Fred and Ginger's finest moment

The swing era of rhythmic jazz played by the big bands was in full swing by the mid-1930s. But the creative forces behind the film Swing Time must not have received the memo. That’s because this George Stevens-directed musical comedy, released in late summer 1936, eschews that increasingly popular musical style of the era and instead emphasizes a Great American Songbook score composed by the legendary songwriting team of Jerome Kern and Dorothy Fields. But one element that wasn’t falsely advertised was the scintillating on-screen dancing of Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers.

In case you care about the plot, it concerns John "Lucky" Garnett (Astaire), a talented tap dancer and gambler who travels to New York City to earn $25,000 to prove his worthiness to his wealthy fiancée back home, Margaret Watson (Betty Furness). However, complications arise when Lucky falls deeply in love with Penny Carroll (Rogers), a charming dance academy instructor he accidentally meets on the street. Together, Lucky and Penny form a sensational professional dance duo, navigating standard romantic misunderstandings, a jealous bandleader rival named Ricardo Romero (Georges Metaxa), and comedic mishaps alongside Lucky's loyal sidekick, Pop Cardetti (Victor Moore), and Penny's cynical friend, Mabel Anderson (Helen Broderick).

To listen to a recording of our CineVerse group discussion of Swing Time, conducted last week, click here.

This is often ranked as the finest of the Astaire-Rogers films, and for good reason: It showcases perhaps their very best dancing to possibly the greatest repertoire of songs in any of their 10 pictures together. And the eyes don’t lie—Many believe Fred and Ginger have never looked better together, both on the dance floor and as romantic partners.

Roger Ebert, who included Swing Time in his Great Movies essay series, wrote: “What Fred and Ginger had together, and what no other team has ever had in the same way, was a joy of performance. They were so good, and they knew they were so good, that they danced in celebration of their gifts…They brought such grace and humor that they became the touchstone of all things elegant…The chemistry between Fred and Ginger was not simply erotic, but intellectual and physical: They were two thoroughbreds who could dance better than anyone else, and knew it.” Dance critic Brian Seibert called it “the best dance film ever made because of the way that dance is integrated into the film.”

And Imogen Sara Smith maintains that, “Of all the films Astaire and Rogers made together, Swing Time does the best job of integrating music and dance into a credible story.” She particularly praises Rogers' work in this film. “She has the universal traits of the thirties working girl: she is wised-up, suspicious, and implacably sensible. And this is precisely why Fred needs her: Ginger is his ballast. Without her, he might float off into the empyrean, loosed of all ties to earth. His temperament is as airy as his physical presence; in each film, before meeting Rogers, he is carefree…she bursts his bubble and gives him something to work for. Rogers’s physicality likewise matches her character…Her opposition and eventual surrender play out in her spine and shoulders, which go from taut to melting; her body is as expressive as it is breathtakingly lovely.”

Swing Time boasts six unforgettable songs, most set to brilliant dancing, and each a showstopper in its own right. The fun starts with Pick Yourself Up, a polka tempo tune that gets the couple’s feet moving and our toes tapping with its uplifting message and exuberant stepping. It’s also the most down-to-earth and relatable, featuring dancing that’s no less graceful or impressive than any of the formalwear numbers that follow.

Next, we hear the familiar strains of an all-time classic melody that earned the movie its single Academy Award, for Best Song, and became Astaire’s biggest hit on the music charts: The Way You Look Tonight, a foxtrot featuring Astaire singing solo.

The wordless Waltz in Swing Time oozes elegance and grace in three-quarter time, with Astaire’s tap shoes punctuating the pageantry and Ginger’s puffy-sleeved, ruffled-skirted gown satiating our senses. The eternally hummable A Fine Romance, a quickstep sung but not danced by the duet amid falling snowflakes, comments on the twosome’s iffy relationship with cleverly caustic lyrics.

As cringeworthy and socioculturally dated as it is today due to Astaire appearing in blackface, Bojangles of Harlem is actually an eye-popping sequence brimming with arresting visuals and syncopated symmetry involving 24 female performers moving in perfect step with Astaire (at one point he’s dancing with all of them at one time, stacked in a straight but oscillating line) before shifting to a wowzer-for-its-time trick photography tour de force in which Fred dances with three gigantic shadows of himself.

Then, topping all the other tunes for emotional impact and visual elegance, we get Never Gonna Dance, an artfully evergreen Art Deco spectacle that begins by presenting Astaire in lone voice mode, shot from a high angle as he laments their seemingly doomed romance, and which proves the song’s title as truthful in the moment. Eventually, the lyrics stop, and the exceptionally fancy footwork begins, bringing us the last of Swing Time’s three duet dances and closing out the picture in grand style with a cornucopia of dance styles—from balletic glides and lunging tilts to acrobatic adagio lifts and rapid-fire spins.

Like the five earlier Astaire-Rogers pictures, Swing Time continues a relatively new tradition of departing from theatrical staging-style musicals common in the early 1930s. This approach completely deviated from the standard "front-row center" stage perspective and the massive, geometric chorus girl spectacles popularized by Busby Berkeley. Instead of framing musical numbers as static stage routines performed for an in-universe audience, Stevens and Astaire integrated the dances seamlessly into the narrative itself, utilizing more fluid camera movement and tracking shots. Astair insisted that the camera capture the full bodies of the dancers (head to toe) in single, uninterrupted shots, with as few edits as possible, to preserve the beauty and integrity of the performances. Stevens moved the camera horizontally with the dancers as they moved and avoided cutaways or close-ups of faces or feet. The goal was to create a more intimate, three-dimensional, and naturalistic world than the proscenium arch of a live theater allowed.

Swing Time also marked somewhat of a change in Astaire’s choreographic style. In some instances, it melds his trademark rhythmic tap dancing with the sweeping, graceful lines of classical ballet and the expressivity of modern dance to fashion a sophisticated stylistic pastiche. Earlier Astaire pictures often emphasized traditional ballroom steps and straightforward tap routines, but here, numbers like Waltz in Swing Time and Never Gonna Dance incorporate balletic pirouettes, elongated extensions, and fluid, dramatic movements. Astaire and his dance director collaborator Hermes Pan wanted to expand the grammar of cinematic dancing beyond tap alone to better convey profound yearning and romantic tension.

Also, the songs in Swing Time aren’t one-offs or sung soliloquies siloed off from the story. The lyrics are more conversational and attuned to the narrative and the romantic dynamics, helping to advance or inform Lucky and Penny’s relationship.

Unlike earlier Astaire-Rogers collaborations, which often depict primarily European fantasy worlds populated by wealthy characters in fancy attire amid wall-to-wall lavish settings, Swing Time is set in America and was and is more relatable to audiences. It better taps into the fact that this is a contemporary story set during the Great Depression. Lucky and Pop are broke and must steal aboard a train and use pluck and impromptu resourcefulness to earn money, keep a roof over their heads, and win their love interests.

Notably, Swing Time tests our patience but also builds our eager anticipation for eurhythmics by allowing 28 minutes to pass before the first full dance number commences.

Unlike so many other cinematic pairings between Fred and Ginger, Swing Time shines thanks to savvy oversight by Stevens, a quality director known for imbuing comedic flourishes (and famous by this time for helming memorable light comedies, romance pictures, and character studies. He ended up directing a handful of masterworks in a variety of genres over his career, including Gunga Din (1939), Woman of the Year (1942), A Place in the Sun (1950), Shane (1953), and Swing Time—one of only two musicals in his filmography). We watch Swing Time for the dancing, but this is a Fred and Ginger picture you don’t have to fast forward through to get to the good parts because it’s packed with plenty of jokes, comedic callbacks, and mirthful meet-cutes in between, which this filmmaker would have prioritized. While we may not care much about the formulaic narrative or the love quadrangle, Stevens and company infuse Swing Time with jocular joy and needed laughs that still mostly land after 90 years.

The casting of Victor Moore as Pop does quite a bit of the heavy lifting in the humor department, as this fretful and maladroit sidekick gets some of the best lines and amusing interplays with other side characters. What also helps propel the comedy is a series of running gags, including Pop’s shifty card tricks, pantless protagonists, the losing and breaking of coins and currency, and, most memorably, Lucky and Penny continually being interrupted from kissing (fans would actually never see them lock lips until two years later in their eighth film). The second-best joke occurs when the police officer asks Pop to repeat what he apparently muttered under his breath, to which Pop replies, "Look out for the great big ditch” (“ditch,” of course, rhymes with or can be mistaken for other common single-syllable profanities).

