دسته: فیلم‌های آینده و شایعات

  • The Decadent Splendour of The Great Beauty

    The Decadent Splendour of The Great Beauty



    This feature is the second in our summer series, La Dolce Vita: A Celebration of Italian Screen Style, in partnership with Disaronno.

    Not once during Paolo Sorrentino’s sprawling urban symphony, The Great Beauty, does Jep Gambardella (Toni Servillo) ever hop in a car. Walking is the man’s only means of travel – an occupation and a spiritual imperative. Bedecked with an endless collection of blazers, pocket squares and two-toned brogues, the 65-year-old one-time novelist-turned-occasional reporter saunters into the film as a flâneur, strolling aimlessly around Rome in a state of heightened receptivity to all the stimuli of its streets. 

    The world reveals itself to those who travel on foot,” Werner Herzog once mused, and so it is for Servillo’s professional wanderer, who doesn’t seem to live in so much as commune with the city. No walk is ever wasted, every corner hides something strange: a nun picking oranges from a tree; a child whispering from inside the crypt of a Renaissance temple; a giraffe in the Baths of Caracalla. 

    Sorrentino trades a tourist-friendly travelogue for a more disquieting, entrancing journey, and that’s his primary achievement. The Great Beauty makes a familiar place seem new and surreal; it’s that rare film that’s susceptible to the magic of things that often go unnoticed. 

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    Like Federico Fellini, whose 1960 film La Dolce Vita stands as The Great Beauty’s undisputed touchstone, Sorrentino was not born in the Italian capital but moved there in his youth, and he immortalises it with the look of an outsider stunned by all its riches and mysteries. This is his fifth feature lensed by Luca Bigazzi, who here traffics in the same elegant crane and dolly shots that marked their earlier collaborations. 

    But where the sinuous camera movement in 2008’s Il Divo and 2011’s This Must Be the Place might sometimes register as ostentatious, in The Great Beauty form is entirely in service of the story. As the camera glides in and out of churches, palazzos and rooftops, Sorrentino conjures a magpie curiosity for the world that dovetails with Jep’s own journey: a man who gradually awakes to the splendour that surrounds him, and turns it into a source of creation.

    Still, Sorrentino’s love for Rome is not reverential. Throughout the film there are moments – a man washing his face on the monumental fountain on the Janiculum hill, a woman reading a newspaper huddled next to a statue – that seemed designed to demystify its centuries-old architecture. Enthralled by the city as he unmistakably is, Sorrentino captures it not as an inert backdrop, but a place that exists in symbiosis with its residents. 

    For a work haunted by death – one that opens with a fatal case of Stendhal Syndrome – The Great Beauty accrues a life-affirming power. If there’s anything truly decadent in Sorrentino’s universe that’s not Rome and its weathered monuments, but the fatuous, navel-gazing aristocrats Jep fritters time with. It stands to reason that his wardrobe – replete with the fedoras and brightly coloured jackets of a mid-century dandy – should set him apart from the more sombre outfits of those around him. 

    Like everything else in this spell-binding film, Daniela Ciancio’s costumes aren’t beautiful for beauty’s sake, but suggests a vitality that befits the story of a rebirth. Their old-fashioned charm is in keeping with Sorrentino’s grand design. The Great Beauty isn’t a mere elegy for lost time; it’s a tribute to an ancient, more open way of travelling through and looking at the world.

    To find out more about Disaronno’s 500-year anniversary* celebrations, visit dis​aron​no​.com, and join us at Regent Street Cinema on July 4 and 5 for special free screenings of The Great Beauty and La Notte, with complimentary cocktails from Disaronno.

    *1525: The legend of Disaronno begins.





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  • The Fantastic Four: First Steps + Ralph Ineson | What Does That Nature Say To You | The Green Ray (1986)

    The Fantastic Four: First Steps + Ralph Ineson | What Does That Nature Say To You | The Green Ray (1986)


    Orange background with white text "TRUTH & MOVIES" podcast logo. Three film stills below: woman in kitchen, man by lake, person in red jacket with flowers.

