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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Cineversary podcast honors 20th anniversary of Pan's Labyrinth

Alicia Malone

In Cineversary podcast episode #94, host ⁠Erik J. Martin⁠ honors the 20th birthday of Pan’s Labyrinth, directed by Guillermo del Toro. Joining him on this journey to the underground realm is TCM host Alicia Malone, author of TCM Imports: Timeless Favorites and Hidden Gems of World Cinema. Together, Erik and Alicia sneak into the Pale Man’s lair and explore what makes this film a timeless masterwork, how to distinguish between what’s real vs. fantastical, significant themes, and much 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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A horror film you (hopefully) won't forget

Is there anything more realistically terrifying than the nightmarish reality of losing all your memories and suffering from extreme dementia? It's somewhat surprising that horror filmmakers haven’t tapped this well of woe more often. But Relic certainly does. It’s a poignant psychological fright flick from 2020, helmed and co-written by Natalie Erika James in her directorial debut, that utilizes the conventions of a haunted house story to explore the harrowing physical and emotional toll of elderly cognitive decline. The plot concerns Kay (Emily Mortimer) and her daughter Sam (Bella Heathcote) as they return to their decaying family home in regional Victoria after the elderly matriarch, Edna (Robyn Nevin), goes missing. When Edna mysteriously reappears with no explanation and increasingly erratic behavior, her daughter and granddaughter discover a manifestation of a dark, rotting presence within the house that reflects Edna’s declining mental state.

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

This is an effective slow-burn frightener that takes its time narratively. James and crew impressively build a creeping, palpable sense of dread and despair by craftily conjuring disturbing imagery and ratcheting up the tension between these three female family members, who, we quickly learn, are increasingly emotionally estranged from one another.

While the horrific events inside the house could be taken literally if you so choose, it eventually dawns on the rest of us that this is not a supernatural phenomenon but an allegorical externalization of Edna’s decaying mind. The three-headed monster here is dementia itself, the specter of impending death, and the sickening realization by Kay and Sam that (SPOILERS AHEAD) they will likely suffer the same fate eventually. And this is actually a more bone-chilling reading than assigning any semblance of realism to the surreal scenes that unfold in the last third of the movie. 

The difficulty for some viewers, however, is that it’s natural to bring genre expectations to a film like this and perhaps be disappointed to learn that what they are seeing is ultimately a metaphorical manifestation; we’ve watched enough haunted house and demonic possession pictures that we expect a realistic explanation for what is plaguing Edna and threatening her offspring.

Repeated visual motifs, like black mold that insidiously spreads across Edna’s home and claustrophobically tight interiors that disorient characters and viewers alike, are masterfully employed. The optics of dark rot and decaying corpses that haunt Kay’s dreams, along with the visceral body horror that dominates the final shots – wherein we see Kay peel away her mother’s decomposed epidermis to reveal the inner blackened husk of a decrepit figure in physical anguish, and the three women lying side-by-side on the bed, forming a doomed multigenerational chain – constitute incredibly potent imagery that lingers uncomfortably in our imaginations long after the end credits roll.

Relic unnervingly explores intergenerational familial dynamics and dysfunction, examining the relationship between three generations of women in the same family – a grandmother, her adult daughter, and her granddaughter – and how their familial ties are challenged when the eldest of them suffers from extreme dementia. It’s also a disturbing treatise on unavoidable hereditary inheritance and dark lineage. The film effectively terrifies by demonstrating the unavoidable link between the women, who are bound together by love but also by Edna’s increasingly debilitating and dangerous affliction, which may be passed on genetically. This family tree apparently is cursed by a legacy of rotten roots, as evidenced by the fact that Edna’s grandfather also succumbed to a similar “rot from within” terminal fate.

The heavy burden of caring for a sick older loved one has profound thematic resonance here, too. Kay and Sam strive to help and safeguard Edna, but are continually frustrated by her memory lapses, disappearances, and erratic, sometimes violent, behavior. Strong emotions of guilt, resentment, fear, anger, and exasperation inevitably surface. The last act of the movie – with sequences that are meant to be a symbolic representation of Edna’s complete mental disintegration, not to be taken literally as paranormal events – puts them through the wringer physically, psychologically, and emotionally.

Similar works

• Bubba Ho-Tep (2002)
• Ju-On: The Grudge (2002)
• Dark Water (2002)
• Harold’s Going Stiff (2011)
• The Babadook (2014)
• Dementia (2014)
• Late Phases (2014)
• The Taking of Deborah Logan (2014)
• Hereditary (2018)
• Sator (2019)
• Sanzan (2020)
• X (2022)

Other films by Natalie Erika James

• Apartment 7A (2024) 
• Saccharine (2026)

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Big scandal on the small screen

At a time when corruption, lies, public disgraces, and distrust in politicians, institutions, and the media are at an all-time high, it’s ironically somewhat comforting to revisit a more innocent time in our country’s history, when a nothingburger like a minor quiz program cheating scandal commanded the headlines and Americans began to wonder if they could trust what they saw on their television sets. Oh, how far we’ve fallen down that slippery slope.

