The Eyes of My Mother - Review

Nicolas Pesce's debut effort, The Eyes of My Mother, is an especially depraved take on the coming of age tale, brimming with detached grace, Pesce imbues every gorgeously composed scene with an oppressive atmosphere of dread. The film follows the perverted deeds of Francisca, chopping the events into three enigmatically titled acts, "Mother", "Father", and "Family. The lean narrative begins with Francisca witnessing the brutal murder of her mother, progressing from this with what seem to be a series of attempts to recreate what she lost. Despite her psychopathic disregard for suffering, we are able to sympathise with her on some level; there is something universal about the yearning for human connection that appears to drive her.

What is most striking about the film is its cinematography, shot in the moodiest monochrome you can imagine, the shots are lit with the brooding intensity of a Bergman film. At times, its style reminded me of Pawlikowski's Ida, functioning more as a series of beautiful photographs that happen to contain movement than a film. As we transition from one remarkably heady image to another, the flair that Pesce and his cinematographer Zach Kuperstein have for visually arresting composition is clear to see. Highlights include a landscape where Francisca and her father are silhouetted against some tall grass by the light of a lantern and an aerial shot that shows the two consumed by the milky water of a bathtub. 

However, these images have more to offer. When depicting scenes of extreme violence that practically stray into the world of torture porn, the elegantly removed beauty of the visuals contrasts strangely with the savagery being shown, amplifying the sense of intense disquiet. This is also added to by Pesce's carefully framed and often static shots that, coupled with excellent performances from Olivia Bond and Kika Magalhaes, tell us far more than the pragmatically minimalist script. Indeed, when we see the wide eyed gaze of a young Francisca, it betrays some inner turmoil and an outstretched hand that caresses an empty bed expresses a profound loneliness.

Particularly impressive is the performance of Magalhaes whose portrayal of a young woman tortured by her solitude is oddly touching. Her whole perspective on the world seems to be warped by the brutal trauma of her formative years, we see a woman almost trapped in her childhood. This theme is nicely alluded to by the recurring presence of a doll; even in the second two acts when Francisca has grown up, it is oddly prominent, appearing in the corner of frames, suggesting that she is yet to have grown past this stage. Despite this facet to her performance, her presence is still utterly chilling. In fact, I found this layer of innocence to add to the menace; when she calmly informs a guest that she murdered her father, the unassuming confusion at her guest's response is unnerving.

The way in which Pesce unloads both the emotional trauma and physical brutality of the events that unfold is unwavering, the grimly unrelenting mood that hangs over the film is compelling yet certainly not for the faint hearted. There are some points - particularly in the third act when things are really turned up to eleven - that the intense cruelty coupled with deep melancholia became a bit much for my gentle spirit. Though it perhaps seems unfair to criticise the film for this (it is a horror film), some variation from the fiercely macabre tone would have been appreciated. Regardless, The Eyes of My Mother delivers a beautifully crafted art house version of horror that stays with you, certainly a welcome break in the era of the jump scare.

GoodFellas - Review

I'm back with another Scorsese classic, this time it's his sprawling crime epic GoodFellas.

GoodFellas is a film that shows an auteur at the peak of his powers - directed with the swagger of the wiseguys that our protagonist Henry Hill idolises - Scorsese invites us into their world. From the famous freeze frames, now synonymous with Scorsese, to the elegant long takes, he isn't afraid to let us know that he is there; showing considerable directorial flare, he paints a stylish picture of the milieu of the wiseguys, bathing us in every unique detail. Indeed, like many great gangster films, GoodFellas surrounds you completely with their lifestlye, blurring the lines of morality, implicating us in the crimes that are committed. As a result of the odd hermetically sealed bubble in which the story takes place, we are made to understand the distorted morals of the characters; when Henry's wife Karen narrates, "After a while, it got to be normal. None of it seemed like crimes.", we can empathise with her feeling. 

