Here are seven brief film essays that I’m proud of but have no home.

The Wind Will Carry Us (1999)

Dir. by Abbas Kiarostami

The Wind Will Carry Us reminded me of a contradiction I hold within myself. I both crave the speed and possibility of modern life and the stillness and patience that become incompatible with it. I want what I don’t have, yet yearn for the former while having the latter.

The solution to this contradiction will never be the tantalizingly simple answer of rejecting modern life. The closest I can get to a solution is by carrying patience and mindfulness into the everyday motions—remaining ambitious but not allowing productivity to consume every moment; however, too much stillness creates restlessness and anxiety within me. I’m sure figuring this out will be a lifelong process—if I ever figure it out.

I also feel the Ozu influence in Kiarostami. Stylistically, yes, but mostly in an emotional and spiritual sense. I’m mostly reminded of Tokyo Story, a fable-like tale of how we desire stillness yet don’t want to miss out on the life we’d lose due to a lack of effort.

When it comes to these internal dilemmas, I often turn to old clichés. While they may oversimplify our realities, they often bring me a sense of clarity and grounding. As for this dilemma, the cliché that best fits is: it’s about the journey, not the destination; a thematic staple of transcendental filmmaking.

These introspective probes into my psyche are why I find this genre so fruitful. They feel as rich as novels despite the often meditative, calming aesthetic they’re typically accompanied by.

Straight Time (1978)

Dir. by Ulu Grosbard

Life as an ex-convict is a never-ending uphill battle. Parole officers make life difficult, the jobs you qualify for are brutal, and polite society either ignores you or scoffs at you. For some, hard time is all they know. When the system offers no real path forward, they return to what they know: crime.

Despite finishing your sentence on the inside, you begin your newest sentence of a degrading life on the outside due to the consequences of a mistake you made years prior. You’re given the shortest leash life can offer you. Everything you do is held under a microscope, and if you do mess up, it can send you back to the can.

At some point, this “corrective” system will break a man just as much as prison would. Then the cycle repeats, and a man’s agency is gone, and he’s been properly dehumanized and disenfranchised. Prison solves almost nothing except for sweeping the consequences of society under the rug, and people like Max Dembo are the dust.

True Stories (1986)

Dir. by David Bryne

David Byrne tells the story of his hometown and, maybe unconsciously, presents us with an autopsy of American life and the antidote for its death.

Suburban sprawl and shopping malls are slowly isolating us from each other, despite being sold to us as comfort. The appeal of protection, convenience, and artificial luxury has come at a price. Highways carve through nature and historic neighborhoods, scabbing over like scars in flesh. Commercialism replaces community, identity, and the strange beauty of ordinary life.

But David reminds us that love can still cure something. Whether romantic, neighborly, or brotherly, the love you give out can be returned tenfold to those willing to wear their heart on their sleeve. In a country built to separate people, sincerity starts to feel radical.

True Stories is maybe the most sincere film you’ll ever see. It’s adorable, heartwarming, and almost impossibly generous. It sees the emptiness of American life without hating the people trapped inside it. It seems impossible not to fall in love with it.

Paris is Burning (1990)

Dir. by Jennie Livingston

Paris Is Burning is as triumphant as it is tragic. It shows trans women of color living in instability fueled by a lack of material support while building a ballroom culture that is intensely alive, expressive, and self-invented. Survival and performance are one and the same.

Then, decades later, the contemporary mainstream steals from their art—voguing, drag jargon, ballroom aesthetics—all absorbed into pop culture but stripped of context. It’s style without origin; culture without those who created it.

A culture built in the margins gets treated as raw material. Expression produced under oppression gets detached from the conditions that made it necessary. Capitalism extracts expression the same way it extracts labor; identity becomes commodified.

And yet, there is still such joy. Even if the relief or escape is temporary, it is something so unique and expressive, built inside a world of instability. Balls, houses, performances—all created under conditions that should make this joy improbable, and therefore triumphant.

O Brother, Where Art Thou? (2000)

Dir. by Joel Coen

O Brother, Where Art Thou? carries the bones of Homer’s Odyssey through a Southern atmosphere haunted by the likes of William Faulkner and Charles Portis.

The three gentlemen on the run are trapped somewhere between myth and history. The Homeric journey explores a distinctly Southern Gothic world. The Coens turn this into comedy, music, and folklore without completely cleansing it of its harsh reality.

The South becomes a swamp filled with false prophets, crooked politicians, racial terror, and religious spectacle. Every encounter feels ancient yet unmistakably American.

Thelonious Monk: Straight, No Chaser (1988)

Dir. by Charlotte Zwerin

Thelonious Monk’s innovation lay in his refusal to bend, a refusal that became an act of political rebellion. He insisted on being entirely himself in a country that demanded Black artists make their work palatable, predictable, and easy to consume.

His artistic autonomy was inseparable from that rebellion. He would not let critics, audiences, or institutions decide what his music should sound like or what kind of artist he was allowed to be.

That independence also makes it impossible to reduce Monk to a single explanation. He often experienced severe swings between mania and depression, yet he was far too nuanced a person to attribute his eccentricity solely to mental illness or the political conditions under which he lived.

It’s difficult to explain any one person’s behavior in retrospect, but I cannot help feeling profound grief for Monk. He is one of the few figures for whom the tortured-genius trope feels genuinely apt.

They ridiculed him, only to embrace him once reality finally caught up with his greatness. By then, their acceptance meant nothing. It was too little, too late, and Monk rejected it on his own terms.

Few artists mean more to me than Monk. I’m so grateful Criterion restored this wonderful documentary.

The Odyssey (2026)

Dir. by Christopher Nolan

The Odyssey is probably one of the few stories that has a legitimate claim to have influenced the Bible, and seeing it told in a relatively secular manner has strangely reaffirmed my atheism.

One of the foundational Western texts, brought to life through some of the most innovative filmmaking techniques ever developed. The ancient and the modern exist in a kind of dialectic, where groundbreaking technology is used to resurrect one of humanity’s oldest surviving myths. I am reminded of films like Ben-Hur and The Greatest Story Ever Told, where cinematic innovation similarly served stories rooted in antiquity.

Fables, myths, tales and stories alike will forever intoxicate the human spirit. We do not have to believe they are literally true to recognize the truths humanity has placed within them. If anything, their endurance across thousands of years suggests that their power has always belonged to us rather than the gods they depict.

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Dir. by Robert Altman

In Nashville, meaning comes in fragments, impressions, and contradictions.

Altman unravels the American labyrinth in a charming, poetic manner. It shows the United States at every angle. It’s the closest a film has ever come to real life. Nashville becomes a dynamic world, woven into an ever-winding web. The plot feels kaleidoscopic, yet comfortingly simple.

Altman stages the following dialectics in direct tension with one another: the murdering sociopath with the heavenly songbird, the jaded anarchists with the nefarious political strategists, the desperate artists with the exploitative managers; without one, the other would not succeed; without each other, we wouldn’t be America. As Mao wrote, “without contradiction nothing would exist.”

The Master (2012)

Dir. by Paul Thomas Anderson

Paul Thomas Anderson taps into early-to-mid-20th-century authors so well. Steinbeck, Fitzgerald, Hemingway, and Pynchon are writers who extinguished post-war optimism with a cool dose of reality. Across their work, trauma lingers beneath the surface, shaping how their characters move through the world long after the initial damage is done.

He gracefully broaches the origins of American post-war occultism. Before the popular use of psychoanalysis, the traumatized were desperate for connection and comfort in a world that was so cruel to them. In that vacuum, belief systems could offer structure and meaning where none seemed to exist. This helps explain the rise of Scientology’s allure in American society.

The Master feels like a dream. Whenever I think about it in my day-to-day life, I feel as if I’m reminiscing about time spent with an old friend. That feeling lingers in a way that’s difficult to pin down, as if the film exists more in memory than in reality. It holds such a potent melancholy and tender nostalgia for me. I was nervous to engage with the film again, out of fear of not feeling this same potent love. Thankfully, I was not let down.

This film gives me a beautiful, nearly therapeutic feeling that reminds me of my own experience in therapy. I don’t think I’ll ever properly articulate it, but it means so much to me, which is funny, because what The Cause is doing is ultimately prototypical psychoanalysis.

Collateral (2004)

Dir. Michael Mann

Max is a man who’s wasting his life driving cabs and trying to beat the lights. He has to justify his time as a cabbie by saying it’s just temporary and he’s saving up for a limo service business. That lie sustains him, giving structure to a life he’s too afraid to change. But he’s just stalling. He’ll never get there because he’s too scared to take the leap of faith until Vincent comes around.

Vincent puts his entire life into perspective, showing him that he’ll never be more than the decisions he makes. He strips away Max’s excuses, forcing him to confront the life he’s chosen through inaction. There’s no reason any of us are here, and we spend our days working to get by, never changing.

Ordinary people are forced to make life-changing decisions every day. Most of the time, those decisions pass quietly, disguised as routine rather than turning points. You’ll never know what can happen, but someday you may be called to action, and you can’t be too timid to leap.

Vincent gives Max the push he needed to leap.

A masterpiece.

The Drama (2026)

Dir. by Kristoffer Borgli

The Drama is many things: it’s hilarious, intense, and nerve-racking. There’s also a deep sense of empathy in this film. It presents a kind of radical empathy that is understandably difficult for some people to accept.

The U.S. can radicalize someone into terror very quickly, and when people feel they have nothing to lose, this is how they may attempt to rectify what they perceive as an injustice against them.

While watching Emma’s character, I kept thinking about Natalie Rupnow, a 15-year-old girl in Wisconsin who, in 2024, killed a high school teacher and a fellow student, and wounded six others before taking her own life. Natalie immersed herself in the so-called aesthetic of mass shooters and even purchased the same T-shirt worn by Columbine shooter Dylan Klebold.

Social media, white supremacy, mental illness, a lack of material support, and unfettered access to firearms; the U.S. is a hotbed for tragedy. Honestly, it shouldn’t be a surprise anymore that mass shootings keep happening, especially when we do nothing to prevent them.

As Charlie says, it happens so often that, statistically, many people must have thought about it, even a beautiful, kind woman about to get married, like Emma. While she never went through with it, the ideas of why, how, and “what if” form the foundation of this film. A combination of trauma, isolation, and a cry for help can lead someone to do the unthinkable.

If people can be pushed to the edge, we shouldn’t simply scold them for having dark thoughts. While it is different in severity, I think a parallel can be drawn with suicide. In some ways, carrying out a mass shooting is a suicidal act. Many shooters end up killing themselves to avoid consequences, or the police kill them.

I thought this film was extremely well done. It’s a bold leap for a contemporary filmmaker, so I’m not surprised to see Ari Aster attached as a producer. It’s a sharp and thought-provoking movie, and I was really impressed by The Drama.