    On Truth & Movies this week, we discuss The Fanastic Four: First Steps and spoke to its star Ralph Ineson. We then review the latest Hong Sang-Soo film, What Does That Nature Say To You and finally, for film club, revisit The Green Ray.

    Joining host Leila Latif are David Jenkins and Kambole Campbell.

     

    Truth & Movies is the podcast from the film experts at Little White Lies, where along with selected colleagues and friends, they discuss the latest movie releases. Truth & Movies has all your film needs covered, reviewing the latest releases big and small, talking to some of the most exciting filmmakers, keeping you across important industry news, and reassessing great films from days gone by with the Truth & Movies Film Club.

     

    Email: truthandmovies@tcolondon.com

    BlueSky and Instagram: @LWLies

     

    Produced by TCO



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  • How Film Music Comes to Life: Inside Abbey Road

    How Film Music Comes to Life: Inside Abbey Road



    Studio One’s recent renovations have added major technical innovations in the control room. A 20-year old 72-channel Neve recording console has been replaced with an 84-channel upgrade. With each of the players or instruments miked individually, engineers are granted even greater flexibility during the final mixing process. Having access to stems of each instrument gives the creative team flexibility to edit different cuts of score much more easily if a scene is trimmed or extended in the final cut.

    The more stuff we do separately now – recording strings separately from brass, percussion – that helps in the editing process, because you can make edits work,” Dudman explains. You can steal stuff from other cues to make the edit work.” 

    Studio One is capable of holding a 100-piece orchestra or choir at any one time, and the increase in recording channels available now means that, more often than not, each player is individually miked. 

    One of the nice things about the studio is that you can do things separately, put them back together and no one would know,” enthuses Barton. That’s often such a critical factor in what we do. In the dub, if the brass is interfering with the dialogue for some reason and you can’t understand a line because there’s some French horn thing over it, rather than pull down the whole music fader and get rid of it all, you can just take out the offending piece, as it were, or duck it down.”

    There are times where you know in advance that stuff’s going to change,” Dudman adds. The composer has written to one version of the picture. They’re already four versions down, but there’s no time to re-score it.” As a result, whole sections of music may be recorded to include what’s known as an artificial stop halfway through a musical cue, followed by an artificial start . That gives you a clean out and clean in,” he continues. Then you might just do a patch section that will work for the later cut and the music editor will join them all together. That’s a much more time efficient way of doing things.”

    While Studio One’s control room has seen significant changes, very little has been altered in the live room itself. In order to preserve its signature 2.3 second reverb and rich sound favoured by composers and directors alike, the 4,844 ft room has seen its Art Deco walls remain largely untouched, save for being washed. Unwilling to risk impacting the acoustics, its floor has been sanded and re-oiled as varnishing it would have altered the sound too much.

    I’ve always thought of the acoustics and science of recording as sort of part science, part voodoo,” Barton adds. What we didn’t want them to change was the voodoo, which is working very nicely.”

    As well as retaining the sonic qualities that have made the space so desirable, Abbey Road also acts as a technological time capsule of sorts. Modern mixing desks and equipment are optimised to utilise old microphones and equipment, some of which are as old as the building itself.

    We never throw anything away,” Dudman states. The Neumann U87s, we’ve got maybe 30 of those and they’re all from the 80s… Then you’ve got all the classic valve microphones, which are 70 years old – the U47s that were used on Beatles vocals. We now use those on brass and solo vocals. The rest of the chain has improved so much that when those were first invented, you didn’t hear how good they were… We’ve also got the old mixing consoles, so depending on what kind of vibe you’re after, you can move the desk into Studio One and stick 16 mics through it if you want. Nothing’s fixed in that respect.”

    The use of older recording equipment can sometimes be necessitated by the time period in which a particular project is set, as was the case during Barton’s work on an episode of the 12 Monkeys television series set in 1944 that required source music that sounded authentically old”. The priority first and foremost, however, is always quality above all else.

    Ultimately, we’re always just trying to make stuff sound good,” Barton concedes. It’s not necessarily about sounding realistic. It’s often hyperreal. Some of the old microphones have this really interesting thing where their high frequencies aren’t as pronounced. We often use words that don’t really mean very much, but they mean something to most engineers. We often say audio sounds warm’ – because of the way that the early tech was designed, it tends to have those pleasing things that are part of the sound of what we like.”

