Say "I do" to Hugh and this trendsetting British romcom

Released in 1994 and directed by Mike Newell, Four Weddings and a Funeral stands as a seminal work in British romantic comedy that redefined the genre for a modern audience. The narrative follows the romantic misadventures of a tight-knit group of friends as they navigate the joys and sorrows of five distinct social gatherings. At the heart of the story is the charmingly awkward and perennial bachelor Charles, played by Hugh Grant, whose commitment-phobic life is upended when he meets Carrie, an elusive American beauty portrayed by Andie MacDowell. As the title suggests, their "will-they-or-won't-they" relationship unfolds across four nuptials and one somber funeral, supported by a memorable ensemble cast that includes Kristin Scott Thomas as the pining Fiona, Simon Callow as the boisterous Gareth, and John Hannah as the poignant Matthew.

To listen to a recording of our CineVerse group discussion of Four Weddings and a Funeral, click here (if you get an error message, simply try refreshing the page).

This picture was surprisingly influential. Made for the equivalent of less than $2 million in American dollars (the budget was so meager that extras were forced to don their own wedding attire), it earned a whopping $245.7 million globally, becoming the highest-grossing British movie in history up to that time. It reinvigorated the British film industry, made Grant an international star, and paved the way for forthcoming British romcom juggernauts.

It also lent greater prestige and respectability to the romcom genre in general by garnering Oscar nominations for Best Picture and Best Original Screenplay. And the film remains highly regarded among British cinema, ranking 23rd on a list of the BFI’s 100 greatest British films of the 20th century, and 21 and Empire magazine’s roster of the 100 best British films.

By veering away from stuffy period pieces and the "working-class gloom" found in bleak social realist films like Riff-Raff (1991), Naked (1993), and The Long Day Closes (1992), Four Weddings redefined British cinema with a sleek, marketable brand of "Englishness." It created a globally bankable formula that successfully exported a polished, aspirational version of British culture to the world stage, and it traded the industrial decay and gritty aesthetics of "kitchen sink" dramas for a contemporary story defined by cruder wit, genuine friendship, and the charming anxieties of the middle and upper classes.

“Much of Four Weddings’ humor is rooted in the illicit thrill of witnessing mild-mannered Brits behaving badly, from Charles’s expletive-laden journey to the first wedding, to the hilariously uninhibited sex scene between the wholesome-looking Bernard and Lydia,” wrote BFI essayist Paul O’Callaghan. “Crucially, Curtis and Newell ensure that their gang of randy poshos is as relatable as possible. None of the key players, bar Carrie, seems particularly interested in money or social status.”

The international success of Four Weddings also helped cement the "Richard Curtis style," named after its screenwriter: a formula defined by bumbling, charismatic leads and eccentric friend groups. This blueprint, balancing high-society glamour with grounded emotional pathos, was perfected in the quirky romance of Notting Hill (1999) and the self-deprecating charm of Bridget Jones’s Diary (2001). Curtis further refined this aesthetic through the massive interconnected ensemble of Love Actually (2003) and the whimsical, heartfelt sincerity of About Time (2013), creating a definitive template for the modern romantic comedy. Curtis was inspired to write Four Weddings based on his own experiences attending 65 weddings over 11 years.

This film appears quite progressive for a 1994 movie and has aged well in 2 key ways: The depiction of Gareth and Matthew’s gay relationship, and the presence of a strong female love interest with agency.

“At the time of Four Weddings’ release, LGBTQ+ screen characters were invariably defined by their otherness,” per O’Callaghan. “The New Queer Cinema of the early 90s espoused a defiant rejection of mainstream heterosexual culture, while at the other end of the spectrum, Jonathan Demme’s Philadelphia attempted to elicit widespread sympathy for the community’s struggles by casting everyman Tom Hanks as a chaste lawyer dying of Aids…Four Weddings, by contrast, depicted a happy, charismatic gay couple seamlessly integrated into a predominantly straight friendship group. More significantly, their relationship is conspicuously the most harmonious and healthy in the film.”

Ponder how, throughout their romance, Carrie maintains the upper hand, navigating their relationship with a level of sexual autonomy that Charles lacks. Her self-assurance is most evident when she candidly reveals having had 33 intimate partners, a figure that dwarfs Charles’s modest 9.

The movie stays consistent with its title, keeping the narrative firmly focused on three weddings, one funeral, and a fourth wedding, in order, and not deviating from this confined structure of events. By doing so, the filmmakers cleverly trace the arcs of these characters over time while also managing to avoid revealing their professions or politics.

Always a bridesmaid, never a bride – or in this case, groom – appears to be the prevailing theme, at least on the surface. Charles describes himself as a “serial monogamist” who – through a combination of bad choices and bad luck – can’t seem to find the right partner. Charles has difficulty properly expressing his feelings and committing to a sustained, serious relationship. Every wedding he attends reminds him of the romantic wreckage he’s responsible for from past relationships, and how he’s seemingly doomed to remain single. It isn’t until he meets Carrie that he feels a truly deep romantic connection and the prospect of forever love. Put another way, good things come to those who wait.

Four Weddings also espouses that there’s somebody for everybody in this world. It’s a picture that suggests, often comically although perhaps unrealistically, that everyone has a soulmate just waiting to be discovered. We observe Charles and each of his friends paired with a spouse or another romantic partner by the end of the story: the ultimate happy ending for a romcom. But first, Charles nearly makes a serious life mistake by acquiescing and agreeing to marry Henrietta. Fortunately, his brother David wakes him out of his stupor at the last minute and encourages him to follow his heart and not settle for second-best.

Four Weddings and a Funeral also promulgates a carpe diem philosophy, reminding us that life goes by quickly and opportunities need to be snatched up when available. Recall how swiftly characters in the film fall in love and get married or divorced, as well as how big life events such as weddings and funerals can spring up unexpectedly, reinforcing the notion of time’s fleeting nature.

Lastly, love certainly matters, but friends loom large in this relationship story. Charles’ group consists of steadfast singles who share his relationship challenges and remain unmarried for much of the film, though they each seek long-term romantic partners. But they provide significant emotional support to each other as bachelors and bachelorettes, blunting the sting of singlehood.

Similar works

Peter's Friends (1992, Kenneth Branagh)
Sliding Doors (1998, Peter Howitt)
Notting Hill (1999, Roger Michell)
Bridget Jones's Diary (2001, Sharon Maguire)
About a Boy (2002, Chris Weitz and Paul Weitz)
Love Actually (2003, Richard Curtis)
Wimbledon (2004, Richard Loncraine)
The Holiday (2006, Nancy Meyers)
About Time (2013, Richard Curtis)

Other films by Mike Newell

Dance with a Stranger (1985)
Enchanted April (1991)
Into the West (1992)
Donnie Brasco (1997)
Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire (2005)
The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society (2018)

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Spotlight on guilty pleasure pictures

Last week, our CineVerse discussion group didn't actually analyze and converse about a movie – instead, we gathered to talk about several movies, more specifically "Guilty Pleasure Pictures": films we perhaps feel a little guilty about loving. This was our second attempt at a "Freeform Wednesday," where we meet to chat about various cinema-related topics that our members suggest. CineVerse aims to host a Freeform Wednesday at least once a quarter.

To listen to our CineVerse group discussion about Guilty Pleasure Pictures, click here.