Burden of Dreams (1982)

Dir. by Les Blank

An ironically Sisyphean endeavor from cinema’s greatest madman. Les Blank documents something that only Werner Herzog would attempt: dragging a massive steamboat over a mountain. The act itself feels less like filmmaking and more like a compulsion, as if Herzog needs to prove that the impossible can be made real. In pursuit of that vision, he pushes the logistics of filmmaking to the breaking point, along with his cast and crew.

The making of Fitzcarraldo (1982) unfolds against a volatile backdrop of exploited Indigenous labor, protests, nearby border conflicts, disease, and more. By the end of production, Herzog had helped the Machiguenga secure title to their land, something they had struggled to obtain for decades.

Even so, it remains one of the most baffling stories in film history. In hindsight, the project feels reckless, even unethical. It likely should never have been made, given that it reportedly resulted in the deaths of Indigenous workers. This is filmmaking at its most obsessive, a production that exposes how easily the pursuit of greatness can blur into exploitation.

Touki Bouki (1973)

Dir. Djibril Diop Mambety

While Touki Bouki itself plays like a Senegalese arthouse version of Bonnie and Clyde, the making of the film is a heist in itself.

From the early 18th century until 1960, Senegal existed under French colonial rule. Thirteen years after independence, Djibril Diop Mambéty turns to the cinema of that former colonizer and steals from it, crafting a response to Jean-Luc Godard’s Breathless.

Mambéty repurposes Godard’s jumpy, rebellious New Wave style and fuses it with the Eisensteinian montage for a distinctly anti-colonial perspective. In doing so, he transforms the language of the French New Wave into something fractured, local, and resistant.

The result is a dreamy, sun-soaked portrait of two young lovers whose longing for Paris briefly eclipses their connection to Dakar—a reflection of how colonial influence lingers not just in politics, but in imagination itself. Touki Bouki is a bold and restless film that doesn’t just imitate its influences; it steals them back.

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Dir. by Frederick Wiseman

Professional athletes and artists face labor exploitation that most workers never will.

The thing you love and dedicate your life to can also ruin you emotionally and financially. Ballet sits at the intersection of athleticism and artistic expression.

Dancers may watch their bodies deteriorate as they endure intense emotional pain from the industry’s cutthroat nature.

Unfortunately, there will always be another dancer to replace you. They know that you so desperately want to continue dancing and can use that desire as leverage for you to endure more. These dancers push their bodies in ways only professional athletes truly understand, and, given the elusive nature of artistic expression, this career becomes even more difficult to attain. Being able to control your body in such a precise manner while conveying a specific emotion seems immensely challenging and a ripe scenario for burnout and mental anguish.

My favorite parts were when we saw the dancers offstage and not practicing—the recovery, the rest or the few moments of relief for their high-demand way of life. Although ballet feels so difficult to relate to, their mental and physical exhaustion is something most people can recognize. They’re pushing themselves for several reasons: to pay the bills, to ascend the ladder of their art form, and to keep this lifelong dream alive.

The duality of being at the peak of your athletic ability is that, deep down, you know it’s almost over. You’re one bad injury away from having to figure out a new way of living. This fear of failure isn’t like getting fired from your desk job; you can’t simply recover and return to the best companies in the world. For many, that chapter is closed. This gives the art form stakes so much higher than in most jobs, and it can multiply the already abundant mental stress.

Pickpocket (1959)

Dir. Robert Bresson

The heart of Dostoyevsky is buried deep within the impoverished pickpocket, Michel. Stealing to survive and stealing for the thrill are two very different things. Michel understands his risks yet never feels guilt. He works on his craft like an artist, becoming addicted to it. The temptation of thieving trumps all that life offers—love, stability, friends, family—his pickpocketing becomes an illness that he’s unable to control. No matter how just the cause is for his thievery, the police will remain apathetic.

Does prison belong to the impoverished who steal from the wealthy to survive? If the rich can survive without these stolen goods, why should the thief be imprisoned? We already live in an upside-down world; Michel is simply trying to set it right.

Theft as praxis, the morality of crime and the ethics of its punishment.

Pickpocket is the blueprint. What it accomplishes in 76 minutes makes entire careers seem worthless.

The Lusty Men (1952)

Dir. by Nicholas Ray

When Jeff McCloud (Robert Mitchum) is forced to retire from rodeo stardom due to a career-ending rib injury, he finds work as a cowhand. He starts working with Wes Merritt (Arthur Kennedy), who becomes infatuated with McCloud and his rodeo past, hoping to start a career of his own.

The opportunistic Jeff McCloud uses his training to make a move on his wife Louise—something she’s been warned of.

Louise Merritt (Susan Hayward) hates the dangerous and unstable rodeo life. The same life that made McCloud waste tens of thousands of dollars. Louise fears her husband will fall into the same trap.

The desire for fast cash, despite its great risk, is something still prevalent amongst us. The high-risk, high-reward lifestyle can burn you out quickly.

Despite the slow-and-steady approach of hard work being the smart decision, it’s hardly alluring. The only benefit is the peace of mind that it won’t go away in the blink of an eye.

In a world where grueling labor is the difference between having a home and not, people start to get desperate for any kind of shortcut, despite them rarely being as good as they seem. Your livelihood hinges on how the dice rolls or the bronco bucks.

When it comes to the rodeo, it’s not just your wallet that will be hurting if you lose. Wes, blinded by fast cash, fails to learn the lessons of his idol’s failures.

Mixing this scenario with fragile egos and romantic jealousy creates a wonderful western drama.

Tokyo-Ga (1985)

Dir. by Wim Wenders

When Wenders makes his pilgrimage to Tokyo, he finds that the meditative world of Ozu’s films either no longer exists or never did. While attempting to recreate the transcendental and ambivalent style of the Japanese master, he is met with a sensory onslaught of televisions, neon lights and unending stimulation at every corner.

The pursuit of truth in images is a lost art. As Herzog said, it’s something you have to go digging and searching for, something you may never find. The dignity of the subject is in your hands, and the truth of their livelihood can be so easily perverted and manipulated if you’re not careful.

As I’ve grown older and left photojournalism, I’ve found nothing more important than the ethics of images. The unethical, non-truthful image is hard to avoid or even teach. It feels like the goal of a lifetime. I hope to find it someday.

Juliet of the Spirits (1965)

Dir. by Federico Fellini

A vivid, dreamlike vision full of clairvoyance, mystical hallucinations, and strange supernatural events. Fellini’s use of Technicolor feels magical, especially when showing Giulietta’s unique subconscious.

When she suspects her husband is having an affair, she spares no expense or medium to find the truth—turning to Freudian analysis, private investigation, hypnosis, and séance rituals. The production is technically excellent, featuring rapid-fire dialogue and Nino Rota’s magnificent score, all of which accompany the angelic Giulietta Masina on her journey to save her inner child.

a masterpiece

Werckmeister Harmonies (2000)

Dir. by Béla Tarr

László Krasznahorkai and Béla Tarr seem to truly understand the subtleties of social paranoia. The mass delusion and fear-mongering around the unknown can culminate in an explosion of hate and violence.

Similar to the Krasznahorkai’s novels—Sátántangó, The Melancholy of Resistance and Herscht 07769—Werckmeister Harmonies shows that the need to understand and the subsequent failure to do so can drive people into madness and panic.

The respective works of the two Hungarians are prophetic. Their works seem to be a glimpse into the soul of contemporary society.

Rest in Peace, Béla.

Stagecoach (1939)

Dir. by John Ford

Old Westerns fill me with such a strange contrast of warm nostalgia and melancholic disappointment. Although John Ford does a good job of portraying the harsh reality of the past, it always feels like I’m mourning the death of a land that never existed. We were sold an American mythology and wonder that never really happened — one of adventure, exploration and justice amidst a beautiful backdrop of the western landscape filled with both lonely hot deserts and dense snowy forests of mountains connected to the Rocky Mountains — one of which I’ve called home for 26 years.

I daydream of a world that I know was never true, and it’s childish to think it wasn’t a horrific time built on colonialism, murder, genocide and disease.

Why must I be burdened with the dreams of a land that will never exist? My naivety blinds me from the fact that I was fooled and propagandized — I still dream of what should have been. I’ll never stop mourning for the land that America was supposed to be.

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Dir. Carl Theodor Dreyer

The Dialectics of Martyrdom: the cruelest of deaths for the noblest of people.

The tension between suffering and the martyr’s purpose shows that, despite the cruel nature of sacrifice, it provokes a powerful response within us.

The agony of tragedy is compounded by the unjust nature when someone so vulnerable or righteous is being forced to endure death for their cause. A person whose morals and principles are so strong that they don’t waver even in the face of death.

These diametrically opposed emotions created something so powerful within us that it shaped the last 2000 years of human history — the crucifixion of Jesus.

The execution of Joan of Arc is perhaps the closest example we have to a Christ-like martyrdom, both in the manner and cause of her death. Having her conviction nullified in 1456 and being canonized in 1920, Joan left an indelible legacy on humanity in just 19 years.

Dreyer and Falconetti give Joan a worthy depiction that remains one of cinema’s most potent expressions.

“Long live Joan!”

Landscape Suicide (1986)

Dir. by James Benning

People fail to recognize that we live in an inherently violent world. When these things happen, we go crazy, grasping for any explanation to quell our aching hearts. As tragic as it is, there is a cold, indifferent nature to death. Most of the time, murder or tragedy has little to no motive other than an impulsive rage that harbors deep within a person’s psyche. Nothing that can be prevented or understood, which only compounds the cruelty. There’s a misconception that understanding why will make the pain more tolerable; this is our brain’s desperate attempt at remaining sane.

Benning deconstructs both the American suburban and the quant country lifestyle down to its purest form. The land around us seems to be the control variable for the progression of society. When we view the land, we reminisce about what’s happened to it over the past 200 years. So when tragedy happens on such land, the land we’ve become so accustomed to, we find it hard to believe.

“That kind of thing doesn’t happen in a place like this,” — but it has; it wasn’t the first, and it won’t be the last.

Marty Supreme (2026)

Dir. Josh Safdie

Ambition is a corrosive disease. It’s a beast within you that needs to be exorcised. This sociopathic, onanistic notion of ruining the world around you for greatness is an ancient evil. It’s cancerous and destructive to any and all who try to thwart it.

The narcissistic delusion that, surely, you’ll make it and that you’ll do so by simply working harder than others will lead you to a suicidal, life-altering realization that you will fail. For some, it’s all they know. When you’re in so deep, you can’t back out, because it’s all you have, you keep doubling down.

So like any addiction, you ignore the side effects and keep going. This cycle continues exponentially until you look back and the life you had is no longer there, unable to be recovered.

