The Square: Review

 

Ruben Östland is no stranger to dissecting the human psyche in his filmmaking, presenting us in 2014’s Force Majeure with the idea of the forward thinking individual masking their fragmented, egocentric, hypocritical inner self through careful cultivation of their language, image and public behaviour. His latest Palme d’Or-winning offering deals with some similar ideas, challenging our perception of ourselves, the strangeness of human behaviour, and the elitist insularity of the modern art world using biting social satire and outlandish imagery. The Square is a film that pushes its viewer to their limits, in which Östland toys with his audience and takes great pleasure in the sadism of daring people to look away.

This is certainly a sprawling, disjointed film with an elusive plot and unconventional structure, meaning its meandering pace and the many unexpected turns it takes are even more conducive to a wholly unpredictable and novel experience. The cinematography and directorial style showcased here by Östland are intentionally extravagant, not only adding an ostentatious quality to the film’s visuals to reflect its central themes, but also representing the folly of so many human behaviours. This meticulously crafted backdrop propels the dry European humour that underpins the whole affair: whilst Stockholm gallery curator Christian Nielsen enjoys the power and privilege that accompanies his prestigious role, he presents himself as a progressive thinker whilst privately encompassing the same traits of self-indulgence and cowardice that we all seek to mask in ourselves. He curates his own persona in the same way he curates the comically empty art pieces that comprise his museum, further lampooned in a particularly hilarious scene in which part of an exhibit is inadvertently vacuumed up by a cleaner. The film is truly a comedy of manners, in which Östland succeeds in holding a mirror up to the secular art world, acting as a microcosm of the middle classes as a whole.

As Christian navigates these ideas through the trials and tribulations of running the museum, the film clearly sets out to satirise the pack mentality and selfishness that are such a prevalent part of human culture, conveniently tied together in the motif behind Lola Arias’ central exhibition that the museum presents to the public:

‘The Square is a sanctuary of trust and caring. Within it we all share equal rights and obligations.’

This is also echoed in the many cries for help littered throughout the film, either real or imagined in some instances. This idea of our unwillingness to help and involve ourselves in the plight and struggle of others is brought together in the film’s pièce de résistance, a bizarre piece of performance art at a press dinner in which a man (Terry Notary), posing as an ape, wreaks terror on a captive audience and highlights some controversial truths about the extent to which humans are willing to turn a blind eye to others’ suffering. This scene in particular had my heart racing, and was a truly adrenalin-packed experience that encapsulates what The Square sets out to achieve. The imagery of primates, not reserved exclusively to this scene, creates an obvious visual contrast between the highly civilised and advanced society the western world have adopted and the slightly murkier instinctual behaviours that lie within. It is this kind of perceptive observation and innovative visual iconography that makes the film such a success.

For all Östland’s filmmaking virtues, this doesn’t stop the film’s message being a little ham-fisted, but this in itself reinforces the rather aggressive satirical overtones the film thrusts upon its viewers. The Square is a raunchy, thrilling and audacious masterwork exploring human relationships and the selfishness of the liberal elite, delivered expertly through unusual pacing techniques, evocative cinematography and an irresistibly dry tone. If Östland’s future outputs are anything like his last two, he will certainly be considered one of the most tenacious directorial voices of the current decade.

The Shape of Water: Review

As Oscars season draws ever closer, there is one film in particular that surpasses all others in terms of the sheer volume of nominations and glowing praise that precede it. This film comes in the form of Guillermo del Toro’s dark fantasy romance, The Shape of Water. The widely talked about picture is nominated for a plethora of awards, and after having been spellbound by the ingenuity, exceptional filmmaking and attention to detail exhibited by del Toro and his cast and crew, I can certainly see why. Settling on the familiar and much-loved fairytale territory that most of his work operates within, the film manages to court all the wholesome and uplifting aspects we would expect from this formula, without falling into the pitfalls lesser films might have have succumbed to.

