This classic comedy of manners is a fine example of stylish staging and witty scripting that’ll appeal to those who love the glamorous golden age of Hollywood. It’s often described as a ‘pre-Code gem’ but, in stylistic terms, it’s astonishingly modern. I hope this beautiful new 4K restoration, joining the Criterion Collection on Blu-ray and 4K Ultra HD, is discovered by a fresh, younger audience—even if they have to add their own pinch of irony because it’s so wonderfully of its time. That said, times changed a couple of years later when the Hays Motion Picture Production Code came into effect, and the film was banned until 1968. It seems it truly was ahead of its time.

The sophisticated humour begins immediately with the opening credits. The first part of the title, ‘Trouble in…’, appears on screen alongside a double bed, creating an instant double entendre: are we getting ‘into bed with trouble’, or will there be trouble in the bedroom? Both interpretations fit perfectly. After a pause, the word ‘Paradise’ completes the title, implying that romantic relationships can, indeed, lead one into trouble, paradise, or both.

The opening sequence, following the credits and warbling theme song, is deservedly famed for its inventive structure and technical achievement. Apparently, legendary director Ernst Lubitsch would often write a scene ‘by the book’, using the established visual codes of the era. He would then call in his trusted writer—Samson Raphaelson, in this case—and ask how they could do things entirely differently while remaining visually literate. It took three days of solid reworking for them to produce what is so superbly realised on screen.

How does one establish the romantic setting of Venice? Perhaps an alley at night with a scruffy dog sniffing at a rubbish bin? Under the glamour and gloss of any city, the refuse must be cleared, and Lubitsch opens by highlighting the class divide that informs much of the action. A working-class man collects a bin but, to our surprise, empties it into a gondola waiting near a distinctive covered bridge. To signal the film’s healthy sense of irony, he lets rip in full voice, belting out “O Sole Mio”. We then move from this mundane human scale to a sweeping shot of a sleepy Venice as he punts off down the canal.

The logistics of the ensuing tracking shot are mind-blowing; the cumbersome camera moves fluidly around an impressive construction of miniatures and sets. There may be cleverly concealed cuts, but none jolt the eye as we rise from sea level, across grand facades and invitingly lit windows, to a balcony. There we find ‘The Baron’ (Herbert Marshall) enjoying a cigarette—possibly to disguise the smell of rubbish drifting up from the canal as he contemplates the moon.

The first lines of dialogue are cleverly self-aware. A hotel waiter asks, ‘What shall we start with, Baron?’ and receives the response, ‘Beginnings are always difficult.’ They are, of course, discussing a dinner plan, and the Baron delivers a beautifully crafted morsel of dialogue that could have come from the pen of Oscar Wilde or Noël Coward. It’s a mere appetiser for the gentle humour and frivolous fun to follow.

The dinner is shared with a beautiful society debutante (Miriam Hopkins in her breakthrough role), but during the evening it becomes clear that neither is who they pretend to be. He is the notorious Gaston Monescu; she is simply Lily. In reality, they are thieves and grifters who had targeted each other as marks. They learn this at the same pace as the audience, then have fun stealing items from one another before handing them back and—quite obviously—falling in love.

Flash-forward a couple of years and they’re working as a team. Their current target is Mariette Colet (Kay Francis), who has just spent over $100,000 on a designer handbag which Gaston and Lily snatch at the opera. However, the item is so unique it would be difficult to fence, so they decide to return it for the reward money. This leads to a complex plan to inveigle themselves into Mariette’s social circles to ‘redistribute’ her excess wealth. Predictably, a love triangle solidifies, and Gaston finds his fake feelings for Mariette may be real. The set-up prefigures the screwball comedy genre but is written with deeper emotional intelligence than most. It’s also a fantastic showcase for three actors on the cusp of superstardom.

The trope of the ‘gentleman thief’ was already well established by the character Arthur Raffles, created by E.W. Hornung in response to the Sherlock Holmes stories written by his brother-in-law, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. In fact, the ‘amateur cracksman’ was second only in popularity to the ‘consulting detective’ in British fin de siècle fiction. There had already been several screen adaptations; Raffles (1930) was the first ‘talkie’ in the franchise, starring Ronald Colman opposite Kay Francis. This likely influenced Lubitsch to insist on Francis for the similarly aristocratic love interest here.

Kay Francis was a rising star, poached from Paramount by Warner Bros with the promise of high-profile roles and a massive salary. Paramount sued their rivals and, as part of the settlement, she was loaned back for Trouble in Paradise. Shortly after this controversy—which generated plenty of press—her star went supernova. She became one of the highest-paid actors in Hollywood, reportedly commanding fees six times higher than Bette Davis.

While there are narrative parallels with Raffles, Trouble in Paradise is elevated by its stylistic superiority and the fact that the gentleman thief meets his match in Lily. A heroine who’s just as strong and morally ambiguous as her male counterpart was a revelation in an age when women were typically cast as damsels in distress, idealised wives, or femmes fatales. Lily takes traits from these stereotypes but refuses to fit the mantle of any. Lubitsch famously used stereotypes as shorthand to introduce characters, only to subvert them into something believable with real emotional weight.

The film’s other draw is the pure visual pleasure it affords. This is evident not just in the craft, but in the elegant Art Deco sets designed by Hans Dreier, whom Lubitsch convinced to join him from Germany. Travis Banton designed the fabulous fashions for Kay Francis; he would later dress Carole Lombard in My Man Godfrey (1936), which addressed similar themes despite the imposition of the Hays Code. Banton was a titan of his field, having designed Mary Pickford’s wedding dress and costumes for the Ziegfeld Follies.

One of the movie’s greatest strengths is that nearly all the dramatis personae are likeable, with the exception of one true villain. Suffice to say, even nefarious deeds exist on a spectrum. There can be honour among thieves, as Raffles believed, but exploiting the trust of friends is a different matter. A fraudster is more despicable than an old-fashioned ‘honest’ cracksman. Much of the tension arises when Gaston must decide which woman to love and which to exploit. Can he extricate himself with honour?

The casting of Herbert Marshall is particularly poignant. He had embarked on a promising stage career when the First World War broke out, serving in the same regiment as Claude Rains and Basil Rathbone. He spent 10 months in the trenches of the Western Front before being shot in the left leg, which was subsequently amputated. He learned to walk with a prosthetic, returned to the stage, and eventually took the lead in Alfred Hitchcock’s third talkie, Murder! (1930).

His breakthrough Hollywood role was opposite Marlene Dietrich in Blonde Venus (1932). While studio executives suggested Cary Grant for Trouble in Paradise, Lubitsch wanted an older actor with an air of experience. Within two years, Marshall had completed a ‘hat-trick’ of legendary directors: Hitchcock, von Sternberg, and Lubitsch.

Due to Marshall’s prosthetic, Lubitsch reworked many scenes to avoid him having to sit or stand on camera, minimising his walking. To keep the film’s flow consistent, he treated the entire cast similarly, which led to a new, visually dynamic style and the clever use of cuts. This likely encouraged the inventive handling of risqué material. For example, when Gaston and Lily embrace on a chaise longue, Lubitsch dissolves to an empty couch, implying they have retired to the bedroom. Later, when Gaston kisses Mariette, we see the embrace reflected in a mirror, then simply their shadows cast across the bed.

Interestingly, the innuendo wasn’t what upset the Hays Office most; it was the fact that criminals were portrayed as sympathetic, likeable human beings. Once the Code came into full force, any illegal activity had to be punished. Here, however, we have no heavy-handed moralising to spoil what is a truly intelligent comedy of ethics.

USA | 1932 | 83 MINUTES | 1.37:1 | BLACK & WHITE | ENGLISH • ITALIAN • FRENCH • SPANISH • GERMAN

4K Ultra HD & Blu-ray Special Features:

• NEW 4K digital restoration, with uncompressed monaural soundtrack restored by the UCLA Film & Television Archive and The Film Foundation, with funding provided by the Hobson/Lucas Family Foundation. A spectacular restoration that brings out the full range of grey tones from the deep black of a dinner jacket to the sparkling white flashes of diamonds and I the eyes of the leading ladies. All the details that were ever there are clear right down to the resolution of the film grain. I doubt the cinema projectors of the 1930s could’ve made it look this good so, 94 years later, we’re seeing it at its best. Likewise the audio is beautifully clear, the dialogue crisp, the music rounded and better than it could’ve ever sounded.
• 1x 4K UHD disc of the film and one Blu-ray with the film and special features.
• Audio commentary featuring Scott Eyman, biographer of director Ernst Lubitsch. As expected, this is a meticulously researched overview of the production, from concept to final cut, blending authoritative facts with personal analysis. Eyman places the film within the context of early Hollywood’s transition from the D.W. Griffith-dominated silent era to the dawn of sound. He frames the movie as the definitive expression of the ‘Lubitsch Touch’, which left a significant stylistic legacy. Beginning with a breakdown of the opening scene, Eyman highlights its technical ambition and unconventional nature. He shares the fascinating detail that Samson Raphaelson took three full days to work it out with Lubitsch, despite the lack of dialogue. Throughout the film, he points out supporting cast nuances and the specific phrasing and intonations that make the work uniquely Lubitsch. He also identifies points of contention that fell foul of the Hays Office, summarising the minor cuts made as a result. His discussion of technique includes observations on rhythm and pacing—noting how edits often match the score’s flow so that dialogue begins to function as lyric. It’s a superb commentary that encourages viewers to engage with the material on a deeper level.
• 11-minute Introduction by filmmaker Peter Bogdanovich. He praises the director and discusses what makes Trouble in Paradise quintessential Lubitsch, specifically citing his economy of motion and succinct storytelling. He also credits Lubitsch with bringing a distinct Continental sophistication to Hollywood.
• NEW 24-minute video essay by critic David Cairns. An appreciation of the ‘Lubitsch Touch’ featuring relevant quotes from various sources. This includes Mary Pickford, who famously described Lubitsch as ‘a great director of doors and things’—a reference to his use of mise-en-scène to structure visuals and pace the actors’ movements. Cairns analyses the lead performances and identifies pertinent Lubitsch motifs, including ‘spanking and dunking’. He sums up the director’s approach as ‘undirection’—implying rather than stating, and allowing the audience to work things out for themselves.
• English subtitles for the deaf and hard of hearing.
• PLUS: An essay by critic Farran Smith Nehme. Not available at time of review.
• NEW cover by Simone Massoni.

