SGS On Film

Philip Kaufman’s Invasion of the Body Snatchers is an outstanding reimagining of the original 1956 movie. The Don Siegel picture felt like a dizzying portrait of McCarthyism and the subsequent Second Red Scare, which occurred from 1950-1956. Moreover, it did not wear its surrealism on its sleeve. In turn, this allowed the sheer bleakness of the concept to be gradually revealed to the audience.

At the heart of 1978 film is a genuine fear that nature and trusted figures of authority, as well as expertise, seek to supplant the crucial aspects of the human experience. The former is expressed in a vivid opening sequence that shows some space spores landing on Planet Earth. Once down here, there is a small moment that illustrates how the pod species blend in amongst our plant life. In a series of shots that feels like a strange mix of documented realism and stop motion, the tiny translucent organisms that are on multiple rain-soaked leaves form into spidery creatures then sickly green pods and finally a budding pink flower springs forth from the shoot. The scene ends with the main character Elizabeth Driscoll (Brooke Adams) picking up and admiring the fully formed pink flower from one of the pods.

The latter is articulated in many scenes throughout the picture. The most pertinent one comes in the first act of the film. After some instances where Elizabeth has expressed a change in her husband’s behaviour, her friend, Matthew Bennell (Donald Sutherland) decides to take her to see his friend and famous psychiatrist Dr David Kibner (Leonard Nimoy) at a book launch. At best, she is sceptical about the prospect of meeting Kibner because of the implications of his profession. Once there, she witnesses another woman who expresses similar concerns over her spouse’s sudden shift in character and conduct.

In the midst of this conversation with this hysterical woman, Kibner pauses and ask her, “Will you trust me, will you please trust me.” The moment feels like a stunt and Nimoy’s weak and sickly reassuring performance makes the psychiatrist seem like a carefully precise televangelist. Moreover, Nimoy’s performance also had echoes of Richard Nixon’s 1973 presidential address in which he infamously declared that “I am not a crook”, which comes from Nimoy’s confident and emphasised cadence during the scene when he is actually addressing the room.

Kibner appears throughout the film as the central representative of authority who lambastes the stories of people who claim that their loved ones have fundamentally changed. At one point in the picture, he contends that what is going on is merely a mass illusion which is essentially responsible for the breakdown of the family unit as people are not accepting responsibilities for wanting to leave their partners. However, it is revealed that he is part of the pod people as he had been transformed at some point in the picture. In a scene where two of the main characters have been captured, Kibner reveals the origin of the alien species and the implications of their new life, which gives the inherent fear of authority throughout the film a great potency. Moreover, this fear is punctuated with many little moments where Matthew attempts to call the authorities, and the audience sees that they have done subtle things to make the group of survivors look irrational in their firmly held belief that they have seen evidence of the pod people’s activities.

Aside from its primary strength of wonderfully conveying its two thematic points, the 1978 remake also succeeds because of its excellent filmmaking and the small organic moments of humanity that strengthen the underlying premise of the picture. Director Kaufman injects the film with a frantic surrealism, which manifests itself with seemingly strange cross-cutting, ordinary shots having a sense of abstract absurdity and an uneasy sounding ambient score.

A superb example of the first few mentioned qualities comes in the previously stated scene when Matthew and Elizabeth visit Kibner at a full book launch. Before conversing with the famous psychiatrist, Matthew attempts to call the police to report an incident. While this is occurring, a friend of his named Jack Bellicec (Jeff Goldblum) is having an impassioned rant about how people do not understand his poetry or artistic voice. Many of the shots of these moments feature a huge mirror in the background, which morphs the character’s faces into ludicrous forms. These few scenes and shots feel bewildering and claustrophobic, however with the use of the tall mirrors, Kaufman transformers our seemingly banal fixations and delusions into an absurdist illustration of human problems.

Finally, every so often the picture surprises in its quiet and contemplative moments, which is particularly evident in the central relationship between Matthew and Elizabeth. The health inspector cares for Elizabeth however it does not play like a one-sided sense of longing Instead, they have a deeply embedded friendship, which manifests itself in amusing scenes that show their long-standing relationship. One such scene that springs to mind is when Matthew is telling Elizabeth a story and stops half way through asking if she has heard this one been told before? In the third act, their relationship becomes romantic, and they share a hesitant first kiss, which impresses because it does not feel like a sweeping moment but instead a subdued acknowledgement and culmination between the two people.

