Two sides of the same Little Women coin

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Similar works

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

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Cineversary podcast celebrates 80th anniversary of Brief Encounter

David Thomson

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

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

Spotify.

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

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Two trains passing in the night

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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It's a helluva thing, killing a man

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Other key films directed by Clint Eastwood

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

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A fable of pain and grace that knows no boundaries

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Similar works

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

Other esteemed films by Mizoguchi

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

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Feathering a fine nest over 50 years

Originally released 50 years ago this week, One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest continues to be a treasured work in the American cinema canon. Milos Forman’s intimate examination of a psychiatric institution, and a rabble-rouser who ruffles the feathers of those in charge while encouraging his confined peers to spread their wings, may sport the weathered veneer of a five-decade-old movie, but its ideas remain fresh, continuing to speak profoundly to audiences young and old.

To listen to a recording of our CineVerse group discussion of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, conducted last week, click here. To hear the latest Cineversary podcast episode, which celebrates this film’s 50th anniversary, click here.

One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest benefits immeasurably from an impressive collection of collaborative talents: exceptional actors Jack Nicholson and Louise Fletcher, in addition to an outstanding ensemble cast, a talented director, co-producer Michael Douglas, renowned cinematographer Haskell Wexler, and author of the original book Ken Kesey. This dynamism helped the film become only the second motion picture in history up to that time to win all five major Academy Awards – Best Picture, Director, Actor, Actress, and Screenplay. Consider the outstanding competition in the field that year: It bested Jaws, Nashville, Dog Day Afternoon, and Barry Lyndon for Best Picture honors. And even though it was released merely weeks before the end of 1975, it became the second-highest-grossing movie of that year, just behind Jaws, proving to be a crowd favorite at the box office across 1976 as well.

Nicholson’s Randall P. McMurphy represents what many consider his greatest role and performance, which earned him his first of three Oscars across his career. In total, he’s received 12 Academy Award nominations over his career—more than any other male actor in Oscar history. Before his acclaimed turn in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, he had already garnered four nominations—for Easy Rider, Five Easy Pieces, The Last Detail, and Chinatown—a streak that established him early on as one of Hollywood’s most gifted and versatile actors. But this was the movie that absolutely put him at the top of the class and cemented him as one of our all-time greats.

The ensemble cast boasts an impressive array of up-and-coming thespians and character actors, some of whom would later become major players, including Danny DeVito, Christopher Lloyd, Brad Dourif, Will Sampson, Scatman Crothers, William Redfield, and Sydney Lassick – who delivers the third-best performance in the movie. This diverse array of faces and acting styles populates One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest with unforgettable personalities who bring color, texture, poignancy, and dramatic contrast to the narrative.

What also helps elevate Cuckoo’s Nest is Forman and company’s emphasis on realism. Instead of trying to re-create a psychiatric institution on a studio set, the filmmakers opted to shoot the picture in an actual psychiatric hospital in Oregon, a facility that continues to operate today (although in different buildings). Dean Brooks, the real director of that hospital, plays the role of Dr. Spivey; he offered guidance on the characters and their potential issues, matched each actor portraying a patient with a real patient they could observe firsthand, and allowed 85 of his hospital patients – including some who were dangerous – to work as extras and crewmembers.

This work also boasts one of the greatest and most unforgettable endings in movie history: a decidedly downbeat dénouement, embodied by the dehumanized and defeated McMurphy, immediately followed by a thoroughly uplifting resolution in the form of the escaped Chief.

These are among the reasons why the American Film Institute ranked this movie as high as #20 on its list of 100 greatest American films and named Nurse Ratched as the fifth greatest villain in movie history. Today, One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest earns a 93% fresh rating on Rotten Tomatoes and a Metascore of 84 on Metacritic, and has been voted by fans as #19 in the IMDb’s current top 250 films list. It continues to earn acclaim on numerous prestigious cinema lists, ranking #33 on the BBC’s roster of the 100 Greatest American Films (2015), #16 on Empire magazine’s 500 Greatest Movies of All Time list, and #17 on The Hollywood Reporter’s ranking of the Top 100 Movies of All Time (2014), while also appearing frequently in critics’ and directors’ Top 100 selections in Sight & Sound polls across several decades. The picture was also selected for preservation in the U.S. National Film Registry in 1993 for being “culturally, historically, or aesthetically significant,” and it is widely recognized in both academic and cinematic circles as one of the defining works of the 1970s New Hollywood era, frequently cited by outlets such as Time, Variety, and Rolling Stone as one of the greatest American films ever made.