For many, the funniest bit is when Lucky arrives at the house of his fiancée but is greeted by the painted portrait of a frowning family patriarch, a growling dog, and a hissing cat; after impressing Dad with his capitalistic savvy, the portrait suddenly smiles, the dog wags his tail, and the cat sidles up to Lucky’s leg in purring approval.

Swing Time has screwball sensibilities, and it’s also replete with comedic ironies: Lucky initially pretending to Penny that he has two left feet, him singing about her lovely appearance at an unlovely moment for her in mid-hair wash, and the fact that he’s a richer man with a lucky Penny than his lucky quarter. (Let’s also not forget the irony built into the film’s misleading title.)

Stevens was also known as a meticulous craftsman who notched many retakes to get the perfect scene, an ethos that meshed with Astaire’s obsessive perfectionism. They did more than 48 takes of the Never Gonna Dance sequence, according to Ginger Rogers, who suffered bleeding feet after so much dancing. This director was also enamored with Americana and stories like Swing Time that depicted the pursuit of the American Dream.

Let’s address the elephant in the room: the Bojangles of Harlem blackface number. Today, it’s deeply upsetting to see any white actor of any bygone era wearing greasepaint to make themselves look Black. This dated and distasteful imagery strikes a raw nerve, especially for African-Americans, because minstrel performers were typically condescending and denigrating of Black people, attempting to imitate or mock their appearance, culture, and mannerisms in exaggerated ways that reinforced harmful racial stereotypes.

However, what may be different about the Bojangles of Harlem sequence compared to so many other minstrel numbers in old movies is that some believe Astaire was attempting to reverently honor the talents and legacy of two African-American dance greats: Bill Bojangles Robinson, a pioneering African-American tap dancer who achieved massive nationwide popularity from the 1910s through the 1930s as a premier headliner in Vaudeville, on Broadway, and in major Hollywood films; and John Bubbles, dubbed the Father of Rhythm Tap and one of Astaire’s former teachers.

While it doesn’t lessen the blow, note that Astaire’s greasepaint isn’t as dark as was common in minstrel shows of the time, and he doesn’t accentuate his lips to further that racial caricature. Also, half of his female dance partners in the scene are wearing black outfits while the other half are wearing white, which could intentionally suggest intercultural unity and racial integration.

Nevertheless, it’s understandable for people of any color to be offended today by the presence of a blackface scene in Swing Time, and it must be acknowledged that this is a mark against the film that hampers its universal and evergreen appeal.

Flaws aside, Swing Time’s most lasting benefaction is that it reminds us of the transcendent power and enduring allure of the dance, an art form that, like a phoenix rising from the ashes, modern cinema occasionally revisits (with Chicago, The Artist, and La La Land as prominent examples in this century) to remind us that human beings practiced in the skill of moving rhythmically to music and shifting their fleet feet to the beat are eminently watchable. A world where Astaire and Rogers make heavenly hoofing look easy and attainable is a world I want to continue to live in, even if it’s merely a 103-minute monochrome fantasy that’s as antique and extinct as a Duesenberg or a double eagle coin. The way you look tonight, Ginger and Fred, is the way you’ll look every night in my memory: lithe and effervescent, dazzling and dapper, ever defiant of gravity and the ravages of time. 

Swing Time is preserved in the Library of Congress's prestigious National Film Registry for its cultural and aesthetic significance and ranks #90 on the American Film Institute’s (AFI) 100 Years...100 Movies list from 2007. The Oscar-winning ballad The Way You Look Tonight slotted #43 on the AFI’s greatest songs list, and the film was also named in Entertainment Weekly’s 100 Greatest Movies list. Additionally, Swing Time earns a 93% fresh rating on Rotten Tomatoes and an 8.9 out of 10 critical score vs. a 91 out of 100 Metascore on Metacritic. 

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Unexpected noir from afar

Directed and written by Kaneto Shindō, Onibaba (1964) is set in 14^th century feudal Japan during a time of civil war. The film follows the harrowing lives of two unnamed women — an older female (Nobuko Otowa) and her daughter-in-law (Jitsuko Yoshimura) — who survive by murdering passing samurai and foot soldiers and selling their belongings to Ushi, a black market trader. Their precarious existence is disrupted when a neighbor, Hachi (Kei Satō), returns from the war and forms a lustful relationship with the younger woman, creating swelling tension and, in her mother-in-law, overpowering jealousy. 

Yet, despite being a masterful blend of folk horror, psychological thriller, and Jidaigeki period drama, Onibaba cannot escape the long shadow of classic film noir. But is it a noir or not?  That's the question I attempt to answer in a Noir City magazine article that recently published, available here.

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That's one high calibre cop

If you’re a cop and your last name is Bullitt, your character had damn well make an explosive impact. Thankfully, despite his laconic nature, Frank Bullitt hits the mark, as evidenced in Bullitt (1968), an iconic police procedural thriller directed by Peter Yates and produced by Philip D'Antoni as a star vehicle for Steve McQueen. This team, with this film, aimed to revolutionize Hollywood cop movies by infusing them with gritty, documentary-style realism and pioneering on-location stunt work.

The plot follows a cool, no-nonsense San Francisco PD lieutenant Bullitt who is tasked by an ambitious, corrupt politician (Walter Chalmers, played by Robert Vaughn) with guarding a high-profile mob informant; when the informant is assassinated, Bullitt secretly conceals the death to track down the hitmen.

To listen to a recording of our CineVerse group discussion of Bullitt, conducted last week, click here.

Bullitt was somewhat groundbreaking for a late 1960s crime thriller. Look closely at the famous car chase scene, and it’s easy to see how. This was one of the fastest chases on four wheels ever, shot across incredibly difficult terrain to maneuver. Cinematographer William A. Fraker used Arriflex 35 IIC cameras to do something remarkably bold for a film of this era. At the time, major Hollywood productions still favored massive, heavy studio cameras. But Bullitt was one of the very first major studio action films to be shot entirely with compact and durable ARRI cameras, which meant the crew could literally strap the camera directly onto the hood of McQueen's Ford Mustang and the killers' Dodge Charger. Also, no music is used. And the way the sequence was choreographed, filmed, and edited influenced a whole new generation of movies—from the French Connection to the Blues Brothers to the Fast and Furious to Death Proof.

The filmmakers insisted on verisimilitude and a heightened focus on authenticity. For proof, consider that Bullitt was shot on location in San Francisco: Those are real Frisco streets those muscle cars are zipping around on (which must have made for very difficult stunts and camera work), and it helped make the city a star on the big and little screen, leading to it being the preferred setting in dozens of subsequent films and TV shows, including the Dirty Harry movies and the Streets of San Francisco TV series. Also, many non-actors were used, such as actual police officers and working nurses. And McQueen insisted on doing much of the stunt work and driving himself.

Additionally, the movie benefited from a distinctive approach to editing and sound. Ponder the choice of straight, simple cuts between shots to maintain a smooth, steady flow, and how the camera lingers on subjects for an extra beat or so.

McQueen’s character helped establish a new kind of cop hero: the anti-authority, defiant, vigilante justice-style police officer, later echoed by Dirty Harry Callahan, Popeye Doyle, and Charles Bronson characters; as well as the youthful, hip, and well-equipped cop, later exemplified by Starsky and Hutch and Miami Vice on TV.

Like John Wayne and Bogart, McQueen is often accused of simply playing himself. But he’s a screen persona you identify with because of the legend and presence he’s built up; when actors like this try too hard to “act” and stand out, it looks unnatural and contrived. Just because he’s not overemoting or playing someone who’s suffering an extreme conflict doesn’t mean he isn’t accomplishing a solid performance. Sparse dialogue is used throughout, ratcheting up the tension and emphasizing how this is more of a character-driven story where nonverbal action and simple facial expressions tell the tale. McQueen makes it work: He’s the kind of actor who can express more without the use of talking or melodramatics. Considering the film is skim milk thin in plot and words, the lead actor had better be pretty easy to watch. So if you’re a fan of this flick, McQueen deserves much of your praise.

The sticky wicket with Bullitt (besides several gaping plot holes) is Frank’s girlfriend, Cathy (Jacqueline Bisset). She’s a sexy love interest, but she’s given seriously wooden, clunky lines and not a very interesting role. Arguably, she comes off as unsympathetic, naïve, and frustratingly fragile in her inability to understand why Frank so effectively emotionally compartmentalizes the disturbing nature of his job. How does she expect him to process and cope with all the violence he encounters?

At its heart, this is a tale about gritty professionalism versus slick opportunism. Frank’s dogged commitment to solving the crime on his terms and leaving no stone unturned clashes with the greedy ambitions and manipulative tactics of Chalmers, who seeks to profit professionally from this situation. Frank is a man of integrity driven by a strong work ethic, and Chalmers is a self-serving politician.