Youth athletics especially binds the psychology of victory to emotional fulfillment. Only when you win can you receive affirmation from loved ones. Even if they don’t mean to do so, losing means you won’t receive the praise you so desperately fought to earn. The happiness and well-being of those around you are directly tied to whether or not you win at this game you’re playing as a child.

Games are no longer leisurely or simply fun. They’re an occupation that compensates you with the affirmation that should be unconditional, something you shouldn’t have to earn. Sometimes, the end result of a grotesque lifestyle, once you shed its caustic shell, can be transcendent beauty. Relinquishing the allures of greatness to those who “wanted it more” can be a life-saving experience.

There is no cure-all solution to this ailment. However, a key step in recovering from the self-destructive pursuit of greatness is realizing that the emptiness inside you that used to be quenched only by victory can be sustained by something else: love, knowledge, creative expression, etc.

In a quasi-religious coming-to-God moment, you can transcend the part of you that justified all that suffering. Whether or not the pursuit was worth it is something you’ll have to learn on your own.

What makes someone great is not the trophies they’ve won nor the money they’ve accumulated, but the hearts they’ve touched and the means by which they’ve lived. Find greatness by your own means and liberate yourself from the shackles of ambition.

Anatomy of a Fall (2023)

Dir. Justine Triet

! Spoiler Alert !

The heart of this film hinges on the argument that took place the day before Samuel’s death. Samuel’s insecurity around his own failure as a writer hits a boiling point. He projects his failures onto Sandra by blaming her for not giving him more time to write, despite Sandra being a successful author in the same circumstances.

This creates a fight that starts as a typical argument between a couple who are annoyed with each other. The fight quickly turns violent. Sandra throws a wine glass at the wall in rage, the two seem to wrestle around for a moment, and Sandra hits Samuel on the back a few times. The fight ends, and they stop talking.

Then the next day, Samuel is dead.

This circumstantial evidence is essential for the prosecution’s case. The interpretation of Sandra’s independence as evidence against her is undoubtedly misogynistic. The truth is solemnly revealed in court. It’s all about the jury’s perception of the defendant. Sandra is a complicated protagonist in a nuanced situation.

Despite Sandra’s eventual innocent verdict, this could happen to anyone. Sandra was in the wrong place at the right time, being framed as the vengeful, murderous wife.

How can you expect someone to justify their entire life? If you nitpick anyone’s life choices, you can find something convenient to your case.

A Clockwork Orange (1971)

Dir. Stanley Kubrick

Alex and his gaggle of hoodlums terrorize the streets of London with fights, rapes and murder. Alex lives in a society devoid of discipline and order. He and his nefarious pals feel no shame or guilt about their actions, knowing they’ll face little to no consequences. Alex’s arrogance catches up with him after he’s betrayed by his fellow criminals, leading to his arrest.

Alex’s world of atrocious debauchery leads him to the constraints of incarceration. Despite the rules and regulations of the prison, Alex doesn’t seem to mind the jail, because he enjoys his punishment. With the government eager to reform prisoners to make way for potential political enemies, Alex is given an offer: to have his sentence expedited as long as he’s willing to be subjected to “medical treatment.”

Alex sowed a tapestry of terror so vast that he reaped incomprehensible psychological torture as a means of reform. Every action has an equal and opposite reaction, and like a karmic physics experiment, Alex becomes a victim of the ultra-violence he once adored.

Was Alex just a product of his environment and not deserving of such cruelty? Or was Alex finally running into the long-awaited consequences for his horrific behavior?

Opening Night (1977)

Dir. John Cassavetes

John Cassavetes insisted that the characters he wrote for his films and the performers who played them be merged into a single entity. This has never been more evident than in Gena Rowlands as Myrtle Gordon in Opening Night.

Myrtle is a functioning alcoholic, but she’s much more than just that. She’s an aging woman who’s expected to do everything perfectly in an art form so demanding that it’ll push any performer to their limits. Myrtle is playing a spitting image of everything she hates about herself. Myrtle at one point even admits, “I’m not acting.”

As a result of this mental torture from confronting her age and demons on stage for all to enjoy, Myrtle creates a 17-year-old girl in her head as a figure of her imagination that drives Myrtle to insanity. Still, in reality, there is nothing there but her hallucinations. To cope with her dwindling mental state, Myrtle buries herself in alcohol, which only perpetuates this cycle of dependency on drinking caused by being a perfectionist in her craft, with the dreadful ticking of Father Time’s clock looming over her head.

Midnight Cowboy (1969)

Dir. John Schlesinger

The cinematic condemnation of cis-hetero men’s refusal to express vulnerability. Dropping the hypermasculine facade that you put on to impress women or other men is crucial. Joe Buck and Enrico Rizzo are immensely insecure and constantly projecting their homophobia and their fake tough guy persona onto strangers despite, deep down, both being cowards. Through the lens of Joe Buck, director John Schlesinger explores various traits: repressed trauma, internalized homophobic insecurities, a desperate need for sexual validation of their manhood and chronic lonesomeness.

This mask makes Joe Buck alienate himself by only seeking physical intimacy as a hustler, leaving an inescapable void in his heart that was made by the sexual trauma and heartbreak of his past. The toxic ego of a man in the prime of his life who believes he can get anything he wants but only collapses once he shows himself to be a lonely, pathetic, chauvinistic misogynist.

He wanted the hedonistic big city lifestyle. Fancy clothes, neon lights and getting paid to get laid. Despite his initial intentions, Buck learned to drop his faux Cowboy mask and find his hidden reservoir of empathy for a dying man whom he had met only a few weeks ago.

Midnight Cowboy is dense, heartbreaking and lonely—it’s also one of the best portraits of homoerotic yet barely platonic male friendship. I find it to be a deeply endearing and tender depiction of masculinity.

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Dir. by Werner Herzog

A poetic tragedy of colonization. A plundered earth and the residual remains of an ancient culture left to rot. As uranium miners attempt to convince the Aboriginal Australians to let them excavate, they are given a plane to try and fly east, over the mountains, just like the green ants they worship. In an attempt at spiritual liberation, their eldest tribal member flies off with an Aboriginal pilot. What they did not know is that the plane only had enough fuel for 40 miles which led to their subsequent death. Whether it was sabotage or negligence, in the end, the mining company won. Despite this tragedy, their eldest leader was given a poetic death on his own terms. To either die by modern genocide or to die with the things they worshipped so dearly; to follow them to where they dream.

Amadeus (1984)

Dir. Miloš Forman

There is a Christ-like martyrdom to Mozart. A divine gift for a young man that died penniless, humiliated, and in horrible pain, only to become revered in death.

Salieri, who was deeply envious of Mozart, plays his Judas. Nobody appreciated Mozart like Salieri did and it ruined his life. He asked why his sacrifices to God were not rewarded with Mozart-like genius. God ignoring his sacrifices is once thing but choosing a man like Mozart as his vessel—someone who he thought to be so crude, foolish, and unworthy—drove him mad.

Salieri wondered in agony in the same manner in which Christ nailed to the cross asked, “My God, why have you forsaken me?”

So he spends the entire film confessing his ultimate sin: the spiritual crucifixion of a man he knew to be divinely gifted.

Hereditary (2018)

Dir. by Ari Aster

Every once and awhile, I think about how miraculous it is to simply be alive. Just how lucky are we that generations of our ancestors did the improbable and survived this cruel world. They survived long enough for you to exist without even conceptualizing you.

Multiple life’s work of raising children and then having them raise their own to keep your literal DNA alive. With that DNA, you inherit their traumas, hardships and tragedies. You have the agonizing pain of your grandparents, father and mother literally engrained into the fabric of your being.

When tragedy occurs, and a loved one dies, a part of you has been destroyed. Your emotional pain reverberates down your entire family tree.

Ari Aster made such a horrifying depiction of grief and generational trauma but, more specifically, maternal emotional trauma. An almost continuation of postpartum depression that’s compounded by tragedy. Losing a child at a tragic age seems like the greatest emotional horror a human can endure. It’s the one thing we’re biologically assigned to protect and your grief is shared by all those who’ve passed before you—those who loved you and raised you.

This grief poisons families, splits up marriages and ruins lives. It’s a phenomenon that’s occurred for as long as humanity has existed. It’s one of the few universal emotions that every creature can feel.

I might seem hyperbolic, and I apologize if I do, but this film feels revelatory. Not just Aster’s best but one of favorites of the ‘10s.

La Roue (1923)

Dir. by Able Gance

Many have mentioned how La Roue is the Rosetta Stone of cinema or the peak of an art form still in its infancy. My contribution to this style of thinking is its similarities to The Garden of Earthly Delights, a 1515 triptych painting by Hieronymus Bosch. A work of art 500+ years ahead of anyone touching the medium. Both La Roue and The Garden of Earthly Delights have an unfathomable scale and detail that feels other worldly. Something that seems to be coming from hundreds of years in the future or an alternate reality. A genuinely life-alternating film. I hope to watch all seven hours in one sitting someday.

Buchanan Rides Alone (1958)

Dir. Budd Boetticher

There’s a simplicity to the ‘50s American Western that works really well for me. The stories work like fables of morality in the face of lawlessness. Every person has the potential for immoral acts but not many people can hold you accountable. These immoral acts can make you rich but they can quickly swing the other direction into cruelty. This time period was a miserable to live in, so people were driven to the immoral for survival. You can cheat, kill, steal to survive and live in fear, or, live as an honorable, law-abiding citizen who earns there keep through hard work. Short cuts to riches often mean you’re constantly looking over your shoulder but if you don’t get mixed up in criminal behavior, life is a lot less dangerous. This is the very common moral conflict of the genre.

Hardcore (1979)

Dir. by Paul Schrader

Writer-director, Paul Schrader, depicts the Dutch Calvinist Reformation Church he grew up in contrast to the conglomeration of sexual liberation, pornography and labor exploitation. Christianity and sexual repression go hand in hand. Hardcore (1979) portrays a faithful man’s worst nightmare: his daughter working in porn. The patriarchal relationship of control that is a father and his daughter is a subconscious, Freudian-like sexual control that Schrader translates perfectly onto film.

Even in its most consensual form, an 18-year-old girl being lured into the adult film industry ran by predatory men is nasty. Kristen aka Joanne is less empowered and more exploited. She’s practically sex trafficked and pimped out for dollars while the producers make millions. Despite all the unethical labor practices of early adults films, Kristen is an adult who made her own conscious decision. She’s actively rebelling against and liberating herself from her parents and the cold austerity of social conservatism amidst her Midwest Calvinist community.

The film is neither explicitly tragic nor one of feminist liberation. Schrader’s ability to hold this balance while commenting on the harsh conditions of sex work was very impressive.