The other little moments that stand out in the picture are ones such as when Matthew says to Jack’s wife Nancy (Veronica Cartwright) that she can stay the night at his house. In addition to when Kibner says that he sincerely believes Matthew because he has known him a long time, which gives him reason to believe his stories about the pod people. In the third act, when Matthew says ‘You’re killing us’ to his former friend, the line has much more meaning and power because of these little moments showcasing the importance of the human emotions and the connections that can arise out of them.

In the Tango, the two participants have to dance as though they are in the midst of a passionate and loving embrace, which is the complete antithesis of a pivotal sequence in the tail end of Last Tango in Paris that involves the South American dance. Instead, the scene is a forlorn and pathetic unravelling of the recently widowed central character Paul, (Marlon Brando) who earnestly comments upon the nature of the dance in a ballroom that is brimming with couples partaking in a tango competition. Paul has attempted to deal with the death of wife through a potent sexual liaison that he has with a morose and young Persian woman called Jeanne. (Maria Schneider) Earlier in the film, he crucially declares that he opposes any sense of developing a familiarity and external picture of Jeanne outside of the encounters.

With this in mind, one gets the sense that the film is an exploration of the inherent fragility of relationships through the prism of two ideas. The first is an inherent paradox within the confines of a flourishing and stable long-term relationship, which comes from the plot point of Paul’s wife Rosa committing suicide. The act leads to a fundamental Epistemological pessimism for the main character as he questions his presupposed knowledge of his wife.

Did he truly know his wife in all the years he loved and cared for her? Or are these merely illusory pearls of wisdom designed to trick one into believing that they are truly happy with their spouse? The scene where this deep seeded sense of despair is expressed is when Paul is sitting beside the decorated body of his dead wife in a darkened room. He grimly states that “Even if a husband lives 200 fucking years, he’s never going to be able to discover his wife’s real nature.”

To say that Brando’s performance in Last Tango in Paris is powerful, soul bearing and emotionally real with particular reference to the as above mentioned scene is a mere understatement. Instead, one can argue that the most fascinating aspects of his performance are the scenes where he is in the rundown apartment with Jeanne. In these scenes, Brando imbues Paul with his most captivating and hideous qualities, with his sly vocal tones, dominant and beastly physicality as well as a subtle sense of snide cruelty, which is strangely comical.

The scene where all these qualities harmonise wonderfully together is a long sequence where Paul candidly talks about a supposed incident in his past. Brando combines these previously stated qualities with a sense of melancholic reflection, which is amusingly shattered by the end of the scene when he slyly suggests that these series of memories that he is reflecting upon may not be truthful at all.

Nevertheless, one can say that writer/director Bernardo Bertolucci gives Brando’s performance substantial weight. His employment of the camera is fixed and nonintrusive as though he is capturing authentic and significant moments of a person’s life. For example, in the previously mentioned scene, Bertolucci’s has a five-minute medium close up of Brando allowing for every facial expression and gesture to be conveyed as he is telling Jeanne about stories from his past.

Elsewhere in the picture, Bertolucci’s use of the camera allows for a compelling exploration of the second idea to do with the overarching theme of the inherent fragility of relationships. This comes in the form of Jeanne’s fiance Thomas (Jean-Pierre Leaud) who is a film director. Through the course of the picture, he attempts to make a film called “A Portrait of a Girl” which is a heightened visual portrait of Jeanne’s various moments in life. As he remarks when he first sees his fiance, “We are in a film, if I kiss you, it might be cinema.” With the Thomas character, there is an introduction to the motif of idealism that manifests itself in the relationships through the course of the movie.

Thomas sees every moment with Jeanne as an idealised cinematic moment that needs direction and reinforcement, resulting in him being blind to his fiancee’s torrid affair. Bertolucci’s direction of these scenes in motion are amusing and striking. One such moment depicts Thomas describing a shot to Jeanne, which includes the camera moves, her state of mind, and the accompanying music. In this moment, Bertolucci’s camera movement follows the film director with a high and slow descending shot, which eventually falls upon his subject. The framing subtly changes as the camera momentarily matches Thomas’s twirling, which is evocative of a gentle ballroom dance.

In essence, the scene illustrates two things. Firstly, it showcases Thomas’ intensive obsession with his visual endeavour, which ultimately results in an ignorance of his wife’s actions. In turn, we see Jeanne’s new found confidence from the sexual encounter as she firmly states that she wants to improvise the scene that he is describing with a gratifying smile on her face as they immediately start filming.