Cast & Crew

director: Ernst Lubitsch.
writers: Samson Raphaelson & Grover Jones (based on the 1931 play ‘ Becsületes Megtaláló‘ by Aladár László).
starring: Miriam Hopkins, Kay Francis, Herbert Marshall, Charlie Ruggles, Edward Everett Horton.

The post TROUBLE IN PARADISE (1932) appeared first on Frame Rated.

Johnnie To is probably best known outside Asian territories as another Hong Kong action director mentioned alongside John Woo, Ringo Lam and Tsui Hark. However, in his Chinese homeland, he built his varied career on comedies and romances. It’s great that some of his equally remarkable later-career movies are now being rediscovered thanks to recent boutique Blu-ray releases. The surprising Running on Karma (2003), released last year by Eureka Entertainment, was a revelation; it whet the appetite of a fresh audience who’ll welcome this excellent Radiance release of Romancing in Thin Air—a film that couldn’t be more different while having so much in common.

Both films cleverly play with audience expectations that admittedly won’t work well for those unfamiliar with Asian cinema. They exploit, and subsequently subvert, the celebrity of their stars to bring additional depth to characterisation. In Running on Karma, superstar Andy Lau leans on the public’s knowledge of his previous roles before taking them on sometimes shocking detours. He was initially cast as the protagonist in Romancing in Thin Air but was unavailable due to scheduling conflicts. Consequently, Louis Koo brought his own public image to the role, which starts as a sort of parody hybrid of both actors before developing into something quite unique.

This kind of ambitious filmmaking was made possible by a new business model introduced to Hong Kong cinema when Johnnie To co-founded Milkyway Image with recurring collaborator Wai Ka-fai, who worked on the screenplay for Romancing in Thin Air with newcomer Ryker Chan. Their independent production company had a dual-stream system: they would make mainstream movies with popular leads and straightforward genre formulae—mainly romances, rom-coms and crime thrillers—then direct the profits into riskier, experimental movies. Because of solid working relationships, some of the biggest stars were prepared to share that risk and lend their box-office draw to rather quirky films. As the Hong Kong film industry was redefined by its absorption into mainland China, this approach reinvented and revitalised its identity, keeping things interesting. Romancing in Thin Air falls within this latter category of Milkyway Image’s productions and still feels fresh.

Johnnie To immediately plays with our perceptions of cinematic reality by opening with a screen within a screen as we watch Michael Lau (Louis Koo) winning ‘Best Actor’ at the Hong Kong Film Awards. During his acceptance speech, he thanks his co-star Ding Yuanyuan (Gao Yuanyuan) before using that very public arena to propose to her. Imagine how embarrassing it would’ve been if she’d turned him down. Well, that’s nothing compared to what happens at their televised wedding when Zhang Xing (Wang Baoqiang), one of Yuanyuan’s past boyfriends, turns up and whisks her away, leaving Michael very publicly jilted at the altar. Neglecting his professional commitments as his personal life spirals out of control, Michael’s descent into self-destructive alcoholism is also televised. Hounded by the paparazzi, he hides in the back of a truck which transports him to another world.

When he arrives at The Deep Woods mountain hotel, he’s not only incredibly drunk but also affected by altitude sickness. He doesn’t immediately understand where he is or how he got there. Then the world we’ve so far only seen on screens within screens overlaps with the reality of Sau (Sammi Cheng), who recognises her own truck in the background of television news covering Michael’s disappearance. As she watches with her two staff, ‘Little Sis’ (Yang Yi) and ‘Big Sis’ (Sun Jiayi), the figure of Michael can be seen staggering past the windows of their mountain chalet. Romancing in Thin Air may not be a comedy, but it certainly has plenty of visual and character-driven humour.

Johnnie To has obviously put a lot more thought into themes and symbolism than one would expect from what is ostensibly a light romantic melodrama. The narrative is barely underway and already we have an abundance of transparent surfaces separating people and places. The TV screens separate the viewer from a fantasy world of celebrity. The invisible surfaces of windows show insubstantial reflections while partitioning interior from exterior, dividing those within from those outside. And when Michael falls face down into the icy water of a disused hot tub, he breaks through another surface, and at that point, their worlds meet. Of course, we see all this on, or seemingly through, the surface of a screen in the form of light—just as intangible as the emotions that we will, nevertheless, be able to make real within us.

Michael barely survives and needs serious medical intervention from the local doctor (Tien Niu), who can’t resist snapping a selfie with him as he lies unconscious. His recovery is aided by oxygen cylinders and an IV drip but hindered by excessive whisky. You see, he’s so charming that he can easily manipulate Little Sis and Big Sis into ignoring the doctor’s orders, providing the booze he craves. For a significant part of the movie, he’s alone among an almost exclusively female cast, and one can’t help but worry that we may be heading toward a more sinister obsession like The Beguiled (1971).

It may not be experimental enough to woo the arthouse crowd, and it’s perhaps too understated for fans of quirky romance. It’s not really a rom-com, nor does it descend into overwrought melodrama, but delicately rests on its poignancy. It never wallows in grimness and remains entertaining, although its narrative rests on a central tragedy. Throughout, Guy Zerafa’s score deploys music cues to lighten potentially serious incidents, letting us know not to worry too much about truck crashes and other life-threatening events. Of course, the performances also inform our responses, and the leads are all exceptionally strong yet subtle, with a little bit of comedic overacting here and there from the supporting cast.

There’s also some effective use of objects as narrative devices in lieu of more traditional exposition. For example, Sau keeps her old truck on the road with authentic original parts, even though they are now hard to come by. She maintains it as a museum piece, exactly as it was when her husband last drove it. Similarly, she is upset when a drunken Michael attempts to repair her piano because a few of its keys fail to strike particular notes. But that’s how it was when her husband last played it.

Sau’s backstory is gradually revealed through the dialogue of others and flashbacks as we learn how she came to the resort as a tourist, then returned to work part-time to finance her studies, eventually falling in love with Tian (Li Guangjie), the original owner. Tragically, he went missing years ago when he entered the foreboding forest known as the ‘Sea of Trees’ to search for a missing child. This plot point remains underdeveloped and would’ve benefited from the fuller exploration it deserved. However, it introduces a folk-horror thread, recalling Picnic at Hanging Rock (1975) or even The Blair Witch Project (1999). Siu-Keung Cheng’s cinematography manages to evoke a gloomy dread, particularly in the torchlit snowy nightscapes, but also an uplifting sunlit vibrancy that captures the crisp mountain clarity by day.

It turns out the mountains are rich in magnetite, so compasses don’t function correctly and the tall trees blot out the sky, making navigation by the stars impossible; of course, mobile signals are unreliable. It seems the surrounding forest has a long history of consuming travellers within its dark depths, where the sun never shines to light the way or warm the air. However, as a body was never found, Sau clutches to the hope that her long-lost love may one day find his way home.

All this adds a Gothic note to the romance, with the dark mountains substituting for the high moors of Wuthering Heights. Except the romance between Sau and Tian is much cuter than that of headstrong Cathy and cruel Heathcliff. It is, however, tinged with melancholy as it’s revealed that Sau was a devout fan of Michael Lau, and Tian tried to emulate his onscreen characters to win her heart. That’s why he learned to play the piano and why he bought the motorbike that features in two intentionally similar scenes.

The film’s Chinese title, 高海拔之戀 II, directly translates as High-Altitude Romance 2, even though this isn’t a sequel. The first romance is that of Sau and Tian; the second is between Sau and Michael Lau. So, in a way, the film incorporates its own sequel, but it’s not quite as simple as that, as one of those threads gets a redux in the third act.

I assume Johnnie To couldn’t avoid the influence of Seijun Suzuki on his gangster movies, but I wonder if he’s seen the Japanese director’s short ‘pop-song-movie’ Love Letter (1959). The setting and narrative beats are similar: a missing man, confused identity, an isolated cabin among snow-laden mountain forests, and a romance that echoes an earlier one seen only in flashback.

Unsurprisingly, the film it most readily recalls is Running on Karma; there are striking similarities in structure and theme. Both explore notions of karmic debt and dismantle the illusion of reality. Both deploy a distinctive narrative breakdown in the third act that ruptures the fourth wall and begins examining the nature of cinema itself. Running on Karma includes a found-footage video that shows something almost unbearably harsh to witness, whereas Romancing in Thin Air features an extended sequence of a film within the film that presents a fictional closure for one of the main story arcs. In both films, the medium we are witnessing is subverted into a critique of the nature of perception.

