Absurdity Meets... Terror? Weapons | Directed by Zach Cregger | Horror/Mystery | 2025 | R | 128 minutes Written by Keane Haddad Typically when I watch horror, I go into the theatre on the premise that I am going to feel some tension and get some good scares in. Having seen Zach Cregger’s 2022 directorial debut, Barbarian, I expected excellent cinematography and scares. And I gotta say, it delivered. However, there are some things I did not expect that somehow worked out in this film's favour. The movie does something I haven’t seen many do before with its storytelling—It tells the story in a non-linear fashion. While the movie progresses as a standard mystery would, the perspectives shift like chapters. The Film opens with the disappearances of seventeen children from the same third-grade class from their homes in Maybrook, Pennsylvania, at 2:17 a.m. on the same night.  Julia Garner and Paul Morgan in “Weapons” | Source - IMDB We then follow Ms. Justine Gandy (Julia Garner), the children’s teacher, who struggles under the pressure of suspicious parents. Garner does an incredible job portraying an upbeat, caring teacher desperate to solve the mystery. But her investigation into the only child who didn’t go missing makes her appear, from the outside, like a stalker. The film cleverly underscores this by switching perspectives to another character, showing us the same events in a new light without boring repetition. Each perspective feels unique, and the casting is excellent. Archer Graff (Josh Brolin), a father of one of the missing kids, is a standout. Early on, during a heated parent-teacher meeting, a father lashes out at Ms. Gandy. Later, when the narrative shifts, we see that Archer was the one yelling, as well as the lead-up and aftermath of that moment. Brolin’s performance as a guilt-ridden, determined father is both heartbreaking and terrifying. His character grounds the film in raw emotion, heightening the stakes at every turn.  John Brolin in “Weapons” | Source - IMDB What makes Weapons especially unique is its blend of horror and comedy. The film balances nail-biting tension with moments so absurd that the theatre erupted in laughter. Normally, humor undercuts horror, but here it feels intentional. Dramatic irony and emotional revelations are often followed by comedic beats that morph the film into something unexpected without breaking immersion. The analogue-horror touches are particularly unsettling, specifically the scenes depicting the children running away with their arms stretched out seen through varying quality video-feeds of doorbell cameras that almost become humorous in the children's uncanny-valley nature. The gore is handled with restraint — never gratuitous, but impactful when it matters. Tension-building is another strength, with the film setting up conventional scare patterns, only to completely misdirect us and deliver a jumpscare at an unlikely moment. One early fake-out in particular caught me completely off guard.  Cary Christopher in “Weapons” | Source - IMDB That said, the film loses some of its fear factor halfway through. Once the key mystery is revealed, the atmosphere of dread diminishes. While these revelations are shown rather than explained—avoiding the pitfalls of heavy exposition—the impact still feels diluted.
The ending, however, is unforgettable. In a shocking tonal shift, the film leans into absurdism and satire. What begins as a deadly serious horror gradually morphs into something that almost shrugs in an implied fourth wall break, with characters like Archer astounded at what they have just witnessed. It's unsettling, funny, and bizarrely fitting. Weapons constantly subverts expectations. Even with its flaws, it stands out as one of the most original horror films in recent memory. Its mix of fear, absurdity, and satire may alienate some viewers, but it is precisely this boldness that will likely make it a cult classic in years to come. If you plan to watch it, do yourself a favor: avoid trailers, spoilers, and social media clips. The less you know going in, the better.
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Huge thanks to Ali Zakreski for October's Collaborative List theme!  Hen Hop (1942) | directed by Norman McLaren | reviewed by Ali Zakreski Hen Hop (1942) is the most delightful movie that I watched in a film class. It represents the very best of Canadian cinema. All hail the glorious NFB and Norman McLaren. There isn’t really a plot; it’s a little Hen gleefully hopping and dancing. Honestly, I don’t need much more from a movie. The bright colours of the orange and blue background just make me so happy. The Hen is just so energetic, making me smile every time I see that little guy dancing. Haters will say the Hen in Hen Hop doesn’t hop because of the lack of a horizon line. They think that just because Norm McLaren didn’t give the poor Hen any ground, the Hen can’t hop. I say, horizon line be dammed, that Hen hopped! Anyone who understands anything about animation knows in their hearts that the Hen hops. Haters just can’t stand to see a happy Canadian Hen hopping.  Kalki 2898 AD (2024) | directed by Nag Ashwin | reviewed by Jason Lepine Film 405: Science Fiction in the Global South, was an absolute blast, and introduced me to many films that I honestly would never have discovered had I not taken this class. Although I am a fan of international cinema, there are many countries whose rich history of film I have never explored, in particular, films from India. I admit that my knowledge of Indian cinema has come from viral social media posts that usually include an over-the-top sequence. I admit I had an un-supported idea of what Indian cinema was, and little motivation to pursue it. In fact, I had no idea that were so many sub-industries of Indian cinema outside of what I assumed to be solely Bollywood. Enter Nag Ashwin’s Kalki 2898 AD (2024), a Tollywood production, and the most expensive film in Indian cinema history. My expectations were flashy visuals, loud music, derivative plotlines, and over-the-top action, all of which could potentially lean on the side of cringe. How wrong I was! Did the film lean into my pre-conceived impressions of Indian Cinema? Absolutely! There are ample chases, explosions, gravity defying feats of strength, elaborate CGI, and even an ode to a musical number. However, I found myself questioning why I assumed this to be cringey when I open-heartedly accept these features in a Hollywood production like any one of the Marvel Cinematic Universe films. The film itself had a uniquely Indian identity in its mythology and references to classic figures, which I initially felt I was not the intended audience for; but again, I have no issues watching Thor and getting lost in all the faux-Norse mythology, so why would I treat Kalki any different? As the post-credits scene played out, I found myself fully invested in the world Ashwin created, and exploring the film catalogues of the actors and filmmakers involved. Admittedly, this is not going to go down in history as a classic film, however, this film will always hold a significant place in my collection as being the catalyst that opened my eyes to a whole new lane of cinema, that without FILM 405, I may have never found.  Magic Mike XXL (2015) | directed by Gregory Jacobs | reviewed by Lexi Proulx Making a lesbian watch Magic Mike XXL (2015) should be considered a hate crime. Dr. Pierson considers this trash a musical, but I fear that it's just skimpy shirtless men. If I didn’t find the male form attractive before, gee golly, I sure as hell don’t now. This horror movie that was shown in Pierson’s Intro to Film class was absolutely horrendous. I have seen some super stinkers, such as The Thief and the Cobbler (1993) and Torn Curtain (1966), but this genuinely was the smelliest thing I have watched… and I am the girl who is a Human Centipede (2009) enthusiast. I had to watch in horror as my best friend ogled at the stripper men (icky). I screamed in fear, “Stop humping the floor,” multiple times. The men in this film genuinely remind me of dogs in heat humping just about anything, including Mike when he went to town on the table. If I were that table, I would have been screaming bloody murder over the sound of Pony by Ginuwine screeching in the background. I wholeheartedly believe that we should start a GoFundMe for that table to get into therapy, as well as me. Thanks, Dr. Pierson for the traum…I mean character development.  2001: A Space Odyssey (1968) | directed by Stanley Kubrick | reviewed by Lucy Schwindt This review is less about the movie itself and more about how atrocious my screening experience of watching 2001: A Space Odyssey was in hindsight. 2001 was a film I had watched back in high school in one of my first ever film studies classes. I was just getting into movies and at this point Stanley Kubrick was one of the only directors names I could properly recognized, so I was very excited when my teacher had said we were going to watch it in class. The only issue with this was that 2001 is a rather long movie, and our class period was particularly short, so my teacher had the genius idea to break it up into three different segments that we would watch over a week period. Part one, being the "The Dawn of Man", part two being the journey to Jupiter, and part three being the arrival at Jupiter. My entire class left that first day having only seen humans dressed up as monkeys beating the hell out of one another. Safe to say, not many of us were particularly impressed, and those of us who were still interested felt a little lost at what could possibly be in store for the rest of this film. We were all devoid of the iconic transition from the bone being thrown into the air into the satellite, and the whole experience left the last part feeling more and more disconnected. By the end of these three days, everyone (including myself) walked out of that class more confused than we needed to be, and I was a little unsure on why this movie was so well known. I thankfully decided to give it another shot a couple years later and instantly realized what a severe injustice this film had been done by splitting into three viewings. Moral of the story, 2001: A Space Odyssey is definitely meant to be watch front to back in one viewing.
