Invasion of the Body Snatchers (1978)
Director: Philip Kaufman
Screenwriter: W. D. Richter
Starring: Donald Sutherland, Brooke Adams, Veronica Cartwright, Jeff Goldblum, Leonard Nimoy

This film is about aliens. Technically. But also, it isn’t.

This is the second adaptation of “The Body Snatchers” by Jack Finney (following the 1956 Don Siegel adaptation, also titled Invasion of the Body Snatchers). It follows roughly the same plot, where strange, plant-based life forms come to Earth after travelling across the stars, where they grow replicas of human beings in huge pods, each identical save for the removing of emotion (and so no war, no pain, no love). Their infiltration of the community they find themselves in is the scene of paranoia, of the discovery of a conspiracy, of the terror of realising that your family members may look and sound the same, but that they aren’t actually them. A small band of survivors must battle the odds when the system has been infiltrated and turned against them. The novel and original film, taking place in the midst of 1950s Red Scare McCartheyism, is as thinly veiled an allegory for America’s fear of communism as you can get, though Finney denied this throughout his life (movies such as The Thing From Another World and It Came From Outer Space also follow the trend). Both of those texts are also seminal sci-fi horror reading/viewing. The question, therefore, is how does this version stack up?

Part of the genius of this interpretation is the decision to move the action from the small town of Santa Mira (in the film)/Mill County (in the book) to downtown San Francisco. The added chaos of urban life gives a sense of menace to the spreading contamination. The allegory here is of corporations turning people into shells of their former selves, and of the destruction of the natural world – a kind of capitalist updating of the red weed from H. G. Wells’ “The War of the Worlds”. Roger Ebert commented that it might also be influenced by the Watergate scandal, with tapped phones and wires. Whilst this is a possibility, those features were always elements in the novel and the first film. What is certain, is that by putting this viral personality takeover in the middle of a city, the danger is far more immediate. With the first film, if it gets out of the small town, there’s still a chance. There’s a larger civilisation out there to help. Here, if you’re dead in the city, with all that manpower and all those connections, with all that modernity, there’s not much chance that anywhere else is going to last. Along with this updating, the pod-people in their growing stage are much more organic, more tissue-like, adding to the ecological themes. It isn’t as strong a body-horror shift, but perhaps comparable to the way in which the 1958 version of The Fly (starring Vincent Price) was updated for modern audiences: a reimagining rather than a remake, as directed by David Cronenberg in 1986 (ironically, also starring Jeff Goldblum).

The air of being hemmed in is all around. The buildings impose, the close proximity that everyone is to each other (and in some sequences having several of the characters together in every shot one after the other), makes the idea that the people next to you aren’t who they say they are even worse. The main cast is terrific, bringing sufficient weight and drama to a terror slowly building up as the horrific realisation of what is going on dawns on them. The little things occurring in the background add to that paranoia, and is something Edgar Wright specifically mentions as an influence on the background details for Shaun of the Dead in his DVD commentary (ironically, Wright’s body-snatching film The World’s End actually has the ending of the original novel, in which the invading force realises humanity will never be converted, which is something no actual novel adaptation has kept). The occasional shots of the garbage compactors crushing the husks of used pods comes back time and time again unmentioned but always there, and when you realise what they are, by then it’s all too late. Everything’s already over.

Speaking of endings, Kevin McCarthy (who played Dr Miles in the first film) has a cameo in this one, playing very much a similar character (but not the same), slamming on Donald Sutherland’s car and screaming ‘You’re next!’, much like his famous ending to the first film. Even if it’s not Dr Miles, it gives the impression that Miles has been wandering for years warning us of the oncoming apocalypse. It’s so iconic an original ending that one wonders how this film could possibly one-up it. And yet it does, in an ending reveal burned into the public consciousness with just sound. Sound that has drained from the world as the film runs on, with characters fleeing through the streets, their feet slamming against the road. Somehow that’s the most disturbing thing of all. The takeover of the pod people, with their uniformity, has reduced the need for talk, for going anywhere unplanned, for noise. Despite their horrifying screech, the emptiness of the sound of the world is what truly scares. The naturalness of the world has faded. Now it is simply a factory of the pods, a greenhouse for empty husks.

Invasion of the Body Snatchers has everything you could want. A great cast, direction that mostly stands up (there are unfortunately some parts when Kaufman decides to go for some egregious camera movements which betray the camp B-movie roots and lodge in the cinematic throat), an all-consuming tone, and some of the most iconic scenes of all science-fiction and horror. It has to be seen to be believed, and, even with the odd misstep, remains an all-time classic.

Score: 20/24

The Ten Commandments (1923)
Director: Cecil B. DeMille
Screenwriter: Jeanie Macpherson
Starring: Theodore Roberts, Leatrice Joy, Richard Dix, Rod LaRocque, Nita Naldi

It is impossible to watch the first 45 minutes of Cecil B. DeMille’s 1923 silent epic The Ten Commandments without your mouth hanging open in awe. The sheer artistry on display is astounding, from the art direction, to the cinematography, to the technical effects. Helmed by one of cinema’s most successful and influential pioneer directors, The Ten Commandments offers the very best of what movies can be, and 100 years later stands as a testament to the innovation and technical achievement of the early days of moving pictures, a reminder of the shoulders that artists today stand upon. According to The Film Foundation, it was Paramount’s highest-grossing film for 25 years. While DeMille’s 1956 remake of the film starring Charlton Heston and Yul Brynner is probably the version best remembered by audiences, thanks in part to ABC’s yearly tradition of airing the film the week before Easter, the original 1923 version is just as spectacular and worthy of praise and appreciation. At times bewildering and heavy-handed, The Ten Commandments is a sprawling morality tale that often loses the plot, but nevertheless offers us a fascinating glimpse into the primitive days of filmmaking, as well as the ideals and expectations of post-war America.

The Ten Commandments begins with a title card that explains how the modern world considered the laws of God to be “old fashioned,” but following the bloodshed of the first world war, that same world, now bitter and broken by death and destruction, “cries for a way out.” What follows is a 45 minute prologue retelling the Exodus from the first testament of the Bible, in which Moses (Theodore Roberts) leads thousands of enslaved Israelis from Egypt. But when the Pharaoh’s son cannot be revived by his Gods, Ramses (Charles De Roche) chases after them. Moses parts the Red Sea, goes to the Mount to receive the ten commandments and inflicts the wrath of God upon the Israelis when he returns, because they have forsaken God while Moses was away and are now worshipping a golden ram. The sinners pay for their disobedience; they are struck down by lightening.