That’s the major takeaway from director Robert Redford’s Quiz Show, originally released in 1994, which chronicles the real-life 1950s scandals surrounding the then popular television program Twenty-One. The plot concerns the moral and legal fallout after it is revealed that the high-stakes competition is rigged to favor more "marketable" contestants, leading to a Congressional investigation. At the film’s heart is the intellectual rivalry between the charismatic, waspy, Ivy League-educated reigning champion Charles Van Doren (Ralph Fiennes) and the awkward, disenfranchised former winner Herb Stempel (John Turturro), a middle-class Jew who feels betrayed by the network. As the fraud begins to unravel, they are pursued by the relentless and principled Congressional investigator Richard Goodwin (Rob Morrow), who is determined to expose the corruption of the television industry.

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

What’s surprising about Quiz Show is that the plot is relatively simple and devoid of much action, although there’s plenty of conflict. Additionally, the movie feels appropriately cast, especially in the smallest roles, where even bit parts shine with resonance. Also, consider that most docudramas based on real-life past events change names and facts; while Quiz Show is not completely historically accurate in its retelling of the scandal, it does use the real names of the people involved, including the TV executives, the network (NBC), and even the sponsor (Geritol). Perhaps what’s most unexpected is that Quiz Show doesn’t attempt to answer every question related to this scandal, the most prominent one being: What tempted Van Doren to cheat?

Ultimately, Redford’s picture forces a fundamental moral question on its audience: What would you do if someone asked you to lie in exchange for money and fame? The filmmakers adroitly explore the dangers of being misled by tantalizing temptations, whether it be a game show contestant agreeing to cheat, TV viewers being fooled but still wanting to watch even when told the truth, or even being seduced by the trappings of a shiny new car in the showroom (depicted in the opening scene).

Quiz Show cleverly contrasts the allure and ease associated with cheating (as seen in Van Doren’s privileged lifestyle) versus the frustration and hard work of investigation (exemplified by the pavement-pounding Goodwin). And it impressively navigates the moral compromises people make, even those who claim to take the moral high ground, like Goodwin. Case in point: Why, when he vows to expose and prosecute the perpetrators, does he go easy on Van Doren? Perhaps it’s a reflection of his desire to protect someone of his own class more than an eagerness to bring down the real culprits (the TV executives).

Consider, too, how the only offender that walks away unpunished is television itself; the "fat cat" TV executives are acquitted, and even the lower-level suit gets his job back. Meanwhile, Van Doren and Stempel have to wear their badge of shame for the rest of their lives. It’s a sad reminder that, as the adage goes, the rich get richer while the "small man" is left holding the bag.

Quiz Show conveys the pessimistic point that, even decades later, we remain a gullible society of consumers who are drawn to the allure of television—a deceitful, manipulative medium that promotes celebrity culture, cosmetic beauty, immediate gratification, and disposable entertainment over truth and veracity. While it points the finger at individual perpetrators like Van Doren, Enright, and Stempel, the film reminds us that the idiot box is even more reprehensible and blameworthy. These themes are echoed in today’s vapid television choices, which reflect the seemingly irreversible transition from hard news programming to infotainment, the blurring between documentary-style realism and fabricated reality TV, and the lowering of standards related to sex and violence.

Redford aimed to depict the cultural moment when America lost its innocence, claiming that the 21 Questions brouhaha was that turning point. But what have we learned, and lost, in the interim? Roger Ebert summed it up well in his review of the film: “Take stock of what we have lost in the four decades since Twenty-One came crashing down. We have lost a respect for intelligence; we reward people for whatever they happen to have learned, instead of feeling they might learn more. We have forgotten that the end does not justify the means—especially when the end is a high TV rating or any other kind of popular success. And we have lost a certain innocent idealism.”

Similar works

• Network (1976)
• Pleasantville (1998)
• The Truman Show (1998)
• Good Night, and Good Luck. (2005)
• Slumdog Millionaire (2008)

Other films directed by Robert Redford

• The Milagro Beanfield War (1988)
• A River Runs Through It (1992)
• The Horse Whisperer (1998)
• The Legend of Bagger Vance (2000)

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Sharing movie theater memories – the good and the bad

Last week, our CineVerse discussion group took a detour from its normal schedule and engaged in its second Freeform Wednesday, now a quarterly tradition. This time around, the general topic was "Moviegoing to the Extremes." This involved quick lighting rounds with polar opposite questions related to our members' memories of seeing films in a movie theater, including: First movie and last movie you ever saw in a theater; movies you walked out of vs. films you watched 2x or more in the same sitting; your all-time favorite theater vs. your all-time most hated theater; the longest you’ve ever waited in line for movie tickets vs. a time when you were the only person in the theater; a movie you thought you’d love but hated on that first watch, and a film you thought you’d hate but loved on that first watch; and a few more.

You can listen to this group discussion by clicking here.