If you haven’t seen the films I am writing about, I hope these can spark your interest in seeking them out. Otherwise, these can be used as treating film as the serious artistic, inherently political, expressions they are meant to be. This is a passion I hope to pursue further at some point in my life.

No Country for Old Men (2007)

Dir. by Ethan and Joel Coen

You were taught that the world you grew up in was a righteous one. A world where those who sin are punished and held accountable, while those that abide are granted peace and safety; a world that is ruled by law and order. If you follow these rules you too will be a child of God. Yet, this world, the one you grew up in, has spoiled rotten. The sensibilities, the unwritten rules and the civility you once knew, are no longer here. Life isn’t as forgiving as the tall tales that made the West what it is. They say that in the West, when the legend becomes the truth, print the legend. Life isn’t the movies or paperback novels. There are no clean getaways and there is no riding off into the sunset. It’s a cruel world out there with even crueler people. Sometimes it’s best to just keep your mouth shut and mind your own business. You don’t want to know how bad it can get.

The title, “No Country for Old Men,” is the perfect title. Tommy Lee Jones plays an aging sheriff who is way out of his league, has very little knowledge of what is occurring in his backyard and the boogieman that is Javier Bardem playing Anton Chigurh. His country is no longer a place for an old man like him.

In more ways than one, this time period of the post-Vietnam ‘80s, where the imperialist boomerang is recoiling back into the United States, violence takes a drastic progression. A progression that law enforcement can’t keep up with and shaped the contemporary police state we now live in. The militarization of law enforcement and the blending of tech corporations aiding in mass surveillance, so no group of people can gain an upper hand on police.

The Hustler (1961)

Dir. by Robert Rossen

Addiction comes in many, nasty forms. The corrosive, self destructive nature causes them to never be satisfied. Whenever you win it’s never enough and when you’ve lost it, you have a reason to act out.

Gamblers at this level don’t really care about money. They gamble for the rush of NOT losing it all. They’re not only wagering money, they’re gambling away their loved ones, their livelihood, their wellbeing. Because, what stakes are higher than your own life? It’s just a longer, slower version of Russian roulette.

The Swimmer (1968)

Dir. by Frank Perry

A dreamy, uncanny depiction of the narcissistic, sociopathic, American man. Devoid of self awareness and a wrecking ball of callous carelessness.

There is a mystifying aura masking a darker, sinister truth that lies underneath the melodramatic, Americana bourgeois lifestyle associated with the likes of the Kennedys. Gaudy mansions of the East Coast filled with parasitic community members that lounge upon the riches of the plundered.

The Swimmer feels like the style of Douglas Sirk or Rainer Werner Fassbinder but with a subtext akin to Lynch, Antonioni or Hitchcock.

The Phoenician Scheme (2025)

Dir. by Wes Anderson

Wes Anderson’s newest film depicts Benicio del Toro as a military industrial kingpin and his role in accelerating imperialist destruction of the peripheral world. Anderson does so by lampooning the violent industry's absurd cruelty that is driven by biblical greed. As well as other phenomena like manufacturing consent, slavery, the funding/arming of revolutionary clandestine operations—and their opposition. All in an attempt to control the flow of goods of global economic activity so his enterprise can siphon off 5% of all trade, despite the unethical consequences of their actions.

Disguised as a quirky, aesthetically pleasing Trojan Horse, Anderson snuck in commentary bordering on the Maoist–Third Worldist ideology into the American culture industry. Because it was delivered in Wes’ usual style, viewers may be quick to write it off as Anderson being a wacky, eccentric filmmaker despite it being a piece of radical art.

Yet the story and film are something from the likes of Thomas Pynchon’s Against the Day, Gravity’s Rainbow or Vineland; a bizarre conglomeration of culture, religion, politics, economics to display an absurd level of apathy towards horrific violence. So its no surprise, when wealthy businessman Zsa-zsa Korda, a man who orchestrates the logistics and infrastructure of our world's horrors, is grossly desensitized to the consequences of his actions

This political and economic angle is not the only intention of the film. I might need another viewing for the themes of faith, morality and family to resonate better with me. Ultimately, it’s subversive, hilarious and a wonderfully crafted film.

Umberto D. (1952)

Dir. by Vittorio De Sica

Everyone deserves to live a life of dignity, especially elderly people who’ve worked their entire lives and can no longer provide for themselves. There are so many consequences to a country’s negligence of not raising the pension of retired, elderly citizens to a sufficient wage, making them more vulnerable to exploitation.

If one does not have a support system to help them in their later years, life becomes increasingly difficult. Without the assistance of welfare, a pension or social security, hundreds of thousands of impoverished and/or elderly workers will become homeless, starving and sick—Umberto Domenico Ferrari is suffering under these exact circumstances. The only thing that keeps Umberto going is his small community consisting of the pregnant janitor of the building, a few fellow poverty-stricken elders and his terrier pup named Fike.

Vittorio De Sica’s 1950 film, Umberto D., is a masterful addition to the Italian neorealist movement of the ‘40s and ‘50s. A genre created in response to the rise of fascism and Mussolini’s reign. The neorealist movement was used to depict contemporary issues of a post-World War II Italy. It’s a genre I deeply admire. These directors utilized cinema’s power of mass socialization in a stunning and often heart-wrenching manner.

This film is a perfect example of the relentless cruelty of the capital holding class. Landlords would rather you die than to give you any financial assistance regardless of how innocent you are. Even a dying, old man with only a small terrier for a family is not spared from its wrath. If a society helps to cover peoples’ basic, material needs, they will live a longer, happier life—otherwise they may find life no longer worth living—De Sica shows us why.

Thanks for reading. I’ll post more in the near future.

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“No fue mi culpa.” - Gregorio Cortez

At the turn of the century, more than fifty years after Texas had, through war, won its independence from Mexico, two cultures—the Anglo and the Mexican—lived side by side in a state of tension and mistrust.

Two hours after killing two sheriffs, the hunt for Gregorio Cortez had begun. A Mexican fighter defending his colonized land was now on the run from four deputies. He rode horseback throughout the desert of the newly established Texas-Mexico border evading the Ranger who intended to end his life in retribution. Cortez flees across the Sonoran Desert, desperate to make it to safety across the Mexican border.

This leads to the worsening of not only Cortez’s life but the entire Mexican community. Deputies would stop and frisk any Mexican person and ask them if they knew the whereabouts of Gregorio Cortez. It’s eerily similar to SB 1070, the fascistic, racist law of Arizona that would incentivize police officers to racially profile Hispanic people and anyone who may look or sound "foreign," including many U.S. citizens who have lived in America their entire lives. It terrorized over a million Latino, Hispanic, and many other nonwhite Arizona residents.

It’s one of the ugliest injustices of my lifetime carried out in my backyard. It traumatized hundreds of thousands of Hispanic and Latino youth and their families—a trauma that may never be healed. This reactionary rhetoric is potentially even stronger now, and I’m horrified by the potential reinstatement of a similar law. As a lifelong Arizona resident, this story really hit home.

It’s a story that will remain relevant as long as our southernmost border is a scapegoat for the hatred of migrants and anyone deemed “illegal"—deemed illegal for the desperate search for a better life while breaking an unjust crime with no basis in morality.

Gregorio Cortez was accused of a crime he didn’t do and was forced into self-defense after his brother Romaldo was shot and killed right in front of him by the sheriff—all over a misunderstanding.

Cortez was defending his family and home, which led to a Nazi-like search for any Mexicans in the area. If you housed Mexicans, the Sheriffs asked to meet them; if you knew Mexicans, they demanded to question them.

The Sheriffs put all of their power and time into a manhunt for Gregorio Cortez—something that would never be done for a normal murder case. The sheriff jails his wife and his children for refusing to cooperate. In a time before the 5th Amendment, the Sheriffs decide to collectively punish Cortez’s family.

The Sheriffs didn’t solely want justice or retribution; they wanted to send a message, not to kill one of their own. If you kill a sheriff, they will use intimidation tactics to warn the entire community that this is what will happen to you if you try to fight back. It’s a tactic that remains true to this day. They use power in numbers and instill fear as a means of controlling those who might stand up for themselves. They’re an army, and you’re but one man. This is a story that will never go away and is a fundamental part of American society that’s lasted from the days of the Mexican-American War to present day.

The Sheriffs and Texas Rangers were the blueprint for American policing that still exists today. 

The Ballad of Gregorio Cortez is a very well-made and exciting film that holds an incredibly important true story.

A story akin to the likes of To Kill a Mockingbird. A story where a misunderstanding between an oppressor and the oppressed leads to the prosecution and/or the death of the oppressed and their loved ones.

A COMPLETE UNKNOWN (2024) is not a Bob Dylan biopic but specifically an adaptation of Elijah Wald’s 2015 book Dylan Goes Electric!: Newport, Seeger, Dylan, and the Night That Split the Sixties. The film starts with Bob arriving in New York City riding in the trunk of a stranger’s station wagon after hitch-hiking all the way from Illinois.

As the movie goes on you see Dylan’s romantic ineptitude take place, music business connections be made and his gradual rise to local regular and then a seemingly meteoric launch to the next level of stardom in around 4-5 years. Inevitability leading up to the moment perceived as either blasphemous or radical depending on the listener, Bob Dylan playing “Maggie’s Farm” as the headliner for the 1965 Newport Folk Festival, using an electric guitar.

Dylan wanted to move on from his days of Blowing in the Wind, Girl from the North Country or A Hard Rain’s A-Gonna Fall. He was being pigeonholed as a somber yet provocative folk singer among the likes of his friend, Pete Seeger and his long-time idol, the then-terminally-ill, Woody Guthrie. Dylan’s switch to electric was seen as a slap in the face by folk purists. Director, James Mangold, depicts the infamous moment of a woman heckling Dylan on stage, equating him to Judas Iscariot. (Despite that moment occurring at an entirely different concert over a year later.)

If no artists ever took a risk on their work, they would never grow or progress into something new. Everything changes with time, especially culture and art. The film never shows Dylan speaking about politics at all, which is a big gripe I have about it. So, since Bob Dylan is famously elusive and somewhat of a social hermit, what we know of his politics is only through music, books and a rare interview.

Dylan’s ideology was one that was common for the times yet uniquely American. His writing seems to emulate the working class. A,"this machine kills fascists," Woody Guthrie-like type of protest song. All while being mostly neutral, both sides are bad, idealist. Bob Dylan was a patriotic singer-songwriter, who had numerous family members fight alongside the Russians in World War II. He was a college dropout influenced by 19th century poetry such as Lord Byron and Edgar Allen Poe, the classics of Thucydides and Alexander the Great—even the novels of Gogol and Dostoevsky. He was a Jewish, anti-communist, anti-fascist, Zionist, American man living in a contemporary zeitgeist that is primed to explode. He sang at the August 1963 March on Washington for Jobs and Freedom, where Martin Luther King delivered his “I Have a Dream” speech. Surely he could have talked about his feelings about current events much more than this film portrays.