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Hitchcock's bizarre love triangle

Gothic melodramas and romantic thrillers featuring new or prospective brides in danger reigned supreme in the 1940s. For proof, consider the popularity of films like Rebecca (1940), Suspicion (1941), Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde (1941), Jane Eyre (1943), Gaslight (1944), The Spiral Staircase (1945), Secret Beyond the Door (1947), and Sleep, My Love (1948). But the crown jewel in this cycle was Alfred Hitchcock’s Notorious (1946), which could be his greatest picture of the 1940s and the director’s finest work up to this point in his career.

The rock-solid setup? The American daughter of a convicted Nazi spy (Ingrid Bergman) is recruited by a government agent (Cary Grant) to infiltrate a group of German exiles in Rio de Janeiro. Tensions rise as she finds herself trapped in a dangerous love triangle, forced to marry a high-ranking Nazi target (Claude Rains) while the agent she truly loves watches from the shadows.

To listen to a recording of our CineVerse group discussion of Notorious, conducted last week, click here (if you encounter an error, simply try refreshing the page). To hear the latest Cineversary podcast episode celebrating Notorious’ 80th anniversary, click here.

This is a perfectly cast movie, and possibly the most perfectly cast Hitchcock film. You don’t get any bigger in 1946 than Grant and Bergman as your leads, and this is the first Hitchcock movie with two Hollywood A-listers. And what a coup to have in the third position the consistently excellent Rains (who was actually several inches shorter than Bergman), Leopoldine Konstantin as perhaps Hitchcock’s most memorable mother figure, and the always sturdy Louis Calhern as the spy chief.

There’s not an ounce of fat on this film— not one superfluous scene or unnecessary character. It’s a testament to the masterfully constructed screenplay co-written by one of the greatest scribes of this period: Ben Hecht. The way Hecht and Hitchcock conclude the picture is particularly impressive in its efficiency, restraint, and craftsmanship, with the final 10 minutes playing like a perfectly synchronized Swiss watch and ending without any of the gunplay, deaths, or chases that viewers expect. This could be the most expertly structured and satisfying ending to any film by the Master of Suspense.

The film also benefits from having the fingerprints of other major Hollywood talents all over the celluloid, including producer David O. Selznick, who helped develop Notorious but bowed out and sold the project to RKO; the legendary Edith Head in charge of costumes; and cinematographer Ted Tetzlaff and art director Caroll Clark, both Oscar-nominated in their careers.

Additionally, Notorious shines as a showcase for some of the director’s most bravura visual flourishes. Cases in point: the famous elevated crane shot that swoops us down to a close-up of a key held in Bergman’s hand, all the while maintaining camera focus; Devlin standing in the doorway in a canted point of view shot while Lisa wakes from a hangover; the extended makeout sequence between Grant and Bergman that lasts nearly three minutes; the wine cellar discovery moment, where tight spatial framing and expert cutting height the tension and claustrophobia; the tainted coffee segment, which uses carefully aligned POV shots, rhythmic cutting, and exact performance timing to transform a mundane gesture into an experience of mounting dread; Lisa’s poison-induced hallucination and various shots where clever lighting, blocking, and pacing underscore Alicia’s gradual physical decline; and the fantastic rescue finale that employs masterful cross-cutting and a gliding camera down the staircase.

Hitchcock set the bar high for sexy smooching in the 1940s. In the famous kissing scene between Devlin and Alicia, which begins on her balcony and continues inside her apartment while Devlin makes a phone call, nearly three minutes of slightly interrupted snogging ensue. This is believed to be the longest extended kissing scene of its kind up to that time. The Hays Code forced filmmakers to limit each on-screen kiss to three seconds or less, but Hitchcock got around this rule by having Alicia and Devlin lock lips for brief moments, disengage, then reengage continually, talking in between about having dinner in sexually coded language. Their first kiss during the sequence actually lasts four seconds, which breaks the three-second rule.

Amazingly, the filmmakers prove that you can create a sympathetic Nazi villain just months after the end of World War II. We arguably feel warmer toward Alexander than Devlin for most of the picture; the former truly adores Alicia, while the latter is caustic and cold to her for the majority of the runtime. And yet another sympathetic Nazi is Emil, a pitiable bumbler who gets rubbed out quite early in the story.

This picture's got one of the most malevolent matriarchs ever to grace the screen: Alexander's mom, played with icy aplomb by Konstantin, the quintessential mother-in-law from hell. This character, along with Mrs. Vale in Now, Voyager from 1942, is one of the earliest examples of a villainous mother role in a non-horror, non-animated Hollywood feature film. The anomalous relationship between Sebastian and his mother paved the path for future aberrant mother-son pairings in later Hitchcock films, including Strangers on a Train (1951), North by Northwest (1959), Psycho (1960), The Birds (1963), and Marnie (1964), and in movies by other directors, such as The Strange Love of Martha Ivers (1946), White Heat (1949), Sudden Fear (1952), and The Manchurian Candidate (1962).

The influence of this film doesn’t stop there. Many believe Notorious, along with its direct Hitchcock descendant North by Northwest, helped shape contemporary spy movies, particularly the James Bond films that began in the early 1960s.

Interestingly, Notorious was remade in Germany as White Poison (1951). And Mission: Impossible 2 (2000) has been called a loose remake of Notorious; both movies concern a romantic triangle in which an agent falls in love with a woman he must send to bed with the villain.

Many consider this Hitchcock’s first truly realized love story, one that’s less a spy film than a gripping story about relationships and a convoluted romantic triangle. “He takes all the elements of a typical romance and turns them upside down. The romance isn’t a romance until the end,” said Hitchcock biographer Donald Spoto in an interview for the Criterion Collection. “Notorious is also the first Hitchcock film whose every shot is not only filled with meaning, but also beautiful,” wrote Criterion Collection essayist William Rothman. “Hitchcock seems to be in love with the world he is creating. Shot after shot simply takes our breath away. For the first time in a Hitchcock film, the camera achieves a lush romanticism equal to its wit, elegance, and theatricality – as it will be in his greatest later films.”

This was the director’s first opportunity to be his own producer; still under contract to Selznick at the time, he was temporarily freed from this servitude when Selznick sold the project to RKO, and his creativity seems to benefit.

Consider how Sir Alfred cleverly shifts occasionally between objective and subjective camera throughout the movie so that we share Alicia’s eyes and better identify with her. Recall how, when Alicia suffers a hangover in bed, we view Devlin upside down, from her vantage point. And when she’s being poisoned, we see fuzzy and distorted framings. The perspectives of other characters are occasionally shown, as well, such as the unnamed reporter peeking into the courtroom at the beginning of the film, Sebastian watching Alicia with Devlin, and Devlin surveying Alicia with Sebastian.

As is true in so many of Hitchcock’s works, the key to effective suspense and intrigue in Notorious is that he provides the viewer with more information than the main protagonist (Alicia), which increases our concern for her well-being as well as the intelligence mission she has accepted. We are shown privileged scenes in which Alicia is necessarily absent, such as private meetings between Devlin and his superiors, Sebastian and his fellow Nazis, and Sebastian and his mother, where crucial details are shared – most importantly, Sebastian’s realization of her true identity and his plan to slowly kill her.

Ponder, as well, how Hitchcock uses music or the absence of it in this film. Near the ending, from the moment Devlin reaches Alicia’s bed until they begin to leave the room, three-and-a-half tense music-less minutes elapse. Earlier, instead of queuing up a knot-tightening score when Devlin and Alicia are in the wine cellar, diegetic Brazilian music played by the band upstairs is heard. And during the extended kissing scene, we only hear faraway diegetic music that fades out.

