There are many criticisms that could be rightfully levelled at James Gunn: that his humour is puerile; that his aesthetic is chaotic; and that he was a disaster on Twitter. But watching his new era of Superman come to the screen, it’s clear the man does know how to have fun.
Rather than a dour, trauma-based origin story, his Superman kicks off with the Man of Steel (played by David Corenswet) already an established figure, known and loved across the globe as one of many “meta-humans” who populate this reality. His alter ego, Clark Kent, is scoring front pages at The Daily Planet, and he’s three months into a steamy romance with Lois Lane (Rachel Brosnahan).
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But all is not well in the Kryptonian household, as Superman has just suffered his first defeat, thanks to the Lex Luthor (an almost-impressively awful Nicholas Hoult) led clan. He’s also in geopolitical hot water, having prevented Boravia from invading its neighbouring country, Jarhanpur, despite Boravia technically being a US ally. Corenswet is a more charismatic on-screen presence than predecessors Henry Cavill and Brandon Routh, and as such does better with the quippier dialogue than when being asked to deliver bilge about what it means to be human.
Because just as this poptastic, colour-saturated, zinger- and needle drop-filled movie seeks to distinguish itself from the sepia-toned sociopathy of Zack Snyder’s reign, this Superman also distinguishes itself by fucking hating America.
While Lois remarks that Superman sees the best in every person he meets, the film itself is spilling over with misanthropy. Gunn, evidently not having fully worked through his brief social media cancellation and subsequent firing and rehiring by Disney, fills the screen with corrupt politicians and journalists, internet trolls, his fellow superheroes are corporate sell outs and even the comic’s sweet Jimmy Olsen (Skyler Gisondo) is kind of a douche.
Aside from Lois and Hawkgirl (Isabela Merced), women are selfie-obsessed bimbos, idly gossiping or cast into hellish incarceration for the sin of being mean about men online. But most uncomfortable of all is the conflict between Boravia and Jarhanpur, where sweet brown children beg Superman to save them as soldiers prepare to gun them down. The official line is that this was all conceived of long ago, but needless to say, given the ongoing genocide in Palestine, it feels in woefully poor taste.
While looking for nuance in Gunn’s insights into the state of the world at large is like asking a horse for directions, and unsurprisingly the silliest aspects of the film are its best. Robots having existential crises; a mischievous super-powered puppy; Nathan Fillion with a blonde bowl cut; and the film’s MVP, Edi Gathegi, as the perma non-plussed Mr Terrific.
A spiralling massacre taking place while Noah and the Whale’s Five Years Time drops feels like a retread to the Rocket Raccoon and Groot fight in Guardians, but to Gunn’s credit, sticking to what he’s good at is far more amusing than the inevitable CGI smash-fest these films are contractually obliged to descend into.
There’s promise here. A broader cinematic universe that feels cohesive, filled with amusing cameos and, for the first time in years, a DCU that feels like it has a faint pulse are all very welcome. But whenever the film strains to address Big Ideas, it’s painful. Gunn may be keen to move out of Snyder’s shadow and the fascistic embodiment of American exceptionalism behind, but if this is the alternative, it might be time to look for salvation elsewhere.
A review of The Secret Agent (O agente secreto) by Kleber Mendonça Filho. The best film of the Cannes Film Festival. A triumph on every level. #Braziliancinema
In the pantheon of American cinema, few films have left as indelible a mark as One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. Released in 1975, the film not only swept the major categories at the Academy Awards but also deeply embedded itself in the cultural consciousness. Fifty years later, its themes of institutional control, rebellion, individuality, and the thin line between sanity and madness remain as potent and relevant as ever.
As we commemorate this monumental anniversary in 2025, Cinema Scholars takes a deep dive into the fascinating journey of how this iconic film came to life, from its literary origins to its legacy as one of the greatest films ever made.
Jack Nicholson as Randle Patrick ‘R.P.’ McMurphy in a scene from “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest” (1975). Photo courtesy of United Artists.
Beginnings
The story of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’sNest begins with Ken Kesey’s groundbreaking 1962 novel. The book drew inspiration from his time working the night shift at a psychiatric facility and his participation in government-sponsored LSD experiments. Kesey crafted a powerful narrative about individuality versus authority, told through the eyes of the silent observer, Chief Bromden. A critical success, the novel quickly gained a cult following for its unflinching look at the horrific and dehumanizing effects of institutionalization.
