She is only forced into this realisation after the global financial crisis of 2008 strips her of everything she has been working to earn, and it becomes clear that the promised stability of the American dream isn’t all that stable. As she seeks out a life beyond the boundaries of civilisation she still encounters unexpected problems, but at least there is no boss or politician giving her false reassurances.

We gradually discover that Fern is a widow, having lost her husband years ago, and so as she faces the end of her life she does so with years of preparation. Venturing forth into uninhabited terrain is a practice run for journeying into the great unknown, separating oneself entirely from the comfort of civilisation so that the separation from life becomes easier to accept. In one scene she gets lost among rock formations, and in another, a wild, choppy ocean disturbs the notion that the natural world isn’t always a kind, soothing place. She faces the temptation to settle back into a home and live off a pension, but the pull of the nomad life is too strong, as equally unavoidable as her own death.

Chloe Zhao’s camera shares Fern’s instinctual desire to keep moving, never settling in one place. In its restlessness, movement becomes something other than a necessity to reach a different location, but rather an opportunity to keep seeing, doing, and learning more. Zhao’s tracking shots float around Fern in long takes, sometimes looking ahead, other times off to the side or behind. She often greets people on these journeys, nodding and sharing exchanges with fellow nomads. As one of her friends points out later, nomads never say any permanent goodbyes, but rather just “See you down the road.” Every relationship Fern has or ever has had, including her marriage, is unified by their fleetingness, and thus they all meld into one singularity. Change is the only constant in her life.

Zhao’s magic hour photography delivers some of the most gorgeous images of the year, often capturing the sun just above mountainous horizons as it is setting. It acts as a visual reminder that this is a period of transition for Fern, facing the end of her life without fear or worry. By removing herself from the pressures of ordinary civilisation, she discovers a purer state of being that is more in touch with her mortality, her environment, and her friends. Most significantly though, she begins to recognise that to exist is to live in a state of constant flux. Pretending that corporate America’s arbitrary life instructions will guard against that is foolish. Temporality must be embraced, not shied away from.

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But Soul is Pixar at its most ambitious from a purely metaphysical standpoint, manifesting ideas much harder to grasp than “Joy” or “Sadness”, and moving beyond the expected exploration of what happens to one’s soul after death. The concept of “new” souls is a classic Pixar invention, and is used as a springboard into further questions about what gives people character and definition. These new souls are sent through rooms that give them basic characteristics, and the final key that lets them move on to Earth is their “spark”. The interrogation of what a spark really is becomes the core of Soul’s search for meaning, considering the distinctions between purpose, passion, and simple appreciation of life in all its tiny pleasures.

The designs of each interdimensional plane are stunningly rendered with distinct colour palettes – black with pinpoints of white in The Great Beyond, cool pastels in The Great Before, and deep, dark blues and purples in The Zone. That the souls don’t have defined edges emphasises the intangibility of these spaces, a sharp contrast to the tactility and energy of the New York scenes. The camera speeds through the streets of the city, the grubbiness revealing itself in the attention to visual detail, and a bombastic jazz score by Atticus Ross and Trent Reznor vigorously tying it all to Joe’s love of music.

The jokes and characters in Soul are firmly kid-friendly, sometimes stepping a little too far into misplaced slapstick routines. But as a whole, the film is indicative of a gradual shift within Pixar towards more mature narratives and existential concepts. Perhaps to offset the heaviness of its themes, a deus ex machina lets the film land on the sweeter side of Pixar’s bittersweet endings. At least the final emotional note hits more powerfully than some of the underhanded plot manipulations. And besides, a film this passionate about living only deserves as joyful a closing statement.

What did you think of Soul? Tell us in the comments below!

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There is no amount of editing that could turn The Godfather Part III into a masterpiece on the level of its predecessors, but the most striking change in this recut is its much leaner, more character-centric plot. The opening papal ceremony is gone, as are the flashbacks to the previous films, and instead we immediately move right into Michael’s meeting with Archbishop Gilday, the head of the Vatican bank. The result is hugely effective. This meeting is the key to Michael’s journey in the film, revealing his new disposition, his motive, and most importantly, the inciting incident of the film. This recut plot is simply more economical, and no longer leaves its audience hanging to figure out who this new Michael is. It is clear from the start – he is a man looking to buy his way out of sin, trying to befriend the Catholic church yet still lacking reverence for it.