The director’s approach in Notorious interestingly deviates from many of his other films. First, quite uncharacteristically for Hitchcock, he and Hecht revamped the screenplay during filming, often completing pages the night before cameras rolled. Second, he broke his own rule of disallowing actor input and improvisation. The director took advice from Bergman on how to shoot a particular sequence differently – specifically, the dinner scene where she observes Emil concerned about the wine bottles – an extremely rare occurrence for an ultra-controlling figure known for carefully planning every facet of filmmaking before shooting. And he encouraged ad-libbing by Grant and Bergman during the extended kissing sequence.

Third, Bergman and her Alicia character are distinguished from other classic Hitchcock leading ladies. She’s a brunette who’s been around the block, not a seemingly unattainable icy blonde. “She eschews the patrician iciness of Grace Kelly, the painful yearning of Joan Fontaine, and the gleaming eroticism of Kim Novak,” Rothman continued. “These women can be wanting, cutting, lovely, and even mired in obsessions of their own. But Alicia’s supple vulnerability and mature sexiness are singular.” Also, consider that the paradigm here is the rescuing of a brunette by a “right man”, instead of the classic Hitchcock pattern of a blonde rescued by or partnered with a “wrong man” on the run, as evidenced in The 39 Steps (1935), Saboteur (1942), To Catch a Thief (1955), and North by Northwest (1959).

Fourth, this is the first instance of a Hitchcock espionage/spy thriller wherein there is no deadly physical violence – no assassinations, shootings, stabbings, or bombings. In fact, there are zero on-screen deaths in this story.

The MacGuffin in this picture is particularly noteworthy. Here, it’s the uranium ore bottled up in Sebastian’s wine cellar. Ponder that during preproduction, no one involved knew that uranium would be a key ingredient in the creation of the atomic bomb. Fascinatingly, Hitchcock insisted he was tailed by the FBI for months after discussing uranium with his collaborators prior to filming.

Notorious’ central thesis is trust and betrayal. Devlin betrays Alicia emotionally, Alicia betrays Devlin romantically, Alicia betrays Alexander personally and professionally, and Sebastian betrays Alicia mortally, with each relationship complicating the next. Several other prominent themes explored include:

• Playacting and the masking of identities. Notorious is concerned with pretending to be something or someone you’re not. Alicia feigns love and affection for Sebastian, Devlin and Alicia disguise their love for each other as animosity, and Sebastian and his mother keep up appearances to avoid the suspicion of their fellow Nazis. Every major character plays a role, whether it’s lover, spouse, patriot, or loyal soldier. Identity in Notorious is fluid and strategic, particularly for Alicia, whose survival relies on convincing performances.
• The price of personal sacrifice. Alicia accepts the undercover assignment out of patriotic duty, but consequently sacrifices her relationship with Devlin and subjects herself to reputational degradation.
• Love as collateral damage. Devlin and Alicia secretly love one another, yet deliberately hurt each other, suggesting that we often wound those we most deeply care for.
• Paternal vs. maternal control. The story centers on a woman who is willing to have her identity transformed to satisfy the demands of a manipulative male authority, a theme Hitchcock would revisit more obsessively in Vertigo. But the film also depicts how Sebastian defers to his mother’s infantilizing authority.
• The damsel in distress. Notorious invokes a dark fairytale vibe, with Alicia cast as a cunning princess captured by a shadowy knight and an evil stepmother, imprisoned in a figurative tower, and in need of rescue by a brave prince.

Visually and symbolically, Notorious also relies on recurring patterns and motifs, most importantly surveillance (characters are constantly spying on or suspiciously watching other characters), keys (minor objects that command major attention; whoever possesses the keys in Sebastian’s house garners power and knowledge), and the consumption of dangerous liquids (whether poison or alcohol, used to inflict harm or escape an unbearable reality). And then there’s that imposing staircase, which serves as the architectural centerpiece of the film, representing the nexus between the private (upstairs) and the public (downstairs). Alicia ascending the staircase results in risk and danger; descending provides a means of escape and control. Consider that two of the most important shots in the film have the camera perched at the top of the staircase – the famous crane shot that forward tracks to Alicia’s hand, and the moment when Alicia collapses and is taken upstairs by Sebastian and his men – suggesting perhaps that even the staircase has a POV and is, therefore, a spying character unto itself in a story filled with watchers.

Additionally, Notorious features symbolic images or ideas that are mirrored/repeated. For example, the film opens with a doomed figure being judged (Alicia’s father, with his back to the viewer) and ends with a different doomed figure being judged (Sebastian, also with his back to us); we see the back of Devlin’s head when he makes his first appearance, and in a later scene in the main office he also faces away from the camera; we observe partygoers passed out from inebriation (alcohol poisoning) and later Alicia fainting (poisoned coffee); there are two “love tests” she is subjected to: one by Devlin, the other by Sebastian when he proposes marriage; and there are two rescues of Alicia by Devlin, the first occurring when Devlin convinces the patrol officer to overlook her intoxicated driving.

This film’s greatest gift is that it ultimately works as a powerful love story without conforming to romance movie conventions or clichés. Yes, it’s a tense thriller. Yes, it’s a spy film. But at its heart, it’s a narrative about romantic redemption and reconciliation in which most of the runtime is focused on the absence of ardor and the animosity between Devlin and Alicia. Ruminate on their separate motivations in their roles as spies and how these motivations add delicious complexity to the love story as well as to the characterizations by Grant and Bergman: Devlin’s jealousy and resentment cause him to be frosty and cutting to Alicia, which makes her more easily gravitate toward Alexander and flourish in her role as an undercover agent. The irony here is that, deep down, he doesn’t want her to sleep with Sebastian, but by emotionally pushing her away and maligning her name, she embraces this call of duty and rubs her intimacy with the enemy in Devlin’s face. However, when Alicia stops showing up for their emotional sabotage sessions, that absence triggers concern, which reignites his suppressed love. Devlin arrives in the nick of time to save her, but equally important is that he confesses his jealousy and unwavering love, which gives the weakened Alicia the strength she needs to escape.

It’s the supreme payoff for the bulk of the narrative – 75 minutes – when love takes a backseat and duty, envy, mistrust, and bitterness grab the wheel. National security interests, defeating the Nazis, and reputation buffing may appear to be in the foreground, but they’re really the background to what is essentially a relationship story. Notorious demonstrates that the master of suspense can stir the heart as deftly as he can quicken it, and it endures as his finest romantic endeavor.

Notorious has received enduring recognition over the decades. At the 19th Academy Awards, Claude Rains earned a nomination for Best Supporting Actor, while Ben Hecht was nominated for Original Screenplay; his script was later named one of the Writers Guild of America’s 101 greatest screenplays in 2005. Additionally, in 2006, the Library of Congress selected the film for the National Film Registry for its cultural, historical, and aesthetic significance.