The last issue I had with the film was the lackluster portrayal of the women in his life. With the exception of Dylan’s barely platonic relationship with fellow folk singer-songwriter, Joan Baez, the women in Dylan’s life are depicted as mere accessories rather than the muse-like catalysts for his songwriting. He is in numerous on-and-off again situationships throughout the film—cheating, lying and generally disrespectful towards the women he dated. Bob is accurately depicted as the manipulative “fuckboy” bohemian he was, but the impact of his relationships on his work is an aspect of that film that feels like a half-assed attempt at giving us context before the finale in Newport.

I had to quickly readjust my expectations of seeing these women, except Baez, to be anything other than washed-down characters of the women he’s leading on. Elle Fanning is the most prominent girlfriend of Bob, Sylvie Russo, and yet we know nothing except about her working in politics and her love of painting. Russo undoubtedly left a major mark on Dylan’s psyche and he loved her even when he was cheating.

The film may have some issues but it's ultimately a nice depiction of a massive moment in American history. Bob going electric was as subversive as it got for a man known for folk music, but artists need to grow. Artists who push the boundaries of art forms are rarely greeted with initial praise from the masses. Whether it's adapting to this genre-changing style later on or staying loyal to it from the beginning. The consumers of your art expect a certain style. A style they enjoy and wish you’d perform forever, no matter how great an artist's desire to grow is. Dylan hated that. He felt like everyone was putting him in a box, expecting him to be something different, something they all had come to know and love. Bobby had other plans, to be different, to be a complete unknown.

Cinema’s photographic visual imagery is inherently universal. You don’t need to speak Russian—or any language at all—to enjoy A Man with a Movie Camera. It’s all visual interpretation of 1928-29 Soviet Union. 

There were a number of prominent Soviet silent filmmakers Sergei Eisenstein, Grigori Aleksandrov, Lev Kuleshov, Yevgeni Bauer and many more. The genre was not just propaganda that helped push their revolutionary agenda but also the preliminary building blocks of 20th century cinema.

“Of all the arts, the cinema is the most important.” – Vladimir Lenin.

Imagine having the power to speak to any person to exist for nearly a century. Speaking not with words of a language isolated to a singular group of people, but to anyone, of any language, through visual representation. It’s the closest we have to a universal language or time travel.

The lack of a narrative format forces your brain to interpret. What you interpret could be similar to someone living a hundred years ago—or someone across the world .As I’ve previously written, visual artistic expression and creativity seem like a way of connecting everything involved within the human consciousness and making it tangible. We can live so many lives through cinema.

Combining the groundbreaking montage technique of fellow Soviet filmmaker, Sergei Eisenstein, with a documentary-like vision, Man with a Movie Camera (1929) creates a story all on its own. The process of finding a connection between one frame an the following frame is an essential function of interpreting moving pictures.

A Man with a Movie Camera (1929) isn’t just a pioneering exhibition of cinematography but a launching point for human interaction and storytelling. This era of silent films is more important than we can imagine. I got a little emotional rewatching this. You can’t help but feel the emotion and passion through the power of a cinematic montage. Cinema has been used as a political radicalization tool for almost a century now and it’ll surely never stop doing so.

I’m so glad I’ve dedicated a decade of my life to photography. It’s hard to explain the feeling of capturing images. It feels magical.

I hope you get a chance to watch Man with a Movie Camera (1929). It’s only 68 mins but the film packs a punch for just over an hour of runtime.

Thanks for reading.

- Kevin Hurley

The film is ultimately Friedkin’s take on the Giallo genre. Unlike other films of the genre, CRUISING is centered entirely around gay men and the underground heavy leather, S&M club scene of the 1980s.

Steve Burns, played by Al Pacino, is a straight man in a loving relationship with his girlfriend Nancy, played by Karen Allen. Steve was chosen by his police Captain for an assignment to go undercover as a gay man. There is a serial killer on the loose who only kills the men he has sex with. Due to Steve’s resemblance to the killer’s previous victims they need Steve to try to find the murder and sleep with him since he is the murderer’s type. The NYPD will use Steve as bait. This prompts Steve to go undercover, start cruising frequently in an underground scene of gay men looking for short-term intimacy.

Burns is forced to keep his assignment a secret until the job is done. Since he moves into his own apartment, under the name John Forbes, he’s forced to leave his girlfriend for an undisclosed amount of time until the job is completed. She’s aware he’s undercover but not what he’s doing undercover. These all leads to an assumption by outside observers that Steve is a closeted gay man and he can’t explain why he is straight due to the secrecy of his undercover assignment. This makes Steve legitimately worried about losing his girlfriend and potentially his heterosexuality while deep under cover. The film implies a mental struggle for Steve’s sexuality and that he is genuinely conflicted after so much time sleeping with men as detective work.

This all takes place amongst a background of NYPD cops fetishizing and raping trans women while also beating and arresting innocent gay men as they please. It all goes unchecked by the 1980s NYPD. The police are searching for a serial killer who stalks and kills gay men yet they are blind to their own corruption and predatory tendencies with similar motives. They are just as harmful to the gay community while pretending to be protecting it.

The interrogation scene is hard to watch but unforgettable. The police brutalize and psychologically harass an innocent gay man, alongside Al Pacino whom is still undercover after a wiretap innocent goes wrong. The police wrongfully accuse the man who slept with Steve of being the serial kilter but not without brutalizing him. The most memorable part of this scene is when a very tall and muscular Black man, wearing only a cowboy hat and a jockstrap, enters the room and slaps Al Pacino out of his seat. This is apparently an old NYPD interrogation tactic that director William Friedkin adds to the scene. The point of this tactic is make it so nobody would believe the victim if they tried to tell anyone what happened. The chance of someone believing that a very large, nearly naked man only donning a cowboy hat brutalized you during a 1980s police procedure are very low and they’d call you crazy. The police never acknowledged the man that came into the room and it makes the victim feel insane. Did that just happen? Who is that guy? Why did he hit me? Why is he wearing that? This tactic is so effective it not only works on Al Pacino’s character Steve but the audience itself.

The film is an incredibly subversive for it’s time and a complicated approach to masculine insecurities around sexuality and police brutality. It’s a film so unabashedly gay that 1980s America was too bigoted to realize they were missing out on a fantastic slasher, crime thriller. It’s a shame this was given a Razzie simply because of its depiction of gay men’s sexuality. There is something about the film that seems to be so unafraid of an audience’s disdain and is only focused on an artistic expression.

It’s one of multiple masterpieces by William Friedkin and I highly recommend you watch it.

Thanks for reading,

Kevin

In his final and posthumous film, 24 FRAMES (2017) director, Abbas Kiarostami, embodies this theory with paintings, transcendental filmmaking, meditation and ultimately the infinite differences between every viewer’s consciousness. These “tools” can also come from non-artistic experiences.

As a photographer, I have used skills from journalism, sports, literature, science, music and numerous other disciplines as inspirational tools. These tools are funneled and sort of melted into one conglomerate that is your source of creativity and artistic expression. The human brain’s ability to think creatively and abstractly is exponentially greater through a constrained environment.

The still, slow image constrains the mind into interpreting what it is seeing rather than being spoon fed what to think. Although there may be overlap, the possibilities of what influences the viewers’ interpretation of the still, seemingly innocuous frame can be infinite. 

Physicists for decades have argued about the unified field theory that seems to connect everything that is matter. The theory is that the fundamental forces of nature, such as electromagnetism, weak nuclear force, strong nuclear force, and gravity, are unified into a single, comprehensive field—meaning it is everything and everything comes from it.

All things that are something come from this nothingness that is the unified field—and that can include consciousness—which is debatable. 

So if everything in our world is connected through this nothingness, then so could our consciousness. Similar to how multiple discovery proves two different people can think the same thing despite never knowing each other exists. We can translate our thoughts to other people without words through artistic expression.

I say all this to conclude that artistic expression and creativity seem like a way of connecting everything involved within human consciousness and making it tangible. 

We can live so many lives through art, especially film and literature.

Everything that creates an expression is built by the inspirational tools in the artists’ tool box) that lead to that story. All “tools” come from interpreting the life around you (viewing art, experiencing life, etc.)

These tools can be used as clues by the viewer. You can figure out the meaning of their expression like a puzzle and learn a lot about the artist as a person through their work. 

I find this incredibly moving and life-affirming. I hope you do too.

Three films I recently watched:

Death by Hanging (1968) (Criterion Channel, Internet Archive, YouTube)

• Dir. by Nagisa Ōshima

  118 mins

Death by Hanging is a 1968 dark satire by Nagisa Ōshima that follows the story of a Korean man named R, who is sentenced to hang. The film employs various Brechtian techniques to break down the fourth wall between the director and the viewer, including opening with narration to offer historical context. The film adopts a documentary-like style for the first few minutes, before transitioning to the execution scene. Ōshima quickly quits the journalistic style and the film becomes more conventionally cinematic after the police discover R survived the execution. R lived but suffers from amnesia due to the botched hanging, leaving him unable to remember the crimes he’s accused of. Japan prohibited the state from performing executions on someone who is incapacitated. The guards then attempt to incriminate R by performing comedic charades to remind him of his alleged violent crimes. The subject matter makes it challenging to find humor in these scenes, yet they still make a lasting impression. Ōshima's political messaging renders Death by Hanging a radically subversive film in a time when 71% of Japan opposed abolishing capital punishment. The film addresses the morality of crime, the grim reality of capital punishment and the tension between Korean and Japanese citizens during Japan's occupation of Korea from 1910–1945.

Suspiria (1977) (Criterion Channel, Internet Archive)

• Dir. by Dario Argento

  99 mins

When Suzy Bannion, a ballet dancer from New York City, enrolls in a dance academy in Germany, she quickly finds herself evading murderers at the eerie Tanz Academy. The film is set against a luxurious backdrop, with an incredible soundtrack that propels the narrative. The tight editing pace also helps drive the story and create a sense of chaos. The visual approach by Dario Argento allows the camera to utilize various techniques and angles to dramatically showcase the set design. Every scene in the film is lit with a dazzling spectrum of colors. For some reason, I'm more charitable to horror movies than other genres, but Suspiria makes up for my shortcomings with stunning visuals and a haunting soundtrack. It's remarkable what Argento and his crew were able to accomplish with a budget of only $21,760. Perhaps I will appreciate Suspiria more after a second viewing, but I strongly suggest it to admirers of classic arthouse horror.