One thing instantly remarkable about the film is that it lacks any clear central narrative drive; instead, it is more of a collection of short detailed stories, parables even, that come together to form an idea of the story of the wiseguys. Scorsese is more concerned with capturing the overarching mood that surrounds their lives, using this loose yet precise method of storytelling to cover a broad range of time whilst maintaining an intimacy with the main characters. He shows us their life in its entirety. From the almost quixotic ambition of the early years to the inevitable decay that follows, every stage of their rise and fall is rendered completely convincingly. 

Scorsese uses the long take brilliantly to capture the initial allure of the life of the gangster. During the famous "Copacabana" sequence, Scorsese's choice for Henry and Karen to go in through the back door is inspired, it distills perfectly what attracted Henry to being a wiseguy. Whilst displaying Henry's influence, the long take also echoes the atmosphere of hectic excitement; as the camera weaves its way in and out of the waiters, its swift movements are overwhelming, placing us in the shoes of Karen. We also have the perhaps underrated introduction scene where one glorious long take plunges us into the dingy depths of the "Bamboo Lounge". Henry's introductions to the likes of "Pete the Killer" and "Jimmy Two Times" are handled with a knowingly comic edge, highlighting the ridiculousness of this friendly family of criminals.

In fact, GoodFellas is a film laced with surprisingly frequent moments of caustically dark comedy. These serve to draw attention to the hypocrisy of the combination of their unsavoury work and the respectable family life that they hold so dear. When they stop at Tommy DeVito's (another gangster) house mid-killing and his mother (played by Scorsese's mother) insists that she cooks for them, the innocent domesticity of the sequence is made to seem completely comical. As Tommy compliments one of his mother's paintings "I like this one, one dog goes one way, one goes the other", Scorsese does the same thing that the montage at the end of The Godfather does, albeit in a rather more understated manner. 

Despite the at times affectionate treatment of the gangsters, the film ultimately exposes the fickle, egotistical motives that drive everything they do. Near the start of the film, a young Henry is lectured on the importance of loyalty by local gangster Jimmy Conway, "Never rat on your friends and always keep your mouth shut!". By the end of the film, the list of friends Jimmy has "whacked" is considerable, and the people Henry dedicated his life to have turned on him. The deceit central to their lives is summed up in heartbreakingly pragmatic fashion when he describes the process he has seen so many times, "Your murderers come with smiles. They come as your friends, the people who have cared for you all your life, and they always come at a time when you are at your weakest and most in need of their help."

GoodFellas, like all of Scorsese's best work, is unflinching in its portrayal of its main characters. Here, Scorsese is completely unafraid to end on an unhappy note, coming out with a final act that is brilliantly bleak in its depiction of the paranoid turmoil that Henry's life has devolved into. As we follow his manic movements on the day he is finally caught, we see a man living a life completely devoid of any of the allure that initially enticed him to the life of the wiseguys, swamped by the mundane juggling act he is failing miserably to execute. When all is said and done, Henry is consigned to a fate that is worse than death in his eyes, he has to live life like everyone else does. As Henry puts it, "I'm an average nobody. I get to live the rest of my life like a schnook".  

Personal Shopper - Review

In the opening act of Olivier Assayas' enigmatic thriller Personal Shopper, our protagonist Maureen speaks of waiting to be able to continue with her life; she currently occupies a sort of purgatory, waiting for some nebulous sign from her deceased brother, she is neither here nor there. Played with typically fidgety intrigue by Kristen Stewart, Maureen is convincing as a women caught in this in between state. When we learn that she is a medium, it seems appropriate; her dark sunken eyes suggest an otherworldly detachment, as if she could slip into another realm at any moment. 