Meanwhile, Roger Ebert named it his favorite Hitchcock work and included it among his ten greatest films of all time. It placed No. 66 on Entertainment Weekly’s greatest films list and No. 77 on The Village Voice’s Top 250 Films of the Century. The American Film Institute ranked it No. 38 on its 100 Years…100 Thrills list and No. 86 on its 100 Years…100 Passions list. Time included it in its All-Time 100 Movies roundup, Cahiers du cinéma placed it no. 38 in 2008, the BBC named it 68th among the greatest American films in 2015, and Time Out ranked it No. 34 among the greatest thrillers in 2022. That same year, the BBC Sight and Sound poll of critics had Notorious slotted at no. 133 out of 250.

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Cineversary podcast marks 80th birthday of Hitchcock's Notorious

In Cineversary podcast episode #90, host ⁠Erik J. Martin⁠ commemorates the 80th anniversary Notorious, directed by Alfred Hitchcock. Joining him in this installment is Kim Newman, the renowned UK critic and film scholar, esteemed journalist, and award-winning author of The Definitive Guide to Horror Movies. Erik and Kim head down to the wine cellar to uncork exactly what makes Notorious great, why this movie deserves kudos 80 years later, what makes this film different from other Hitchcock works, salient themes, and much more. 

Kim Newman

To listen to this episode, click here or click the "play" button on the embedded streaming player below. Or, you can stream, download, or subscribe to Cineversary wherever you get your podcasts, including Apple Podcasts and Spotify.

Learn more about the Cineversary podcast at www.cineversary.com and email show comments or suggestions to cineversarypodcast@gmail.com.

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Two sides of the same Little Women coin

One of the most adaptable and evergreen titles in American literature that has been reimagined for the big and small screen remains Louisa May Alcott’s Little Women, originally published in 1868. Including television and foreign versions, there have been at least 14 renditions of this story over the past 100-plus years, with seven adaptations made for the cinema. The oldest surviving version is the 1933 iteration directed by George Cukor and starring Katherine Hepburn, while the most recent is the 2019 version directed by Greta Gerwig. Our CineVerse group recently compared and contrasted these two editions over the past few weeks.

To listen to a recording of our CineVerse group discussion of the 1933 version of Little Women, click here. To hear a recording of our discussion of the 2019 Little Women adaptation, click here.

Cukor’s film is a more faithful adaptation of the book, although the 1933 movie certainly doesn’t cover every subplot or secondary character from the source novel. The friction between Amy and Jo, for example, isn’t depicted. Professor Bhaer is imbued with musical talents in this version instead of Laurie. Cukor and company condense a good portion of episodes in the novel to fit within the limited runtime, so that the picture appears to progress at a speedy pace, with some awkward transitions between sequences. Consider how quickly Beth’s illness and death are treated, for example, and how each of the March sisters – except for Jo – isn’t given an opportunity for much character development, making three of the sisters relatively interchangeable.

One of the facets that makes this iteration particularly interesting is the timing of its release, during the depths of the Great Depression – even though the setting is actually the American Civil War. Audiences in 1933 would have been keenly attuned to many of the themes of economic struggle, personal sacrifice, and class distinction. According to essayist Katherine Kellett: “Cukor's film strongly exemplifies the nation's attitudes and the general esprit of social reform of the early 1930s…The film invokes an emphasis on food, frugality, and conservation, embodies a spirit of activism and social reform, and imbues a nostalgic longing for hearth, home, and familial responsibility and morality. As a result, Cukor's Little Women becomes a kind of allegory for the ideals set forth in the nineteen-thirties to allay the prevailing fear and poverty: an activist spirit grounded in unbreakable ties to family and community.”

A lot of big-name talent is attached to this production, including original producer David O. Selznick, who was replaced by Marien C. Cooper (who that same year co-directed and produced King Kong); esteemed director Cukor; genius maestro Max Steiner, who composed the score; co-screenwriter Victor Heerman, who had earlier directed Animal Crackers for the Marx Brothers and later wrote screenplays for Magnificent Obsession and Stella Dallas; and a young Hepburn, who that same year won her first Oscar for the film Morning Glory (Little Women was only her fourth movie). A tomboy in her youth and herself raised in New England, Hepburn felt drawn to this role.

The commitment to authenticity is clear throughout the 1933 rendition. Drawing from audience polling, Selznick and his collaborators aimed to create a version that felt true to Alcott’s original setting. Hobe Erwin’s meticulously crafted sets closely mirrored the March family’s home, while Walter Plunkett’s costume designs highlighted both the family’s modest means and their interconnectedness. The dresses, deliberately worn and patched, could be shared among the sisters across scenes, emphasizing both their poverty and the close family bonds. Plunkett, who later designed for Gone With the Wind, carefully balanced historical accuracy with narrative purpose in his designs.

This 92-year-old picture was a big hit for RKO and was voted one of the 10 best films of that year. It’s also regarded as one of the first translations of a classic novel that became a box office success while also remaining faithful to its print source. Its success inspired Selznick and other producers to believe that classic stories had box office appeal and should be considered for big-screen adaptations.

Interestingly, this is a pre-code Hollywood movie released before the enforcement of the Hays Code and stricter censorship. Many studios caught heat in the early 1930s for more violent and prurient content; more conservative viewers appreciated Little Women’s emphasis on wholesome family values.

This is also the work that catapulted Cukor to the upper echelon of Hollywood directors and which forged a stronger bond between he and Hepburn, a partnership that would result in eight films and two television movies. After reading Alcott’s book prior to filming, Cukor said: “I was startled. It's not sentimental or saccharine, but very strong-minded, full of character, and a wonderful picture of New England family life. It's full of that admirable New England sternness, about sacrifice and austerity.”

While it’s not widely considered a Christmas movie (only the first half-hour is set during the holiday season), Cukor’s version of Little Women “might be one of the most important movies ever made in terms of the evolution of Christmas movies,” posits Mainlining Christmas blogger Erin Snyder. “Its success was pivotal in Hollywood's shift from more adult-oriented content to family-friendly fare. It's worth noting that, with a few exceptions, the first ‘talkie’ Christmas movies came out after Little Women. It's not unreasonable to wonder if the opening scenes of Little Women directly inspired the production of subsequent movies…. It's not much of a stretch to wonder if the Christmas movies of the 1940s were partly born out of the start of this adaptation.”

Gerwig adopts a radically different approach in her 2019 retelling. Here, the narrative follows two timelines: the present, which begins the film, and flashbacks to the March sisters’ childhoods, with the story continually shifting between these timelines. The advantage to this approach is that it frames the narrative from the start as definitively Jo’s tale and POV, and indicates that this will be a story about a blossoming author and intrepid female whose previous younger experiences have helped shape the strong, independent woman she has become. The drawback is that the transitions between time frames can be abrupt and confusing to the viewer, especially fans of the book and previous film adaptations in which the story was told linearly.

“Gerwig taps into a radical proposition – she unearths a reflective sense of memory and nostalgia within the conversation she fosters between the film’s two timelines,” according to reviewer Tomris Laffly. “Her structure of well-paced flashbacks, laced with emotional peaks and soothing cadences, is first a surprising puzzle and then a source of all, but never disrespectful to Alcott’s intentions.” BFI critic Nikki Baughan also admired this bifurcated storytelling style, writing: “Gerwig focuses on the novel’s key coming-of-age themes rather than individual moments: the loss of childhood, the importance of forging one’s own path, tentative steps towards female emancipation. It is a fresh, dynamic approach that may seem spun from modern feminist thought, but actually makes explicit ideas that Alcott vocally espoused (the line about her canoe [‘I’d rather be a free spinster and paddle my own canoe’], for example, is taken from a letter she wrote to her sister).”