Fans of the 1956 version might be a little bit confused about what happens next.

As the frame fades to black, the film jumps ahead to modern day, where the devoutly religious Martha McTavish (Edythe Chapman) is telling the story of “The Ten Commandments” to her two sons, John (Richard Dix) and Dan (Rod La Rocque). While John is a lowly carpenter and content to remain so, Dan has big plans for his future; plans that do not include respecting the teachings of God, much to the horror of his mother. Dan and John soon fall in love with the same girl, Mary (Leatrice Joy), which sparks a chain of events that lead to a deadly conclusion.

This last half of the film is a morality play about the dangers of falling from God’s grace, which the film never lets you forget. The dialog is so over the top it borders on self-parody. It’s way too on the nose and beats you over the head with its message. It’s hard not to laugh when Martha, horrified that Mary and Dan are listening to music and dancing on Sunday, dramatically smashes the record against her giant bible. As Shawn Hall pointed out in The Everyday Cinephile, “The choices of the characters are dictated by the morals the filmmakers are trying to teach the audience, not their inner motivations and desires.” Modern audiences, who are overwhelming less religiously minded than they were 100 years ago, might have a difficult time swallowing the film’s black and white morality, but this part of the film didn’t fare very well with audiences at the time of its release either, who saw it as a downgrade from the breadth and scope of the prologue. According the The Film Foundation, Variety at the time called it simply “ordinary.”

There’s a reason why, in DeMille’s 1956 remake, the Exodus and parting of the red sea serves as the climax of the story. It’s the most exciting part. Starting the 1923 version with this sequence, DeMille set his audience up for disappointment. There’s just no matching its insane spectacle and technical prowess. According to The Film Foundation, the sets for the prologue were built by 500 carpenters and 600 painters and decorators. The sets, including a 120 feet tall temple, were massive. This was a hugely expensive production, and it still looks expensive after all these years. It’s also worth noting that several scenes in the prologue were in color, including the parting of the red sea and the fire used to hold back the Egyptian chariot riders. According to The Musuem of Modern Art, DeMille used several techniques for adding color during the silent era including tinting, spot-coloring and techicolor. If anything, The Ten Commandments dispels one of the pervasive myths about older films: that they were all in black and white, and that color did not happen until decades later. These scenes thankfully remain in tact, thanks to restoration done by the George Eastman Museum, which used DeMille’s personal 35mm copy as one of the sources.

It would be unfair to say that the second half of the film, which overstays its welcome, isn’t entertaining and engaging, despite how seemingly mundane it is. There are several sequences of note, worthy of the same praise given to those within the prologue. The destruction of the church near the end of the film is stunning, as is the scene in which Mary takes the elevator up to top of the Church’s roof. This part of The Ten Commandments is also elevated by its lead performances, especially Dix’s. He is so deeply charming and handsome as John; his unbuttoned vest and buttoned up shirt, sleeves rolled up to the forearms, could probably make anyone see the light and convert. Several actors in The Ten Commandments eventually made the leap to talkies, and Dix notably became a big-box office draw for RKO in the 1930s and was nominated for an Academy Award for his performance in 1931’s Cimarron. The performances are nuanced and natural, which might come as a shock to modern audiences who might still hold false beliefs about how acting in silent films was generally over the top and goofy. While it’s true that screen acting was still in its infancy in 1923, and some of it was over the top, a lot changed between when the first pictures were released and the filming of The Ten Commandments. In the early 1900s, the craft of screen acting evolved at lightning speed, becoming more naturalistic, and it’s wonderful to see a glimpse of that evolution in The Ten Commandments.

Will Hays was officially named head of the newly formed Motion Picture Producers and Distributors of America in 1922, and his primary job was to quell dissent among Hollywood’s critics when it came to censorship and the increasing moral ambiguity of its stars. In the early days of filmmaking, various censorship boards in the United States would cut anything and everything that did not meet societal standards of decency and propriety from films, so it is worth noting that the Paramount did not cut a single second of The Ten Commandments (per The House of Fradkin-stein). This is astonishing considering there is a frame in which Miram, Moses’ sister, gets her breast fondled in full view of the camera. It’s interesting that, while on the surface, The Ten Commandments is preoccupied with telling us a moral tale in showing the downfall of Dan McTavish, the film also shows a lot of decidedly ungodly things including murder, adultery, and greed in great detail. As author and professor William D. Romanowski pointed out, “A devout Episcopalian and Bible literalist, DeMille was also a consummate Hollywood showman with a keen sense of audience desires.” Known for baiting the censors, one has to wonder if DeMille was trying to have his cake and eat it too.

It is a miracle that The Ten Commandments survived past the early 1900s. As Eva Gordon explained in her biography of forgotten silent film star Theda Bara, no one really cared about preserving silent films (the earliest of which had become obsolete far before talkies arrived) until it was too late. By the 1930s, the fragile nitrate film stock was already disintegrating or bursting into flames. Fox Films, which later became 20th Century Fox, lost all of their silent films in a vault fire. But The Ten Commandments is one of the lucky ones. It prevails as one of the Hollywood’s most dazzling epics. Even today, it surpasses some modern blockbusters in technical and artistic achievement. The runtime may be bloated and the second half suffers because of its one-dimensional characters and uninspiring narrative, but The Ten Commandments remains one of the best spectacles in Hollywood history, a film that paved the way for a generation of epic storytelling to come.

Score: 21/24

Recommended for you: Read More Retrospective Reviews

Little Women (1933)
Director: George Cukor
Screenwriters: Sarah Y. Mason, Victor Heerman
Starring: Katharine Hepburn, Joan Bennett, Paul Lukas, Edna May Oliver, Douglass Montgomery, Jean Parker, Frances Dee

“Little Women” by Louisa May Alcott, first published in two volumes in 1868 and 1869, has been adapted for the screen seven times over the last 100 years. In 1933, following two silent films in 1917 and 1918, George Cukor, who would later go on to direct such classics as The Philadelphia Story, Gaslight, and 1954’s A Star is Born, directed the first sound adaptation starring Katharine Hepburn. Cukor’s overly sentimental version of the novel was just what Depression-era audiences needed during a period marked by uncertainty and poverty. The film was a critical hit as well, and was nominated for three Academy Awards, winning Best Adapted Screenplay. Hinging on Hepburn’s superb performance, Little Women takes Alcott’s novel about four sisters coming of age during and after the American Civil War and remakes it for a Depression-era audience nostalgic for family values and desperate to relive a simpler time.