At the same time, Jeanne idealises Paul and by extension the strange nature of their relationship. As she says towards the end of the film, “Do you know why I’m in love with him? He knows how to make me fall in love with him.” Before saying that she cites some of Paul’s qualities such as his mysterious nature and the fact that he is unlike anyone that she has ever met. However, the most compelling articulation of idealism contributing to the breakdown of relationships comes in the film’s final moments as Paul confesses his devotion and love for Jeanne.

The young Parisian woman is appalled by this declaration of romantic feelings because of three reasons. Firstly, she acknowledged to herself and Paul that the relationship is over because she is about to get married. Secondly, the man she held in such high esteem has disappeared. In the ruins of that idealistic perception is a man devoid of mystery, as well as someone who is ageing, desperate and repulsive. Finally, Jeanne ultimately idealised the affair as something intrinsically passionate. As she remarks at one point, “It’s beautiful without knowing anything.”

On occasion, one does get the distinct impression that Bertolucci is embarrassed by Paul’s attempts to start again with Jeanne, which is evident in the filmmaking. The best example of this is when the aged man is describing his life in voiceover, which is played over him lighting up a cigarette and walking in the midst of a swarm of dancing couples.

As he walks over to Jeanne, Bertolucci’s framing of the scene becomes ever more expansive in scope as more of the bustling ballroom is revealed to the audience, which is conveyed in a series of elegant crane shots. Crucially, Paul gets lost in the crowd of people and as a result is not in the centre of the frame. Moreover, Bertolucci cuts back to the dance sequences in rapid succession as if provide the audience with a glamorous distraction to the awkward scene that is occurring in the corner of the room. Despite this, one can feel that Bertolucci the screenwriter does not feel contempt for the Paul character. Instead, he conceives of him as a wounded animal whose ultimate end seems fitting because he will no longer need to go on in a world feeling the raw pain and loss of his wife’s recent passing.

Two scenes give this reading validity. Firstly, in the aftermath of a love scene, Paul and Jeanne share an intimate period with one another, and they start making animal noises together. The amusing moment is initiated by the former saying quite firmly, “I don’t want a name, I’m better of with a grunt or a groan for a name.” Secondly, in the previously mentioned scene where Paul is sitting beside the body of his dead wife, he says inconsolably, “I’m sorry, I don’t know why you did it. I’d do it, too, if I knew how. I just don’t know how.”

In the end, the real power of Last Tango in Paris is that it reminds the viewer how tenuous relationships can be, both in the short and the long term. It also illustrates the destructive nature of idealisation. It can cast temporary happiness however it can equally shatter the human psyche, which the tantalising last minutes of the picture only begin to show.

Ghostbusters is an affectionate remake of the original 1984 picture of the same name. It succeeds in crafting a unique interpretation of the same material while also allowing for subtle homaging and subdued franchise building. The primary virtue of the picture comes from its improvisation, which allows scenes to have an archaic energy and inherent longevity. From jokes involving a play on words to do with a classification of a pet to a tangential conversation about Patrick Swayze’s filmography; this new Ghostbusters film succeeds in its ad-libbing framework.

Kate McKinnon emerges as the most capable and strongest actress in this comedic setup. At times she mole like with her physicality, which is illustrated in moments where she randomly pops up in the middle of tense encounters. She also has an idiosyncratic manner of delivering her lines. These vary between a casual detachment and sounding like an excited teenager who is in the midst of expressing a perpetually awesome experience.

Moreover, the third act of the film has an excellent sense of wonder and awe as all the ghosts of America’s past are unleashed upon New York City. Director Paul Feig accentuates this feeling with his free moving camera moves that has many top down shots where we are witnessing the spirits like children who believe the world is gigantic and boundless. It was refreshing to experience a finale that is not marred by exhaustive action.

The only problem with the film is that it fundamentally does not reach the comedic and emotional heights of Feig’s 2011 picture Bridesmaid. Furthermore, it lacks the intrinsic universality that resided in that picture as it explored the changing nature of friendship amidst marriage and climbing the social ladder. Nevertheless, Ghostbusters still retains a unique sense of care, which is commendable in today’s oversaturated summer movie cycle.