The narrative structure, layers of meta-fiction, performances, and the dialogue—along with what goes unsaid—all add up to a rare poignancy. It reminds us of the potential healing power of fiction in general and cinema in particular. And there lies the genius at the heart of Romancing in Thin Air: it’s a film that we feel as much as we see. Ultimately, it’s an emotionally rewarding story delivered within an intellectually challenging narrative.

HONG KONG • CHINA | 2012 | 111 MINUTES | 2.35 : 1 | COLOUR | CANTONESE • MANDARIN

Limited Edition Blu-ray Special Features:

• High-definition digital transfer.
• 5.1 DTS-HD Master Audio and 2.0 stereo audio options.
• NEW recorded interview with screenwriter Ryker Chan (2025, 15 mins) recounts his entry into the film industry via a competition that caught Johnnie To’s eye. This led to an invitation to write for a Milkyway Image production, which was initially planned as a romance starring Andy Lau and Sammi Cheng, set on the slopes of Mount Fuji and featuring the infamous ‘suicide forest’ near Lake Kawaguchi. However, the project evolved as the writing team became more interested in themes of destiny and fatalism. Chan discusses subtle aspects of the writing process, such as how the sense of place became as much a presence as any of the characters, instrumental in reshaping the story as the shoot progressed. In the narrative, the land affects everyone; in reality, the cast and crew had to acclimatise to the thin air. He recalls that the core concept was to have two broken people who can’t repair themselves, but instead put each other back together through acts of love drawn from their unique strengths.
• NEW audio commentary by Hong Kong cinema expert Dylan Cheung. He dives straight in by discussing the posters for fictional films within the movie that reference real titles starring either Louis Koo or Andy Lau. He even points out a couple that seem to have inspired films and television series made years later. Beyond this meta-analysis, he uses every available minute to cram in production notes and valid personal responses, making this a worthwhile commentary that truly enriches the viewer’s experience. He places the film in a broad production context and discusses the use of location, explaining that the chalet hotel was purpose-built in the mountains of Yunnan Province near Shangri-La. Apparently, this is one of three places claiming that name in China—none of which are the basis for the mythical valley in James Hilton’s 1933 novel, Lost Horizon—though the poetic reference remains tangentially relevant. He also provides the expected biographies of the cast and crew while exploring connections to other movies.
• Another side of Johnnie To—NEW visual essay on Johnnie To’s romantic melodramas by Sean Gilman (2025, 28 mins) This career overview tracks To’s evolution from a jobbing director to a figurehead of the ‘Heroic Bloodshed’ genre, before he branched out into other styles. Gilman zooms in on To’s romantic melodramas, providing an in-depth analysis of key films. So much is packed into the runtime that it feels slightly rushed, though it certainly stands up to repeated viewing. He concludes that Chinese comedies tend to be overlooked outside Asia because they often rely on the transgression of social conventions.
• Extended behind-the-scenes footage (2012, 25 mins). While there’s no narration, this collection of clips offers plenty of insight into how the film was made and how the team adapted to environmental conditions. Additionally, it features glimpses of scenes that didn’t make the final cut.
• Making-of featurette (2012, 9 mins) Key cast and crew members discuss their experiences. Sammi Cheng remembers the physical challenges of filming at such high altitudes and how it took weeks to grow accustomed to the thin air; the cast and crew had to speak more slowly and behave calmly to preserve their energy. Louis Koo shares similar memories and discusses his character and the volatile weather that dictated the shooting schedule. This meant the team had to be prepared to pivot and decide which scene to film at a moment’s notice. Johnnie To discusses the production’s challenges and the story’s philosophical basis, offering the wise observation that love is a humble thing we’re all capable of—yet no one can predict when it’ll begin or when it’ll end.
• Theatrical trailer.
• NEW translated English subtitles by Dylan Cheung.
• Reversible sleeve featuring original and newly commissioned artwork by Time Tomorrow.
• Limited Edition booklet featuring new writing by Jake Cole and archival writing by David Bordwell.
• Limited Edition of 3000 copies, presented in full-height Scanavo packaging with removable OBI strip leaving packaging free of certificates and markings.

Cast & Crew

director: Johnnie To.
writers: Wai Ka-Fai, Ryker Chan, Yau Nai-Hoi & Jevons Au.
starring: Louis Koo, Sammi Cheng, Li Guangjie, Gao Yuanyuan, Wang Baoqiang, Yang Yi, Sun Jiayi, Tien Niu.

The post ROMANCING IN THIN AIR (2012) appeared first on Frame Rated.

In Cal McMau’s prison film Wasteman, the central performances by Tom Blyth and David Jonsson are so compelling—so impossible to look away from—that the film’s rather obvious metaphor for self-discovery is easy to overlook.

Plenty of other elements help, of course: McMau’s urgent, assertive direction; the terse script by Hunter Andrews and Eoin Doran; and Lorenzo Levrini’s drab, claustrophobic cinematography. The film also benefits from the absence of tired prison-movie tropes. But it’s the characters of Taylor (Jonsson) and Dee (Blyth) that dominate the screen, and the way their relationship develops—first predictably, then less so—that propels the narrative.

The setting is D Wing in an English prison. Taylor has been inside for 13 years, making himself useful by cutting other inmates’ hair while becoming heavily reliant on illicit prescription pills. Suddenly, he’s faced with the prospect of early release to ease overcrowding—a plausible premise given the current state of the British penal system—and could be out in weeks. “It’s really easy—all you’ve got to do is fill out the worksheet and stay out of trouble,” a prison officer tells Taylor, who looks more terrified than overjoyed. Clearly institutionalised, he seems ill-equipped to handle the outside world.

Enter a second disruption to Taylor’s circumscribed, pill-dulled life: a new cellmate named Dee. He’s more of a professional criminal than Taylor ever was; Dee is serving time for firearms offences, whereas Taylor was a small-time dealer who accidentally sold bad pills at a rave. After filling their cell with the proceeds of his black-market activities from his previous prison (soft drinks, chocolate, trainers), Dee makes no secret of his ambitions: “I’m gonna boss this place.” Specifically, he plans to challenge Gaz (Corin Silva) and Paul (Alex Hassell), D Wing’s incumbent drug lords. When another inmate advises him to “be smart”, Dee’s response is “fuck that”. Aggression is his chosen strategy.

Even so, the rivalry between Dee and his adversaries is a slow-burn affair. For a time, the film concentrates on the daily lives of Taylor and Dee and their burgeoning friendship. But when the struggle for control of the drug trade inevitably explodes into violence, Taylor is caught in the middle. The stakes are raised by a further complication: Taylor’s estranged son, whom he barely knows, but whom Dee uses as leverage.

So far, Wasteman might sound like standard genre fare—the “only-slightly-bad” protagonist clashing with “truly-bad” antagonists is a cinematic mainstay. Where McMau’s film excels is in the exceptionally strong realisation of the two leads and their respective arcs. We witness Taylor, the titular “wasteman”, discovering an inner strength that leads to a surprising finale. For Dee, the shift is less about personal growth and more about the evolving way Taylor (and the audience) perceives him.

The key to Blyth’s superlative performance—which, if anything, outshines Jonsson’s—is that we can’t help but like Dee initially, even as our instincts warn us he’s dangerous. It’s a potent, complex reaction to elicit from an audience (a feat also managed by the likes of Barry Keoghan).

Jonsson, who originally auditioned for the role of Dee, is less extravagantly expressive than Blyth but inhabits his character just as fully. Taylor’s evolution from extreme passivity to taking the initiative feels entirely natural. If there’s a minor quibble, it’s that many of Jonsson’s roles—from Rye Lane (2023) to The Long Walk (2025) and the series Industry—share a similar DNA (outer humility, inner strength). This can make him feel more like a “type” than a unique individual; however, his performance here is so intense and persuasive that you won’t spare a moment worrying about it while the film is running.

The supporting cast exists largely to facilitate the central duo’s story. The writing by Andrews and Doran is similarly focused, opting for short, punchy lines. Occasional humour (“is ‘bollock’ one L or two?”) never interrupts the flow, and while certain atmospheric sequences don’t drive the plot, they certainly don’t dilute the tension. The score by Forest Swords avoids the clichéd rap/hip-hop mix one might expect from a contemporary prison film, instead utilising large instrumental sounds that never distract.

Levrini’s cinematography sticks to a muted grey-blue-green palette. The prison setting necessitates close-up shots, kept dynamic through varied angles. The sense of claustrophobia is heightened by the inclusion of footage from forbidden mobile phones—sometimes overtly identified, sometimes implied by the aspect ratio. By contrast, a bird’s-eye view of the prison—which turns out to be from a drug-smuggling drone—provides a disconcerting jolt of freedom.

Long in development, Wasteman was at one point intended for the Safdie brothers, who might have made it overly elaborate. Instead, this is a tight, relentless, and immensely assured debut for McMau and his writers (all of whom earned BAFTA nominations in the ‘Outstanding Debut’ category).

Underneath its brutally realistic surface, the film is perhaps more conventional than it appears. By making Taylor’s original offence unintentional, the filmmakers employ a common trope to ensure the audience sympathises with a convict. Nevertheless, despite a mid-film riot, it avoids the usual clichés—no escape attempts, no tearful family visits, and no sadistic guards. Indeed, one could easily imagine this story transplanted outside prison walls. Everything of note in Wasteman derives from character, and it’s the powerhouse performances of Jonsson and Blyth that transform a well-crafted genre piece into a powerful, transcendent drama.

UK | 2025 | 90 MINUTES | 1.5:1 | COLOUR | ENGLISH

Cast & Crew

director: Cal McMau.
writers: Hunter Andrews & Eoin Doran.
starring: David Jonsson, Tom Blyth, Corin Silva & Alex Hassell.