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Cineversary podcast celebrates 60th anniversary of The Good, the Bad and the Ugly

In Cineversary podcast episode #93, host ⁠Erik J. Martin⁠ celebrates the 60th birthday of The Good, the Bad and the Ugly, directed by Sergio Leone. He’s joined in this installment by Sir Christopher Frayling, a renowned UK-based historian, art critic, broadcaster, and author of Once Upon a Time in Italy: The Westerns of Sergio Leone. Together, Erik and Christopher dig up the gold on this picture and explore its evergreen qualities, immense impact on cinema and popular culture, major themes, and much more.

Christopher Frayling

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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Coen x 2 + yokels = yuks galore

The Coen Brothers have turned the crime-gone-wrong film into a cottage industry, as evidenced by all-time classic Coen creations like Fargo, No Country for Old Men, Blood Simple, and The Big Lebowski. But their funniest early foray into this subgenre was Raising Arizona (1987), a quirky, high-energy screwball comedy that’s become a cult classic for its stylized dialogue and frantic pacing. The story concerns "Hi" McDunnough (Nicolas Cage), a repeat convenience store robber, and Edwina (Holly Hunter), a police officer who processed his many arrests, as they fall in love, marry, and discover they are unable to conceive a child. Desperate for a family and barred from adoption due to Hi's criminal record, the couple decides to kidnap one of the quintuplet babies born to unpainted-furniture tycoon Nathan Arizona (Trey Wilson), following the loony logic that he has "more than he can handle." But their attempt at a domestic life quickly spirals into chaos as they are pursued by Hi’s escaped convict friends, Gale (John Goodman) and Evelle (William Forsythe), and a terrifying, apocalyptic biker named Leonard Smalls (Randall "Tex" Cobb in a scene-stealing villainous role).

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

This film has been dubbed a high-paced, frenetic live-action Road Runner or Looney Tunes cartoon for good reason: It plays fast and silly with wacky characters and nonstop action. It’s also quite postmodern in how it defies the typical conventions of storytelling, dialogue, and characterizations, drawing attention to its own artificiality and unrealistic elements. And it forces you to question how trustworthy a narrator Hi is, creating a feeling of uncertainty about the external truth of the story. The Coens made a unique confection by borrowing from identifiable cultural elements and popular film genres and fashioning a distinctive pastiche visually, narratively, and aurally. The visual style is highly subjective, characterized by kinetic, mobile camerawork and unusual POV shots. Raising Arizona frequently utilizes "in-your-face" extreme close-ups alongside impressive tracking, swooping, and panning dolly shots, often executed with a Steadicam.

The filmmakers put lofty, loquacious language in Hi’s mouth to tremendous effect, creating comic irony. Here we have a slack-jawed, inarticulate yokel who can mentally speak like a well-read poet and Biblical scholar. His voiceover narration is intentionally written as implausible and artificial because we know that, in reality, he’s not the sharpest tool in the shed. This forces you to question how reputable Hi’s account of the story is. This poetic and talky narrative style is also possibly meant to lampoon the stereotype of the conversationally articulate Southern gentleman.

In keeping with the Reagan era and the consumerist mindset of the time in which it was made, Raising Arizona is meant to underscore the fallacy of the pursuit of the American dream in the 1980s: the quest for upward mobility at all costs and defining your social value, self-worth, and happiness based on your material possessions. Consider that the impetus fueling Hi and Ed’s yearning to achieve the American dream is to produce the perfect baby, as if the child is a product. And Hi refers to Nathan Jr. as such when he says, “he’s awful damn good. I think I got the best one.” The film further espouses that material success is an illusion – that doing the right thing (returning Nathan Jr. and bearing the consequences) will bring true happiness and fulfillment. And, at its core, Raising Arizona reminds us that even the most relationship-challenged couples can compromise successfully, work out their differences, and create the harmonious foundation necessary to raise children.

Similar works

The southern literature of William Faulkner (1919-1962) and Flannery O’Connor (1946-1964) in its vernacular and characters, and the short story The Ransom of Red Chief by O. Henry (1907)
Looney Tunes (1930-1969) and Tex Avery animated shorts (1935-1955)
Screwball comedies like Bringing Up Baby (1938)
Sullivan’s Travels (1941)
Bonnie and Clyde (1967)
Badlands (1973)
The Dukes of Hazzard television show (1979-1985)
Stanley Kubrick’s The Shining (1980), which also used fluid Steadicam tracking shots
Evil Dead (1981), which employed an inventive, low-budget "Shaky Cam" (a camera bolted to a wooden plank and carried by two running crew members) to achieve its incredibly fluid tracking shots
The first three Road Warrior films (1981-1985)

OthEr films by the Coen Brothers

• Miller's Crossing (1990)
• Barton Fink (1991)
• Fargo (1996)
• The Big Lebowski (1998)
• O Brother, Where Art Thou? (2000)
• No Country for Old Men (2007)
• A Serious Man (2009)
• True Grit (2010)
• Inside Llewyn Davis (2013)
• The Ballad of Buster Scruggs (2018)

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60 years of gold: Why The Good, the Bad and the Ugly still rules the West

Many fans of Westerns point to The Searchers, High Noon, Shane, Red River, Unforgiven, and Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid as among the finest representations of the genre. But likely the most influential, impactful, and beloved Western of the last six decades remains The Good, the Bad and the Ugly (GBU), directed by Sergio Leone and starring Clint Eastwood, Lee Van Cleef, and Eli Wallach in those respective titular roles. This year actually marks the 60th anniversary of the release of GBU – a film that boasts stellar direction, an unforgettable score, and captivating power dynamics between the three main characters, which continue to make for a compelling watch that never fails to entertain.