Consider that earlier depictions of psychiatric patients tended to be more stereotypical and exaggerated, exploiting audiences’ often incorrect preconceptions of psychosis and fear or ridicule of these troubled characters. Cuckoo’s Nest added humanism, nuance, and intelligence to these characterizations and educated viewers that not every occupant in a mental facility was hopelessly insane or unwillingly committed – many were actually voluntary patients. This film generated empathy for these individuals while also shining a harsh spotlight on the dangers of rigid institutional authority, dehumanization, and unethical treatment within these institutions.

Indeed, many later films, TV shows, and narratives about mental health owe a debt to Cuckoo’s Nest’s humanistic portrayal of patients and critique of authority. Its focus on personal stories within institutional settings became a model for more nuanced depictions of mental illness in the media.

Tonally, the movie deftly blended comedy and tragedy, seriousness and silliness, and optimism and pessimism, which was a rare balancing act for dramas about mental illness up to this point. Keeping the story lighthearted and humorous at key times helps buoy the sobering weight and pathos of what would otherwise be a crushing emotional drama, making for a more palatable and audience-friendly film.

Subsequent works that may have taken a page or two from Cuckoo’s Nest playbook, especially their depiction of mentally ill individuals at psychiatric institutions, include Awakenings (1990); The Green Mile (1999); Girl, Interrupted (1999); A Beautiful Mind (2001); Shutter Island (2010); Sucker Punch (2011); The Perks of Being a Wallflower (2012); Side Effects (2013); and The Goldfinch (2019)

Considering that the cherished novel by Kesey is told from the POV of Chief Bromden, this adaptation was a radical narrative departure from the source material. But Jack’s command of this character and of our complete attention completely validates this shift. We cannot take our eyes off him for a second when he’s on screen. Nicholson immersed himself in the role by visiting a psychiatric ward and observing patients receiving electroconvulsive therapy, using these firsthand experiences to inform and deepen his enactment.

“Nicholson is an actor who knows how to play to an audience; he knows how to get us to share in a character… (He’s) no flower-child nice guy; he’s got that half smile – the calculated insult that alerts audiences to how close to the surface his hostility is,” according to Pauline Kael, who praised the actor in her review of this film for his surprising choices. “Nicholson doesn’t use the glinting, funny-malign eyes this time; he has a different look – McMurphy’s eyes are further away, muggy, veiled even from himself. You’re not sure what’s going on behind them… He actually looks relaxed at times, punchy, almost helpless – you can forget it’s Nicholson… Forman hasn’t let the McMurphy character run away with the picture, and it’s Nicholson’s best performance.”

As likable as McMurphy is, it’s interesting to consider that he’s had five arrests for assault, including statutory rape, and is prone to extreme violence (as exemplified by his attempted strangling of Nurse Ratched). He’s also trying to game the system by pretending to be mentally unhinged to avoid jail time. He’s certainly no angel. Yet we cannot help but root for him throughout the entire picture, which is a testament to Nicholson’s charisma and mastery of antihero attributes.

“The joke lurking beneath the surface of most of his performances is that he gets away with things because he knows how to, wants to, and has the nerve to,” Roger Ebert wrote. “His characters stand for freedom, anarchy, self-gratification, and bucking the system, and often they also stand for generous friendship and a kind of careworn nobility.”

Ratched, the obvious antagonist of the piece, is the living symbol of oppression, exploitation, authoritarianism, and conformity – standing in opposition to McMurphy. But Fletcher brings subtlety, gradation, restraint, and quiet gravitas to the role that arguably makes this figure more sympathetic to some viewers, cleverly clouding the fact that she is a Machiavellian master of manipulation, the ultimate passive-aggressive frigid female who just may enjoy controlling and punishing the male patients she supervises. Fletcher skillfully hides what’s behind her eyes and her measured tone and creates an all-time female baddie without overplaying her hand, delving into clichés, or employing broad gestures.

Ponder how masterfully Ratched instills fear in the men, pressuring them to disclose intimate details about their private lives, which she then uses to manipulate and subjugate them rather than to support their psychological healing. She sets and alters the rules arbitrarily and uses forms of extreme treatment – like lobotomy and electroconvulsive therapy – as retribution.