The post WASTEMAN (2025) appeared first on Frame Rated.

Whatever one feels about their stories and the offbeat tone they embody, no fault can be levelled at Jean-Pierre Jeunet and Marc Caro’s production design. The attention to detail in their two feature films as co-collaborators is second to none, from their debut, Delicatessen, to their follow-up, The City of Lost Children (1995). In the former, the lives of a dozen or so residents of an apartment building—all struggling to survive in a hunger-stricken, fog-enshrouded environment—are conveyed more strongly through small physical details than the overall plot. Each apartment is so lived-in that it’s tempting to look beyond the film’s focus and observe what lingers in the peripheries. From creaking beds and floorboards to cupboards teeming with knick-knacks and trinkets, the film shines in the seemingly imperceptible details of the characters’ lives.

Of the two directors’ filmographies, the most famous project is Amélie (2001), directed by Jeunet after the duo decided to part ways. There’s a lightness, a sentimental touch, and a sense of unbridled joy in Amélie—emotions resisted in the pair’s two feature-length collaborations. Marc Caro’s influence on their joint work foregrounds their weird humour and penchant for darkness, with some truly bitter, madcap storylines that feel like the nightmarish inversion of children’s fairy tales.

This is never so apparent as in Delicatessen, which merges its residents’ woes into a unified tale, yet still possesses enough looseness to feel like an interlinked collection of short stories. Jeunet and Caro might be kitsch absurdists, but they don’t let their unique sense of humour completely derail their narratives. The film’s plot is easy to digest, with clear motivations and developments for each of these downtrodden characters, most of whom have resorted to cannibalism to survive their dire economic circumstances.

The landlord and butcher, Clapet (Jean-Claude Dreyfus), has crafted an ingenious plan to ensure the building’s residents don’t go hungry: he places an advertisement in the aptly named The Hard Times newspaper for a worker to do odd jobs, then kills them and sells their flesh to the tenants. Despite these bleak circumstances and the general weirdness, there’s surprisingly little gore or violence in Delicatessen. Cannibalism, still a taboo subject, is approached discreetly; ghastly screams are heard and ignored late at night, hidden under the cover of darkness and the tacit approval of the other residents.

Each of them is bound together by this grisly secret, yet there’s no sense of closeness between them. In the comfort of their apartments, they’re secluded from one another, free to indulge in their neuroses and idiosyncrasies. Some are more extreme than others, like Aurore Interligator (Silvie Laguna), whose frequent suicide attempts—no matter how foolproof and extensive—keep being thwarted. Her suffering is a punchline, with neither writer-director affording a smidgen of sympathy for her woes.

It’s curious that such unsparing bleakness is present in Delicatessen when it refuses to give way to gore, but that’s likely because Jeunet and Caro recognise that the film’s set-ups will always be more interesting than its payoffs. By making these side characters the butt of the joke, the co-directors avoid letting viewers down with lacklustre character arcs. It’s an unnecessarily cruel brand of humour that’s never quite funny enough to justify its cynicism.

While there was a confluence of factors behind the dissolution of Jeunet and Caro’s partnership, a primary reason was their diverging interests. Jeunet reflected that his former collaborator would likely have shown no interest in the open-hearted sentimentality of Amélie, with Caro preferring darker, dingier storytelling. The environments of Delicatessen and The City of Lost Children are grimy and desolate, mapping onto their emotional palette snugly.

One knows very little about the world outside the apartment building in Delicatessen, but isolated shots depicting half-destroyed buildings tell their own story of a country in decay. In fact, when watching the film, you hardly get a sense that there’s enough of an intact society for it to qualify as a nation. These characters are helplessly distant from one another; seemingly nothing can cut through the figurative smog separating them. That smog is given physical form through yellowish hues, evoking a post-apocalyptic atmosphere.

It is visual world-building predicated on an absence of expository dialogue, where shot selections and production design offer more insight than direct narration ever could. Delicatessen regularly features skewed camera angles which make you feel as if you’re watching something you shouldn’t—like CCTV footage of a brutal dismembering waiting to happen. The film’s technical elements will surely strike some viewers as ugly and abrasive, but they warrant appreciation all the same. The trouble is that Delicatessen’s visual style matches the film’s ugly, abrasive heart, which ticks away as mechanically as a work of expert engineering devoid of human emotion. Or perhaps, like many of the interiors and exteriors of this decayed world, it’s simply been left to rust.

On a first viewing, I was absorbed in this story and incensed by the film’s cruel, punishing attitude towards depression and Aurore as its personification. Now that I’ve put some considerable distance between those first impressions and my recent rewatch, the film has done the same regarding my investment in it. Why should one take Aurore’s pain seriously? No one—certainly not Jeunet or Caro—ever asked us to. These side characters are sketches, and while there is rich thematic material hinted at in the way they’re so distant while being crammed into one building, none of it actually leads anywhere.

The only way to identify the film’s heart is through its protagonist, Louison (Dominique Pinon), who falls in love with Clapet’s daughter, Julie (Marie-Laure Dougnac). Louison is the new weary soul in the building—unbeknownst to him, of course—hired from a newspaper ad to do odd jobs. In other words, his time is running out, and his flesh could be served up to the residents in a matter of days. After all, if these characters would go so far as to consider sacrificing their own mothers-in-law to Clapet, what do they care if a near-stranger gets butchered before they clamp their teeth down on his cooked carcass?

Only Julie, caught in her own web of isolation and loneliness, wants or dares to understand him. It’s the cutesy kind of love that Jeunet and Caro made a staple of their work, exploring it in a platonic sense through a father-daughter dynamic in The City of Lost Children. Neither relationship is as moving, nor as earnest, as the love that flows so freely from Amélie, when Jeunet was free from the shackles of dark, dingy weirdness. The blossoming romance between Louison and Julie is too focused on being “cute” to authentically charm. It operates similarly to the rest of the film’s oddball aesthetics, where pursuing a unique, uniform tone comes at the cost of crafting intriguing characters and heartfelt relationships.

As Delicatessen’s third act devolves into rampant, violent chaos, it all feels like a sloppy excuse to destroy its own sets. Amidst enjoyable stylistic flourishes, any notion of emotional resonance is washed away, crumbling as easily as the apartment building itself.

FRANCE | 1991 | 99 MINUTES | 1.85:1 | COLOUR | FRENCH

Cast & Crew

directors: Jean-Pierre Jeunet & Marc Caro.
writers: Gilles Adrien, Marc Caro & Jean-Pierre Jeunet
starring: Pascal Benezech, Dominique Pinon, Marie-Laure Dougnac, Jean-Claude Dreyfus, Karin Viard, Ticky Holgado, Anne-Marie Pisani & Edith Ker.

The post DELICATESSEN (1991) appeared first on Frame Rated.

Disaster and “creature feature” movies, like most genre flicks, exist on a spectrum ranging from the excellent (Jaws) to the god-awful (San Andreas). With these two films serving as the anchoring outliers, the rest of the genre veers either towards Steven Spielberg’s masterpiece or towards Dwayne Johnson’s worst outing. Netflix’s Thrash sits almost dead centre, though it tilts slightly towards Jaws.

Like many modern disaster films, the opening crawl warns of the dangers of climate change. While this borders on cliché, quick cuts of anxious horses, lightning, and news clips create a tension that genuinely draws the viewer in.

The film follows three storylines, two of which overlap while one remains entirely unrooted from the rest of the plot. Dakota (Whitney Peak) is a young woman struggling with severe anxiety following the death of her mother, which has left her unable to leave the house. She becomes the sole hope for Lisa (Phoebe Dynevor), a pregnant woman trapped in a flooded car just outside Dakota’s home.

Meanwhile, Dakota’s uncle, Dale Edwards (Djimon Hounsou), a marine biologist studying Great Whites and Bull Sharks, attempts to navigate the flooded streets to reach his trapped niece.

The lone straggling plot involves three foster children—Dee (Alyla Browne), Ron (Stacy Clausen), and Will (Dante Ubaldi)—who are abandoned by their foster father, Bill Olson (Matt Nable), in a flooded house with at least three bull sharks.

It is interesting that while many contemporary creature features, such as Crawl (2019), have opted for a minimalist approach by focusing on a small handful of characters, Thrash returns to the multi-storyline structure of 1990s disaster epics. In many such films (San Andreas being the worst offender), a bloated cast is often the story’s undoing. Thrash largely avoids this trap. By sticking to three major storylines, the film maintains a tight focus while illustrating the plight of different characters.

The convergence of the storylines involving the two women and the marine biologist provides a relatively satisfying arc. It also helps that all three plots involve interesting characters facing real stakes; at the very least, the audience isn’t bored by a weak subplot, a common flaw in lesser films.

That said, the foster siblings’ lack of connection to the primary storyline is disappointing and leaves a sense of incompletion. This is compounded by the fact that the children provide some of the film’s best performances, alongside the story’s only human villain.

While “evil foster parents” is a tired and occasionally damaging trope, Matt Nable’s performance as the overconfident and supremely selfish Bill Olson elevates the caricature. He is more than a “pure evil” stepfather; he portrays a man who genuinely believes he is more intelligent than everyone else, convinced that every decision he makes is correct. This nuance makes him far more loathsome than a traditional villain—so much so that when his character receives a surprise “encore”, it is welcomed by the viewer.