The other major change to the film is ending. Rather than seeing Michael falling out his chair, dropping an orange, and dying, we instead witness him put on his shades as a sad, old man, while the film fades to a quote from Part II.

“When a Sicilian wishes you ‘Cent’anni’, it means ‘for long life’… and a Sicilian never forgets.”

I am in two minds here over which ending is preferable. The symbol of the orange is a common thread through the Godfather series, foreshadowing danger or death whenever it appears. The orange remains a sinister omen in this last instalment, but as Michael is revealed to be diabetic it also cruelly becomes a life-saving food for him, demonstrated in one scene where he drinks its juice to keep his sugar levels up. He quite literally can’t separate himself from that which represents his own downfall – both the oranges and the mafia life. Using the symbol as a bookend to the series tied up this device in satisfying, poetic manner.

This orange isn’t so integral to the ending that the coda crumbles apart without it though. Francis Ford Coppola has made the decision to eliminate Michael’s death from the film entirely – ironic given the new title The Death of Michael Corleone. The moment Michael’s soul is destroyed is not in this final scene, however, but rather immediately before when his daughter, Mary, is shot to death by a stray bullet intended for him. His life of sin has led to this crushing loss, and not even his penance could pay for it all. Any faults in Sofia Coppola’s acting here are soon forgotten thanks to Al Pacino, who silently screams in utter despair.

The subsequent flashforward to an elderly Michael seems to brush away everything that happened in his life between these two points in time, as if nothing in the remaining years has ever mattered. In this recut version, he isn’t granted the sweet relief of death. As the final quote elucidates, Michael is granted “a long life” to face all of his sins and grieve all of his losses.

By cutting a few unnecessary scenes and one significant moment from The Godfather Part III, Francis Ford Coppola has drastically improved the film as both a viewing experience and as a closing statement on the trilogy. The Death of Michael Corleone is not a perfect fitting end to its progenitors, as it still retains some of the flaws of the original. But with this recut Coppola is finally getting his original wish to recognise the film’s standing in the series as an optional coda, not a necessary sequel.

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The Big Ol’ House of Fun in question is the setting of much of the series, and host to their many adventures that see them go searching for a new housemate, treasure hunting, training for the Olympics, preparing for a date, staying up late, and hosting a dinner party. These thin ideas are used as frameworks for each episodes’ comedic riffs, which oscillate between scripted and improvised. Narrative structure is set aside to let the show run off on tangents, only to return at the end of each episode to bring the setups to unexpected conclusions.

Its humour is not unlike British comedy series The Mighty Boosh in its surrealism and inventive sight gags, though by nature of being a sketch show Aunty Donna’s Big Ol’ House of Fun is even less beholden to continuity. The core trio, Mark, Zach, and Broden, are more of the main attraction than the stories they cook up. At their most exuberant they burst out into comedic songs, and at their most scathing they break the fourth wall and acknowledge the artificiality of the show. Each member take turns playing the straight man and the fool, though often the sketches will revolve around rapid dramatic escalations that see them all eventually submit to their most eccentric impulses.

Long-time fans of Aunty Donna will notice some of their classic sketches making their way into the series, often with alterations made to fit an episode’s themes. For example, “Roll Call” becomes a housemate interview, and “School Nurse” becomes a sports doctor, still played by the hilariously talented Michelle Brasier. Some of the adapted sketches keep close to their original scripts, only revised to fit a bigger budget. It is in these that results are more varied – the song “Everything’s a Drum” benefits from the large array of props at their disposal, but the “Family Feud” sketch played out better in their live shows when Mark and Zach’s quick switching between the roles was part of the joke, rather than replaced with visual effects.

