society, shift the blame for their situation onto others (even Macron is guilty of this), and altogether deny that this is happening.

Language has played a massive part in French history, and it’s important that we don’t allow the narrative to be twisted. Just compare these two statements, one by police mayor and representative of police union Jean-Christophe Couvy, the other by Kassovitz:

[France is] not the US. We don't have ghettos. [] Our forces represent France's multicultural society with officers from all backgrounds. You'll find maybe 1% of racists - like in the rest of society - but no more.

- Jean-Christophe Couvy

Either people are going to say: ‘We can’t go back to living like that.’ Or they’re going to go back to that. And fuck them, if they want to go to the slaughterhouse without doing anything.

- Kassovitz

Don’t let people like Couvy fool you. Do your own research, read between the lines, and vote for the right people, because for over 10% of the French population, jusqu’ici tout ne va pas bien.

Glossary

• La Haine - the hate

• banlieue - a suburb of a large city like Paris. It has come to specifically refer to the low-income housing projects occupied primarily by immigrants

• bavure - a mistake

• Entres Les Murs - Between the Walls. This film received the Palme d'Or at the 2008 Cannes Film Festival

• arrondissement - administrative districts in Paris, of which there are 20 (not to be confused with the general arrondissements of France, which are subdivisions of départements)

• liberté, égalité, fraternité - liberty, equality, fraternity. The phrase originated in the French Revolution, and was popularised due to a 1790 speech by Maximilien Robespierre, a radical politician. It was institutionalized during the Third Republic at the end of the 19th century, and is now recognised as the national motto of France

• Le Rassemblement National - The National Rally, a far-right political party founded in 1972 by Jean-Marie Le Pen. It is currently leading the polls for the 2024 election at 33%, followed by the newly-formed Nouveau Front populaire.

• jusqu’ici tout ne va pas bien - so far, not so good. The inverse of the positive phrase used throughout the film

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Warning: *spoilers ahead*

Last week, I went to see ‘Late Night with the Devil’ (LNWTD) at the Prince Charles Cinema in Leicester Square (an amazing venue, by the way). I’ve never really been a horror fan - although I do enjoy a good Gothic novel - but this film may have just changed my mind…

LNWTD follows ‘Night Owls’ host Jack Delroy (David Dastmalchian) in his mission to surpass the ratings of rival late-night show host Johnny Carson. Accompanied by his sidekick Gus McConnell (Rhys Auteri), he plans a one-of-a-kind occult-themed Halloween show, scheduled to air on 31 October 1977. The show boasts an impressive line-up of phychic Christou (Fayssal Bazzi), skeptic Carmichael Haig (Ian Bliss), parapsychologist Dr June Ross-Mitchell (Laura Gordon) and the subject of her book ‘Conversations with the Devil’: Lilly (Ingrid Torelli). The found- and behind-the-scenes footage record the night that Jack’s show spirals out of control and unleashes hell live on air.

Every year, there are new films, tv shows, and novels made about demonic possession, but LNWTD is the only one that’s drawn me in enough to book a ticket. And I’m glad that I did. It is a triumph, which proves that there is still space for innovation within this trope. The casting is excellent, too: I cannot identify a weak link, and both David Dastmalchian and Ingrid Torelli shine in their respective roles as Jack and Lilly.

My favourite aspect of the film, though, is its use of perspective shifts. It cuts between recordings of the Night Owls show and behind-the-scenes footage, shown in black-and-white. This helps us to better understand the characters as they are naturally, away from studio lights. This is particularly important since the narrative takes place over the course of just one night, so there is little space for character development. These glimpses we get in the commercial breaks are therefore designed to provide the audience with a similar, slow reveal of personality. And as the show goes on, we are better able to understand the motives and behaviours of these characters both on- and off-screen.

Furthermore, while I have seen some criticism directed at the visual effects of the film (i.e. that some low-quality effects impact believability), I would like to offer a defence. It is true that shots like the lightning shooting out of Lilly’s body or the black goo that sprays out of Christou’s mouth look slightly fake, I think LNWTD gets away with it due to its grounding in a found-footage style. We are supposedly watching film from the 70s, when cameras would not have been as able to capture these supernatural happenings in high-definition. On top of this, the attention paid to detail in other areas makes up any misgivings the audience may have about the “realness” of events: the slight changes made to Lilly’s face when she is possessed by Mr Wriggles, Christou’s eyes rolling back one by one, the vocal distortion and realistic blood create a convincing sense of the uncanny. LNWTD is clever: it combines its status as a low(er)-budget, indie film with retro-style effects in a way that suits both.*

My only criticism, and the reason I awarded this film 4 stars instead of 5, is its ending. The final scenes diverge from the otherwise solidly-maintained found-footage style, and dive headfirst into a nightmarish compilation of Jack reliving moments from the show’s past. This feels out of place. The narrator who explains the film’s concept at its start tells us that we are about to watch a compliation of found footage from a 70s television show. So, where do these scenes come from? How were they filmed? I think I have the answer, and it’s a technique that LNTWD utilises in an earlier scene: where Carmichael puts both the in-studio audience and us in a trance. We see the visions he describes to us, and it is not until we watch the recording back that we realise his trick. If we are to believe, therefore, that Jack is reliving these scenes in his head, under the guidance of Mr Wriggles, then we can argue that the audience is being tricked too. We watch as Jack stumbles between scenes, begging us to turn our programmes off, but we keep watching, unable to break out until- we switch back to reality, where we find Jack has wedged a knife into Lilly’s chest, killing our manipulator. But this too begs the question of why Mr Wriggles would include us in this hallucination. There are still some lingering questions. Perhaps it is not the intention of the film to answer them, but given the (over-)explanation that Mr Wriggles is in fact Jack’s dead wife, this seems unlikely. I’d be interested to hear your thoughts.

Despite this, LNWTD was an original, refreshing film that gave new life to the demonic possession trope, and I would definitely watch it again. The Prince Charles Cinema was a fitting setting for the dark, eerie retro vibe, but I think there is also something to be gained from viewing it at home alone, in the early hours of the morning, as if for the first time on Night Owls.

*Another criticism which has been (perhaps incorrectly) attributed to the film’s low-budget is its use of AI. According to Cameron and Colin Cairnes (the directors), AI art was used to generate 3 still images, which were then further edited and refined by professionals. While I do not agree with the use of AI art in creative endeavours, I also don’t believe that such a minimal use case should be held against a film that is operating on an indie budget, especially one as good as LNWTD.

“I don’t like scary films, can I watch this?”

Yes! As someone who has never(?) watched a true horror film, this was not scary. It was creepy, unsettling, and in places an anxiety-filled ride. There were a couple a minor jump scares, but overall the horror was pretty predictable. For me, this is not a bad thing at all. The visual gore, body horror and paranormal activity were well executed, and made for a compelling, nightmarish watch that didn’t cost me any sleep.