The film’s only other significant weakness is the lack of genuine peril regarding the sharks. While shark behaviour is discussed briefly by the marine biologist, these bull sharks fail to present the visceral, terrifying threat seen in Crawl or Jaws.

This isn’t due to the acting, which is genuinely good, nor the lack of shark sightings—they are shown frequently and with decent effects. Rather, the characters treat the predators as minor annoyances, viewing the hurricane flooding as the true existential threat. Consequently, while billed as a creature feature, the film feels much more like a traditional disaster movie.

It works well enough in that regard. However, when a film is hyped as a “monster-in-the-house” thriller, the lack of gravity given to the eponymous creatures is a letdown.

Those seeking jump scares or impressive creature effects will likely be disappointed. Much of the shark action occurs beneath the surface. While this was also true of Jaws, Steven Spielberg used clever camera angles, musical stings, and intense character reactions to make the audience terrified of an invisible threat. In Thrash, the music is serviceable but lackluster, and the camerawork—aside from the interesting opening montage—is largely run-of-the-mill. It functions, but it fails to evoke a physical reaction.

Ultimately, some strong writing and a steady pace keep the film from sinking into San Andreas territory. A standout monologue about hippos and bull sharks in Africa, delivered excellently by Djimon Hounsou, manages to educate the audience while providing insight into Dale’s character and subtly mocking Western stereotypes of African nations.

Overall, Thrash is a middling but entertaining addition to the streaming “airplane film” catalogue. Much like Carry On (2024) or The Woman in Cabin 10 (2025), it will keep passengers entertained until the next drinks service. Expecting anything more from streaming services seems a tall order, but on the bright side, Netflix’s output remains slightly higher quality than a poorly written action flick starring The Rock.

AUSTRALIA • USA | 2026 | 86 MINUTES | 2.39:1 | COLOUR | ENGLISH

Cast & Crew

writer & director: Tommy Wirkola.
starring: Phoebe Dynevor, Whitney Peak, Djimon Hounsou, Matt Nable, Andrew Lees & Alyla Brown.

The post THRASH (2026) appeared first on Frame Rated.

There’s a very simple reason to revisit Dragonwyck today: Vincent Price. Even before he became the fully formed icon of Gothic horror, he already possessed the poise, hauteur, and faintly sepulchral magnetism capable of bending a film around himself. Joseph L. Mankiewicz’s directorial debut remains worth seeing for more than that, but Price is the element that still gives it its afterglow. Without him, Dragonwyck would be an elegant period melodrama with Gothic leanings. With him, it becomes something more unsettling: a film whose moral design can’t quite contain the fascination of its own monster.

The premise is straightforward. Miranda Wells (Gene Tierney), a farmer’s daughter from Connecticut, is invited to the grand Hudson Valley estate of Nicholas Van Ryn (Price), a distant relation whose wealth and lineage seem to promise entry into an altogether larger world. Mankiewicz understands that the story only works if Dragonwyck first feels like a dream. Miranda mustn’t seem to be chasing money in any crude sense. What attracts her is the exception: the house, the river, the old name, the sense of stepping into a life heightened by elegance and ritual. The film begins not as horror, but as seduction.

That promise matters. Dragonwyck understands something essential about Gothic storytelling: the world that destroys you must first be desirable. The estate isn’t presented as merely rotten from the outset; it’s rich, enclosed, cultivated, and faintly unreal. The attraction isn’t only Miranda’s; it’s ours too. For an American film, that’s especially telling. The US may imagine itself resistant to aristocracy in political terms, yet remains deeply susceptible to aristocratic fantasy in aesthetic ones. Miranda becomes the perfect vessel for that contradiction: not democracy arriving to expose the castle, but democracy dreaming of it.

Gene Tierney is crucial to that effect. Miranda is beautiful, but not in the manner of a seductress. She doesn’t wield allure as a strategy, and the film is all the better for it. Her beauty is luminous rather than aggressive—almost involuntary. She doesn’t promise erotic danger so much as fairy-tale possibility. That distinction keeps Miranda from becoming either a schemer or a fool. Tierney gives the film a heroine who’s impressionable without seeming empty, and morally serious without becoming priggish.

The ball sequence sharpens this beautifully. Miranda isn’t crudely humiliated—nobody needs to strike her down outright. The discomfort is subtler. She becomes aware that she doesn’t naturally belong to this world; that beauty alone isn’t the same thing as fluency in its codes. The issue isn’t simple class embarrassment, but a deeper feeling of non-coincidence. She can appear within the image of this society, but can’t yet inhabit its grammar. Her quiet remark about coming from the “wrong river” says everything. Mankiewicz handles the scene well because he understands that exclusion is often felt before it’s declared.

That Miranda has a real moral centre also matters. She comes from a religious world, but not in quite the same spirit as her stern father. His faith is narrower, harsher, and more suspicious of desire. Miranda retains something gentler: an inward conscience, a sense of care, and an ability to recognise the person before the category. Her kindness toward Peggy, the housekeeper’s daughter, makes this clear. Where Van Ryn sees only deformity and diminished status, Miranda sees a child. In a house shaped by hierarchy and inherited entitlement, that gives her a different kind of authority—one the film quietly privileges over bloodline.

Price, however, is the reason the film lingers. Nicholas Van Ryn is morally indefensible: arrogant, predatory, and incapable of recognising a limit higher than his own will. Yet Price gives him such superior presence that straightforward condemnation becomes impossible. He doesn’t absolve Van Ryn, but he does lift him out of the category of a mere villain. He gives him shape, stature, and density. The result is that evil doesn’t merely seem blameworthy; it seems vivid, composed, and strangely complete.

Why does this nearly make us side with him? Not because Van Ryn is right, nor because the film excuses him, but because Price makes him the most intensely realised figure on screen. He’s more articulate, more symbolically charged, and more fully inhabited than anything set against him. The film wants him to embody a corrupt and declining order, and he does. But Price also makes him the most alive person in the story.

This is where Glenn Langan’s Dr Turner becomes revealing by contrast. Langan is perfectly competent: credible, steady, and sensible. But he’s playing in a different register. Turner represents practicality, health, and modern reason—worthy qualities, but dramatically thinner ones. Van Ryn is given the richer dramatic territory: the old order, the great house, the dangerous charm, and the air of a world trying to outlive itself. Langan convinces; Price commands.

Part of that is physical. Price’s face always seemed to imply more than it strictly said: intelligence, disdain, melancholy, menace, and a dying elegance all at once. In Dragonwyck, that quality is invaluable. Van Ryn must seem not just wealthy, but fundamentally different—a man formed by hierarchy so deeply that he carries it in his body. Price does exactly that. He doesn’t simply occupy the frame; he presides over it. At the ball and elsewhere, he seems taller than other men not merely because he is, but because he moves through space as though entitled to dominate it.

The film’s politics deepen that effect. Van Ryn isn’t merely a sinister husband, but a patroon: a relic of a quasi-feudal system of inherited land and power. This matters, because the Gothic atmosphere doesn’t float free of social reality; it grows from a structure of ownership, rank, and dependency. Dragonwyck itself isn’t simply a spooky house—it’s hierarchy made architectural. Mankiewicz deserves credit for understanding that the glamour of aristocracy and its injustices are inseparable. The fantasy and the rot are one system.

The religious dimension runs parallel. Miranda arrives from a world where God still functions as a serious moral reference point. Van Ryn’s world is different. He isn’t casually irreligious; he behaves as though no authority beyond his own will need exist. The house, the bloodline, and the name begin to take on the force of a private religion. In that sense, Dragonwyck doesn’t simply depict fading faith, but replacement—one sacred order giving way to another, darker one.

None of this makes Dragonwyck a flawless film. The dramatic balance is imperfect. Once Price fully takes hold, other elements inevitably struggle to match him. Some of the material works better as atmosphere and symbolic design than as fully developed emotional drama. The film tilts under the weight of its own most compelling element. That’s why the rating lands at a strong three-and-a-half stars rather than four.

Still, that may be part of its fascination. Dragonwyck survives because it’s wounded by its own attraction to what it criticises. It wants to expose the rot inside aristocratic fantasy, yet keeps granting that fantasy grace, poise, and visual authority. It wants to unmask Van Ryn as monstrous, yet allows him to remain the figure one most wants to watch. Price is the reason that contradiction feels productive rather than fatal.

So yes, Dragonwyck is worth seeing for Vincent Price alone. But it lingers for a better reason than simple star appeal. It understands that the Gothic villain shouldn’t be merely hateful; he should be magnetic enough to make our judgement hesitate. Price achieves exactly that here, years before his screen persona fully hardened into legend. The result may not be a great Gothic classic, but it remains a fascinating one: a film half in love with the danger it means to condemn.

USA | 1946 | 103 MINUTES | 1.37:1 | BLACK & WHITE | ENGLISH •  FRENCH • DUTCH

Cast & Crew

director: Joseph L. Mankiewicz
writer: Joseph L. Mankiewicz (based on the novel by Anya Seton).
starring: Vincent Price, Gene Tierney, Glenn Langan, Walter Huston, Spring Byington & Connie Marshall.

The post DRAGONWYCK (1946) appeared first on Frame Rated.

In Lucrecia Martel’s feature film debut, La Ciénaga / The Swamp, the lives of its affluent protagonists are defined by a placid, docile apathy. Idle consumption reigns supreme, and life’s many joys are taken entirely for granted. When the story proper begins, it feels almost a disappointment compared to the film’s surrealist opening sequence. There, the camera lurches in tandem with a group of middle-aged drunks who gulp down wine as sloppily as they pour it. These “bourgie” characters move like zombies, devoid of grace or embarrassment—animalistic beings at odds with the genteel poise that so often characterises the wealthy in cinema.