Bullitt also explores the danger of desensitization to violence, demonstrating that Frank pays a heavy emotional toll over years of being exposed to disturbing violence in his line of work, a profession that threatens to alienate him from his girlfriend. The film critiques the "cool” veneer of Frank and, by association, McQueen. Turns out that his stoicism isn’t a stylistic choice—it’s an emotional wall built against a corrupt and ugly world. Recall how, despite his victory in solving the case by the conclusion and surviving against his adversaries, Frank achieves no closure. We see him stare wearily into a bathroom mirror. One shot speaks volumes.

 

Similar works

• Thunder Road (1958)
• The French Connection (1971)
• Vanishing Point (1971)
• Gone in 60 Seconds (1974)
• The Blues Brothers (1980)
• The Road Warrior (1981)
• Terminator 2 (1991)
• Ronin (1998)
• The Fast and the Furious (2001)
• The Matrix Reloaded (2003)
• Death Proof (2007)

Other films by Peter Yates

• The Friends of Eddie Coyle (1973)
• Breaking Away (1979)
• The Dresser (1983)

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Stranger danger

The 1950s proved to be director Alfred Hitchcock’s finest decade of work, a period when he hit the peak of his talents and benefited from outstanding collaborations with composer Bernard Herrmann, actors James Stewart, Grace Kelly, and Cary Grant, and stellar screenwriters such as John Michael Hayes, Ernest Lehman, and Samuel Taylor. But long before all-time masterworks from this decade like Rear Window, Vertigo, and North by Northwest ever hit the screen, he served notice that this was his time to shine with the release of Strangers on a Train, which debuted 75 years ago on June 30, 1951.

To listen to a recording of our CineVerse group discussion of Strangers on a Train, conducted earlier this month, click here. To hear the latest Cineversary podcast episode, which celebrates the film’s 75th anniversary, click here.

This was a perfectly timed comeback vehicle for Hitch, who had directed a string of lesser pictures and commercial disappointments following Notorious in 1946, including The Paradine Case (1947), Under Capricorn (1949), and Stage Fright (1950). Strangers on a Train marks the beginning of his 1950s dominance as arguably the best filmmaker of that 10-year run.

The movie boasts an impressive showcase of one visually astounding set piece after another – even for Hitchcock, a director already well-known for iconic sequences and remarkable imagery. This film flaunts at least five or six showstopper scenes or shots that continue to be studied by film scholars and relished by cinephiles: the strangulation of Miriam by Bruno reflected in her glasses; Bruno seen stalking from afar, standing eerily motionless on the steps of the U.S. Capital building; the kinetic tennis match and the zoom-in that reveals a still-faced Bruno staring directly at the camera amidst a sea of spectator heads swiveling left and right; the gripping cigarette lighter retrieval sequence where we observe Bruno’s hand reaching through a storm drain grate to reclaim that pivotal pocket-sized piece of evidence; and the chaotic carousel spinning violently out of control as Bruno attempts to murder Guy.

There’s also the unforgettable opening wherein we see two pairs of shoes moving toward each other and eventually making contact; Bruno’s choking simulation of a party guest at Senator Morton’s home; the expressively shadow-steeped Tunnel of Love sequence; and the uncomfortable segment where Guy sneaks into Bruno’s father’s home to warn him of his son’s plan.

“Plenty of Hitchcock movies move from set piece to set piece in whatever expedient way can connect them, but in Strangers on a Train the set pieces are organically structured and feed off one another,” wrote critic Glenn Erickson. “This is Hitchcock's first ‘power suspense story,’ where the dynamism is driven not by lavish action scenes or intense romantic melodrama, but by Hitchcock's nuts 'n' bolts cinematic engineering. Airplanes don't crash, and there are no giant noses of Ingrid Bergman and Gregory Peck colliding. Instead, our attention is riveted by things as simple as two pairs of walking feet compared in a parallel cutting structure, capped by intersecting rails that visually represent the inevitability of the collision between Guy and Bruno.”

This picture is also dazzling in its intricate narrative construction and powerful as a well-tuned engine that effectively delivers robust thematic ideas. And while the screenplay may not be airtight as far as murderous machinations and plausibility are concerned (by hiding in his father’s bed, doesn’t Bruno risk being killed by Guy? How do Guy and Anne know exactly when Bruno is going to return to the fairgrounds to plant the lighter, and what’s the guarantee that the police will even find that piece of evidence?), it is narratively efficient, thanks to Hitchcock’s masterful “show-don’t tell” visuals. The story and the setup are off and running quickly, and the movie benefits from having no superfluous scenes.

“Strangers on a Train is the first Hitchcock film that fully, equally merges text and subtext in a fashion that will largely characterize the remainder of the filmmaker’s career,” according to Slant Magazine reviewer Chuck Bowen.

The film showcases Oscar-nominated cinematography, compliments of Robert Burks, who went on to collaborate with the director over the next 13 years. Additionally, the memorable score by Dimitri Tiomkin playfully explores Hitchcock’s theme of doubles, continually using contrasting musical motifs and orchestrated cues that riff on the differences and tension between Bruno and Guy.

The segment where Bruno stalks Miriam and strangles her ranks high in the Hitchcock canon of iconic visual sequences. The specific shot where we see the murder reflected in Miriam’s glasses required a specially constructed distorting or concave reflector/lens setup to film the reflected strangulation image; separate elements were then combined through optical double-printing to achieve the final composite shot. It’s an image that lingers disturbingly long in the imagination, thanks to its aesthetically innovative execution.

Likewise, the climactic scene depicting the chaos of the out-of-control carousel inventively employed a combination of rear projection, miniatures, facial close-ups, and insert shots, all ingeniously edited together. Hitchcock detonated a small explosive charge inside a toy carousel model and filmed the blast. He then blew up and projected this footage onto a massive background screen, carefully staging live actors in the foreground to seamlessly blend them into the deadly shower of flying plaster horses and debris. (Incredibly, the shots of the older man crawling beneath the whirling carousel are not photographic fakery – the man was an actual carousel operator who volunteered for this role and risked his life.)

Ponder how this director shrewdly uses geography and space in the frame to convey his themes and also build suspense. After scrutinizing the tense scene where Guy returns to his D.C. apartment to find Bruno lurking across the street with Miriam's glasses, British film critic Robin Wood noted that Hitchcock places the symbolic forces of good and order on the right side of the screen – as symbolized by the towering, floodlit dome of the U.S. Capitol – and the forces of evil on the left. When a police car suddenly approaches, Guy's panic drives him to the left side of the screen, physically retreating into the darkness with Bruno. Guy quickly steps behind the bars of an iron fence and laments that he’s being forced to act like a criminal, suggesting that his submissive positioning has trapped Guy within Bruno's malevolent, chaotic world.

The director gave careful thought to virtually every aspect of his lead character’s personalities. For proof, consider what he purposely chooses Bruno and Guy to eat and how they consume it. Hitchcock said, "Preferences in food characterize people…Bruno orders with gusto and with an interest in what he is going to eat – lamb chops, French fries, and chocolate ice cream...And the chocolate ice cream is probably what he thought about first. Bruno is rather a child. He is also something of a hedonist. Guy, on the other hand, shows little interest in eating the lunch, apparently having given it no advance thought, in contrast to Bruno, and he merely orders what seems his routine choice, a hamburger and coffee."

The film’s sexual dynamics are particularly fascinating. Bruno, as played by Walker, is eccentric in mannerisms, walk, and flirtatious behavior, clearly insinuating a queer-coded character. Looking closer, you can perceive that Bruno is angered by the heterosexuals around him, including his father; Miriam, with her repellant flirtatious behavior with men (recall her phallic licking of the ice cream cone); and Guy, whose success Bruno envies.

We know that Guy is intrigued by Bruno, and deep down we know he has to be contemplating Bruno’s murder proposition. A 21st-century queer reading of the film suggests that Guy is perhaps sexually confused, suppressing a latent desire that Bruno coaxes to the surface.

Per Roger Ebert: “Granger is softer and more elusive, more convincing as he tries to slip out of Bruno’s conversational web instead of flatly rejecting him. Walker plays Bruno as flirtatious and seductive, sitting too close during their first meeting, and then reclining at full length across from Guy in the private compartment. The meeting on the train, which was probably planned by Bruno, plays more like a pickup than a chance encounter. It is this sense of two flawed characters – one evil, one weak, with an unstated sexual tension – that makes the movie intriguing and halfway plausible, and helps explain how Bruno could come so close to carrying out his plan.”