Indeed, Personal Shopper is a film that operates on a lower supernatural stratum. Assayas cultivates a dissonance between what initially seems a realist surface and the inexplicable forces that bubble beneath, at times, almost straying into the world of Lynch. Although, the film is in theory a ghost story, it does not often deliver on what is typically expected from the genre, instead toying with our expectations. This is perhaps best exemplified by the scenes where Maureen explores her and her brother Lewis' old, distinctly creepy house. As we follow her around, the jump scares that the setting dictates never come; in their place we get a boldly drawn-out exercise in atmosphere, lingering on every deft movement of Stewart.  

Maureen - who works as a personal shopper - is in many ways the archetypal Kristen Stewart character, at times almost parodying herself with her seemingly irrepressible penchant for sullenness. However, as she broods and sulks her way about the screen, hidden beneath dull clothing, every halting subtlety of expression is imbued with captivating ambiguity. Her performance is delicately interspersed with the nervous ticks of a woman unsure of her place in the world, painting a convincing picture of her unease. When she says she would like to be another person in a text, it seems plausible. 

In fact, much of the success of the film's narrative centres on this ambiguity. A large portion of the film is punctuated by a text conversation with an unknown stalker that, as it progresses, seems to influence her behaviour.  Assayas maintains the enigma of the identity of the one sending the texts throughout, leaving us to toy with the possibilities. Is it just a run-of-the-mill stalker tracking her movements in some way? A reflection of her unspoken fears and desires, hinting at some mental instability? Or perhaps a manifestation of her deceased brother Lewis? 

Regardless, there is something unnerving about the omnipresent buzzing of the phone. Indeed, Maureen's near constant attachment to it seems an appropriate modern day update of the horror trope of possession; the phone becomes an expression of her inner turmoil, appearing at times to control her. This culminates in a bizarrely disquieting scene that shows Maureen being persuaded to try on the couture bought for her employer by a series of text messages. Whilst the incongruous Das Hobellied plays in the background, giving the scene an odd sense of importance; she saunters around the house with an assured poise that we haven't seen until now, making us question what has provoked this change.

Assayas maintains this feeling of unrest throughout, finishing with a coda that is as cryptically inconclusive as you would expect from this film as he elects not to resolve the mystery found at the centre of the plot. This ending is typical of a film that is almost contrary in its refusal to make any explicit implication to the audience. Instead, Personal Shopper is a film determined to occupy the uncanny spaces at the corners of our thoughts, sculpting doubt and uncertainty to create something thrillingly macabre.    

Taxi Driver - Review

Thanks to the BFI's Scorsese retrospective, a digital restoration of the classic Taxi Driver is showing all over the place.

We open on Travis Bickle's dark watchful eyes gazing out of the window of his cab; he sees dreamlike scenes, all billowing smoke and blurred neon lights. Every distorted image is viewed through the lens of a windscreen that gushes with water - an apt division to place between our protagonist and the world - it echoes both his detachment and clouded perspective. This opening passage through what seems a sort of Stygian underworld is rendered with an achingly cinematic style that continues throughout the film. Michael Chapman's cinematography captures the clashes of the dark street corners with harsh artificial shop signs, bleeding them into one another, whilst the saxophone of Bernard Herrmann's score expresses something completely transcendent.     

Travis is perhaps the defining example of the type of fundamentally flawed character with which Scorsese and De Niro worked so brilliantly in the late seventies and early eighties. From Travis Bickle to Jake La Motta all the way to Rupert Pupkin, they showed themselves to be masters of the portrayal of emotionally crippled men, deeply isolated from the world. In Travis' case, this manifests itself as an irrepressible desire to salvage what innocence he can from a world that he perceives as rotten to the core. 

Despite this morally ambiguous centre, Travis is treated typically affectionately by Scorsese, fostering - in the same way that he often does - a compassion for a character that is profoundly flawed. Indeed it is the ways in which these flaws are explored which make Travis so completely likeable; we are able to empathise with everything he does on some level. Even more instrumental in this is De Niro, brimming with wiry energy, his performance paints a picture of a man at tipping point perfectly. When he says "I get some real crazy ideas, you know?", we definitely believe him. However, what is most compelling about his performance is the visible evolution of the character. The descent from his burgundy blazer clad charm to the gun toting vigilantism with which we finish is made completely convincing by De Niro.    