Their behaviour is unsettling without Martel resorting to crude attempts to disgust the audience through overconsumption. She makes her point with crystalline clarity when not a single character offers a meaningful reaction to the matriarch, Mecha (Graciela Borges), falling and injuring herself. It falls to her daughters, who haven’t yet been fully inculcated into amorality, and the family’s maids to spring into action. This younger generation still possesses a flicker of humanity before it’s groomed out of them by the time they reach their parents’ age.

It’s here that the film’s title is at its most transparent; the characters move with such sluggishness it’s as if they’re wading through a mire with every step. Unfortunately, immersive direction is the only thing binding this intriguing opening to the rest of the film—a “slice-of-life” affair where everyday family squabbles occupy almost the entirety of the runtime. None of these characters are particularly interesting, though they aren’t quite dull enough to make their trivial concerns appear farcical.

The family doesn’t stumble through life nearly as gracelessly as they do in that satirical opening scene, which initially suggested the film had something profound to say and was willing to transgress realism to say it. While the adults are a self-pitying lot, they never offer enough insight into the folly of the bourgeoisie to truly resonate. By resisting caricatures, Martel seemingly forgets to create characters. Each member of the family unit feels like a real person, which is just enough to keep the film from becoming tedious. This is a significant achievement given its slow pace and the way it frequently stumbles forward without a guiding force.

As a visual and aural technician, Martel is firing on all cylinders. Flashy cinematography would never work here, as the film largely relegates its “dramatic content” to the family home. (Referring to these scenes as “dramatic” feels more than a tad generous, but that’s another issue entirely.) There’s an earthy quality to the visuals that makes the world feel textured, especially in the brief forest scenes where the children play out hunting fantasies. The chirp of crickets and other ambient noises dominate almost every beat of this humdrum tale, while the crackle of gunfire or the barking of dogs lends an air of tension to lives that feel as if they’re in stasis.

It isn’t Martel’s ability to immerse viewers that is in question, but whether such immersion is actually beneficial. The opening scene hoodwinks the audience into expecting something far more searing. While there are vague smatterings of commentary on this wealthy family, they’re delivered through such an aimless plot that it feels like watching a snippet of a family’s life with all the boring bits left in. There’s no doubt that Martel announces herself as a self-assured director, but little effort appears to have been made to make this watered-down plot less opaque.

A recurring joke—bereft of any actual humour—regarding a “dog-rat” necessitates a motif of dogs and numerous references to the hybrid animal from the children. This isn’t nearly enough for the youngsters to stick out in one’s mind; Martel could have tossed another child into the mix for a scene or two and I doubt even the film’s admirers would have noticed. It’s only in the final 20 minutes that the film abandons its bloodless approach (an amusing irony, given how often the children wind up scraped and bloody from falls), finally uncovering decay through apathy, malice-laced dialogue, and bitter reflections on the family’s limited worldview. It’s definitive on this front while remaining open-ended enough to acknowledge we’re merely glimpsing a brief window into their existence.

All of this could have been gleaned from Martel’s incredible ability to evoke ambience, with the cast bringing the script to life as adeptly as the direction. The child performers are all talented—a rarity in any film, but doubly impressive for a directorial debut. It’s rare to find such synergy between acting and casting, let alone in a filmmaker’s first foray into the unknown. Thematically, however, it feels as if Martel has bitten off more than she can chew.

There’s an appreciable air of discomfort here, but the film aims too low, moves too slowly, and lacks enough conviction in its writing to truly resonate. It’s rare for first-time directors to take such big swings, and rarer still for them to succeed. Martel’s debut was lauded by critics and has even been cited as the greatest film Argentina has ever produced. Yet, despite the talent on both sides of the camera, La Ciénaga proves too modest in its aims to be truly loving or sufficiently critical of this patronising, ignorant, yet authentic family unit.

ARGENTINA • FRANCE • SPAIN • JAPAN | 2001 | 100 MINUTES | 1.85:1 | COLOUR | SPANISH

Cast & Crew

writer & director: Lucrecia Martel.
starring: Graciela Borges, Mercedes Morán, Martín Adjemián, Daniel Valenzuela, Leonora Balcarce, Silvia Baylé, Sofia Bertolotto, Juan Cruz Bordeu & Andrea López.

The post LA CIÉNAGA (2001) appeared first on Frame Rated.

James McAvoy’s directorial debut is a stranger-than-fiction tale of two rappers from Dundee who hit the big time after posing as Americans. It’s 2003, before artists could build a following online just by being themselves, and best mates Gavin “Brains” Bain (Séamus McLean Ross) and Billy “Silibil” Boyd (Samuel Bottomley) are finding that talent alone doesn’t make a superstar. Consequently, they create American alter egos, pretending to be far more successful and connected than they actually are.

Gavin and Billy dream of escaping Scottish call centres for stardom, but their goals feel a long way off. During an open call in London, they realise the industry’s snobbishness towards Scots will always hold them back. Labelled “the rapping Proclaimers” by two scouts, the pair realise a rebrand is required. Inspired by the way Billy adopts a posh English accent at work to sell broadband, the duo wonders if reinventing themselves as Californian rap duo Silibil N’ Brains will be their ticket to success.

The plan is wacky, as Billy’s girlfriend Mary (Lucy Halliday) frequently reminds them, but it’s enough to open doors. Soon, the duo is in London with new accents, a fabricated backstory, a fresh wardrobe, and a new sound. Impossibly quickly, it works. What begins as an attempt to expose the music industry’s cultural xenophobia and shallow obsession with image grows out of the boys’ control as they start to believe their own hype.

Bottomley and Ross are appealing leads, charting a compelling transition from small-town boys to pop stars. Gavin starts as a shy introvert whose internal monologue battles between insecurity and ambition, while the more boisterous Billy acts as the duo’s mouthpiece. As fame comes between them, the pair swap roles: Gavin unearths a vicious streak while Billy’s conscience forces him to confront the reality of their lie.

The leads are so convincing, especially on stage, that you could be fooled into thinking they’re the real thing. They’re comfortable on the mic—believably good, if not world-class—adding musical credibility to the story. Lucy Halliday is a star on the rise, following her turn in TV’s The Testaments by adding a necessary layer of grounding here. McAvoy himself brings star power as an aggressive music mogul bellowing in the back of cabs, and the film even makes James Corden palatable in his single scene as a larger-than-life executive.

However, California Schemin’ suffers from the same issue as Silibil N’ Brains: it intends to hold a mirror up to society but gets too distracted to do so effectively. The film never dives deeply into the darker themes at play, nor does it fully lean into the satire of this bizarre true story. Instead, it lingers in a narrative purgatory—it has too many parody characters to feel serious, but isn’t quite sharp enough to be true satire.

The film’s best elements lie in the subtext, which should have been pushed to the forefront. What it has to say about Britain’s class issues and the industry’s prejudice against working-class accents is important, but the exploration feels thin. As a Scottish actor who found fame playing a well-to-do Englishman in Shameless (2004-2014), McAvoy is clearly close to the subject, yet the movie rarely strays from the familiar beats of a musical biopic. The pair struggle, find fame, and then fall apart as ambition erodes their relationship. It’s a compelling enough story, but it doesn’t do enough to distinguish itself from the genre’s tropes.

The movie, much like the duo, drifts too often from the core hook: the conmen being conned by two Scottish lads. It’s at its best when picking apart an industry that prizes image over talent. There was much more to unpack here, but McAvoy seemingly prefers a cautionary tale about the pitfalls of success and the importance of authenticity.

What this film does achieve, where many biopics fail, is showing its stars in a harsh light. Neither Silibil nor Brains is depicted flatteringly; they easily forget their roots once fame calls. McAvoy and writers Elaine Gracie and Archie Thomson never gloss over the duo’s worst traits. Gavin comes across as borderline sociopathic in his grip on fame, while Billy’s treatment of women is far from pleasant. Based on Bain’s 2010 memoir, California Schemin’ is remarkably honest about how far two men will go to satisfy their ambition.

UK • USA | 2026 | 107 MINUTES | COLOUR | ENGLISH

Cast & Crew

director: James McAvoy.
writers: Elaine Gracie & Archie Thomson (based on the book ‘California Schemin’: How Two Lads from Scotland Conned the Music Industry’ by Gavin Bain).
starring: Séamus McLean Ross, Samuel Bottomley, Lucy Halliday, Rebekah Murrell & James McAvoy.

The post CALIFORNIA SCHEMIN’ (2026) appeared first on Frame Rated.

The first time I saw Frailty as an impressionable youth, it blew me away. Most twisty serial killer thrillers did. Read enough retrospectives on the film and you’ll hear a choir echoing the sentiment that an underrated gem has been slept on; yet, you’ll simultaneously find the repeated criticism that its mundanity buried it in a busy market. It follows a simple Texas family staving off Armageddon by every so often killing a random person in their cellar—a domestic drama of biblical allusions, rather than proportions.

Frailty itself is impressed with the trending styles of the genre. Arriving in the wake of Se7en (1995), Primal Fear (1996), The Game (1997), and Fallen (1998)—even before The Silence of the Lambs (1991)—there are unmistakable echoes of The Shining (1980). Here is another bad dad who goes mad with an axe.