Kirk Douglas was captivated by the novel. To such an extent that in 1962, he acquired the film and stage rights. He intended to portray the lead character, the rebellious Randle R.P. McMurphy, in both productions. The play had a modest run, but Douglas was convinced the story could reach new heights on the big screen. He spent years trying—and failing—to get the film made. Studios balked at the controversial content and bleak tone. It wasn’t until 1971 that Kirk’s son, the up-and-coming actor/producer Michael Douglas, convinced his father to allow him to produce the movie. Kirk Douglas spoke to The Guardian in 2017:
“My father, Kirk, had acquired the rights to Ken Kesey’s novel in the early 1960s and developed it into a Broadway play, with him playing the lead character, RP McMurphy. He tried for years to turn it into a film, but it never got any momentum. Meanwhile, I was at university in Santa Barbara and was very politically active, what with the Vietnam war going on. I loved the book: it was a brilliantly conceived story of one man against the system. I had never thought about producing, but I told my dad, “Let me run with this”
Publicity photo of Michael Douglas on “The Streets of San Francisco” (1975). Photo courtesy of ABC Television via Public Domain.
Michael Douglas initially optioned the film to director Richard Rush, who was unable to secure financing. Eventually, in 1973, Douglas announced he would co-produce the film with Saul Zaentz under the umbrella of Fantasy Records’ new film division. Zaentz loved Keasy’s book and wanted him to rewrite the screenplay. Keasy eventually withdrew from the project due to creative differences over casting and the overall narrative.
Pre-Production
Lawrence Hauben and Bo Goldman were eventually hired to write a new screenplay. This time from the third-person point of view. This was opposed to Keasy’s version, which was told in the first person and from the mind of Chief Bromden (Will Sampson). Hal Ashby was hired to direct the project. But he was quickly replaced by Milos Forman after he fled Czechoslovakia for the United States. Things had come full circle as Forman was Kirk Douglas’s first choice to direct over ten years earlier.
Forman, who was struggling with mental health issues at the time, was holed up in New York City. Staying at the famed Chelsea Hotel, Douglas and Zaentz sent Forman a copy of Keasy’s novel. The director didn’t realize this was the project that Kirk Douglas had hired him to direct ten years earlier. Regardless, Forman loved the material, later stating in 2012:
“To me, [the story] was not just literature, but real life, the life I lived in Czechoslovakia from my birth in 1932 until 1968. The Communist Party was my Nurse Ratched, telling me what I could and could not do; what I was or was not allowed to say; where I was and was not allowed to go; even who I was and was not”
Jack Nicholson and Will Sampson on the set of “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest” (1975). Photo courtesy of United Artists.
Douglas also knew that authenticity would be key to grounding the film. He and Zaentz scouted locations across the country before settling on the Oregon State Hospital in Salem, Oregon—an actual mental institution that not only served as the filming location but also provided an atmosphere that was impossible to replicate on a soundstage. It was also the setting of Keasy’s novel. The hospital’s progressive and eccentric director, Dr. Dean Brooks, agreed to let the production film on-site, and even appeared in the movie as Dr. Spivey.
Jack Nicholson
Kirk Douglas had held out hope that he could reprise his role as McMurphy for the film version. However, by the early 1970s, at age 59, he was deemed too old. The search for the perfect McMurphy was exhaustive. Several major stars were considered, including Gene Hackman, James Caan, Marlon Brando, and even Burt Reynolds. But it was Jack Nicholson, fresh off his Oscar-nominated role in Chinatown, who ultimately won the part. The relationship between Kirk and Michael Douglas would be strained for many years over this.
Nicholson brought a wild-eyed unpredictability and fierce intelligence to McMurphy. The actor blended rebellion with vulnerability in a way that captured the essence of the character. His casting would prove pivotal. Not only did it mark a career-defining role for Nicholson, but it also set the tone for the ensemble cast. Nicholson did extensive research for the role, which included spending time with patients in a psychiatric ward and observing electroshock therapy.
Supporting Cast
The supporting cast was a mix of established actors and fresh faces. Danny DeVito (Martini) was the first to be cast as he also played the part on Broadway. Christopher Lloyd (Taber) and Brad Dourif (Billy Bibbit) were virtually unknown at the time, yet each delivered unforgettable performances that launched their careers. Dourif’s portrayal of the stuttering, emotionally fragile Billy earned him an Oscar nomination.