Netflix’s investment in such a bizarre series is a risk that has paid off and bodes well for the future of television sketch comedy. As shows in this vein are finding it increasingly difficult to find slots on free-to-air programming, streaming is proving to be the home of eccentric artists looking to reach wider audiences. Aunty Donna have spent close to a decade establishing a presence on YouTube and other social media channels, and now that they have brought their irreverence to Netflix through their Big Ol’ House of Fun, they are able to experiment with bigger, wilder, and ballsier comedic ideas.

What did you think of Aunty Donna’s Big Ol’ House of Fun? Tell us in the comments below!

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With its contentious final episode “Carry On”, Supernatural wrapped up 15 years of hunting monsters and bid farewell to the Winchester brothers. The landing was rocky, partially because the COVID-19 pandemic threw a spanner in the works during production earlier this year, leading to some minor rewrites that left out a number of significant characters in the last few episodes. But with the resources that showrunners Andrew Dabb and Robert Singer had to work with, Supernatural found an emotional conclusion for the fraternal relationship right at the show’s centre.

A lot has changed since the show’s inception in 2005. Beginning as a monster-of-the-week fantasy horror show heavily inspired by Buffy the Vampire Slayer, season 1 saw hot-headed older brother Dean recruit his calmer, more academic young brother Sam to search for their recently disappeared father. John Winchester, played by Jeffrey Dean Morgan, is a hunter, and it is looking like Dean will follow in his footsteps while Sam is hoping to establish a more stable life. The show’s universe quickly grew to cosmic proportions when demons, angels, and archangels were introduced. Season 4 saw the addition of Castiel to the main cast, an angel ally who sought to help the Winchesters prevent the Apocalypse.

Supernatural reached its peak in season 5, which saw archangels Michael and Lucifer fight it out in the absence of their father, God, who had mysteriously been missing for thousands of years. Their story mirrored the Winchesters’ own relationship, reflecting all their own insecurities about being their father’s favourite versus the one who struck out on his own. It was a thrilling character study using very loose interpretations of the Bible to explore brotherhood through the ages.

Everything was wrapped up so neatly that when Supernatural was renewed for a sixth season, everyone was a little bit surprised. In the subsequent years Supernatural never quite reached the same level of quality again, but it continued to develop in new, unexpected ways. The showrunners always seemed to believe that its fanbase were men much like the Winchesters, but in the 2010’s the social media platform Tumblr revealed it to consist largely of young, progressive women, the sort of demographic that the show would sometimes mock with its own regressive form of politics.

Eventually the writers learned better, and started to incorporate parts of the fandom into their show. Season 6’s “The French Mistake” saw Sam and Dean end up in our universe where they were actors in the television show Supernatural, and the 200^th episode “Fan Fiction” had them investigating a local high school that was staging a musical adaptation of their adventures. The show’s relationship with its female and queer characters never fully improved, but in its final seasons there was a solid effort to bring in a more diverse range of characters. It even attempted to launch a spin-off show titled Wayward Sisters, intended to revolve around the women in the Winchesters’ life with their own sets of skills and powers to hunt down monsters. But sadly it wasn’t picked up by any networks, and any hopes for its success fizzled out.

The seasonal story arcs themselves varied in quality. The release of the Darkness at the end of season 10 was a breath of fresh air back into the series, once again raising the stakes and allowing for more parallel arcs between cosmic beings and the Winchester brothers. The addition of Jack, the son of Lucifer, in season 13 also brought a new dynamic to the cast, seeing Sam, Dean, and Castiel take on parental roles. But for every exciting Darkness-centric season we would get a duller one, such as the arc revolving around the British Men of Letters who never ended up being terribly interesting or memorable. The post-season 5 road was rocky, and as the final season rolled around it was unclear how well the show was going to stick its landing.

At first, it looked dour. The first episode of season 15 saw the writers back down on the ridiculously high stakes it had set up in the season 14 cliffhanger, which made it seem as if God had revived every monster the Winchesters had ever destroyed. As it turns out, it was only a few ghosts from a small town that had come back, none of which were particularly intimidating. But still, God had promised to bring the brothers’ story to a climactic finale, following which he would destroy all of his creation. The stakes were high, and all the showrunners would need to do is pull off their biggest climax yet.