Per the TCM website review of the movie, “What could have been a cartoon character was made more chilling by her brilliantly crafted performance, a manifestation of evil and tyranny masked by an outward placidness.”

Recall how Ratched insists upon keeping McMurphy at the hospital instead of sending him back to the work camp – stubbornly intending to ultimately break his spirit. Additionally, remember how, upon returning to work the morning after the orgy, despite the disheveled physical state of the ward and the chaos around her, she insists on restoring authority and order with symbolic gestures, like reclaiming her trampled hat from the floor and pointlessly straightening a skewed bulletin board on the wall. When we last see her, she smiles and inquires caringly about Sefelt’s well-being, appearing to be a kinder and gentler woman – but the more likely reason for her chipper attitude is that she has won the battle over McMurphy and regained control over the men under her care; this is likely a superficial kindness that masks her delight with regaining command.

“She doesn’t know that she’s evil,” Forman was quoted as saying. Fletcher, meanwhile, said in an interview: “I wanted to make her believable as a real person in those circumstances. I drew on the misuse of power, a prominent issue in those times, with Nixon having been forced to resign. I saw very clearly how people can believe that they’re doing good and they know best.”

Kael continued: “Louise Fletcher gives a masterly performance. Changes in her flesh tone tell us what Nurse Ratched feels. We can see the virginal expectancy—the purity—that has turned into puffy-eyed self-righteous­ness. She thinks she’s doing good for people, and she’s hurt—she feels abused—if her authority is questioned; her mouth gives way and the lower part of her face sags…Those who know the book will probably feel that Nurse Ratched is now more human, but those who haven’t read it may be appalled at her inhumanity.”

Forman previously lived in Czechoslovakia under a repressive Communist regime, which lent him a deep appreciation of authority and oppression. Additionally, his mother and father both perished in Nazi death camps in the Second World War. His earlier films, like Loves of a Blonde and The Firemen’s Ball, combined realism, dark humor, and empathy for marginalized characters—skills that suited the story of McMurphy and the patients. Forman’s background allowed him to portray the hospital’s strict control while giving the patients warmth, humor, and humanity.

Working closely with screenwriters Lawrence Hauben and Bo Goldman, the director insisted on authenticity, verisimilitude, and realistic representation versus staying true to the trippy, distorted point of view of Kesey’s book and its narrator Chief Bromden. The film shifts to a clear, external viewpoint centered on McMurphy, toning down the novel’s surreal and symbolic qualities. While the book delves deeply into the patients’ inner thoughts and personal struggles, the movie conveys emotion and tension primarily through visuals and performances, making it more immediate and cinematically engaging for viewers. Forman often told his cast and crew, “It must be real,” and questioned, “Is it natural?” when discussing certain shots and acting approaches.

Forman opted to shoot the entire movie sequentially, meaning the scenes were filmed in the same order they occurred in the story (except for the boating episode, which was shot last). This decision enabled the actors to deliver more authentic and continuous performances in which their characters and their relationships adapt organically as the narrative progresses.

Although it was an unusual and costlier approach at the time, the director also utilized three cameras simultaneously during the group therapy scenes, an approach that enabled him to capture the actors’ spontaneous reactions to each other, resulting in performances that felt more authentic and naturalistic.

Ponder how he uses slow zooms to center in on a particular character at a pivotal moment, often a character who is listening or reacting to someone else. Also, ruminate on how often his camera focuses on an individual face or solo character in the frame despite the large group of personalities in a confined setting; this makes us identify or empathize more with each character and see them as individuals with unique attributes who deserve our undivided attention.

Ultimately, One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest shines as a message about spiritual awakening – an allegory in which McMurphy serves as a Christlike savior who reminds his disciples of their self-worth and how to resist the soul-crushing forces around them. Although he’s certainly an imperfect and sinful redeemer, what’s important is that he inspires confidence and self-actualization in his followers, rousing them from their passivity and suppression. Recall how McMurphy “baptizes” his fellow patients with streams of water, performs a miracle of sorts by breaking them out and teaching them to fish, and shares a “Last Supper” with his friends in a later sequence. Even though he has the opportunity to escape, he ultimately sacrifices himself by staying behind, defending his friend, and dying. But his spirit lives on in some of the men who have adopted his teachings (for proof, consider how the patients speak and play cards like McMurphy did). And just as Christ’s disciples followed their master’s path and spread his word following his death and resurrection, Chief is stirred into action to accomplish what McMurphy could not: physically escape from the institution.