Brad Dourif stars in “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest” (1975). Photo courtesy of United Artists.
Chief Bromden was played by Will Sampson and was referred to by Mel Lambert (who portrayed the harbormaster in the fishing scene). Lambert, a used car dealer, met Douglas on an airplane flight when Douglas told him they needed a “big guy” to play the part of the Chief. Lambert’s father often sold cars to Native American customers and several months later Lambert phoned Douglas to say: “The biggest sonofabitch Indian came in the other day!” The rest is history.
Casting Nurse Ratched proved to be difficult. Angela Lansbury, Anne Bancroft, Geraldine Page, Ellen Burstyn, and Jane Fonda all turned down the role. The character was cold, manipulative, and emotionally repressive—not a part many actresses wanted to take on. Eventually, Lily Tomlin was cast. However, Forman became interested in the relatively unknown Louise Fletcher, and the change was made. Her quiet, composed demeanor masked a chilling authority that made Nurse Ratched one of the most memorable and terrifying antagonists in film history.
Filming
After a week of rehearsals, which included co-existing with the institutionalized patients, principal photography on One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest began on January 13, 1975, in Salem and Depoe Bay, Oregon. Many of the actors fully immersed themselves in the performance, often staying in character when not filming. Brooks, in his capacity as hospital director, assigned a patient for each cast member to shadow. Some of the supporting players even slept on the wards at night. Douglas later found out that many of the patients were criminally insane. Michael Douglas spoke to The Guardian in 2017:
“The other insane decision Saul and I made was to shoot the film in an actual mental hospital in Oregon in January, when it gets dark at three in the afternoon….He (Dean Brooks) wanted to incorporate his patients into the crew. We ended up with a number of them working in different departments. I didn’t realise until later that many of them were criminally insane. We had an arsonist working in the art department”
Dr. Dean Brooks and Jack Nicholson in a scene from “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest” (1975). Photo courtesy of United Artists.
The production was not without its challenges. Forman, known for his meticulous approach, often clashed with cast members, especially since the director refused to show his actors dailies. This incensed Nicholson in particular, who at one point stopped speaking with Forman altogether. Haskell Wexler, the film’s cinematographer, was fired by Forman over creative differences and replaced by Bill Butler. Both were nominated for Academy Awards.
The shoot was grueling, running over schedule and over budget. At one point, Nicholson famously accepted the BAFTA Award for Best Actor for Chinatown while filming in the Oregon State Hospital and still in character as McMurphy. Nicholson, surrounded by his castmates, delivers an unhinged acceptance speech that had the British audience both baffled and amused. It was a testament to just how deeply he had immersed himself in the role. Zaentz, who was personally financing the film, came up with the additional $2 million needed to complete the picture.
Post-Production
Once filming wrapped, the challenge of shaping the raw footage into a coherent and emotionally powerful film fell to editor Richard Chew. The decision to use natural light, handheld cameras, and long takes gave the film a documentary-like feel. Combined with Jack Nitzsche’s haunting score, the film maintained a delicate balance between realism and stylized narrative.
One of the biggest hurdles during post-production was pacing. Forman and his team wanted the story to unfold at a deliberate tempo, allowing the audience to experience the oppressive monotony of institutional life. Editor Sheldon Kahn worked closely with Forman to trim the fat without losing the soul of the story.
While United Artists had initial reservations about the tone and length of Forman’s final cut of the film, early test screenings of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest proved to be encouraging. The audience response was overwhelmingly positive, which set the stage for a groundbreaking release in 1975.
Release and Reception
One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest had its world premiere in Chicago on November 19, 1975. It was the second-highest-grossing film released that year in the United States and Canada at $109 million, and the seventh-highest-grossing film of all time at the time. As it was released in November, most of its gross was in 1976 and was also the highest-grosser for the calendar year 1976 with rentals of $56.5 million. Worldwide, the film grossed over $163,250,000 on a $4 million budget. It was the highest-grossing film released by United Artists up to that time.
Critically, the film was also a success, although some major critics of the time did have reservations. Famed critic, Roger Ebert, stated in 1975:
“Milos Forman’s One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest is a film so good in so many of its parts that there’s a temptation to forgive it when it goes wrong. But it does go wrong, insisting on making larger points than its story really should carry, so that at the end, the human qualities of the characters get lost in the significance of it all. And yet there are those moments of brilliance.”