The moment that solidified their success was God’s erasure of every living being except for Sam, Dean, Jack, and also as it turns out, the archangel Michael. A last minute cameo from Mark Pellegrino as a very briefly revived Lucifer gave the episode some added fan service, but it was the final coup d’etat on God that ultimately felt so satisfying. Having Jack suck his power from him, effectively rendering him mortal, gave Sam and Dean the free will they had desired for so long, and ensured that the universe would now be in the hands of a truly benevolent being.

What rocked social media even more than this though was Castiel’s confession of love for Dean, which brought the 2010-era Tumblr fans back out of the woodwork. Destiel, the name given to the pairing of Dean and Castiel whose relationship was often interpreted as being rife with homo-erotic undertones, became canon. But any hopes that it might stick around was destroyed mere seconds later when Castiel sacrificed himself, once again giving rise to complaints about the show’s treatment of its queer characters.

While the season 15 arc had reached its conclusion in “Inherit the Earth”, the real final episode “Carry On” was a bookend to the 15 year arc of the Winchester brothers’ relationship, the heart of the show. Enjoying lives no longer governed by a megalomaniacal God, the two continued killing monsters until one hunt went wrong and saw Dean end up on the wrong side of a long, rusty nail. Realising it’s the end, he had time to say a tearful goodbye to Sam before passing on. Any complaints about this being an anticlimactic ending for such a larger-than-life character miss the point. Dean’s life was only epic because God made it so, so once he started living an ordinary existence it would make sense for him to die like an ordinary hunter – on his own terms, not on God’s. It was the death Dean had always expected, and perhaps even wanted. Likewise, Sam always wanted a normal life with a family of his own, something he never would have gotten if God had his way. With Dean’s demise, Sam pursues that life he never thought he would be able to have, eventually dying as an old man.

If it weren’t for complications brought about by the pandemic, Supernatural may have been able to bring back some of its key characters as a final farewell. It was disappointing to not see Eileen appear one last time, especially as the show spent so much time exploring her potential relationship with Sam throughout the season, but it was even more unfortunate that we wouldn’t be seeing Castiel return to settle his relationship with Dean. There is mention that he is safe in heaven, along with John and Mary Winchester, and we do get a Bobby Singer cameo which is worth something. But to canonise a major Supernatural theory and then leave it completely unaddressed in the series finale feels much more anti-climactic than Dean’s death.

The unofficial Supernatural theme song “Carry On My Wayward Son” traditionally heralded each season finale since the beginning, but here it is left right to the end so that it underscores the moment that finally gives its lyrics meaning. Sam and Dean’s reunion in heaven, finally finding peace after lives of fighting evil, closes out a series that has meant a lot of things to so many people. It was one of the first television shows to develop a vocal internet fanbase, and to evolve alongside the geek culture it inspired. Its quality was never consistently good, and its worst episodes ranged from corny to downright regressive, but it was a significant part of television for well over a decade. I don’t believe it will be forgotten very easily.

What did you think of Supernatural ending? What was your favourite season? Sound off in the comments below!

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Two colourfully bewigged teenage sisters escape their lives to spend one night cutting loose, making mistakes, and helping each other back up again.

Phoebe Tonkin has been a mainstay of Australian television for over a decade, and here she makes her impressive directorial debut on the beautifully neon-tinted drama Furlough. What appears to be a story about a night of soaking in the extreme highs and lows of adolescence is revealed to be driven by a more poignant, bittersweet motive than initially expected. Through the evening and into the early hours of the morning we see time distort, with slow-motion and jump cuts underscoring the significance of every second to these sisters. Tonkin swathes them in stunning fluorescent reds and blues that wrap them up in the night’s heightened emotions, but gradually these neons give way to a sunrise, returning the girls to the real world.

The moment that justifies the girls’ motivation for this night is forced a little hard and for too long, as it really could have been distilled in a single powerful image. But once Tonkin moves past this, she reassures us that the joy the sisters experienced is still intact. The peach-orange skies and blue waters are much more soothing than the night of raucous partying, but it is no less filled with joy. Tonkin’s use of colours in her visual storytelling is simply remarkable.