Set in a slightly off-kilter version of the 1960s Cold War era, The Shape of Water stars the vastly underrated Sally Hawkins as Elisa, a cleaner in a scientific laboratory facility who happens to be mute. She resides with her best friend, Giles (Richard Jenkins), who finds himself equally ostracised, lonely and out-of-place in the world due to his repressed sexuality which is explored somewhat in a small, delicately-woven subplot which hugely enriches both his character and the film’s backdrop, without merging into obvious tropes or clichés. Elisa’s best friend Zelda (Octavia Spencer) also carries her own sadness in the form of her lonely, unfulfilling marriage. This core theme of loneliness is beautifully enhanced by the 1960s pastiche created by the film’s striking visual composition, comprised of lustrous blues and greens which create a surreal oceanic feel, whilst also harking back to the darkness and weight of Cold War fear and inter-governmental tensions.

Out of this idea of alienation and isolation stems Elisa’s chance encounter with a mysterious aquatic amphibian creature (Doug Jones), being held captive in the lab for the purpose of brutal testing and investigation. As she strikes up an unconventional bond with this creature, they begin to fall in love with one another, which leads to panic as she learns of the government’s unpalatable plans for him. Spearheading this ruthless onslaught is Michael Shannon’s Richard Strickland, the film’s menacing and multi-faceted villain. He is perhaps the best example of del Toro’s ability to write convincing and layered characters by exploring both their own personal subplots as well as littering the film with numerous visual cues which hint at the greater picture, tone and motivation that undercut these characters’ lives.

Sally Hawkins herself is effervescent in this role, bringing to it a rhythm and a theatricality of movement which is enhanced by the limitations of her mute character. Every step and flourish feels planned and considered, giving the film a musicality and whimsy that evokes notions of classic Hollywood cinema. Her kind face and quiet, knowing presence is not dissimilar to that of Audrey Tatou’s Amélie, as she nurtures those around her and attempts to find her place in a harsh and unforgiving world. As the creature learns to communicate with Elisa via sign language and the pair’s connection blossoms, any shred of doubt the viewer may have in terms of the strange nature of the relationship melts away as they are enveloped by the purity and beauty of their love. Alexandre Desplat’s wondrously beguiling score provides the perfect base from which this love to blossom.

The Shape of Water is perhaps Guillermo del Toro’s best work since 2006’s Pan’s Labyrinth, brimming with the same raw creativity, tactility and sense of wonder as the latter, and bringing a gentle and soul-cleansing romance to this year’s awards season which appears to have won over hordes of viewers. The polarity in the film’s reception stems from the unorthodox nature of its central romance, but irrespective of how far people are prepared to go with the film’s artistic license, del Toro has undoubtedly crafted a visually-sublime, tonally intoxicating fairytale; one that will pique the interest of cinephiles and aspiring filmmakers for years to come.

Lady Bird: Review

Lady Bird is a beautifully-written, wryly observed and semi-autobiographical coming-of-age tale from the wonderful Greta Gerwig, one of the most prolific and astute writer/directors in the indie circuit. Having collaborated with the likes of Noah Baumbach and Wes Anderson in some of her best known comedic performances, there is a certain air of stilted, neurotic charm to her demeanour that she capitalises on in order to bring warmth to her words and her performances alike. In her second directorial turn, Gerwig presents us with Christine “Lady Bird” MacPherson (Saoirse Ronan), a vibrant, self-assured and precocious 17 year old in 2002, who is desperate to escape the confines of her hometown of Sacramento and assert all she has to offer the world in the dream-like escapism of New York and the east coast, ‘where culture is’.

Whilst Gerwig’s directorial debut Mistress America was a love letter to New York, a city synonymous with eclectic culture and the realisation of one’s creative dreams, Lady Bird is perhaps a conflicted love letter to her southern Californian roots. Indeed, it is this motif that runs through the film’s core; the dichotomy of wanting to flee the humdrum banality and small-town mindset of one’s origins in favour of somewhere offering variety and excitement, whilst also longing for the familiar comforts that shaped us in our formative years. And with the contradictory relationship between Lady Bird and her hometown comes an equally complex one between mother and daughter. Laurie Metcalf provides a fantastically convincing performance as Marion, Lady Bird’s mother, who mirrors her daughter in being consistently frustrated and confused by the other, like two incongruent jigsaw pieces. In spite of its fractious nature however, it is clear that this relationship is anchored by a strong love, albeit one that both find difficult to communicate.