If you prefer a non-spiritual reading, Cuckoo’s Nest is essentially about a free spirit that cannot be contained. Ever the maverick, McMurphy is the wild horse who refuses to be tamed. Ratched and her colleagues triumph in the end by permanently corralling and neutering this bucking bronco, but his animus now inhabits another steed who is determined to kick down the stable door and run free.

The benefits and drawbacks of bucking the system is a further lesson for those paying attention. McMurphy continually defies Ratched’s authority and attempts to break the rules imposed upon him and his friends, ultimately refusing to acquiesce or conform. His rebelliousness agitates Ratched and inspires the men around him to increasingly stand up and think for themselves. But it comes at a terrible cost, eventually leading to Billy’s suicide and McMurphy’s zombification.

For a film that’s now 50 years old and a story set in 1963, it’s only natural that our understanding, attitudes about, and treatment of the mentally ill have evolved and improved. It’s hardly surprising that the American Psychiatric Association took issue with the film upon its release, largely believing it cast mental illness and psychiatric treatment in an unfavorable light. Although this movie is empathetic to the challenges faced by the psychologically unwell and avoids madhouse caricatures or clichés, the depictions of electroconvulsive therapy and the wider use of lobotomies at that time in history are distressing to viewers. Today, thankfully, better antipsychotic medications have replaced these more extreme procedures, although electroconvulsive therapy still exists in a more controlled and safer form with clinical benefits.

But in defending the film, Ebert believed that “the movie’s simplistic approach to mental illness is not really a fault of the movie, because it has no interest in being about insanity. It is about a free spirit in a closed system,”. But he also asserted that the film is manipulative, “profoundly fearful of women,” and unrealistic, claiming “it almost willfully overlook the realities of mental illness in order to turn the patients into a group of cuddly characters right for McMurphy’s cheerleading.” Ebert asked: “Is One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest not a great film because it is manipulative, or is it great because it is so superbly manipulative? I can see it through either filter. It remains enduringly popular as an anti-establishment parable, but achieves its success by deliberately choosing to use the mental patients as comic caricatures. This decision leads to the fishing trip, which is at once the most popular, and the most false, scene in the movie. It is McMurphy’s great joyous thumb in the eye to Ratched and her kind, but the energy of the sequence cannot disguise the unease and confusion of men who, in many cases, have no idea where they are, or why.”

Additionally, there’s no denying that this is also a male-centric artifact of the 1970s in which the female characters are either castrating villains hell-bent on subjugating men or obedient sex objects. Today, these extreme gender politics may not be as acceptable to modern audiences.

Despite these flaws, Cuckoo’s Nest is a perpetual gift machine that delivers one priceless present after another. Unwrap the first one and you’ve got what many believe is Nicholson’s finest work as an actor in a role he was born to play. Open the second box, and you have one of the most soul-stirring inspirational messages about self-empowerment and autonomy ever captured on celluloid. And then there are smaller packages in the form of individual scenes. The World Series imaginary play-by-play by McMurphy, delivered impossibly fast but impeccably by the master thespian inhabiting this role, is one of them. So is the brawl that ensues when Mac tries to give Cheswick his cigarettes back; the moment Chief drops his broom and comes to McMurphy’s defense is even more lump-in-the-throat inducing than his later breakout.

But perhaps the best moment in the movie is literally a single shot: the 70-second uninterrupted take where the camera lingers on Nicholson sitting adjacent to the open window and impending freedom. By letting that shot breathe for several extra beats, we wonder what McMurphy is thinking and why he chooses to delay a surefire escape. It’s also a marvelous moment of nonverbal acting that demonstrates a cinematic synergy between the director and his primary performer. We see Mac’s devilish smile dissipate, then reappear and evaporate twice more – each time giving way to a sobering silent contemplation and a weariness of body and soul that’s evident in his sleepy countenance.

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Cineversary podcast celebrates 50th anniversary of One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest

In Cineversary podcast episode #88, host ⁠Erik J. Martin⁠ honors the 50th anniversary of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, directed by Milos Forman. He and his guest Patrick McGilligan – a film historian and author of Jack’s Life: A Biography of Jack Nicholson – check themselves in for a voluntary visit to Nurse Ratched‘s ward as they profess how crazy they are for this movie and discuss what makes it great, its influence on cinema, pivotal themes, and more.