This version begins with the adult Jo attempting to sell her writings to a publisher and concludes with a more confident Jo negotiating editorial changes with that same publisher, which creates a neat bookending device that thematically reinforces the idea of Little Women being an inspiring story about female creativity and empowerment. Gerwig’s work also significantly changes the ending of Alcott’s book to better reflect 21st-century feminist sensibilities. In the novel, Jo has her Little Women book published, but ultimately marries Professor Friedrich. In the 2019 film, Jo decides to remain single, but she changes the ending of her Little Women book, at her publisher’s request, so that the protagonist (herself) chooses to continue the romance with Friedrich.
The 2019 movie, perhaps more than any previous adaptation, also makes clear that Jo is an obvious stand-in for Alcott. And it delves more deeply into the inner lives of its characters – especially Amy, who is more fleshed out and shown as an occasional antagonist to Jo. Additionally, this version looks upon marriage as a complex blend of love, money, and social reality, with Jo’s conclusion presented as a conscious compromise between creative autonomy and commercial demands. In tone and approach, the newer film embraces a distinctly contemporary, feminist perspective, while the 1933 version leans toward a warm, romanticized portrayal of domestic life and traditional female roles.

Arguably, in this adaptation, there’s better chemistry, as well as more realistic conflict, between the March sisters as well as the actresses playing them. Also, viewers benefit from a more chromatic and well-appointed experience thanks to the decision to shoot in color and imbue a more lavish production design, with an admirable attention to period authenticity and distinctive costuming evident. The 2019 movie improves upon its 1933 predecessor in multiple ways: cinematography, runtime, widescreen canvas, better casting of key roles (especially Laurie and Amy), and a more realistic approach that tones down the saccharine sweet sentimentality.

However, many still prefer Hepburn’s spirited and tomboyish performance as Jo over Saoirse Ronan, as well as the chronologically consistent storytelling of the 1933 version, which is also slightly more of a Christmas film than the 2019 redo.

Any translation of Alcott’s tome consistently underscores themes of austerity, sacrifice, and suffering. The March family is continually compelled to help others in need and show compassion to the less fortunate. It’s a message that would have resonated among Great Depression audiences watching the 1933 iteration. Recall that the family was previously much more prosperous but has learned to do without in the years their patriarch has been away at war. Hardship, disease, hunger, and death visit the March clan throughout this story, but the family rises to every occasion.

Likewise, any reimagining will emphasize the inseparable bonds of family. As distinctly different as the March sisters are in personality and characteristics, they and their mother support each other, regardless of period challenges or romantic rivalry. Little Women reminds us of a simple but immutable truth: family is forever.

And no matter the director, Little Women will always abide as a coming-of-age story, in this case a narrative particularly about the maturation of Jo March: how she blossoms into a talented writer and strong, independent woman who, despite rising above her small-town beginnings, never forgets her roots.

But Gerwig’s vision is singular in how it better accentuates the often overlooked merits of female creativity, ingenuity, and determination. Perhaps Jo’s most famous line in the 2019 version is: “Women, they have minds, and they have souls, as well as just hearts. And they've got ambition, and they've got talent, as well as just beauty. I'm so sick of people saying that love is just all a woman is fit for.” The makers of the 2019 film also remind viewers time and again that, historically, women’s choices have been constrained by limited opportunities. Amy tells Laurie: “I'm not a poet. I'm just a woman. And as a woman, there's no way for me to make my own money. Not enough to earn a living or support my family. And if I had my own money, which I don't, that money would belong to my husband the moment we got married. And if we had children, they would be his, not mine. They would be his property. So don't sit there and tell me that marriage isn't an economic proposition because it is.”

However, Gerwig’s translation is not necessarily a radically feminist revision that consistently rejects 19th- and 20th-century notions of love, marriage, and the established patriarchal order of those times. Choosing to marry and raise a family doesn’t have to mean acquiescing or abandoning feminine agency altogether, her film posits. Let’s not forget that Meg appears vindicated in happily choosing John as her husband and becoming a mother, despite the financial sacrifices that accompany that decision; and Amy, who demonstrates agency dabbling as a talented but fledgling painter in Paris, surprisingly ends up marrying Laurie and apparently abandoning her to stick pursuits. By the conclusion, both Meg and Amy appear happy and well-adjusted in the domesticated roles they chose.

Similar works

• Jane Eyre (1847, book)
• Anne of Green Gables (1908, book)
• Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm (1910, book)
• Pollyanna (1913, book)
• The Sound of Music (1965)
• The Trouble with Angels (1966)
• How to Make an American Quilt (1995)
• The Virgin Suicides (1999)
• Now and Then (1995)
• In Her Shoes (2005)
• The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants (2005)
• Bridge to Terabithia (2007)
• Lady Bird (2017)
• Brooklyn (2015)
• Women Talking (2022)

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Cineversary podcast celebrates 80th anniversary of Brief Encounter

David Thomson

In Cineversary podcast episode #89, host ⁠Erik J. Martin⁠ celebrates the 80th birthday of Brief Encounter, directed by David Lean. He and his guest David Thomson – the distinguished film critic, historian, and author of Sleeping with Strangers: How the Movies Shaped Desire – climb aboard the romance express and discuss why this film still matters, its impact on cinema, relevant themes, and more.

To listen to this episode, click here or click the "play" button on the embedded streaming player below. Or, you can stream, download, or subscribe to Cineversary wherever you get your podcasts, including Apple Podcasts and

Spotify.

Learn more about the Cineversary podcast at www.cineversary.com and email show comments or suggestions to cineversarypodcast@gmail.com.

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Two trains passing in the night

Wong Kar-wai’s In the Mood for Love (2000) may be the 21st century’s finest cinematic love story defined not by consummation but by postponed passion, longing, and the emotional spaces between its characters. But in the 20th century, the film that laid claim to that feat of restrained romance was David Lean’s Brief Encounter (1945), which tells the quietly devastating story of two ordinary people—Laura Jesson (Celia Johnson), a middle-class housewife, and Dr. Alec Harvey (Trevor Howard), a compassionate physician—who meet by chance in a railway station café and fall into an emotionally intense but ultimately unfulfilled love affair. Drawn together by loneliness and a sense of unmet longing, their brief weekly meetings become a refuge from their otherwise conventional lives, even as they struggle with guilt, societal expectations, and the inevitability of parting. Adapted from Noël Coward’s one-act play Still Life, the film is cherished as an all-timer 80 years later.

To listen to a recording of our CineVerse group discussion of Brief Encounter, conducted last week, click here (if you get an error, simply try refreshing the page).

Arguably, the film’s two most important ingredients are its two master storytellers. This was the movie that put Lean on the map as one of the world’s foremost directors and is an early career example of one of his non-epics. And Brief Encounter became the most critically acclaimed film drawn from Coward’s plays, a movie many believe is the greatest among his four collaborations with Lean (previous partnerships included In Which We Serve, This Happy Breed, and Blithe Spirit; that’s Coward’s voice bellowing out the railway station announcements we hear, by the way). Structurally, the story is masterfully crafted, beginning the narrative at the conclusion, then presenting the bulk of the story in flashback accompanied by voiceover, and then bookending matters by repeating Laura and Alec’s earlier farewell scene at the end, which emphasizes the poignancy and tragic nature of their doomed relationship.