 Trash Humpers (2009) | directed by Harmony Korine | reviewed by Lexi Proulx Oh boy, watching senior citizens get it on with trash cans is sure interesting sometimes. Trash Humpers (2009) doesn’t consist of a plot, but gee golly it’s sure an exquisite piece of art. Some people might just see the trash as unappealing, but when you get old, you see the beauty in all things. Harmony Korine enjoys shocking the audience with the absurdity of geriatric people and let’s just say their uncommon love for trash. I had so much fun watching this with friends, especially laughing at the old man making funny sounds on top of a trash can, as he exclaims “hoppy, hoppy, hoppy.” It seems very apparent that he is passionate and connecting with the rubbish. It’s an unconventional movie, but rewards those who can get down with the trash.  Hackers (1995) | directed by Ian Softly | reviewed by Maya Wristen Hackers (1995). So stupid. So awesome. From the instant the New York skyline transformed into a mid-90s circuit board CGI-fest, complete with a bumping synthy electronica score, I knew exactly what kind of movie it was going to be. Post-pubescent gender ambiguous teenage hackers rollerblade through the grimy streets of New York, decked out in the gaudiest, campiest leather/camo/spandex getups the turn of the century had to offer. Plot is irrelevant. Vibes are everything. Our protagonists partake in “hacking” duels, likened—in montage form—to fencing, boxing, and all out war. Angelina Jolie had a sex dream about her love interest (pouty protagonist hacker-ingenue Dade) crossdressing in hot red latex. Matthew Lillard. I mean, what else could one ask for?  The Adventures of Ford Fairlane (1990) | directed by Renny Harlin | reviewed by Jason Lepine If a guilty pleasure film is defined as a film that you enjoy, but is not typically held in high regard, then my film world is overwhelmingly guilty! I have a near infinite list of terrible movies that I absolutely adore watching. Anytime a new, artistic, and celebrated film comes out, I am filled with internal angst to not spend my two hours of free time watching a trashy favorite instead. How bad of a film can you admit to loving without feeling dirty or ashamed of yourself? Narrowing it down to one, surely an impossible task, but for myself, The Adventures of Ford Fairlane (Harlin, 1990) is the ultimate guilty pleasure. An absolute blast of late 80’s and early 90’s excess. Loud and intentionally offensive with Andrew Dice Clay at his most politically incorrect. A sea of long forgotten celebrities including Pricilla Presley, Wayne Newton, Morris Day, Tone Loc, Robert Englund, Lauren Holly, Gilbert Gottfried, and Vince Neil. This was one of Renny Harlin’s earliest films and preceded his emergence as a 90’s action icon with Die Hard 2 (1990), Cliffhanger (1993), Cutthroat Island (1995), The Long Kiss Goodnight (1996), and Deep Blue Sea (1999) (if you know 90’s action films, then I don’t need to explain why that list is so impressive). A film with bright colors, harsh over-produced sound effects, absolutely non-sensical continuity issues, and every action cliché you can think of, the bomb in the microwave timer that ticks with otherworldly slowness while the (anti)heroes escape being a standout. Andrew Dice Clay breaks the 4th wall every chance he gets, one of his first lines as proceeds to give a girl his “555” number which he is accused of faking because “they only use that in the movies” is “No shit honey. What do you think this is? Real Life?”. The instant tone of the film insists you leave your brain at the door. The film itself is a guilty pleasure within a guilty pleasure. It is never meant to be serious; it is poking fun at all the things it at first appears to glorify. Like the “Diceman” himself, the film is meant to be “unbelievable!”.  Bros (2022) | directed by Nicholas Stoller | reviewed by Aidan Beatty When I think of guilty pleasures, my mind always goes to one film that manages to keep getting back into my mind and has honestly changed a portion of my viewpoint on love. That would be the 2022 Romantic comedy film: Bros. Directed by Nicholas Stoller, this film was promoted as the first big openly gay romantic comedy. Bros is very bold with its messages and core themes. It’s been such a comfort film for me since its release and I don’t talk about it that much. The main character can sometimes be annoying, the runtime is way too long and the humor can be hit or miss. The real drive for me is the realism between the emotional difficulties within its characters. It can be oddly relatable at times. There’s one line in the film that I think about a lot, “if for some reason, underneath all that strength and confidence, you still don't trust that you are lovable enough, I'm living proof....that you're wrong.” All of us are loveable whether we believe it or not. Loving ourselves is the biggest challenge, yet once we overcome it, we can open ourselves up to a world of being loved, and it is worth it.  High School Musical 2 (2007) | directed by Kenny Ortega | reviewed by Nina Patafi Let us step back almost two decades to the release dates of Disney Channel’s High School Musical movie series, but most significantly, High School Musical 2. This is the only film in the trio that barely takes place in a high school, following the cast as they work at a golf resort during their summer break. Ignoring the fact that the more accurate title would thus be High School Musical 1.5, or Golf Resort Musical, this second installment features most of the series' best songs. Troy Bolton's (Zac Efron) improvised choreography in “Bet On It” is captivating: dramatically clutching sandtrap grains in his fists and staring at his hauntingly artificial reflection during a musical identity crisis. Who could forget the homoromantic undertones of “I Don’t Dance,” wherein an arguably queer-coded Ryan Evans (Lucas Grabeel) convinces Chad Danforth (Corbin Bleu) that they both contain multitudes, capable of dancing and playing baseball. The series antagonist Sharpay Evans (Ashley Tisdale) is at her best in this movie, starring in the unforgettable “Fabulous” and a stolen reprisal version of “You Are The Music In Me” that forces Zac Efron into a painfully high key. Sorry Gabriella-heads, this wasn't her movie. A brief warning: if viewing this film on Canadian Disney+, there is an inclusion of an originally deleted scene where a musical number rears its culturally eviscerating head. “HUMUHUMUNUKUNUKUAPUA’A” portrays a spiritually gutted and musically irritating misrepresentation of Native Hawaiian culture. If it seems that my enjoyment of this movie is rooted in musical numbers rather than the film's plot, well, you would be correct. This movie’s narrative, for me, is simply a vehicle for these characters to do choreography in a resort kitchen, by the pool, on a baseball and golf course, and so on and so forth.  Last Tango in Paris (1972) | directed by Bernardo Bertolucci | reviewed by Ali Zakreski You can’t discuss the film Last Tango in Paris (1972) without acknowledging the elephant in the room: the assault that occurred on set. I won’t sugarcoat it: Maria Schneider was assaulted on set by both her co-star, Marlon Brando, and the director, Bernardo Bertolucci. That scene is difficult to watch, even with the significant trigger warning Dr. Pierson provided before screening the film. I knew of the infamous butter scene, but I wasn’t prepared for how disturbing it would be to watch. I almost had to leave the room because I knew that the fear and humiliation experienced by the character was really experienced by actress Maria Schneider, who was only 19 years old at the time of filming. I am deeply ashamed of enjoying a film that depicts a real assault, especially as a feminist. There’s something incredibly raw about this movie, particularly in its depiction of sex, that I’ve never seen before. I appreciated how the film thoughtfully explored the inner life of Maria Schneider’s character Jeanne, showing her as a flawed young woman making mistakes. Marlon Brando delivers some of his best acting as Paul, portraying one of the most reprehensible men on screen. His repeated words and actions are vile. What makes it compelling is that he doesn't play him as cartoonishly evil; you can still see him as a person. It’s a powerful film that I cannot recommend to anyone, given its graphic content and the real harm it caused to an actual person  Captain America: The First Avenger (2011) | directed by Joe Johnston | reviewed by Lucy Schwindt Although I don't think many people would consider this a guilty pleasure movie, I have such conflicting feelings about telling people I love this movie. I can appreciate a good superhero movie as much as anyone else, but I also have my fair share of issues with specifically MCU movies. And it is safe to say that Captain America: The First Avenger is no exception from those critiques, but regardless of that, I love this movie. I love this movie so much. I think the word "charming" is the perfect way to talk about it. The costumes, the set pieces, the performances, and the story are all just very, well, charming. I have watched this movie more times than I would care to admit at this point, and I imagine I will continue to watch it lots in the future. It is just the perfect thing to put on when I don't know what to watch. I mean, who doesn't love Chris Evans as Captain America?  Saw (2004) | directed by James Wan | reviewed by James Marlow While the first Saw in a vacuum might still be my favourite guilty pleasure movie of all time, this spot on the list really belongs to the entire Saw franchise and all the glorious trash that comes along with it. There are ten movies in the franchise and even as a die hard fan some of those are hard to sit through, and not in the way a horror movie should be. Yet despite this, I can not get enough of everything about these movies and find myself enjoying the obvious flaws rather than being annoyed by them. Obviously there is some amount of morbid curiosity around the concept of a Saw Trap and watching what creative twisted games the writers have schemed up this time, but that is only a small part of why I love them so much. The hidden best part of Saw is that it is actually a giant soap opera operating in the guise of a torture porn horror movie. The character relationships are already ridiculously convoluted by the end of only the third movie and it only gets worse from there. This spiraling web of double crosses and surprise alliances is only heightened by Kramer and his rambling monologues about nonsense. He is wildly hypocritical from movie to movie and even sometimes from scene to scene, which makes it absolutely impossible to take him seriously once you have heard his shtick for the fifth or sixth time. The same editing, plot, and mandatory twist ending are reused constantly throughout the series and rather than working against it and becoming stale, it has started to feel almost comfortable. I know exactly what I am in for whenever I turn on a Saw film and it is an itch that cannot be scratched by any other horror franchise. So while I will fully admit that they are not high quality movies I will never get tired of hearing a Jigsaw doll ask the often fatal question, “Do you want to play a game?”.