Patrick McGilligan

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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Goodfellas is not one of the goodfilms – It's one of the great films

Now 35 years old, Martin Scorsese’s Goodfellas is far from showing signs of any wrinkles. Indeed, many still believe it’s the greatest mob movie ever made. Our CineVerse group explored this film in-depth last week, and many of our members leaned toward this opinion.

To listen to a recording of our CineVerse group discussion of Goodfellas, conducted last week, click here (if you get an error message, simply try refreshing the page). To revisit our CineVerse essay on the movie, posted back in 2020, click here.

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One groovy gore-fest

Even the scariest skeleton has a funnybone, and that’s as true of great horror comedies as it is of the human anatomy. And they don’t come much funnier or more frightful than Evil Dead II, the 1987 film directed by Sam Raimi and starring Bruce Campbell as Ash Williams – a hapless hero who battles demonic forces after unwittingly unleashing them by playing a recording of passages from the Necronomicon Ex-Mortis, the Book of the Dead. The plot here is threadbare, taking a backseat to the astounding visuals: Ash and his girlfriend Linda (Denise Bixler) spend a night in a remote cabin where supernatural horrors are unleashed. After Linda becomes possessed, Ash must fight for his life and sanity as other characters – Annie Knowby (Sarah Berry), Jake (Dan Hicks), Bobby Joe (Kassie Wesley DePaiva), and Ed Getley (Richard Domeier) – arrive and are also drawn into the chaos. Blending over-the-top gore, zany levity, and inventive camera work – especially the fast-tracking shots from the demon’s POV that chase after the characters – Evil Dead II cemented Raimi’s signature style and Campbell’s status as a cult icon.

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

This is both a sequel and a loose remake of the original Evil Dead (1982). Raimi didn’t have the rights to use previous footage from the first film to provide a recap to audiences, so he created a prologue that cribbed the setup from the first movie. But this this film doesn’t pick up exactly where it left off, and the lack of continuity is obvious – as demonstrated by the fact that Ash’s friends from the preceding picture are not shown or mentioned, and the Necronomicon and the cabin in the woods remain intact despite being destroyed in the predecessor. However, you don’t even need to see the first film to understand and enjoy this sequel: It works as a standalone experience. (Interestingly, the filmmakers originally wanted to place Ash fighting the Deadites in the Middle Ages, but producer Dino De Laurentiis insisted that the movie echo the setting of the original.)

Perhaps more than any other fright film, Evil Dead II effectively combines physical humor with scares and gore, becoming the “first-ever slapstick horror movie,” according to film critic Brian Eggert. Sight and Sound even placed it #34 on its list of the 50 Funniest Films of All Time. Comedy influences are apparent, including The Three Stooges, Monty Python and the Holy Grail, Tex Avery cartoons, and vintage physical comedians like Buster Keaton. Raimi’s over-the-top approach to blood, gore, viscera, and violence pays off with deliriously exaggerated effects and gags that blunt what would otherwise be shocking and disturbing imagery. Even the dated special effects and stop motion animation give the film a handmade charm and retro aesthetic that still works in the 21st century.

It’s astonishing what actor Bruce Campbell is subjected to in terms of stunt work. The sequence where he battles his own possessed hand is debatably the high point of the film. Consider that a key chunk of the run time is spent with him alone in the cabin and the demonic forces, long before other secondary characters enter the domain.

Arguably, this film is the best in the series, boasting the highest score of any Evil Dead iteration from Rotten Tomatoes (88%). In fact, the Evil Dead saga remains one of the highest acclaimed and audience-beloved horror franchises, with every movie and even the television show Ash vs. Evil Dead garnering plaudits and relatively high scores from critics.

Those who pay close attention are richly rewarded, as Raimi and company tuck several playful Easter eggs into the movie, including Freddy Krueger’s signature clawed glove, seen dangling in the cabin’s basement and tool shed. This was part of an ongoing nod-and-wink exchange between Sam Raimi and Wes Craven. In A Nightmare on Elm Street, Nancy Thompson (played by Heather Langenkamp) drifts off while watching The Evil Dead on TV, itself a callback to The Evil Dead’s own background detail: a ripped The Hills Have Eyes poster. Raimi had included that poster as a sly response to the tattered Jaws poster featured in Craven’s The Hills Have Eyes – a tongue-in-cheek chain of horror filmmakers paying tribute to one another.