Many call this the British Casablanca; indeed, both films feature a romantic pair who love each other but, due to a marital commitment, do not end up together. Brief Encounter still matters because it shows how, with good writing and deft direction, one can depict a cinematic love affair without obligatory sex. This was solidly in the era of strong censorship; therefore, the filmmakers had to be creative in how they presented this relationship to viewers.

It remains beloved because of its timeless romantic qualities, including its dramatic monochrome palette, the prewar setting that prevents it from being firmly anchored in a particular period, the evocative railway station imagery, and its fidelity to the main relationship story without getting sidetracked by subplots or superfluous secondary characters (aside from the delightful parallel romance vignettes between Godby the stationmaster and Myrtle the café owner, who provide needed comic relief and class contrast to the emotional heaviness of Alec and Laura’s story).

While often dreamy in mood, expressionistic lighting, and inner monologue, the film is imbued with the weight of realism, thanks to several factors: First, the decision to shoot in a handful of identifiable British locations, including the Carnforth railway station in Lancashire, the Middle Fell Bridge in Cumbria, and real suburban streets around Buckinghamshire. Also, it feels plausible and honest because it depicts ordinary people in a modest, everyday setting caught up in extraordinary emotion who face incredible internal, societal, and familial pressures to refrain from giving in to their passions. Little touches also make it feel more believable, such as neighbor Dolly annoyingly intruding on the lovers’ last moments together and making frivolous conversation. And it helps that the tale is orchestrated by a timeless classical piece – Rachmaninoff’s hauntingly beautiful and brooding Piano Concerto No. 2 – which serves as both a diegetic and non-diegetic score.

Produced modestly and without big-name actors, perhaps it demonstrated to filmmakers that even an unlikely, low-profile project could break through and succeed, encouraging them to experiment in new directions. This was also one of a few post-World War II cinematic success stories for Britain, among them Henry V, Blithe Spirit, and The Seventh Veil – all of which helped British pictures gain financial viability in American markets and capture Oscar recognition.

Films with stories and themes that echo Brief Encounter include Roman Holiday (1953), the 1974 television remake starring Richard Burton and Sophia Loren, Before Sunrise (1995), The Bridges of Madison County (1995), Lost in Translation (2003), In the City of Sylvia (2007), and Carol (2015). And this is the film that helped inspire Billy Wilder to make The Apartment, particularly based on the scene in the flat where Alec’s friend Steven returns unexpectedly; Wilder thought about how that friend character and that scenario could make for an interesting film in itself.

Some scholars theorize that Alec and Laura refrain from sleeping together because of their shared middle-class identity, a group that saw itself as the guardian of respectable behavior – neither coarse like the working class nor indulgent like the upper class. Coward wrote chiefly with this audience in mind. Yet Laura’s narration makes clear that class anxiety isn’t what stops her; it’s the thought of causing her husband pain and violating her own ethical code. Caught between longing and loyalty, she ultimately aligns herself with these dutiful principles. For someone like Laura, the thought of adultery or divorce would have been profoundly unpalatable and socially stigmatizing.

Many feminist readings claim that Brief Encounter seeks to reinforce traditional relationships and reassert prewar social stability. Consider when this film was released, in late 1945, when many soldiers and veterans would have been returning home to the females they expected to be faithful and waiting. But married and partnered women were also navigating new freedoms – both sexual and economic – which adds another layer of resonance to Laura’s emotional struggle. Put another way, the fling was likely a thing at this time.

While you could make a case that the filmmakers treat the story objectively, allowing us to form our own moral opinions about Laura and Alec’s affair, the counterpoint is the scene involving Alec’s friend Steven, who spots Laura’s discarded scarf and clearly shames Alec. Interestingly, this is one of Laura’s flashbacks, yet she was not present in that scene, nor does Alec later tell Laura of the conversation between the two men. Critic Norman Holland’s interpretation of why Lean and Coward include the Steven scene in Laura’s memory is that they are “deliberately encouraging us to think about what is inside Laura’s mind and what is outside and the movie’s objective world… So cutting is (Steven’s) condemnation that it reaches past the literal boundaries of what Laura can and cannot know. This is objectively wrong. I think Lean is asking us to think about what is inside and outside our minds. How do we feel about this affair?”

This begs the question: Is Laura a reliable narrator? Can we trust that her flashbacks are accurate? One could contend that the answer is no, since her voiceover and memories are deeply colored by her feelings, sense of guilt, and the social expectations she internalizes, all of which influence how she remembers and makes sense of the past. Laura’s adherence to responsibility also appears to be what keeps her from taking her own life. She admits – while mentally addressing Fred: “I should like to be able to say it was the thought of you and the children that prevented me, but it wasn’t.” Her discontent seems tied to the moral expectations that accompany her social position. For proof, recall how she grins – perhaps enviously – when she witnesses the stationmaster playfully slap Myrtle on the behind.

Slant Magazine critic Clayton Dillard believed that Brief Encounter transforms Laura’s anxieties “into those of the United Kingdom as a whole. The film, set in 1938, unfolds at a moment before the catastrophe of World War II, so that Laura’s fear of her previously secure, rational process correlates with the failings of nationalism on a global scale. That is, Laura’s deteriorating sanity isn’t merely about her splintering sense of middle-class protection, but an entirely depleted notion of cultural normalcy following Nazism’s abject use of logical procedure to carry out genocide.”

Obviously, society has changed dramatically – not only in the United Kingdom but here in the United States. Today, having an affair that involves sex and which may end in divorce is not considered as serious a moral quandary or irredeemable act. Women feel much freer to explore their secret desires and are less bound to sociocultural conventions and expectations. The fact that the couple barely kiss and never engage in sexual intimacy can seem antiquated to modern audiences. Also, the heavily emotional piano music can play today as over the top, melodramatic, repetitive, and overtly manipulative.

On the other hand, the tension and frustration felt by Laura – whose perspective the story is told from – still feels palpable if you put the tale in context. Again, consider that this character is a married middle-class mother whose husband is sweet and trusting, and it’s easier to see how conflicted she would be about cheating while also how frustrated she would be with her decision to not physically consummate the affair.

Many find the closing words, uttered by husband Fred, as the most moving lines in the entire picture: “Whatever your dream was, it wasn’t a very happy one, was it? Is there anything I can do to help? You’ve been a long way away. Thank you for coming back to me.” That begs the question: Does Fred know the truth about her affair, or has he suspected for a long time without tipping his hand, or is it possible that he never knew and will never know? For that matter, how do we feel about Laura by the conclusion – did she make the right decision? Will her feelings for Alec prevent her from being truly happy henceforth?

The central concept underpinning the entire picture is the weight of moral obligation and duty. Laura feels guilty for sneaking around, lying to her husband, neglecting her role as a devoted mother, and potentially violating her marital vows. She suppresses her inner romantic needs and wants, attempting to adhere to societal expectations as well as self-imposed ethical imperatives. Her culpability and shame are externalized in several witness characters she encounters throughout her affair with Alec, including a priest, a police officer, an usher, a boatman, and female friends like Dolly and Mary.