In Born to Be Blue, the Canadian writer/director Robert Budreau valiantly attempts to reconcile the seemingly disparate qualities of the ineffaceable American Jazz musician- Chet Baker (Ethan Hawke). The result is a beautiful, idyllic and sobering affair that meditates on the complicated nature of the artistic life. In the first twenty minutes of the film, there is a black and white flashback that is somewhat romantic and dreamlike in nature. Within the sequence, the iconic Jazz artist Miles Davis (Kedar Brown) honestly critiques Baker’s performance and show. He sternly tells the young trumpeter that he should return to Jazz when he has “Lived a little.”

The criticism is a literal mantra for the film’s visual canvas, as the audience are treated to many scenic scenes that have Baker practising his trumpet in the midst of his recovery from a brutal attack. In fact, some of the film’s most striking moments are the ones that see Baker struggle in the aftermath of the physical assault. The most astounding one comes before the Davis’ flashback. Baker is sitting in a bathtub and attempting to play his instrument. The result is intense pain and bleeding from his mouth as the scene goes on. The scene is a powerful reminder of the savage nature of life and its unpredictable turns, which can ultimately fulfil the artist with a newfound optimistic striving that did not exist before.

Ethan Hawke is simply out outstanding as the titular musician. He effortlessly portrays the inherent contradictories of Baker. For example, sometimes Baker’s looked and sounded like an idealistic young boy, which contrasted sharply with his smooth flirtatious side. One scene where Hawke conveys these contrary attitudes is at the beginning of the picture. There is an extended sequence where Baker is getting to know a woman called Jane (Carmen Ejogo), who is his co-star in a film that he is making that is about his life. They both go bowling, and Jane asks him some very pointed questions about his life. Hawke’s soft-spoken vocal tones nicely contrast well with his childlike physicality, which combined with the discussed truthful subject matters make for an engaging scene.

However, Hawke’s finest moments in the picture are in the third act when he is starting to play professionally again. There is a sense of willful determinism and an obsessive sense of control in regards to his comeback that is fascinating to watch. The standout scene in the act is when Baker is performing ‘My Funny Valentine’ for a live studio album in front of an audience that is comprised of producers. At this moment Hawke shows a natural aptitude of the trumpet, which is evident by Budreau confidently framing one of his solos in a single take.

Moreover, Hawke imbues a sense of precision and emotional weight to the singing sections of the song, which fundamentally speak to the emotional experiences of life and how they can shape the artist into a confident and mature person, who can firmly channel their experiences into their work. The scene also illustrates the appeal of Chet Baker. Although he was not a technically polished singer, his voice had a distinctive rawness that always felt immediate and soul-baring.

Suicide Squad is an entertainment free dead zone. In fact, one cannot even call it a film because it plays more like a series of awkward skits that have been edited together with short vignettes that feel like music videos. In essence, the film is like a child who has discovered swearing for the first time, relishing in its apparent boundary-pushing behaviour but ultimately looking absurd and juvenile. Worst of all, when the film does occasionally feel the need to take five, it’s dramatic moments are in service to its continuous and obnoxiously stated premise- we are the bad guys.

This is a shame as there potential moments that could have been emotionally resonating however they are undercut by the film’s humour that pervades the film like Tourette’s syndrome. For example, in the third act, there is a scene where all the principal characters are in a bar. In the aftermath of a harrowing confession that is made by Chato Santana (Jay Hernandez), the inexplicably popular, attention seeking and loud mouth that is Harley Quinn (Margot Robbie) makes an inappropriate comment. The moment serves as a vital reminder that the film is devoid of any real emotional depth as it lumbers from one supposedly funny joke to the next.

At the heart of Suicide Squad is a genuine sense that the director David Ayer has been sucked into the studio whirlpool. The film’s visual scheme is drab, muddy and incredibly lacking in any creativity. Even Ayer’s reported visual flair gets lost amidst the bland proceedings. For example, in a recent Empire article, Ayer revealed that the inspiration for the smashy human fodder in the picture came from a nightmare, which he briefly sketches with the following description “There was a black pool of oil with a human shape rising out of it.”

If one were being generous, the visually arresting moments of Suicide Squad are regulated to mere seconds. During the beginning Harley Quinn vignette, there are a few interesting shots that represent fascinating cinematic interpretations of Alex Ross’ photorealistic comic book artwork. And there is a striking scene that occurs in the middle of the film that involves the Joker (Jared Leto) and Harley. The former is asking his partner for utter devotion, and Harley reciprocates via a baptism through acid, which he partakes in later in the scene. In their embrace in the acid pool, the lovers look like two people cuddling on a canvas which is accentuated with a heavy use of muted green combined with little strokes of purple and blue that surround the characters.