Similar works

• Monty Python and the Holy Grail (1975, Terry Gilliam and Terry Jones)
• Re-Animator (1985, Stuart Gordon)
• Return of the Living Dead (1985, Dan O’Bannon)
• The Texas Chainsaw Massacre 2 (1986, Tobe Hooper)
• Army of Darkness (1992, Sam Raimi)
• Dead Alive (Braindead) (1992, Peter Jackson)
• Shaun of the Dead (2004, Edgar Wright)
• Tucker and Dale vs. Evil (2010, Eli Craig)

Other films by Sam Raimi

• The Evil Dead (1981)
• Army of Darkness (1992)
• The Quick and the Dead (1995)
• A Simple Plan (1998)
• Spider-Man (2002)
• Spider-Man 2 (2004)
• Drag Me to Hell (2009)
• Doctor Strange in the Multiverse of Madness (2022)

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Arthouse vampires

Vampire films don’t come much artier or Afrocentric than Ganja & Hess, the 1973 independent horror-drama film written and directed by Bill Gunn. Celebrated as a groundbreaking work of Black American cinema that transforms the vampire myth into an allegory of addiction, spirituality, and race, the narrative concerns Dr. Hess Green (played by Duane Jones), a wealthy anthropologist who becomes immortal and addicted to blood after being stabbed with an ancient African ceremonial dagger by his troubled assistant George Meda (Bill Gunn). When George’s wife Ganja Meda (Marlene Clark) arrives searching for her husband, she and Hess fall into a passionate, destructive relationship that culminates in her sharing his cursed condition.

To hear a recording of our CineVerse group discussion of Ganja & Hess, conducted last week, click here (if you encounter an error, simply try refreshing the page).

This picture is surprising, memorable, and innovative in several ways. It serves as a captivating sensory experience, using what the critics call “haptic visualization,” in which we are meant to imagine the tactile sensations the characters feel. What’s more, the three main characters – Hess, Ganja, and Meda – aren’t predictable or conventional. We can’t always guess their motivations or intentions. And it’s not a typical Blaxploitation film from this era in which the filmmakers employ ample titillation, violence, and stereotypical characters.

The narrative is fragmented, with unconventional editing, disjointed visuals, unresolved plot points, and avant-garde sensibilities. The story is also segmented into different chapters with titles. The sound design is quite unique, employing an unsettling home as well as an African sung chant that signifies Hess’s thirst for blood.

There’s a strong focus on sexuality, “but Gunn avoids portraying Black sexuality as carnal or primal, as many Hollywood and even Blacksploitation films did at the time. He presents Ganja and Hess as what scholar Marlowe D. David calls erratic subjects free of Otherness,” according to Deep Focus Review essayist Brian Eggert. The lovemaking scenes are visually interesting, artistically executed, and affectingly sensual without being exploitative. Recall how the coupling between Ganja and her younger victim is often presented out of focus (it’s noteworthy that, with his work on this film, cinematographer James Hinton became the first Black cinematographer to shoot a theatrically released American movie).

Ganja & Hess also pushed the envelope in the early 1970s for displaying full frontal male nudity as well as toe fetishism. Consider that the writer/director, Bill Gunn, was a gay Black man attempting to make a movie at a time when that combination was exceedingly rare.

Interestingly, it’s the word “vampire” is never uttered, and typical vampiric clichés and conventions are not followed. For example, these bloodsuckers can survive in broad daylight and cast reflections in mirrors, and they don’t turn into bats or other animals.

Spiritual and cultural conflict are at the core of this film. Gunn continuously compares and contrasts ancient African culture (the fictional Myrthians, known for drinking blood) with modern Christianity. This narrative suggests a symbolic battle between the two for the soul of Dr. Green, who ultimately chooses to abandon the former for the latter. Ponder how scenes involving Reverend William are much more linear and narratively simple, while scenes depicting Hess, Ganja, and Meda convey a much stronger Black aesthetic and arthouse vibe.