The Immortal

A man discovers the secret to immortality, but eventually comes to learn its curses outweigh its blessings.

The Immortal treads the line between the epic and the personal, though it is at its weakest when it lays too much into the former. Its impressively majestic visuals ultimately feel a little hollow when so much is stuffed into a 15-minute short film and then quickly discarded with to move onto the next plot point. The voiceover that connects these huge jumps in time becomes exceedingly expository, betraying a lack of confidence in the visual storytelling.

It is when both the narration and the visual effects drop away in the middle act that director Carl Firth properly makes the most of its short film format, allowing a more intimate and involving exploration of the devastating impact of immortality on one’s psyche. But the epic and the personal still don’t quite mesh until the final minutes, when the infinite life finally becomes the biggest, most significant thing in the universe. And when there is nothing left to dwarf it, that is when the existential loneliness can be felt the deepest.

Audio Guide

A woman discovers an art gallery audio guide that gives information about whatever person or object it is pointed at.

The shift from light comedy to a dark realisation of this device’s power is handled skillfully by director Chris Elena, but it is also in no small part thanks to Emma Wright’s performance as Audrey. Starting off as mildly curious, she soon becomes consumed by the excitement and horror of its potential. She slyly slides next to strangers to feed her innocent desire for more knowledge, and she visibly grows more agitated as her nosiness starts to lead her down a path of existential anxiety.

The gradual shift in this short film’s mise-en-scene must be applauded as well, as it reflects the protagonist’s own unravelling mental state back at her. Audio Guide starts in an art gallery flooded with pastel hues and neatly arranged frames, yet as Audrey’s world takes a dark turn so do her surroundings, filling her life with chaotic, messy graffiti. From the production design to the central performance, the impressive attention to visual detail is what makes Audio Guide stand out.

The Diver

A young man finds his erratic behavior starting to strain his relationship with his father.

The thin narrative thread that links the sequence of bizarrely unexplained events in The Diver is not enough to create a cohesive story, nor is it enough to compel the audience to consider the multitude of unanswered questions it poses. The son in question exhibits strange behaviour with little justification, such as reacting badly to finding out his father is giving away homegrown vegetables for free, or scaring off a woman who may or may not be his father’s new love interest. Some odd performance choices in these moments ultimately make for an unconvincing and confusing watch.

The cinematography makes the most of magic hour lighting that allows for some beautiful shots of the father heading off to work, and of the lake where the son goes diving. But it is hard to completely stand by the technical aspects of the film when the sound mixing is so poor, with clearly dubbed audio not matching up to the environment. The Diver has neither a clear vision of what it is trying to be, nor the technical acumen that might have otherwise saved it from being a muddled jumble of ideas.

The Recordist

A film sound recordist uses his set of tools to blackmail a colleague and feed his own perverted desires.

The hidden ears of a sound recordist can unexpectedly capture our most personal conversations or our most vulnerable moments, and what one chooses to do with this power can make for riveting character studies. Francis Ford Coppola used the premise as an examination of Cold War paranoia with The Conversation; Brian de Palma used it as the basis of a political thriller in Blow Out; and with The Recordist directors Indiana Bell and Josiah Allen turn the titular character into an obsessive voyeur.

Brendan Rock delivers a disturbing performance as Andrew, the sound recordist in question who works on a film set and uses his tools to listen in on unassuming colleagues. The recordings are used as blackmail, though his true intentions remain unclear until the final unsettling twist. Andrew is a man seeking stimulation, and the anxiety-inducing sound design and extreme close-ups allow us to experience his own sharply-tuned senses. The Recordist succeeds in establishing a sensual, disconcerting atmosphere, and then effectively follows through on that to its perverse conclusion.

Cloudy River

A young couple in an open relationship struggle with insecurities, boundaries, and uncertainty about their futures. 