    There is, of course, an undeniably mythic quality to the hallowed studio spaces that remains perhaps Abbey Road’s biggest draw – even to those who might not be aware of it.

    That’s one of the things people say, they walk in and it does do something,” Barton enthuses. Yes, it’s the old equipment and the combination of the cutting edge as well, but the walls do a thing. There’s a thing there, and you can’t quite put your finger on it. We had a fascinating session a few years ago with a children’s choir in Studio One… The moment they started singing, their director was like, I haven’t heard them sing this well’. I think it just has that effect. You walk in and you have to bring your a‑game. People just do so instinctively.”





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  • “Life, Liberty, and All the Rest of It”: Reading…

    “Life, Liberty, and All the Rest of It”: Reading…



    Where Kaye, her proper” WASP-wife analogue, is a blonde, college-educated school teacher who (at least at the outset) loves Michael unconditionally, embodying both familial innocence and a New World” kind of feminine consumeristic contentment (she’s shown buying Christmas presents, organizing trips, going to the theater, getting ready to settle down with Michael), To Die For goes out of its way to stress that Suzanne is only partially educated (“junior college” her father reluctantly admits), and anti-maternal, a seducer of school children, a would-be working woman destined to failure by her own vanity and shallowness. As the previous quote suggests, many reviews continually emphasized Suzanne’s lack of intelligence – or, per National Review, just the right amount of dumbness” – and it’s this dimwittedness, paired with an overdeveloped sense of elitist entitlement, that leads to Suzanne’s ultimate demise. Vaguely feminist emotions stir in my breast,” David Denby wrote of this aspect of Suzanne’s character (somewhat ironically given his own misogynistic description of the character), Henry and Van Sant have hallowed [her] out, as if an ambitious driven woman needed to be exposed as a jerk. What would happen if Matt Dillon were the ambitious one?” he asks. Well, he might have been Michael Corleone. 

    At the same time, Suzanne is no Kaye either. While Kaye’s WASPy purity and innocence frame her as a potential oasis of all-Americanness for Michael, Suzanne’s surface-level similarities to Kaye are framed as a sterile trap for Larry. She’s so pure and delicate” Larry initially marvels, comparing her looks to a fragile china doll, You just have to look at her and you wanna take care of her the rest of your life.” But Suzanne doesn’t want Larry’s care, she wants independence and success, and she will kill to get it, despicable in part because the movie posits she was never smart enough to make it. When Larry asks whether she wants kids, Suzanne spits, If you wanted a babysitter you should’ve married Mary Poppins.” She’s bewitching, but deadly, a feminine monster who’s repeatedly associated with witches through cuts to Bell, Book and Candle on TV in the background and the use of Donovan’s Season of the Witch’ at the film’s conclusion. Like a witch who enchants men for her own purposes, Suzanne is hyper-performative and über-pragmatic, using the racist, classist, elitist logics of television as her yardstick for life. 

    Suzanne views her doll-like ice queen” beauty as a means to an end, weaponizing her status as an avatar for the televisual beneficence Kaye types typically represent. She religiously preserves her pallor (or her pure” whiteness in contrast to what she calls the ethnic” disadvantages of anchors like Connie Chung), constantly tries to lose the five pounds the camera adds, and wears her pastel miniskirts and kitten heels like an army uniform, no matter how schlubbily her coworkers may dress for the office. She tells everyone around her to optimize” themselves to succeed,” and finally uses trailer trash” teens to kill Larry. Lacking the excuses Michael has for his actions, she weaponizes the familiar narrative true crime tropes her Kaye-like exterior offers – innocence and victimization – turning them on her husband and drawing the cameras she so desperately craves in the process. Who are they gonna believe?” she asks primly, I come from a good family.” One review put it this way: What jury would convict such an attractive and popular TV weather girl? (ask O.J., he’ll tell you).” 