Lady Bird truly excels in its characterisation; even its smaller characters are given so much breathing room, be they Lady Bird’s parents, her friends or the boys she briefly dates. It is these characters who illuminate the themes that encircle the events of the film, namely the post-9/11 class tensions and political uncertainty of the early 2000s, the dawn of the digital age and the rejection of middle-aged Republicanism. In the midst of these ideas is the central concept Gerwig presents us with; not really knowing just how much we value home until we leave it. The film’s structure plays an instrumental role in reiterating this idea, composed of a series of carefully and vividly-composed moments in Lady Bird’s latter teenage years as she teeters on the brink of adulthood and independence. These moments are crafted in a woozy, vignette style at times, some beautiful and some sad, all of them illuminated by the nostalgic late-summer sunlight of California. In these moments life is depicted through the raw, intrinsic emotions of a particular experience and delivered with honesty and humour. Gerwig’s filmmaking style is truly admirable in the way that she realises people tends to look back on their youth as a series of scrapbook-like moments strung together by the feelings that underpinned them, rather than as a complete entity bound by closure and and certainty.

What sets Lady Bird apart from other coming-of-age films is the level of agency Gerwig ascribes her protagonist; Lady Bird is so intent on pursuing what she wants from life in terms of her life and relationships that she is not shy about jumping into things head first. The naturalistic dialogue and bold, layered central performances by Saoirse Ronan and Laurie Metcalf provide the ramshackle charm and warmth that make this film so easy to relate to and so easy to fall in love with. With a wonderfully hopeful and evocative score provided by Jon Brion and Gerwig’s keen eye for characterisation, there is so much to adore about Lady Bird. It is a film littered with the ghosts of all of our adolescences, from the pseudo-intellectual mobile phone-sceptic Kyle (Timothée Chalamet) to Lady Bird’s high school best friend Julie who is ever-present in the highs and lows of her teenage journey (Beanie Feldstein). Lady Bird is an amalgamation of all the moments that make being a teenager equally wonderful and awful, and makes me endlessly excited to see what Greta Gerwig’s next directorial output might be.

Call Me By Your Name: Review

Call Me By Your Name is a mesmerising, sun-drenched masterpiece of romantic coming-of-age cinema and possesses a raw, soulful energy that solidifies it as my personal favourite film of the year thus far. Central to what is considered the third instalment of director Luca Guadagnino’s ‘desire’ trilogy, preceded by 2009’s I Am Love and 2015’s A Bigger Splash, is a languid, indulgent and sensuous exploration of self-discovery, blossoming sexuality and the dizzy heights of first love. Armie Hammer is Oliver, a twenty-something graduate spending the summer of 1983 in lush Lombardy, Italy, a guest of the Perlman family. Their summers revolve around the pursuit of endeavours of the heart and mind, helmed by Michael Stuhlbarg’s insightful Professor Perlman, whose commentary on the academic world he inhabits provides some of the film’s most poignantly pivotal moments. His son, Elio Perlman (Timothée Chalamet) is an audacious yet visibly bored 17-year old, navigating his young adult existence through his idyllic surroundings as well as his own artistic interests. Armie Hammer and Timothée Chalamet capture perfectly the nuances of attraction, dancing tentatively around the strings which so clearly draw the pair together, yet maintaining a cautious distance as each ponders the possibility of reciprocation from the other.