As the film gradually progresses towards a violent climax that feels inevitable, the growing sense of grim direction we see in Travis is mirrored by the film. We are made to feel like him - careering towards the edge of a cliff - without the means or desire to divert our course. One excellent sequence shows Travis watching the TV, he sits back in an armchair tipping the crate on which it rests with his foot, pushing it farther and farther until finally it crashes to the floor, breaking the TV.  Moments such as this epitomise the subtle ways in which Scorsese foreshadows the destruction that is to come; the TV seems a fitting representation of both his precarious mental state and the self destructive compulsion central to his character.

When we finally reach the climax, Scorsese does not disappoint, putting together one of the most uncompromisingly grim sequences in cinema history. Travis tears through what becomes a blood-soaked brothel with deranged determination; we see a man possessed, feeling the visceral intensity of every gunshot. When the dust settles, Travis slumps onto a sofa, does the famous finger gun to the head and stares skyward; no words are needed. Scorsese cuts to a shot from above that looks down on the aftermath - as it quietly surveys the carnage with odd serenity - it seems to both lament and condemn what has happened.

Following this is the much debated ending, depicting a world where Travis has been hailed as a hero for what he did. Is it another manifestation of Scorsese's compassionate treatment of his main characters? An ironic flourish, hinting at Travis' continued mental instability? Who knows (I fall into the Travis' fantasy camp). Above all else though Taxi Driver works as a tale of social alienation - an unflinchingly brutal study of one man's search to connect with a world that seems completely foreign to him - the film expresses a profound loneliness that is universal. As Roger Ebert pointed out, it is the "well I'm the only one here." that follows the famous "Are you talkin' to me" that really cuts to the heart of Taxi Driver.

Elle - Review

We open with a shot of a cat's stare as it watches her owner being raped, passively observing the events unfold, the screams are heard from the cat's detached position. Throughout this brazenly provocative film, director Paul Verhoeven establishes us as the cat - telling what at times seems to be a bizarre tale of the aftermath of a rape - we explore, without prejudice, the complex ways in which our protagonist Michèle deals with this experience.  

Isabelle Huppert's depiction of Michèle - the head of a video games company - is magnificently nuanced, from mischievous pouts to cryptic hints of smiles, she plays with ambiguity with trademark elegance. Her performance is absolutely vital to the film's success. Given the character's occasionally strange approach to her situation, Michèle could have been an alienating presence. However, her businesslike reaction to her being raped is made to seem completely understandable; whether it is her in denial of what has happened or a pragmatic refusal to let it affect her, we are able to empathise with her completely.

Verhoeven has never been a director that concerns himself particularly with sexual politics, however Elle certainly breaks from this trend. The film has received both support as a "post-feminist" denouncement of the influence of the patriarchy and been decried as a fantastical male chauvinist propagation of violence against women. Michèle's bizarre relationship with her rapist could either be viewed as a stoic refusal to be victimised or a distasteful endorsement of the rapist's behaviour. The fact that the film has been so divisive evidences its impactfulness, notwithstanding its motive (perhaps it doesn't have one), the film has provoked thought.      

Regardless of its sexual politics, Elle works as both the blackest of black (none more black) comedies and also a sort of revenge thriller. The comic moments centre (as everything does) on Michèle; coupled with David Birke's slick screenplay, Huppert delivers outrageous lines with a playfulness that epitomises the film's unusual approach to such serious subject matter. "The orgasmic convulsions are way too timid" she declares when one of her employees presents a prototype of a future game. In contrast to this darkly comedic streak, the film also functions as a thriller - brimming with ambiguity - the plots twists and turns create a suspenseful atmosphere of disquiet that underpins everything.

Elle is a gloriously slippery film that defies categorisation - as Verhoeven weaves together sequences of harsh violence, sharp comedy and odd poignancy - he creates a film (with a lot of help from Huppert) that whether you like it or not, gets under the skin, smartly subverting the established narrative of female submission.     