According to Eggert, “Hess’ interest in pagan African civilizations, sexual desire, and ultimately blood represent him straying from a Christian worldview. But Hess gravitates back to Christianity when he visits Luther and is absolved in the end. This allows him to expel the so-called evil in himself by standing in the shadow of a crucifix, once again accepting a Christian ideology, and dying with some measure of peace. And while Hess’ conclusion would seem to bring a certain moralizing shape to the film, Gunn’s last few moments identify with Ganja, who does not feel the same weight of Christian guilt that Hess does.” Meanwhile, essayist Donato Totaro wrote: “There are two narratives that seem to survive in the end: the Minister’s Christian linear view of life (since he remains alive) and Ganja’s more selfish (“Always look out for Ganja”) queer Afrocentric existence. This would explain how she has literally taken over Hess’ space, her gaze lingering out from his window. The clash from Church to Myrthian past exemplifies a theme noted by Gunn of the way Blacks are consumed between these two different historical positions: pre slavery African roots and their post slavery Christian roots.”

Additionally, the filmmakers explore addiction and compulsion. Ganja & Hess is a metaphor, in some eyes, for illicit drug dependence. But they also examine self-actualization, empowerment, identity, and personal freedom. Consider how Ganja is a strong, independent Black woman who rejects conformity and subservience. She tells of how she came to defy her mother and create her own identity. Ultimately, she does not choose suicide like Hess; instead, she embraces her vampiric immortality and superiority as a proud, intelligent predator and sensory being.

Similar works

• The Velvet Vampire (1971, Stephanie Rothman) – A surreal, sensual vampire film with experimental visuals and themes of desire and death similar to Gunn’s.
• Lemora: A Child’s Tale of the Supernatural (1973, Richard Blackburn) – Uses horror tropes to explore repression, transformation, and spiritual corruption.
• Touki Bouki (1973, Djibril Diop Mambéty) – Shares Gunn’s avant-garde structure and exploration of identity, alienation, and freedom within African diasporic experience.
• Sugar Hill (1974, Paul Maslansky) – A blaxploitation horror film like Ganja & Hess, but with a more traditional revenge plot and voodoo elements.
• The House on Skull Mountain (1974, Ron Honthaner) – Another Black-centered gothic horror from the same era, though more conventional in its storytelling.
• Losing Ground (1982, Kathleen Collins) – Explores Black intellectual and emotional life with the same introspective, artful approach found in Gunn’s work.
• The Hunger (1983, Tony Scott) – A stylized, existential vampire story that treats immortality and addiction as metaphors for loneliness and decay.
• Daughters of the Dust (1991, Julie Dash) – Shares Gunn’s poetic, nonlinear style and focus on Black spirituality, identity, and ancestral memory.
• Candyman (1992, Bernard Rose) – Revisits race, myth, and horror with social critique, much as Gunn’s film reframes the vampire myth through a Black lens.
• Eve’s Bayou (1997, Kasi Lemmons) – Blends gothic atmosphere and themes of mysticism, class, and race in the Black American South, echoing Gunn’s mood and symbolism.
• Da Sweet Blood of Jesus (2014) – Directed by Spike Lee, this is a direct remake of Ganja & Hess. It closely follows Gunn’s story about an anthropologist who becomes immortal after being pierced by an ancient dagger, exploring themes of addiction, desire, and Black spirituality through Lee’s modern lens.

Other films by Bill Gunn

• Stop! (1970)
• Personal Problems (1980)

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Cineversary podcast celebrates 90th birthday of Bride of Frankenstein

Greg Mank

In Cineversary podcast episode # 87, host ⁠Erik Martin⁠ reanimates James Whale’s Bride of Frankenstein for its 90th anniversary. Joining him for this high-voltage episode is vintage horror historian Gregory Mank, author It's Alive! The Classic Cinema Saga of Frankenstein. Together, they dissect the secrets behind Bride of Frankenstein: why the film remains so highly regarded, thematic takeaways that resonate in the 21st century, the extent to which it innovated horror cinema, 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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Feral Carol in peril

A good psychological horror film should take you deep into the disturbed mind of one or more of its characters. Repulsion, the 1965 film by Roman Polanski, checks that box better than practically any other work in this subgenre. Starring Catherine Deneuve, the narrative revolves around Carol, a beautiful but emotionally fragile young single woman living in London. Left alone in her sister’s apartment while her sister is away, she gradually descends into a terrifying state of mental instability. Isolated and haunted by repressed desires, paranoia, and hallucinations, Carol begins to experience disturbing visions and violent impulses, ultimately blurring the line between reality and madness. The film also features Ian Hendry as Carol’s suitor, Michael, and Yvonne Furneaux as her sister, Helen.