The moment encapsulates the problem with this interpretation of the Clown Prince of Crime. At worst Leto’s Joker comes across as a psychotic Austin Powers. However, at best one can say that his role in the film is utterly insubstantial. On a conceptual level, he feels like a confused man that can’t decide whether or not he wants to be a flamboyant, crazy person or Tony Montana from Scarface. So, he synthesises the two, and the result is a queer interpretation with flashes of brilliance such as his laugh and a tattoo of a smile that he occasionally uses to cover the bottom half of his face.

The Witch is an extraordinary film that fundamentally illustrates two things. Firstly, it strongly shows that independent cinema still has a beating heart. Secondly, it showcases the virtues of the cinematic form, which is at a crucial time when the existence of the medium is being questioned amidst the equalitarian view of content and a so-called golden age of television. On a personal level, the film represented one of those rare nourishing cinematic experiences that were I to have every year then the sad state of affairs of the cinema would be tolerable.

Before the ending credits start, there is a message that appears on screen which says, “This film was inspired by many folktales, fairytales and written accounts of historical witchcraft, including journals, diaries and court records. Much of the dialogue comes directly from these period sources.” The written declaration is the primary virtue of the Witch. Writer/Director Robert Eggers nearly reaches Kubrickian levels of exactness, with his meticulous construction of 17th century New England. In fact, at worst one could accuse the film of merely being an exercise in slavish period recreation however this is countered by Eggers’ excellent direction.

Firstly, Eggers’ framing is disciplined and poised. It allows for detailed shots of many of the environments such as the vastly tall and sinister woods, the small farm that the family inhabit and their secluded darkly brown house. Eggers holds the camera still for many moments throughout the picture, which results in an acute sense of constant confinement in the situation that has befallen the characters. Moreover, it gives the infrequent scenes of the Witch a heightened sense of terror because we are witnessing the creature and its practices in a very procedural manner without any explanation by either the creature or the people in the story.

Furthermore, Eggers has constructed an intrinsically quiet and introspective film that when watching it strikes one as intruding upon an exceptionally powerful and private prayer. As a result of this quality, seemingly ordinary sounds such as the thrashing of torrential rain, the laughter of children and the neighing of a horse heightened the senses into a state of constant uneasiness and shuddering. As much as the atmosphere and imagery, Eggers has a firm understanding of the importance sound design in a horror film. It subtly reinforces and strengthens an underlying sense of fear.

All of this sure-handed direction is encapsulated in a five-minute scene in the midst of the third act. The downtrodden central family have been searching for their only son (Caleb) who was tempted by the Witch living in the woods, and he returns to them in a weakened state. As Caleb lies in the family barn, his family stand by his side debating about their future. The sequence is chilling and indelible in its simplicity and seamless tonal changes.

At first, it starts out as a grisly display as the awakened Caleb is describing the pain and breakdown of his body while convulsing and trying to spit out a giant object in his throat, which turns out to be an apple. At this moment, the apple represents an ironic twist of fate as he lied about looking for apples earlier in the film when actually he was in the woods with his father. At the same time, the horrific image is a powerful reminder of the omnipresence and omniscience of the title character.

Then the sequence becomes serene as the young boy describes his experiences of seeing Christ and achieving a sense of peace and transcendence in the last moments of his life. Finally, the scene takes a feverish and paranoid turn as most of the family decide to renounce their eldest daughter, Thomasin who is played with captivating innocence and enthralling mischief by Anya Taylor-Joy. They do this because they believe the young girl to be a Witch who has brought about all the misfortune that has struck the family in the recent past.

Aside from the film-making, which is effortless and potent in its insular scope, the scene is also effective in conveying the central theme of the picture. There is a sense of interplay between community and religious purity that pervades the entire film. The latter can only be achieved if it is within the confines of the former. At the beginning of the film, the family get excommunicated from their puritanical community due to an unspecified religious crime. For the rest of the film, they are left to make sense of their commitment to God in the face of this event, crippling poverty and escalating personal catastrophes.