Where this film excels best, perhaps, is in the extraordinary feeling of intimacy that stems from Guadagdino’s invisible camera presence, always maintaining a steady distance from its subjects. We often witness Oliver and Elio’s interactions at arm’s length, be that looking down from a second-storey window, watching the pair in a door frame at the end of a hallway, or from the corner of their bedrooms. Not only does this capture beautifully the dynamic nature of their relationship, but also contributes to the blissfully immersive experience one has in watching the relationship unfold. And the chemistry. Oh, the chemistry. Of course this review was inevitably going to talk about chemistry, as would be expected regarding any romantic film which places such emphasis on unspoken connections and inarticulate feelings. And what underpins the heady beauty of Oliver and Elio’s connection is the tangible chemistry illustrated so effortlessly by Hammer and Chalamet.

Through its woozy, unadulterated hedonism, Guadagnino champions the power of touch within the film, directing his actors to create a rich and tactile chemistry that infiltrates every lingering shot, every gaze and every symbolic image. The film’s widely-discussed sex scene is spearheaded by the simple gesture of characters sitting at the end of a bed, touching feet, evoking the electricity of the moment more erotically and organically than any salacious or exploitative sexual depiction. Guadagnino’s true talent is his proclivity for channelling desire through all facets of his photography: a ripe, sun-kissed peach hanging enticingly from a branch, a cigarette passed between fingers, the silent presence of an onlooker watching the other from a leaf-shaded window. The intimacy of his camera, vibrancy of his palette and considered, intelligent choice of imagery brings this idea of desire to life sumptuously.

One of Guadagdino’s greatest triumphs and, indeed, the main source of sadness underpinning the story, is the way he handles the ephemeral nature of Elio and Oliver’s love, mirrored by the blissful summer days stretching out as a visual and tonal backdrop for the film. The rich greens, crumbling Italian buildings and palpably warm rays of sunlight which make up the film’s glorious, sensual imagery evokes the ever-relatable feeling of the fleeting beauty of summer and the feeling of limitless possibility that accompanies it. Through the purity of this love story, it is impossible not to bask in the feelings of joy and pleasure and melancholy which emanate from the quiet magnetism that exists between Elio and Oliver.

Complementing the film’s central ideas of love and desire is its fusion of opposing, yet timeless art styles and tastes. Professor Perlman is perhaps the most conspicuous example of this; an insightful proponent of classical art, literature and sculpture, whose commentaries on the sexual and romantic endeavours of ancient sculptors coalesce perfectly with the ageless concepts which form the backbone of film itself and the unfolding relationship between our two cautious protagonists. The beautiful and haunting piano score which overlays this relationship is juxtaposed with the lively new wave buzz of the 1980s decade in which the film takes place, capturing masterfully the youthful, carefree spirit of the era.

Bringing Call Me By Your Name to a close is the delightfully melancholic combination of Sufjan Stevens’ Visions of Gideon, preceded by a beautiful, raw and eloquent speech from Michael Stuhlbarg’s Professor Perlman, touching on the importance and beauty of experiencing one’s emotions as fully and intensely as possible, in times of pain and joy. It is this indescribably touching and tender conversation between Perlman and his son, Elio, which cements the rapturous purity of Elio and Oliver’s brief relationship, and serves as a potent reminder that love does not need to be experienced over any great breadth of time to be true and enduring. Call Me By Your Name is flawlessly gorgeous, awe-inspiring, electrifying cinema and will be a difficult film for others this year to eclipse.

20th Century Women: Review

20th Century Women has a certain melancholic euphoria about it that I can’t quite articulate with words. A soul-cleansing, masterful tapestry of multi-faceted characters and their experiences, the film’s beauty is characterised predominantly by Mike Mills’ exceptional screenplay. Based in part on his own mother, Mills pens an enriching and captivating amalgamation of scenes, woven together by the sublime performances of the wonderful ensemble cast. Annette Bening, an actress who is quite frankly under-utilised in leading roles, is mesmerising as Dorothea, a single mother in her mid-fifties who enlists the help of her twenty-something lodger, punk photographer, Abbie (Greta Gerwig), and free-spirited neighbour, Julie (Elle Fanning), in the bringing up of her teenage son, Jamie (Lucas Jade Zumann). The film explores the impact of these three complex women on the life and coming-of-age of Jamie, as well as a multitude of imposing themes and questions which underpin the lives of each of the characters respectively.