Set during the American Civil War, we follow three cynical gunslingers – Blondie (The Good), Angel Eyes (The Bad), and Tuco (The Ugly) – who find themselves in a high-stakes race to locate a hidden fortune in Confederate gold buried in a remote cemetery. The plot is a shifting game of uneasy alliances and double-crosses, as each man possesses only a portion of the information needed to find the treasure.

To listen to a recording of our CineVerse group discussion of The Good, the Bad and the Ugly, conducted last week, click here.

The casting is flawless. Eastwood’s stoic presence and rugged countenance speak for themselves, and Van Cleef, with his slanted peepers and wicked grin, was born to play Angel Eyes. But the actor with the most screen time and the most at stake is Wallach, who inhabits this role perfectly thanks to his expressive physicality and idiosyncratic approach to the part, choosing to imbue Tuco with certain tics, personality traits, and distinctive habits like crossing himself and uttering a quick prayer.

The faces are unforgettable. Leone’s famous style emphasizes extreme close-ups of the human countenance. Thanks to impeccable casting of even the smallest parts, we get up close and personal views of many distinctive visages, often tightly framed between the forehead and the chin. The faces of the three main stars were already destined to be perpetually etched in your mind, but the intimate topography of other inimitable faces and their lineaments forever stick with you, from the sweaty mug of the one-armed bounty hunter we first see to the gun store clerk biting down on his store’s “closed” sign to the wounded Southern soldier who takes a drag of Blondie’s cigarillo, and a dozen others in between.

The epic score by Ennio Morricone comprises some of the most memorable and popular pieces of film music ever composed. The innovative music serves as a character unto itself, commenting on the action and signaling a big, brassy, dramatic tension. We hear a low flute, representing the Bad (Angel Eyes), a high flute that signifies the Good (Blondie), and a wailing human voice meant to mimic a coyote call – the perfect way to musically exemplify Tuco. Leone also chooses to occasionally play sweet, serene music while scenes of torture and suffering are shown, which also reinforces the deliberately jarring and contrasting tone. Leone deemed the score so important that he collaborated with Morricone on the major musical themes well before principal photography started so that the music could influence the vibe and pace of the movie. While the main theme is the most instantly recognizable (it was nearly a #1 hit on the pop music charts), the composer’s The Ecstasy of Gold track, played when Tuco is running through the graveyard, is cherished by many as Morricone’s finest piece. Equally stirring is The Trio, which we hear during the Mexican standoff.

This could be one of the most visually impressive Civil War films ever made, utilizing hundreds of extras portraying soldiers and depicting an extravaganza battle sequence with ample cannon fire explosions, hand-to-hand combat, and the destruction of the Langstone Bridge (this is, by the way, a fictional battle). Many of the sets are impressive, including the battle across the river, the prison camp, the cannonball-cratered town, and the expansive cemetery (built exclusively for this film by a few hundred Spanish soldiers).

GBU may be one of the great anti-war films disguised as a crowd-pleasing Western. It’s also interesting that this movie remains neutral about the North vs. South, showing carnage and cruelty from both sides and using a chaotic backdrop of senseless slaughter and moral decay to send a message.

While the plot is relatively thin, there are more than enough interesting vignettes along the way that keep us focused, including the opening shootout, the scams Tuco and Blondie run as a bounty hunter and captured fugitive duo, the cruelty they inflict on each other in the desert, the visit Tuco’s brother at the mission, and several other episodes along the way. Even if these don’t advance the plot, they had crucial color, intrigue, and backstory to the narrative and our three main characters.

Ironically, for a film known more for its action than its words, GBU could also boast an embarrassment of riches in the all-time great lines department. These are among the most quoted and fan-worshipped words in any film, many of which remain downright funny:

“You see, in this world there's two kinds of people, my friend: Those with loaded guns and those who dig. You dig.”
“When you have to shoot, shoot. Don't talk.”
"See you soon, id...”/“Idiots. It's for you.”
“Such ingratitude, after all the times I've saved your life.”
“I've never seen so many men wasted so badly.”
“You never had a rope around your neck. Well, I'm going to tell you something. When that rope starts to pull tight, you can feel the Devil bite your ass.”
“Whoever has the most liquor to get the soldiers drunk and send them to be slaughtered, he's the winner.”
“But you know the pity is when I'm paid, I always follow my job through.”
“You may run the risks, my friend, but I do the cutting. We cut down my percentage…it’s liable to interfere with my aim.”