However, Bruno unfortunately continues a tired tradition during Hollywood’s golden age where queer characters are depicted as deviant, aberrant, perverse, askew, and criminally capable – as evidenced by famous non-heterosexual personalities in classic films like Mrs. Danvers in “Rebecca,” Joel Cairo in “The Maltese Falcon,” Waldo in “Laura,” and the college roommates in “Rope.”

But what’s fascinating about Bruno as a Hitchcock villain is that, regardless of his sexual orientation, he’s capable of both magnetic charm and wit as well as appalling violence and volatility. Bruno can murder cruelly without compunction, while in a subsequent scene help a blind man across the street. He’s a loose cannon who’s boasted of driving a car over 150 mph and flying a jet plane, and he’s expressed a desire to blow up the White House. This is a creepy, malicious, nearly omniscient presence who seems to know where Guy is at all times – he’s almost like a stalking vampire who waits for the sun to go down so he can fulfill his evil plans.

Interesting aside about the casting: Robert Walker was a heterosexual in real life who was known for playing likable boy next door types – yet, he’s cast against type here as villainous and queer, if not at least sexually ambiguous – while Farley Granger was a bisexual actor being asked to play a straight character.

1950s audiences likely found several elements of the film disturbing or risqué. Exhibit A: Miriam’s licentious behavior for a 1951 movie. She’s married to Guy, yet pregnant with another man’s baby and flirting with multiple men, including the two at the fairgrounds who take turns pawing and playfully groping her. Exhibit B: We are manipulated into identifying with Bruno, a sociopath, just as we are forced to identify with Norman Bates after Marion Crane is killed in Psycho. We find ourselves rooting for Bruno to retrieve the cigarette lighter and evade a near capture by police.

Consider, as well, the outright weird relationship between Bruno and his possibly insane mother, which viewers of any era would find especially peculiar. And let’s not forget the terrible violence that concludes the rogue merry-go-round sequence. It’s evident that many children must have been killed, yet this tragedy is overlooked because the filmmakers and the audience demand – especially in 1951 – that Guy’s guilt and culpability be resolved.

Looking closely, we can clearly see the DNA of Strangers on a Train in later pictures. Running along the same tracks are subsequent movies like Bigger Than Life (1956), centering on a suburban father whose psychological unraveling turns him into a danger to his family; Once You Kiss a Stranger (1968), a loose, gender-swapped reimagining of Strangers on a Train involving a coerced murder pact; Throw Momma from the Train (1987), a pitch-black comedy in which an eccentric student embraces the idea of “swapping murders”; Once You Meet a Stranger (1996), a TV movie remake about two women who meet on a train and devise a deadly arrangement; Horrible Bosses (2011), a comedic variation where three friends agree to eliminate one another’s abusive employers; Mojave (2015), which follows a brilliant drifter who invades an artist’s life and sparks a psychological duel; A Simple Favor (2018), a neo-noir mystery of toxic friendship, manipulation, and deception; Do Revenge (2022), a stylized dark comedy where two teens agree to carry out revenge schemes for one another; and

It’s a stretch, perhaps, but there’s a case to be made that Strangers on a Train (1951) helped establish the thematic blueprint for the giallo horror subgenre that flourished many years later. It traps a “wrong man” in a labyrinth murder plot, features a highly stylized scene involving the strangulation of a woman, and is obsessed with fetishized clues that predate some of the core elements later perfected by Italian directors. The murder swap setup and psychological web potentially paved the path for later giallo thrillers like Sergio Martino’s The Strange Vice of Mrs. Wardh (1971), and Massimo Dallamano's What Have You Done to Solange? (1972).

What helps Strangers on a Train maintain an evergreen sheen are its relevant themes. The big enchilada, of course, is innocence and guilt, and the transference of culpability, which Hitchcock explored in so many of his films. The main motivation for Guy to foil Bruno by the end of the film is Guy’s guilt stemming from the fact that he has overtly wished for Miriam’s death, which is fulfilled.

But just as significant is the examination of good vs. evil, light vs. dark, and the shades of gray and ambiguity between them. It’s easy to regard Guy as the white hat character in this twisted morality tale opposite Bruno’s black hat figure, but let’s not forget the words that came out of Guy’s mouth: "I’d like to break her foul, useless, little neck... I said I could strangle her!" We know he’s not capable of doing so, but Guy secretly wishes for retribution on Miriam, and Bruno represents the dark side to Guy’s wish fulfillment. These are psychological alter-egos, with Bruno acting as Guy’s dark shadow and manifesting Guy's repressed desire to kill his wife. Ironically, the "shocked" Guy is carrying a murder mystery book. The consistent interplay of shadow and light evident in many compositions emphasizes this message.

Other visually and thematically obvious messages replete in Strangers on a Train include doppelgängers, pairs (more on this next), opposites, crisscrossing, and double-crossing. And you certainly can’t miss the sexual tension, as this film so skillfully hints at homoeroticism, cuckoldry, Oedipal rage, and psychosexual obsession, infusing undercurrents of deviant sexually motivated behavior into its story and characters.

Strangers on a Train’s greatest gift is how it serves as an endlessly captivating exercise in meticulously planned visual design. First, reflect on the many geometric shapes and patterns used throughout that turn this film into a big-screen game of tic-tac-toe, complete with X’s, O’s, and gridlines. Respectively, recall the crosscut editing between two pairs of shoes walking toward each other, the crossed legs, the railroad crossing signs, and the cigarette lighter with its overlapping tennis rackets; the circles, as exemplified by Miriam’s round glasses, the circles spotted on Bruno’s robe, the shape of his strangling hands, the white globe atop the lamppost, the child’s balloon, the sun Bruno glances at, and the spinning, circular merry-go-round; and the parallel lines, as evidenced by the shadow of window blinds that fall across Bruno’s face, the large gate with its vertical bars, the rows of matching heads swiveling left and right watching the tennis match, the lines on the tennis court.

But even more impressively, the movie ingeniously utilizes a recurring motif of doubles, 22 examples of which are cataloged by Stephen Rebello in his outstanding book Criss-Cross. Here’s a roundup of key examples:

• Parallel openings: Two Diamond Cabs arrive simultaneously at the station, where Guy and Bruno walk at the exact same pace toward an inevitable collision.
• The shoes: The film opens tracking two pairs of feet. Later, Guy accidentally kicks a passenger's shoe, mirroring how his and Bruno’s feet first bumped on the train.
• The tracks: A locomotive POV shows tracks intersecting and crossing. Later, the exact same camera angle is used for both Guy's and Bruno's separate arrivals in Metcalf.
• Apparel and shadows: On the train, Guy wears a crisscross tie while Bruno wears vertical stripes. Meanwhile, the window blinds cast a crossed shadow pattern over Bruno's face.
• The lighter: Guy carries a silver lighter embossed with crossed tennis racquets. Bruno lights Guy’s cigarette early on; later, Guy replicates the gesture for a passenger.
• Drinks and gifts: Bruno orders a double Scotch, explicitly asking for "a pair, doubles." Both men carry gifts from women: Guy’s lighter from Anne, and Bruno’s tie pin from his mother.
• Hitchcock's cameo: As Guy exits the train in Metcalf, Alfred Hitchcock makes his signature cameo appearance struggling aboard with a double bass.
• The daughters and fathers: Anne’s sister Barbara (played by Hitch's daughter) creates a "double Hitchcock" presence. Both sisters have an influential, older father, mirroring Bruno's wealthy, elderly father.
• The music store: When Miriam double-crosses Guy, the scene visually features two female clerks, two overhead light fixtures, and two listening booths – one with a young couple, one with an older couple.
• The stranglehold: In a phone booth, Guy rages that he wants to "strangle" Miriam. His face cross-dissolves into a close-up of Bruno's hands flexing, acting out the subconscious wish.
• Agents of chaos: Both Miriam and Bruno are childlike, hedonistic forces who disrupt Guy's life and threaten to embarrass him by causing public scenes.
• Fairground duplicates: At the carnival, Miriam is flanked by two boyfriends. The background mirrors this duplication with two old men at the carousel and two little boys near the grounds.
• The spectacle double: Barbara wears thick glasses, making her Miriam's visual double. At a party with two women discussing "perfect crimes," the flame on Guy's lighter reflects in Barbara's glasses, triggering Bruno to nearly strangle a guest.
• Metcalf repetitions: In Metcalf, Guy encounters a familiar policeman twice. Later, Bruno steps into a public phone booth, directly mirroring Guy’s earlier phone booth scene.
• The double fault: While Guy frantically plays a tennis match, Bruno struggles to fish the lighter out of a storm drain. During the game, the umpire calls a "double fault."
• The detectives: The investigation is highlighted by two sets of detectives tracking the men, closing the law's trap from both sides of the crisscross.