Living vicariously through Laura, the viewer also experiences the excitement and drawbacks of temptation. Brief Encounter is a morality play set in a class-focused society where improprieties are frowned upon and women have very few options once they’ve committed to marriage. It depicts how secret liaisons can stir the soul, tickle the imagination, and make you feel alive, propelling you forward like the force of a full-speed train. Yet at the same time, the deceitfulness, unconsummated desire, and the frustrations that follow make you want to die, as Laura says – to jump in front of the speeding locomotive. The operative word that best describes the state of this affair is “misery,” a word or form of it that is uttered by the characters several times in the film. DVD Savant critic Glenn Erickson wrote: “Brief Encounter is really about romance frustrated… Lean takes pains to portray incipient adultery as misery for the unhappy people that consider it. Soap operas about wandering spouses typically take place in glamorous settings, and the people involved get a chance to enjoy ‘the thrill of romance’ before the inevitable problems settle in. Laura imagines such things only as a pipe dream. She and Alec feel guilty and ashamed every step of the way…Brief Encounter captures the dreadful weight of petty, seemingly insignificant moments that can suddenly be weighted with awful importance and remembered for a lifetime.”

The scene in which Laura’s children argue about going to the circus versus the pantomime is particularly revealing as a thematic representation of her internal conundrum. Fred suggests taking the kids to both on alternate days, to which Laura replies, “They’d be tired and fractious.” These words also fittingly describe her mental state after alternating between two men. Perhaps the movie’s funniest moment, one that comically reminds us of the repercussions of unbridled desire, is when the lovers are watching the trailer for Flames of Passion, a fake film that unashamedly apes King Kong. Immediately after the trailer concludes, Alec and Laura view an on-screen ad that reads: “Buy your (we see an illustration of a baby carriage) at Burtons.”

Time and again, we are reminded that this is a forbidden and doomed love. Some see this story as an allegory for closeted gay relationships in bygone times, not just clandestine heterosexual dalliances, that society would not have condoned. And like, in the opening sequence, the two foreshadowing trains we observe rushing past in opposite directions, Alec and Laura are fated to lead separate futures.

Running contrary to that theme is the notion of the random and happenstance nature of life. Perhaps they are star-crossed lovers who were destined to meet and ultimately part, but a more rational viewer would conclude that an unpredictable series of accidental circumstances causes Laura and Alec to initially meet and then keep running into each other.

Throughout the film, the lovers are constantly battling the clock and trying to meet train schedules and keep appointments, which reinforces the truism that time waits for no one. They never seem to have enough clicks on the pocket watch to fully enjoy each other. Memorable quotes from the characters echo this theme of life’s fleeting temporal nature: “There’s still time if we control ourselves and behave like sensible human beings,” Laura says, to which Alec replies, “There is no time at all.” Laura tells herself: “Nothing lasts really. Neither happiness nor despair. Not even life lasts very long. There'll come a time in the future when I shan't mind about this anymore, when I can look back and say quite peacefully and cheerfully how silly I was. No, no, I don't want that time to come ever.”

Brief Encounter also reminds us of the escapist magic inherent in movies and the transformative power of motion pictures – how, as when Laura looks at a reflection of herself projected onto the train window and is instantly transported to a series of flashbacks and fantasies, we can divert our minds from everyday troubles and mundane matters and look to the on-screen characters as wish fulfillment avatars.

Brief Encounter’s most bountiful bestowal to audiences 80 years later is its romantic simplicity. This film boils down temptation and attraction to its simplest essentials, refreshingly without the need to depict torrid sexuality, introduce extraneous characters or subplots, or deviate from one character’s point of view. It’s pure, clean, and lean cinematic storytelling. It’s crucial that the narrative is told from a woman’s POV – a female who has a lot to lose and with whom any man can feel empathy for if they look closely enough. Yes, this was considered a “woman’s picture” back in 1945, and could be labeled by the myopic as a “chick flick” nowadays. But the story, characters, and situations are relatively timeless and universal, transcending gender boundaries.

Make no mistake: Brief Encounter has been celebrated as one of the greatest films of all time. At the 19th Academy Awards, Brief Encounter earned three nominations for Best Director (David Lean), Best Actress (Celia Johnson), and Best Adapted Screenplay. In 1999, the British Film Institute ranked it the second greatest British film ever, behind only The Third Man. Total Film magazine placed it 44th on its 2004 ranking of the best British movies. In 2017, a Time Out poll of 150 actors, directors, writers, producers, and critics named it the 12th-best British film ever. On Rotten Tomatoes, it holds a 91% “fresh” rating, with an average critical score of 8.6 out of 10, while its Metascore at Metacritic stands at 92 out of 100.

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It's a helluva thing, killing a man

It’s titled “Unforgiven,” but a better moniker for this 1992 Western helmed by Clint Eastwood is “Unforgettable.” That’s because his film represents a sea change of sorts in the genre, setting a new template for many big-screen and small-screen Westerns to follow by rejecting romanticized frontier myths and providing a somber perspective on justice, morality, and heroism. The director stars as William Munny, a once-notorious outlaw turned widowed farmer, who reluctantly returns to violence after a group of prostitutes in the frontier town of Big Whiskey offer a bounty on the men who disfigured one of their own. Munny is joined by his old partner Ned Logan (Morgan Freeman) and a boastful young gun calling himself the Schofield Kid (Jaimz Woolvett). Standing in their way is the town’s brutal sheriff, Little Bill Daggett (Gene Hackman).

To listen to a recording of our CineVerse group discussion of Unforgiven, conducted last week, click here (if you encounter an error, simply try refreshing the page).

This film differs sharply from earlier traditional Westerns, especially those featuring classic Eastwood personas. For proof, consider that it emphasizes the repercussions of violence, which here are shown to be unpleasant, messy, and often unjustified. Additionally, a subtle feminist subtext drives the plot, as the prostitutes’ demand for justice ignites the conflict. Also, ponder that Munny is old, weakened, and supposedly reformed, moralizing about the consequences of his past rather than embodying the sly, ultra-skilled “man with no name” figure of his earlier films. And this picture also includes a prominent African American character – Ned Logan – and presents a narrative that is morally ambiguous and heroically uncertain, prompting viewers to question who truly deserves their sympathies.

Unforgiven is considered a revisionist Western. As such, it belongs to the tradition of films that deconstruct and challenge the myths of the classic oater by foregrounding anti-heroes, blurred moral boundaries, critiques of capitalism and manifest destiny, and a general skepticism toward the legends of frontier nobility. Earlier examples of this revisionist strain include The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance, High Noon, The Wild Bunch, and Dances with Wolves.

The movie also makes striking use of camera and lighting techniques for dramatic and thematic effect. In one key moment, Munny takes a drink in front of a mirror that perplexingly does not show his reflection, a visual cue that raises questions about identity, guilt, and the fractured self. Several scenes turn dark or nearly black at the moment something terrible happens, as though the film itself recoils from the violence or forces viewers to sit with its moral weight. And recall the use of silhouettes in the first and last scenes functions as a pair of visual bookends – invoking the style and haunting tone of The Searchers and reinforcing the myth-making (and myth-breaking) quality of the story.

Throughout Unforgiven, ironic contradictions abound. Munny is ostensibly the hero, yet he struggles to mount a horse, often can’t shoot straight, and lives as a shabby, aging pig farmer. The Schofield Kid, who projects a macho bravado, turns out to be an insecure newbie frightened by real violence. The sheriff, Little Bill, is meant to embody law and order, but quickly reveals himself to be corrupt, sadistic, and self-righteous. The prostitutes, while sympathetic victims of cruelty, nevertheless demand bloodlust and revenge, even targeting one man who tries to make amends. Then there’s English Bob, a ruthless killer, who becomes oddly pitiable once Little Bill humiliates and exposes him. Munny’s choice to return to murder as a way to support his family underscores how far he is from being any kind of moral example, despite his sincere intentions.