Set in Santa Barbara in 1979, 20th Century Women draws upon concepts of motherhood, femininity, and coming of age (at any age). What was so startling about a film which is underpinned by fairly simplistic ideas is the extent to which aspects of each character’s journey, perspective and personality resonated with me, despite the polarity of their ages, circumstances, upbringings and aspirations. Even the way in which I am able to talk about these characters as though they are real people I could sit and drink wine with is a testament to the nuance, care and understanding with which they have been written. Mike Mills was evidently very concerned with paying the absolute right amount of attention to each character, moulding them each into hugely central components of the film, yet successfully maintaining the balance between realism and charm. Every character is a total contradiction: they never feel contrived, yet they each fully embody both the nostalgic charm of the era and what it means to be a human being.

Whether capturing the heady sense of freedom which comes from hurtling along the highway in a car, lingering on the rippling turquoise of the ocean’s surface, or channelling human connection through the careful composition of a room full of people, the camera acts as a vessel for joy in 20th Century Women, without ever interfering with the audience’s perception of events. In simpler terms, the film will ultimately yield a different experience depending on what you bring to it. It’s both hypnotic and therapeutic, akin to reconnecting with an old after a long period of separation, or stumbling upon a moment of realisation in the midst of unrelenting uncertainty, or clambering into bed after the longest of days. Mills creates characters who know exactly what to say, yet also find themselves in the same unanswerable predicaments as we, the viewers. Every second is warm, comforting and I couldn’t quite shake off the the inexplicable feeling of wanting to cry.

Structurally, the film steers away from any pivotal, overtly climactic moments, yet allows the most monumental periods of one’s life to play out in a completely enrapturing fashion. In this vein, it resembles a motion picture version of a kitchen noticeboard, adorned with ramshackle photographs, memos, to-do lists and phone numbers: a collection of the most transformative and memorable snippets of life, blended seamlessly together in the most uneventful, yet glorious way. Elements of the late 1970s were also wonderfully captured, to the point where audience members of any age could tangibly feel the uncertainty of America as it braced itself to step into a new political and technological era. Accompanied by the use of archive-style footage and a plethora of befitting punk and new wave songs, such as the likes of The Raincoats, Talking Heads and Siouxsie and the Banshees, the free-thinking, anachronistically unorthodox approach to life embodied by these characters was encompassed perfectly by the stylistic and musical choices accompanying every scene. Quite simply, I could’ve basked in the warmth of this film forever.

The Salesman: Review

Following his critically-acclaimed 2011 marriage drama, A Separation, Asghar Farhadi is a director whose name has been at the forefront of world cinema for some years now. Fuelling his noteworthy presence even further was his decision to boycott this year’s 89th Academy Awards ceremony on account of Donald Trump’s ban on travellers entering the US from seven Muslim-majority countries, with Farhadi’s Iranian heritage even at one point raising the question of whether he would be able to attend in the first place. When it was later revealed he would be permitted to attend, he made the widely-supported move to send an associate on his behalf to collect the Oscar he won for his latest film, The Salesman, in protest of the travel ban.

With the film still hot on the lips of audiences and critics alike, following Farhadi’s Oscar win, it was disappointing to find that it didn’t quite live up to my high expectations. Whilst its core ideas were interesting and ambitious, issues with pacing and structure prevented it from reaching its full potential. The plot follows the marital turmoil which ensues between couple, Emad (Shahab Hosseini) and Rana (Taraneh Alidoosti), after Rana is assaulted whilst alone in the pair’s new apartment. A gulf emerges between them as a result of the emotional scars left on Rana by the incident, alongside Emad’s obsessive pursuit of the perpetrator. Simultaneously, the couple are starring alongside one another in an adaptation of Arthur Miller’s Death of a Salesman, which is not only affected by the troubles they face following the assault, but also begins to parallel aspects of their faltering relationship.