Little Women follows the March sisters – Jo (Katherine Hepburn), Amy (Joan Bennett), Meg (Frances Dee) and Beth (Jean Parker) – as they make the transition from adolescence to adulthood, against the backdrop of the Civil War. With their father away fighting for the North, the March sisters do their best to help their Mother (Spring Byington), who they affectionally call Marmee, keep the house in order. They all have their own hopes and dreams: Amy wants to become a famous painter, Meg longs to find love and marry, Beth yearns to stay right where she is and play her piano, and Jo dreams of traveling and writing great tales of romance and adventure. Together, they experience first love, marriage, and eventually tragedy.

All of the screen adaptations of “Little Women” offer a window into the time they were made. Gillian Armstrong’s 1994 adaptation, for instance, put a strong emphasis on Jo’s writing and her search her independence during a time when women weren’t really allowed to be much more than wives and mothers. Greta Gerwig’s Little Women deconstructed the narrative, commenting on the very act of telling stories and how they help us to immortalize those we love. 1933’s Little Women is interesting because it doesn’t deconstruct the story as much as it twists it to fit the ideals of a country ravaged by The Great Depression, which began in 1929 and eventually affected the global economy. It threatened jobs and livelihoods, and it forced people out onto the streets. Because of this, Little Women is dripping with sweetness, with Cukor putting a strong emphasis on family values and domesticity. The Civil War is nothing more than a set piece, rarely mentioned in great detail, so that the March sisters’ trials and tribulations can be a stand in for the struggles of those living through current times.

It is also worth mentioning that the film was made only a year before the Hays Code began to be strictly enforced. Several Hollywood scandals, including the rape and murder of a Virginia Rapp by silent film actor Roscoe “Fatty” Arbuckle and the still unsolved murder of director William Desmond Taylor, as well as the increasing moral panic over sexually suggestive themes in movies, led to the creation of the code in 1930 by studios desperate to get various religious groups and the government off its back. Given how tame and conservative it is, it’s not hard to see how Little Women might have been a breath of fresh air for certain audiences.

The script is pretty sparse and it speeds through plot points breezily, never stopping to really consider the consequences of any of them. There aren’t really any consquences in the film at all, just things that happen and then we quickly move on. The film doesn’t dwell on unpleaseantness very long, or at all, even when there is a major death towards the end of the film. Because of this, the March sisters – save for Jo – are all interchangeable and never really get a chance to shine on their own. Meg’s courtship and eventual marriage to Laurie’s (Douglass Montgomery) tutor Mr. Brooks (John Lodge) is sidelined, and Amy’s trip to Europe and her marriage to Laurie happen almost completely off screen.

The only character that truly gets the spotlight is Jo and it’s hard to complain when she’s being played by Katharine Hepburn, whose own outspokenness and firery personality mirror that of Jo’s. One can’t help but to think of Hepburn’s own defiance of Hollywood and society at large when she’s playing Jo, particularly her habit of wearing trousers before it was “okay” for women to do so. But modern audiences might be taken aback by Hepburn’s portrayal of Jo because she doesn’t resemble the version of Jo seen in later adaptations. Both Winona Ryder and Saoirse Ronan, who played Jo in the 1994 version and the 2019 version, respectively, exhibit a kind of passion and wit that just isn’t in Hepburn’s portrayal. Because these versions go to great lengths to showcase Jo’s stubbornness and her anger, her refusal to conform to society’s expectations, they make Hepburn’s Jo feel watered down, her fire extinguished. Even Hepburn’s own voice, so distinctive and loud, is softer and meeker in Little Women.

This is, of course, not Hepburn’s fault. The story doesn’t allow for her to really let go, to emotionally revel in any kind of emotion that isn’t happy and grateful and content. Meg is going to marry Mr. Brooks? That’s inconvient, but it turns out fine. Amy is going to Europe with Aunt March instead of Jo? That’s fine too, afterall, Amy deserves it more. Beth dies? Well, it’s sad, but she’s looking down on them and smiling from heaven, so that’s fine too. Every time Jo encounters an obstactle, a moment that should move the story along and change her in some way, she simply accepts what’s happening without much care. The movie seems to be saying, very loudly, everything is okay. It’s fine. It’ll be fine.

Little Women may not strike at the hearts of modern audiences the way it did with audiences during the turmoil of the 1930s. It may feel too simple, too clean. Too okay. For those who desire conflict and darkness and pain, this movie offers none of that. But for others, those who may need an umbrella during a sun shower, or a hand to hold when theirs is empty, 1933’s Little Women might be exactly what they’ve been looking for.

Score: 20/24

Planes, Trains and Automobiles (1987)
Director: John Hughes
Screenwriter: John Hughes
Starring: Steve Martin, John Candy

You’d be hard-pressed to name a more beloved Thanksgiving movie than the late John Hughes’ Planes, Trains and Automobiles (1987). For many, the film has a virtual monopoly on the holiday’s cinematic canon (sorry, Charlie Brown) and endures as quintessential post-feast viewing. And, while Hughes’ other holiday flicks such as National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation (1989) and Home Alone (1990) would go on to become living room mainstays in their own right, the king of crowd-pleasers’ first foray into holiday fare remains his most timeless. 

The film stars Steve Martin and the late John Candy as an oddball pair of unlucky travelers determined to make it home for Thanksgiving—in spite of the gamut of transportation delays thrown their way. The two are total opposites: Martin plays Neal Page, a prickly, Scroogean advertising executive who wants nothing more than to be left alone, while Candy plays Del Griffith, a chatterbox shower-ring salesman who Neal can’t seem to shake. Needless to say, Neal and Del’s perceived incompatibility makes for some delightful screwball comedy as they continually find themselves stranded. 