Later, upon reflection in 2003, Ebert would change his tune a bit, putting the film on his ‘Greatest Movies’ list, and stating:
“It was the first film since “It Happened One Night” (1934) to win all five of the top Academy Awards, for best picture, actor (Nicholson), actress (Louise Fletcher), director (Milos Forman), and screenplay (Lawrence Hauben and Bo Goldman). It could, for that matter, have won, too, for cinematography (Haskell Wexler) and editing (Richard Chew). I was present at its world premiere, at the 1975 Chicago Film Festival, in the 3,000-seat Uptown Theatre, and have never heard a more tumultuous reception for a film (no, not even during “E.T. The Extra-Terrestrial” at Cannes)”
Saul Zaentz, Jack Nicholson, Louise Fletcher, and Michael Douglas posing with their Oscars at the 1976 Academy Awards on March 30, 1976. Photo courtesy of the Los Angeles Times, CC BY 4.0, via Wikimedia Commons.
Legacy
Half a century later, One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest remains a touchstone of American cinema. Its themes of resistance to oppressive authority, the sanctity of the individual spirit, and the cruelty of bureaucratic systems continue to resonate in today’s society. The film has been preserved in the National Film Registry and frequently appears on lists of the greatest films of all time. It’s also inspired countless parodies and homages. The Nurse Ratched character even received a Netflix origin series, Ratched, in 2020, evidence of her lasting impact.
In 2025, we honor not just a movie, but a cultural phenomenon. One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest endures because it dares to challenge power, elevate the voices of the silenced, and remind us that the fight for dignity and autonomy is always worth waging. From a novel that sparked controversy to a Broadway adaptation, to a film that made history, One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest remains, five decades on, a triumph of art and vision.
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The Making of ONCE UPON A TIME…IN HOLLYWOOD (Click Here)
Walking to Bermondsey from London Bridge, you pass through a long tunnel. “Am I going the right way?” you might think to yourself, but you forge on, eventually emerging from the darkness, out into the open. The same principle can be applied to your destination at the other end: The Arzner. As the UK’s first LGBTQ-focused cinema, The Arzner provides a dedicated space for queer representation on screen, a dark screening room in which greater understanding of yourself and others can come to light.
An inviting presence in the centre of Bermondsey Square, The Arzner opened its doors in April. Through its floor-to-ceiling windows, a stylish, spacious and homely bar area can be seen, and it’s evident at first glance that they’re proud to be so visible. This building has a long history as a cinema space, and part of the site conditions is that it remains one. “I live around the corner, and I used to come here when it was a cinema before” says co-founder Simon Burke, whose background is in hospitality. Piers Greenlees, the other half of the equation, comes from the film world. On the festival circuit over the years, he would see great LGBTQ+ films debut and resonate with audiences, and yet they’d fail to filter down to general audiences. “Queer films will always struggle to get onto the big screen, because studios don’t believe that there’ll be an audience for them,” reflects Greenlees. “They’ve got to be packed with big names or massive stories – they can’t just be simple, relatable stories that a lot of audiences can connect to”.
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The pair’s first venture – nearby queer-focused pub and events space The Rising – opened last year to warm reception. When the opportunity to do something with the Bermondsey Square cinema site came up, it was a no-brainer. “Film is a tough business, but the added focus on this being a cocktail bar makes it a more commercially viable space, which I think is what the previous management struggled with.” says Burke. Alongside the expected staples, The Arzner serves up a formidable selection of charmingly-themed cocktails, each named after important figures in LGBTQ+ cinema history, ranging from Marlene Dietrich to Wong Kar-wai.
The Arzner – both the house cocktail and the venue – are named after Dorothy Arzner, a seminal figure who from 1927 to 1943 was the only female director in Hollywood. The decision to christen the venue after her came after a lot of thought and consideration. “It was important for us to have a lesbian voice,” says Burke. “No queer cinema is widely distributed enough, but lesbian films haven’t been as celebrated as those focusing on the gay male experience. Dorothy Arzner was publicly out for her entire career, and that was important to me, along with how much of an impact she had”.
Greenlees and Burke haven’t come across a similarly LGBTQ-dedicated cinema venue anywhere in the UK, or even in the US, and no one that they’ve spoken to knows of an equivalent space either. “In the same way as you have a dedicated French cinema in London in the Institut Français, you have us for queer cinema” says Greenlees.