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

One of the most striking aspects of this movie is how minimalistic and sparse it is. The plot is threadbare, yet the film leaves a lasting impression through its intense atmosphere and psychological depth. Designed as a simple black-and-white, low-budget picture, it relies on mood and technique rather than visual frills, gimmicks, or special effects. Polanski demonstrates mastery in constructing suspense and an unsettling mood through a brilliant combination of cinematic tools.

Sound and music play a crucial role in Repulsion, functioning almost as a collective character in its own right. The film’s audio design is remarkably clever, using elements such as bells, drumbeats reminiscent of an executioner’s march, an orgasmic cacophony, clocks ticking, and taps dripping. Extended moments of eerie silence are often abruptly interrupted by shocking sounds or sudden bursts of music, heightening tension and disorientation. Consider how stillness and quiet are juxtaposed with sudden violence or intense sound, creating a disturbing rhythm that lingers with the viewer.

Polanski employs creative camera work, including unsteady handheld shots following Carol as she moves, extreme close-ups of distorted or ugly faces, and fisheye lens shots to convey her growing anxiety. Quiet, drawn-out fades transition between scenes, while distorted sets reflect Carol’s unhinged state of mind.

His direction in Repulsion has frequently been described as “Hitchcockian,” and there are numerous references in this film to works by the Master of Suspense. The opening credit sequence recalls the stylized credits of Vertigo and the close-up of Marion Crane’s dead eye in Psycho. Arguably, Carol bears a resemblance to James Stewart’s isolated character Jeff in Rear Window, as both are solitary figures navigating urban spaces with skewed perceptions of the world around them. Polanski also casts a beautiful blonde, echoing the archetypal female leads in many Hitchcock films. Furthermore, Polanski’s brief cameo in Repulsion mirrors Hitchcock’s tradition of appearing in his own movies.

In tone, subject matter, and suspense-building, Repulsion is comparable to that granddaddy of slasher films, featuring claustrophobic, lonely settings where trespassers meet violent ends. Yet Repulsion diverges from Psycho in significant ways. While the latter presents killing and its aftermath from the perspective of victims and survivors, Repulsion immerses the audience in a subjective experience of murder and madness through the eyes of a disturbed soul. Unlike Psycho, it does not offer simple Freudian explanations or psychobabble to rationalize Carol’s psychoses. Polanski’s film also blurs the line between reality and hallucination, leaving the viewer uncertain whether the events depicted are truly happening or merely exist in Carol’s mind.

Thematic exploration in Repulsion is rich and multifaceted. Alienation, isolation, and confinement pervade Carol’s experience, as does irrational paranoia. The film examines violation and the crossing of societal boundaries, a recurring element in Polanski’s work. Carol embodies the outsider attempting to defend herself from external – or perhaps internal – threats. Clad in white and angelically beautiful, she represents purity, while her apartment symbolizes both her virginity and fractured psyche. The narrative underscores her struggles with sexual repression, exemplified by the rotting meat of the rabbit, a symbol of reproduction.

Carol is also depicted as a foreigner in an unfamiliar city, potentially grappling with her sexual identity and living in a socially conservative community, as illustrated by a threatening phone call she receives. The film emphasizes the pressures from organized religion to conform to traditional roles of mating and family, and it draws interesting parallels between sex and religion through the juxtaposition of erotic sounds and church bells.

Repulsion also masterfully examines the blurring of fantasy and reality: We’re not sure of the verity of any of the incidents we see. Did they really happen, or is Carol yet another unreliable narrator whose nightmarish visions ultimately consume her?

Similar works

• An Andalusian Dog (1929, Luis Buñuel)
• Cat People (1942, Jacques Tourneur)
• I Walked with a Zombie (1943, Jacques Tourneur)
• Beauty and the Beast (1946, Jean Cocteau)
• The Lost Weekend (1945, Billy Wilder)
• Jeanne Dielman, 23 quai du Commerce, 1080 Bruxelles (1976, Chantal Akerman)
• The Shining (1980, Stanley Kubrick)
• A Nightmare on Elm Street (1984, Wes Craven)
• Clean, Shaven (1994, Lodge Kerrigan)
• Antichrist (2009, Lars von Trier)

Other works by Roman Polanski

• Knife in the Water (1962)
• Rosemary’s Baby (1968)
• Chinatown (1974)
• The Tenant (1976)
• Tess (1979) 
• The Pianist (2002)

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