As a celebration of the 2024-2025 school year, and an incredible year of Film Society screenings we invited members to reminisce on their memories with us over the years. With the prompt "What is your favourite past Film Society screening?" we got some really great responses. Everything from horror to romance, there is a sampling of all the different kinds of films our club has explored. To all the members of last years Film Society team (graduated or not), thank you so much for an amazing experience! -Lucy Schwindt, Crash/Cut Head Editor  Kill Bill: Volume 1 (2003) | directed by Quentin Tarantino | reviewed by Jason Lepine I wish I had more time... Having a 7-year-old and full-time job doesn’t leave much opportunity to attend the screenings, however, as a returning student, I am finding myself much more invested in in what the University has to offer than I was when I finished my first two degrees in 2006. Rediscovering the Film Society (possibly a different name in 2006), and seeing how much it has grown, I am in awe of how many opportunities the Film Society creates to engage with film and with the group, it really is an amazing outlet for creative thought. However, let me take you back to the last Film Society screening I was able to attend. I was a fairly introverted student in those final semesters back in 2005 and 2006, I didn’t explore a lot of what the University had to offer. Being socially active meant physical presence (there was no Facebook, no smart phones, and social media that did exist meant tethering yourself to a desk). I recall a chatter about in the halls one day during my final semester, a film was going to be shown in the science theatres, and for only five dollars, I could see Kill Bill: Volume 1 (Tarantino, 2003). What a deal! So, I finally let my guard down a bit, and discovered the Film Society, and to my surprise, there were many people there that I knew from various courses I had taken. An immediately welcoming environment, the atmosphere was amazing, people engaged and enjoying the moment, and afterwards, talking about the film in a safe and open setting. I was so mad at myself for discovering this group so late into my academic career. I graduated shortly thereafter, and of course, work and life got in the way. To this day Kill Bill: Volume 1 remains the only screening I have attended, but it was impressionable none the less, not necessarily for the film that I had already seen several times by that point, but for the interactions the Film Society provided… Also, I don’t think I paid that night, so I still owe you five bucks! *Note from the editor: It's okay Jason, we forgive you for not paying your $5.  The Ascent (1977) | directed by Larisa Shepitko | reviewed by Ali Zareski Russian cinema is extremely depressing—a national cinema known for vodka-soaked bleakness and Andrei Tarkovsky. The Ascent (1977) is Russian cinema at its bleakest, a world without hope. The film follows two Russian soldiers during WW2, who are captured by the Germans. They are presented with a horrific choice: join the Germans and fight alongside them or face execution. Nothing could prepare me for how silent the room would become; a pin drop would sound like a bomb went off. The film was screened in January, so the coldness and brutality of the Russian winter was felt viscerally. It’s one of the most unforgettable film experiences of my life, feeling the full weight of the film's tragedy with everyone else in the room.  The Green Ray (1986) | directed by Eric Rohmer | reviewed by James Marlow Out of all the great film society screenings I have attended there is no question in my mind that The Green Ray takes my top spot. It was the first film I had ever seen directed by Eric Rohmer and it sparked a month long obsession centered around his Six Moral Tales anthology. For anyone that has ever struggled with being single for a prolonged period of time, The Green Ray is a persistent uncomfortable mirror that Eric Rohmer forces you to look into. He puts on full display the ridiculous human tendency of attributing a lack of achieving personal goals to bad luck, when in reality these shortcomings are a result of persistent negative attitude and a general lack of effort. The beauty of this movie comes from its ability to deliver this message entirely through subtext, rarely stating explicitly what could instead be conveyed through character development and symbolism. This is expertly paired with soft neutral cinematography that constantly delivers striking splashes of colour that catch the eye and add visual reprieve to the oppressive monotony of slow conversation. However this would all feel aimless and hollow if not for the powerful catharsis of the ending, removing any bleak sense of judgement and replacing it with a reminder that even the most self destructive of personalities is only one lucky moment from turning it all around.  The Living End (1992) | directed by Gregg Akari | reviewed by Lucy Schwindt There have been many screenings that I have loved at film society, but there have been very few I left feeling as emotional as I did leaving the screening for The Living End. I was just so impressed with the caliber in which this film was made. Akari did such a wonderful job of capturing this kind raw and angry punk attitude, that comes with queer culture. He wasn't focused on making the topics of AIDS/HIV a sob story, he lends a certain kind of autonomy to his characters and it leaves a lot of freedom in the range of emotion the audience is subjected to. On top of all of this, The Living End was one of the first screenings I had brought a friend to at film society. As we were discussing it on our way out, I learned he was just as emotional and impressed as I was that it has stuck as such a vivid memory in my mind.
***Condensed version of a paper for FILM 509 with Dr. Modgill*** Indigenous cinema serves as a powerful medium of cultural resistance and narrative reclamation, challenging the colonial traditions that have historically and intentionally misrepresented Indigenous histories and identities. Through Indigenous-made films from Australia and New Zealand, Indigenous filmmakers are able to assert the sovereignty of their communities, reclaim cultural storytelling, as well as foreground relational perspectives within their land and communities. Drawing from critical frameworks such as “third” and “fourth cinema,” these filmmakers and their works actively counter oppressive colonial narratives of the past while also fostering unique spaces of creativity for Indigenous worldviews to present themselves. Through examining works such as In My Blood It Runs (2019), Sweet Country (2017), and Once Were Warriors (1994), an exploration can be delved into considering how Indigenous cinema within the two countries engages in themes of cultural resilience, colonial resistance, and the reclamation of communal identity, ultimately working to reinforce Indigenous worldviews and perspectives within the global filmic landscape.