Unlike Jack Nicholson’s iconic mania as a disgruntled brute, Bill Paxton prefers an approach closer to Stephen King’s original novel: he’s a genuinely loving father who’s desperately saving his children from God’s wrath. This Dad never ‘goes crazy’; he just loses his mind. It simply means some people are demons and his family must remove them from the Earth. He never feels as though he might chase down his two sons, Fenton (Matt O’Leary) and Adam (Jeremy Sumpter), with his axe—but Dad does starve one in a pitch-black cellar for over a week. That’s something even the Overlook Hotel didn’t push Jack to try.

“I read the script and it scared the hell out of me,” said Paxton. Having been given Brent Hanley’s debut screenplay to play the tormented father, he shocked producer David Kirschner by returning with storyboards, colour palettes, and a request to make this his directorial debut. “I’ve waited a long time to direct,” Paxton noted. He elevates a dour psycho-procedural into a haunting, “neo-classical piece” of domestic bliss, destroyed when a God-fearing family undertakes an Old Testament task.

“A lot of people in Hollywood recognized that it was a great piece of work, but they wouldn’t touch it with a bargepole because it involves children and violence. I was worried that a wild-eyed director would get hold of this material and sensationalize it just to shock people. And that, to me, wouldn’t do the script justice.”—Bill Paxton, actor-director.

An adult Fenton Meiks (Matthew McConaughey) claims his brother was the wanted “God’s Hands” murderer who committed suicide the previous night. Fenton has stolen the body and delivered it late at night to a sceptical FBI agent (Powers Boothe). There’s no high-tension action; instead, two men whisper their dialogue before a soft fade back to 1979, which makes for one long-winded confession.

The Meiks family talk about homework over dinner, the kids debate sneaking into The Warriors (1979) or Meatballs (1979), and Dad feigns passing out when double-checking someone brushed their teeth. It’s all undramatic authenticity. Even the most ordinary lines build character: young Adam kisses his dad goodnight and says, “Love you,” while Fenton, feeling too old for hugs, simply says, “Night, Dad.” These minute differences will soon divide the siblings.

As casual as life was before, it changes. A trophy shimmering in the moonlight gives way to an apocalyptic herald—unseen by us, but visible to Dad. All we need to see are the reactions to his revelation: Fenton stares in tired disbelief, Adam asks if they’re like superheroes, and Dad himself is confused, yet he wakes them the next day as if the world were still normal. This is a mission from God, treated like an extracurricular activity squeezed in between work and school.

Paxton anchors the film with an unassuming performance that remains provocative. If he’s insane, why so suddenly? If it’s premeditated, why risk involving his children? We must also ask how much of this is accurate in a childhood recollection; scenes featuring Dad away from his children are third-hand stories presented as gospel.

The multitude of questions is a sign of the evocative screenplay’s strengths. While the story veers through different perspectives, the core emotional vice crushes Fenton’s sense of morality between traditional familial love and concern for his father’s mental wellbeing. This domestic tragedy makes the audience squirm through claustrophobic intimacies, such as when the reluctant boy musters the courage to ask, “Maybe… maybe you’re not right in the head?” Conversely, Adam ‘drinks the Kool-Aid,’ frivolously offering his own handwritten list of demons that coincidentally features a high-school bully. The responsible adult puts his foot down: “If we used your list, we wouldn’t be destroying demons; we’d be killing people. And we can never do that.”

“I loved him even if he had gone crazy,” relents the adult Fenton. While some of his narration is significant—or at least poetic—we’re never allowed to linger in a scene for long before McConaughey, rarely seen but often heard, chimes in to explain how everyone was feeling, despite it being clear in the performances. Given the minimalist approach, it’s almost ironic that Paxton didn’t tone down the overwritten dialogue. With his down-to-earth elegance, he was presumably all too happy to direct without ‘putting his foot down’ on the script.

Those uninterrupted interactions provide a painful allure. Fenton tries to dissuade his brother from helping, who then tattles; the image of Dad hovering over Fenton at night is a terrifying dose of reality. We fear punishment, yet Dad swears his innocence. Through teary-eyed prayers for angels to enlighten his child, he achieves a wickedly clever gaslighting. If Fenton isn’t swayed by religion, what if Dad receives an omen about his son that he’s too distraught to share? What if Dad swears he’ll prove the angel wrong? Coming from a man killing on behalf of God, he weaponises his familiarity as the head of the family. He loves his son more than Abraham loved Isaac; so really, when you think about it, he’s risking his own neck if God wants the boy punished.

Fenton’s best bet is to do what Dad says: dig a 15x15x10ft hole. This punishment becomes penance as Dad offers painkillers and concern, noticing Fenton can barely hold his cutlery due to welts and blisters—self-inflicted from refusing to wear gloves. Dad can’t stomach cruelty as visions of the demons’ crimes literally shake him to his core. Confronting such evil spurs his conviction, leading him to bludgeon women and old men by walking up to their front doors or accosting them outside supermarkets in broad daylight. It’s no wonder people love true crime; there is a morbid, pre-surveillance-state nostalgia in the idea that one could commit such brazen acts and simply walk away.

Eventually, Fenton does tell the police. However, the kind old sheriff’s visit goes about as well as the one in Misery (1990). Dad even confers with his son before inviting the sheriff into their new cellar: “What do you think, kiddo? Does it have to be done?” Coming so soon after A Simple Plan (1998), Bill Paxton is once again the reluctant killer.

“Twister, Apollo, Titanic—he’s the wholesome guy,” Paxton reflected, noting his real-life reputation as a ‘darling’ of the industry. “They’re not looking at Near Dark or True Lies. I get kind of tired of reading that.” He insisted this role wasn’t a self-conscious pursuit of a darker image: “I’ve played a lot of different people. I believe people are capable of great villainy and great heroism—the same person.” In the film, Dad is granted three holy weapons: plain gloves, a metal pipe, and an axe engraved with the name “Otis.” Producer David Kirschner wondered why 90% of US elevators are adorned with that same name, and fans speculate it stands for “Only the Innocent Survive.” However, Paxton simply struck up a conversation with a homeless man, offered him money for his name, and it happened to be Otis.

Paxton was a good person, a great actor, and a capable, if unambitious, director. Envisioning “a stark, clean look, like an Edward Hopper painting,” he cited Charles Laughton’s Night of the Hunter (1955) as a major influence. Screenwriter Hanley did the same, which explains the familiar beats of child abuse, zealotry, and murder in East Texas. Paxton “knew the landscape, knew the characters,” which aided the film’s authenticity, though he never quite reaches the majesty of Laughton. Despite the excitement of hiring Bill Butler—the cinematographer for The Conversation (1974), Jaws (1975), and One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest (1976)—the film languishes with the unassuming feel of a made-for-TV movie.

Some visions are ‘seen,’ or perhaps imagined second-hand given the nature of the retelling. The 1990s-style morphing church, the blue-screen angel, and the optical flaming sword all add an off-kilter, fantastical unreliability. Touching the demons also betrays the perspective of the non-believing Fenton, as the experience is powerful enough to shake the camera itself. Yet, acknowledging this effect deepens the mystery; by remaining still with the third act victim, the film implies that the masquerade has finally worn off for the child.

“Perhaps only an actor who does not depend on directing for his next job, would have had the nerve to make this movie. We love movies that play and toy with the supernatural, but are we prepared for one that is an unblinking look at where the logic of the true believer can lead? There was just a glimpse of this mentality on the day after 9/11, when certain TV preachers described it as God’s punishment for our sins, before backpedaling when they found such frankness eroded their popularity base.”—Roger Ebert, critic.

Debuting at the Deep Ellum Film Festival in 2001, Frailty was naturally delayed several times before its US release the following year. Paxton admits: “I know I can’t skirt this. After that event, everything gets put through that lens. I always saw this as a good, creepy, Gothic story and a family tragedy. But let’s face it, it has a lot to do with religious fanaticism.”

It certainly doesn’t help that, in its pursuit of topping tough genre competition with shocking twists, the film shoots itself in the foot by championing the religious fanatics. What’s clearly intended to leave audiences rattled as the credits roll reveals a naivety regarding reality; after all, the public was already haunted by such stories long before 9/11.

Roger Ebert referenced further horrors that Frailty evokes. Andrea Pia Yates, from Houston, Texas, drowned her five children in June 2001 after claiming Satan had told her their souls would be saved that way. He also mentioned the then-ongoing case of the “West Memphis Three”—teenagers convicted in 1993 of murder via a “Satanic ritual” based on wearing black, liking rock music, and little real evidence. Ebert drew this parallel at a time when they were facing life imprisonment and the death penalty. They weren’t finally freed until 2011, with the real killer(s) still undiscovered. There’s been a cultural shift in the decades since, and the practice of hiding personal demons behind a veneer of righteous Christianity has faltered, though it hasn’t vanished entirely.

“This movie definitely polarises people,” reflected Paxton, and I concede to that sentiment, albeit in a different light. He was referring to the taboo subject matter, but Frailty feels at odds with itself. Once Paxton the actor is out of the picture, it’s as if he packed his bags and left the director’s chair too; it feels as though a second unit filmed the wraparound conclusion, and it falls flat. Despite Lionsgate never once visiting the set because they were so impressed with the dailies, and James Cameron providing hands-on editing tweaks as a favour to a friend, these twists upon twists throttle the emotional investment. Each surprise makes sense, but the entire flashback never feels truly necessary. While what happens in the present ties things up for the audience, why the hell did Fenton waste ninety minutes telling an FBI agent all this?