The relatively slow pace of this miniseries’ six short episodes instils its narrative with a relaxed confidence that the resilience and openness of its two lead characters will continue to win out over their hot-headedness. We spend time watching Emma and River party, hook up, and feed their passions, so that when they fall out we feel an uncomfortable disturbance. Their conflicts are nuanced, raising questions about where the boundaries of their open relationship lie. Is it acceptable to hook up with someone else in your shared bedroom? In the vegetable patch? If you’re having sex with others, what does that mean for your emotional involvement with each other?

The central performances by Rebecca Robertson and Rowan Davie are refreshingly honest, cutting their characters down with pettiness and ego only to build them back up with unexpected moments of genuine compassion. That Cloudy River feels so organic in its character dynamics is also a testament to the screenplay, which lets their unspoken motivations escalate their arguments until they find each other again in a delicate, sensual love. Emma and River are not a perfect pairing, but what relationship is?

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Director and writer Eliza Hittman also brings an immediacy to the text by rejecting any explanation of what led Autumn to seek an abortion, refusing the audience any opportunities to make snap judgements based on the details of the encounter. We never discover who impregnated Autumn, but we get an idea of the circumstances and the pain it continues to cause her.

Hittman’s cinema verité approach to directing the camera through the streets and subways of New York brings an unpolished rawness to Autumn’s journey, focusing primarily on close-ups and tracking shots that rarely cut away from either her or Skylar’s face. It is surprising how few wide shots can be found here at all, especially given the temptation to capture New York’s lights and buildings that seem almost designed for the movie screen. But the New York of Never Rarely Sometimes Always is not a city to marvel at, but rather a confusing, claustrophobic, and inhospitable labyrinth. If the film drags a bit in its middle section, it is not an accident. Hittman wants us to sit through every moment of mundanity that Autumn experiences, though this can be particularly punishing when there is little going on stylistically.

Through it all, it is Sidney Flanigan’s understated performance that grounds each scene. It would be easy to initially brush the role off as one that demands little ability, but that would be a mistake. It gradually becomes clearer why Flanigan is so well-suited to playing Autumn, as the pressure to secure a safe abortion builds to a crescendo, reaching its peak in the scene mentioned above that contextualises her pregnancy. The questions she is asked become more personal, and before any other sign of breaking her face turns a quiet shade of red. We are forced to sit with her as she relives these painful memories, and though their details are never elucidated, her complicated emotions associated with them emerge distinctly.

The centring of Flanigan’s performance above all else allows this film to transcend the usual stories told about abortions, emphasising the present-tense, first-person perspective. What came before is entirely irrelevant in the decision itself, and is only significant to Autumn’s journey in the way she now relates to others and herself. It is not just a credit to Hittman that she is able to draw this performance out of such a young actress, but that she was also able to so poignantly shape the busy, troubling world that moves around her.

What did you think of Never Rarely Sometimes Always? Tell us in the comments below!

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But through all the misadventures of father-daughter duo, Felix and Laura, it is the images that will stick. The two framed against a patterned golden wallpaper in a restaurant, divided by a lampstand; Felix speeding through New York City in his red convertible; Laura facing a dearth of inspiration in her clinical, white apartment. Had Coppola dedicated more time to visuals such as these, then she may have been able to strengthen this complementary balance of Laura’s insecurities and Felix’s selfishly joyous approach to living. As it stands, she leaves a lot up to the actors.

Fortunately, both Rashida Jones and Bill Murray deliver in their respective roles. As Felix, Murray possesses a distinctive charm, unable to converse with women without some casual flirting. His relationship with Laura’s mother crumbled years ago due to his own immaturity, yet he visibly carries his own fair share of emotional pain that pushes him to continue seeking out shallow pleasures and distractions. For him, sex is a barrier that prevents the development of genuine relationships. As Laura is the only woman he cannot view as a sexual prospect, she becomes the single most important person in his life.

Felix is also entrenched in the belief that every man is just as dishonest as him, using it as a coping mechanism that allows him to brush off culpability. He inflicts this belief upon his daughter, who then uses it to project her insecurities upon her husband. In actuality, the true nature of this husband-wife relationship is barely significant. Every development in Laura’s investigation continues to return to the bond she shares with her father, and the undeniable sway he has held over her since she was young.