Au Hasard Balthazar (1966) (Criterion Channel, Internet Archive)

• Dir. by Robert Bresson

  96 mins

Balthazar, a mere donkey, is subjected to cruelty beyond his comprehension. Despite encountering both benevolent and malevolent owners, he perseveres, dutifully performing his tasks. This thought-provoking film offers a transcendental experience with minimal dialogue, focusing on the mistreatment of an innocent donkey. The story profoundly portrays a saint-like creature who endures the burden of humanity's sins, even though he neither deserves nor is capable of understanding such inhumane treatment. He accepts his fate with nobility and grace. Balthazar is widely regarded as an allegory for Christianity’s concept of martyrdom. Bresson chose the name "Balthazar" for the donkey, referencing one of the three Magi who followed the guiding star to Bethlehem to pay respects to the newly born Jesus Christ. Bresson’s Catholic faith was a significant influence on his work. The transcendental style of filmmaking avoids explicit instructions on how to feel, allowing the audience to interperate it themselves—Au Hazard Balthazar does precisely that. Bresson's camerawork elevates a seemingly mundane plot into a deeply profound story.

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I’ll be releasing newsletters every Wednesday morning.

Six recommendations per newsletter

• three films I recently enjoyed

• one random genre film (new genre each newsletter)

• one personal favorite

• one challenging but rewarding watch

The first three are free for every newsletter — the others are behind a $5-a-month paywall. I have seen over 600 films in the past 615 days, 371 in 2023 alone, so I have plenty to share.

Three films I recently watched:

Husbands (1970) (Prime Video, Internet Archive, YouTube)

• Dir. by John Cassavetes

  131 mins

There’s a common misconception that Cassavetes’ films are 100 percent improvised, which isn’t true. Similar to how jazz has loose structures, like a written group intro and a solo artist waiting for their improvisational moment once the opening is completed. Cassavetes is very similar in the way he allows his actors to improvise. He gives them a script but tells them not to marry it. Bend it, stretch it, cut it — whatever you need to do to make the character more authentic to the story. This technique creates immensely passionate scenes with little narrative — it’s fascinating. The most obvious example to me is the first bar scene, where they all sing and drink for literally like 10–15 minutes. That scene could be entirely improvised. But the rest of the film was intentionally written dialogue that melts my heart.

The subconscious processing of the guys’ collective grief from their friend passing away profoundly resonates with me. Peter Falk, John Cassavetes and Ben Gazzara talk about death and express vulnerability in a way most men can’t. It’s through these friendships that the guys rekindle their passion for life. On-screen, they are playing basketball, drinking, smoking, arguing and unsuccessfully trying to court women. This may not seem like typical grieving, but it’s crucial to remember they’re men in the 1970s who were encouraged to bottle everything up. This doesn’t excuse them of their patriarchal tendencies, but I understand their frustrations of being forced to grieve in a way that doesn’t make them seem weak or vulnerable. The most moving moments are the scenes of Cassavetes and Falk talking about the moral, ethical and spiritual consequences of death. This film means so much to me.

The Last Picture Show (1971) (Mubi, Criterion Channel, Internet Archive)

• Dir. by Peter Bogdanovich

  119 mins

Peter Bogdanovich's 1971 film The Last Picture Show is a coming-of-age story following two high school seniors that portrays the not-so-charming and sorrowful life of the decaying small Texas oil town of Anarene. Both boys have unhealthy romantic relationships. One has a fleeting relationship with his high school girlfriend and the other has an affair with the wife of his football coach.

Despite not usually being a fan of the genre, this movie pleasantly surprised me with its themes of isolation and desperation with the claustrophobic feeling of small-town life in 1950s Texas. I had expected The Last Picture Show to be a typical American teenage hangout period piece, but it turned out to be much more — a soul-crushing film.

The Last Picture Show is sharp and effective. The pacing of the film is perfect. Bogdanovich uses simple yet fundamental camera work that accentuates the sad story. I'm very fond of the classic country songs by Hank Williams Sr. and other artists playing in the background. Despite not being the blues, the music is melancholic, providing the perfect accompaniment as the characters grapple with their dismal lives.

Eraserhead (1977) (MAX, Criterion Channel, Internet Archive)

• Dir. by David Lynch

  89 mins

When I first watched Eraserhead a few years ago, it frustrated me. After understanding more about Lynch's transcendental meditative approach to filmmaking, I rewatched the film and it made sense — all of his work was starting to make more sense. Dreams fascinate David Lynch, and Eraserhead is a nightmare.

Now add the iconic Americana motif that became a staple of his films with the influence of classic American sitcoms like Leave it to Beaver and I Love Lucy to the dialogue. This creates a jarring contrast between the comforting, sitcom-style 1950s punchlines combined with the unsettling, nightmarish atmosphere of the film. You can quickly pickup why Eraserhead provides the foundation for Lynch’s later works.

This film is unique in its cutting-edge, yet rough style. Despite its disturbing nature, I find it endearing. It captures a man's fear of the responsibility of fatherhood in a way that makes the character of Henry highly relatable. The sound editing is terrifying and ominous. I adore Eraserhead.

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We all have the challenge of finding something good to watch. My mission is to simplify this process by providing suggestions, which are available on at least one streaming service. Whenever possible, I’ll provide a free YouTube or Kanopy link. The selections will focus on films that have had a profound impact on me.

I’ll be releasing newsletters every Saturday and Wednesday morning.

Six recommendations per newsletter, 12 total per week

• three films I recently enjoyed

• one random genre film (new genre each newsletter)

• one personal favorite

• one challenging but rewarding watch

The first three are free for every newsletter — the others are behind a $5-a-month paywall. I have seen over 600 films in the past 615 days, 371 in 2023 alone, so I have plenty to share.

Three films I recently watched:

Je, Tu, Il, Elle (1974) (Max, Criterion Channel, Internet Archive)

• Dir. by Chantal Akerman

  86 mins

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Chantal Akerman's debut feature film, Je, Tu, Il, Elle, is a daring and stunning exploration of the emotional descent of Julie, following the end of her relationship with her girlfriend. She spends multiple days in her room, writing a letter to her ex-girlfriend, while consuming nothing but sugar.

I previously wrote on this blog about how I am a big admirer of the transcendental style of filmmaking and that Akerman is a titan of the genre.

Once Julie had made up her mind to go out, a trucker pulled up and offered her a ride. As the trucker and Julie traveled, the only sound was background noise. Their brief companionship was insignificant, and it was evident that Julie was trying to find solace in the loneliness she feels without her partner.

After regrettable sex with a random trucker, Julie asks the trucker to drop her off at her ex-girlfriend's apartment. Julie’s ex lets her into the apartment without speaking. You watch as they quietly sit across from each other at a dinner table. The ambient nature takes over again as they barely speak, staring at each other.

The tension finally breaks with a jump cut to Julie and her ex-girlfriend in a vulnerable and intimate 15-minute sex scene.

Chantal Akerman's Je, Tu, Il, Elle is a captivating film that utilizes a minimalist and meticulous approach. The camera remains mostly static, but this allows viewers to appreciate the subtle movements of its actors. The dialogue is sparse, yet its poetic nature encourages the audience to contemplate the scenes. Akerman's editing is particularly noteworthy, such as when she fades to black as the sound of Julie's shower, passing cars and pedestrians can be heard. Akerman was responsible for four roles in this film: director, lead actor, writer and producer. Her pioneering of transcendental cinema is evident in Je, Tu, Il, Elle, showcasing her instant brilliance.

Mikey and Nicky (1976) (Max, Criterion Channel, YouTube)

• Dir. Elaine May

  106 mins

Where do I even begin with Mikey and Nicky? This film overlaps into one of my personal favorites, but having recently rewatched it for the fifth time this year, I felt compelled to share it without the paywall.

I am an avid admirer of both Peter Falk and John Cassavetes. I’m particularly grateful to Elaine May for bringing the two of them together in a film where Cassavetes wasn’t the director. Cassavetes is my favorite actor and my second favorite director. His performance in Mikey and Nicky is his best work and the finest film Cassavetes has ever worked on.

In the film, Peter Falk portrays Mikey, while John Cassavetes plays Nicky, a small-time mobster. After stealing money from his mob boss, Nicky finds himself in a precarious situation and calls upon Mikey to help him escape the predicament.

Falk and Cassavetes trade lines like a heavyweight boxing match, throwing powerful punches at one another. This film is seething with rage, but it’s also unbelievably compassionate, as evidenced by one of the most moving scenes in movie history, Mikey gently embracing Nicky as he cries on his shoulder. Soon after, Nicky's terror is reflected in Cassavetes' gaze. His paranoia culminates in stomach ulcers attacks, which Mikey attends to with tenderness, vividly demonstrating the strength of their bond.

I strongly urge you to watch Mikey and Nicky in the evening to appreciate the film to its fullest. Most of the scenes, except for the ending, were shot in low light, intensifying the performances of the actors and the cinematography of Elaine May.

An Autumn Afternoon (1962) (Max, Criterion Channel, YouTube)

• Dir. by Yasujirō Ozu

  114 mins

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Yasujirō Ozu is renowned for exploring familial dynamics and generational shifts in his films. He debuted with the silent feature film Sword of Penitence in 1927 and released his final film, An Autumn Afternoon, in 1962. I have a deep affinity for slow, introspective and transcendental films, which can all be attributed to my discovery of the work of Ozu.

As he grew older, Ozu began to gradually implement fewer conventional cinematic techniques in his works. His earlier films, such as The Flavor of Green Tea Over Rice, included subtle camera movements and transitions such as wipes and fades, which were eventually replaced by simple cuts. His later works featured a more refined approach, aiming to create a transcendental experience. The low-angle 50 mm lens shots he used, which replicated the viewpoint of sitting on a tatami mat, characterized Ozu's signature visual style. Frames were always static and perfectly composed, shot at a closed-down aperture that kept the entire image in focus.

Ozu's long takes of static scenes require commitment and discipline, yet they can create a deeply spiritual and fulfilling experience. This transcendental style of filmmaking may seem tedious and pretentious, yet it allows for thought and introspection, making it one of the most impactful forms of art I have ever encountered.

Ozu dedicated decades to crafting family dramas, ever refining techniques he deemed detrimental to attaining transcendence. His final film, An Autumn Afternoon, is one of the most remarkable swan songs in film history. While it may not be as well-known or influential as Tokyo Story or Early Summer, the film stands as his most polished work, devoted entirely to his transcendental style. An Autumn Afternoon is a timeless testament to the legacy of one of cinema’s most esteemed directors.

I’ll leave you with a quote about An Autumn Afternoon — from Paul Schrader

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“What’s this war in the heart of nature? Why does nature veil with itself? The land contend with the sea. Is there an avenging power in nature? Not one power, but two?”