Anyone even marginally familiar with Steve Martin or John Candy’s work can see how inspired their casting was for a film with such a premise. These guys are their characters, and their characters are them. Their chemistry is palpable even as Neal’s standoffishness increasingly and hilariously chafes up against Del’s inability to take a hint. Hence the litany of endlessly-quoted one liners—some scripted, some improvised—which have cemented themselves in the American pop-culture lexicon (“Those aren’t pillows!”). 

And yet such iconic moments were ultimately conjured by Hughes’ brisk and gratifying script, as well as his willingness to let the performers make it their own. As Kevin Bacon—who has a brief cameo at the beginning of the film as the guy Neal races to hail a cab during rush hour—once recalled, “He wasn’t precious about his own dialogue. He was precious about his characters.”

One might recall the motel scene—in which Neal ruthlessly explodes on Del, only for Del to soberly reaffirm his security with himself, with all his idiosyncrasies and eccentric tendencies—as one of many in the film that cracks you up while tugging at your heartstrings. This is where the film hits a sweet spot: one where farcical comedy is balanced seamlessly with sincere emotional drama. Martin and Candy elevate the latent sentimentality in Hughes’ script to surprisingly moving ends, and Hughes relishes in it. Perhaps more so than National Lampoon’s and Home Alone—both of which Hughes wrote, but did not direct—Planes, Trains and Automobiles’ direction seems to be in perfect harmony with its performers, mining Martin and Candy’s brilliance for all it’s worth.

Above it all, Neal and Del’s ultimate connection—one between two lonely men who, under different circumstances, would likely remain total strangers—is what maintains the film’s continued resonance. We care about these characters because, in a way, they are us. Perhaps even more so today than in 1987, the tedium of our routines so often alienates us from our neighbors. It would not be difficult to imagine a contemporaneous version of this film sending up the impersonality of ridesharing and the gig economy. (When was the last time you made meaningful conversation with your Uber driver? What if you were now stuck with them?) 

Underneath all the film’s warm-and-fuzziness is a sort of universal truth, an exercise in empathy that has maintained its potency. As Hughes once said about the film: “I like taking dissimilar people, putting them together, and finding what’s common to us all.” These themes are not new, but they are universal—and when delivered skillfully and sincerely, comedy can become quite affecting. Planes, Trains, and Automobiles is one of those films that feels like a rarity in big studios’ output today and yet timeless nonetheless, which is perhaps why it is remembered so fondly. This is a comedy that set a standard for the genre—even if, at the end of the day, it was all in the holiday spirit.

Score: 19/24

Written by Connell Oberman

You can support Connell Oberman in the following places:

Twitter: @ObermanConnell
Instagram: @connello_22
Substack: ConnellOberman

Frozen (2013)
Directors: Chris Buck, Jennifer Lee
Screenwriter: Jennifer Lee
Starring: Kristen Bell, Idina Menzel, Jonathan Groff, Josh Gad, Santino Fontana, Alan Tudyk

A frozen tundra reveals itself under a dramatic score inspired by Sámi-style singing. A world of jagged ice and frost sparkles under the Aurora Borealis. This is a world of magic, made apparent immediately by the children playing. A young princess, Elsa (Eva Bella) can wield snow from her fingertips. Her non-magical sister only sees the joy in this – gone are the themes of female jealousy that were once a Disney mainstay.

But the joy turns sour as Elsa strikes Anna (Livvy Stubenrauch) with an errant ice surge. Once the kingdom’s magical trolls are consulted and Anna is saved, it is decided that the only thing to do is wipe Anna’s memory and hide Elsa’s gift. Elsa is forced into a life of isolation, concealing her true power. After her parent’s death Anna also becomes subjected to this lonely way of living.

Now Spring, Anna (Kristen Bell) and Elsa (Idina Menzel) are grown. They wake equally giddy and nervous that it is coronation day, and their secretive castle has to open its gates to present its new ruler, Queen Elsa (Idina Menzel), to the surrounding kingdoms. Two young women without a King around should be easy to take advantage of. Many dignitaries seem to think so anyway.

The stress of the evening affects the sisters in quite different ways. Princess Anna (Kristen Bell) falls head over heels in love with Prince Hans (Santino Fontana), and Elsa (Idina Menzel) goes on an ice spewing rampage, buries Arundel in a thick blanket of snow, and runs into the forest without a coat. Though, rumour is, the cold doesn’t bother her anyway.

Anna (Kristen Bell) entrusts the kingdom to Hans (Santino Fontana) as she strides out into the snow drifts to search for her sister. A chance meeting with ice merchant, Kristoff (Jonathan Groff) changes the course of her journey and of her life.

Remarkably, Frozen (2013) was the first Disney film to be directed by a woman. Jennifer Lee wrote the screenplay and joint-directed (alongside Chris Buck) both Frozen and Frozen II. These films made her the first woman to direct a film that made over $1billion. And Frozen attracted awards like moss on a rock troll’s behind.

Wreck-It Ralph (2012) was Lee’s first screenplay, and was a very clear indicator of Lee’s ability to write Disney princesses with a difference. Vanelope is more like Elsa than most other Disney princesses before her. Both have a potentially dangerous trait that threatens those they love, both need to accept themselves and embrace their power. Both choose to live alone in a castle of their own design.

There is no doubt that Frozen has been an unmitigated success. In fact, the only animated Disney film to beat it at the box office is its own sequel. The franchise has spawned short films, a mini LEGO series, more merchandise than anyone thought possible, a West End Show, and a critically acclaimed sequel (which is arguably better). Frozen became a Disney classic overnight, and it remains as popular as it ever was.

There are many reasons why Frozen appeals to audiences so much. Obviously, beautiful animation, humorous animal (or non-human) sidekicks, adult jokes flying over kids’ heads, and belting tunes are all to be expected of a Disney endeavour. But there is something about Frozen that gives it an edge over its Disney counterparts and has given it this remarkable staying power.

Perhaps it was the decision to have two female protagonists? The traditional fairy tales of yesteryear with damsels in distress are out of vogue. Yes there is distress in Frozen, but these damsels are going to sort it out by themselves. The non-prince charming, Kristoff (Jonathan Groff) is a hugely likeable love interest, but he is not there to fix Anna’s (Kristen Bell) problems, and no one but Anna can save Elsa (Idina Menzel).

By having two female protagonists, Disney have allowed the more traditionally klutzy, hopeful romantic Anna to tick the boxes for fans nostalgic of the golden era. While Elsa is aromantic, empowered, a warrior. She just has to learn to love and trust. By splintering the facets of a traditional Disney princess, the creative team managed to create something with a wider appeal.