Collaboration and conversation are at the core of what the Arzner team is building, having already fostered strong relationships with distributors that focus on queer titles such as Peccadillo, Outplay, and TLA – and they’ve begun dialogues with London’s coterie of queer cinema specialists about future possibilities. The key to The Arzner’s dream, and the likelihood of their success, is that they don’t want to supplant what’s already been built in the capital by film clubs such as Pink Palace, Bar Trash, and Funeral Parade, but instead to provide a home for queer cinema that exists year-round.
In hindsight, it is not surprising that the film’s nostalgic rendition of 1962 Hong Kong left such an indelible influence on an entire generation of cineastes. In the 2000s, Wong’s formal and narrative restraint set him apart from the increasingly grandiose cinematic ambitions of both Chinese and Hollywood studios. During this period, his peers like Ang Lee and Zhang Yimou choreographed complex fight scenes on picturesque vistas, interspersed with charged moments of intense melodrama. Wong resisted any temptations towards manufacturing maximalist spectacles. Even compared to other works in his oeuvre, In the Mood for Love is noticeably lacking in kinetic frenzies of violence or bursts of passionate intimacy. Instead, the film consists of long takes where characters, no more than one or two at a time, appear in the shot: writing, eating or sitting in plumes of cigarette smoke. In close-ups, yearning stares and brief moments of physical contact are in full focus. In the wide shot, lonesome figures walk away into the distance.
Of course, the film’s lasting legacy is more than just a mood board reference. At the turn-of-the-century, Wong’s magnum opus exists in contradiction to the promises of a new age. As the internet instantaneously connected billions of users around the globe, In the Mood for Love realized an interpersonal connection that transcended the framework of forums, chat rooms or video calls. For 25 years, generations of viewers raised in cyberspace continue to resonate with a deceptively simple narrative of a love affair that never comes to fruition. In the wake of unfettered economic globalization and the explosion of WiFi access around the world, Wong swam against the tides of digital excess. Except for a few phone calls and a telegram, signs of modern technology are absent from the film. By placing us in the past, divorced from our connections to the distractions of the present moment, Wong mines for the raw essence of a feeling.
The protagonists never get to unleash their desires on screen. In the hands of another filmmaker, Leung and Cheung would’ve likely been directed to throw themselves into each other’s arms, undressing in a steamy climax to relieve the 90 minutes of simmering sexual tension. Against all conventions and instincts, Wong instead pulls his two star-crossed lovers apart. There is no scandalous affair, just a fleeting slip into a fantasy that never truly plays out. With the film’s conclusion in mind, all the instances of controlled affection, the silent stares, the late-night writing sessions and the tame re-enactments of adultery feel even more erotic. The couple don’t end up riding off into the sunset together, but the time they shared as neighbors has left a seismic impact on their lives. Like idealized memories that stray further from the truth each passing day, each of Wong’s images revel in the saturated shadows of a nostalgic mirage.
In the Mood for Love clearly bears an important personal meaning for its director. What was probably intended as a love letter to a bygone era of Hong Kong’s history, a construction of childhood scenes where gossiping family members played Mahjong all night long, has now mutated into a mournful treatise to luxuriate in fading pasts. Whether it is a person, a place, or a memory, every frame of Wong’s masterwork allows viewers to get lost in their own sinkhole of longing. Recent box office and critical hits like the Daniels’ Everything Everywhere All at Once or Celine Song’s Past Lives are evidence that Wong’s impulse for nostalgia remains as widespread as ever. Though the former is far more direct in its homage to Wong’s film, both grapple with visions of what could’ve been. A vivid recall of fond memories and the invention of alternative futures might be our best recourse in dealing with an overstimulating, and overbearing present.
In The Mood For Love + In the Mood for Love 2001 will screen at venues across New York and London this summer.
On Truth & Movies this week, we discuss new releases Jurassic World Rebirth and The Shrouds, and speak to David Cronenberg about his latest film. Finally, for film club it’s a Club Little White Lies members’ pick – we revisit 1983’s Videodrome.
Joining host Leila Latif are Hannah Strong and David Jenkins.
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.
Have you ever heard of The Wilhelm Scream? It might just be the most famous sound effect in the history of Hollywood. Sound effects are among the most critical yet often overlooked elements that contribute to a successful movie. Even early filmmakers realized the important role that sound effects played in drawing an audience “into” a film and making them suspend their disbelief.