While the bad dubbing is an unfortunate consequence, GBU abides as one of the most diverse multicultural cinematic creations of the 20th century, and it’s remarkable that it works as well as it does despite its disparate heredity. The film was a three-way European co-production between Italy, Spain, and West Germany. While an Italian company led the creative vision and direction, a Spanish firm provided the filming locations and military extras, and a West German studio helped provide the necessary financial backing. This international partnership allowed the production to achieve its massive scale and eventually reach a global audience through American distribution. The film also used an international cast who performed in their native languages. While the American leads were dubbed into Italian for the Rome premiere, the English release kept their original voices but dubbed the supporting actors. This mix of languages caused the noticeable lip-sync issues seen throughout the movie.

GBU today is widely regarded as the greatest Spaghetti Western, one of the best in the Western genre overall, and among the finest films in history. It currently places #10 in the IMDb top 250 list and #169 in the 2022 Sight and Sound critics’ poll, and it ranks #25 on Empire’s list of the 500 greatest films and #49 on Variety’s all-time movies list. Its enduring legacy is further reflected in a 97% fresh score on Rotten Tomatoes and a Metacritic score of 90 out of 100.

Although many prefer the theatrical version, others opt for the extended cut of GBU. Interestingly, for 35 years, only a 16-minute shorter version of the film was available in English. In 2003, an extended 177-minute cut was released, featuring a restoration where an older Eastwood and Wallach returned to redub their lines. Although the added scenes don't change the plot, they significantly enhance the film's essential mood and atmosphere, making this longer version the superior experience for many.

What makes GBU exceptional is its unique commendation of exaggerated style, epic scope, larger-than-life cartoonish characters, and an implausible world of grand gestures and comic book-styled action, which is evident from the opening title sequence featuring colorfully oversaturated stills. The pastiche design is also evident in the offbeat casting of Americans, Italians, and Spaniards, and the deliberate choice to shoot silent and later dub voices in.

The form and style of the film are quite unconventional from the traditional classic Hollywood structure. Leone rarely uses medium shots, preferring alternation between long shots and close-ups, especially extreme close-ups of characters’ faces, to visually tell the story. He often prefers to open a scene or sequence with a close-up instead of the traditionally used establishing (long) shot. He tricks us right from the opening image, which presents a classic establishing long shot, but one that is subtly infiltrated by the emergence into the frame of a large face.

The director often draws out certain sequences to exaggerated lengths to build tension and suspense, such as the Mexican standoff at the cemetery. The beginning wide shot of the showdown, where the three figures spread out, spans 37 seconds. An earlier shot where Blondie rolls down a sand dune lasts 43 seconds. Leone also uses silence and white space to build suspense and a surreal quality into his story. The fewer words spoken, the better.

Contrasting imagery of beauty and brutality, rich and poor, moral and immoral, is juxtaposed throughout the movie. The filmmakers also often prefer stark, barren compositions to imply the inherent violence and ghostly qualities lurking beneath the surface or just out of the edge of the frame.

Leone also sets a rule that the characters can only see what’s visible in the frame to us. What the camera doesn’t show, the characters usually cannot see; Leone continually surprises us with sudden entrances into the frame that often defy the physical geography of the landscape the characters inhabit. Per Roger Ebert, this rule “gives Leone the freedom to surprise us with entrances that cannot be explained by the practical geography of his shots. There is a moment, for example, when men do not notice a vast encampment of the Union Army until they stumble upon it. And a moment in a cemetery when a man materializes out of thin air, even though he should have been visible for a mile. And the way men walk down a street in full view and nobody is able to shoot them, maybe because they are not in the same frame with them.”

Unlike earlier Westerns, the morality of the characters in this film is more ambiguous and blurred. Each character is capable of inflicting merciless violence and being “ugly,” so the names (good, bad, and ugly) are not necessarily indicative of their personalities or moralities.

GBU is also imbued with a postmodern hyperbolic sense of humor that can border on the absurd in its comedic undertones to make a point. The film functions as a parody of the western genre in that it takes many tropes and conventions of the classic movie western and exaggerates them for dramatic and comic effect. It’s what helps make GBU one of the most unique of 20th-century westerns: it’s as funny as it is unnervingly violent.

Consider how Leone’s masterpiece fundamentally altered the cinematic landscape, inspiring later works like The Wild Bunch (1969), expanding the use of graphic violence and moral ambiguity; The Outlaw Josey Wales (1976), mirroring the Man with No Name archetype in a Civil War setting; Star Wars: Episode IV - A New Hope (1977), influencing the "lived-in" aesthetic and Han Solo’s mercenary persona (consider that the scene where the bathing Tuco outshoots his long-winded ambusher must have influenced the cantina sequence in Star Wars, where Solo fires first on Greedo); Mad Max 2: The Road Warrior (1981), adopting the silent, drifting hero, sparse dialogue, and desolate atmosphere; Pale Rider (1985), utilizing Leone’s signature extreme close-ups, religious symbolism, and mythological framing; Reservoir Dogs (1992), echoing the iconic three-way Mexican standoff finale; Desperado (1995), also featuring stylized action and leaning into the kinetic energy of the Spaghetti Western; Kill Bill: Vol. 1 (2003), utilizing Morricone-inspired music cues and extreme close-ups; The Good, the Bad, the Weird (2008), providing an explicit South Korean homage to the original film’s structure); Django Unchained (2012), incorporating the cynical humor and operatic violence of the genre; and The Hateful Eight (2015), utilizing the widescreen Ultra Panavision format to capture Leone-esque tension and claustrophobic ensemble dynamics. Quentin Tarantino, in fact, named GBU the best directed film ever made.