Disney has always been divided into two distinct categories: princess stories marketed at girls, and non-human (cars, toys, animals, elements) stories marketed at both girls and boys. Even with the more modern attitudes of audiences today this hasn’t really changed. If you look at it cynically, girls can be expected to enjoy stories with boys in while boys are not expected to enjoy the stories of girls. While the leads are women in Frozen, there is a strong supporting cast of male characters. Roguish Kristoff, reindeer Sven and magical snowman Olaf (Josh Gad – a man whose expressive and distinctive voice was made for animation) add humour and allow the film to be marketed at both boys and girls. There are monsters, wolves and bogey jokes aplenty for those who are less interested in love and all that mushy stuff.

Another strength of the film is the moving part of the villain. Up to the high note of “Let it Go”, we would be forgiven for thinking perhaps Elsa is the baddie. She doesn’t let Anna live her life, curses a kingdom to freeze to death, and sculpts ice weapons with a glint in her eye. The twist in Frozen, as the audience realises where the real threat lies, is up there with The Sixth Sense or The Usual Suspects. Nearly.

The past decade has seen Disney (and Disney Pixar) films shift to reflect the more progressive tastes of its audiences. Big Hero Six (2014), Inside Out (2015), Moana (2016), Luca (2021), Encanto (2021), and Turning Red (2022) are all coming-of-age stories that explore complex themes of grief, self-worth, difference, and acceptance, with barely a whisper of a love interest among them. While huge successes, none of them have managed the dizzying heights of Elsa’s success. But it is a fair suggestion that Elsa paved the way for these films of empowerment and learning to love yourself.

Frozen is a universal film with themes that are far reaching and enduring. Elsa shot to the top spot, and no matter what she says, she’s showing no signs of letting it go.

Score: 20/24

Taxi Driver (1976)
Director: Martin Scorsese
Screenwriter: Paul Schrader
Starring: Robert De Niro, Jodie Foster, Cybill Shepherd, Albert Brooks, Harvey Keitel

On a steamy street in New York on a hot summer night, a cab pulls into frame, followed by an intense shot of eyes bathed in neon light and a psychedelic rendering of the city’s ceaseless hustle and bustle. The American New Wave, or New Hollywood, was brimming with films that brought arthouse sensibilities to the American mainstream, and Martin Scorsese’s neo-noir crime thriller is among the best. More than a vehicle for star Robert De Niro, Taxi Driver represents a convergence of genre and style from across place and time, painting a dreary picture of its contemporary America that still resonates today.

Taxi Driver was the second of Scorsese’s films to feature Robert De Niro, and it’s the movie that really put Scorsese on the map as the best filmmaker of the “auteur generation” – the group of 70s American filmmakers who grew up loving and studying film in a way their predecessors hadn’t. By 1976, Scorsese had made Boxcar Bertha and Mean Streets, and his film Alice Doesn’t Live Here Anymore had been nominated for Oscars. But Taxi Driver took his career to another level, scoring him the Palme d’Or at Cannes and another round of Oscar nominations.

The story, written by Paul Schrader, follows a Vietnam veteran named Travis Bickle who tries his hand at driving cabs. He is tortured by an inability to sleep and a lack of human connection beyond what he sees on TV or in a porno theater, which drives him to derangement, causing him to direct his inner conflict outward through violence. 

While Travis is not a character to be admired, he is certainly one audiences can sympathize with. He’s socially awkward, demonstrated by his early encounters with Cybill Shepherd’s Betsy, a worker on a Presidential campaign staff, and a talk with fellow cabbie Wiz, to whom Travis can’t quite explain his feelings of estrangement. In his search for connection, he stumbles upon a child prostitute played by Jodie Foster, and feels a misplaced sense of patriarchal protection for her. It’s through Foster’s character that Travis ultimately finds his outlet for his angst, creating a moment that challenges our preconceptions of heroics. His views, however, expressed through his journal, are abhorrent, filled with racist rhetoric and descriptions of New York’s citizens as scum and vile. 

But De Niro plays such a morally complex character to a T. De Niro is widely recognized for his charm, so it’s quite interesting to see him adapt himself to fit Travis’ socially inept characteristics. He has an ability to utilize his charisma as a front, like when Travis initially seduces Betsy, leaving viewers all the more embarrassed on his behalf when he doesn’t understand why she was upset he brought her to see a porno on their first date. De Niro captures Travis’ sense of alienation and impotence, but finds a way to humanize him. Part of the authenticity of Travis comes from Scorsese allowing improvisation, particularly with De Niro. Arguably the film’s most famous scene is entirely improvised, as De Niro stands before a mirror and says, “You talkin’ to me?”

Jodie Foster really steals the show in her role, one that had to be approved and monitored by child welfare professionals. She rehearsed and improvised with De Niro around New York, and feels entirely authentic and bright within the film despite the dark nature of her character. In one of her best scenes, she has breakfast with Travis at a diner wearing hilarious green sunglasses, and her teenage self is finally allowed to be expressed. She eats a jelly and sugar sandwich while Travis goes on about how she needs to be home with her parents, and in typical teenager fashion she calls him a square and starts talking about how she and her pimp get along because they’re both Libras. Speaking of her pimp, he’s played by Harvey Keitel in a wig sporting a ten-gallon pimp hat, and while it’s understandable why he doesn’t play a larger role, Keitel’s performance makes you wish he did.

Taxi Driver also serves as a symbol of the convergence of commercial American filmmaking, European new waves, classic Hollywood auteurism, and exploitation films. The film borrows from The Searchers through the protagonist’s quest to save a woman who may not want to be saved, and there are direct visual allusions to Psycho through an overhead tracking shot in the finale, drawing parallels between Travis and Norman Bates. A shot onto dissolving alka-seltzer has been compared to Godard’s Two or Three Things I Know About Her, and clearly functions as a symbol of Travis’ simmering violence. It also features raw, unbridled violence that had been traditionally reserved for Italian horror and Corman flicks. The shot of Murray Motson’s mangled hand, an effect created by Dick Smith, and the spurts of blood from Travis and others elevated cinematic violence from The Godfather to a more intimate level.