Whilst this dual narrative structure added depth and texture to the events which unfold in wake of Rana’s trauma, the right balance was never quite achieved. The stage play parallel could have been developed further to create a more dynamic pace and create deeper characterisation, but the lack thereof eventually became the film’s main shortfall in terms of maintaining an engaging, stimulating feel. Whilst there were climactic scenes scattered throughout the two hour run time which were truly overflowing with tension, there were an equal number of moments which felt slow and would have benefited from a more succinct approach. It’s undeniable that Asghar Farhadi is an immensely talented filmmaker, however, with his directorial proficiency lying most notably in his ability to elicit powerful and stirring performances from his actors.

The film’s second half contained much of its dramatic power, with Hosseini and Alidoosti’s nuanced performances delivering the kind of focused character development that the first half was lacking. The Salesman is most definitely creative in its ideas about the effect of psychological trauma on a relationship, with the growing rift between Rana and Emad emblematic of the difficulties couples face in not fully understanding the other person’s needs, and not being able to rise above one’s own primal emotions. Its pacing issues, however, created a lack of drive and cohesion which would have propelled the film to greatness.

 

 

Jackie: Review

Pablo Larraín’s Jackie is both stunning and startling in its painful, yet illuminating take on the life and experiences of perhaps America’s most noteworthy First Lady, Jackie Kennedy, in the wake of the assassination of John F. Kennedy. There is so much to admire about the director’s careful assembly of elements that produce a film which captures both the era in which it is set as well as the fraught and macabre atmosphere which befell the Kennedy family and indeed, the world, following the horrific events of 22nd November 1963.

Most central to the film’s glory is Natalie Portman’s hugely captivating and rather pragmatic portrayal of Jackie. As pointed out by Mark Kermode in his review, Portman’s performance isn’t necessarily accessible or likeable for some viewers on first watch, potentially coming off as contrived or overly considered, particularly due to Jackie’s iconic voice and her demeanour when dealing with press in the wake of her husband’s murder. This, however, was exactly what drew me, and clearly many others, to the performance. Ultimately, as Kermode goes on to explain, Portman’s role consists of a performance of a performance, in the sense that Jackie adopts several different personas when battling against the uncertainty, unfairness and grief she is dealt. This is undoubtedly a standout role in Natalie Portman’s career, offering a challenge which is seemingly wholly different to anything she’s taken on in the past. Naturally, stepping into the shoes of someone who was not only real, and whose tale is steeped in history and speculation, but also such an iconic figure, would be demanding, and in my experience it was Portman who expertly shaped the film into what it was: an arresting and multi-layered exploration of a woman whose pain was felt by every single audience member.

Structurally, the film created a vivid sense of Jackie’s artifice, from the absurdity of her duties and exchanges immediately following Kennedy’s assassination, to her strained dealings with both the staff of Lyndon B. Johnson after succeeding Kennedy as president, and Bobby Kennedy (Peter Sarsgaard) as discussions take place about the safety of the family and conditions of the funeral. The decision to map between these events, leading up to the funeral and afterwards, creates a beautiful and painful tapestry of heartrending moments of bitterness, frustration and sadness which elevates the film above the mediocrity which often takes a hold of similar biopics of this kind.

One of the most poignant conversations between the pair, and indeed one of my favourite scenes from the film, occurs near its ending, in which Bobby Kennedy laments about what could’ve been, emphasising the tragedy and brutality with which his brother’s life and presidency was cut short. The film has enormous emotional resonance thanks to its exceptional performances, as well as the ethereal score added to proceedings by Mica Levi, whose most notable work is still perhaps her spine-chilling score for Jonathan Glazer’s Under The Skin. Her touch adds a certain gravity to the film, with the score she created for Jackie differing in tone from the eerie sci-fi qualities of Under The Skin, naturally, but still possessing the same haunting sound we have now come to expect from the composer. The score compliments the cinematography exquisitely, with the 1:1 aspect ratio and sumptuously grainy celluloid style lending itself to not only channelling the early 1960s, but also mimicking the visual style of televisions, through which many members of the public would have viewed Jackie and her family in light of the events surrounding them back in 1963. The camera fluctuates between still, poised, slow push-ins in the first half of the film, and more fluid, handheld movement as the film progresses, allowing us to become immersed in the growing maelstrom of confusion and chaos Jackie finds herself in.