Reclaiming Narrative Sovereignty Indigenous cinema represents a visual medium of cultural, narrative, and spiritual reclamation, starkly contrasting with colonial-based filmmaking traditions which have historically sought to depict Indigenous communities and perspectives through a western, Eurocentric lens, often misrepresenting and altering Indigenous histories, narratives and spiritual practices. In opposition, Indigenous storytelling places an emphasis on relationality, respect for land, and cyclical notions of time, fostering an authentic connection between the viewer and Indigenous cultural identities and values. Critical theoretical frameworks such as “Third Cinema” and “Fourth Cinema” provide a critical lens for analyzing Indigenous filmmaking, with “third cinema” actively resisting oppressive colonial systems through anti-colonial narratives, while “fourth cinema” expands upon this by highlighting the distinct creative spaces Indigenous filmmakers occupy to express their unique worldviews and cultural specificities. As Nathaniel Cummings-Lambert asserts in his writing ‘Fifty Years of Resistance on Film,’ Indigenous filmmakers use the medium of film as a powerful tool to assert sovereignty, challenge colonial narratives, and foreground relational ethics with land and community, utilizing filmic storytelling as a method of cultural reclamation, resistance, and resilience. The profound interweaving of land, identity, and spirituality within Australian and New Zealand Indigenous cinema is exemplified within films such as In My Blood It Runs (2019), Sweet Country (2017), and Once Were Warriors (1994). Each of these films address themes of cultural reclamation, colonial resistance, and the enduring impacts of systemic oppression through distinctive yet interconnected perspectives from Australia and New Zealand. In My Blood It Runs intimately explores tensions between Indigenous knowledge systems and colonial education through the experiences of Jujuan Hoosen, a young healer whose cultural identity is repeatedly undermined by the workings of the colonial educational framework within the country. Joanne Faulkner’s analysis of the film highlights how the director centres the importance of family and relational support systems amidst institutional alienation, emphasizing resilience and active resistance against mainstream portrayals that often depict Indigenous youth as disempowered. Similarly focused on themes of justice, land, and colonization while taking a more historical approach, Sweet Country from Australia symbolically and visually reinforces the profound Indigenous relationship with the land, utilzing its landscapes not merely as backdrops, but as stark reminders of colonial dispossession and spiritual disconnection. As well, the film critiques colonial legal systems, notably illustrated through the unjust killing of Sam Kelly by unseen townsfolk after his acquittal, demonstrating colonial law’s deep failure to deliver adequate justice for Indigenous peoples within Australia. Sweet Country’s historical setting deliberately emphasizes the then ongoing colonization processes rather than merely post-colonial outcomes, highlighting a grounded historical reality of systemic oppression. In contrast, Once Were Warriors from New Zealand offers a harrowing exploration of intergenerational trauma resulting from colonial legacies within a contemporary, post-colonial context. The film addresses how systemic colonial legacies have fractured and impacted Indigenous families and communities, focusing on issues of domestic violence, stark poverty, and disconnection from one's cultural and historical origins. Echoing Faulkner’s emphasis on familial dynamics and cultural reclamation, Once Were Warriors portrays the profound resilience required to reclaim identity and community despite enduring colonial legacies. Collectively, these films illustrate how Indigenous cinema within Australia and New Zealand reclaims narratives by confronting colonial impacts from complementary perspectives: In My Blood It Runs addresses immediate educational and cultural erasure, Sweet Country documents historical dispossession and colonial injustice, while Once Were Warriors examines contemporary repercussions of colonial trauma. By emphasizing land, cultural identities, and familial relationships, Indigenous filmmakers within Oceania’s two largest countries utilize the artistic medium of film in order to foster dialogues of resistance and resilience, working to challenge the dominance of settler-colonial narratives while affirming Indigenous sovereignty and cultural identities. Resistance, Sovereignty, and Cultural Revival Indigenous cinemas within Australia and New Zealand employ visual symbolism, innovative narrative structures, and subversion of the imperial gaze to reclaim cultural identity, resist colonial narratives, and assert Indigenous sovereignty. These films prominently utilize landscapes, sacred sites, and natural elements as profound symbols of Indigenous spiritual and cultural identity, challenging colonial perceptions of land as mere property. For instance, Sweet Country vividly illustrates the violent dispossession of Indigenous peoples from ancestral lands through contrasting visuals of the Australian outback’s beauty and the brutal depictions of colonial violence. Similarly, In My Blood It Runs integrates healing practices and symbolic imagery within its narrative, showcasing the persistence and resilience of Indigenous knowledge systems despite oppressive colonial institutions. In Taika Waititi’s New Zealand film Boy (2010), traditional carvings and gestures celebrate MÄori culture, actively countering narratives of cultural erasure while reclaiming elements stolen from settler-colonial forces. Narratively, Indigenous cinema often departs from traditional Western stereotypes of linear storytelling, instead reflecting widespread cyclical Indigenous conceptions of time and interconnectedness. In My Blood It Runs exemplifies this narrative structure, with Dujuan’s return to his ancestral homeland mirroring broader, ongoing struggles against colonial oppression. In contrast, Sweet Country employs a largely linear structure scattered with flashbacks, disrupting that traditional Western storytelling in order to highlight historical immediacies and personal traumas associated with colonial injustices. Relational storytelling, central to Indigenous narrative approaches, foregrounds interpersonal dynamics and familial bonds, with films such as Boy and Once Were Warriors emphasizing how familial relationships and intergenerational trauma profoundly shape Indigenous cultural identities, exploring both the fractures caused by systemic colonial violence as well as the potential for familial bonds to become vehicles for healing and cultural reclamation. Indigenous filmmakers actively subvert the “colonial gaze” by reclaiming representational power within the medium of cinema. In Boy, Waititi uses nostalgic and comedic elements to critique colonial cultural dominance, eventually reframing Western societal influences like Michael Jackson for cultural reflection and self-awareness. As well, Servant or Slave (2016) directly challenges colonial narrative by foregrounding lived experiences of Indigenous women subjected to forced assimilation policies, employing archival footage and testimonies to resist a passive colonial portrayal of their culture and identity. Globally, Indigenous cinemas share themes of resistance, sovereignty, and reclamation of representation, joined through a common history of systemic, colonial injustices like residential schools, the forced removal of children, and intergenerational trauma inflicted upon these communities through the course of colonialism. However, Oceania’s Indigenous cinematic traditions present several distinct cultural specificities—Australian Indigenous films often foregrounding land and spirituality, as exemplified through In My Blood It Runs and Sweet Country, wherein land dispossession acts to symbolize broader colonial injustices, while New Zealand’s Indigenous cinema frequently centres on familial relationships and the effects of intergenerational trauma on these relationships, with films like Once Were Warriors exploring the devastating impacts of colonial violence upon Indigenous communities and pathways to healing and cultural reclamation through familial reconnection and bonding. Indigenous filmmakers within both countries face significant systemic barriers within mainstream production and distribution systems that prioritize commercial viability and westernized, colonial narratives over that of authentic Indigenous stories. Limited theatrical releases and significantly constrained streaming availability hampers the global accessibility and educational impact of these films, in spite of their substantial, perhaps even revelatory cultural values. However, opportunities for increased exposure are emerging through an expansion of Indigenous film festivals, such as New Zealand’s Wairoa MÄori Film Festival, as well as an inclusion in broader artistic celebrations such as Australia’s National Indigenous Music Awards. Building on this already growing representation, a wider move by global streaming companies, such as Netflix and Apple, to further recognize the importance of Indigenous art presents an avenue for broader circulation of Indigenous narratives, despite ongoing discoverability issues within these platforms. The works of Indigenous cinema within New Zealand and Australia stands as a powerful medium of cultural reclamation, resistance, and Indigenous sovereignty, working to challenge the colonial narratives that have long defined misrepresented accounts of Indigenous histories and identities. Through visual symbolism, innovative storytelling, and the subversion of the colonial gaze, Indigenous filmmakers within Australia and New Zealand are able to assert the worldviews of their communities, centering on themes of land, relationality, and intergenerational resilience. While these films face systemic barriers in their distribution networks and accessibility, increasing recognition through film festivals and global streaming platforms signal a growth in space for Indigenous voices within contemporary filmmaking. Through continuing down the path of reclamation of narrative storytelling in our modern age, Indigenous filmmakers are able to not only resist historical erasures, but also affirm the enduring strength and life of their cultures and communities. Bibliography: Cummings-Lambert, Nathaniel. “Fifty Years of Resistance on Film.” HAU: Journal of Ethnographic Theory 13, no. 3 (December 1, 2023): 721–29. https://doi.org/10.1086/728981. Faulkner, Joanne. 