Taxi Driver is also notable for being the final film score from legendary composer Bernard Hermann, best known for Citizen Kane and Psycho. His score creates the neo-noir atmosphere as Travis prowls the streets of New York for fares. Perhaps the best of the score is the music of the dramatic finale, punctuating the bloody shootout. It’s a classic, studio-era type of sound with tense horns, oscillating strings, and foreboding timpani drums. It’s a beautiful piece that gives audiences the sense of slipping into a dream, causing one to wonder if the scene or the film’s epilogue are even real. Hermann passed mere hours after completing the score, which earned him a posthumous Oscar nomination.

Through a modern lens, one might wonder what the value of Taxi Driver is? Its perspective from a nihilist racist feels particularly useless in a post-Trump world, where we seem to be constantly subjected to the inner thoughts of the more deplorable denizens of society. There’s an entire rant in the film, delivered by Scorsese (standing in for an injured actor), about shooting a woman in her vagina for having an affair with a black man. The value lies in its indictment of society’s treatment of men, how the structural patriarchal forces that create the idea of masculinity fail to truly care for America’s men, and how that leads to them finding inappropriate outlets for their feelings because they don’t know how to express themselves. America is still facing the problem of disaffected men turning to violence against women, or larger forces like schools or churches, and we seem to be out of ideas for how to solve it. Taxi Driver doesn’t offer solutions, but clearly elucidates the problem in incredible cinematic fashion.

Taxi Driver’s legacy may not endure. It was great for its time and place, but Scorsese is more popularly associated with Goodfellas and Casino, which feature two other spectacular De Niro performances. But Taxi Driver is an essential film when examining the career of Scorsese and De Niro, and the American New Wave. Its darker themes, violence, and style make it a landmark work in the history of American cinema.

Score: 21/24

Recommended for you: Where to Start with Martin Scorsese

The Wolf of Wall Street (2013)
Director: Martin Scorsese
Screenwriter: Terence Winter
Starring: Leonardo DiCaprio, Jonah Hill, Margot Robbie, Matthew McConaughey, Kyle Chandler, Rob Reiner, Jon Bernthal, Jon Favreau, Jean Dujardin, Joanna Lumley, Cristin Milioti

What is there to say about Martin Scorsese’s three-hour, instant classic The Wolf of Wall Street that hasn’t been said before? If you were young in 2013, you would understand this film as culture itself. From putting Margot Robbie on the map to introducing the song “Jordan Belfort” to every high school basement party in America, Wolf of Wall Street defined a generation of simultaneously wealth-obsessed and wealth-repulsed youth.  

Scorsese succeeds at a have your cake and eat it too approach to satire. His sprawling biopic of financial criminal and multimillionaire stockbroker Jordan Belfort (Leonardo DiCaprio) is both braggadocious and reflective. On the heels of the 2008 financial collapse and the subsequent Occupy Wall Street movement in 2011, the film examines America’s obsession with wealth – the good, the bad, and the drug-fueled. Belfort’s lifestyle enthrals us – the mega yachts, three-day parties, even the crime. The film approaches everything with a larger-than-life approach. The score is boisterous, we hear a foul-mouthed Belfort narrating his trials and tribulations with the feds, and everything is dialed up to the nines. 

We do see the eventual fall of Belfort, but it’s as stylized as ever. In perhaps one of the most iconic scenes in modern film history, Belfort is confronted with the gravity of his financial crimes and the eventual ruin of his criminal empire. Just as this realization kicks in, so do the quaaludes that Belfort popped 90-minutes ago. Earlier in the film, Belfort brags about the many benefits of the retro drug but now he has entered a new phase of intoxication: the “cerebral palsy phase.” Belfort drags himself like an infant toward his white Ferrari. We see him crumble to the ground; gone is the the fast lifestyle of a degenerate and in his place lays a helpless man at the mercy of his own hubris. 

The scene is both funny and ironically sobering. We finally watch Belfort answer for his crimes in the most physical sense. Scorsese plays perfectly with tension and humor. We hold our breathe, wondering if Belfort will make it to his Ferrari or drive off into the sunset. We don’t root for him, but we have no choice but to be at the mercy of his storytelling. 

The script functions as a mere skeleton for this ambitious film, making it an absolute treat for any viewer. Leonardo DiCaprio delivers one of his career-best performances. He skilfully adlibs his way through Belfort’s life, adding many a “fuck” or New York slang to make the character feel that much more real. On his first day at a brokerage firm on Wall Street, Belfort goes to lunch with his magnanimous boss, Mark Hanna (Matthew McConaughey). Like everything they do, the scene is filled with popping pills and downing champagne in the middle of the day. At one point, the two even break into full song in the middle of the restaurant. The best part of the scene? It’s almost all improvised. McConaughey and DiCaprio have an undeniable chemistry that makes the scene impossible to look away from. They play up on each other’s ludicrous energy and take turns trying to outdo the other’s performance, all for the benefit of the viewer. 

More than ten years after its release, The Wolf of Wall Street holds up as an incredibly fun watch and a decisive voice on class in the United States. It underscores how the people at the top will exploit the system until the bitter end and those at the bottom will be forced to pay the price. Scorsese is a master of humor and pacing, making the three-hour run feel like nothing. 

Score: 23/24

Recommended for you: Where to Start with Martin Scorsese

The Nightmare Before Christmas (1993)
Director: Henry Selick
Screenwriter: Caroline Thompson
Starring: Danny Elfman, Chris Sarandon, Catherine O’Hara, William Hickey, Glenn Shadix, Paul Reubens, Ken Page, Edward Ivory

If a single word can be used to describe “Tim Burton’s” The Nightmare Before Christmas, it would be “alternative”. Released two years before Pixar’s Toy Story, it was Disney’s first feature-length animated film to not be produced in the traditional animation style, though Disney initially had the film released under their sister company Touchstone Pictures as they thought the film to be too frightening for young children. In the past three decades, The Nightmare Before Christmas has become the alternative watch at Christmas for those of a spookier disposition, whilst at Halloween it has been the perfect choice for those who can’t stomach hardcore horrors. Lead character Jack Skellington has become the unofficial mascot of alternative goth/emo kids, with Jack’s spooky face peering out of all manner of black clothes, rucksacks, mugs, etc. – how convenient of Disney to end Nightmare‘s banishment once they realised how much money they could make from it through merchandise.