    Only Larry’s sister, Janice (Illeana Douglas), sees through this delicate façade, calling Suzanne an ice queen” and a four letter word: C‑O-L‑D, cold.” Where Michael Corleone’s signature coldness is presented as an extension of the American capitalist imperative, Suzanne’s status as an ice queen” is presented as a monstrous extension of that all-American medium of New World” modernity, television. In this sense, Suzanne’s relative coldness” is her defining characteristic and the principle that unifies the film’s themes – as Marshall McLuhan suggests, television is a cool medium, mesmeric and passifying, and, icy though she may be, it’s her avidity,” her passionate desire to make it (her failure to truly embody Michael’s businesslike New World” mentality) that fails her. She looks very fragile and delicate right?” Larry tells Janice when they start dating, But when we’re– when I’m… the details are too graphic, but she’s like a volcano.” 





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  • 28 Years Later review – Danny Boyle is finally…

    28 Years Later review – Danny Boyle is finally…



    Like a rabid zombie with a wanton desire to gorge mindlessly on its prey, filmmaker Danny Boyle has got a bloody sweet tooth for nostalgia lately. From publicly despoiling a copper-bottomed cult classic for cringey call-back kicks (Trainspotting 2), to appeasing the gold” radio crowd (Yesterday) and reframing the punk era as a dressing-up box farrago (TV series Pistol), he’s drawn heedlessly to the amber glow of youth and happier, more fruitful times of days yonder.

    You might deduce a hint of autobiography, then, in his new film 28 Years Later, which introduces a closed society of Northumbrian island dwellers who have experienced no technological or social evolution since the initial outbreak of the Rage virus that was documented in 2002’s frisky genre hit, 28 Days Later. A benign form of socialism has taken over, and this close-knit group of survivors have been able to subsist and persist via collective endeavour and unselfconscious empathy, sharing food and supplies and embracing a level of full-tilt social equality that would have a Tory grandee scoffing into his kedgeree. 

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    The British mainland, meanwhile, has been left to fester, now a global no-go territory and under strict quarantine from Europe (sound familiar?). While many of the infected have also succumbed to the ravages of time, some have also evolved into a supercharged breed that, with their non-verbal yowling and distaste for clothing, resemble a new iteration of pre-historic man. And leading the packs are the dangerous new alpha” variants, immune to the slings and arrows of the islanders and apparently the product of steroids present in the original strain.

    Where the original film leached on the bleeding edge aesthetics of the Dogme 95 movement, with its use of consumer grade digital cameras to immerse us in all the blood-vomiting detail of the urban apocalypse, this new one opts for a mix of classical high definition vistas as best to emphasise the bucolic splendor of northern England. Yet there’s still great glee taken in having us monitor the explosive exit wounds caused by arrows hitting their targets directly in the face.

    The story follows 12-year-old Spike (Alfie Williams) whose loving, burley pops Jamie (Aaron Taylor-Johnson) is making him an extra large fry-up this morning, as he’s heading to the mainland for his first foraging mission. Upstairs, his ailing mum Isla (Jodie Comer) writhes around in bed, suffering from an illness that no-one can diagnose or assist with, as there is no-one with medical training on the island. 

    Without going into too much detail, the film is as fervent in its love for the NHS and socialised medical provision as was Boyle’s 2012 Olympic opening ceremony, praising the presence of doctors even when they don’t have the tools to help those who are suffering. And it also offers a stinging critique of all those who actively yearn for the halt of progress, and what we see here is the horrible upshot of what a country would look like if indeed the clocks were to grind to a halt. 

    The first half of the film sees Spike and Jamie tooled up and ready to do battle with the infected, while the second focuses on the son’s attempts to find some relief for his mother. There are a number of references and influences at play, including fantasy franchise building like The Hunger Games movies, and some of the more outré modern folk horror offerings, such as those by Ben Wheatley. Screenwriter Alex Garland is someone who has been vocal in his love and respect for modern video games, and the dynamic here, with the insistently paternal father clashing with the rebellious son, feels like an homage to the 2018 title God of War.