2024. “‘A Universal Father and Son Story’? The Representation of Father-Son Relationships in Zach’s Ceremony, In My Blood It Runs, and Robbie Hood.” Australian Feminist Studies, July, 1–20. doi:10.1080/08164649.2024.2375574. Keys, Matthew. “Fix Findability to Expand Streaming Audiences.” Digital Content Next, June 20, 2024. https://digitalcontentnext.org/blog/2024/04/25/fix-findability-to-expand-streaming-audiences/. McKinley, Catherine E., and Jenn Lilly. “‘It’s in the Family Circle’: Communication Promoting Indigenous Family Resilience.” Family Relations 71, no. 1 (October 7, 2021): 108–29. https://doi.org/10.1111/fare.12600. Pearson, Wendy Gay, and Paula Sequeiros. “Reverse Shots: Indigenous Film and Media in an International Context: Pearson, W. G., & Knabe, S. (Eds.), 2014, Waterloo, Canada, Wilfrid Laurier University Press.” Sociologica On Line, no. 15 (December 2017): 119–22. https://doi.org/10.30553/sociologiaonline.2017.15.6. Pirie, Maeghan. “Situating Indigenous Knowledges: The Talking Back of Alanis Obomsawin and Shelley Niro.” Reverse Shots, January 15, 2014, 247–64. https://doi.org/10.51644/9781554584253-015. Roche, David. “Westerns from an Aboriginal Point of View or Why the Australian Western (Still) Matters:” Transnationalism and Imperialism, April 5, 2022, 279–98. https://doi.org/10.2307/j.ctv26qjhx8.23. Films Referenced: Boy. Film. New Zealand: Paramount, 2010. In My Blood It Runs. Film. Australia: Closer Productions, 2019. Kanehsatake: 270 Years of Resistance. Film. Canada: NFB, 1993. Once Were Warriors. Film. New Zealand: Footprint Films, Voyager Co, 1994. Servant or Slave. Film. Australia: No Coincidence Media Pty. Ltd., 2016. Slash/Back. Film. Canada: Shudder, 2022. Sweet Country. Film. Australia: Contemporary Arts Media, 2017. This month's collaborative list prompt asked you to tell us about your early movie memories. We've got a couple of pretentious young Orson Welles enthusiasts, and a few writers who recount memorable theatre experiences, including some rather sneaky ones. As well, one of our writers will make his case for why Lego: the adventures of Clutch Powers dethrones Citizen Kane as the best film ever, and I'll get into the influence comedic French films had on me as a young girl. If you didn't get a chance to submit your own response this month and regret it like Jason regrets not choosing to see Conan the Destroyer instead of Gremlins one fateful day in 1984, or some memories or movie titles happen to come up while you're reading this article, please leave a comment recalling those films or experiences with film from your own childhood. Thanks so much to everyone who submitted a response, as we have more than ever this month, and these were just so fun to read. Go back to the Crash/Cut main page to see our current collaborative list topic, and make sure to submit your response before the end of the month. -Hazel Cochrane, Crash/Cut co-editor  Touch of Evil (1958) | directed by Orson Welles | reviewed by Ryan Pierson Orson Welles movies are confusing, even under the best of circumstances. (Anyone who tells you they didn’t feel at least a little bit lost on a first viewing of Citizen Kane is probably lying.) But to a thirteen-year-old me, watching only the second half on television, Touch of Evil was incomprehensible. Its latter half is a series of nightmarish set pieces. A kidnapping; a strangulation in a hotel room; a barfight at a strip club; a visit to a fortune teller (where the villain is told, with a chilling tenderness, “you’re future’s all used up”); an entrapment and a confession at an oil derrick; a shootout at a bridge—all shot in thick shadows, viewed through a baroquely wide-angle lens, and paced for a spacious, creeping sense of sweaty dread. Though I didn’t understand the plot or what was at stake, I felt I understood something of that tone and rhythm. I had recorded the film (I was already familiar with Kane and knew that Welles as someone to learn more about) and I watched the tape, over and over, waiting through that first half (which basically exists to set the second half in motion) so that I could dwell in the tone and rhythm of those set pieces. I did not yet know the formal language of movies, but I sensed that this one was somehow working its magic on me in ways that were tangential to, or bigger than, the story or the characters. It worked like music worked. It evoked feelings that words couldn’t reach.
Zazie Dans Le Métro // Mon Oncle (1960 // 1958) | Louis Malle // Jacques Tati | reviewed by Hazel Cochrane My parents showed me a huge variety of films when I was a kid--but a few that really stuck with me were two French films I saw when I was about seven: Louis Malle’s Zazie Dans Le Métro and Jacques Tati’s Mon Oncle. One weekend I watched Zazie Dans Le Métro with both my parents, and Mon Oncle the next night with just my mom and my sister. Zazie was just like me--a little girl with bangs, running around and causing trouble. It’s a very fun and beautiful film which I came to appreciate even more when I rewatched it a year ago. The filming and editing is so precise, and make this film’s slapstick very effective and memorable. It also would’ve been the first time I ever saw a crossdresser on TV--Zazie’s uncle is a drag queen. The next night, I remember my mom and sister and I laughing harder than ever, at a particular scene in Mon Oncle, where a long tube starts coming out of a factory machine and indenting itself, making it look like a long link of sausages which just keep multiplying. The absurdity of this scene and memory of falling over laughing with my mom and my sister made this film, and this particular scene, very memorable to me. I wanted to rewatch it after seeing Zazie Dans Le Métro again, but my mom didn’t understand why I’d remembered Mon Oncle being so great. She was right--I found the film quite long and boring, and not very fun to watch alone. However, looking back on my enjoyment of these two films has helped me understand how I’ve come to love absurd humour and French cinema. Thanks, Mama and Papa, for exposing me to such odd films and teaching me how to be open-minded and appreciative of art.  Close Encounters of the Third Kind (1977) | directed by Steven Spielberg | reviewed by Lucy Schwindt I remember when I was growing up, the first time I ever recognized myself appreciating a theatre experience was when the Landmark by my house did a showing of Close Encounters of the Third Kind. At the time I had never even heard of the movie, I couldn’t have even told you who Steven Spielberg was, but my dad was so excited and I was told we had to go see it. I grew up in a household that loved sci-fi, Star Wars was a regular classic around the home and Ender's Game was a required read according to my dad. So when we heard this was playing, my entire family made sure to get tickets and we showed up nice and early and made sure to get hot dogs done up in all the dressings and the largest thing of popcorn they sold. And when I say I walked out of that theatre absolutely enamoured, it is an understatement. Not only was the movie incredible, as it had all the familiarity of the films I already loved, but the energy of that theatre was unlike anything I had yet experienced. There was the perfect blend of die hard fans anticipating each scene and people, like me, who were experiencing it for the first time. You could feel the energy in that room, and I was hooked. My entire family had ear to ear grins leaving that theatre and it showed me why I now believe seeing films in theatres is such an important experience. There is no other way you can see the influence of film like you can when you are surrounded by people watching the same thing as you in a theatre. Movie theatres will forever be one of my favourite places now because of that experience.  Murder by Death (1976) | directed by Robert Moore | reviewed by Shafiq Bhura Growing up in Calgary in the 1970’s, access to theaters was downtown and not at a mall. The Grand, Palace, and Palliser theaters were our go-to choices, and accessed by Calgary Transit. My older brother and I would go to an early show, and then stay hidden in the movie theater for the early evening show, and if we could hold out, stay for the late show. This way, we could see the film three times and absorb every last molecule of the experience. We were only 11 and 13 years old, and this was way before cell phones; our parents knew nothing about what we were doing. Being immigrants to Canada, they were too busy at their second jobs on the weekend to worry about what we were up to. The freedom was exhilarating; the journey to downtown from the suburbs, the subversive nature of sneaking in extra shows, and the worlds we could experience on the screen was intoxicating. One particular film stands out in my memories, as we must have seen it every weekend for a month, and given our practice of multiple viewings, the total number of times we watched it must have been about 12. Murder By Death, from 1976, may not be on the syllabus of any film classes, but it's nostalgic, and an early memory of me falling in love with movies.  Citizen Kane (1941) | directed by Orson Welles | reviewed by Dylan Mansfield I could not tell you what the first movie I saw was. I have fuzzy memories of seeing like, Gnomeo and Juliet in theatres when I was five (please don't do the math on that) but that's as far back as my mind goes. Movies have always been a part of my life in one way or another, but I can't remember where it all began. When I was twelve, I finally got access to a computer. It's not controversial to say, but: the internet fucking sucks. I don't need to elaborate-- we all know this. But despite my complaints, I think there are blessings to be had. Without a computer, I would not have had access to some of the great films at such a young age. This was how I first saw Citizen Kane. I think every aspiring creative has a desire to be "the greatest [x] of all time." Citizen Kane has a reputation as the quintessential movie, so of course, it was at the top of my twelve-year-old-boy list. It was my first black-and-white film--probably my first movie before 1990, too. Did I understand what was happening? No. Did I tell my friends on the playground that I liked it? Yeah, absolutely. Since then, I have seen Citizen Kane three more times. Obviously, as with anything of that status, I would not call it the greatest movie, though I've come to appreciate it so much more. Welles' direction, Robert Wise's editing, Mank's screenplay--what else can be said? It's certainly no Gnomeo and Juliet, that's for sure.  Gremlins (1984) | directed by Joe Dante | reviewed by Jason Lepine I don’t know if this is the first movie I saw on the big screen, but it is the first memory that I can recall of going to the big screen. It was 1984, my mother had taken me to the Towne Cinema (now the Globe) and there were two films showing: Gremlins (1984, Dante) and Conan the Destroyer (1984, Fleischer). The reason this memory is so engrained in me, and haunts me to this day, was my choice of Gremlins (still a great movie) and the fact that I could have been able to say, 40 years later, that I witnessed Conan the Destroyer, in all its B-grade inferiority to Conan the Barbarian (Milius, 1982) on the silver screen. I know that I am in the minority, and of course as a kid how could I not be more drawn to that iconic poster of Gizmo. I still remember how epic it was seeing him fly around that department store in Barbie’s dream car; a fond memory for sure (also not a kids movie by today’s standards, but the 80’s were a reckless time pre- existence of the PG13 rating), but the memory, that could have been Conan in all his cheese and glory, will continue to torment me.…  Lego: The Adventures of Clutch Powers | directed by Howard E. Baker | reviewed by Gage Henry Many films mesh together when I recall early movie memories. But one movie stands above the rest. This is also one of the only movies truly worthy of dethroning Citizen Kane. Lego: The Adventures of Clutch Powers, originally a marketing tool used to sell certain underperforming Lego toys. It was one of the few movies I would rewatch time and time again. Recently I revisited it upon coming across some old sets that were used in the film. The film more or less plays out like a dream, with the protagonist "Clutch Powers" hopping from theme to theme, with minimal congruence of genre. And this is truly what makes the movie so special. Truthfully, as a kid, I do not think I even knew that this was the same movie, but seeing all of these toys I loved come to life in a way I had not imagined, and this reframing of the world, is what first ignited my love for film. For this reason, and just the utter feverishness of it this movie is permanently ingrained in my memory, and is certainly one of the movies ever.