The pop culture reach of GBU extends widely across many different media, inspiring both direct parodies and stylistic homages in film, television, video games, and music. Movies like Three Amigos, Ace Ventura: When Nature Calls, and Shrek 2 playfully reinterpret the Mexican standoff dynamics and Western tropes. TV series, from Breaking Bad and Community to The Simpsons and SpongeBob SquarePants, riff on many of its tropes, and videogame titles like Red Dead Redemption, Red Dead Redemption 2, and Fallout: New Vegas adapt its lone-gunslinger archetype and cinematic framing into interactive form. Let’s also not forget that the international success of the trilogy, especially this film, paved the path to major stardom, and eventually a directorial career, for Eastwood.

When it comes to predecessors, Leone drew from older storytelling styles where characters are a bit rough around the edges, sometimes selfish or crafty, and the narrative follows their misadventures – similar to what you’d see in classic European tales like Deux Amis by Guy de Maupassant, or in the exaggerated, mask-like characters of Italian comedic theater known as commedia dell’arte. Consider, too, that GBU doesn’t rely much on deep dialogue or backstory to explain people; instead, in a style influenced by French writer Antonin Artaud, you understand who the characters are by what they do, how they behave under pressure, and how they clash with each other. The director was also inspired by vintage Civil War photographs shot by Mathew Brady and Alexander Gardner. Several earlier films may have also motivated Leone and company. These include Buster Keaton’s The General (1926), particularly its spectacular bridge blow-up sequence and inventive visual storytelling; Chaplin’s Monsieur Verdoux (1947); the politically charged Viva Zapata! (1952); the sweeping landscapes and mythic scope of Ford’s The Searchers (1956); the war-infused Italian comedy-drama La Grande Guerra (1959); the tense male standoffs and stripped-down storytelling of Hawks’ Rio Bravo (1959); and the wandering, opportunistic antihero of Kurosawa’s Yojimbo (1961).

GBU is far from a disposable piece of entertainment made to simply please the masses. The film conjures food for thought on several thematic fronts, serving first and foremost as a thesis on the senseless horrors of war. Time and again, we are shown the violent consequences and soul-crushing futility of armed combat: from the carriage packed with dead soldiers and the captured combatant killed by firing squad to the tortured Confederate spy trussed to the train’s cowcatcher and the countless corpses decimated by cannon fire on both sides of the bridge. Blondie, a man of few words, hammers home the point when he says, “I’ve never seen so many men wasted so badly.”

Another takeaway? Shifting loyalties, sudden betrayals, and living by the “kill or be killed” code. Blondie and Tuco repeatedly team up and double-cross each other. Blondie also joins forces with Angel Eyes and his gang, but Blondie preemptively kills off his men before they can do the same to him. In this world of conscienceless mercenaries and cutthroat criminals, allegiances can quickly change, and solipsistic self-preservation is the prevailing ethos that guarantees survival.

GBU also has a lesson about the universality of human vice and virtue, suggesting that we can’t neatly sort humankind into three neat “good,” “bad,” and “ugly” buckets. Truth is, we can be described as any and all of these across the span of our lives. Contemplate that there are several times when Blondie doesn’t conform to his titular name, for example. Leone explained: “What do 'good', 'bad,' and 'ugly' really mean? We all have some bad in us, some ugliness, some good. And some people appear to be ugly, but when we get to know them better we realize that they are more worthy.”

Actions speak louder than words, we are also reminded. GBU is purposely devoid of unnecessary dialogues and monologues. Talk is cheap to these hard-edged characters, for whom force, skill, and instinct speak volumes. Perhaps the funniest line in the film, “When you have to shoot, shoot – don’t talk,” summarizes this sentiment perfectly.

Additionally, this is a tale about luck trumping will. Ponder how survival in this story seems more dependent on fate and unpredictable outside factors than rugged individualism, grit, or resolve. Cases in point: Blondie is spared from certain death at the hands of Tuco first by a runaway carriage that miraculously appears in the desert and later by a fortunate blast of cannon fire. And it turns out to be fortunate that Tuco and Blondie are apprehended by the Captain and his Union troops, as it ultimately gives them the idea to blow up the bridge and cross the river, which they likely could not have accomplished otherwise.

Lastly, there’s a fascinating reading of the film (promulgated by blogger Cary Watson) that this entire story is about the battle for one sinner’s soul. It cannot be disputed that Tuco is the primary character: He’s afforded the most screen time and dialogue; he’s more relatable because he’s the most emotionally expressive of the three main characters; and he’s provided a complex backstory (we know almost nothing about Blondie’s or Angel Eyes’ past). And Leone said he felt the closest to Tuco, particularly the character’s emotional volatility. In this interpretation, GBU is concerned with the struggle for the spiritual redemption of Tuco, who has an angel on each shoulder. 