    There are little suggestions of allegory and satire in the mix, but Garland has this time managed to find a nice sweet spot where meaning and message don’t choke the story as a whole. Boyle, meanwhile, shows us some of the old magic in the various action set pieces, especially the ones where the alpha and its mighty, swinging member become involved. Tonally, the film is all over the shop, but never to the point where things don’t feel fluid or coherent. Anachronism is used for humour, particularly in a climactic scene which, for this viewer, might be considered one of the most jaw-dropping and bold in recent memory. A mic-drop moment par excellence

    It’s a film which manages to have its daft thrills and convincingly pivot to wistful philosophical introspection, and while there are certainly some rough edges and unexplored plot avenues, it probably counts as one of Boyle’s strongest works this century. This one needs to do numbers to ensure that the entire trilogy comes to fruition (Nia DaCosta’s second instalment is in the can and arriving early 2026), and we can honestly say something now that we haven’t been able to say for a long time: Danny deserves your dosh.

    To keep cel­e­brat­ing the craft of film, we have to rely on the sup­port of our mem­bers. Join Club LWLies today and receive access to a host of benefits.





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  • The Bad Guys 2 review – an absolute hoot

    The Bad Guys 2 review – an absolute hoot



    We’re guessing that there’s a spreadsheet somewhere on an old company laptop in Hollywood whose rows and columns made the compelling financial case for the sequel to 2022’s mid-tier animated feature, The Bad Guys. As, on a purely vibes-based deduction, it’s not a film that too many people were either hankering for or expecting. Indeed, a review embargo for the film set for the day of release is, in the majority of cases, a red flag accompanied by a small, panicked firework display. So the odds were not in our favour.

    The surprising news, then, is that Pierre Perifel’s film – like The Godfather, Toy Story and the first Bourne sequel – joins that rarified club of film franchises where the second film is arguably superior to the first. With The Godfather and Toy Story it’s a coin toss, but in this case, The Bad Guys 2 wipes the floor with the original which, in hindsight, looks like a scrappy work in progress.

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    Mr Wolf (Sam Rockwell) is the immaculately-attired, smart-alecky leader of an inter-species wrecking crew whose skills perfectly align to make them maestros of the heist(ros). They are the archetypal, self-styled baddies, forced in the first film to go good, but now finding the job market and domestic drudgery of the strait-arrow life to be frustrating and dull. 

    All of the gang – Mr Snake (Marc Maron), Mr Shark (Craig Robinson), Mr Piranha (Anthony Ramos) and Ms Tarantula (Awkwafina) – are hankering for a cheeky bit of recidivism, when their transgressive prayers are answered as they learn of a master thief who is taking down joints and nabbing everything they can find made from the rare metal, McGuffinite. The cops are baffled, and so Mr Wolf lends his insider insight to spin the dictum, It takes a thief to catch a thief.”

    It’s a confident and spry film that actually manages to get better and better as it goes along. Perifel channels the limb-stretching physics and Picasso-esque landscape aesthetics of vintage-era Loony Tunes, while Rockwell’s voicework equals the louche, quippy charms of George Clooney in full Danny Ocean mode. 

    It’s a story about criminals who have reached a point where they do things purely for the thrill of it, desiring excess for no reason other than to have achieved a feat of thievery that exceeds all others. Which speaks directly to our modern oligarch culture. There’s a bumbling idiot character based on Elon Musk who, at a wedding of gaudy, Bezos-esque lavishness, uses an AI to identify his richest guests. And there’s also something quite subversive in how it deals with the notion of modern Robin Hoods, and how their ideals about distribution of wealth still leaves them with excessive and perhaps unearned levels of power.

    But this is, in the main, a rolicking good time at the pictures, and its interstellar finale mocks the OTT stunt work of the Mission: Impossible films as we see the Bad Guys leap on to a space rocket from a moving helicopter. Never thought we’d ever be saying this, but roll on The Bad Guys 3.