However, since this process usually tends to happen subconsciously, sound effects often don’t get the same respect that other film elements might garner. There are a few people, for example, who mention them in the same vein, while praising a film’s cinematography or musical score.
However, in the history of cinema, there’s one definite “star” in the category of sound effects. It’s one that even the casual movie-goer should have no trouble recognizing. You can hear it in literally hundreds of films, and it’s become sort of an in-joke within the movie industry. It goes by the name of TheWilhelm Scream. Yet how exactly did this sound effect become so popular, and where did it come from?
Ben Burtt
Let’s start by talking about the gentleman who made The Wilhelm Scream famous. His name is Ben Burtt, and he’s one of Hollywood’s top sound men. Having worked on dozens of movies, he’s been responsible for the sound design of the Star Wars movies, the Indiana Jones movies, as well as most of the other films directed by Steven Spielberg and George Lucas. He also created sound effects for many of Pixar’s films.
Along the way, Ben Burtt has been nominated for twelve Academy Awards and has won four times. Burtt is also the person who is responsible for the lightsaber hum in the Star Wars films, which is a film projector idling combined with feedback from a broken television set. Burtt is also the man behind Darth Vader’s breathing, which is Burtt himself wearing an old Scuba regulator.
In the late 1950s, which was way back before Burtt became incredibly successful in his chosen field, he was just like any other kid who loved going to the movies. While there, he became aware that he had a knack for remembering different sounds. He also noticed that all the movies made by Warner Bros. had a very distinctive scream as part of their soundtracks.
The “Wilhelm’s” Origins
Usually, this distinctive sound was uttered by some poor unfortunate cowboy who may have fallen from a great height or had been shot by an arrow in an Indian attack. Burtt remembered one film in particular: The Charge at Feather River, released in 1953 and directed by Gordon Douglas.
Original Movie Poster for ‘The Charge at Feather River’ (1953). Photo courtesy of Warner Bros.
This particular film featured the same cry of anguish no less than three different times. One of the characters was named “Private Wilhelm.” It was just his bad luck to be hit in the leg by an arrow. This prompted him to let loose the scream which would one day be heard around the world.
When Burtt grew up, he embarked on a successful career in the movie business. However, he never forgot that particular scream. Having access to the Hollywood stock sound effects libraries, he began to do some research. Lots of movies had used the scream he remembered, but Burtt was interested in finding the very first one. This turned out to be from the Warner Bros. western Distant Drums (1951) with Gary Cooper.
“Man Being Eaten by an Alligator”
Looking through the original sound effects for Distant Drums, Burtt came across a reel with a very unassuming title: “Man Being Eaten by an Alligator.” The reel was edited into a scene that featured a soldier being attacked by an alligator. This was straight from the stock footage library.
When Burtt played back the reel, he realized he had struck Hollywood gold. There was the famous scream he knew so well, as well as the sound effects coach giving cues to the actor who recorded it. Even though it was uncredited, some people claim the scream belonged to Sheb Wooley, who went on to record the novelty hit song “Flying Purple People Eater” in 1958.
Burtt called the sound effect “The Wilhelm Scream,” which was based on the character’s name in Charge at Feather River. Additionally, as a sort of private joke, Burtt soon began to include it in every film that he worked on. It would go on to become his signature.
A hapless character about to be eaten by an alligator in ‘Distant Drums’ (1951). But not before letting loose with the first instance of “The Wilhelm Scream”
The “Wilhelm” in Star Wars
Here are three instances from the original Star Wars films where you can hear the legendary Wilhelm Scream:
Star Wars (1977). Just before Luke Skywalker and Princess Leia swing across the chasm in the Death Star, a stormtrooper is shot and falls in.
The Empire Strikes Back (1980). In the battle on the ice planet Hoth, a rebel soldier screams when his big satellite-dish laser gun is struck by laser fire and explodes.
Return of the Jedi (1983). During the battle on Jabba the Hutt’s ship, Luke slashes an enemy with his lightsaber. The bad guy lets loose a Wilhelm as he falls into the Sarlac pit.