A Crisis of Unrefined Talent Crisis | Directed by Ingmar Bergman | 1946 | 93 minutes By Logan Schwindt
With a career as long and prolific as Ingmar Bergman’s it is easy to overlook the early work in his filmography, especially as his first films tend to lack the defining elements of his later masterpieces. He is a director known for his precise cinematography, for his constant attempts to understand the relationship between mankind and faith, and above all else, for his piercing writing which exhibits the expansive lengths of vicious apathy that human beings are capable of at their meanest. However, all of that unmatched talent would not become obvious until later in his career. He was not a director that hit the ground running; it took him years of experience to hone his craft and to find the specific collaborators that elevated his direction and writing. This lack of experience is never more obvious than in his debut feature Crisis (1946), which is my least favourite of his films that I have seen. Crisis, or Kris as it is titled in the original Swedish, is based on a Dannish radio play Moderhjertet by Leck Fischer. This original title was retained for the Danish release of the film and the literal English translation is A Mother’s Heart (also known as The Maternal Instinct or The Mother Animal depending on the translation). At the time Bergman was working as a script writer and a “script washer” , as he described his position at Svensk Filmindustri. For his first opportunity to direct a movie he was asked to adapt Moderhjertet into his own version of a 1940’s Hollywood romance. He was not particularly fond of the source material and did not feel much better about Crisis once he had completed it. These feelings are understandable as the sensibilities of Moderhjertet are more sentimental and wholesome than any of his later screenplays. In hindsight, Bergman was probably one of the worst people to ask to direct Crisis. It is the stylistic equivalent to asking Steven Spielberg to adapt Cormac McCarthy’s The Road. Without access to the original radio play it is difficult to determine how much of the film’s writing is from Bergman himself however, in the midst of Crisis’s contrived tale of simple morals, there are brief bursts of intense cynicism and realism. These are indicative of a burgeoning young writer trying to escape the restricting confines of an unwanted plot and predominantly feature themes Bergman would return to regularly throughout his career, especially woman struggling with their independence and their mental health. Unfortunately, these themes are never given the time to be fully developed and instead exist as ethereal window dressing on the outskirts of a bland retread centerpiece. Despite the uninspiring source material, a lot of the responsibility for the ineffectiveness of Crisis lies with Bergman himself. He lacked the writing ability to properly convert the radio play into a screenplay. He chooses to open the movie with unnecessary narration that spoon feeds the audience every piece of exposition over a montage of establishing shots. I had originally interpreted this decision as homage to the original radio play, but knowing Bergman’s disdain for the source material, it is more likely that he was attempting to incorporate elements of theatre into his screenplay. At the time he was known more for stage plays than for movies and he would continue to be a notable figure in the Swedish theatre industry for the rest of his career. Whatever the reason for including opening narration, it makes for a very clunky and heavy-handed introduction to a movie which is not nearly complicated enough to warrant such explanation. Where a stage play audience is expecting a prologue establishing the details of the setting, a movie is not given the same allowance, and Crisis is poorly paced through the first act as a result. Bergman did not yet have a handle on the specific nuances of cinema compared to other dramatic arts and he was unable to adjust his adaptation accordingly. The only redeeming factor of this introduction is it allowed Bergman to start Crisis with the opening of window blinds and the narrator mentioning the raising of a curtain. This is the first of many fourth wall breaks in Bergman’s career and there is no more suitable way for his career to begin than with an overt nod to theatre. One of the things that makes cinema such a unique artform is that, unlike a painting or a novel, movies are created by a massive team of collaborators that all must work together to create a singular final work of art. Part of being a great director is being able to choose the right team of people to help shape and contribute to your final vision. It was not until Bergman mastered this skill and found a group of artists that resonated with his style that he was then able to make the most effective films of his career. Someone familiar with his most iconic work would also be very likely to recognize Bibi Andersson, Liv Ullman, Gunnar Björnstrand, or Max Von Sydow. These actors, and many others not mentioned, became synonymous with Bergman’s work and he had complete trustin their ability to do anything he asked of them. With the exception of Dagny Lind, who is able to convince us of the inner turmoil of Ingeborg Johnson through consistent dejected posture, the performances in Crisis lack believability and are monotonously hollow. The actors completely fail to convince the audience that anything serious is happening and only manage to entertain in small pockets of comic relief. The same level of craftsmanship can be attributed to the cinematography, which lacks polish and intention. Even from a purely technical perspective the camera struggles to keep the scene in focus and many of the shots are either under or over exposed. This is easily explained by the low budget and general low expectations for the film, but it is still indicative of a director who had not yet found the correct person for the job. The meticulous eye for lighting and composition of Sven Nykvist, Bergman’s long-time cinematographer, is severely missed in Crisis. The only notable contributor to Crisis that Bergman continued to work with later in his career is editor, Oscar Rosander. With this in mind, it should not come as a surprise that the editing of Crisis is one of the best technical aspects of the film. It manages to save the poorly paced scenes from dragging endlessly and very patiently lingers in the most effective moments of the movie, waiting for the last possible instant to cut. Most every other aspect of Crisis, from the music to the acting to the production design, is just not as cohesive as I have come to expect from Bergman’s films. While his own lack of experience certainly contributed to each of these factors, the lack of talent around him exacerbated the issue and highlighted his weaknesses. With all this being said, Crisis is far from a complete failure and manages to be reasonably entertaining even on rewatch. There are undeniable shining glimpses of Bergman’s talent that are impossible to miss. One such talent, that became a defining trait of his later career, is the ability to block his actors and create moving compositions within a scene. He had actors enter and move through a scene with a fluidity that is remarkable for a first-time director. All the while retaining a fundamental understanding of negative space and where the audience’s eyes are going to naturally gravitate. This is best illustrated in the conclusion of the film, where multiple characters move throughout the scene and the camera holds still, capturing the delicate interactions of all three actors directly head on. Each movement in this scene is an expression of character, the intentionally nonchalant lighting of a cigarette is just as important as the immobility of embarrassment and shame. In this scene Bergman finally manages to align everyone involved and capture the full potential of his vision. It is unfortunate that he was not able to achieve the same level of quality for the ballroom sequences in the middle of the movie, as the scale and intention of these dances could have easily been the highlight of Crisis. The tracking shot following dance partners across a dance floor, while rather rudimentary in execution, reminds me of the remarkable dances from the later made The Earrings of Madame De (Max Ophüls, 1953), albeit for a much shorter span of time. These flashes of raw potential needed to be refined and made more consistent, which Bergman would steadily work at for the next few years of his life, but they are also impressive signposts of the immense natural ability that he possessed as a filmmaker. Crisis is an intriguing watch for any Bergman enthusiasts that want to track the massive improvements he made throughout his career and see the humble beginnings of a prolific titan of cinema. Photo: Inga Landgré and Marianne Löfgren in Crisis (1946), Svensk Filmindustri Reference: Smallwood, C. (2018). Bergman in the making. The Criterion Collection This month's prompt was "your least favourite film from one of your favourite directors". Check the Crash/Cut main page for the current collaborative list to get your submission published next month, and let us know in the comments what you would've picked for this topic!  