Favourites - Chinatown

This is part of a series of posts I have creatively titled "Favourites" where I write about an unashamedly personal selection of my favourite films.

Polanski's scorching neo-noir, originally seen as a pastiche of the great hard boiled thrillers of the likes of Huston, has more than earnt its place alongside these classics. It was a bold choice to allude so directly to the greats of the noir genre, however, Chinatown more than lives up to these comparisons. What is on the surface a simple evocation of this style - appropriating faithfully many genre conventions - is as profoundly unsettling as any of the classics; the film now feels like a vital moment in the progression of the genre, perhaps the defining neo-noir feature.

Given the somewhat inextricable link of film noir to black and white, it is remarkable that Chinatown's sunny setting seems to fit in with the genre so seamlessly. It is a film of dusty browns and dry yellows; cinematographer John A. Alonzo paints LA as an arid wasteland, almost debilitated by the profound corruption found at its core. We see a city that seems to have been sucked dry, aptly reflecting the effects of the rapacious greed of the men that control it. The contrast between the sunlit backdrop and the distinctly dark themes explored in the film make their presence all the more unsettling. This dissonance serves to heighten the atmosphere of disquiet - we are left questioning everything - just as bemused as our protagonist Jake Gittes. 

Nicholson's portrayal of the Bogartian private investigator Gittes is brilliant - wisecracking throughout - he is played with the world weary nonchalance of a man who has seen everything. Working in the tradition of the great noir anti-hero, he is a character with a tough exterior that ultimately fails to obscure an irrepressible romanticism. Just as good is Faye Dunaway as Evelyn Mulwray. A magnetic enigma - central to the mysterious plot - that Gittes finds himself falling for, she is played with a cool, refined yet delicate air that paints a picture of a woman trying to hide a profound fragility. 

Both performances are nuanced, each possessing a vulnerability that is central to their character; throughout the film we can infer the disconnect between the persona that they project and the reality of their feelings. The characters are united by the suppression of some sort of past trauma that serves to emphasise the far-reaching omnipotence of the evil found in this depiction of LA. Via Evelyn's dark past, we are shown the inevitable loss of innocence that this world causes. In Gittes' case, the frequent reminders of his fallibility in the face of corruption affirms its influence; we of course have the visual reminder of his nose bandage, but also his repeated inability to save women from Chinatown's perverted power. 

Robert Towne's script is also suitably sharp - playing on the reliable private-eye blueprint drawn up by Raymond Chandler - it possesses slick wit, a labyrinthine plot and smart foreshadowing. When Gittes is told by Mrs Mulwray that her husband thinks he is innocent, he responds "Well, I've been accused of a lot of things Mrs Mulwray, but never that", quick-witted remarks such as this are frequent. The script also keeps you guessing throughout; only moderately less elaborate than The Big Sleep's famously puzzling plot, we are twisted this way and that as deeper and deeper layers of deceit are uncovered. These central themes are also nimbly alluded to in the first portion of the film. We have mentions of rich men getting away with murder and of course the "department of water and power", what would seem to be an intimation of the important role of water in the city.  

Perhaps above all else though, it is the anarchically pessimistic streak that runs through the centre of Chinatown that endears me to it. Every sequence of the film is laced with a sense of deep melancholia that elevates it to something more profound than a simple hodgepodge of noir traditions. This mercilessly uncompromising approach is epitomised by the film's brilliantly bleak climax, where Jake's toils against the pervasive influence of evil ultimately fail. The famous final line says it all. "Forget it Jake, it's Chinatown", a gloriously fatalistic flourish. 

Certain Women - Review

Kelly Reichardt's Certain Women is a subdued unobtrusive film that works in subtleties -from unrequited glances to gently furrowed brows - our attention is drawn to every deliberate detail. This style of unassumingly open ended direction is found throughout the film, each moment composed pointedly, but without any implication from the director. We are shown exactingly precise portraits of our characters, however, the importance of these lives is left to the audience.