What once blew me away now gives me reservations, especially after reading interviews with the screenwriter. Brent Hanley is much like Stephen King—the author who famously hated Stanley Kubrick’s byzantine interpretability and directed his own TV adaptation of The Shining (1997), replete with CGI hedge animals and Jack Torrance (Steven Weber) in Evil Dead-style makeup. Hanley resists leaving any nuance at the end, and in doing so, he betrays all of Paxton’s subtlety. The heavy hand of several last-minute ‘miracles’ blows past coincidence and, worst of all, is reinforced by Hanley’s commentary insistent that Dad was right the whole time. David Lynch must have wept sensing a story out there being explained rather than explored.

“Frailty to me was always about the frailty of perception, the frailty of morality, the frailty of right and wrong,” said Hanley. But perhaps it’s actually about the frailty of confident storytelling and trust in the audience. Frailty suffers from an overexertion of twists because, surely, it couldn’t just be a tragedy of mental illness tearing a family apart? We can’t be that boring after Se7en! Hanley’s tiring at the finish line settles his film comfortably as the precursor to the borderline camp of Identity (2003) and Saw (2004). I can’t help but think this is exactly the kind of film Adaptation mocked a year later.

Hanley’s screenplay topped Minority Report (2002), The Ring (2002), and Signs (2002) to win that year’s Bram Stoker Award. Producer David Kirschner claims everyone raved about the film and that Steven Spielberg even wanted to meet this hot new talent. This was Hanley’s first and last screenplay.

As for Paxton himself, his directorial debut left him feeling “like a doctor who’s just finished his first surgery. The next thing I want to direct is completely different from this.” Grossing $17.4M against an $11M budget and holding a positive review aggregate of 76%, Paxton would only direct one more feature film, The Greatest Game Ever Played (2005), before his untimely passing in 2017. During the promotion for Frailty, he hinted at a “British romantic comedy” and had spoken with Hanley again about adapting Joe Lansdale’s novel The Bottoms.

Kirschner ruminates on the lack of marketing: “Lionsgate said to me that ‘we just weren’t ready for this kind of film.’ They had not hit their horror world yet. They had not done Saw or any of those and were just getting their feet in the water. I think that hurt us because most people didn’t even know it existed.”

“Part of the reason I did this was to earn some respect from the industry. You could say I have quite a nice-guy image as an actor and I wanted to do something new, something that might break that mould a bit. I saw how Billy Bob Thornton, Matt Damon, Ben Affleck were suddenly praised because they made films. I don’t think you get respect as an actor in this town unless you’re Tom Cruise or Tom Hanks. But you get respect as a film maker.”—Bill Paxton.

USA • GERMANY | 2001 | 100 MINUTES | 1.85:1 | COLOUR | ENGLISH

Cast & Crew

director: Bill Paxton.
writer: Brent Hanley.
starring: Bill Paxton, Matthew McConaughey, Luke Akew, Powers Boothe, Matt O’Leary & Jeremy Sumpter.

The post FRAILTY (2001) appeared first on Frame Rated.

It’s clear from the opening minutes of Thesis / Tesis that this is the work of a director in his professional infancy. Alejandro Amenábar’s directorial debut gets off to a rather clunky start, with dialogue that feels rigid and unnatural even through subtitles, as a station announcer advises passengers to disembark. As university student Ángela Márquez (Ana Torrent) joins the crowd on the platform, she attempts to catch a glimpse of the source of the disruption: a body ripped in half after being hurled into the path of an oncoming train. There is an unbearably tense moment as the camera pushes towards what has transfixed both the viewer and Ángela, leading us away from the orderly, single-file line of passengers exiting the station.

When Ángela is pulled away at the last second, it feels as though we have been wrenched away too. In the very next shot, the camera lingers in a library, pushing forward uncertainly until it rests high above a common area, offering an unobstructed view of the ground floor far below. It is a mirror image of the previous shot, except this time the view is not denied. It is a simple pairing of shots and camera movements, yet it has a beguilingly unnerving effect.

It is also a meaningful glimpse into the genius of the budding Spanish director, though his youth and inexperience cannot be entirely ignored. A blatant continuity error occurs before the five-minute mark, when Ángela’s thesis supervisor, Professor Figueroa (Miguel Picazo), sits up and leans towards her. Seconds later, following a reaction shot of Ángela, he performs the exact same movement. It is such a simple mistake that one wonders how it survived the final cut, though it becomes easier to understand when one considers that Amenábar was only 24 at the time of the film’s release.

He was a bold, confident filmmaker from the outset, even if Thesis is far from a flawless experience. There is a scrappiness to the cinematography that overcomes its limitations, including the obvious budgetary ones. By proceeding as if he were not limited in the slightest, Amenábar makes it easy to overlook these impediments. It is also fitting that the work of a budding filmmaker should concern itself with a student specialising in cinema; Thesis explores film in a meta sense similar to how Scream (1996) did in the very same year. While Wes Craven’s film became a cultural milestone, Thesis has yet to enjoy its full time in the cinematic spotlight.

Amenábar’s film deserves more recognition for its exploration of the industry; indeed, it is perhaps more timely now than upon its release. Concerned with a snuff film that the protagonist’s professor uncovers on her behalf—and for which he is killed—the premise is perfectly suited to 21st-century anxieties regarding the dark web.

Even beyond this, stomach-churning gore videos are no longer just the stuff of urban legend; they are widely shared. For many teenage boys of my generation, watching ISIS beheadings or CCTV footage of brutal accidents was treated almost as a casual rite of passage. While such content remains horrifying, there is a gradual hardening of the stomach; the disturbance becomes less visceral over time.

This desensitisation is what fascinates Ángela. Preoccupied by violence and its depiction, she is so gripped by morbid curiosity that she willingly tumbles down every rabbit hole, no matter how dangerous. Most psychological thrillers benefit from “stupid” protagonists, but while Ángela makes some objectively dreadful decisions, she is no thoughtless waif. She is someone so fascinated by humanity’s darkest corners that she will stop at nothing to uncover them.

Like many who consume gruesome content, she cannot quite explain her interest. She only knows she is compelled to continue her inquiry, even after her professor’s death. The fatality might look accidental, but Ángela is wise enough to dismiss that. A killer is on the loose, and it all leads back to the tape in her possession: the brutal slaying of a young woman.

Chema (Fele Martínez), a creepy student who happily shows Ángela his collection of tapes in his serial-killer-esque apartment, is the obvious candidate for the villain. In fact, he is so obvious that one must question if the film could truly make him the killer, allowing his potential innocence to be toyed with. It’s a revolving door of suspicion in which Ángela is trapped.

The other subject of her questioning, fellow student Bosco (Eduardo Noriega), appears confident and collected. Is this merely a mask for evil? Or is Ángela right to trust her gut and stay clear of the leering, aggressive Chema? As one Letterboxd reviewer noted, a surprising element of the film is a sequence where Chema takes a shower. He is a “human sleazeball”, especially in contrast to Bosco, who clearly has no issues attracting women.

Do these men want to sleep with Ángela or slay her? Neither she nor the viewer knows, but it’s certain that she will follow them to hell and back to find out. In many sequences, Ángela does everything in her power to jeopardise her safety, yet it doesn’t produce the hand-wringing annoyance common to generic horror movies. Anyone fascinated by cinema will be similarly enthralled by the darkness and the implications of the violence personified by the footage. There are sequences in Thesis where you may want to look away, but, like Ángela, you’re too fascinated to do so.

Consequently, the film is more of a thriller than horror, preying on curiosity rather than fear. For those of us who have never attempted a thesis, there is a dark humour in a protagonist essentially descending into hell to complete her studies. In fact, hell might as well be the thesis itself. The film defies the clinical conclusiveness Ángela seeks; as it should, for it is in the darkness that the most interesting curiosities lie.

The most prophetic aspect of Thesis is its portrayal of Chema as an “incel”. Much like snuff films, the growing presence of the internet has exacerbated this phenomenon. Usually, incels are straight men desperate for intimacy, yet they are more afflicted by their own self-defeating attitudes than the physical flaws they blame.

Chema constantly complains that Ángela is more interested in Bosco, but he speaks to her as if she were a piece of meat. He treats rejection as a foregone conclusion, effectively signing his own social death warrant.

It is a tragic but contemptible attitude, most evocative during a tense sequence where he and Ángela wander through rooms where the electricity has been cut. With no light to guide them, Ángela considers if she is about to be killed. All Chema can think about is his loneliness—specifically the kind he misattributes to a lack of casual sex.

The pair are constantly looking past one another. Ángela, despite her reckless decisions, proves far more grounded than Chema could ever hope to be. She is attracted to, pities, and fears both men, never knowing which response is correct. Sex and death are so closely interlinked in Thesis that you can never be sure which will occur next, though both feel inevitable.

Whenever the film’s footage is diegetic, it’s as if Thesis has become its own snuff film. While the minuscule budget isn’t always a joy to behold, it helps convey the impression that Ángela is always being watched. Whether in a crowded study hall or her own room, privacy is an illusion. Even if Thesis is imperfect, it constantly builds on this skin-crawling realisation, toying with the viewer with palpable glee.

SPAIN | 1996 | 125 MINUTES | 1.85:1 | COLOUR | SPANISH

Cast & Crew

director: Alejandro Amenábar.
writer: Alejandro Amenábar (story by Alejandro Amenábar & Mateo Gil).
starring: Ana Torrent, Fele Martínez, Eduardo Noriega, Xabier Elorriaga, Miguel Picazo, Nieves Herranz, Rosa Campillo, Paco Hernández & Rosa Ávila.

The post THESIS (1996) appeared first on Frame Rated.