When speaking about Strangers on a Train to François Truffaut, Hitchcock remarked: “Isn’t it a fascinating design? One could study it forever.” I certainly continue to do so, and I firmly believe this remains a major part of the film’s appeal to the new generations that discover it.

It’s little wonder, then, why this work places higher than you’d expect on major industry lists, clocking in at #32 on AFI's 100 Years...100 Thrills (celebrating America's most heart-pounding movies) and No. 75 on Time Out’s 2022 countdown of "The 100 best thriller films of all time." Review aggregators mirror this praise: Strangers on a Train maintains an 88 out of 100 score on Metacritic, while earning a 98% fresh score and an 8.9 out of 10 critical average on Rotten Tomatoes. And in 2021, the Library of Congress inducted the movie into the United States National Film Registry for preservation.

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Cineversary podcast celebrates 75th birthday of Hitchcock's Strangers on a Train

In Cineversary podcast episode #95, host ⁠Erik J. Martin⁠ commemorates the 75th birthday of Strangers on a Train, directed by Alfred Hitchcock. Seated adjacent on this train ride is Stephen Rebello, contributing screenwriter on the 2012 film Hitchcock, and author of Criss-Cross: The Making of Hitchcock’s Dazzling, Subversive Masterpiece Strangers on a Train. Erik and Stephen swap insights and opinions on why this film is essential viewing, its subversive sexual dynamics, salient themes, and much more.

Stephen Rebello

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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Hooligans on heroin

Three decades ago, filmmaker Danny Boyle put his definitive stamp on late 20th century cinema with the release of his sophomore effort, Trainspotting—a seminal British dark comedy-drama adapted by John Hodge from Irvine Welsh’s gritty novel. Set in an economically depressed Edinburgh, the movie follows Mark Renton (Ewan McGregor), a cynical and self-aware heroin addict trying to break free from his addiction and the destructive orbit of his friends. His chaotic circle includes the sweet but naive Spud (Ewen Bremner), the treacherous and James Bond-obsessed Sick Boy (Jonny Lee Miller), the terrifyingly violent and alcoholic Begbie (Robert Carlyle), and the tragic, straight-edge athlete Tommy (Kevin McKidd), alongside Diane (Kelly Macdonald), a mature schoolgirl who serves as Renton’s reality check. The plot chronicles Renton’s agonizing cycle of getting clean and relapsing, culminating in a high-stakes London drug deal where he must ultimately choose between loyalty to his toxic crew or a chance at a normal life.

To listen to a recording of our CineVerse group discussion of Trainspotting, conducted last week, click here.

Arguably, Trainspotting is relatively nonjudgmental about drug addiction. Yes, the downsides are graphically depicted in extreme detail, with abhorrent visuals and unflattering portrayals of despicable users and criminals. But our narrator Renton also intriguingly describes the unbridled ecstasy he experiences when shooting up, and some scenes – while not going so far as to glorify or endorse drug use – suggest a fun and excitingly dangerous lifestyle pulsing with kinetic vibrancy and electric energy.

The story is firmly anchored by Renton’s voiceover narration, which informs the entire proceeding. “Having already learned the lessons within the film’s story, he looks back much wiser and more self-aware, and so if his character onscreen seems contrary to the narrator’s perspective, we must remember Renton is telling the story with a sense of reflection, after he has escaped with a bag of stolen drug money in the last scene, out to start a new life,” wrote Deep Focus Review critic Brian Eggert. “His onscreen hedonism (even more evident in his friends) is interrupted by his unique moments of thoughtfulness, sensitivity, and reflection through narration. His story may be myopic as a result, but his tone and acerbic observations refuse to romanticize drug addiction and bring purpose to the film’s grimy subject matter.”

Yet, while Renton’s voice is a reliable guide, much of Trainspotting is episodic, where each chapter could be appreciated as its own self-contained mini movie.

Boyle and company concoct some of the most viscerally effective visuals of any 1990s film or, for that matter, picture about drug use. The close-ups of needles going into veins, murky brown liquid inside a syringe, and surreal scenarios like diving into a commode overflowing with liquid feces and watching a ghost baby crawl across the ceiling are unforgettably disturbing. Interestingly, the visual approach alternates between realistic and fantastical, with the latter representational of shots and sequences presumably viewed through a drug-induced prism.

The film feels constantly in motion, thanks to occasionally frenetic mobile camerawork, exaggerated lenses, concise editing that trims out any fat, and characters who seem constantly on the move or, even when motionless during heroin scenes, taking a mental trip.

The title is a complete non sequitur, as there is no mention of “Trainspotting” or the British hobby of writing down the numbers of railway engines associated with that word. Instead, the audience connotes “trainspotting” with the practice of scoring and using heroin.

The thick Scottish brogue and distinctive vernacular of the characters make this one of most difficult films for non-Scottish viewers to decipher, which could explain Trainspotting’s appeal as a popular repeat watch for those trying to catch up on what they missed the last time around.

Importantly, this is Ewan McGregor’s breakout role, the one that solidified him as a terrifically gifted young actor and that led to him being cast in many big-budget Hollywood films to follow.

And what an impressive soundtrack, steeped mostly in early to period-authentic techno and Britpop tunes from the early to mid-1990s as well as vintage classics by punksters like Iggy Pop and Lou Reed. Cribbing from Scorsese and Tarantino’s playbook, the music fuels many of the scenes, lending a vigor and syncopated urgency to what’s happening onscreen.

Trainspotting pulls no punches about the vicious cycle of addiction. These warts-and-all degenerates can’t shake their dependence on heroin or alcohol, and even the relatives and friends around them are hooked on something (such as Renton’s mother’s addiction to Valium). We see firsthand the severe consequences of this damaging habit: the dead baby, the friend who dies of toxoplasmosis, the horrific detoxification sequence, and the disgusting scene where Renton must wade through the filthiest toilet in Scotland to retrieve drug suppositories. He and his cronies are stuck in a self-destructive, stagnant loop, unable to rise above their low socioeconomic status, get or retain jobs, or function as productive members of society. Renton’s only hope, he eventually realizes, is to remove himself entirely from this environment and leave his friends behind.

We also have a story that oscillates between betrayal and redemption. Renton ultimately opts to steal away with his friends’ collective drug deal money, abandoning their lifestyle and circle of futility. By completely cutting ties, he’s able to make a clean break and begin a new life elsewhere, presumably in the mainstream among the living dead normies he mocked in voiceover when the film began. On one hand, we can feel optimistic that, by removing himself from the drug subculture and the negative influences of his friends, Renton can establish a sober and productive life; but then again, we can’t forget that he has stolen from and crossed his friends and has relapsed into heroin use multiple times. His future looks more promising, but is uncertain.

Lastly, Trainspotting reinforces the perceived futility of youth culture actually giving a fuck. “When Mark asks, ‘Who needs reasons when you’ve got heroin?’ it is, in context, a great line, not because heroin is as good as a reason, but because in this movie, the clean world has no reasons at all,” posits Slate reviewer Michael Wood. “The older generation–parents, judges, employers, crooks–is pointless–permissive and amiable at best, but dim and mechanical in general, dedicated to a zombie existence that can’t compare with the joys of shooting up.”

Similar works

• Goodfellas (1990)
• Pulp Fiction (1994)
• Human Traffic (1999)
• A Clockwork Orange (1971)
• Requiem for a Dream (2000)
• 24 Hour Party People (2002)
• Permanent Midnight (1998)
• Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels (1998)

Other films directed by Danny Boyle

• Shallow Grave (1994)
• 28 Days Later (2002)
• Millions (2004)
• Slumdog Millionaire (2008)
• 127 Hours (2010)

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Like movies? This kid loves them

David Cronenberg, James Cameron, and Denis Villeneuve aren’t the only notable filmmakers who’ve come from the Great White North. Add to that list Chandler Levack, who made a splash on the indie circuit with her feature debut I Like Movies (2022). This dramedy follows Lawrence Kweller (Isaiah Lehtinen, who could easily start in a Peter Lorre biopic), an irascible, self-absorbed 17-year-old "film bro" in early-2000s Burlington, Ontario, who is fiercely determined to attend NYU’s Tisch School of the Arts. To fund his impossible tuition, Lawrence gets a job at a local video rental store called Sequels, where his rigid cinematic pretension and deep-seated emotional baggage alienate his long-suffering single mother, Terri (Krista Bridges), and his only friend, Matt Macarchuk (Percy Hynes White), while driving a highly complicated, boundary-testing relationship with his older store manager, Alana (Romina D'Ugo).