The Thin Red Line isn’t concerned with the winners of the fiery Pacific theater Battle of Guadalcanal. It’s focused on the moral and spiritual struggles of the soldiers. Rather than being pro-America propaganda or a triumphant war film, it is an artistic expression. One that is built on internal monologues, shocking violence, and poetry. Despite being victorious in battle, it’s evident that the men are deeply traumatized. 

Soldiers have written poetry for centuries. This artistic expression is one way for them to process their trauma without the hypermasculine facade they have built to survive in war. In the film, soldiers connect one-on-one to philosophize the meaning of life. But in these conversations, they are only a fraction of their true self. It’s not until the inner monologue narration that you truly understand each soldier's moral qualms. The soldiers gently and stoically contemplate death through elegant writing. 

The times when Private Witt goes AWOL and lives with an indigenous tribe are so beautiful. Malick shows us the gentle and compassionate side of Witt—a soldier designed to kill. He admires the beauty of nature and their tribe. This model of a loving community is what people should do instead of warring against each other. This changes Witt’s mindset into a blaring philosophical disparity between him and Sergeant Welsh.

You experience the soldiers preparing for death on the boat ride to invade the beach. Some pray, some nervously talk, and some stare silently with unbearable dread. They storm the island of Guadalcanal expecting Japanese forces, only to be greeted with nothing. This is not only historically accurate but is suspenseful restraint by Malick. This is where the transcendental style of Malick kicks in. 

The soldiers are silently walking through the foliage of the island. The audience only hears bugs and birds chirping. There is a very peaceful but juxtaposing moment when Sgt. Storm, played by John C. Reilly, walks by an old indigenous man who slowly walks by the US soldier, completely unafraid. You get used to the relaxing, ambient background noise as the soldiers continue to walk through nature to find their objective: Hill210.

With this peaceful rhythm set, the decisive action is imminent. The US soldiers walk toward their objective through 8-foot tall grass fields and steep winding hills. This creates a gentle, serene sense of connection to nature for the soldiers. It’s very peaceful until the decisive action breaks this rhythm when the soldiers silently walk by a dead body. As they get closer, they notice the brutal use of explosives on the human body. A man lies in the grass, decaying, having bled out after both legs were blown off. As the camera pans down, you see a second body killed in the blast. The camera pans up, and you see one soldier crying and others staring in silent shock. They are traumatized but must go on. The peaceful rhythm starts again as the soldiers continue to Hill210 in the morning. Building the rhythm, we must again enjoy the transcendental nature shots for the decisive action to be effective, which comes moments later.

As you gaze at the beautiful hillside, you suddenly hear the distinct sound of descending artillery rounds. The hills light up as large masses of dirt are unearthed in a symphony of explosives and fall like fireworks. This is where Malick’s insistence on natural light and practical effects is so rewarding. The thumping of the rounds against the Earth is haunting as the camera cuts back to the US soldiers waiting for their orders. Some stare into space to disassociate, some cry, some throw up. As the soldiers quietly approach the recently bombarded hillside, you can’t help but be in awe of the scale of nature. The men look minuscule against the grassy hillside. The officer is forced to command the leading soldiers with hand motions to keep moving since they keep stopping in fear of gunfire. The tension is palpable. 

This tension is broken as the two soldiers leading the group get hit with sniper fire, immediately killing both. There are a few seconds of silent shock as the soldiers can't believe what they saw. This is followed by a cut to the tall wavy grass fields gently illuminated by the rising sun. It is an angelic, serene cutaway for you to process this killing, similar to how the soldiers did. Once the officer recognizes what has happened, the camera cuts back to the soldier, and he orders his men to charge forward. This would be a grave mistake.

The order to storm Hill210 would be detrimental to the platoon. A barrage of bullets and bombs decorated the hillside, slaughtering US soldiers that were commanded up the hill—the sounds of shots whizzing by and a montage of death. The officers start to realize how catastrophic their mistakes were. The commanding officer Lt. Col. Tail is on the radio and furious, wanting results. In these moments, Cpt. Staros tells himself that his men dying are just children. When the soldiers are off alone, they often take cover from enemy fire. They have brief but impactful moments of a man connecting with nature. These human moments make the approaching death scenes so moving. 

Sgt. Keck dies from accidentally pulling the grenade's pin, leaving it to explode on his hip. In a few seconds of heroic action, Sgt. Keck dives away from the battalion to shield the blast from injuring his fellow soldiers. A few soldiers embrace him in death and promise Sgt. Keck that they will write to his wife saying that he died like a man. Sgt. Keck soon passes away, and the soldiers that coddled him are visibly distraught.

The soldiers then argue over who will write the letter to his wife. One man says he only promised to because “you tell them anything when they’re like that.” This upsets the other soldier as he states, “Somebody ought to do it.”

As the men continue, the hellish onslaught rages on. More bullets and more bombs. Lt. Col. Tail can’t comprehend why the battalion isn’t successfully thwarting the enemy. They are naive to the horror of what's happening merely yards ahead. Lt. Col. Tail demands that the soldiers move up the hill, the same thing that killed so many men just minutes ago. 

Despite the numerous shouts and commands for Lt. Col., Cpt. Staros refuses to obey his order to charge up the hill to save the lives of his men. Staros moves on to consul another dying soldier. As he dies, you see flashbacks of combat mixed with ethereal footage of nature.

We are seeing two conflicting philosophies around the value of human life. Lt. Col. Tail wants to use his men as expendable pawns when Cpt. Staros understands they are all young men, not just soldiers of war. This sprawling war epic covers a lot of explosive combat. However, this is much more than an action film. These moments of moral conflict between commanding officers are crucial to understanding why the soldiers have such spiritual journeys. Memories return to the soldiers as their lives flash before their eyes. The Thin Red Line is hauntingly realistic in many ways. The combat was dangerous, but the psychological torture of war may be just as horrific.

The next day, the men finally reach the bunker on the hill when the machine gun turret starts firing again. This same gun was chewing up the US soldiers merely hours ago. They had to figure out a way to stop this enemy fire. These scenes feel claustrophobic and haunting, as you can almost feel the bullets and explosions. When the battalion finally clears the bunker, the fire finally stops. We get some moments to rest, the soldiers, and the audience.

There is another scene where moral philosophies clash. The Lt. Col. refuses to give the men water to keep the momentum of the battle going. Everyone is morally and physically exhausted. The soldiers are being barked orders as they stare at the ruins of a village leveled by artillery fire. In a haunting moment, Cpl. Fife sees the face of a dead Japanese man buried under dirt. Cpl. Fife hears him say, 

The next battle scene is pivotal close-range combat with many rifle fires and bayonets. It’s a brutal scene with both sides committing atrocities. You don’t care who wins in these moments because everything is horrific. You don’t care that the US is winning. It's a paradoxical and conflicting scene as the US soldiers hold the Japanese soldiers’ lives in their hands with the ability to end it. Pvt. Train philosophizes in his head as he witnesses these horrors:

After this, Malick brings us back to the beginning when Pvt. Witt is swimming with a group of young indigenous boys as tribal music is played. It’s a quick flashback to remind us of the peace he once had. 

Lt. Col. soon approaches Cpt. Staros and tells him he is being relieved of his duty but is being awarded the silver star. He wants to sweep this incident under the rug like nothing happened. The soldiers burn the ruined buildings and move back to base with a victorious feeling. Cpt. Staros soon tells the crew that he is returning to the States and says they’ve been like his sons.

As Pvt. Jack Bell walks through the jungle alone. He recites in his head what he wrote to his wife,

Bell soon receives a letter from his wife, who writes to him saying she has fallen in love with another man and seeks a divorce. This is a heartbreaking revelation for Bell after thinking of her throughout combat.

Meanwhile, Witt briefly returns to visit the indigenous tribe and notices they have turned irritable and no longer trust Witt. At the film's beginning, Witt noticed that people never fought in the tribe. Upon his return, he sees that fights have become commonplace. The once peaceful and serene tribe has been poisoned by the violence surrounding them.

When Witt returns, he is commanded by a new officer, Lt. Band, to take a patrol boat upriver. Lt. Col. Tail couldn’t get Cpt. Staros to send his men on a suicide mission, so he found someone who will. This ultimately leads to Witt's death and the wounding of many others.

After the firefight on the river, the surviving men bury Witt. Shortly after, they are relieved of their duties and evacuated off the island. Witt was hours away from seeing peace but was tragically killed in a mission they knew was impossible.

On second viewing, The Thin Red Line is one of the greatest films I’ve ever seen. Malick takes the ethereal qualities of the transcendental style of filmmaking while delivering a life-altering war film. Malick’s editing style uses cuts to nature shots to create introspection and emotional processing moments. His angelic use of natural light heightens the mythic feeling of the film. There are endless visually striking scenes. Everyone knows Malick’s use of natural light in Badlands and Days of Heaven. This technique of realistic camerawork makes the war more immersive. The audio mixing is out of this world. If you’re a fan of war films and have an excellent stereo system, The Thin Red Line would be an incredible viewing experience. This immersion makes the ups and downs of battle more emotionally stimulating. You feel an elevating, spiritual sensation that we crave so much from cinema.

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The transcendental style of filmmaking is the antithesis of the action movie. Action throws everything in your face—lots of cuts, quick editing, and violence. All to negate the mind from introspection. These directors do the opposite. They show you a long take of a static shot. It requires commitment and discipline from the viewer. At first glance, the transcendental style of filmmaking may seem tedious, but it can create a richly fulfilling, spiritual experience. It’s a meditative-like process that allows room for thought and self-reflection.

Filmmaker, Writer, and Critic Paul Schrader wrote a book in 1972 titled, “Transcendental Style in Film: Ozu, Bresson, and Dreyer.” Schrader describes this particular experience in the most concise way I’ve found. In this paragraph, he uses Russian filmmaker Andrei Tarkovky’s techniques as an example: 

Tarkovsky didn't invent these techniques. Schrader doesn’t even consider Tarkvosky to be a transcendental filmmaker, but he is very close. He uses the same methods and may even get similar results as directors like Ozu, Pasolini, and Rossellini. But the main difference is Tarkovsky wasn’t worried about his audience relating to his film. A blaring contrast to Ozu’s universal messages about love and family: Tarkovsky was more concerned with putting himself through the theoretical door of transcendence than the audience. Someone like Ozu didn’t do that.

Yasujirō Ozu is a Japanese director focused on familial relations and generational differences. Ozu had an impressive run of films, including “Late Spring” (1949), “Early Summer” (1951), “The Flavor of Green Tea Over Rice” (1952), “Tokyo Story” (1953)—which is considered his masterpiece, “Early Spring” (1956), “Tokyo Twilight” (1957), “Equinox Flower” (1958)—his first film in color, “Good Morning” (1959), “Floating Weeds” (1959), “Late Autumn” (1960), “The End of Summer” (1961), and “An Autumn Afternoon” (1962)—his last film before passing away.