It is far from Coppola’s greatest directorial effort, but with On the Rocks she continues to ruminate on celebrity culture, isolation, and the malleability of youth, reflecting on her own life as the daughter of one of the most famous directors in film history. The film takes these notions more directly into the realm of familial relationships, exploring the blessings and curses associated with having such a well-loved but troubled father. For all his faults, Felix is not a villain. His and Laura’s flaws balance each other out, briefly causing trouble but ultimately arriving at a mutual respect and understanding of each other – the sort of understanding that necessarily leads to the recognition of when one needs to step back and let the other grow into their own person.

What did you think of On The Rocks? Tell us in the comments below!

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In one of Raging Bull’s first scenes, Jake expresses his insecurities about his hands to his brother Joey, played by Joe Pesci. They’re small, like “girl’s hands”. He knows he will never have the speed, finesse, or technique of so many of his rivals. But he has sheer strength and resilience on his side, being able to withstand an astounding number of hits without being knocked down. His gains a reputation of being a bully in the ring, delivering barrages of constant, heavy blows to overwhelm his opponents, to the point that they would be scared to fight him.

I don’t think it is an exaggeration to name Robert De Niro’s performance here as one of the most impressive ever captured on film. LaMotta is numb to all kinds of sensation, though where this is his strength in the boxing ring, it is his undoing in his domestic life. He seethes with anger and envy as he watches his beautiful young wife speak to other men, no matter how platonically, working himself up into a state of obsessive paranoia over her loyalty. He can’t feel the affection she has for him, and the mere thought that others might be experiencing the kind of mutual love he is incapable of infuriates him. Yet in those few moments where Jake does get close to physical intimacy, he recoils – to win his fights, he must stay numb. He douses his erection with a jug of ice-cold water, committing self-sabotage as means to beat his boxing opponent.

We witness eight matches in Raging Bull, and all except the first open on hard cuts from scenes of quiet, domestic life. The contrast is striking, as great as the difference between neorealist cinema and stark expressionism. Whether he is in the ring or at home, De Niro often has a sparring partner with whom his exchanges often seem naturalistic, sometimes even improvised. In the ring, these interactions are heightened by tracking shots, whip pans, slow-motion, freeze frames, pitch black backgrounds, smoky lights, intermittent flashbulbs – a huge assortment of cinematographic techniques are on display here to throw off our orientation as Jake furiously pummels his opponent, or conversely gets pummelled by them.

Working in conjunction with these visual elements is the sound design and rapid editing, reaching its peak in the final match between Jake and Sugar Ray Robinson. As Jake comes to the realisation that the fight is lost, Raging Bull strips back its chaotic sound design into complete silence. A weakened LaMotta cowers beneath Sugar Ray, who is lit from behind like a priest preparing a sacrifice. In those slow few seconds where the outside world no longer exists, we acutely experience Jake’s numbness. The boxing ring is his confessional where he can spill out his frustration and anger, but it is also where he can take the self-loathing punishment he knows he deserves.

Yet even as Jake loses the match, he never once hits the canvass. “You never got me down Ray” he gloats, even having just experienced a humiliating defeat. Jake loses everything in his personal and professional life, but his anchor is his ability to never be pushed down completely. His persistence makes him a truly terrifying adversary to come up against, whether in the confines of a boxing ring or in more personal settings.

As Jake’s career declines over the years, so too does the rest of his life. His wife leaves him, he becomes a sleazy stand-up comedian at a Miami nightclub, and he eventually gets jailed for introducing underage girls to men. With no family or boxers to clash with, he turns his hatred inwards even more. “Why, why, why me?” he cries out as he bangs his head against the walls of his cell. The answer is annoyingly clear to us – his wilful ignorance led to pedophilia, and so he is in prison. But LaMotta either can’t or won’t make that connection. He is a victim of his own stupidity and depravity.