RoboCop (1987) | directed by Paul Verhoeven | reviewed by Lucy Schwindt Writing about this movie as my least favourite Verhoeven hurts a little bit, especially when I love all his work. It was really hard to pick a least favourite. RoboCop is an amazing, fun, and wildly enjoyable watch. Like every 80’s action movie you have cheesy explosions and great one liners. This movie has fascinating biblical parallels (this deserves an article in itself) that is made even more interesting by incredible performances by the actors. Despite all these reasons that make it so good, and one movie that I hold so near and dear to my heart. In comparison to the rest of Verhoeven's filmography, it doesn’t shine nearly as strongly as RoboCop’s exterior does (haha). I think it is on a similar level to any other great 80’s action movie, right up there next to Top Gun, Indiana Jones, and Big Trouble in Little China. One of the features I appreciate most about Verhoeven’s work though is how distinctive and visually creative his choices are. Looking at Showgirls or Starship Troopers, it is hard to get the images these movies conjure up out of your mind. Whether you liked Showgirls or not, it is difficult to get the neon lights of the Las Vegas strip out of your mind. It stays with you. I believe RoboCop came right before Verhoeven started to fully embrace being loud and out there in his films. I will never not recommend this movie to someone, but it was just a start to Verhoeven’s vibrant and creative career.  Tenet (2020) | directed by Christopher Nolan | reviewed by Hunter Demers Ah yes, another month, another opportunity for me to talk about how much I love Christopher Nolan. As one of the last directors who can constantly pull in large budgets for "original" (Oppenheimer and his Batman trilogy were adapted) large scale filmmaking, he really does his best to ensure that each of his films feel unique from one another, while simultaneously perfecting his signature style. You can obviously tell when a film is Nolan's, given away by his notoriously overbearing sound mixing, beautiful, crisp cinematography, and a deep infatuation with time within his films' narrative structures, but instead of all of his films feeling samey or redundant, Nolan has managed to imbue each of his works with a sense of unique individuality, films that no other director could pull off. As well, I would be amiss to not mention his love for working on ACTUAL film, both shooting and editing on the large-scale IMAX 70mm format. This is a feat in its own right, but when considering how few theatres are actually able to show the format properly, his deep, intricate workings in the analogue format are even more commendable. One of my favourite films from him, Interstellar (2014), demonstrates the transformative power of working in this format, taking us on a divine exploration of our humanity through the lens of science fiction's vast and alien landscapes. It's a film that feels SO big and large-scale, especially when viewed in IMAX (or any theatre for that matter!), that still manages to feel deeply intimate and connected to what binds and connects us as a people. Even within one of his less well regarded films, and what I personally consider to be his worst, Tenet (2020), Nolan is still able to generate a sense of excitement and intrigue, despite its intentional lacking of intelligible dialogue, asking us to "feel" the film, rather than "read" it. Not every director is perfect, many have misfires like Tenet, but few come close to the utter consistency in both quality and style that Nolan has been able to achieve throughout his career thus far.  Reservoir Dogs (1992) | directed by Quentin Tarantino | reviewed by Jason Lepine As I walk through the directorial filmography of Quentin Tarantino, I find it easy to point to my favourite. I love all his films, but Jackie Brown stands as that perfect storm of Tarantino-ness. But least favourite? Now that is a challenge for me, and one that at times has felt clear, but as years pass and multiple viewings take place, always leads me to appreciate Tarantino’s work even more; there is an appreciating return with his body of work. All his films continue to engage long after release, and although he is undeniably popular, I truly feel his body of work won’t be fully appreciated until he hangs up his camera for good. Least favourite film? An impossible task, but at the end of the day (a surely controversial choice) I would say that Reservoir Dogs (1992) crosses the finish line last. Granted, we are talking about a film that in my opinion is better than 90% of films that have I have seen. I love Reservoir Dogs, and it clearly inspired all of Tarantino's films that followed; its DNA is in each of them. Despite the classic banter of the opening diner scene, the infamous gas can / ear scene, and the final deadlocked stand-off, there are sections of this film between those iconic moments that drag, and yes, all pivotal moments from a film require development, but these build-ups lack the Tarantino-ness that carries throughout his subsequent work. This the one film that, at least for me, has the most forgettable moments between the iconic moments it is famous for. This is his first true release, and I am more than happy to say that it is his least shiny diamond. After all, wouldn’t it be more tragic if the opposite were true, and he peaked right away?  Faces (1968) | directed by John Cassavetes | reviewed by Hazel Cochrane Cassavetes is known for his improvisatory style, and often represents imperfect, very narcissistic characters, but that is all he seems to do with his 1968 film Faces. It is the earliest film I’ve seen of his, but there is a considerable difference in the watchability as well as emotional impact between Faces and his film Husbands which followed it. Nothing in this film is very memorable, whereas even his most hated film, The Killing of a Chinese Bookie, gets stuck in your head. Not even the beautiful, melancholic Gena Rowlands makes a lasting impression in Faces–she isn’t given very much screen time, either. The most memorable scene is one where Gena Rowlands and John Cassavetes argue over their opinions on peoples’ weight. Cassavetes’ films are usually all-over-the-place, and there is hardly ever a focus on plot development, but conversations in Faces really lack significance in terms of plot and feeling. The film is overall quite drab, and characters are unrelateable and given no other kind of significance.
While I absolutely would never recommend this particular film, I would encourage whoever’s interested to watch Husbands, Opening Night, and A Woman Under the Influence! A Gothic Masterpiece of Revenge The Crow | Directed by Alex Proyas | 1994 | 1hr 42m by Dylan Vansenus Taking place in a crime-ridden city subject to an eternal downpour of rain, The Crow (1994) tells the tragic story of Eric Draven (Brandon Lee), who is murdered alongside his fiancée days before their wedding. One year later, he is brought back to life by a mysterious crow, gaining supernatural abilities that make him invulnerable. This sets him on a path of revenge—to track down the very same gang that killed him and his fiancée. The events that follow are an emotionally charged journey of vengeance, justice, and love transcending life. Brandon Lee gives an incredible performance that mixes sorrow, rage, and dark humor, making Eric stand out as more than just a revenge-obsessed anti-hero. Every moment he has on-screen holds weight, as there is sadness behind his rage, which is reflected in his performance. Brandon Lee tragically passed away in an accident on set, making his presence even more impactful, adding another layer of emotion to a performance that could have projected his career to that of a Hollywood superstar. As the film's big bad, Michael Wincott brings a level of slyness, ruthlessness, and unsettling swagger to his performance, while Ernie Hudson as the Sergeant, provides contrast to the city's gloomy aesthetic by adding humanity and warmth. If you asked me to describe The Crow (1994) in one word, it would be “aesthetic.” The film looks like a mix between a nightmare, a music video, and a comic book. The city is always dark and rainy, making it feel surreal and almost dreamlike. Director Alex Proyas perfects the gothic aesthetic, with cinematography reminiscent of German expressionism and classic film noir. On the surface, The Crow (1994) may seem like just a revenge thriller, but it conveys deeper themes of love, redemption, and grief. The crow itself is not just a supernatural bird but a symbol of the idea that true love transcends death. To me, the tragic harlequin face paint Eric wears reflects the duality of his existence. The black eyes that look like tears represent his sorrow and grief from his past, while his forced black smile may show his madness for revenge. This results in a look that personifies both motivations that define his character. As for the film's action sequences, they are both brutal and stylish. The cinematography techniques make Eric's supernatural abilities come to life, making him move like a ghost. One particular moment that stands out to me is when, in an ethereal-like sequence, Eric jumps off a building to test his invulnerability that is beautifully captured in slow motion as he hits the ground laughing. Every fight scene looks theatrical in the way it resembles a dance. His movements, combined with his poetic dialogue, give the fight scenes a unique, almost operatic quality. An essential aspect of this film is the soundtrack, featuring bands such as The Cure, Stone Temple Pilots, Rage Against the Machine, and Nine Inch Nails. It not only made the film memorable for me but perfectly encapsulated its grungy tone and deepened its emotional impact. Overall, my favourite film, The Crow (1994), remains a beloved cult classic, remembered for its stunning visuals, emotional depth, and the tragic loss of Brandon Lee. The film’s legacy would later influence movies like Blade (1998) and contribute to the rise of goth culture.  References:
● Cotroneo, V. (2022, December 20). How The Crow won over a generation of Goths. MovieWeb. https://movieweb.com/the-crow-scary-storyline-goths/ ● Stevens, T. (2019, May 18). 25 years later, The Crow remains an undeniable result & reflection of 1994. The Spool. https://thespool.net/features/the-crow/ ● Gonzalez, A. (2020, May 5). The Crow's chart-topping soundtrack was just as influential as the movie itself. The A.V. Club. https://www.avclub.com/the-crows-chart-topping-soundtrack-was-just-as-influent-1851501278  Conan The Barbarian (1982) | Directed by John Milius | Reviewed by Jason Lépine Conan the Barbarian (1982) Score by Basil Poledouris is an absolute epic and the pinnacle of Fantasy film scores. Every section of the score, from the rousing percussive introduction of "Anvil of Crom", which sets the pace of the violent horror of this harsh world, to the revelatory calm and stirring emotion of "Atlantean Sword" which perfectly captures the prophetic moment that connects Conan to his blade. The sweeping emotional conundrum of "The Search" as Conan forgoes his newly found love and happiness to reclaim the blood debt that has motivated him up until this point. Conan, a stoic figure, seemingly void of emotions, yet every ounce of his pain is felt during “The Funeral Pyre” through the score. The mix of playful setup and exciting build-up of the “Battle of the Mounds” braces us for the penultimate encounter. Every track is as fundamental to the film as the action on screen. The score elevates an already remarkable film to a classic, legendary, status. There is no overlap in these works of art; each section of the score is unique, yet wholly feels a part of the collective. The score will follow you long after the screen fades to black.  The Wild Robot (2024) | Directed by Chris Sanders | Reviewed by Jowy Moss In my opinion, The Wild Robot (Chris Sanders, 2024) features the most memorable and emotional soundtrack of the year. Not only has the film's story lingered with me since my very first, very tearful viewing, but the score has also left a lasting impact. Whenever I see a frame from the film, I immediately hear Kris Bowers’ score echoing in my head. The score uses methodical, mechanical beats to connect to the main character, a robot named Roz. But as she learns from her experiences in the wild, and from raising a young gosling named Brightbill, the score opens up into soaring and lyrical melodies. The most impactful use of this incredible score comes in the song “I Could Use A Boost.” In the scene where this track plays, Brightbill has to leave Roz his mother behind to migrate for the winter. The theme expertly blends his excited nervousness of leaving with her bittersweet goodbye. The song swells in intensity as Roz helps Brightbill take off, finally building into a surprising pause as she reflects on Brightbill flying away. Suddenly the melody comes back, building once more as Roz runs after him, to see him one last time for a silent “goodbye.” Just like that, he’s gone abruptly taking the soaring theme with him and leaving Roz with the slow, lone piano as she contemplates the bittersweet reality of raising a child; to eventually let them go off into the world on their own. From that scene onwards, anytime I see anything related to The Wild Robot, I remember this moment and get all teary-eyed. It has connected with me on an emotional level which I will never forget. Such a memorable, and beautiful score is truly something special. Kris Bowers definitely deserves this year's Best Score Oscar nomination and hopefully, the Academy Award itself!  Challengers (2024) | Directed by Luca Guadagnino | Reviewed by Lucy Schwindt In lieu of the Oscars nominees being released, and Challengers not receiving a nomination for score, I felt like I had to write on this film. The Challengers score is nothing less than monumental to me. In a movie that already utilizes tension (sexual and otherwise) to create an engaging story, the score enhances the tone perfectly. Using a score that is almost exclusively composed of electronic dance music, the beats of the tennis matches are transformed from simply a sport that is a point of conflict, into an arena where movement and competition take a whole new meaning. Tennis is transformed from a competition into a dance between Art and Patrick that holds the same kind of sexual tension that is emulated by two people dancing at a club. The energy becomes electric, and suddenly a movie that is almost entirely about relationships that are a metaphor for tennis, takes the actual act of playing tennis and makes it about the only other subject on the characters minds, sex. Trent Reznor & Atticus Ross absolutely killed it with this score, and in my heart took home the Oscar for best original score this year.  Lord of the Rings: Return of the King (2003) | Directed by Peter Jackson | Reviewed by Arvin Farahbakhsh 2003 was the year I was born and it also happens to be the year that one of my favourite films ever released, that film of course being Peter Jackson's third Lord of the Rings film. Return of the King is a film that's been talked to death by virtually everyone so I don't think I need to elaborate much on just how impactful it's been to our cultural landscape, however, its score is something that I often see kinda forgotten in the grand scheme of things with this magnificent piece of art. Howard Shore composed the scores for all three films in this trilogy and while his scores in both the other films do stand out as groundbreaking and larger than life, his Return of the King score in particular stays with me far more. The way that Shore manages to capture this perfect blend of the maximalist spectacle of 2000s blockbusters while also keeping the same softness and sentimentality that the earlier scores in the trilogy possess is a remarkable level of genius that I don't think many other composers are capable of. I will be frank, if it wasn't for Shore's score, I highly doubt that this film would be as big of a moment in our cultural lexicon. The way the beautiful strings soar over the lighting of the beacons, the way the choirs announce the ride of the Rohirrim and even Pippin's song intercut beautifully with the barely hidden pain of Denothor and Faramir's strained relationship. These kinds of moments are as memorable as they are not in spite of the score, but because of it. That's honestly what I look for in scores as at the end of the day, the most powerful scores are the ones that can speak a language of their own. Scores that are completely un-divorceable from their origin and come to mind almost instantly when thinking of a specific moment in a film. That for me is what it's all about.  Oppenheimer (2023) | Directed by Christopher Nolan | Reviewed by Hunter Demers Even though its a relatively recent film, when I think of incredible soundtracks in film, I think of Ludwig Goransson's score for Oppenheimer. The score adds so much to the intensity and pacing of the film, elevating it from the typical biopic seen often in modern filmmaking. 'Can You Hear the Music,' for example, underscores the feeling of early wonder in Oppenheimer's curiosity of the sciences and studying the details of world around him. This is shockingly important as one of the first pieces of score used in the film as it works alongside Christopher Nolan's direction and Cillian Murphy's character work to set the stage of where we find Oppenheimer at the beginning of the film. The score then becomes increasingly ominous and intense as the film continues, following Oppenheimer's increasing development of the nuclear bomb and increasing dissuasion he has towards his work. Such an interesting musical accompaniment to the film and one of my personal favourite film scores in recent memory!  Freddy Got Fingered (2001) | Directed by Tom Green | Reviewed by Ali Zakreski Freddy Got Fingered (2001) turns “trolling” into an art form. It’s not a movie it’s a giant middle finger to the studio that sunk $14 million into its production. It defied the expectations of audiences and critics who thought Green would just give them a feature-length version of The Tom Green Show (1994-2000). All great artists defy expectations or risk stagnation, and this movie is just as bold as Bob Dylan going electric. Freddy Got Fingered is an absurd parody of the cliché and cheesy films about struggling artists. The soundtrack brilliantly contributes to its satirical intent. The movie opens with the protagonist, Gord, driving to Los Angeles to pursue his dream of becoming an animator. As Gord nears his big dream, Garry Numan’s Cars (1979) plays in the background. It’s the most cliché song that a director can use for that moment, and that’s why it’s brilliant. The song not only serves Green’s parody intent; he uses it to lull his audience into thinking this is just another conventional movie. The tone changes when Gord sees a stud farm, the music going from a licenced song to a jaunty instrumental score. He sees a horse being masturbated and blurts he “wants to try the horsey.” Gord proudly proclaims, “Look at me, Daddy, I’m a farmer!” as let’s just say he makes friends with the horsey. Gord is a character that reacts to every situation on pure impulse, no intrusive thought goes unacted upon. Green directed the film with the same ethos, acting on every creative impulse. The soundtrack matches the chaotic energy of Gord and the man who created him.  Marie Antoinette (2006) | Directed by Sofia Coppola | Reviewed by Hazel Cochrane Marie Antoinette recreates my own junior high mp3 player listening patterns (which happened to be quite influenced by one particular Sofia Coppola soundtrack CD, Lost In Translation): danceable post-punk songs in the morning, and dreamy, sad indie songs all night. Coppola shapes the experience of her teen protagonist through the emotional realism of a dominating and evocative soundtrack. Marie Antoinette is portrayed as this wild, reckless, nihilstic, inspired girl, these traits complimented by tracks from Adam and the Ants and Bow Wow Wow. For her and her young royal friends, important life changes occur too suddenly and work with intensity on their emotional states: so of course Antoinette’s life soundtrack is dominated by New Order, The Radio Department, The Strokes, and Vampire Weekend. Everything she feels overwhelms her, and she’s stuck in her own privileged world despite the situation outside: but the viewer becomes stuck, too, in a fantasy-world of first loves and sweet sad music.
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