On one side sits Blondie, occasionally a Christ-like figure who is referred to as Tuco’s “guardian angel.” Blondie is certainly no saint, but Tuco observes how the man occasionally demonstrates empathy and compassion: He comforts the dying soldier with a smoke and a blanketing coat; he brings a smile to the face of the dying Captain by blowing up the bridge; and he treats Tuco with more fairness and integrity than he receives in return, repeatedly shooting him free from several nooses and splitting their profits equally. 

On his other shoulder perches the uninvited “Angel Eyes,” a devilish mercenary who tortures and mocks Tuco, offering no partnership or opportunity for mercy. When first introduced, he kills both men who hired him to murder the other, insinuating that making a deal with the devil is bound to backfire; ultimately, Angel Eyes is symbolically cast back down to hell by Blondie, falling dead into an open grave. Tuco is the everyman sinner made all the uglier by original sin; ponder how the pre-hanging public recitations of crimes read like a laundry list of serious sins a priest might hear inside a confessional. Watson suggests that, because Blondie severs the rope on each occasion, Tuco’s sins have been forgiven. At the conclusion, Blondie forces Tuco to stand atop a cross and consider one of two options: remain upright and live (ergo, lead a more virtuous life), or go for the gold and risk death by hanging (suffer eternal punishment by indulging in greed and materialism). Tuco’s trespasses are ultimately forgiven by Blondie, who again severs the rope.

Ultimately, what is GBU’s greatest gift to viewers? Perhaps it’s the perfect marriage of music and visuals that closes the story. The showdown stands as one of the greatest sequences in movie history, masterful in its direction, editing, scoring, and performances, and all the more impressive because it relies on three characters standing motionless for a seemingly interminable stretch.

“The ordering of these shots begins perfectly balanced between the characters,” wrote BBC writer Luke Buckmaster. “There are three close-ups of each person’s pistol, for example, followed by three medium close-ups of their faces, then three close-ups zooming in further. The scene gets more frenetic and the shots shorter and tighter as Morricone’s score soars. The audience enters that rare and special space where we feel as if we are inside the characters’ minds, trembling along with them in fear and anticipation.”

The way Leone juxtaposes wide shots and over-the-shoulder shots with extreme close-ups of faces and hands, and uses rhythmic cutting that builds to a frantic pace before the gunfire climax, is nothing short of extraordinary – deserving of being mentioned in the same breath as Hitchcock’s shower scene in Psycho and the Odessa steps sequence in Eisenstein’s Battleship Potemkin.

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Step outside your comfort Zone into cerebral sci-fi

If you like your sci-fi with a bigger focus on IQ than FX, Stalker is the movie for you. Released in 1979 and directed by legendary Soviet filmmaker Andrei Tarkovsky, Stalker is named after its titular character, an ex-convict guide-for-hire (Alexander Kaidanovsky) who leads two men – a cynical writer (Anatoly Solonitsyn) seeking inspiration, and a pragmatic professor (Nikolai Grinko) looking for scientific discovery – into "the Zone," a mysterious, post-apocalyptic wasteland where the laws of physics are distorted. Their destination is "the Room," a legendary location deep in the zone that’s rumored to grant the deepest, most subconscious desires of anyone who enters. As the trio navigates a treacherous landscape that seems to possess its own sentience, the journey evolves into a meditative exploration of faith, human nature, and the heavy burden of one's own truth.

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

This is about as far from Star Wars space opera eye candy as you can possibly get. There are no visual or digital effects: What you see is what you get, which makes Stalker a thinking person’s sci-fi/fantasy film. That’s to the movie’s benefit and detriment, depending on your point of view and expectations. The pacing is also deliberately slow, emphasizing the philosophical and spiritual journey of the characters versus the literal journey. Detractors argue that much of this runtime could have been trimmed down to better keep the audience’s attention, while fans contend that the slow cinema approach and leisurely tempo are what help distinguish this from other big-screen works of fantasy and science fiction, forcing us to think more about what’s going on internally with each character.

If ambiguous symbolism bugs you, Stalker may be problematic. We see a black dog suddenly appearing and following the trio to the birds glittering across the sand dunes to the writer wearing a crown of thorns. Any of these images is open to analysis, with no explanation given by the director.

The film establishes a fairly consistent chromatic palette in which scenes near or inside the zone are shot in vibrant color, while the bookending sequences that occur outside the zone are rendered in a sepia tone. However, Tarkovsky breaks this rule at the conclusion with shots involving Monkey, the Stalker’s mutant daughter (more on why later).