“The Wilhelm Scream” in Other Films
Soon, other Hollywood sound designers picked up on what Burtt was doing and started inserting the Wilhelm into their movies too. It soon became Hollywood’s audio version of “Kilroy Was Here”:
Now, the “Wilhelm Scream” is everywhere. At last count, over 200 films feature it. In addition to the Star Wars and Indiana Jones series, here’s just a partial list:
Aladdin, Batman Returns, Beauty and the Beast, Blades of Glory, The Fifth Element, Gremlins 2, Hellboy, Hercules, Howard the Duck, A Goofy Movie, Kill Bill, Vol 1, King Kong (2005), Lethal Weapon 4, Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers and Return of the King, Pirates of the Caribbean, Poltergeist, Reservoir Dogs, Sin City, Small Soldiers, Spaceballs, Team America, Tears of the Sun, Them, Titanic, Wallace and Gromit, and Willow.
If you still don’t think you recognize the famous “Wilhelm Scream”, try watching this series of clips from YouTube:
This trend can also be traced in recent television series. In Apple TV+’s Severance, biocorp giant Lumon manufactures brain chips that allow users to “sever,” or switch on and off between, their work and personal lives. Grieving widower Mark Scout (Adam Scott) is compelled by the science as an opportunity to forget his wife’s passing for eight hours a day, rendering a version of himself that is not only a productive worker, but also lives relatively pain-free. The procedure is not without its down sides. The severance chip, activated by a spatial boundary, ultimately affects a temporal dissonance: office-bound ‘innies’ experience life as a continuous workday – “A weekend just happened? I don’t even feel like I left,” notes Britt Lower’s Helly R – while their ‘outies’ miss whole chunks of time. The show realizes this discrepancy in episodes that take place in “real time,” like in the first season’s whirlwind finale, or entirely within the warped linearity of the severed floor, as in the second season’s première, in which the time elapsed since the events of the first season is deliberately misrepresented to audiences and innies alike.
As with Invention and The Shrouds, the functionality of the tech at the root of Severance’s sci-fi conceit is echoed by the televisual technology that produces the show. Historically broken up by ads, episodes, and seasons, television – perhaps even more so than cinema – relies on time as its organizing principle and primary medium. “The major category of television” wrote theorist Mary Ann Doane in 1988, “is time.” The literally mind-bending technology of Severance, employed in the case of its protagonist to mitigate grief, splices time in the same mode as, well, a TV show.
In some ways, this reflexive pattern harkens back to the earliest days of moving image culture, when the technology’s newness often saw it put in conversation with modern anxieties over accident, disaster, or death. Early films like, for instance, the aforementioned comic trick film, The Big Swallow – in which a man approaches a camera photographing him and, in an act of irritation or amusement, eats it whole – played on the film apparatus’ ability to capture or depict nonexistence. Where the film might be assumed to end with a black screen, as the camera itself is swallowed, we’re instead shown the tripod and photographer disappearing into darkness, suggesting that film has somehow been able to capture an afterlife, even after its own demise.
The effect of film’s ability to represent death has been the subject of much criticism and foundational theory. In 1951, French critic André Bazin suggested that film’s ability to capture and then repeat the unrepeatable moment of death – as in the documentary he was reviewing, Myriam Borsoutsky and Pierre Braunberger’s Bullfight – might both “desecrate” the finality of loss, while also rendering it “even more moving.” That ambivalence is then affirmed in these recent works where the sci-fi technology marshalled to counteract their characters’ grief does little more than complicate it. Mark Scout’s inability to recall the loss of his wife leads him to turn his back on her by the end of the second season. Invention’s Callie, after operating the healing machine, is moved to helpless tears rather than some deeper sense of peace or comprehension. The Shrouds ends ambiguously, with Karsh seeming to move on from his wife while, of course, continuing to see her everywhere.
But the lack of resolution is what makes these recent works such effective meditations on what moving image technology knows of – or owes to – death. Over the past few years, images of devastation have proliferated across mobile platforms, streamers, and big screens alike. Fears that such images might render viewers desensitized to grief or violence are counteracted by projects that explore visual mediums as tools for facing the fallout of death head on. If there is no treatment for grief, cinematically, it’s perhaps only because such treatment is necessarily ongoing, always unresolved. As technology continues to advance into realms some might call post-human, these recent works affirm that it can still remain a tool for exploring the most human thing: life and our responses to its ending. By inviting viewers to see film and television as a kind of “GriefTech,” these works underscore the blinding inevitability of loss without turning from it. That is: we only truly lose if we refuse to keep looking.