To listen to a recording of our CineVerse group discussion of I Like Movies, conducted last week, click here.

While it’s somewhat of a love letter to the movies, with ample Easter eggs and film title name-drops – from Spartacus, Happiness, and Wild Things to Punch Drunk Love, Steel Magnolias, and Sophie’s Choice (the punchline of a great visual joke in the film) – I Like Movies doesn’t actually romanticize cinema, neither the making nor the watching of films. Although Lawrence is a passionate cinephile whom we admire for his knowledge of and dedication to filmmaking, the movie presents him as culturally snobbish, intellectually self-absorbed, dismissive of female filmmakers, and behaviorally problematic to significant others.

The surprise centerpiece of the film is (spoilers ahead) Alana’s sudden revelation that she was sexually harassed by a film producer, an experience that soured her completely on cinema and causes her to be triggered when Lawrence blathers on about his filmmaking aspirations and college goals. We are reminded that many women have been exploited and abused in Hollywood history, and so few females are ever given positions of power in the film industry.

This message is echoed in the subplot involving Lauren, Matt’s new girlfriend, who wants to collaborate with the two boys on their school film project, but is condescended to and rejected by Lawrence. Later, after Lauren has completed the project as director and editor, we see in her finished student film that she has noteworthy talent and vision – a truth even Lawrence acknowledges.

What’s most fascinating about the picture, however, is the dichotomy of the main character: an unlikably fussy, pretentious, myopic, outspoken, and frequently isolating egotist who can also be warm, gracious, and sympathetic. Critic Sarah Milner wrote: “I like Movies strikes the right balance between vulnerable and loathsome, presenting a character we can root for, even as we disapprove of his actions.”

It’s interesting to learn that this picture is somewhat autobiographical. Levack previously worked as a teenager in a video store. But she resisted the impulse to write the main character as a female, choosing an adolescent boy instead to prove that female filmmakers can also successfully create male-centered narratives.

This certainly checks the “coming of age” thematic category. Lawrence is an awkward teenager preparing to make the transition from high school to college, shedding friends and making new ones in the process. I Like Movies is a modern “rite of passage” classic that provides a snapshot of an adolescent clumsily maneuvering within a crucial period and a limited window of time.

But even more so, the film espouses the power of empathy. Lawrence learns the hard way that the world doesn’t revolve around him or his film bro culture. Alana teaches him that maturity and personal development require active listening and seeing the world outside of one's narrow lens. By the story’s conclusion, Lawrence appears less narcissistic, naïve, insular, arrogant, and antisocial.

It’s also about the lasting ramifications of grief and loss, and how life comes with compromises. Lawrence and his mother Terri are still struggling to cope with his father’s suicide years earlier – a devastating event that has made it harder for the teenager to emotionally navigate his life and harmonize with her. Ultimately, Lawrence is not accepted into the NYU film program, and must settle for a more affordable and realistic backup college. Earlier, we learned that Alana also had to sacrifice her dreams and pivot to a contingency plan; her aspirations of becoming a film actor were traumatically crushed, and she had to come home and become a manager for a video store – a position she eventually leaves. We also hear how Terri was forced by her mother to choose among three professions; she acquiesced and became a low-paying office secretary.

Similar works

• Clerks (1994)
• Welcome to the Dollhouse (1995)
• Rushmore (1998)
• High Fidelity (2000)
• Ghost World (2001)
• Napoleon Dynamite (2004)
• Be Kind Rewind (2008)
• Me and Earl and the Dying Girl (2015)
• Lady Bird (2017)
• Licorice Pizza (2021)
• Funny Pages (2022)

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Death? What do you all know about death?

More than a decade before Saving Private Ryan, Oliver Stone’s Platoon (1986) quickly became the new benchmark for how to depict gruesome 20th-century combat, with the viscera amped up higher than most earlier war films dared. Marking a 40th anniversary later this year, Platoon serves as a raw, semi-autobiographical reflection of Stone's own experiences as an infantryman in the Vietnam War.

The narrative centers on Chris Taylor (Charlie Sheen), a young, idealistic college dropout who volunteers for combat duty and is assigned to a U.S. Army infantry platoon near the Cambodian border. Once there, his innocence is quickly shattered as he finds himself caught in a grueling, dual conflict: surviving the terrifying realities of guerrilla warfare, and navigating a bitter psychological civil war within his own unit. This internal divide is spearheaded by two contrasting leaders who vie for the moral soul of the platoon – the scarred, ruthlessly pragmatic Staff Sergeant Bob Barnes (Tom Berenger) and the compassionate, disillusioned Sergeant Elias Grodin (Willem Dafoe).

To listen to a recording of our CineVerse group discussion of Platoon, conducted last week, click here.

Platoon was different from many previous war movies. It stands as the first serious attempt to depict the realities of true combat and real war life in Vietnam from the grunt’s point of view, breaking away from the templates previously set by films like The Green Berets (1968), The Deer Hunter (1978), and Apocalypse Now (1979). The film doesn't attempt to glorify war, make it appealing, or recreate battles for entertainment value; instead, it intends to disorient, frighten, disturb, and raise questions. To achieve this, the pacing and spatial setups are intentionally ambiguous and disorienting. Both the characters and the audience are never quite sure where they are or where they are going, creating a vibe where anything can happen at any time and leaving a profound feeling of impending doom and dread. Furthermore, while the film serves as a morality play of sorts, it doesn’t preach or proselytize politically about whether or not the United States should have been in Vietnam, choosing to completely omit the politicians in Washington and the anti-war demonstrators. This grounded perspective is heightened by true night-for-night shooting using minimal lighting, relying in many cases on actual flares to illuminate the subject, which lends an incredible verisimilitude and realism to the story. Ultimately, because we know the narrative is loosely based on Stone’s own experiences, the film carries a deeply authentic feel.

In Platoon, there is also a battle going on that has nothing to do with the United States versus the Viet Cong. This conflict is really a battle for Chris’ soul, centering on whether he will follow in the footsteps of Elias or Barnes. In fact, Chris explicitly notes that he felt like the child of these two fathers. Barnes represents the established military order, functioning more as a machine than a man. He is a remorseless killing machine with all the stereotypical trappings of a macho, emotionless hero – defined by his scar, his muscles, his cold eyes, his ruthlessness, and his total lack of mercy – while also representing the devil inside each of us. Elias embodies the opposite paradigm. He’s more social, friendly, and compassionate, yet also deviant and willing to break from the established social order through acts like smoking marijuana or rushing off on dangerous solo missions. He serves as a feminine counterpoint to Barnes’ overt masculinity, highlighted by Elias’ romanticizing of the stars and the subtle homoerotic undertones in the tent scene. In this moral framework, Elias symbolizes a Christ-like figure who is ultimately betrayed and sacrifices himself for the others.

It’s interesting how Oliver Stone chooses to depict the Viet Cong themselves. Throughout the film, we only see glimpses of faces and figures, existing mostly as shadows and silhouettes. While many war movies show leaders and soldiers from the opposing side to offer a counterpoint or ratchet up the conflict and tension – thereby making the viewer omniscient of both sides – Platoon takes a different approach. By blurring the enemy into the background, the film makes a powerful statement that perhaps they aren’t the real enemy in this movie. Instead, they operate as a shadowy force of nature that simply cannot be defeated.

Similar works

• The Boys in Company C (1978)
• The Deer Hunter (1978)
• Go Tell the Spartans (1978)
• Apocalypse Now (1979)
• Full Metal Jacket (1987)
• Hamburger Hill (1987)
• Casualties of War (1989)
• Born on the Fourth of July (1989)
• We Were Soldiers (2002)

Other films directed by Oliver Stone

• Salvador (1986)
• Wall Street (1987)
• Born on the Fourth of July (1989)
• The Doors (1991)
• JFK (1991)
• Natural Born Killers (1994)
• Nixon (1995)
• U Turn (1997)
• Any Given Sunday (1999)
• Alexander (2004)

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Between two worlds

In cinematic parlance, the phrase “dark fantasy” shouldn’t instantly conjure up X-rated imagery or violent supernatural carnage in your cranium. Instead, the first thing that should spring to mind is the name Guillermo del Toro, who made his bones in this subgenre on the backs of several key works, most notably Pan’s Labyrinth, originally released 20 years ago at the Cannes Film Festival. Set in 1944 Spain during the early Francoist period, the narrative concerns a young, imaginative girl named Ofelia (Ivana Baquero) who travels with her frail, pregnant mother, Carmen (Ariadna Gil), to live with her cruel and sadistic new stepfather, Captain Vidal (Sergi López), a fascist officer tasked with hunting down anti-Franco rebels in the countryside. While navigating the terrifying realities of her new domestic life, Ofelia is led into a mysterious ancient maze by a cryptic Faun (Doug Jones), who tells her she is the reincarnation of an underworld princess and must complete three dangerous tasks to reclaim her kingdom. Along the way, she relies on the secret kindness of Mercedes (Maribel Verdú), the captain's compassionate housekeeper who is covertly aiding the local guerrilla resistance.