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  • Time in the Flesh: A Queer East Correspondence

    Time in the Flesh: A Queer East Correspondence



    Temporalities of Grief 

    By Soumya Sharma

    What happens when the past doesn’t leave but lingers – quiet, unresolved, and heavy? At Queer East 2025, grief and memory seemed to haunt not only the narratives but also the structure of the films themselves, written into their pacing, silences and repetitions. In Wang Ping-Wen and Peng Tzu-Hui’s A Journey in Spring, mourning is deferred, stretched and avoided through the rigid resolution of a man who continues to live according to his daily routine alongside his wife’s deceased body, in denial of her death. In Akihiro Suzuki’s Looking For An Angel, the film traces the life of a young porn star who died violently through recollections from those who knew him. In the former, grief is shaped by the quiet ache of losing a lifelong partner who had become inseparable from one’s own self; in the latter, it is moulded by a future that could have been, cut short before it could be fully experienced. Both are shaped by the unresolved weight of absence; yet one mourns the end of a shared lifetime, while the other contends with the brutality of erasure. What emerges is a sense of emotional haunting, as characters grapple with a grief-induced rupture in the temporality of everyday life. 

    Set in a lush green rain-soaked hillside just beyond Taipei, A Journey in Spring unfolds in a quiet, traditional home, seemingly untouched by modernity. Khim-Hok (King Jieh-Wen), an ageing, conservative man, and his wife Siu-Tuan (Kuei-Mei Yang, known for her iconic role in Vive L’Amour) venture up and down the mountain into town to complete errands before returning to their secluded abode. Their domestic life is punctuated by bickering and brief mentions of their estranged queer son. When Siu-Tuan suddenly dies, Khim-Hok places her body in a freezer, unable to confront her passing, and continues with his days as if she were still there. Much of his emotion is withheld; he fixes the plumbing, gets a job at a noodle shop, and sits in silence by himself. One of the few moments where his routine falters comes when he opens the freezer to add more ice. He stops, looks at her, and reaches out tenderly to touch her face. The close-up captures her features through the soft textures of the film’s 16mm medium, lending a warmth that feels both intimate and fragile. This stillness, paired with his cry, breaks the busy rhythm that has so far kept Khim-Hok’s emotion at bay. It is a gesture of startling vulnerability that breaks through his denial, making grief impossible to suppress any longer.

    When their son returns, the seclusion which had so far allowed Khim-Hok to continue living with his wife is encroached, disrupting the fragile temporal suspension of his grief. As they prepare for the funeral, the relationship between Khim-Hok, his son, and the son’s partner remains laconic and steely. In several scenes, the three men spatially occupy the frame, but they often stand apart, oftentimes the dad within the background and the couple in the foreground or vice versa. The composition itself reflects their disconnection: three people moving through the same rituals across entirely different spatial and temporal planes. This intricate choreography stands in quiet contrast to earlier scenes, where Khim-Hok and his wife moved in gentle sync. Often walking slightly apart, they still followed one another, occupying the frame with a rhythm that felt habitual and interdependent. Their shared presence grounded the frame with a quiet intimacy that now feels conspicuously absent. Just before the cremation, Khim-Hok places his wife’s body in a truck and takes her on a final journey and speaks to her as if she were still alive. Her presence is not morbid, but comforting, marking a shift from the earlier freezer scene where his denial felt desperate. Now there is tenderness, a quiet attempt to stay close and say goodbye on his own terms. In the end, the film returns to its opening shot – Khim-Hok seated before the waterfall that his wife had desired to visit together, now carrying the full weight of their shared memories and her passing. Life continues, but he remains suspended in grief, and his everyday life is shaped by absence: not the kind that fades, but the kind that settles in and lingers.





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  • The Existential Chic of La Notte

    The Existential Chic of La Notte



    This feature is the third in our summer series, La Dolce Vita: A Celebration of Italian Screen Style, in partnership with Disaronno.

    La Notte, the midpoint of Michelangelo Antonioni’s alienation trilogy”, depicts an existential crisis that is only made more explicit by the film’s gleaming surface. This iconic 1961 film captures, over a day and a night in Milan, the death of a marriage, the dubious reinvention of a city – and a glimpse of the end of the world.

    Marcello Mastroianni plays Giovanni, a successful novelist, apparently implacable, coolly kitted out in a black suit and tie. Jeanne Moreau plays his disillusioned wife, with a terrible thought she daren’t express hovering above her head. 