The picture seems eerily prescient of the Chornobyl nuclear accident that occurred seven years later in the Soviet Union, which also resulted in the creation of a dangerous zone the public was warned not to enter. From the toppled telephone poles, abandoned tanks, and overgrown vegetation to the discolored pools of water filled with human detritus, this zone looks like an unsafe place to film. And it was, as the filmmakers suffered for their art – literally. Tarkovsky had to reshoot the entire picture because the original footage was botched in the lab. He and his crew had to switch locations after a significant earthquake occurred in northern Tajikistan; They ended up filming close to a former chemical plant in Estonia, and the exposure to toxic substances may have contributed to Tarkovsky, Solonitsyn, and Grinko dying of cancer years later.

(SPOILERS) The final scenes inside the zone, and just outside the room, are (frustratingly to some) anticlimactic. It begs the question: Why don’t the professor and the writer fulfill their objective and enter the room? Therein lies one of the great thematic takeaways and interpretations of Stalker, which is perhaps the whole point of the movie. (For that matter, it’s curious that the penultimate scene has the stalker’s wife breaking the fourth wall and delivering a soliloquy to us.)

So, what’s it all about? Stalker is an allegorical message about the drawbacks of wish fulfillment. The takeaway is clear: Be careful what you wish for – it might just come true. Each of the trio has their own reason for entering the Zone and wanting to visit the mysterious Room where your deepest desire can be fulfilled. The professor wants to, it first appears, when the Nobel Prize for its discovery; the writer seeks creative inspiration to further his craft; and the stalker, who refuses to ever enter the Room, maintains that his goal is simply to help needy human beings fulfill their desires and live better lives. Ultimately, none of them choose to step into that enigmatic space.

Their refusal to complete the mission can be interpreted as the learning of a cautionary tale. The writer and professor eventually deem this Room as a mirror for the soul, where one’s true subconscious desires are granted versus their stated intentions. They recall the Stalker’s narrative about Porcupine, a previous traveler who wanted to bring his dead brother back to life but was instead given wealth, validating that his true nature was actually driven by greed. By not crossing the threshold, the writer and the professor safeguard themselves from the potential shame of their own hidden motives and preserve their sense of purpose; they realize that having their wishes instantly and recklessly granted would render the scientist’s logic and the artist’s creative struggle meaningless.

Indeed, some mysteries are better left alone. The professor ultimately decides not to bomb the Room because he realizes that humanity's own fear and self-doubt are the ultimate guardrails against its power. After witnessing the writer’s existential breakdown and the Stalker’s desperate spiritual devotion, he understands that the Room is not a simple weapon to be destroyed, but a sacred necessity for those who have nothing else to believe in. By dismantling the device, he trades his cold, scientific desire for control for a sense of humility.

Stalker also explores the death of belief and hope. The film suggests that true belief is a rare, fragile form of spiritual endurance that cannot survive the cynicism of the modern intellectual. In the end, the Stalker is devastated by the failure of his clients to enter the Room. This is evidence to him that humanity has lost its innate curiosity, sense of wonder, and ability to hope and believe in the unknown. He views the other two men as so consumed by their own fear of their inner selves that they would rather live in a diminished, sepia-toned world than risk believing in a miracle made possible by otherworldly forces (perhaps extraterrestrials). Their rejection leaves him in despair, fearing that if the "educated" can no longer hope, the world is truly lost to darkness.

Yet, miracles are still possible, as the dénouement suggests. We see the guide’s daughter, Monkey, secretly using what are apparently latent telekinetic powers. We have to assume she’s never visited the Zone or the Room, but her father has travelled there multiple times; his exposure to this supernatural area means he’s probably passed on mutated genes to his daughter. The ending insinuates that, although the intellectual grown-ups are paralyzed by cynicism, fear, and disillusionment, the miraculous has moved from the physical Zone to the next generation. Monkey seems to possess the very faith and magic her father’s clients couldn't find. The transition to full color (far outside the Zone) – and the swelling of Beethoven’s Ode to Joy, somewhat muted by the roar of a passing train – implies that, despite the downbeat reality of the modern world and all its distracting noise, wonders never cease: magic can be found in the unlikeliest of places and embodied in those you’d least expect.

But there’s an even deeper meta level to penetrate. According to Criterion Collection essayist Mark Le Fanu, “Stalker at some level…is about the wish to leave Russia for good: the first twenty min­utes enact a very recognizable Cold War fantasy of breaking through bar­riers. At the same time, there is the corresponding feeling that it would be impossible, and actually wrong, to do this.”

Similar works

• Waiting for Godot (1952), the play by Samuel Beckett
• Ray Bradbury’s short story The Sound of Thunder
• Dead Man’s Letters (1986, Konstantin Lopushansky) – a post-apocalyptic vision featuring a rain-drenched, sepia-toned aesthetic.
• Sátántangó (1994, Béla Tarr) – an epic meditation on the weight of time and social decay.
• The Turin Horse (2011, Béla Tarr) – a bleak, repetitive endurance of existence captured through long takes.
• Hard to Be a God (2013, Aleksei German) – a visceral, mud-soaked sci-fi obsessed with grime and texture.
• Annihilation (2018, Alex Garland) – a psychological sci-fi journey into a mutated, inexplicable biological "zone."

Other films by Andrei Tarkovsky

• Andrei Rublev (1966)
• Solaris (1972)
• Mirror (1975)

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