To listen to a recording of our CineVerse group discussion of Pan’s Labyrinth, conducted earlier this month, click here.

Pan’s Labyrinth is exceptional because it’s one of the most original, inventive, and unique works of genre cinema ever made, as well as one of the 21st century’s best movies. Widely regarded as the best dark fantasy film of all time, it deftly blends the fantastical with realism and authentic history and refuses to soften its blow, portraying its magical elements as being just as perilous and demanding for its child protagonist as the real-life horrors she faces. This blending elevates this material and challenges our expectations for how an otherworldly narrative should operate. And setting it firmly within a perilous period in real-world history keeps the film grounded, despite the phantasmagoric elements. It’s also not afraid to be emotionally devastating, giving us a finale that is as soul-crushing as it is uplifting.

“(Pan’s Labyrinth) underscores the importance of escapist fantasy through a horrifying real-world parable, yet tells its own fairy tale in the process, one with imagery so memorable and powerful that it could last beyond cinema, into an oral tradition reserved for campfires and bedtime,” per Deep Focus Review essayist Brian Eggert.

The narrative is cleverly and consistently structured as a storybook fairytale, bookended with fantastic voiceover narration that, in the opening, introduces us to an arresting “long time ago” mythology with fascinating characters and events, and, at the film’s conclusion, gives us a “happily ever after” ending. We also hear Ofelia tell her unborn brother a riveting, fantastical bedtime story.

It’s also to be celebrated because it masterfully utilized old-school practical effects at a time when CGI visuals dominated genre films. Yes, Pan’s Labyrinth uses digital animation, but it also prioritizes tactile, physical craftsmanship, which is evident in its approximately 300 effects shots. The movie showcases elaborate, full-body foam-latex suits for the Faun and the Pale Man, who were both played by a real actor – Doug Jones – along with complex makeup, prosthetics, and animatronic puppetry for other creatures. The fact that the filmmakers couldn’t afford to go full CGI – their relatively meager budget was around $19 million – worked in their favor. Interestingly, for as much as the film is remembered for its impressive visual effects and fantastical images, only about 20% of the runtime takes place in Ofelia’s magical realm.

Overall, the look of this film is stunning. The chromatic cinematography by Guillermo Navarro, the creature designs personally conceived by del Toro, and the collective efforts of the graphic effects artists make for unforgettable images in a work that relies heavily on strong visual storytelling.

For many, this remains del Toro’s greatest achievement. It’s the movie that put him in the pantheon of A-list directors and cemented his reputation as an exemplary filmmaker and the preeminent visual fabulist of this era. Del Toro went on to win Academy Awards and international accolades for later films like The Shape of Water, Nightmare Alley, Pinocchio, and Frankenstein, but Pan’s Labyrinth likely remains his most widely beloved work. The quality of the final product leaves no doubt that this filmmaker was totally committed to the project. In fact, he waived his entire directorial salary and back-end royalties on the picture to ensure it would be completed exactly as he envisioned.

Del Toro’s pièce de resistance here is the Pale Man: a wholly original, nightmare-fueled creation that steals the movie. Every distinctive detail about this demonic figure – from his jaundiced hue and flabby skin folds to the slits in his palms that hold his loose eyeballs – lingers hauntingly in our imaginations. Likewise, the form of the faun is impressive, sporting an earthy color palette and exhibiting idiosyncratic juddering movements that distinguish him from any faun-like predecessor in literature or film.

As far as directorial decisions that stand out in this picture, del Toro is known for particular touches and artistic tendencies. One is his seamless transitions between scenes, or “organic wipes,” as evidenced by the camera frequently tracking behind physical objects, such as a tree or stone pillar, to segue between sequences. In Pan’s Labyrinth, this fluid cutting intimates that the fantasy world and the real world are spiritually and geographically linked. Additionally, the director uses visual parallels to connect the two realms. Cases in point: framing the Captain’s opulent dinner table to identically mirror the Pale Man’s hellish banquet, and locks, keys, and keyholes that figure prominently in both worlds.

Notice, too, how Pan’s Labyrinth conforms to a particular color palette for tonal effect: deep reds and warm ambers are often used to convey the womb-like magical domain, while cold greys and steely blues exemplify the harsh militarized territory where Ofelia is kept. Also, pay attention to how the director lingers longer than usual on close-ups of physical details to solidify the fantasy elements just as firmly as he does with the realistic elements; recall prolonged shots of small details, including the shifting sands in the hourglass, the stone carvings and wall hangings, and the intricate, earthy interiors of the dying fig tree, where giant black roly-poly bugs crawl about.

Later movies that possibly drew water from del Toro’s well include Bridge to Terabithia (2007), which echoes the "dual-reality" structure where a child turns to a high-fantasy world to cope with the trauma and grief of their real life; The Orphanage (2007), produced by del Toro, which includes his gothic Spanish aesthetic and uses a haunted setting to examine the intersection of childhood imagination and tragic history; Coraline (2009), another dark fairy tale about a young girl entering a parallel world that is visually vibrant but hides a predatory, monstrous authority figure; Where the Wild Things Are (2009), Spike Jonze’s also employs a gritty, melancholic, and visceral creature design style; Sucker Punch (2011), featuring another protagonist escaping into a layered fantasy world to process a grim reality; A Monster Calls (2016), which has been called a spiritual successor to Pan’s Labyrinth because it concerns a boy dealing with a terminal family illness by interacting with a giant, ancient creature that tells him dark, morally complex fables; Tigers Are Not Afraid (2017), similar in how it uses urban fantasy and supernatural elements to create a narrative about kids caught in the crossfire of the Mexican drug wars; and del Toro's Pinocchio (2022), which directly revisits the themes of Pan's Labyrinth, contrasting the "monstrous" nature of war with the innocence of a supernatural child.

Earlier creations that may have inspired Pan’s Labyrinth include paintings by Francisco Goya and illustrations by Arthur Rackham, the books Alice in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll (1865) and The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe by CS Lewis (1950), and the films The Wizard of Oz (1939), The Spirit of the Beehive (1973), The Shining (1980, which also features a climactic chase through a labyrinth) The Company of Wolves (1984), Jim Henson’s Labyrinth (1986), and del Toro’s own The Devil’s Backbone (2001), also set during the Spanish Civil War.

The key question for many viewers is: How are we supposed to reconcile the dichotomy between the fantasy world and the real world and interpret the ending? Is Ofelia imagining these fantastical creatures and situations, or are they real? On one hand, it’s easy to decipher that this young girl, frightened by her stepfather, the vulnerability of her family, and the cruelty around her, is retreating into a fantasy world that allows her to escape from her terrifying reality. Recall that her father has died, her mother has remarried, a civil war rages around her, she’s been rooted away from her childhood home, and her stepfather is evil incarnate, a man responsible for all the violence, bloodshed, and fear that dominates Ofelia’s new milieu. Some clues that her fantasy world is purely imagined include:

• The opening shot reveals a dying Ofelia lying on the ground; only the blood spilling from her nose is defying gravity and retreating into her nostril, suggesting that she is consciously rewinding events in her mind and manufacturing an alternative reality to evade this horrific reality.
• Vidal observes Ofelia talking to no one during the later scene where she and the faun are conversing in the center of the labyrinth. Perhaps the faun has made himself invisible to the Captain, or he lacks the power to view the magical realm, but a more logical explanation is that Ofelia is imagining the faun.
• During the sequence where Ofelia has been admonished and grounded by her mother and is taking a bath, the flying insect returns to her, but why is it not in the form of a fairy? And how are we to believe that she has so quickly and easily, in the very next shot, escaped from her mother’s watchful eye and returned to the labyrinth to rendezvous with the faun?
• Earlier, when Ofelia opens the magical book and its empty pages suddenly come alive with content, she doesn’t appear that awestruck by this incredible event.
• Likewise, Ofelia doesn’t seem to mind the several different insects that crawl on or near her; children are typically frightened of contact with bugs, especially large ones.