    The film starts when they visit a dying friend in hospital: Tommaso (Bernhard Wicki) is a liberal writer who is far more politically committed than Giovanni, and also in love with Lidia. For both husband and wife he represents the road not taken, one that is now about to close.

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    They return home to their sleek modern apartment, visit the rundown streets where they lived as newlyweds, attend a book launch, visit a jazz club and finally join a party thrown by a wealthy industrialist on the outskirts of the city. As the band plays on through the night, the capitalist worries that his way of life is coming to an end. 

    Tension, both sexual and melancholic, pulls at the air between Giovanni and Lidia, who drift through the city as the image of a perfect couple, while their marriage shatters in their hands. Antonioni captures the disconnected lovers and their city in sleek, geometric compositions, echoing the clean lines of their wardrobe. 

    Those costumes are by Biki, the couturier best known for dressing the diva Maria Callas. Lidia’s two outfits, the white sundress and jacket printed with flowers, and the black cocktail dress with the floral lace shrug form meticulous negative impressions of each other. Hers is a carefully cultivated glamour (an old schoolfriend bluntly points out that she used to be so plain”), which reflects the constructions of elegance that dominate the film: the bourgeois party, the modernist apartment. She exists in the point where chic meets respectable class conformity. 

    Pointedly, the two women with whom Giovanni strays wear outfits that echo Lidia’s. First embroidered florals on the long black gown worn by a histrionic patient in the hospital, then the chic black dress worn by an unstable woman named Valentina (Monica Vitti in a brunette wig) at the party. When Lidia removes her lace cape, the two women suddenly match, down to their short, dark hair. Lidia has anointed her own successor.

    As Tommaso says in his hospital bed, Sometimes beauty can be really depressing.” Their sophisticated world’s façade of elegance is shown to be fragile, as for Lidia, life in the shadow of a celebrity has drained her life of meaning. Outside their home, the architectural heritage of Milan is being swept away in favour of less substantial replacements, including the couple’s airless flat. 

    In an instant, a shower of rain sends the party guests scattering: losing their poise, they throw themselves (in their designer gowns), into the swimming pool. One woman rubs herself against a statue of Pan, an absurd image of frenzied decadence. 

    At the film’s sorrowful conclusion Giovanni and Lidia embrace, isolated in the modern, artificial landscape of the rich man’s golf course: Adam and Eve in a false Eden, all too neat and new.

    To find out more about Disaronno’s 500-year anniversary* celebrations, visit dis​aron​no​.com, and join us at Regent Street Cinema on July 4 and 5 for special free screenings of The Great Beauty and La Notte, with complimentary cocktails from Disaronno.

    *1525: The legend of Disaronno begins.





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  • The Fantastic Four: First Steps review – hard not…

    The Fantastic Four: First Steps review – hard not…



    In 1968’s Fantastic Four Annual #6’, Reed Richards and Sue Storm await the birth of their first child, Franklin, but the issue takes Reed away from the hospital on a desperate trip across dimensions to rescue his wife and child from a complicated birth. Stan Lee and Jack Kirby lay out an exciting and visually dazzling adventure outside of space and time with the most human stakes possible: a man moving heaven and earth for the love of his family. 

    The Fantastic Four: First Steps similarly foregrounds approaching parenthood against a background of cosmic wonder, and runs with it in a loose adaptation of Lee & Kirby’s Galactus Trilogy – first touched on Tim Story’s (awful) 2007 sequel Rise of the Silver Surfer. Shakman’s effort compresses the Four’s origin story into a TV documentary, recapping the story of four brave astronauts who were forever changed by cosmic rays, then became celebrities and ambassadors as well as scientists and superheroes. A quick and snappy montage through battles with classic foes brushes aside the Saturday Morning Cartoon villains for one more insurmountable: Galactus, a gigantic being who has to feed on planets to satisfy his insatiable hunger. To its credit, even amidst this cosmic scale, family is at the forefront of The Fantastic Four: First Steps, from its understated opening to the film’s MacGuffin being the arrival of Reed and Sue’s firstborn.