The Nightmare Before Christmas started as a poem by Tim Burton (inspired by a department store’s hasty changing of the Halloween decorations to Christmas ones), which he pitched to Disney whilst he was working for them as an animator in the 1980s. It was quickly rejected by them, though they soon changed their tune after he left and directed the successful blockbuster Batman (1989). After the adaptation of the original poem by Michael McDowell, Caroline Thompson fleshed out the bare bones story into something of an almost mythological quality.

The brief prologue informs us that we are going to learn where holidays come from, before we are taken through a door with a pumpkin on it. Jack Skellington is the king of the pumpkin patch and is the figurehead of Halloweentown, the place responsible for carrying out Halloween celebrations in the human world. After another massively successful Halloween, Jack is showered with praise but he is left feeling empty. Achieving everything he can through his frightening prowess, he is left wishing to do more as he takes a solemn walk through the woods. After wandering all night, he comes across the other holiday doors, and after one catches his eye he tumbles headfirst into the bright and snowy world of Christmastown.

Completely enamoured with all of the sights and sounds of Christmas, he can’t help but to desperately try and understand more about the Christmas Holiday. However, Jack’s natural spookiness means he struggles to grasp the true nature of Christmas; in this quest to understand this new fantasy, Jack decides that Halloweentown should take over the Christmas celebrations this year, turning the season into a wholly horrifying and macabre affair.

It is still greatly debated whether The Nightmare Before Christmas is truly Tim Burton’s. He is credited as producer and the author of the original idea, but it was very much Henry Selick in the director’s chair and Caroline Thompson behind the typewriter. He was not a constant presence in the animation house, only popping into the San Francisco studios a few times a year. His original poem only outlined three characters in the film (Jack, Zero and Santa Claus), whilst it was McDowell’s and Thompson’s writing, alongside the creativity of the animators, that produced the bulk of the monsters and ghouls that inhabit Halloweentown. Burton’s influence and supervision is, however, evident within the gothic artistic style directly inspired by his original sketches, which is comparable to his other animated works such as Corpse Bride and Frankenweenie. He also very much had the final word when it came to the script – after he was told the original intended ending, he hated it so much he had to leave the room to kick a hole in the wall.

The most important influence Tim Burton had on The Nightmare Before Christmas was leaving Danny Elfman in charge of its music. Writing most of the principle songs before the script was finalised using the brief story points of Burton’s poem, Elfman stacked 10 distinct songs into the 76-minute runtime, transforming the movie into a veritable opera. Through Elfman’s musical prowess and emotional intelligence, a great deal of heart was put into the songwriting process, with Elfman confessing that he strongly empathised with Jack’s character. Being a member of the band Oingo Boingo, Elfman achieved massive success but was beginning to feel fatigued and was feeling the temptation of a change in work. Using this self-reflection and his own vocal talent (after asking Burton for Jack’s role), Elfman’s musical direction transformed The Nightmare Before Christmas from something akin to a Halloween TV Special into high art.

The exquisite quality of the music accentuates the other highlights of the production, and as the film behaves like an opera, most of the crucial plot points and characterisation are contained within it. Fan favourites “This is Halloween” and “What’s This” draw attention to the creativity of the art design of the different holiday locations: Christmastown is straight out of Dr Seuss whilst Halloweentown is an homage to the greats of German Expressionism, filled with the most delightfully gruesome inhabitants.

The operatic style of the storytelling is what makes Nightmare a modern fairy tale. The story is extremely economical with initially little motivation given for the characters’ moods and actions: Jack wants more than just frightening people because he says so in “Jack’s Lament”; Sally loves Jack because she sings that she does so in “Sally’s Song”. In this simplicity, they become the mythical creatures straight out of ‘tales as old as time’. Given the charm instilled by the vocalisation achieved by the cast, particularly by Catherine O’Hara as Shock and Sally, it is no wonder that after 30 years these characters are still adored. A great demonstration of the masterful orchestration of the talents of voice and animation is “Oogie Boogie’s Song”, in which Ken Page has the time of his life bringing to life one of Disney’s coolest villains with his casino-style lair being one of the most memorable in the history of stop motion animation.

In the 30 years since its release, stop motion animation has come along in leaps and bounds. It may lack the smoothness of more recent Laika releases, but such imperfections only add to a film with bags of charm. With this passage of time, it becomes more clearly evident that The Nightmare Before Christmas was a flash of lightning captured in a bottle. With the support of Tim Burton, Selick’s burgeoning aspirations, Elfman’s earnestness, and a cast of Burton favourites, The Nightmare Before Christmas remains the most perfect little Halloween treat for all to see. Jack Skellington is not just the King of the Pumpkin Patch, after 30 years he is the King of the Goths.

Score: 23/24

Ratatouille (2007)
Directors: Brad Bird, Jan Pinkava
Screenwriter: Brad Bird
Starring: Patton Oswalt, Lou Romano, Peter O’Toole, Brad Garrett, Janeane Garofalo, Ian Holm, Brian Dennehy, Peter Sohn, Brad Bird

Who could have predicted the sheer brilliance and originality that bursts out of a movie which stars a rodent with dreams of becoming a chef? If you’re yet to see the masterpiece that is Ratatouille (2007), the premise will seem entirely bizarre, but in that lies the answer to this Pixar release’s global success.

Today, Disney’s Pixar is a household name and a critically acclaimed company. Back in 2007, the studio had fewer than 10 features under their belt, though all were well-respected animated offerings. Ratatouille (2007) followed the release of classics like Toy Story (1995), Monsters, Inc. (2001) and Finding Nemo (2003). Pixar were simply outdoing themselves time and time again. Ratatouille would prove to be their eighth success in a row. The film, directed by Brad Bird, is now the seventh highest-grossing Pixar film of all time; it is one of Pixar’s biggest success stories.

Filled with witty French sarcasm and an abundance of iconic imagery, it is hard to think about food without thinking of the ‘little chef’ hidden under Linguini’s toque. The animation team behind Ratatouille proved that they had refined their skills since the studio’s first release, providing us with beautiful visuals and breathtaking details in every frame. From the gorgeously animated Parisian skyline to the immense attention when curating hundreds of scurrying rats, it is hard to believe Pixar only had nine months to animate the entire 111-minute feature. Ratatouille (2007) transports us into the life of a rat, being small but feared, harnessing skills learned from A Bug’s Life (1998) to build an entire world that humans would never usually get to experience.