Then again, the magical realm is often more dangerous and fearsome than the real world. So why would she choose to consciously conjure up such a scary netherworld – a surreal space where she encounters devious and devilish creatures, one of whom assigns her difficult and perilous tests? If she truly sought mental respite from the horrors of reality around her, wouldn’t she concoct a happier, gentler, and kinder alternate universe? Consider that some of her trials and actions in this magical domain actually make her more vulnerable to Vidal, such as the task to flee with her baby brother. And if these are fantasies, they become darker and more threatening as the story progresses.

Yet, whether these creatures and the challenges they pose to her are real or not, they embolden Ofelia, giving her strength, courage, independence, and self-determination. Psychologically, it could make sense that this child is so stressed by increasingly negative external forces that, whether it’s consciously or unconsciously, she mentally manufactures an equally stressful alternate reality, one that helps rationalize all the terrible things happening around Ofelia, such as her mother’s death during childbirth after the mandrake has been removed and burned. Let’s also not forget that Ofelia shares the same name as the female character in Shakespeare’s Hamlet, who suffers a serious mental collapse and ultimately kills herself.

Then again, there is slight objective evidence in the movie that this is not a world of make-believe. For example, recall that Ofelia was locked in her room by Vidal, with a guard placed outside her door; yet, she miraculously escapes that room – thanks, we are to believe, to magical chalk provided by the fawn – and ends up somehow in the Captain’s quarters. Furthermore, consider how, as soon as the mandrake is thrown into the fire, the tenuous health of Ofelia’s mother quickly deteriorates. Think, too, of the final shot that reveals a new flower blossoming on a branch of the dead fig tree, suggesting that her completion of the first task successfully rejuvenated the tree. And, while we are primarily shown this narrative through Ofelia’s perspective, there are two scenes – when the girl is first introduced to the flying insect (which will soon transform into a winged fairy) and right before the final credits – when the POV is the insect’s, which is shown alone onscreen without Ofelia.

The dénouement can be deciphered in two different ways. It can’t be denied that Ofelia is dying from her gunshot wound within the labyrinth; if there was any hope of saving her life, Mercedes and the guerrillas would attempt to treat her. A plausible reading is that she’s yet another innocent victim of the aftermath of the Spanish Civil War, and her elevation to the golden throne in the underground kingdom is merely a hallucinatory figment of her imagination in her final moments before death. But a more spiritual analysis has Ofelia ascending to an afterlife paradise because she has passed the last trial: she didn’t spill the blood of her innocent baby brother, and now she can return to her original magical homeland.

As to the question of fantasy or reality, according to Criterion Collection essayist Michael Atkinson, “del Toro conscientiously provides evidence for both readings. The distinction is irrelevant, because for Ofelia they are both tangibly happening, both equally dangerous, both beyond her immediate understanding…(Del Toro) doubles down on the ambivalence, ramping up the traumatic density and suggesting that the difference in stakes and horror between the film’s outer and inner worlds is so negligible that untangling them would be pointless.”

Late critic Roger Ebert wrote that what makes this film so powerful is “that it brings together two kinds of material, obviously not compatible, and insists on playing true to both, right to the end. Because there is no compromise, there is no escape route, and the dangers in each world are always present in the other.” Del Toro himself said in interviews: “She’s not escaping into fantasy as much as she’s using fantasy to interpret the real world.”

This is a timeless tale about loss of innocence and the transition from childhood into adulthood, in particular the maturity of a young girl who begins to think for herself and make independent decisions. Among these decisions is whether or not to trust the magical realm and what the faun or the adults tell her. Recollect her mother’s words: “You're getting older, and you'll see that life isn't like your fairy tales. The world is a cruel place. And you'll learn that, even if it hurts...Magic does not exist. Not for you, me, or anyone else.”

“It’s about her becoming her own person and making her own choices,” del Toro said. “The tasks are not really the important thing. What is important is what she learns from them.”… “It’s a movie about a girl who gives birth to herself into the world she believes in.”

Likewise, we, the audience, must also make choices: Do we believe in the faun and his magical world? And are we certain that Ofelia has truly returned to her homeland and reclaimed her rightful title as Princess Moanna by the conclusion, or is this a fairytale we want to believe in?

This exploration of maturity from childhood into adulthood is also echoed in the twinning story of Mercedes, a character who parallels Ofelia in several ways and who claims that she used to believe in fairies. Exhibit A: Recall that Ofelia must retrieve the magic key from the giant toad’s mouth, just as Mercedes is tasked with providing her brother Pedro a copy of the key to the storeroom lock. Exhibit B: Ofelia uses magic chalk and Mercedes uses her concealed knife as tools to help them escape. Just as Ofelia believes in the magical domain, Mercedes puts her faith in the guerrillas, which the doctor has warned her is a lost cause. If we are to believe that Mercedes and her brother had defeated their immediate enemies, at least temporarily, perhaps it should give us hope that Ofelia has also successfully fulfilled her mission and has truly reclaimed her rightful place in the underground kingdom. Then again, a quick brush-up on history tells us that the Spanish resistance ultimately fails; couple this sobering fact with the reality that the body of Ofelia is going to die, and the conclusion here is quite pessimistic: It can be downright dangerous to believe in fairytales.

The film also examines the blending of two opposite but eerily similar states: fantasy and reality; imagination and verisimilitude; the monstrous and the mundane; the phantasmagoric and the corporeal; and folkloric allegory and historical atrocity.

Pan’s Labyrinth deftly examines the difficult choices we must make as human beings and the consequences of those decisions. Ofelia must choose whether to dwell in the real world or the magical domain, and if she should obey the faun as well as her mother, while Mercedes and the doctor have to decide if they want to risk their lives and aid the guerrillas. Similarly, we, the audience, must opt to believe in this story’s magic or not. Remember Vidal’s words to his dinner guests: “We’re all here by choice.”

The benefits and drawbacks of delving into fantasy is another crucial theme. Pan’s Labyrinth probes the power of make-believe to change the world for the better, but it also shows the ramifications of escaping into the imagination. In his essay Ofelia in the Labyrinth: The Fantasy of Guillermo del Toro, T.S. Miller wrote: “The film constantly questions the value and even the very nature of fantasy, forcing us to evaluate whether it is finally destructive or instructive, comforting or terrifying, worthless or invaluable.”

Lastly, consider how the best laid plans of mice and men often go awry in this tale. Captain Vidal prides himself on being the consummate master of his reality, exerting and projecting control and power. Unlike Ofelia, who is linked to nature and its earthy elements and expresses creativity, imagination, and compassion, Vidal is associated with man-made devices, modern technology, and automaton-like drive, ruthless determination, precision, and efficiency – wielding hate, cruelty, and inhumanity as a weapon. But despite his shrewd military strategizing and desire to pass on his father’s legacy to his newborn son, he is thwarted by the rebels and told that his son will never even know his father’s name.

Why place the setting in 1944 Spain during the Franco suppression following Spain’s Civil War? This is a political film as well as a fantasy film; perhaps Del Toro is encouraging us to ponder the role of fantasy in the wider category of idealism. Pan’s Labyrinth likely suggests that idealistic political beliefs, like fantasies, can change the world: the Marxists’ faith in their chances and the righteousness of their cause is among the most inspiring ideas of the film.

Additionally, Ophelia’s fantasies are not simply acts of mental escape; they enable her to find political allies, even if she is too young to be politically active; they are a form of rebelling, acting out, much like the rebels are resisting the Franco regime. But, like the rebels who are eventually destroyed because of their beliefs, with Franco maintaining rule for 31 more years, Ophelia’s trust in the magical world results in her death.

On its 20th birthday, this movie’s richest endowment is that it constantly challenges the viewer intellectually. Pan’s Labyrinth is loaded with ideas that prompt further contemplation and deeper analysis with each new viewing. Interestingly, it poses more thought-provoking questions to the viewer than providing answers, forcing us to ask ourselves: Do we believe in fairy tales? Does real magic exist? Is retreating into fantasy helpful or harmful? Is there true justice in the world? Ultimately, are the wicked punished and the righteous rewarded? And how can we learn from the mistakes of history so we can avoid repeating them?

It’s little surprise that the film remains highly acclaimed and recommended. It earned three Oscars for Best Cinematography, Best Art Direction, and Best Makeup. In a 2016 poll of movie critics by the BBC, Pan’s Labyrinth ranked #17 out of 100 on a list of the 100 greatest films of the 21st century. Empire Magazine slotted the film #5 on its list of the 100 best films of world cinema. Today, the picture also enjoys a 95% fresh score on Rotten Tomatoes and a near-perfect 98 out of 100 score at Metacritic.

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