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    Not to mention this it’s the first Marvel film in a while that seems to actually strive for an individual visual identity. Particularly at home in the Baxter Building, the retrofuturistic production design is an easy highlight. It’s perhaps more Jetsons than Jack Kirby, full of beautiful analogue gizmos set amidst bold mid-century décor; the robot housekeeper H.E.R.B.I.E. with his tape deck face is one example of space age imagination. 

    Even the costume designs feel like a refreshing alternative to what’s become the norm: instead of leathery militaristic getup, the Four dress in what looks like the inner layer of an astronaut suit — a visual reminder that these are explorers and even ambassadors, not super cops. Just as the production design begins to lift First Steps out of Marvel Studios anonymity, Michael Giacchino’s score also feels full of character – appropriately grandiose in its choral refrain, lifting the action up with it.

    But as pretty as this design looks and as good as the score sounds, Shakman’s direction at times seems like it’s shying away from the pulpy sci-fi style which it apparently wants to embody. It’s hard not to think about Down With Love director Peyton Reed, who had suggested a retro take in a now decades-old pitch for a Fantastic Four adaptation. (His Ant-Man films felt like a layup for an eventual crack at this, too). Down With Love crackled with life in every aspect, an emulation of Rock Hudson flicks which both fully embraced the tone of its inspirations, leaning into whimsical visual tricks and playful banter characteristic of the time. First Steps by comparison feels like it’s missing that extra step: while the world The Fantastic Four inhabit is bright and tactile, the camerawork which captures it is decidedly less adventurous, the performances within are muted.

    Classically weird and colourful characters like Mole Man are rendered with disappointing normalcy (he’s just a guy in a suit and tie!), even if Paul Walter Hauser breathes cartoonish life into the minor role. The big bad Galactus’s design work fits in a little too neatly with the presentation of Marvel’s cosmic side as seen so far, better than the anonymous cloud of other adaptations but still not popping off the screen like he does on the page (that said, Ineson’s growling voice performance does well to carry the apocalyptic dread). Even Ebon Moss-Bachrach’s performance as The Thing feels a bit too reigned in, even if it conceptually makes sense that Shakman wishes to present his characters as a completely regular family.

    Even in the best moments of First Steps, it’s hard to feel hopeful or even positive about the Marvel movies when even their creative successes herald the arrival of more creatively bankrupt money-making exercises: we’re duly reminded that The Fantastic Four will return in Avengers: Doomsday”. You could almost extrapolate Galactus as a stand in for the encroachments of the Marvel Cinematic Universe – aware of what it’s doing and yet constantly caving to its hunger, a force which can only be delayed rather than destroyed. In this case, it’s at least put off until the post credits, the story here standing on its own until it’s time to be called up for Avengers duty.

    In isolation, First Steps is a pretty good time, even if it feels as though it could push its aesthetic into more daring territory. This makes that inevitable interference all the more frustrating: when Marvel even shows a glimpse of any kind of visual ambition, we’re told not to expect that from these characters again. Two steps forward, one step back. 





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  • Harvest + Harry Melling | Friendship | I Love You, Man (2009)

    Harvest + Harry Melling | Friendship | I Love You, Man (2009)


    Orange background with white text "TRUTH & MOVIES" at top. Three film stills below: rural scene, man in red shirt, two men in period costume. Gold circular logo bottom right.

    On Truth & Movies this week, the traditions of a village are forever changed in Harvest and its star Harry Melling spoke to us about the film. A man on the edge tries to befriend a neighbour in Friendship, and on Film club we revisit more attempts to forge connections as an adult in I Love You Man.

    Joining host Leila Latif are Hannah Strong and Marshall Shaffer .

     

    Truth & Movies is the podcast from the film experts at Little White Lies, where along with selected colleagues and friends, they discuss the latest movie releases. Truth & Movies has all your film needs covered, reviewing the latest releases big and small, talking to some of the most exciting filmmakers, keeping you across important industry news, and reassessing great films from days gone by with the Truth & Movies Film Club.

     

    Email: truthandmovies@tcolondon.com

    BlueSky and Instagram: @LWLies

     

    Produced by TCO



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