As events unfold, there is a sense of distance that develops within the family, which contrasts with their attempts to accept God’s will individually. The previously discussed scene shows the family temporarily join in a communal prayer in order to free their son of the pain that he is experiencing. However, the overwhelming suspicion and isolation that has divided the family up until to this point fundamentally prove to be their downfall as events take a far more sinister turn in the tail end of the picture.

Warcraft or as it is overeagerly referred to in the UK, Warcraft: The Beginning is an equally fascinating and maddening experience. The former is due in part to the world building, which is delivered with a certain amount of efficiency. For example, the film opens with a shot of a human and orc taking up arms against one another. The shot is framed like a shootout from a Sergio Leone Western and encapsulates the eternal nature of the conflict wonderfully.

Additionally, there is a great rawness and weight to the Orc world, which was primarily brought to life with computer-generated effects. This aspect is most indicative in a one on one showdown within the horde towards the tail end of the picture. There is a character’s death, which is ascetically horrific. The unfortunate opponent is beaten mercilessly to a pulp and is left looking like someone whose very being has been severely violated in death, which results in him looking pathetic and sunken.

Nevertheless, the latter is principally a result of a messy screenplay. One does get an impression that director and co-writer Duncan Jones wanted to focus equally on the human and orc races. However, this results in an underdeveloped affair that does not intrinsically serve one character well. Even the one person who does have some spark of interest, which comes in the form of Medivh (Ben Foster) is elevated by the actor’s performance.

Foster plays the current Guardian of Tirisfal like fiery youth whose anger and power is fearsome. At the same time, he imbues the character with a captivating weariness, which manifests itself in precise facial expressions where he looks frail and old. The character is a compelling portrait of a wizard that never forgets the inherent humanity behind the spellcaster.

Notwithstanding, Medivh suffers under the weight of the everything or nothing approach of the film. Later in the picture, it is revealed that his allegiances change because of a stated reason. But this element is played more as a stupefying mystery rather than genuine conflict, which with the latter approach would have given rise to an interesting thematic point.

One could infer that the leaders of each of the sides are fundamentally leading their races to a spiritual extinction. However, the idea has no development as the rationale of the two figureheads in question is either not presented or thinly sketched. This crucial problem speaks to the underlying structural problems of the film, which along with an excess of clunky exposition mark the picture at its most frustrating. Jones should have picked a side and focused more on their motivations which would have resulted in a much more seamless and satisfying undertaking.

Carol is an extraordinary film that renders declarations and sentiments of love utterly meaningless throughout most of its running time. Instead, mere momentary glances, small gestures and behavioural quirks are the embodiment of the central romance between the titular character Carol Aird (Cate Blanchett) and Therese Belivet. (Rooney Mara)

For example in their first meeting, Therese is looking around the department store where she works and when the camera brings Carol into focus, the young woman has a look of utter curiosity, when staring at her. The moment is strengthened when the older woman notices the glance and the two share a meaningful encounter.

Rooney Mara is exceptional as the young Therese. Her shy and naive nature are captivating as the film primarily explores her feelings during the deeply passionate weeks that she spends with Carol. Her subtle character arc is excellent as she initially starts out as a person who views things from a distance and is quick to saying yes without any forethought. However, by the end of the film, she has undergone maturation that results in her having a better sense of self and new- found confidence in her form of expression, which is photography.

Cate Blanchett is equally compelling as Carol. Her appearance and demeanour throughout the film brought to mind the classic Hollywood starlets of yesteryear. One particular sequence that is emblematic of this quality is when Therese is in a car and takes a photograph of Carol in the middle of a snowy shopping trip. The picture that she takes is revisited throughout the film and essentially represents Carol at her most appealing.

However, this strong facade is shattered in a scene in the tail end of the film. Carol tries to appeal to her husband that she has to see her daughter and be in her life. Blanchett’s tear-inducing fragility and shaken vocal tones make the scene stand out as a culmination of Carol’s underlying sadness.

Nevertheless, the beginning sequence of the picture is the scene that illustrates the before stated strength of the film. One of Therese’s friends interrupts a lavish dinner that she is having with Carol. There are a series shots that are focused on the subtle details throughout the scene.

For example, Therese’s eyes darting back and forth between her male friend and most crucially, a shot of Carol’s gloved hand resting upon Therese’s shoulder as she bids them both farewell. The shots in the scene speak to the film’s deft cinematic portrait of the small moments in relationships that have resonance and meaning for the people in the midst of it.