The film presents us with three different sections, each chronicling the lives of different women whose paths interlock somewhat tangentially. Reichardt plays with an expectation that some revelation will bring their stories together throughout - however she never gives us this moment - instead painting their brief encounters as coincidental. However, the characters are connected by the nature of their lives - each section telling a subtly different tale of solitude and emotional perseverance - all the women display their own unerringly stout refusal to be overwhelmed by their circumstances. 

The first section follows the life of a lawyer, played by Laura Dern, as she defends a carpenter in a personal injury case. It is here that we have the most action packed scenes when the carpenter takes a man hostage, however, as perhaps you would expect from this rather muted film, the scene plays out with a civil tranquillity. Michelle Williams stars in the second part as a businesswoman married to an aimless husband who we find is cheating; a fact that taints every moment of their interactions, giving the section a more morose tone. The film ends with a sort of romance between Kristen Stewart's law student and Lily Gladstone's rancher which plays out with an understated tenderness. Gladstone's stoic portrayal of the rancher is a highlight, approaching the relationship with an unpretentious authenticity, their moments together are oddly touching. 

Christopher Blauvelt's cinematography is also spectacular; contrasting imposing landscapes with a detailed attention to the quotidian trials of the characters, his modest style captures the true rhythms of their lives. This understated approach is echoed in a washed colour palette that heightens the austere gravity of their surroundings whilst adding to the low-key atmosphere that pervades the film. Certain Women is in almost every way, an exercise in minimalism. From the contained performances to the lean dialogue to the uncluttered visuals, the film avoids any needless flair, making everything that is included feel essential.

Ten opening scenes that I like

A selection of opening scenes that are, in my opinion, very good.

Rashomon (1950)

During the opening sequences of Kurosawa's Rashomon an oppressive, slightly melancholic atmosphere is established in a scene that seems to teem with symbolism. The overpoweringly heavy rain strikes me as reflecting the lack of moral clarity in the film created by the subjectivity inherent in the film's unique narrative structure and the image of the dilapidated city gate seems a fitting representation of the tale of moral decay that follows, perhaps hinting at the ruinous state of society that Kurosawa perceives. Regardless of any of that cerebral rubbish though, the scene functions on a purely practical level, introducing us to the main characters and creating a cryptically dark mood that intrigues instantly. 

Touch of Evil (1958)

Perhaps one of the most famous opening scenes in cinema history, Touch of Evil's brilliant three and a half minute long take works on so many levels. Firstly, it gives us a strong sense of the world in which the drama will unfold; we are shown a seedy border town, inhabited by both flashy american cars and the shabby handcarts of the Mexican locals. The scene is also laced with an irrepressible tension due to the first shot of the film, showing a man placing a bomb in the back of a car. As the camera glides this way and that - Welles plays with our expectations - delaying the bomb's explosion until the car finally leaves our field of view, releasing the tension when we least expect it. Not to be forgotten is Welles' typically innovative use of sound. As the focus shifts from one thing to another, we hear a myriad of different sounds, creating a bustling soundscape that reflects the diverse environment that is depicted.

La Dolce Vita (1960)

This brilliantly bold opening is one of the best examples of provocation in cinema. At the time of the film's it was a shockingly open challenge to catholic morality and the role it played in Italy, perhaps lost on me slightly as neither an Italian nor catholic. Straying far from the faithful depiction of everyday life of the neorealist tradition, this set piece is perfectly reflective of the more flamboyant outlandish approach taken by Fellini in La Dolce Vita. The uncompromisingly aggressive visual metaphor of a statue of Christ being flown over Rome, suspended from a helicopter, aptly symbolises the place of Catholicism in the mind of Italians, subverting its sanctity with a satirical flourish. 