Pixar combine their sheer brilliance when it comes to animation with an outstanding pack of unique voice actors. Patton Oswalt lends his voice to Remy, known for his comedic timing and goofy undertone. Oswalt is undeniably likeable, offering a self-assured but never prickly persona. Alongside Lou Romano as clumsy human side-kick Alfredo Linguini, Brad Garrett as the almighty voice of reason Gusteau, and the iconic Peter O’Toole as the sinister villian Anton Ego, the cast overdelivers. As a group, they present distinct stylings that embody the very essence of their characters and add to the film’s overall charm.

This film is a whimsical display of encouragement and belief: if Remy the rat can achieve his dreams and work through adversity, so can you. Pixar encourage this inner self belief in many of their features – Up (2009), Brave (2013) and Luca (2021), to name a few. Ratatouille (2007) asks you to look past what’s on the outside and embrace what lies beneath. Remy’s relationship with Linguini evolves into one of the most adorable duos in Pixar history. Their love and admiration for one another ensures Ratatouille is one of the most human stories, despite the lead character being a rat.

Director Brad Bird was hot-off-the-press from his 2004 success The Incredibles when he co-directed Ratatouille. From the outside it is hard to see the similarities between the two films, but they both champion showcasing your talents, embracing your own ability and sharing that ability with other people. Remy is encouraged to hide in the shadows and suppress his passion for food just as Mr. Incredible must hide his true self from the public. Both characters have a deep passion but have been ridiculed or judged by the world, resulting in doubt and disbelief. Of course, both features showcase the journey to relative greatness.

Composer Michael Giacchino, whose music you’ve heard in The Incredibles (2004), Up (2009), Inside Out (2015) and Coco (2017), won a Grammy for his work on Ratatouille (2007) along with a nomination for Best Original Score at the Academy Awards. Adding French flair to orchestral sounds with guitars, violins and even an accordion, the score has the power to independently tell a story without any added visuals.

The most impactful sound from the feature’s score is the title song ‘Le Festin’, (meaning ‘The Feast’ in English), which brings to life the soul of France with the effortless voice of French artist Camille. Catapulting audiences into the world of Ratatouille within an instant, Giacchino composes thematically, using the primary themes from the film to curate his music; each theme present in the text is accompanied by music that elevates the movie to a whole new level.

And like leaving the best mouth full until last, all of this hard work and dedication allows Ratatouille to present the most mouth-watering food you’ll ever see on screen – you can almost smell the French cuisine.

Ratatouille (2007) is a film about identity. People may judge or discriminate against you due to your appearance or background, but what truly matters is what’s inside. This film has unlocked the secret ingredient to producing a timeless classic, everyone has the potential to follow their dreams and succeed… even Parisian rats.

Score: 24/24

Written by Lydia Bowen-Williams

Website: Film Probe

Prisoners (2013)
Director: Denis Villeneuve
Screenwriter: Aaron Guzikowski
Starring: Hugh Jackman, Jake Gyllenhaal, Viola Davis, Melissa Leo, Maria Bello, Terrence Howard, Paul Dano

Denis Villeneuve’s taut and gripping 2013 thriller Prisoners follows several characters in the aftermath of any parent’s worst nightmare: child abduction. When two young girls go missing on Thanksgiving, desperate father Keller Dover (Hugh Jackman) enlists the help of Detective Loki (Jake Gyllenhaal). After the prime suspect is released due to a lack of evidence, Loki is forced to take matters into his own hands, as the film explores how far humankind will go to protect the ones we love.

Hugh Jackman is utterly convincing as a despairing father, driven to the edge by an unforgivable act of evil. We feel his sense of urgency and utter desperation as he races against the clock to find his daughter and her friend. Gyllenhaal is great as a ruthless police detective, his own concealed rage simmering beneath a facial twitch, which grows more pronounced with frustration. He is scarily good at embodying anger behind a controlled façade, his carefully slicked-back hair falling loose during an explosive interrogation of a suspect.

Paul Dano is infuriating as the prime suspect who may or may not have information about the girls’ disappearance. Keller’s frustration at the man who clearly has learning difficulties is painfully palpable, as Dano’s Alex Jones refuses to offer any information despite the brutal violence he is subjected to.

Throughout the film, director Denis Villeneuve poses a thought-provoking question: can extreme violence ever be justified? During an interview at the Toronto International Film Festival, Villeneuve described Prisoners as “a movie dealing with fears and angers that we all have inside ourselves. It’s a moral conflict”. The film will likely divide viewers on how sympathetic a character Keller is, but his questionable interrogation methods clearly come from a place of desperation and grief. Villeneuve realistically and powerfully presents a range of reactions from the grieving families. From Jackman’s sheer rage, to the hopelessness and inertia of his wife (Maria Bello), Prisoners follows the director’s prior film Polytechnique (2009) in illustrating how there is no “correct” way to respond in the face of such tragedy.

The cinematography is perhaps the film’s most notable element, with the dark and oppressive lighting reflecting the bleakness of the subject matter. Iconic British director of photography Roger Deakins has since become a regular collaborator with Villeneuve, and his cinematography for this film received a well-deserved Oscar nomination. Jóhann Jóhannsson’s score is also essential in establishing the sombre mood, and punctuates the narrative with a weighty sense of dread and foreboding. Jóhannsson would go on to work with Villeneuve across subsequent releases Sicario and Arrival, earning BAFTA nominations for both.

The film’s labyrinthine plot is creatively reflected by the maze imagery throughout, and the story twists and turns throughout its 2-hours and 33 minutes with no dull moments. There are some truly chilling and heart-stopping sequences that remain impactful a decade on.

Prisoners marks Denis Villeneuve’s first English language film, previously receiving critical acclaim for his 2010 Middle Eastern drama, Incendies. He has now become a prominent figure in the modern sci-fi genre, making Blade Runner 2049 and Dune among others.

The way in which the film thought-provokingly tackles an impossible moral dilemma makes Prisoners a superior addition to the crime thriller genre. In keeping with the title, we are held captive throughout and remains in its grip long after the credits have rolled.

Score: 20/24

Written by Gala Woolley

You can support Gala Woolley in the following places:

Twitter – @GalaWoolley
Blog – screenqueens.co.uk