I feel Jackie may end up being somewhat underrated, with some viewers perhaps overlooking the film’s marvels due to the unusual and initially perplexing style Natalie Portman adopts in her depiction of the First Lady. However, I firmly believe that every part of Jackie’s composition is well-thought out and essential in moulding one of the most infamous and endlessly-discussed political and cultural tragedies of the 20th century, into something tangible and poignant, a cinema experience which truly finds its way under your skin and exemplifies the beauty that can be achieved with nuanced filmmaking.

Silence: Review

From the silence unfolds the sound of insects, rainfall, chirping birds and wind whistling through the hills: nature’s very own cacophony. From this rich canopy of sounds emerges the familiar husk of the voice of Liam Neeson, or rather, Father Ferreira as he is known here. He introduces us to the premise of Martin Scorsese’s long-awaited Silence, as film described as his ‘passion project’ by many a critic. This is perhaps the most apt description of the film that I’ve heard so far, as despite its flaws, Scorsese has produced a film which simply oozes passion, one he has very clearly poured his heart and soul into from its initial inception to its release.

Silence is not a particularly plot-driven film, but instead deals with the overarching ideas of faith, culture and the resilience of the human spirit. It follows the struggle of two Jesuit priests, Sebastião Rodrigues and Francis Garrpe, portrayed incredibly convincingly by Andrew Garfield and Adam Driver respectively, the former commandeering the most screen time of the pair. They embark on a journey through rural 17th century Japan in search of Father Ferreira, their former mentor, and attempt to spread the word of the church, whilst living in fear of the oppressive regime which routinely persecutes Christians who dare to defy the strict religious laws of the nation. The film is long in duration, with certain scenes being drawn out to almost excruciating lengths, yet this is not to the detriment of its quality; instead it takes us as an audience on the same harrowing yet illuminating odyssey endured by its central characters. I can, of course, see that this would be an area of potential criticism for some viewers. In addition to this, the film did feel somewhat disjointed and messy in parts, but the clear and constant sense of Scorsese’s attention to detail more than made up for this overall.

Andrew Garfield’s Portuguese accent was questionable to say the least, but aside from that he gave what is likely his most accomplished performance to date. Alongside the likes of Yosuke Kubozuka, Issey Ogata and Shin’ya Tsukamoto, who gave equally standout performances, the emotion displayed throughout the film, particularly in its latter half, was electric. There are scenes that will be etched into my memory for a long time to come, partly thanks to the astounding cinematography which truly created a sense of the time period, and also due to the utterly gruelling intensity with which the story of Rodrigues’ devotion to his faith is told. The journey Rodrigues undergoes is one to behold; as his faith is tested his conviction is strengthened, so ultimately much of the film explores the extent to which his spirit can be beaten down before he is forced to renounce his faith, or whether he’ll stay true to his beliefs.

Starkly different to the notorious crime dramas which characterised Scorsese’s style in the 20th century, Silence evidently holds a great deal of personal significance for the filmmaker, not least because it took around a quarter of a century to get off the ground. Notably, the film is sparse when it comes to a score or any kind of high-octane action, which is most definitely a conduit for mirroring the bleak, harrowing nature of the Christian experience in the strictly Buddhist setting of 1600s Japan. Its climactic scenes appear in ephemeral bursts, often unexpected and shocking in their use of carefully-placed violence, which avoids any kind of gratuity. The juxtaposition of these instances with such beautiful Japanese vistas and calming sounds of the setting make the potency of the film’s title even more apparent. Silence is not perfect by any means; it contains indulgent, sprawling scenes which could arguably be reigned in to give the film a tighter feel, but at its core what Scorsese has created is an unrelentingly devastating, yet vivid and arresting examination of the test of faith. It is some of his most ambitious work to date, and an absolute must-watch.