The Godfather (1972)

The Godfather opens with a scene that is all about atmosphere, establishing the character of Vito Corleone and some of the intricacies of their culture in broodingly cinematic fashion. Nino Rota's haunting score subtly sets the scene before we are confronted with an image of one man shrouded in darkness, pleading for Corleone's help. The camera pulls out slowly, emphasising the man's weakness as he seems to be engulfed by his surroundings. We then see Corleone for the first time, captured against the light and dark backdrop of the blinds. This classic noir technique hints towards the moral ambiguity that is central to Corleone's character and foreshadows the battle of principles that his youngest - still innocent - son Michael goes through. 

Manhattan (1979)

Manhattan opens with a scene that is oddly transcendent, in one of those rare moments of alchemy, Allen finds a near perfect combination, creating something greater than the sum of its parts. George Gershwin's Rhapsody in Blue is exquisite, lending an otherworldly beauty to the sequence, Gordon Willis' black and white cinematography is glorious, reflecting the narrator's nostalgic idealised perspective of the city, and Woody Allen's narration is typically witty. 

Raging Bull (1980)

This is in many ways the ideal introduction to the character of Jake La Motta. We see him in the only place that he feels truly comfortable - the boxing ring -  captured in glorious slow motion, silhouetted against the flashing cameras of the onlookers. Despite what is a crowded scene, he is alone in the frame; a fitting reflection of the character's isolation from the rest of society. It sets the scene perfectly, painting La Motta as an outsider, showing the audience his loneliness before a word has even been said.

Blue Velvet (1986)

Everything about the imagery initially found in the opening scene to Lynch's Blue Velvet screams suburban idyll. A tongue-in-cheek parade of cliches - picket fences, manicured gardens and a lollipop lady - paint a picture of a tranquil utopia that is eroded as the scene progresses. The almost comically ideal world that was first portrayed is shattered to reveal a disquiet that bubbled beneath the surface. This tension is reflected in a series of shots of a hose - tangled and caught on branches - it strains as the pressure rises, struggling to contain the water. 

Boogie Nights (1997)

Paul Thomas Anderson's ensemble piece begins with a three minute long tracking shot brimming with fittingly laid back flare. Reminiscent of Scorsese's Copacabana sequence from Goodfellas, Anderson plunges us into the centre of the action, introducing us to a majority of the cast and revealing much about the dynamics between them. The shot mainly tracks Burt Reynolds' character - a porn director - as he makes his way around a club; skipping the queue Henry Hill style, we are given an insight to the character's influence. Once we are inside, a great moment is shared between Reynolds and Wahlberg. The characters lock eyes, the camera slows down and the stars that Wahlberg is framed in front of aptly foreshadow his future.           


Antichrist (2009)

Antichrist's opening features the Danish provocateur Lars Von Trier at his most gloriously provocative. The "prologue" depicts a couple making love as their child climbs out of their cot and falls out of a window to their death. We see this play out in gorgeous slow motion black and white that lends a cinematic grandeur to the tragic sequence. This is accompanied by a hauntingly beautiful baroque soundtrack whose lyrics - when translated - lament "Let me weep over my cruel fate, and that I long for freedom" in what seems fitting fashion. Though what happens is extreme, this scene is more than just a meaningless attempt to be controversial from Von Trier. It is not only vital in establishing the origin of the mother's profound depression but also works on a visceral level, playing on innate parental fears.  

Inglorious Basterds (2009)

Whether you love, hate or are indifferent to Tarantino, the suspense which he crafts in this scene is undeniable; containing one of the all time great moments of creepy milk drinking (up there with A Clockwork Orange), this scene is irrepressible. Waltz's performance is excellent, I can think of few instances where a character's politeness has been so threatening; he turns every line of typically sharp Tarantino dialogue into a menacing threat, regardless of its seeming innocence. We also have a wonderfully comic contrast of pipe sizes that reflects the characters personalities perfectly and a shamelessly good The Searchers inspired landscape through a door shot.