As Ozu got older, he slowly eliminated some common-practice filmmaking techniques. Early films like “The Flavor of Green Tea Over Rice” show subtle camera movement and more traditional transitions like swipes and fades. Ozu’s last 5-7 films were more refined and focused on transcendence. Ozu’s signature visual aesthetic is a 50mm lens. The camera's height is consistently low to the ground—to emulate the viewpoint of sitting on a tatami mat. It is always static, perfectly framed, and shooting at a closed-down aperture.

I deeply admire Ozu’s restraint in storytelling. As you watch Noriko in “Early Summer,” chat over dinner or have tea with a friend; you get used to her world. You sit in Noriko’s life as her family members pester her to settle down and find a husband. There is a slow, serene ascension of the narrative. When Noriko’s pent-up emotions finally emerge, it’s an almost spiritual feeling for the viewer. You experience the same release of emotions that Noriko does.

The main thing a viewer will notice on the first viewing of an Ozu film is the slow pace. Transcendental films use boredom as a withholding device. Once the viewer gets used to the rhythm and patterns of the film, the audience must be freed from the shackles of their boredom. This is known as the decisive action.

A warm and serene energy washes over you when watching Ozu. Despite the often heartbreaking stories, you can’t help but feel a therapeutic relief. OOzu'sdecisive action is more subtle than other transcendental filmmakers. He evokes empathy in the viewer unlike any other. It's not just empathy for families in the stories but for humanity. He teaches a universal message. No matter who you are, there is an Ozu film for you.

It is almost impossible to describe this experience with text. It requires more than words; transcendental films have so few words. The sounds become more notable. Subtle movements become jumpscares. Everything is calculated.

One of the most famous transcendental films is Chantal Akerman's “Jeanne Dielman, 23, quai du Commerce, 1080 Bruxelles”(1975), where you watch Jeanne, a lonely widow, do everyday chores. I understand any initial hesitation upon hearing the synopsis of the film. But as previously aforementioned, it requires more than words.

Every detail of this 202-minute hypnotizing experience is planned. Every movement and action is intentional. The last 60 minutes of Jeanne Dielman is so enthralling because of the withholding device that is watching her do chores. I will not spoil the film, but it may be the best use of the decisive action in the transcendental film; you will have to see for yourself.

Another spectacular use of the decisive action comes from the man himself, Paul Schrader. He is famous for writing Martin SScorsese's “Raging Bull” and “Taxi Driver.”He did many influential films, but I want to discuss “First Reformed.”

First Reformed shook me to my core. Schrader takes influence from Bresson's “Diary of a Country Priest.” You got a haunting opening rail shot of the First Reformed church. The rest of the film is in Ozu-like static scenes. You watch Ethan Hawke give a harrowing performance as Pastor Ernst Toller, who has an existential crisis after consulting a climate activist who feels an unbearable dread over bringing a child into a world that will be so catastrophic. Schrader uses the transcendental style of filmmaking he wrote about in 1972 to create one of the most haunting films ever made. It perfectly encapsulates the dreadful feeling around climate change and one losing faith.

I have never found a more impactful art form than the transcendental style of filmmaking. I have loved this genre for months and felt compelled to share. There are many ways to start, but the best way is to go in with an open mind and discipline. It creates a mesmerizing spiritual experience I haven't found in other parts of my life.

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“The Master” (2012) is a compassionate look at Freddie Quell, an ostracized World War II naval veteran who can’t find his place in a post-war world. A significant source of inspiration for Paul Thomas Anderson in making this film is the documentary, “Let There Be Light.” In 1946, the documentary was intended to be an educational film about post-traumatic stress disorder. Instead, the film’s brutally honest portrayal of PTSD showed that rehabilitating some soldiers would be nearly impossible.

"Twenty percent of our army casualties," the narrator says, "suffered psychoneurotic symptoms: a sense of impending disaster, hopelessness, fear, and isolation."

The U.S. Army banned it for 35 years. In his memoir “An Open Book,” director John Huston claimed that the military refused to show his documentary to keep the "warrior" myth alive. The myth that American soldiers’ spirits remained unbroken despite enduring something so traumatic as World War II. Men, especially soldiers, can be hesitant to be vulnerable. Instead, they bottle up the trauma until it releases in often violent ways.

Anderson quotes, “Let There Be Light,” when Freddie is questioned about his crying spells in the Navy.

“It was brought on by a letter from a girl I knew. It was, what I believe, in your profession, you call nostalgia.”

The documentary's point was that businesses should not hesitate to hire shell-shocked veterans. But if you watch “There Will Be Light,” it's hauntingly apparent that some of these men could never work typical jobs again.

Not only was there lingering trauma from the war. These guys needed a master or a commander that you respected and looked up to. The rigid schedule and hierarchy of the military provided these men comfort and stability.

Freddie’s first job is photographing something he’s never had: happy children and loving families. Freddie was having sex at work and making liquor from photo-developing chemicals. This is the first time we see Freddie happy. He was drinking and hooking up with a model. He asks her out on a date but ends up crashing asleep at dinner, blowing his chance with the model. Freddie returns and takes out his anger on an innocent man trying to get his portrait taken for his wife. This erratic behavior eventually boils into a fight, leading to Freddie losing his job.

Freddie finds a second job on a farm where he concocts his toxic elixir again. He shares his drink with a random coworker this time, who soon keels over and dies. The other coworkers accuse Freddie of poisoning him and run him out of town. Freddie then wanders the streets at night, looking for somewhere to hide after killing a man. He sneaks onto a boat party where Lancaster Dodd embraces him with loving arms. 

Dodd is the founder of “The Cause,” a cult-like movement. When Freddie asked, “What do you do ?” Dodd replied, “I am a writer, a doctor, a nuclear physicist, and a theoretical philosopher. But above all, I am a man, a hopelessly inquisitive man, just like you.”

The Cause taught Dianetics using a hypnotic therapy that Dodd claims could cure anything from allergies to Leukemia by processing trauma from past lives and correcting them to their “inherent state of perfect.”

Lancaster Dodd offers Freddie Quell spiritual rehabilitation by processing his grief one-on-one. The technique used by Dodd is having Freddie answer rapid-fire questions about his trauma without blinking. This breaks Freddie down.

On the surface level, Freddie is traumatized by the war. However, it goes much deeper than that. Freddie’s father died of alcohol poisoning, and his mother was institutionalized for mental issues. What Freddie regrets the most is abandoning Doris. No amount of military therapy ever got Freddie to open up like this. Dodd uncovered the sweetness of Freddie. The Freddie that yearns for the love of Doris. After an intense, transcendental processing session, Freddie awakens from his trance-like state to Lancaster’s approval as he tells Freddie,

“You are the bravest boy I’ve ever met.” 

Lancaster becomes infatuated with Freddie. They smoke Cools cigarettes and drink Freddie’s paint-thinner elixir. They form an unusual bond. Lancaster Dodd is stoic and academic, while Freddie is vulgar and untamed. Their contrasting personalities balanced each other. They repeatedly wondered where they first met because they were so comfortable with each other.

As the film continues, you see them taking on each other's characteristics. Freddie becomes more gentle and obedient. At the same time, Lancaster becomes more rageful and irritable. When questioned, Dodd bursts out in rage. “If you know the answer to your question, then why ask pig fuck!” Dodd has the same animal-like tendencies that Freddie shows; he’s better at hiding it.

Later Freddie wonders why Dodd’s son Val Dodd isn’t joining the rest of the group, saying, “You could learn something.” Val responds to Freddie,

“he’s making it up as he goes along.”

Police soon arrive at the home to arrest Dodd for operating without a medical license. Freddie has an animalistic outburst watching Dodd being detained, flailing around the porch as Dodd tells Freddie to calm down. This results in Freddie also being charged. While Freddie and Lancaster Dodd are in jail, Freddie has another outburst. He bangs his head against the cell’s bed and destroys the toilet.

Freddie repeats what he heard from Val, accusing Lancaster Dodd of making everything up. Dodd tells Freddie that he is the only person who likes him. After their release, other members question Freddie’s commitment to The Cause. After this, Freddie’s processing becomes more tedious and exhausting. They were draining him mentally and physically.

In a processing exercise, Clark repeatedly yells “Doris” at Freddie, knowing it would upset him. Peggy reads pornographic novels to him in a graphic way. In an attempt to desensitize Freddie, they made him crazier, and they knew it. They were punishing him for being a scoundrel.

The Cause later announces they will go to Phoenix, Arizona, to launch Dodd’s second book, “The Split Saber.”

The title of The Master has a lot of meaning behind it. Dodd trains Freddie like a dog. Dodd is Freddie’s master. There is one moment when Freddie feels liberated from his master. Dodd allows Freddie to drive the motorcycle in the Arizona desert for fun. But Freddie decides to escape. You can see Dodd get anxious. Just like letting your dog run around without a leash. Will he love me enough to come back? Did I abuse my power as the master too much, and now he has run away?

As Freddie leaves on the motorcycle, one thing is on his mind, Doris. When Freddie returns to her childhood home, he discovers she is married and has moved to Alabama. The memories of Doris are all Freddie will ever have of her. Before joining The Cause, Freddie may have done something drastic learning this news. But now Freddie accepts that he broke the promise to Doris and can move on. He is polite and gracious to Doris’ mother. He returns to see Lancaster Dodd one last time.

The last scene Lancaster and Freddie spend together is a gentle and loving connection. Dodd accepts that the animal he first learned to tame wants to leave. Freddie no longer needs the direction of Dodd; he is his own master. Dodd is envious of Freddie and asks,

"If you figure a way to live without serving a master, any master, then let the rest of us know, will you? For you'd be the first person in the history of the world." 

Freddie may have reached enlightenment by shedding the leash of his master. But he’ll never experience love like he did with Lancaster Dodd. Together they shared an insatiable bond that can only be filled by each other; they were soulmates.

Freddie returns home and quickly gets in bed with another woman. This time during sex, Freddie begins jokingly imitating the processing session by telling the woman not to blink and answer questions flirtatiously as they lie together in bed naked.

Freddie was a broken outcast, but through his relationship with Dodd, he processed his trauma and grief to accept his life. You can’t change the past, no matter how hard you try. No matter how much processing is done with Dodd, it’ll never bring back Doris. Similar to how we adapt, learn, and grow from every relationship. But you need to find one in your life as rich as the one between Freddie Quell and Lancaster Dodd—romantically or platonically.

This makes the final song so melancholic with the lyrics sung by Helen Forrest,

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