Unforgiven’s powerful thesis is that violence does not solve problems; it simply initiates or perpetuates more suffering in addition to leaving scars – physical, emotional, and spiritual. The film further stresses that heroic myths are illusions that disguise the darker realities of human nature. In stripping away the glamour and romance of the Old West, the story suggests that every man carries both light and darkness, and that “heroes” are rarely the people they appear to be.

The film’s title itself reflects multiple layers of meaning. Will Munny cannot forgive himself for the atrocities of his youth, and he fears that his late wife would not forgive his return to killing. The prostitutes refuse to absolve the men responsible for the attack, even when one of them attempts restitution. On a broader theological level, the title suggests a kind of moral damnation: Characters invoke the idea of facing each other in hell, implying that many of them see themselves, or their enemies, as beyond redemption.

Other key films directed by Clint Eastwood

• Play Misty for Me (1971)
• The Outlaw Josey Wales (1976)
• Bird (1988)
• The Bridges of Madison County (1995)
• Mystic River (2003)
• Million Dollar Baby (2004)

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A fable of pain and grace that knows no boundaries

When consuming classic Japanese cinema, Westerners typically gravitate to the works of Kurosawa or Ozu. But often overlooked is the oeuvre of Kenji Mizoguchi, whose filmography has been reappraised in recent decades and elevated in the eyes of scholars and critics. Perhaps his greatest achievement is Sansho the Bailiff from 1954. Set in feudal Japan, the narrative follows two noble children, Zushio (Yoshiaki Hanayagi) and Anju (Kyoko Kagawa), who are kidnapped and sold into slavery to the cruel bailiff Sansho (Eitaro Shindo); Zushio grows hardened by violence as they come of age while Anju remains devoted to the compassionate teachings of their exiled mother Tamaki (Kinuyo Tanaka).

Celebrated for its emotional gravity, exquisite visual style, and powerful humanism, Sansho the Bailiff has earned its rightful place among the finest works of world cinema.

To listen to a recording of our CineVerse group discussion of Sansho the Bailiff, conducted earlier this month, click here.

It’s easy to conclude why this picture is regarded by many as Kenji Mizoguchi’s masterpiece. It features many of his directing hallmarks, including graceful camera motions, carefully orchestrated unbroken sequences, his edict of “one scene, one shot,” and directionality rules (Roger Ebert notes that camera movement from right to left indicates going reverse in time; camera movement from left to right suggests forward motion, while diagonals “move in the direction of their sharpest angle. Upward movement is hopeful, downward ominous. Moving from upper left to lower right, they are descending into an uncompromising future,” Ebert wrote).

Deep Focus Review essayist Brian Eggert particularly admires how the filmmaker “creates an association between the vulnerable and the natural, specifically linking the victims of cruelty, often women, with bodies of water: The family in Sansho the Bailiff is first separated on the Japan Sea; Anju commits suicide by entering a calm pond; Tamaki lives in a hut on the shore, calling out to her children on the sea breeze. Water becomes the metaphor for channeling thought through time and space, for life and death, for Zushio becoming a man like his father, and for the passage of all things. The bodies of water are natural sites in the film, but also vast celestial bodies that consume and need to be consumed. These ideas are symbols of ancient Buddhist storytelling, containing a faith in ever-changing fluidity and elemental transcendence that occurs in both human life and Nature. Every passage of Mizoguchi’s beautifully shot fable addresses the ongoing life of the natural world in relation to the brief moment of human existence—the convergence and destruction of humanity in Nature.”

As disturbing and unpleasant as the story is, the film is profoundly moving and boasts one of the most unforgettable and emotional conclusions in cinema history. Perhaps it’s also autobiographical in some way, as Mizoguchi grew up in a family where his older sister was placed for adoption to a new clan that sold her as a geisha, while his father physically abused the rest of the family.

Considering that the title character is only on screen for around one-third of the movie, why title it “Sansho the Bailiff”? The answer, of course, is that this name is symbolic of the pain and oppression felt by the characters we care about. Sansho is both a feared villain in the story as well as a representation of man’s inhumanity to his fellow man.

The counterpoint to that, and the central thesis of the movie, is that compassion, mercy, and kindness are required traits to be considered a human being. Throughout the film, we are shown how the absence of these qualities leads to suffering, cruelty, and dehumanization. Interestingly, the film begins with the words: “The origin of this story goes back to medieval times, when Japan had not yet emerged from the dark ages, and mankind had yet to awaken as human beings. It has been retold by the people for centuries, and it is treasured today as one of the epic folk tales of history.” Experts suggest that this film, released just a few years after the conclusion of World War II, is a scathing comment on its country’s wartime history, including the insufferable brutalities of Japan’s concentration camps and its soulless militaristic leadership and attitude before and during that armed conflict.

Redemption and forgiveness resonate as other primary themes. Zushio begins the story with his father’s memorized teachings in his heart and on his tongue: “A man is not a human being without mercy. Even if you are hard on yourself, be merciful to others. Men are created equal. Everyone is entitled to their happiness.” But after years of being subjected to bondage and heartlessness, he forgets this wisdom and chooses the opposite path, serving ironically as more of a surrogate son to the inhumane titular character than Sansho’s actual son, Tarō, who defies his father by demonstrating compassion to the slaves. In this phase of his life, Zushio is given a different name: Mutsu-Waka. But after he escapes and is named the Governor of Tango, he is rechristened Masamichi Taira. It is under this name that he executes his most selfless and courageous acts: outlawing slavery and freeing Sansho’s captives. Zushio has undergone two major transitions in character and name on his path to a higher humanity, one that would have made his father proud. But this journey required redeeming himself from the soulless Sansho sycophant that he had become. Eventually finding his estranged mother, he begs her forgiveness, but she says, “What nonsense do you speak of? I don't know what you have done, but I know that you followed your father's teachings. And that is why we have been able to meet again.”

Additionally, Sansho the Bailiff is a masterclass on sacrifice, selflessness, and social injustice. Anju helps her brother escape by remaining behind at the slave camp and distracting the guards. She ultimately elects to drown herself and commit suicide to avoid torture and revealing her brother’s escape plans; Zushio, meanwhile, also engages in sacrifice by risking his well-being and surrendering his governor post after bravely freeing the slaves and arresting Sansho. And Mizoguchi deftly exposes the unfairness of the class system in Japan’s history: how women were subjugated, the unprivileged were exploited and made to suffer, and the elite used their power and wealth to take advantage of others.

Similar works

• Ordet (1955, Carl Theodor Dreyer)
• The Burmese Harp (1956, Kon Ichikawa)
• Harakiri (1962, Masaki Kobayashi)
• Andrei Rublev (1966, Andrei Tarkovsky)
• The Emigrants (1971, Jan Troell)
• The Tree of Wooden Clogs (1978, Ermanno Olmi)
• A Time to Live, A Time to Die (1985, Hou Hsiao-hsien)
• Raise the Red Lantern (1991, Zhang Yimou)
• 12 Years a Slave (2013, Steve McQueen)

Other esteemed films by Mizoguchi

• The Story of the Last Chrysanthemums (1939)
• The Life of Oharu (1952)
• Ugetsu (1953)
• Street of Shame (1956)

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