Here, De Niro is at his rawest and most tortured that we have ever seen him in his entire career. For every toxic, hyper-masculine character he has ever played, this feels like the purest expression of miserable self-pity that they have often felt but been too proud to show. Where the boxing scenes are dynamic and fast-paced, the long take of this jail scene forces us to wallow with Jake in his own pathetic agony.

The last we see of Jake is backstage at his nightclub. Old, fat, and lonely. A very different Jake to the one we saw earlier. His voice is weak, his posture slouched, and his delivery of Marlon Brando’s famous “I coulda been a contender” monologue from On the Waterfront is stilted. In the original text, Brando plays a former boxer who could have been successful if not for the pressure from his brother to take a dive in an important match. Here, Jake directs that blame at a mirror, and it is reflected back onto him. Where Brando delivered this monologue with anguish, Jake’s recitation is flat and lifeless. His existence is sapped of anything meaningful, and yet this small moment of reflection indicates some recognition of his own failures. It is far too late for him to make any amends, but this shouldering of a small bit of responsibility might be the most we can hope for out of a man like Jake.

Forty years later, Raging Bull is still highly regarded as featuring some of the most beautiful black-and-white cinematography, and one of the greatest performances in film history. Scorsese shook off the shackles of realism in his depiction of boxing, using it as a conduit through which a toxic, self-destructive man can unleash his most masochistic urges. Who would have guessed that a man who found the sport “boring” would be able to tap so deeply into its psychological roots?

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Opening on horrific scenes of World War II and ending with a contemplation to join the fight in Vietnam, The Devil All the Time depicts a generational cycle of misery propelled by misogynistic and hyper-religious power structures that even death can’t destroy. Each character is part of a nation obsessed with the sacrifice of thousands of innocent troops, providing them with false reassurances that their families back home will have better lives if they were to give up their lives.

Director Antonio Campos weaves together a rich tapestry with these characters, few of which carry enough depth to stay in the spotlight for too long, but rather complement others to paint a grim landscape of mid-twentieth century southern America. The use of sacrificial murder to serve one’s own interests echoes across the micro- and macro-narratives of the film, unifying decades of American history under a twisted set of egocentric values.

These stories are also tied together by narration voiced by Donald Ray Pollock, the author of the book upon which the film is based. He describes the inner thoughts of his characters in a dry, reserved manner, lending a novelised omniscience to the events of the film. It is this distance which allows us some reprieve from the otherwise harrowing events of the film, being recounted as if they are simply chapters of a modern gothic folk tale. The narration’s tendency to over-explain can be somewhat forgiven, as Pollock’s voice sinks into the background and creates a lulling effect, like the voice one hears in their head while reading a book.

Though definitively an ensemble piece, the most screen time of the film is claimed by Tom Holland as Arvin Russell, a young man whose patience with the evil of his fellow Americans wears thin as he reaches adulthood. Holland certainly demonstrates some range beyond his work as Spider-Man, but it is Bill Skarsgård who makes a greater impression as Arvin’s father, Willard Russell, a traumatised army veteran with a desperate, blind faith in divine intervention. His story dominates much of the first act and parallels Arvin’s own journey later in the film, just as many other characters have older and younger counterparts that emphasise the immortality of certain southern archetypes. Robert Pattinson and Harry Melling are mirrors of each other as intensely deluded preachers separated by a generation, played with scenery-chewing flair. Haley Bennett and Eliza Scanlen play Charlotte and Lenora, two soft-spoken women doomed to leave gaping holes in the lives of the Russell family. Strangely enough, most of this cast is made up of European and Australian actors, further separating us from the setting and seemingly suggesting that the worst parts of American culture can only be captured through the perspectives of neutral outsiders.

The relevance of each subplot and character in The Devil All the Time isn’t immediately apparent, though it is through their thematic underpinnings and motivations that they are tethered to create a scathing indictment of America’s egotistical obsession with transcending human limitations. Anyone expecting a character study that prods deeply into a specific mindset will be left sorely disappointed. The Devil All the Time is not a portrait but a landscape, and through it Campos crafts a setting far more terrifying than any of the perverse individuals who inhabit it.

What did you think of The Devil All the Time? Tell us in the comments below!

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